Before that, Melion had made his name as a mountaineer of the first order, and an explorer besides. He’d spent his family fortune in pursuit of such fantastical places as Agrada, and mortgaged the ancestral pile to pay for visits to sacred sites and temples throughout the east. During the war, he’d put those experiences to good use for British intelligence, or so the rumors went. Then, most of what he knew about Melion was rumor. He was a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a distressingly ill-knotted dressing gown.
“Two, I believe,” he said as Melion hustled him into the drawing room of his Soho flat. Gallowglass trailed after them, grinning widely at his discomfort. The room was large and low-ceilinged, and the corners had been plastered into smooth curves, so that an array of circular bookcases could circumnavigate the space. A small brick fireplace occupied the only gap between the shelves. Silk rugs had been hung from the ceiling and Turkish rugs of varying shades and designs occupied the floor in a seemingly random pattern. “1918, wasn’t it, in Istanbul?”
Melion made a dismissive gesture. “Probably—damn Ministry had me running all over, hither and yon, putting out whatever eldritch fires the Turks set after Kaiser Billy got them all stirred up.” He pointed a finger at St. Cyprian. “Dying empires, Charles; what do I always say about dying empires?”
“As I recall, leave ’em to rot,” St. Cyprian said.
“That’s the wicket,” Melion said. “Glad you could come, old thing. I didn’t—ah—interrupt?” He peered past St. Cyprian at Gallowglass. “Good heavens, is she a suffragette? Charles, why are you being shadowed by a suffragette? Is she the ghost of Emily Davison?”
“That would be my assistant, Ms. Gallowglass,” St. Cyprian said.
“Miss, surely,” Melion said. “We don’t go in for archaic formality in this sanctum sanctorum, Charles. Madam, your servant,” he continued, catching Gallowglass’ hand and brushing his lips across her knuckles. St. Cyprian caught her arm before she could launch an already cocked fist in response. Melion laughed and stepped back. “Oh I say, she’s a bit of a bearcat. Irish, is it? Not done, Charles, having an Irish apprentice. Look where that got poor old Dee back in the bad old days, eh?”
“I’ll bearcat you, you old duffer,” Gallowglass snarled.
“Ms. Gallowglass, I’m glad to say, is hardly comparable to Edward Kelly, William,” St. Cyprian said, stepping between them. “That said, I’ll have to ask you to keep your hands to yourself, for your own safety if no other reason.”
Melion clapped his hands together and bowed. “Too right, old man. My most hearty apologies, to you and your apprentice,” he said. “I should show respect to the office, if not its holders. Got a bit carried away, is all. The exuberance of the hermit, and all that.” He straightened and swept out a hand. “Come in, pull up a cushion. I’ll have Ghale bring some tea—Ghale, tea!”
Mr. Ghale, who had been standing attentively in the hall, nodded and strode away. Melion fell back into a wicker chair overflowing with cushions, and motioned towards a couch across from him. “Sit, sit, sit,” he said. “I want to thank you for trotting out to see me, Charles. We haven’t spoken in some time. My fault, I’m afraid. I…I took Thomas’ death badly.” He hesitated, and his ebullience dimmed.
“We all did,” St. Cyprian said quietly. “Thomas was my friend, as well as my mentor.”
Melion half-reached out, as if to grasp St. Cyprian’s knee, and then appeared to think better of it. His hand swatted limply at the air. “He would have been proud of you, you know,” he said softly. St. Cyprian didn’t reply. The moment stretched uncomfortably, until the big man abruptly smacked his palms together and said, “Still, say this for him, Thomas always did know how to make an exit, didn’t he?”
St. Cyprian snorted. “Yes, I rather suppose he did.”
“Still you’ve made a go of it, in his absence. I keep my finger to the pulse of our little world-within-a-world. I heard about that little business in Maida Vale, at the top of the year. And that unpleasant incident at the Voyager’s Club last month, or even that little investigation you undertook for the Ministry before you and your apprentice—”
“Assistant,” Gallowglass interjected.
“What?” Melion goggled at her.
“I’m his assistant, aren’t I?” Gallowglass said, eyeing Melion belligerently. If she’d had a tail, it would have been twitching wrathfully, St. Cyprian thought.
“I don’t know, are you?” Melion said. His eyes narrowed. “Gallowglass, was it? I knew a fellow by that name, once upon a time. A rotter of the first order, he was. Tried to murder me and poor old Thomas on no less than three occasions, the bastard…wouldn’t happen to be some kin to you, would he?”
“You’ve heard all about my exploits these past few months, William, but I’m sorry to say that I can’t say the same,” St. Cyprian said quickly, before Gallowglass could reply. “What have you been up to, since the war?”
“Oh, you know, a bit of this, a bit of that,” Melion said, not looking at him. “I was in Damascus, for a bit, and then China. Research occupies most of my time, these days.”
“Research into what?”
“Plants, mostly. I’ve become a bit of an amateur botanist in my declining years, you might say,” Melion said and laughed, as if at some private joke. There was an edge of bitterness to it which seemed at odds with his display of good cheer, St. Cyprian thought.
He decided to cut to the chase. “As you said, it’s been a fair while—why now, William?”
“You sound suspicious, Charles.”
“I should hope so,” St. Cyprian said. “You didn’t send your man round to ask us to tea, William. Did the Ministry ask you to involve me in something? Is Morris still sulking about that business in Whitechapel?” The Ministry—or as it was more properly known, the Ministry of Esoteric Observation—was where magic went to die. It resided in a nondescript building near Whitehall, with quotas, allocations and stuffy offices filled with moldering paperwork.
The Ministry was a model of modern efficiency, and the men who worked for it prided themselves on their political and scientific acumen. Unfortunately, they had a bad habit of locking up dreadful tomes and sacred scrolls rather than learning anything from them, thus necessitating the occasional consultation with, as the aforementioned Morris had often put it, more ‘traditional resources’—individuals with firsthand, practical knowledge of the eldritch and infernal. The Ministry plods were never happy about it, and never shy about sharing that unhappiness around in various unpleasant ways. It offended them, in their callous little souls, to have to rely on relics of less enlightened times.
“Good God no, Charles. This has nothing to do with that lot of fatheads,” Melion said emphatically. “No, this is strictly personal. I—ah, here we are.”
Ghale had returned, with a tea tray. “I have prepared your special blend, sir,” he said, as he served Melion. Once everyone had a cup, Ghale folded the tray beneath his arm and stepped behind Melion’s chair to await further orders. Melion slurped at his tea and smacked his lips.
“Wonderful as ever, Ghale. You brew tea like you were born to it.” Ghale didn’t reply, but St. Cyprian saw a strange expression pass swiftly across his face. Melion put his cup aside and rubbed his hands together. “Now, where was I?”
“You were about to tell us why you invited us round, I believe,” St. Cyprian said smoothly as he sipped at his tea. “Something personal, was it?”
“I have been robbed, Charles,” Melion said. “Robbed, like a common merchant!”
“Have you informed the police?”
Melion made a rude noise. “What, and have them stick their noses in my doings? No, no, in fact I had Ghale pay the few witnesses to the crime to take a quick vacation to the country.” He waved a hand. “No Charles, this ain’t for them.”
“Or the Ministry,” St. Cyprian said.
Melion grunted. “Definitely not. No, this needs to stay in the family, as it were. Got to have a fellow I can trust on it
,” he said. He looked meaningfully at St. Cyprian.
“Is Mr. Ghale not satisfactory?”
“Ghale is…efficient, Charles. But he ain’t got your particular set of skills,” Melion said. “No, this is a job for one of our sorts, I think. And since it’s a crime, I thought I’d report it to the high sheriff, as it were. That’s you, chum. The word of the Royal Occultist, like it or not, is the law of the land.”
St. Cyprian sat back. Melion’s gaze was bland, with nary a trace of deceit or mischief. Nevertheless, he felt some sense of wariness. The Melion he remembered wasn’t on a first name basis with subtlety. But war and time changed men. Even so, he was right. It was his responsibility, as a sworn servant of the Crown, to investigate matters where the criminal and the occult overlapped. He sighed and leaned forward.
“Tell me what happened.”
4.
Limehouse, the East End, London
“I feel like we don’t visit Limehouse enough,” Gallowglass said, as St. Cyprian knocked on the door. Around them, the Limehouse Police Station was a hive of activity as the officers of ‘K’ Division went about their work. None of them so much as gave either St. Cyprian or Gallowglass a hard look, or spoke to them. They might as well have been ghosts, of which the building on West India Dock Road had an indecent amount.
“We could visit three times daily and it wouldn’t be enough,” St. Cyprian said. Limehouse had been born in the Sixteenth Century, and over the course of the next four centuries, had spread across the northern bank of the Thames. Roads and canals bisected every open space, encircling warehouses, chandlers’ yards, and the cheap boarding houses that were as commonplace here as in Whitechapel. Gambling houses, drug parlors and brothels of varying size and licentiousness clustered the wharves and canals as thick as fleas.
That said, Limehouse wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been twenty years before, or even ten. While still something of a scab on London’s knee, it was healing, albeit slowly. With the war over and the ports open once more, Limehouse tottered on, and its contributions to the seedier elements of London’s reputation with it, even as the Powers That Be tried to turn it into something more reputable. But it still had its shadows, and worse things than illicit dealings went on in its out of the way places. Such as the theft of certain antiquities purchased at great cost, and shipped from China.
Or so Melion had claimed. He’d laid it all out bluntly enough, St. Cyprian had to admit. He obviously felt as if he had done nothing wrong. Which, technically, he hadn’t, though St. Cyprian couldn’t help feeling that one wouldn’t undertake such a duplicitous strategy to bring goods into the country, if one didn’t think one had the need to do so. Melion claimed that the stolen items were mere curiosities, which he’d paid good money for.
But if that were the case, why send a devil out of the darkest hell to see to their acquisition? For that was what Ghale had described. Demons, like royalty, were easily recognizable when they appeared in public. The smell, the speed, the appearance, it all spoke to an infernal origin for Mr. Ghale’s attacker. Just what the beast was, he wouldn’t be able to say until he’d had a chance to consult the relevant texts. The Lesser Key of Solomon, the Codex Coemeterium and Weyer’s De Praestigiis Daemonum were a bit like collections of mug-shots for the observant demonologist.
Though he hadn’t said so at the time, he wondered why Melion hadn’t researched it himself. The obvious answer was that he already knew what it was, and had chosen not to share his suspicions with St. Cyprian. But why? And why be so elusive as to the nature of the stolen items? Something about this whole mess stank to high heaven, and he doubted It was going to smell any sweeter the longer he was in the middle of it. Which begged the further question of why he was bothering with Melion at all. The only answer that came to mind was that Carnacki would’ve.
For right now, that would have to be enough.
“Why are we just standing here?” Gallowglass said, startling him out of his reverie.
“I’m standing. You’re slouching,” he said, glancing at her. She straightened up. “And we’re here to investigate. That is what we do, after all.”
“I don’t like police stations,” Gallowglass said.
“I’ll add it to the list, below cats and above postmen.”
“I bloody hate postmen,” she said.
“They’re not very fond of you either, from what I’ve been told.” He looked at her. “To answer your question, we’re waiting for our escort.”
“Since when do we need an escort?”
“Since the body we have come to look at is now the property of the Metropolitan Police, and our relationship with them is, at best, strained. Thanks to Melion’s meddling, ownership of the whole sad affair has been claimed the territory of Special Branch, which means we wait politely for an escort.”
“Special what now?”
“Special Branch, Ms. Gallowglass—that body-within-a-body of our vaunted police forces which investigates those crimes outside of the remit of the average Scotland Yard plod, savvy? Mostly, they concern themselves solely with the matter of Ireland, but some bright spark with a better than average grasp of certain matters organized a sub-division to deal with—ah—less mundane occurrences; weird crimes and the like—phosphorescent hounds, creeping shapes in the ivy, that sort of tosh.” St. Cyprian fiddled with his tie. “Brant, I believe his name was. At any rate, they’re a fairly humorless lot. So it’s best not to ruffle any feathers, if we don’t have to.”
“Wiser words I have never heard come out of your mouth, Charles.”
St. Cyprian turned and saw a handsome older woman striding towards them. She was closing in on the autumn of middle age, and was perhaps twenty years his senior, with hair that was still mostly a lustrous chestnut save for several prominent streaks of silver. She was dressed well, as if for afternoon tea at the Savoy, rather than traipsing through the grimy corridors of the Limehouse police station. She was unaccompanied, but didn’t seem to mind. “Molly?” St. Cyprian said.
“Who else would it be, Charles?” the woman said. “Come greet me properly, young man.” She held out her hands, and he took them, smiling in bemusement.
“It’s very good to see you. I—I was sorry to hear about Hubert,” he said, as she gave him a quick peck on either cheek. “He was a fine man.”
“The finest I’ve ever known, present company included,” she said, smiling slightly. St. Cyprian clapped a hand to his heart and staggered, as if struck.
“As ever Molly, the arrows of your disdain strike true. My heart quivers,” he said.
“He talks such absolute rot, doesn’t he?” she said, looking at Gallowglass. “You must be the new girl. I remember when Charles was the new boy.” She looked Gallowglass up and down. “You’re more practical than he was, I can tell already.” She looked at St. Cyprian. “I approve, Charles.”
“Well thank heavens for that. I don’t know how I would persevere if you didn’t,” St. Cyprian said. “Ms. Gallowglass, allow me to introduce you to Lady Molly Robertson-Kirk, formerly of Scotland Yard, if only briefly, and one of our fair city’s first female police officers. Lady Robertson-Kirk, may I present Ebe Gallowglass, my assistant.”
“Charmed my dear,” Robertson-Kirk said. “And technically Charles, I wasn’t a police officer, so much as a…consultant. Or an annoyance, as poor old Inspector Meisures used to say. That Stanley woman was the first to put on a uniform, only last year.” She smiled thinly. I would so have enjoyed a proper uniform, I think.”
“Yes, well, not that I’m not pleased to see you, of course, but why are you in Limehouse? And why now?” He looked around. “I was expecting to meet someone from Special Branch.”
“And here I am,” Robertson-Kirk said.
“What?” He blinked, momentarily taken aback.
“Oh Charles, you really need to keep up with the world of the living. I joined Special Branch some time ago. Or, rather, I joined a certain sub-division of a sub-division, and the female department a
t that,” Robertson-Kirk said, with a crooked smile. “You recall that beastly business with the Sforza Pearl just after the War? The Creeping Man Murders?”
“I had heard something about that, yes. Malevolent psychical resonances, and what not. I was told the Ministry handled it.”
Robertson-Kirk snorted. “They took the credit, certainly. Then, you’d know all about that particular habit of theirs. It was Special Branch—our sub-division of it—who handled it. Inspector Brant and few…outside consultants, such as myself. The Ministry simply confiscated what was left. Well, other than the Creeping Man, who fell into the Thames, and that dratted pearl, which I’m given to understand is coming up for auction at Sotheby’s later this month.” She shook her head. “I never countenanced such things as what I saw during that case, when I first joined the police force. But, well…” She shook her head again. It was a look he recognized well. Fairytales and ghost stories were all well and good when confined to the imagination, but when the awful reality behind them suddenly appeared in a Chelsea drawing room, it took awhile to reorient one’s preconceptions. “In any event, when the order came down that the Royal Occultist was to be shown a certain nonexistent body not destined for a pauper’s grave, recovered from the scene of an unrecorded incident which absolutely never happened, I decided to escort you in to see the body myself, seeing as you have been quite lax in your duties as a friend.”
“There was a war on, you know,” St. Cyprian said.
“That’s no excuse for discourtesy, Charles.” She twitched her fingers. “Now, if you’ll be so good as to follow me.”
Robertson-Kirk led them into the examination room. The room was painted a depressing shade of white, and the floor tiles had long since been stained an unpleasant hue. A body lay on a steel table in the center of the room, surrounded by counters and cabinets on which were piled the tools of the trade—chemical beakers and flasks, jars of powders and autopsy tools. “The doctor on call is a friend of a friend, and given the particulars of this case. He decided it might be best to take his tea early while you’re here.”
The Jade Suit of Death (The Adventures Of The Royal Occultist Book 2) Page 3