“They failed with me, but they have succeeded with another. An old associate of mine.”
“What do you mean?”
“They have a sleeper.”
“A sleeper?”
“Our deadliest. And now this man, this killer, a man we ourselves planted in this country many years ago, now he is recruited to their cause.”
“Who?” Dedlock snapped. “Give me a name.”
“He has many aliases,” the Russian said doubtfully. “His real name has disappeared.”
Dedlock frowned.
Grischenko brightened. “But he has a code name.”
“Tell us.”
Grischenko muttered something which sounded like “The Mongoose.”
“The Mongoose?” Skimpole repeated incredulously.
Dedlock swallowed a laugh. “The Mongoose?”
The Russian shrugged. “We were running out of names.”
“Means nothing to me.” Dedlock sniffed.
“He has killed many dozens and he has yet to fail. He is the worst of men, Mr. Dedlock. Please, gentlemen, on this matter you must be absolutely certain: he is coming for you.”
“Coming for us?” Skimpole echoed.
Grischenko nodded vigorously. “Like a pale rider,” he murmured. “Upon a pale horse.”
Skimpole shivered. Grischenko scrambled to his feet. “I must go,” he said and scuttled to the door, readjusting his disguise as he went.
“Wait,” the albino protested, but Grischenko ignored him.
He paused. “Be watchful. Promise me, sirs. Be watchful.” With this final, gnomic advice, he disappeared through the door and into the street.
“We should have him stopped,” Skimpole said. “Bring him in. Interrogate him properly.”
“Let him go. He’s told us everything he knows.”
“You believe him?”
“It would seem he risked his life to warn us. To be frank, I think we should expect the worst.”
“Who are these people?” Skimpole asked angrily. “What do they want? Good God, if only we hadn’t lost Bagshaw.”
“You don’t look well. Go home. I’ll keep you fully informed of developments.”
“I’d rather stay.”
“Go,” Dedlock insisted, not unkindly. “But be careful. We should both be on our guard. From now on, it seems, the Directorate is under siege.”
The Strangled Boy opened early for business. Even arriving shortly after ten, Edward and Charlotte Moon were far from being the first customers of the day — that dubious honor had already been claimed by those patrons who were even now on their second or third glass of the morning. Charlotte was discomfited by the beery, masculine smell of the place but Moon appeared not to notice. Waving his sister toward a rickety barstool, he ordered drinks.
“You see they’re rebuilding the old place?” he asked as he sat down beside her.
Charlotte peered from the window across the square to the burned-out hulk of the theatre where squads of workmen swarmed about its scaffolding like carrion flies on a corpse.
“This isn’t especially convenient, Edward. I thought we’d agreed not to see one another for a while.”
“It’s an emergency.”
“I’m busy.”
“With what? More ‘debunking’?”
“There’s a psychic in Bermondsey who reckons she can move household objects by the power of thought and bring back the dead in her front room.”
“You think she’s a fake?”
“The objects are raised up on strings, the dead people are her accomplices in white sheets and cheesecloth.”
“Charlotte, if I’ve learnt anything from my recent experiences it’s that it is as dangerous to believe in nothing as it is to believe in everything.”
“Stop pontificating and tell me why I’m here.”
Moon reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folder swollen fat with paper. He swallowed, ill at ease. “I have a favor to ask of you,” he said, extricating a sheaf of documents and placing them carefully on the table. “The Somnambulist and I have not been idle. Whilst you’ve been off running table-rappers to ground, we’ve been pursuing an old obsession of mine.”
“Honeyman?”
“You know about his mother? Also that of Philip Dunbar — the Fly’s other victim? Both of them gone. Vanished into the city without trace.”
“People go missing all the time.”
“I’ve since discovered that both women were prominent figures in a small but extremely affluent religious group called the Church of the Summer Kingdom.”
“I’ve heard of them.”
Moon seemed surprised. “You have?”
“Silly name, of course, but harmless from what I can gather.” She paused. “Presumably, you disagree.”
“I suspect they’re not as benevolent as they appear.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Too many coincidences. Too many connections. They’re linked to the Fly, I’m sure of it. Their sigil — a black, five-petaled flower — was daubed on his caravan. From what I can make out, it’s practically the symbol of the church. Coleridge, too.”
“Coleridge?”
“Barabbas gave me a copy of the Lyrical Ballads. The church — if that’s really what it is — seems centered on his ideology.”
Charlotte sighed. “Edward,” she began, speaking much as one might to a beloved elderly relative, formerly alert and intelligent, but now sunk into befuddled senility, “you can’t believe a word that man told you. Not for nothing did the popular press call him ‘the Fiend’.”
Moon, turned ashen, did not reply and Charlotte was glad of the distraction when a serving girl brought across their drinks, slammed down the glasses and shuffled truculently away.
“You mentioned needing a favor,” she said, once Moon had taken a fortifying sip.
“I spent the night in the Stacks.”
“You spend half your life there.”
“The Church of the Summer Kingdom is one of the richest organizations in London.”
Charlotte pursed her lips. “Are you sure?”
“No question. They’ve hidden it well. I had to wade through oceans of paperwork. But they’ve left a trail. It only needed someone with enough persistence to follow it to its source.”
“And what did you find?”
“That the church is funded almost entirely by a single body. A corporation which calls itself… ‘Love’.”
“Love?”
“Bankers and brokers. Moneymen of some kind. Massively wealthy and a major player in the city. Their full name — believe it or not — is Love, Love, Love and Love.”
“Sounds like a joke.”
Moon did not smile. “The Somnambulist and I went to their offices. He recognized the building. Said he’d seen Speight of all people walk inside, dressed in a suit and behaving as if he owned the place.”
Charlotte laughed. “He must have been confused. Or drunk. He strikes me as the kind of man who might be.”
“The Somnambulist is far and away the most sensible person I know. Besides, I’ve only ever seen him drink milk.”
“The mystery thickens. You must be delighted.”
“Don’t’ you see that something’s happening here?”
Charlotte drained her cup and spoke again, calm and in control. “I agree it’s suspicious. How can I help?”
“I’ve arranged a job for you at Love.”
“Presumptuous of you.”
“Forgive me. Time is short.”
“How did you manage it?”
“Skimpole. The Directorate has its uses.”
Charlotte sighed. “What do you want me to do?”
“Infiltrate Love. Discover their connection to the church. Find out what they’re planning.”
“Nothing too demanding.”
“Report everything back to me, no matter how extraneous or irrelevant it may seem. Please, be scrupulous. I’m relying on you.”
“And
what will you be up to whilst I’m doing all this?”
“The Somnambulist and I have to pursue another lead but — rest assured — I will be watching.” Moon fished a business card from his pocket. “Here’s the address. Be careful. I hope to God I’m not putting you in danger.”
“Danger? What are you expecting?”
“If Madame Innocenti was right we only have three days left.”
“You believe her?”
“I hope I’m wrong. But I think the pattern is beginning to make itself clear.”
Irritation rose in Charlotte’s voice. “You’re being mysterious again.”
“I know.” He shrugged. “I can’t help it.”
Dedlock took a cab to the center of the city and alighted amidst the bustle of Piccadilly Circus, that Mecca for the sybarite, the pleasure-seeker, the good-time girl. He did not stop to sample the delights of the place but headed instead toward the genteel calm of St. James’s Park, at the borders of which was situated his club, a well-heeled oasis scant seconds from the populous commotion of the city.
There had been an atmosphere of disquiet in the Directorate for days, a tangible sense of menace in the air. The Slattery incident had unsettled them all, the business with Grischenko even more so. Dedlock had sent the “Chinamen” away (vetted more carefully since the Mackenzie-Cooper debacle) and Skimpole had slouched off home for the day, gloomier and more grisly-looking than ever. Clearly something was up with the man, but in all the years they had known one another Dedlock had always found it difficult to sympathize with him, had never had the stomach for the spindly palpitations of his permanently sickly colleague.
He walked down a narrow avenue just of Pall Mall, stopping outside a house halfway along the street. A bronze plaque had been placed by the doorbell and read, in neat, black, unassuming letters:
THE SURVIVORS’ CLUB
STRICTLY MEMBERS ONLY
Dedlock rang the bell and an elderly man hobbled to the door.
Shriveled, hunched and wizened, he had huge eyebrows — vast white things like spiky tadpoles mutated to a dozen times their normal size — which hung precariously beneath his brow and cast strange shadows across his face. He recognized Dedlock at once. “Pleasure to see you again, sir. Do come in.”
Inside, Dedlock was immediately assailed by the familiar scents of the place, its indefinably comforting cocktail of whisky, port, stale tobacco smoke, must carpets and the aroma of manly perspiration.
“It’s rather quiet today, sir,” the man with the eyebrows apologized as he took Dedlock’s coat. “You’re just a little early.”
“That’s fine. I’ll go straight through.”
“Very good, sir.”
Dedlock sauntered down a long corridor and into the last of four open rooms. “Afternoon,” he said, by way of a general greeting. A chorus of grunts and murmurs ensued, emanating from the half-dozen gentlemen sitting inside, all of whom clasped cigarettes, cigars or pipes.
Dedlock took his usual armchair by the door. Opposite him, engrossed in the Gazette, was a tall, rangy man, besuited and wholly unremarkable — but for the fact that most of both his legs were missing, the lower part of his body reduced to a flabby stump hanging impotently over the front of his chair.
To his right sat a man so grotesquely disfigured that most of us would probably have screamed or swooned at the sight of him. Dedlock, however, only nodded with the same nonchalant courtesy he might have afforded any other, more recognizably human acquaintance — a friend passed in the street, perhaps, or a workmate encountered at the bar. Evidently the victim of a terrible fire, half the man’s features had been ravaged and deformed, his hair entirely scorched away, his skin dyed a livid shade of purple. Doubtless, Dedlock thought, this fellow was an object of pity in the world at large, doubtless he was jeered at by children as he went about his daily business, pointed out and stared at and made an object of ridicule. Fishwives (it would not surprise him to learn) cast aspersions on his sexual capabilities whenever he so much as raised his hat in greeting. But here in this most exclusive of the city’s clubs, here the man could relax without shame and hold his head up high amongst his peers. Today, in fact, he seemed positively cheerful, puffing enthusiastically away on an ancient briarwood pipe. Dedlock waved and the man smiled lopsidedly back.
A few yards away sat a chap with an eyepatch and a ragged red hole where his nose ought to have been; his neighbor was a man with half an arm who seemed subject to repeated bouts of violent shakes and shudders. Close by sat a scrawny fellow whose face resembled that of a dog or badger in the aftermath of an especially bloody fight.
Dedlock wriggled in his chair, feeling suddenly uncomfortable and out of place. Giving in gratefully to temptation, he took off his tie, unbuttoned his shirt and stripped naked to the waist to reveal a body criss-crossed by a pair of gargantuan milk-white scars. He passed his fingers over their deep indentations, caressed their worn, familiar lines. The man with the pipe looked over and nodded approvingly. Dedlock reached for his cigarettes and settled back in his chair, a rare smile of contentment on his face, home at last.
When he awoke, the room had grown silent, dark and empty. Dedlock’s first thought as he stretched himself into a vague approximation of consciousness was a question: why had the man with the eyebrows not woken him? He felt stiff and uncomfortable and his joints ached from sitting too long in the chair. He rubbed his eyes and was giving serious thought to clambering to his feet when he became uncomfortably aware that he was being watched.
“Who’s there?” he asked, his fingers fumbling for the revolver he kept concealed in his waistcoat, only to remember, too late, that he had stripped half-naked in a show of solidarity with his fellow Survivors.
“You’re awake,” said a voice.
“Who is it?” he asked again.
A figure moved toward him and Dedlock thought he could make out two others flanking the first.
“Do you know who we are?” said a second voice.
“Can you guess?” said a third. Each of the three men spoke with a different, distinctive accent. Together, they were instantly recognizable.
“I know who you are,” Dedlock said, pins and needles pirouetting up and down his spine.
“Bet you didn’t think we were real,” said the first man.
“I knew.”
One of them laughed and the others joined in.
“Mr. Dedlock?”
The scarred man swallowed hard, determined not to show his fear. “Yes?”
“We’ve been hearing stories. Something about a conspiracy, a plot against the city.”
Dedlock cleared his throat and tried to force himself to speak as levelly and calmly as if he were delivering a report to one of the innumerable boards and committees to which he was accountable. “The Directorate knows of a threat to London. We have our man investigating — Edward Moon. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”
In the blackness, three men shook their heads as one.
“Dedlock?” We need you to be certain. Has this anything to do with the Secret? Is the Secret out?”
A cold trail of sweat snailed its way down his back. “The Secret is safe.”
“You realize what would happen if it were to get loose?”
Another voice. “This affair would seem a storm in a teacup in comparison.”
Dedlock could no longer tell which of the men was speaking. “I promise you, the Secret is safe. Even Mr. Skimpole doesn’t know.”
“It’s imperative it stays that way.”
“You have my word.”
Even though it was pitch black, Dedlock felt certain that all three of the men were smiling and that the smiles they wore were not benign ones. “Then we must place our faith in that.”
Then with a rustling, clicking sound, the three were gone. Curiously, Dedlock found that he no longer had any desire to lever himself out of his chair, but fell asleep again almost immediately, the encounter already fading into dream.
When he woke
again, the birds were singing.
Pity Mr. Skimpole.
Ann odd request, I know, given his previous showing as a blackguard. But it would take a heart of stone not to feel sorry for him as he trudged forlornly home to Wimbledon, his breathing ragged and irregular, unsteady on his feet, weaving as he walked like a drunkard trying to persuade himself he’s sober. There was something terribly beleaguered about him, something Sisyphean and doomed.
He let himself into his little house and almost called out his son’s name, only stopping when he realized that today was a school day, that he was at his lessons and — if the tales the boy had told him were true — was even now the subject of whispered jibes and catcalls. The albino sympathized. His own school days were a blur of sneers and note-passing, name-calling and impromptu playground beatings, all the petty humiliations and habitual cruelty of childhood.
As if in reaction to this unsought nostalgia, Skimpole felt another rending deep in his stomach, another surge of agonizing pain. He staggered to a chair, sucking in wheezy lungfuls of air, struggling to stay calm and trying not to think about the implications of his distress. But he knew all too well the meaning of the slimy tugging in his guts, had realized its significance from the moment Slattery had expired on the floor of the Directorate. Time was getting away from him — a few days were all that were left to him now — and he was determined to make the best of that time, to leave a legacy of which he might be proud.
I will be remembered, he decided, as he sat, grim-faced, too weak to move, as the blood thundered through his head and the pain welled up again. I will be remembered.
These were his final thoughts before he drifted into an uncomfortable sleep, a merciful release from pain. He woke to find his son standing before him.
“Dada? What’s the matter?”
With an enormous effort of will, the albino pulled himself upright in his chair. “Nothing. Nothing’s the matter. Just napping, that’s all. How was school?”
The boy looked awkwardly away.
“Come here.” Skimpole patted his knee. His son limped across the room and clambered awkwardly onto his lap. The child had almost become too large for such treatment, but this was an old, much-loved ritual they were loath to surrender lightly. Skimpole pulled him closer and, trying not to betray the merest flicker of his own discomfort, began to sing — crooning a familiar lullaby, a favorite since infancy. The boy laughed and smiled. In the soft cadences of his father’s voice all the horrid travails of school were forgotten, and for a few sweet, fleeting moments, Mr. Skimpole smiled, too.
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