The Parliament of Blood

by Justin Richards

  ‘He had a daughter,’ George recalled. ‘Little girl with dark hair. Lucy, was it?’

  The commissioner of the Metropolitan Police shook his head sadly. ‘Not any more. Scarlet fever, apparently, a few years ago. You can confirm this is Christopher Kingsley?’

  George nodded. ‘It is.’ The man looked so pale – almost as white as the sheet that covered most of his body. He looked younger than George remembered. Strange how one always assumed more experienced people must be so much older. But Kingsley could only have been in his forties looking at him now.

  He could recall his first day working for the man. George had cut himself on a lathe – not badly, but Kingsley had been all sympathy. ‘You’re bleeding, George,’ he had said, genuinely concerned. ‘That’s bad.’ George had learned a lot from Christopher Kingsley.

  ‘Why did you come?’ George asked Sir Harrison Judd.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Why did you come – in person. Why not send a constable. This must be very routine.’

  Sir Harrison Judd nodded. He looked down at the dead man for a moment, then drew the sheet back over him. ‘I suppose,’ he said slowly, ‘that I could have identified him formally myself. But that didn’t seem proper.’

  And suddenly George understood. ‘You knew him. He was a friend.’

  Sir Harrison sighed. ‘More of an acquaintance. But I knew from our brief conversations that he held you in very high regard, Mr Archer.’

  George was surprised. He had venerated Kingsley. But while they had become good friends, George and Kingsley had lost contact after George left the railway company.

  ‘Oh yes, he spoke of you often. We were members of the same club. In fact, that is partly why I came to find you. I took the opportunity to see Sir William too, but it was you I really wanted to speak to.’

  ‘About Kingsley?’

  ‘In a way. I said we were members of the same club. Membership is strictly limited, but there is now, sadly, a vacancy. I think that Christopher would like nothing better than for me to propose you as the man to take his place.’

  ‘I …’ George was astonished. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘No need to decide now.’ Some of Sir Harrison’s military bearing and brusqueness was back as they left the mortuary. ‘You have a think about it. Let me know. But I’d be delighted to propose your name. Doesn’t mean you’ll be accepted, of course. Though I do have some influence. One thing though, we are a close-knit lot. I would appreciate it if you would tell no one of this invitation. Not least because they might be jealous. It’s quite an honour even to be considered.’

  ‘Thank you. I am honoured, truly. And I’ll think about it,’ George promised. ‘I’m sorry – all this. Seeing Christopher like that. Well, it’s a shock.’

  ‘Indeed it is.’

  ‘This club,’ George asked as Sir Harrison bade him farewell. ‘Which club is it?’

  ‘It is really a society,’ Sir Harrison told him. ‘But it is more usually called the Damnation Club.’

  When he woke the next morning, George’s mind was full of railways and trains and memories of Christopher Kingsley. He was surprised to find it was already after ten, but remembering Sir William’s advice to take some time and get over the shock he did not worry about hurrying in to work.

  When George did eventually make his way to the British Museum the afternoon was drawing in and it was almost dark. George cursed the heavy smog, clutching his handkerchief over his mouth in an effort to keep out the worst fumes. He did not go first to his office. Instead he made his way across the Great Court to the Reading Room. The large, round building wrought out of dark brick dominated the courtyard. Inside, the single circular reading room with its high domed ceiling was equally impressive, if slightly daunting.

  The librarian looked down his nose at George when asked to find the latest edition of the Gentleman’s London Journal. But he produced it a few minutes later without comment. The reading desks curved with the shape of the walls, and George found an empty area and set down the book. As he had hoped and expected, an appendix provided a brief description of all the London clubs. He soon found the one he was looking for.

  THE DAMNATION CLUB

  Of all the gentlemen’s clubs registered in London, the so-called Damnation Club is possibly the most exclusive. Its real name is the Society of Diabolic and Mystic Nominees, the rather melodramatic nickname by which it is usually known being taken from the initial letters DaMN. It is also referred to in its induction papers, which it is claimed date back to 1457, as The Parliament of Blood though there is no known explanation for this title.

  It is not clear that members have to demonstrate any aptitude for mysticism or indeed any interest in the Occult. But certainly, membership is exclusive and by nomination only. There are rumours of complicated and bizarre induction rites, but it is likely that these are fostered by the Club itself to bolster its esteem and exclusivity, and to add to the mythos.

  There is little point in applying to join the Damnation Club, though the legend that the third Earl Aldebourne actually went to the Club and demanded to be admitted the very night that he disappeared in 1723 seems to have no historical basis.

  At various times, the Home Secretary, the Governor of the Bank of England, and many other prominent people – including even Sir Harrison Judd Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police – have been linked to the Damnation Club.

  As Sir Harrison Judd had told him, it did indeed seem to be an honour – if an unexpected one – to be nominated for membership. George closed the book. It thumped shut more loudly than George had intended, and he glanced round nervously hoping he hadn’t disturbed anyone.

  His eyes immediately met those of the woman sitting next to him – just a few yards away. A woman he recognised at once. A woman who was sitting alone, with no books or papers in front of her. A woman who was turned slightly towards George and staring at him intently as he sensed now she had been for quite some time.

  It was the woman from the Unwrapping. She was wearing a heavy, dark coat, her black hair spilling over the fur collar. Her full red lips curled into a smile and she pressed her index finger against them warning George to be quiet.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mouthed.

  The woman stood up, still looking at George. The finger to her lips moved to point at George, then curled to beckon him. She walked slowly from the reading room, pausing once to look back over her shoulder, to make sure that George was following.

  ‘Who are you, what do you want?’ he gasped as soon as they were outside. A cold mist hung in the air between them, so that her features seemed slightly smudged and if anything even more perfect. ‘You were here the other night.’

  ‘For the Unwrapping of Orabis,’ she agreed. ‘It was quite a night, was it not, Mr Archer.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry, you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know who you are.’

  ‘Clarissa.’

  ‘Clarissa?’ he repeated.

  ‘Just Clarissa.’

  ‘And did you wish to speak to me?’

  Her mouth twitched as if she was suppressing a smile. ‘I was wondering if you had made your decision.’

  George felt suddenly cold. ‘Decision?’

  ‘About whether to join us.’ She laughed at his expression. ‘To join the society, as Sir Harrison Judd suggested.’

  George was struggling to understand. ‘You are a member of the Damnation Club?’

  ‘We are all damned, one way or another. Have you decided yet?’

  ‘I, um, no,’ George admitted.

  ‘A shame. But I can help you perhaps.’ She took a step towards him.

  George backed away, suddenly nervous, and she laughed again. Clarissa reached out her finger, the one with which she had beckoned to him. She drew it slowly down George’s cheek and he felt how cold it was, even through her glove.

  ‘There is a ball this evening. Only members are invited. Members and their guests. I would be delighted if you would be
my guest.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Meet me there at eight,’ she said. She didn’t wait for his reply, but turned away and continued across the courtyard.

  ‘At eight,’ George called after her.

  She did not turn back, but her voice drifted to him out of the gathering mist. ‘At the Damnation Club.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Liz had sat by her father’s bed all night. By midnight he seemed to have settled into a fitful sleep. She held his hand, aware of how cold it felt. The skin was slack and wrinkled, and his fingers were bony and brittle. As the old man’s breathing became gradually more regular, Liz felt herself drifting into sleep.

  At one point, Horace Oldfield cried out. A sudden, startled sound that jolted Liz immediately awake. In the light of the moon filtering round the curtains, she could see her father’s eyes were open. He was staring at her, though he seemed to be focusing somewhere behind her.

  ‘Box,’ he gasped weakly. He tried to sit up, raising himself from the pillows. ‘Get me … Box!’ Then he slumped back, eyes closed and breathing ragged.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Liz held his shoulders for a moment, feeling the bones trembling through his nightshirt. But he seemed to be asleep again. ‘Just a dream,’ she murmured, tucking in the bed sheets.

  Before long, despite her concern, Liz was asleep again too. Her head rested on the bed covers, her hand on the pillow beside her father’s head.

  Dawn came and went, and it was mid-morning before Liz woke. She sat up, blinking in the pale light and still feeling the press of the blankets against her cheek. She stood up, taking a moment to awaken fully, then gently, quietly opened the curtains.

  ‘Goodness me – what time is it?’ her father asked.

  ‘Quite late, I think.’

  He looked pale and weak and confused as he pulled himself up. ‘I must make a start,’ he announced. ‘I was hoping to index some of my sermons today.’

  ‘You are doing nothing of the sort,’ Liz told him. She was smiling, which made it difficult to sound strict. But she was so pleased he seemed to be improving. ‘You are ill.’

  ‘Am I?’ He seemed surprised. ‘I do confess I feel rather tired.’ He slumped back into the pillows. ‘Perhaps just a few minutes to get my strength back then.’

  ‘You are staying in bed all day,’ Liz told him firmly. ‘You collapsed at your desk yesterday – don’t you remember?’

  He frowned and shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. I was … The door opened and … Darkness.’

  By midday, Oldfield was once more asleep. His breathing seemed regular if shallow, and his face was pale and waxen. But Liz was far less worried about him now, and he seemed to improve further after a small bowl of vegetable soup for late luncheon.

  Liz took a nap herself after lunch. She was awakened by the sound of knocking at the front door. She hurried downstairs, hoping the sound had not woken her father.

  Outside, the afternoon was drawing in and a smoggy mist was blotting out the sun – the edges of the heavier smog that George Archer was at the same time cursing as he made his way to the British Museum. The figure at the door turned from his inspection of the street and smiled at Liz. It was Henry Malvern.

  ‘How is your father?’ he asked. ‘I was passing, I thought I would enquire.’

  Liz invited him into the drawing room. ‘Passing?’ she said.

  ‘In the area. It’s getting quite thick out there now.’ He coughed, and apologised. ‘Oh dear, not good for the lungs at all. I don’t suppose I could bother you for a cup of tea to wash away the smog?’

  ‘Of course.’ Having just woken, Liz’s own throat was dry. A cup of tea seemed very welcome. ‘I will not be long. Make yourself at home.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’ Malvern made to sit down, then changed his mind. ‘May I look in on your father? I promise not to upset or tire him, but I should like to know he is on the mend.’

  ‘He is sleeping,’ Liz said. ‘But please do.’

  ‘I know the way,’ Malvern assured her, having helped carry Oldfield to his room the previous evening.

  When Liz returned with the tea, Malvern was back in the drawing room.

  ‘He seems to be sleeping peacefully. Let’s hope it was nothing too serious.’ Malvern sipped appreciatively at his tea. ‘Now, I do have a confession to make.’

  Liz set down her own cup. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was not just passing. I came here quite on purpose. To see you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Liz could feel the blood in her cheeks as she blushed. ‘Father will be fine, but it is kind of you to –’

  ‘No, to see you.’

  ‘Oh,’ Liz said again. ‘Er, would you like some more tea?’ It was all she could think to say.

  Malvern laughed at her expression. ‘Thank you, but no. I’m sure it is inconvenient, and that you are concerned about your father, but I wonder if you could spare me a couple of hours this evening?’

  ‘A rehearsal?’ Liz asked. ‘I’m not sure I should leave him. I mean, he seems to be much better now and sleeping, but …’

  Malvern was shaking his head. ‘Not a rehearsal. I have been invited to a … function I suppose you might call it. This evening. Very exclusive. I wondered if you might join me.’

  ‘Me?’ Liz was astonished.

  Malvern laughed again. ‘I admit I had invited Marie, but she is so tired after this afternoon’s rehearsals that she has had to cry off. Then I thought it would do you good. It would take your mind off things.’

  Looking into Malvern’s deep, pale eyes, Liz felt herself longing for this moment to continue, to stay in the man’s company … But still Liz hesitated. ‘I don’t know. Father …’ She turned away.

  ‘Please – don’t decide now,’ Malvern said. ‘Let me call for you at eight, and see how he is then. If he seems well enough to be left, then two hours – I promise. If not …’ He sighed, disappointment heavy in his voice: ‘Well, another time perhaps.’

  It was the ‘perhaps’ – the thought that this was an offer that might never be repeated – that made Liz catch her breath.

  It was dark by the time Sir William’s cab drew up outside Lord Ruthven’s imposing residence. It was a large house, perhaps a hundred years old, set back from the main road and with some small grounds of its own. The place was a black silhouette against the grey of the smoggy evening. The blank windows were like the eye sockets of an old skull. The pale, chipped stone steps that led to the door were its broken teeth …

  The cab driver shivered and drew his cloak close about him. His horse whinnied nervously and dragged an impatient hoof through the gravel.

  ‘I shan’t be long,’ Sir William assured them.

  The door opened even before he pulled the bell. A thin, almost emaciated man with jutting cheekbones stood in the doorway. He said nothing, staring down at Sir William through deep, dark eyes.

  ‘Sir William Protheroe. For Lord Ruthven.’ Sir William smiled. ‘Please let him know I am here.’

  The manservant hesitated long enough to show he was deciding what to do rather than being told. Then he led Sir William through to the drawing room. Heavy curtains were drawn across the bay windows, and the lamps were turned down so low that the middle of the room was a black pool.

  In the blackness, something stirred. A shape, a darkness moved slowly towards Sir William. It gradually coalesced into a figure. Sir William let out his breath in relief as he recognised Lord Ruthven.

  ‘To what do I owe this honour?’ Lord Ruthven asked. ‘Have you perhaps found the missing canopic jar?’

  ‘I am afraid not.’

  ‘Pity.’ Lord Ruthven turned up the nearest lamp and the shadows shrank away. ‘Forgive me, I was asleep. So, is this a social call? It is too late for tea and too early for dinner.’ He moved to the next wall lamp.

  The room seemed almost as dark even with the lights turned up. The carpet was a deep but faded red. The furniture was dark oak, the fabrics all burgundy and scarlet. A clock on the mantelpiece a
bove the dying red embers of a fire stood on a raised wooden plinth that looked as though it had once been covered with a glass dome. There was no dome now. No glass anywhere, except hidden behind the heavy curtains.

  ‘I came to ask your advice,’ Sir William said.

  ‘How flattering.’

  ‘There are some things which recently have disturbed me. Scared me, even.’

  ‘Such as?’ Lord Ruthven asked cautiously.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Sir William stood up, walking slowly round the room and noting the layer of dust over everything. Aware of his host’s eyes following him. ‘The business with the mummy.’

  ‘A harmless prank.’

  ‘I admit that seems likely, but we really don’t know do we? Then there is the unfortunate death of the photographer, Denning.’

  ‘An accident.’

  Sir William nodded. ‘Perhaps. Again, perhaps. He took some very strange photographs, you know.’

  Lord Ruthven seemed to straighten in his chair. ‘I did not.’

  ‘No. Nor did whoever killed him.’ He hesitated, waiting for Lord Ruthven to express surprise. But there was only silence. ‘I did wonder if he was killed to prevent him taking photographs of the mummy of Orabis.’

  ‘And why would anyone want to prevent that?’

  ‘Ah, well, if we still had the mummy we could photograph it and find out.’

  ‘A pity then that it is lost.’

  ‘As you say.’

  ‘And what,’ Lord Ruthven asked, ‘do you think photographs of the mummy would have shown?’

  Sir William turned to look directly as Lord Ruthven. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘And I mean literally nothing. You see, I had the mummy photographed that afternoon, before Denning died.’

  ‘And you have seen the photographs?’

  ‘I have.’

  Lord Ruthven sank back into his chair. ‘Then you know,’ he said softly.

  Sir William took three rapid paces towards Lord Ruthven. ‘No, sir – I do not know!’ he declared. ‘But it seems that you do. You know why the mummy cannot be photographed. And I think you know because you yourself do not show up in photographs.’