‘We’ve already encountered some,’ Kingsley muttered. He told Kipling about the attack of the Spawn on Evadne’s refuge.
‘You have an underground retreat, my dear?’ The writer reached inside his jacket pocket and began to pull out a notebook. With an effort, he pushed it back. He smiled ruefully. ‘I imagine you’d prefer such a thing remain private.’
‘And undiscovered by creatures belonging to the Immortals,’ Evadne said. ‘Which is why they were dealt with.’
Somewhat of an understatement, Kingsley thought, but he didn’t draw attention to the matter. ‘You have news, Mr Kipling?’
‘Ah, yes, and it’s about these very same Immortals.’
Kingsley saw Evadne tense. It was infinitesimal – mostly in the way she held her shoulders – but it was there. ‘You wouldn’t have found where they are hiding, would you?’ she asked the writer.
‘No, nothing as concrete as that. All I have are rumours, some stories, some theories.’
‘And where do these come from?’ Kingsley asked.
The writer smiled a little. ‘I have my sources.’
Evadne snagged a passing steward and ordered a lemon squash. Kipling asked for one as well, while Kingsley opted for water. While they waited, their conversation drifted to the Olympic Games and the spirited nature of the competition. Civilised though it may be, Kipling chuckled at some of the friction that was becoming apparent between British and American officials.
A waitress appeared and distributed the refreshments. Kingsley glanced outside. Rain had begun to fall again.
‘You understand that I met your father, years ago.’
Kingsley whipped his head around. He stared at the writer, then he hesitated. ‘Dr Ward?’
‘He was in India while I was there. An extraordinary man. He spent months at a time travelling about on his own, you know, not speaking to a European all that time.’
Kingsley sagged. For a moment, he’d thought Kipling was about to tell him of his real father, the man he’d never known. Dr Ward had been good to him, but Kingsley had always wondered about his real parents. Who were they? What had happened to them for him to end up nurtured by wolves?
‘Do you have any news of him?’ Evadne said after glancing at Kingsley.
‘I’m afraid not, but the news I do have is more important.’
Kingsley straightened. ‘More important than finding my foster father?’
‘I understand your desire to find him,’ Kipling said. ‘He’s a good man and an outstanding thinker, but he is only one man.’
Evadne put a hand on Kingsley’s forearm and interrupted the retort that was rising to his tongue. ‘Your meaning?’ she asked the writer.
‘In coming back to London, the Immortals have taken the first step in their age-long plan to dominate all humanity.’
Kingsley started, then settled, aided by the firm pressure of Evadne’s hand on his forearm. Juggler’s muscles, he supposed.
Kipling explained. ‘I’ve been talking to some old friends who’d been in India while I was there. We combined notes and concluded that the Immortals’ presence in India, appalling though their deeds were, was just a precursor, a step towards their real goal, the domination of humankind.’ He smiled grimly. ‘When a two-hundred-year reign of terror and the assembling of vast riches is just a small step, then we are dealing with creatures who are evil beyond reckoning.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Evadne breathed. ‘That we are.’
‘The best guess is that they have come back to England for two reasons. Firstly, they have become obsessed with the notion of mass animus.’
‘Animus?’ Kingsley frowned. ‘Spirit?’
‘It’s not the soul, or anything like that. It’s more an insubstantial expression of the attitudes of a person, their morals and beliefs. Massed animus is the collective expression of a group of people gathered for a purpose, be it worship, play or something more sinister.’
Kingsley thought of the way applause seemed to float above an audience, a shared manifestation of goodwill and appreciation. Was this what Kipling was talking about?
‘And what do they do with this massed animus?’ Evadne asked.
‘They harvest it.’
‘Harvest?’ Kingsley grimaced. This sounded more than a little sordid.
‘They collect it. How and why, though, no-one knows. The reports I have from India talk of terrible underground rituals performed by the Immortals to draw out and harvest evil animus.’
Kingsley had a moment where he smelled Kipling’s trail and bounded ahead to its conclusion. ‘The Olympic Games,’ he said. ‘That’s why they’re here.’
‘Very good, Mr Ward,’ Kipling said. ‘You have it. Right here, you have 90,000 people in one place. It promises a fine harvest indeed.’
‘Of what?’ Evadne said. ‘Of patriotism? Of enjoyment? The Games are hardly likely to produce vast amounts of evil animus, are they?’
‘And to what end?’ Kingsley asked, his mind sifting through possibilities that were so hideous to contemplate that he was sickened.
‘As I said, here is where we draw a blank. But I’ll hazard a guess that it may have a connection with the second reason these horrors have come back to London.’ He turned. ‘It’s you, Mr Ward,’ Kipling said.
‘Because of my upbringing.’
‘It’s not only that. The Immortals believe that you can control the wild within because you are different, that you have something special about you.’ Kipling paused. ‘Forgive me if I’m graphic here, but before they left India, the Immortals were called the Brain Eaters.’
‘Charming,’ Kingsley said. Evadne said nothing.
‘Their Thuggee devotees would bring offerings to the Immortals. The authorities found dozens, hundreds over the years, all with one thing in common.’
‘Apart from being dead?’ Evadne asked.
‘Quite. Apart from being dead, all of those taken to the Immortals had had their brains removed.’
‘They want my brain,’ Kingsley said slowly.
‘I’m afraid it’s more than that. The Indian brain removal was preliminary. They were searching for something that they believe your brain has – a special region, or gland, that has given you control over the wild within. They want that gland, and they’ll remove your brain to get it.’
Kingsley couldn’t help it. He put a hand to the back of his head. ‘I’m afraid I’m using it at the moment.’
‘That won’t stop them.’
‘I’m unconvinced,’ Evadne said. ‘Kingsley has a special gland in his brain? Who’d have thought?’
Kingsley didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter whether I do or not, as long as the Immortals believe I do.’
‘That’s it in a nutshell,’ Kipling said. ‘It will be rather too late for you once the Immortals discover their mistake.’
‘Mr Kipling,’ Evadne said abruptly, ‘did your informants mention anything about missing children in India? While the Immortals were there?’
‘Children go astray in India all the time, my dear,’ Kipling said, ‘but I’m assuming you’re hinting at the Immortals’ horrible needs. Police records do, indeed, indicate pockets of child disappearances in the areas where the Immortals were rumoured to dwell.’
Evadne’s face was cold and set. It was Kingsley’s turn to steady her, and he placed his other hand on hers. She didn’t respond.
‘So the Olympic Games are being jeopardised by a band of evil sorcerers who want my brain,’ Kingsley said, ‘while I try to find my foster father who may have been abducted by creatures from the dawn of time.’
Evadne had withdrawn her hand from Kingsley’s and was now twisting the silver ring on her finger. ‘Have you discovered anything else, Mr Kipling?’
�
��One last item: I think I know where the Immortals have hidden themselves.’
Evadne stiffened, all movement ceasing. ‘Oh?’
‘They appear to have re-occupied one of their old haunts,’ Kipling said. ‘This one is under Greenwich.’
Evadne nodded sharply, once. She turned the ring on her finger completely around, then nodded again to herself. Kingsley could see that she had make up her mind. About what, though, he wasn’t sure.
‘You must have connections, Mr Kipling. Can you help?’ she said finally.
The writer blinked. ‘I hoped that I had been, Miss Stephens, but what were you thinking of?’
‘You have a position in the mundane world. You could speak to the authorities about Kingsley’s situation. Let them know that Kingsley couldn’t have done anything to his housekeeper since he was on stage in Aldershot at the time, that sort of thing.’
‘Of course. I have a few friends at Scotland Yard. I’m sure I can count on them.’
‘Would you be able to take up my foster father’s case with them?’ Kingsley added. ‘Just in case his disappearance is more . . . mundane than it appears.’
‘I can do all that.’ Kipling scribbled a few notes in his notebook. He signed to the waiter, who appeared with Kipling’s homburg and umbrella. Kipling stood, took his homburg in one hand and his umbrella in the other. He carried it by the tip instead of the handle, as if he had unusual uses in mind for it. He bowed slightly. ‘Miss Stephens. Mr Ward.’ He went to go, but paused and addressed Kingsley. ‘Mr Ward. My boy. When I last saw you I said how amazed I was to encounter someone who stepped directly from a story of mine. I realise now that this was most presumptuous of me. You are your own person, not someone dreamed up by a fellow whose primary talent lies in imagining.’
Kingsley stood. ‘Please, Mr Kipling –’
‘No, my boy, let me finish.’ The writer took a deep breath. ‘When imagining, a fellow can become carried away, immersed in what he has created. When I saw you, and once I became convinced of your origin, I’m afraid I went that way, oblivious to your pain.’ He looked about and essayed a smile. ‘Now, instead of your stepping out of one of my stories, I feel as if I’ve stepped into one. It serves me right.’ He brightened. ‘Let me help you, Mr Ward, not because I’m fascinated by my own creation coming to life, but because it’s the right thing to do.’
Kingsley reached out and took the writer’s hand. They shook. Kipling left, briskly, and disappeared through the glass doors.
‘I think we can trust him,’ Evadne said before Kingsley could say anything. ‘Lady Aglaia says he has a reputation in the Demimonde as a good man.’
‘Lady Aglaia?’
‘My friend, who gave Kipling’s note to my myrmidon. She added a letter of her own. Chatty, it was, but she did include her opinion of Kipling.’
‘I’m glad,’ Kingsley said. ‘And what do we do while we’re waiting for him?’
‘We don’t wait.’ Evadne took off her spectacles. Kingsley had imagined that without them she would peer about, blinking, like a night creature in strong light, but her unearthly eyes were steady as she cleaned her spectacles on a cloth she extracted from her belt. ‘We do something.’
After leaving the Imperial Sports Club, Evadne took Kingsley’s arm and steered them through the crowds with the determination of a naval destroyer. She swept them through the Central Circle and along the Algerian Avenue, emerging through the Wood Lane entrance. Queues of people waiting to get into the Exhibition, in orderly British fashion, stretched up the road. The stands of the stadium loomed not far to the south and cheers cascaded over the lip. Flags flew gaily, reminding everyone that this part of the site was truly international.
They passed the stadium and Evadne took them to a lamp post where a young girl was standing, absorbed in a toffee apple. ‘Look up at the stadium,’ Evadne told Kingsley. She mimicked him, shading her eyes, but spoke to the girl on the other side of the lamp post. ‘All’s well, Meg?’
Meg wore a white sundress and a straw hat. Her black hair hung in a neat braid. She didn’t look at Evadne, but answered in a murmur around her toffee apple. ‘Just that man, ma’am.’ She inclined her head the merest fraction of an inch, but left no doubt who she was indicating.
A small man stood a stone’s throw away. He too, was looking up at the stadium and the flags flying against the scudding clouds.
‘He’s been there all morning,’ Meg murmured.
‘Demimonder?’
Meg tilted her head in assent, another fractional gesture.
Kingsley coughed, and used this to cover a furtive study of the man in question. He was nondescript. As medium a height as medium could be. Clean, unremarkable coat and hat. A face that held not a single noteworthy feature. Kingsley looked away and immediately had trouble remembering what the man looked like.
‘He hasn’t done anything?’ Evadne asked, looking sidelong at this phenomenon.
‘Just waiting, he is.’
Evadne shook her head. ‘I don’t like this.’
‘Do you want me to accost him?’ Kingsley offered. Never having accosted anyone before, he wasn’t entirely sure how accosting was done, but he was sure he could give it a decent shot.
‘No. Meg, do you think you could make a scene right next to him?’
Meg gave a twitch of a smile. Kingsley decided she could grow up to be a very fine cards player. ‘Easy, ma’am.’
Evadne spun a half sovereign in her hand, then slipped it to the young girl. Meg didn’t acknowledge this. She simply closed her fist on the coin and skipped away.
Kingsley watched her go, and saw the wistfulness with which Evadne followed the child’s bobbing straw hat. ‘Who was that?’
‘Meg’s someone I look out for.’
‘Another project?’
‘Meg is ten years old, and has been an orphan for five of them. She lives at Mrs Oldham’s Home for Girls, which I sponsor. She, and a few others, do odd jobs for me.’ Evadne touched her cheek, briefly, then pushed back her hair. ‘She’s a good girl. Now, be ready.’
Kingsley was abashed. ‘What for?’
‘Watch.’
Just in front of the extraordinarily unexceptional man, Meg tripped. She tumbled and when she came up holding her knee, right in front of him, she shrieked as if she’d been shot several times with an elephant gun.
Within seconds, the girl and the startled man were enveloped by a knot of onlookers, well-meaners and self-appointed experts. This attracted more attention and the entire flow of Wood Lane turned in the direction of the hullabaloo.
‘Right,’ Evadne said. ‘Now hurry.’
Evadne dragged Kingsley to the other side of the road. She leaned against the fence and put a hand to her brow. ‘Look at me as if you’re concerned, as if I’m having a spell or something.’
‘How’s this?’ Kingsley drew close. He screwed up his brow and peered into her face, doing his best not to become befuddled by gardenia.
‘Laughable, but it will have to do.’
Evadne reached into her pocket and, still leaning against the fence, fiddled away behind her back. ‘Now, look up and down the road, as if you’re after help.’
He did, putting his heart into the thespian efforts, but was taken by surprise when he was tugged backward. He whipped around, but couldn’t stop himself falling into Evadne’s arms.
She kicked the door closed from the other side. The fence was whole again and she held him at arm’s length. ‘Comfortable?’
‘Sublimely.’
‘Don’t be.’
Evadne released her grip, but Kingsley was ready this time and managed to catch himself before he went sprawling.
Around them and over their heads, the struts and girders supporting the stands sliced the dim light into criss-cross pieces. Evadne confident
ly picked her way through the metal jungle, moving east until she found a small windowless shed made of corrugated iron. It sported a strident warning sign, promising certain death due to the untold voltages unleashed within. Naturally, Evadne ignored this and after a moment’s work had the door open. A bolted steel door set into the concrete floor led to a short, dark tunnel that took them to a heavy grate, after which a short crawl brought them to a rubble-filled dead end.
Evadne produced another of the pen-like electric lights and studied the rubble. ‘No-one has made it this far. Good.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘Myrmidon.’ She pointed. Up in the shadows was a ratty shape that made Kingsley jump. ‘It wouldn’t be calmly sitting there if this entrance to my refuge had been discovered.’
‘A watch-rat, so to speak.’
‘Kingsley, at this rate, you’ll soon be auditioning as a comedian.’
She handed Kingsley the tiny electric light and rummaged in the fist-sized lumps of concrete and brick until one of them gave a most unrubble-like ‘click’.
The rubble plug swung back. Evadne crawled through, waited for Kingsley, then pushed the camouflaged door closed behind them.
The only illumination came from the electric light Kingsley had in his hand. He held it up, but the shadows defeated its modest output. The sound the closing door had made told him that the space was large and so it proved when lights sprang up and he found himself in the antechamber that preceded Evadne’s underground refuge. A series of doors – with excellent locks – and they were inside.
‘Now,’ Evadne said. ‘Rest. You’ll be safe here. I should be back directly.’
‘Back? Where are you going?’
‘I have some errands to run.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘I’d rather not. This errand is of a personal nature, and I’m still not sure how much to trust you.’
Ah, trust. ‘I suppose that’s up to you, but I do my best to be trustworthy.’
She smiled at him and he felt as if he’d been poked in the stomach by a torpedo. ‘I’m sure you do. Your upright character is one of your more endearing features, but it does tend to suggest you don’t quite fit into the Demimonde.’
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