The Extraordinaires 2

by Michael Pryor

An old friend my father never mentioned? Just like the wife-to-be he never mentioned? Kingsley declined a second cup of tea and the tea lady moved onto Buchanan. ‘My father has many friends,’ he said carefully.

  ‘Oh, he does indeed. A remarkable man. And might I say it’s a pleasure to meet you again, Kingsley, a true pleasure, even if the circumstances are a little unusual.’

  ‘Again? I’m sorry, sir, I don’t remember . . .’

  ‘Of course not. You were far too young at the time. India, eh? How I miss her.’ He shook his head. ‘Well, that’s in the past. The present, though . . . Malcolm Ward, married, a victim of le coup de foudre. Well, I never.’

  ‘They’re not married yet, sir,’ Kingsley said and he felt Evadne’s elbow in his side.

  ‘No?’ Congreve-Knollys raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d been led to believe that they were.’

  Buchanan, on Congreve-Knollys’s right, cleared his throat and slid a folder to him. While the Director undid the string, Kingsley took in the man.

  Congreve-Knollys’s frockcoat was carefully cut to display an outstanding waistcoat, which was paisley, black on black. His ascot was a rich purple and cleverly tied to look almost, but not quite, hastily done. A small black pearl pin kept it in place.

  Before Congreve-Knollys started reading the papers in the folder, he took a gold-rimmed pince-nez from the lapel pocket of his coat. Kingsley noted his exceedingly well manicured nails and concluded that this wasn’t a man who took shortcuts with his appearance. Only a sense that he was treating it all as a joke stopped him looking like a dandy.

  Evadne tapped the table. Congreve-Knollys looked up from his reading. ‘Colonel,’ she said, ‘I think it time you tell us what we’re doing here. I need to get some sleep.’

  Congreve-Knollys blinked at her, then he looked down at his documents. ‘I’m sorry, Miss . . .’ He ran his finger down one. ‘Stephens. Has this not been explained to you? Buchanan?’

  Buchanan tsked. ‘We were working up to it, sir.’

  Congreve-Knollys brightened. ‘Ah, of course! Now, Mr Ward and Miss Stephens, we understand you’ve had a bit of an encounter with some notorious Demimonde identities: the Immortals.’

  Evadne glanced at Kingsley, and he could see she was about to wither the man where he sat, so he jumped in. ‘That was six months ago, sir.’

  ‘Eh?’ Congreve-Knollys pawed at the papers. ‘Ah, quite so, quite so. Indeed. Of course.’ He frowned. ‘We’re keen to find them, because we’ve heard that these Immortals are about to deploy a project which will provide them with a vast, mind-controlled army that they will use to conquer the country.’

  Buchanan leaned forward and broke the silence this created. ‘We have hints that they’re on the verge of using modern science in combination with their sorcery. After conquering Britain, they aim to bring all humanity under their control.’

  ‘How?’ Evadne snapped. Kingsley could see she was only remaining seated through a titanic effort of will. ‘How are they planning to do this?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Congreve-Knollys said. ‘We’ve sent almost all our operatives out into the Demimonde to try to find them, but it’s been futile. Hughes’s unit was the closest, but after tonight we may have to start all over again.’

  Say what you like about them, Kingsley thought, agog at these revelations, these Immortals don’t think small.

  Kingsley had no desire to be a lapdog to the Immortals. With such power, the Immortals would only corrupt humanity and reduce every man, woman and child to baseness and depravity.

  Evadne was still, her hands clasped in front of her. She studied Congreve-Knollys and Buchanan as if every word was suspect. ‘So you don’t have any details about the Immortals and their plans,’ she said with a steely calm. ‘You’ve only heard rumours.’

  ‘I’ll admit we’ve had trouble finding out what they’re up to,’ Congreve-Knollys said. ‘But we’ve had this titbit confirmed independently from a number of sources.’

  ‘Unlike some of the other rumours,’ Buchanan said. He found a list. ‘According to what we’ve heard, they’re living in the drains under Buckingham Palace, they have a floating island off Land’s End, they rule over the Forest of Dean, they’re responsible for the dreadful weather, a series of attacks on barbers and wigmakers, and a reported outbreak of dancing sickness in Leicester. They’re also planning to attack London via airships, the sewers and by way of a flotilla of gravel barges, apparently.’

  Congreve-Knollys smiled. ‘The arrival on our shores of someone in whom we’ve long had an interest has brought things to a head, so to speak.’

  Kingsley’s eyes widened as he leaped ahead of the conversation. ‘Mrs Winter.’

  Evadne immediately saw what he meant. ‘Oh.’ She turned back to Congreve-Knollys. ‘That’s why you’re so interested in her. You think that Mrs Winter is one of their minions.’

  Congreve-Knollys wasn’t at all embarrassed. ‘Of course I’m interested in what old Malcolm is up to, but I’m very keen to put the kibosh on these Immortals. We think that if we find her, she can lead us directly to them.’

  Buchanan tapped a folder in front of him. ‘We have very good evidence that your Mrs Winter, while in India, was an accomplice of the Immortals.’

  Mrs Winter involved with the Immortals? Kingsley remembered her disgust when she thought that Kingsley and Evadne had some association with the sorcerers. And yet, couldn’t all that be a ruse designed to make them think she wasn’t an underling of the sorcerers?

  Despite the misgivings Kingsley had had about her, he was distressed to learn it was true. Or, at least, that the Agency believed it was true.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ Kingsley said, torn between wanting to help his foster father and to protect him. ‘They’ve left London.’

  ‘Your foster father and Mrs Winter?’ Buchanan had his pen ready. ‘Where?’

  Evadne glanced at Kingsley. ‘We don’t know. They had some dialect studies they wanted to pursue.’

  ‘That makes things difficult.’ Congreve-Knollys shuffled his papers together and shut the folder. ‘You’ll let us know immediately when you hear from them?’

  ‘Then what will you do?’ Kingsley asked.

  ‘I think we’d best take her into custody.’

  After a short sidelong glance, Kingsley had the measure of Evadne’s concern and it was substantial. He longed to take a good long walk with her, somewhere they could talk. What should they do? He didn’t want his foster father, the man who had been so good to him, marrying an acolyte of the Immortals! And, if she wasn’t, he didn’t want his soon-to-be foster mother suspected of being in league with the worst of the Demimonde.

  So many questions, but one presented itself above all the rest. Kingsley tapped the table in front of him with such authority that everyone looked at him. ‘Why is Mrs Winter marrying my father?’

  ‘Because she loves him,’ Evadne said without hesitation.

  Congreve-Knollys gave a little chuckle at that. To Kingsley’s mind, he might as well have said: ‘Miss Stephens, would you please throttle me?’

  ‘We’re thinking that he must have something they need,’ Buchanan said. ‘So they’ve sent her to work her way into his trust.’

  Kingsley winced.

  Congreve-Knollys drummed his fingers on the table. ‘You wouldn’t have another way of finding the Immortals, would you?’

  Now, that’s starting to sound like desperation. ‘We found them last time, and Evadne nearly destroyed them.’

  ‘But I didn’t,’ she said. ‘Something I regret.’

  ‘From all reports,’ Congreve-Knollys said, ‘you are an extremely capable young woman. I’m sure you’ll be able to remedy this situation.’

  ‘It sounds to me as if you’re encouraging her to do your work for you,’ Kingsley said.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it as bluntly as that,’ Congreve-Knollys said. ‘Let us just say our interests and yours coincide where the Immortals are concerned.’

  But not necessari
ly where Mrs Winter is concerned.

  ‘Our resources are limited,’ Buchanan said. ‘And stretched.’

  ‘We are sometimes forced to use unconventional avenues to achieve our ends of protecting the realm from threats from the Demimonde,’ Congreve-Knollys said. ‘And you two definitely fall under that heading.’

  ‘We’re not working for you,’ Evadne said flatly. ‘We have another calling.’

  ‘The stage? Of course, and good luck to you.’ Congreve-Knollys nodded. ‘We’d simply appreciate any information you could provide on your progress towards finding these Immortals.’

  ‘And in return?’ Evadne said.

  ‘In return? Dear girl, I’m appealing to your patriotism!’

  ‘What about somewhere to sleep?’ Kingsley said, and they all looked at him. ‘It’s the early hours. I’m exhausted and I’m sure Evadne is too. I can tell you that we’re not going out into the Demimonde to tackle anyone without at least a few hours’ sleep.’

  TWELVE

  Later that morning, Kingsley found Evadne with Christabel Hughes. They were in what could have been a High Street tearoom, if it weren’t for the outlandish characters at the tables around them. Three dusty folk swathed Bedouin style were talking with an earnest, pale-faced young man who couldn’t have been much older than Kingsley. Two heavily moustachioed gentlemen were speaking in low voices with a young woman Kingsley was sure he had seen singing at the London Coliseum. A large brown bear was eating a currant bun and chatting with a monkey. The monkey seemed to be making a point, jabbing a finger and gesticulating with the other hand, but the bear kept speaking with her mouth full, which made the monkey angry.

  This is definitely the Agency for Demimonde Affairs, Kingsley decided as he slid in alongside Evadne. She was bright-eyed and rested, and smelled delightfully of violets.

  ‘Good morning, Kingsley,’ she said. She adjusted her dark blue spectacles and patted him on the arm. ‘I think I’ve cleared the air. Christabel and I are on the way to a usefully mutual relationship that could help restore the good name of the Agency.’

  Kingsley blinked. ‘Good morning, Miss Hughes.’

  ‘You’re right, Evadne,’ the young Agency officer said. ‘He is well-mannered.’

  ‘Mostly,’ Evadne said. ‘I find good manners a pleasing quality in males. It’s difficult for some of them, of course, but there you have it.’

  Kingsley immediately vowed to polish his manners until they shone. ‘And what’s this about restoring the good name of the Agency?’

  Evadne sobered. ‘Christabel has told me that the Agency chaos isn’t solely because of incompetence,’ she said, ‘even though there’s been a lot of that.’

  Christabel shrugged. ‘We don’t have as many good, experienced officers as we should. Most of the new blood hasn’t even visited the Demimonde, let alone had experience in it.’

  ‘Congreve-Knollys believes that one’s school is the most important criterion for a job at the Agency,’ Evadne said. ‘As a result, they don’t approve of Christabel.’

  ‘I’m not really their sort of person,’ Christabel said.

  ‘That’s true,’ Evadne said. ‘You’re extremely capable, for a start.’

  Evadne and Christabel both burst out laughing at this. Kingsley felt excluded, not through any malicious intent but through the gulf that sometimes divides the sexes. He took this philosophically; he was a devotee of these differences, and so an occasional bewilderment was a small price to pay for the glorious benefits.

  ‘They’ve let some important departments run down,’ Christabel went on. ‘The Ancient Languages section, for instance, and the Science section. It’s appalling.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Kingsley looked about. ‘I’d enjoy a cup of tea.’

  ‘You should have risen earlier, then, slugabed,’ Evadne said. ‘We’re leaving.’

  ‘We are? And you, Miss Hughes?’

  ‘If we’re going to work together, you must call me Christabel. None of this “Miss Hughes” nonsense.’ She rose. She was wearing a peaked cap on her mass of red curls, with the sort of skirt Kingsley imagined useful for playing tennis.

  ‘We’re working together?’

  Evadne stood. ‘Christabel and I agree that our sharing information and helping each other is the sensible thing to do, especially after I told her about how new you are to the Demimonde, and your reactions to it, and the mistakes you’ve made. She realised then that your blunder last night was understandable.’

  ‘My blunder?’ Kingsley gave Evadne a look that he hoped conveyed his desire to have words with her later about this. ‘She lies,’ he said to Christabel. ‘She can’t help it, poor thing. It’s a condition, and we’re seeking help.’

  Christabel looked from Kingsley to Evadne. ‘Do you two need a moment alone to sort things out?’

  ‘No,’ Kingsley and Evadne said at the same time. Then they repeated it, again at the same time.

  Christabel laughed. ‘You do work well together, at least. Now, the Demimonde awaits.’

  Kingsley caught Evadne’s eye. ‘Err . . . I’m afraid we have some other business. An item in a warehouse, remember?’

  ‘That?’ Evadne said. ‘Oh, pish. After I explained, Christabel was willing to overlook the whole incident.’

  Christabel grinned. ‘There are some things it’s best not for the big nobs to know, or so I’ve found.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Evadne said. ‘I’ve arranged for some people I know to guard the place for the time being, before some other useful people move a certain valuable object to my underground refuge.’

  ‘All overseen by your myrmidons?’ Kingsley asked.

  ‘Of course. Now, go and fetch your hat and cane, then we can be off,’ Evadne said. ‘Here.’

  Kingsley caught the small black object Evadne tossed to him. It was his Angry Hammer. ‘I don’t know why you give me your weapons. I never get to use them.’

  ‘Never mind.’ Evadne’s eyes were merry. ‘I feel better knowing that you have something useful in your pocket.’

  ‘We need to go to St Giles Under,’ Evadne said, as they pushed through a basement door onto a set of stairs that soon led them into a large, red-brick-lined tunnel. Two gas lamps were embedded in the wall directly opposite, enough to show that the tunnel floor was dry. ‘In my experience it’s the best place to chase down news of Demimonde goings-on.’

  ‘St Giles Under? Near Great Russell Street?’ Christabel asked.

  ‘That’s right. The great rookeries – the slums – were there until they were cleared in the 1840s,’ Evadne said. ‘But the authorities didn’t appreciate that the place was like an iceberg.’

  ‘Only a tiny part of it showed above the surface.’ Kingsley remembered: St Giles Rookery had been a notorious haunt of thieves and ne’er-do-wells, the sort of place that the police only went in numbers, and only when they couldn’t avoid it. If one needed a cut-throat, St Giles Under was the place to go for an embarrassment of choices. ‘No chance of getting breakfast there, I take it?’

  ‘A beggar’s breakfast,’ Evadne said. ‘If you’re lucky, the water will be clean.’

  Christabel led off, holding a kerosene lantern to light their way.

  Kingsley swung his stick as he walked behind Evadne. He tapped it against the walls of the tunnel, enjoying the ‘tock-tock-tock’ and its echoes. The noise helped him gauge the spaces ahead and behind them. His wild side needed such reassurance, as it shrank from the confines of the tunnel, whimpering, and the smell of heavy, dead air ahead did little to cheer him either. This was the sort of situation where he was glad of his civilised self. Even though the tunnel had every potential for being unnerving, he was able to tell himself that all was safe, that the tunnel was well made and unlikely to collapse, and that nothing frightful was going to appear from out of the darkness and swallow them up.

  Repeat that enough to yourself and you’ll start to believe it, Kingsley thought. He tugged on his collar, which had grown unaccountably tight. The air here w
as uncomfortable, too, really far too hot and stuffy.

  Five minutes later, to Kingsley’s relief, the tunnel opened out into a large area the size of a village green. Overhead was swallowed in shadows, but Kingsley could just make out a riot of beams, rafters and makeshift buttresses at all angles, cascading downwards to an erratic collection of pillars and columns that made the expanse look like a forest with a particularly insane canopy overhead. Many of the supports were timber, some lashed together from many parts. Others were piles of masonry drunkenly stacked up to take the weight of the street above.

  The area was dimly lit by a multitude of crooked shafts of light. It was as if they’d entered the ground floor of a large abandoned building, one where the upper storeys had partially collapsed. Kingsley could see flickering lights about them, both at the level of the ground, and on the walls stretching up to the heights. Some must be oil lamps, he thought, which means the walls are populated by nerveless and tenacious observers. Others had prime position on what remained of the upper floors, their small claim of horizontality almost serving as balconies. Rope hung from beams above, and water dripped unstaunched from a thousand places.

  Kingsley could see the tunnel again on the other side, its mouth a black O. Between the supports, the ground ahead was a mish-mash of broken bricks, masonry and timber, none of it useful enough to be scavenged.

  As soon as Christabel stepped out of the tunnel, she was besieged by small figures, some with lanterns, all piping for her attention. ‘Miss! Miss! Miss!’

  Evadne turned to Kingsley. ‘Do you have anything in your pockets? Anything important?’

  ‘I have my pistol. And a handkerchief.’

  ‘Keep anything you want in your hand. Otherwise it’ll be lost.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘This is the home of the best urchins in London. They’ll steal your belongings and then try to sell them back to you.’

  ‘I appreciate the warning,’ Kingsley said, but despite this he was unprepared for the insistence and number of children who came at him, and of the smell that accompanied them.

  ‘Sir, oh sir! I have handkerchiefs, fine handkerchiefs for you!’