His quiet laugh and warm smile were relaxing to be around.
“Do you know the Pococks at all, Mr. Kingsley?”
“A little. Our families share several of the same friends, so naturally...”
“You’re not here to chase after Jenny Pocock then?”
“Good Lord, no.” He checked to make sure no one was listening in. “No, I’ll not say what I was going to say.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know you well enough, for starters, and we are her guests after all.”
“Be as a frank as you like, Mr. Kingsley. In fact, that can be your name from now on—Frank—if you say what you were going to say.”
He shook his head in amusement. “These society balls are normally the pits, such dreary affairs, and then you showed up. That was a compliment, by the way.”
“Thank you for clearing that up,” she teased.
“Very well, what I was going to say—” He checked behind them once more, “—is that I find Jenny Pocock insufferable. On one note the whole time, and a screechy one at that. She’ll nag the life out of the poor sap she chooses. A lot of the blokes feel the same about her.”
“Then why are they here? Why are you here?”
“How else could I have got to meet you, Miss McEwan?”
She straightened his bowtie for him. “Frank, I like you. Will you do me a favour?”
“Of course.”
“Keep me to yourself this evening. I’m not feeling gregarious, and there are altogether too many slimy customers I’d really rather not meet. This is much more my style. Let’s have our own little party in the corner, by invitation only. What do you say?”
“Be delighted. That would be my notion as well, if I’m being honest. Never did care for parading about these places.”
“I’m glad. It’s settled then. What shall we have to drink?”
No sooner did she start for the somewhat reduced pyramid of champagne glasses across the hall when a boisterous set of young men jumped Kingsley from behind. One of them put him in a playful headlock, while another pretended to knee him in the face in slow motion. All very high-spirited and loutish and good fun; Meredith rather enjoyed the aghast expressions on the faces of snooty guests nearby. Yes, these strapping, high-born hoodlums were definitely more her cup of coffee this evening, provided they had some of Kingsley’s easygoingness as well.
“I say—Thurs—who’s this you’ve managed to tuck away from the rest of us? For shame. Denying us the best-looking girl here.” The speaker had a neck thicker than his head, and sported a black eye. Probably a rugby player.
“Hear! Hear! Why if it isn’t just like Thurs, hogging the crease like some peevish tail-ender.” Meredith couldn’t quite decipher his cricket-speak, but the new, Eurasian-looking speaker had his arms over the shoulders of two of his mates. He gazed approvingly at her. “New to London, miss?”
Kingsley broke out of the headlock, cocked his arm for a mock punch at the posse, then laughed hard when they all put up their dukes. “Gentlemen and reprobates of the Oxford Cricket First Eleven, allow me to introduce Miss Meredith McEwan.”
“How do you do?—Pleasure, miss—Hello there, darling.” Their overlapped greetings were noticeably politer than their entrance had been, and she curtsied.
“Gentlemen...and reprobates. Tell me, which is which?”
They thrust fingers at each other, jockeying for position. A few cries of “Oi” went up. One or two slapped the backs of rivals’ heads. “No gentlemen here,” the Eurasian man said, “not unless the umpire’s watching,” and promptly had his jacket collar upturned. In his whiplash attempt to fold it back his lapels flung wide open, revealing a pocket watch hanging free by its chain from his waistcoat.
She recognised the case instantly—identical to the one she possessed—and even managed to glimpse the engraved number, 219. A member of the second sect? They met on the second of the month at two o’clock.
“What is your name, sir?”
The man’s eyes lit up, despite the others’ cajoling. “Alan Nickson, miss, at your service.”
“You’re nicked,” someone else quipped, flipping Nickson’s collar up again.
Then it hit her—such good friends likely shared more than headlocks and bad puns. If one was an indentured Atlas man, might the others be as well? Maybe not all of them; that was too much to ask with so few members permitted in total. But it was worth finding out what she could. And now that she had six adoring cricketers to keep her amused and away from hostile society, the evening promised to pass very agreeably indeed. It would also satisfy Cathy, seeing Meredith surrounded by so many Oxford boys. But perhaps not the method of bonding with them she had in mind. For only one thing would ensure a sportsman’s company over the course of an evening.
“Tell me, gentlemen, do you gamble?”
They did, and how! One carried twin packs of cards, though he hadn’t meant to reveal both packs, one being, rather embarrassingly for him, what was known as a rigged deck. He received merciless flack for that from his fellows, who promised he would never live it down. So cards was out, and a good thing, too; Meredith’s entire repertoire consisted of Gin Rummy and Snap.
Nickson had a pair of dice, but with no flat surface to use save the floor—no thank you, even Meredith’s liberal sense of propriety balked at that—they were stumped. The only game she could think of to play, and that she was tolerably good at, was perhaps a tad childish; yet it never failed to cheer her and Sonja up.
“Who knows roshambo?” Blank gazes. “It’s an Asian game my father taught me, also known as scissors-paper-stone?” More blank gazes. She rubbed her gloved hands together, then explained the rules to her six fascinated new boyfriends, using poor Frank, whose evening alone with Meredith had been denied, as the guinea pig. “And that’s all there is to it. Scissors cuts paper, stone blunts scissors, and paper wraps stone. Go on, practice in pairs for a minute, then let the games begin.”
They took it more seriously than she expected, though she shouldn’t really be surprised given their sporting backgrounds. Frank was the best of the lot and seemed to cotton on to the game’s secret: to beat your opponent, you had to become your opponent. To know his patterns, his capacity for randomness, which in most cases was surprisingly low—people generally struggled with spontaneity—and stay one step ahead. A battle of wits, then, more sophisticated than its childish appearance suggested, and darned addictive to boot.
While they were practicing, she put her spectrometer goggles on and briefly studied the other partygoers at maximum magnification, to see who else might be an Atlas member. Very tough to determine, for while watch chains and Atlas pins were ubiquitous, unless a man wanted to read the time he would not retrieve his watch, and in any event those who did possess an Atlas case would never wittingly reveal it in public. Today’s date was the eighth. Perhaps some time after seven, any members of the eighth sect would make their exits? Not much to go on, but leaving a party that early was unusual and the crème de la crème of London society was here tonight. Odds favoured at least a few of the eighth sect being in attendance, and they would shortly be leaving this party for their secret rendezvous.
“Frank—I mean Mr. Kingsley—can you please give me the time?”
“It’s a little after six-thirty,” one of the others, Fraser, beat him to the punch, no doubt trying to impress her. His watch was authentic, non-Atlas.
“Thank you. Are you ready, gents?”
They shuffled into a semicircle around her, focused and entertained. “What do we play for?” asked the man with the black eye, Saunders.
“How about a shilling a round? A round is the best of five hands,” she replied.
“That’s for starters,” said Nickson, the Eurasian, and he went on to organize an ingenious Round Robin tournament in no time at all, the stakes increasing with each round up to a guinea per round for the final winning pair. “And one last thing. The winner gets a kiss from Miss McEwan.”
“But what if I win, gentlemen?” she asked.
“Then you choose who gets the kiss.” Nickson’s first slip-up, because Meredith had already decided who that would be. She guessed Frank knew it too; his special sheepish grin was just for her. Despite the boisterous interference, his every word and gesture had remained on her wavelength. He was the laid-back one. The quiet centre of the team. Yes, she wouldn’t mind seeing Thurston Kingsley again, spending more time alone with him.
“Agreed.” She pretended to roll up her sleeves. “All right, Saunders, prepare for a thrashing.”
By the last match, her purse jingled with coins. The men had concentrated, tried their best to be unpredictable, but the male tendency toward bloodshed was clearly a factor in their reactive play—scissors and stone were used far, far more than paper. Another player, Donzelot, had accidentally revealed an Atlas pin on his waistcoat when he removed his jacket. Did he belong to a sect, or was he simply a familiar, awaiting an opening?
As she’d expected, Frank faced her in the final. By now a group of younger spectators had assembled around them, clapping the winner of each round. He put up a brave fight, blindsiding her twice with paper when she’d predicted scissors, but her final flourish of three stones in a row bamboozled him.
She leaned in and kissed his cheek before the others had a chance to nominate themselves for the honour.
Groans and boos from the cricketers turned to general laughter. Frank kissed her cheek in reply, earning himself another headlock from Saunders for unchivalrous conduct and being the object of unwarranted favouritism. In the ensuing tussle she glimpsed Atlas pins attached to...both men’s waistcoats?
She stepped away.
No, not him. Anyone but him.
The Leviacrum’s legacy had clearly infected and conquered the majority of the upper class. Meredith now gazed for the first time upon the wraith-like nature of that ideology: Thurston Kingsley, freshman at Oxford, member of the Cricket 1st XI and the England Under 21s, a sweet, guileless and reluctant partygoer, was its personification, the method by which that unholy organisation had risen to power in the first place. He made friends easily. He was non-threatening. He hid his ambition well. Very well.
A dose of salt in what had been a sweet dessert, it ended the evening bitterly. All she wanted was to find Cathy and take a taxi home, forget she’d ever met the Gambling Six. The whole rotten country was honeycombed with deceit. No wonder Father spent his life searching for another world.
“I’m really very sorry, Miss McEwan. I clean forgot I’ve an urgent piece of coursework that needs finishing. I’m afraid I have to leave early.” Frank, a.k.a. Thurston Jekyll. “Will you forgive me? But I’d very much like to call on you sometime, if I have your permission, that is.”
“Very well.” She didn’t quite know how those words came out—frustration perhaps? Things had been going so well. Did a part of her refuse to believe his Atlas allegiance was anything other than mere lip-service, a family tradition, and he honestly was who he seemed to be? “Goodbye, Frank. Best of luck with your coursework.”
He bowed, then dashed off to the buffet table, where he met up with—ugh, no—the oafish Chester Slocombe, who’d slimed her upon arrival and tainted her appreciation of puns forevermore.
Meredith crept away from the pack, put her spectrometer goggles back on, watched Frank confiscate Slocombe’s glass of punch and take him to one side for a lively reprimand. Interesting. A glimpse of the other Frank, a.k.a. Thurston Hyde? Slocombe reached into his waistcoat pocket and retrieved...Ah, so there you are!
The number on his pocket watch was 814. Another member of the eighth sect.
But that halfwit? Hell, he could always pun the Coalition to death. She found herself following them, step after grim, determined step, through a forest of resplendent twirling mannequins.
Kingsley ushered his obscene friend outside, where they jumped into a carriage and sped away eastwards. She asked the doorman for the time. “Seven-twenty, miss. Would you like a taxi?”
“Yes, please. Quick as you can now.” She’d won enough to pay for any fare, any distance tonight. “If Lady Catarina Fairchild asks if you’ve seen Meredith McEwan, tell her I’ll be home presently.”
“Yes, miss. I’ve got that.” He helped her up onto the post-chaise. “Good night, miss.”
“Good night.” And to the driver, “The two gentlemen who just left?”
“Aye, miss?”
“Trail them...at a distance now. I don’t want them to see me.”
“Anything the matter?”
“No, no.” She handed him a five pound note. “Paper always beats stone. Isn’t that right, driver?”
He snapped the reins in agreement.
A damp, pearly mist, kept aglow by the odd streetlamp, hung low over everything in this unpopulated part of the city. Cobbles gave way to a dirt road twenty feet wide between raised pavements. Its slick mud glistened amber under the lamps’ glow, while a line of arrowheads pointed skyward above the mist on either side. A tall black fence of some kind. The area had the desolate feel of an abandoned village in the aftermath of a natural disaster—a tense energy, an absence of the souls that created it, held dominion. She could no longer see Frank’s carriage ahead, but the occasional neighing of its horses told her it was still there, ahead of them in the mist.
“Driver, what is this place?” she whispered.
“The old Yew Bank cemetery, miss, either side of us. One of my great uncles is buried ‘ere someplace. No one comes ‘ere now’days, not since them disappearances when I were a boy. Dozens, there was, all in the space of a few months. Shortly after that they pulled the old church down and fenced the throughway from Friar’s Bridge. Folks have seen and heard all sorts of strange things ‘ere: things it don’t do no good to mention out loud at this time of night. Now I’m not normally one for superstition, miss, but this place is something else. Says it all that there’s however many thousands of graves yet you can count the visitors who still come ‘ere on one hand. You sure you want to go on, miss?”
“I am. It must have a caretaker, a custodian of some sort to tend the graves, the paths, see to the general upkeep?”
“I guess so. Though whether that’s any living caretaker is up for debate.” He winked, managed a nervous lopsided smile. She nodded her appreciation for his attempt to lighten the mood.
“Where does this road lead exactly?” she asked.
“Well, the lane we’re on is a dead end. If you’re still after followin’ those men but don’t want ‘em to know it, I’d suggest goin’ on foot from ‘ere. Gates are right ahead, if I remember correct, an ‘undred yards or so.”
“Thank you, driver. I’m indebted to you.”
“Weren’t nothin’, miss. Would you like for me to wait ‘ere? It’d be no trouble. And I’d feel better if you was to have a ride home after, just in case you see something you’d rather not.”
“Such as?”
He shrugged. “Beats me, miss. It ain’t quite a full moon, but it’s moon enough for what’s been heard hereabouts before now.”
“No, thank you anyway. I appreciate your concern, but I might be some time.”
He helped her down, then tipped his hat. “If I was you, I wouldn’t come back this way, miss. It’s about the loneliest place around. On the far side of the cemetery to where we’re facin’, there used to be another cut-through across a stream; course that was when I was little. Just stick to the main path an’ you’ll find it if it’s there. It’ll lead you out to a row of riverbank cottages and a pub, the Queen Christina. Should be able to get a ride home from there without trouble.”
Meredith thanked him with an extra fi
ve pound note, waited for him to leave, then selected the night-time lens on her goggles. The pearly mist now glowed with a wishy-washy emerald hue. From the pavement she saw wild tall grass and leathery creepers girdling the fence, some almost reaching the arrowheads, which were about fifteen feet high. She took her shoes off and crept in her stocking feet until the pavement ended and a crescent of red gravel, recently laid, formed a semicircle in front the massive iron cemetery gates.
Frank’s carriage was nowhere to be seen. He must have opened the gates and driven through. But they were locked, and the lock, if it even qualified as such, presented no keyhole or aperture of any kind. Instead, an oval brass plaque jutted out from the fence at about chest height to the left of the gate. Its inscription read, In Memory of the many persons who disappeared from Yew Bank in that fateful summer of... The rest was covered by a layer of grime. The plaque’s lid was hinged, so she lifted it.
Raised silver buttons bearing all the letters of the alphabet and two numbers, nine and zero, formed a concentric oval in the middle of the plate inside. But there was a conspicuous amount of grid-patterned space around the oval. A small, collapsible steel bracket attached to one corner of the plate was in the shape of a hangman’s post. Several grooved copper pipes fed from the underside of the plate and converged into the ground on the other side of the fence. When she touched them, her fingertips buzzed.
An electrified puzzle.
No sooner did she run her fingers along the plate than a heavy clanking sound erupted behind her, from some way up the road, inside the mist. It repeated, drawing closer and closer.
An automobile.
It had to belong to another sectarian running late for the eight o’clock confab.
Meredith spun around but she had nowhere to hide. On either hand the fence was impassable. The gates were even higher still. She darted onto the pavement, crouched against the darkest, thickest tangle of overgrowth she could find, and prayed the mist did the rest. Her dark blue cloak might help camouflage her, but damn it, one attentive glance in her direction and the game would be up.
Imperial Clock (The Steam Clock Legacy) Page 16
