Evadne rapped the desk with a knuckle. ‘So we have money and daring and I’m sure you can find us premises. What we don’t have is time.’
‘Go on,’ Finny said, frowning.
‘I want this bait and switch up and running by tomorrow morning.’
Finny snorted. ‘Can’t be done.’
Kingsley let out a deep breath. ‘That’s that, then.’
‘That isn’t that, Kingsley. Finny’s response was automatic. Now I get to tell him exactly how much money I’m prepared to put into this enterprise and after a while he finds a way to do what we want.’
Finny laced his hands on his stomach. ‘That’s usually the way it goes, lad. Lucky for you that I was setting up a nice little bait and switch of my own. If it’s worth my while, I could turn it your way.’
‘And I assume you have a sculptor on your books? Someone who can work fast?’ Evadne plucked a piece of paper from the carpet bag at her feet and passed it across the desk.
Finny squinted at it. ‘Sculptor? I’ve plenty of ’em.’ He picked up the paper and turned it around. ‘Is this accurate?’
Kingsley nodded. It was an entirely accurate representation of a dodecahedron.
After a day spent delivering hundreds of cryptic letters to dozens of Finny’s colleagues, both seedy and upstanding, and negotiating purchases that ranged from the bizarre to the humdrum, Kingsley slept poorly. He lay awake for hours worrying about Dr Ward. His foster father was an immensely capable man, but Kingsley couldn’t help remembering Mrs Winter’s bearing during the attack of the Spawn. The way she summoned that little god spoke of great magical power, something Kingsley was still wary of. However, after hearing Christabel’s scepticism about her superiors, he wasn’t willing to accept the Agency’s suspicions, either. Mrs Winter could be fleeing the Immortals, or she could still be in league with them.
His doubts chased his hopes around and around until he finally fell asleep.
The next day, Kingsley and Evadne entered the Demimonde via a service door in Charing Cross Underground. Once they were alone in the darkness, Finny trotted through a workshop, then led them to another door. More lock-picking, then stairs led downwards before opening onto a tunnel. Soon, they were deep under the city streets. The trips through the tunnels under Greenwich were mere superficial meanderings compared to this, but Finny – dressed in nondescript jacket, trousers, boots and a brown bowler hat – was convinced that this was just what they needed.
More stairs, down two separate shafts with rusty iron rungs inset, a winding sinuous ramp and several scrambles over falls of broken masonry later, they finally reached the level Finny was looking for. They passed several Demimonders as they went, but Kingsley soon guessed this wasn’t the high-life area of the underground realm. Anyone they saw quickly hurried on, shrouding their faces in any way they could. The tunnels and stairs were quiet, with only the distant rumbling of the Underground to disturb the silence.
Finally, they passed through what looked like an abandoned cellar, half-full of broken wagon wheels, and into a flat area with a single door set into a rock wall. Finny handed Evadne a key. ‘Cost a pretty penny this did. Extra for the basement, of course.’
Evadne frowned. ‘Everything has a basement in the Demimonde.’
Finny shrugged. ‘Everything costs extra in the Demimonde.’
Inside was a large room with an elegant plaster ceiling twenty feet overhead. Towards the rear stood a dark wooden counter and behind it was a curtain that Kingsley guessed led to another room. In front of the counter were three long tables. Green-shaded, double-headed lamps were arranged along the length of the tables, providing places for reading and study. The walls of the room were wall to floor bookshelves entirely empty of books. Two ladders on wheels were positioned on either side of the room to allow access to the uppermost volumes.
The establishment was the epitome of studiousness. Underneath the smell of gaslight lay the odour of beeswax and dust.
‘The books’ll be here within the hour,’ Finny said. ‘And then it’s done.’
‘It’s impressive,’ Evadne said after she’d surveyed the establishment and found a place behind the counter for her carpet bag.
‘What’s out the back?’ Kingsley asked.
‘Bit of a workroom,’ Finny said, ‘with newspaper racks, a sofa, map drawers, a tiny kitchen, stairs to the basement and a rear exit.’ He looked smug. ‘One last thing.’ He went behind the counter and fumbled around for a moment before straightening. ‘Here we go.’
He held up a small brass plaque, barely larger than Kingsley’s hand. Kingsley went to the counter and took it from him. ‘The Ficino Institute of neo-Platonic Studies,’ he read and handed it back to Finny. ‘Perfect.’
‘It goes by the door, out the front. Nice and proper, you are, and respectable.’
Evadne went to one of the ladders and gave it a push. It rolled easily and without a sound. ‘The Immortals won’t be able to resist this place. Remember their lair under Greenwich?’
Kingsley would never forget it. The immensity of the main hall demonstrated that the sorcerers thought on a scale beyond that of ordinary people, but it also demonstrated that they had singularly poor taste. The hall had been a huge dodecahedron, a giant echo of the one Evadne and he had taken from Morton’s shipping warehouse.
The previous day, Kingsley and Evadne had discussed every aspect of this plan with Finny, who had argued and probed until he was satisfied. Evadne told him about the niches around the colossal chamber under Greenwich. Two of them were the home of magical objects, others of the so-called Platonic solids. Kingsley told of the details divulged by Soames, the oily middleman the Immortals used: how the Immortals had been having trouble controlling the magic of the Platonic objects.
‘They don’t seem to be putting all their eggs in one basket,’ Evadne had said, ‘but I’m sure they’ll be interested in any opportunity to increase their knowledge and understanding of neo-Platonic magic. Especially from people who have their own dodecahedron.’
‘And once we’ve lured the Immortals here,’ Kingsley said, ‘we’ll switch the real dodecahedron for a fake one.’
‘With one of my myrmidons inside. When it reaches the Immortals’ new lair it will free itself from its confines and then situate itself so it can communicate its location with me through the link it has with my electrical windows.’
Kingsley had been impressed by the windows in Evadne’s refuge, which were almost magical examples of her engineering genius. Some of her myrmidons had a sort of camera that was able to convey what it saw back to its mistress, all without wires of any kind.
‘I’m puzzled, though, about our location,’ Kingsley said. ‘How will the Immortals hear of our establishment?’
Finny cleared his throat. ‘The brass plaque will help, but I’ve got Xerxes and some of my other cronies spreading the word out there. Won’t take long for talk to get around, the Demimonde being what it is.’
‘Finny,’ Evadne said. ‘I thought I’d let you know that I’ve asked the Free Trojans for help. They should be here shortly.’
Finny rubbed his chin. ‘The Free Trojans, eh? You know ’em well?’
‘Well enough,’ Evadne said. ‘We’ve worked together in the past.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Kingsley said. ‘I’m not sure I know who you’re talking about.’ He held up a hand. ‘I lie. I have no idea who you’re talking about.’
‘The Free Trojans are Demimonders,’ Evadne said.
‘That doesn’t surprise me.’
‘They’re the last survivors of those who fled the sack of Troy a few thousand years ago.’
‘That does surprise me. They’d be old, then?’
‘These are the descendants of the survivors Aeneas led away as the Greeks plundered. The survivors spent ages trying to find a place to settle. Some settled in Rome. Brutus led a breakaway group all the way to Britain, but some of them weren’t happy here and are still travelling, looking for the site to fo
und New Troy.’
‘After thousands of years?’
‘They’re picky.’ Evadne ran a finger along a shelf, examining it for dust. ‘But they’re also extremely resourceful. They’ve done some good work for me in the past and they’re looking forward to this little enterprise.’
‘Free Trojans,’ Kingsley mused. ‘I suppose they won’t come with armour and spears and the like?’
‘They’re so ordinary looking that you’ll have to look twice. They’ll pretend to be scholars, to make this place look worth visiting, and they’ll be ready if any muscle is needed.’
‘I see. We’ll operate as a genuine Institute of neo-Platonic Studies.’
‘That’s the key, my lad,’ Finny said. ‘If you live the business, then the dupe won’t suspect anything. The moment of truth will come out of the blue.’ Finny rubbed his hands together. ‘Oh, it’s beautiful.’
‘I still think we’ll need to attract attention,’ Evadne said. ‘Of the right sort, of course.’
‘I’m sure we could paste up some posters around the place,’ Kingsley suggested. ‘“Pots of Plato at the Ficino Institute!” and the like.’
‘That might need a little work,’ Evadne said, ‘but the idea is a first-class one.’
‘I’m tickled by your praise.’
‘No, you’re tickled by the tag sticking out of your collar. Be a good fellow and tuck it in. You don’t want to look untidy.’
Evadne’s observational skills were eclectic: she noticed some things acutely, while others passed her by entirely. Kingsley did as he was told, intrigued by the knowledge that minor details of his dress lay within Evadne’s scrutiny.
He was sure it meant something. He had an inkling what it was, but he didn’t want to examine the possibility too closely just in case it was like a photographic negative. Cast too much light on it, and it would spoil.
TWENTY-TWO
The books arrived, along with a team of Finny’s best hirelings, and were arranged by a system enforced by Mrs Kropotkin, one of Finny’s recruits. She kept the large catalogue ledger at the front desk and was a genuine neo-Platonist scholar.
Evadne stood in the middle of the aisle between the tables and slowly rotated, looking at their work. Then she put her hands on her hips. ‘Disguises.’
‘You think we need disguises for this undertaking.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Believe it or not, I do have some notoriety in the Demimonde, and after the to-do with the Neanderthals and the Immortals, it appears as if you do too.’
Kingsley was amused. Only Evadne could have described the near deadly encounters of last year as ‘a to-do’. ‘I see your point. If we’re recognised, then the whole enterprise could be ruined.’
‘And our lives put in danger,’ Evadne said darkly.
‘Do you have any ideas?’
‘I’m delighted you ask. Wait here.’
Half an hour later, Kingsley was interrupted in his efforts to make head or tail out of a translation of the works of Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite when a striking figure emerged from the curtains.
If I hadn’t known we were alone, he thought, the book forgotten, I’d think I was greeting a stranger. ‘Evadne, you are magnificent,’ he said. ‘Your mysterious carpet bag? You kept stage makeup in it?’
She curtseyed. ‘Among other things,’ she said in a voice that was deeper and huskier than her norm. ‘I thought of trying subtlety, but I became carried away.’
Evadne had used a considerable amount of stage makeup to change the colour of the skin on her face, neck and hands to a deep olive. She was wearing half-glasses – lunettes – that made her eyes brown and mysterious. She had caught her hair up under a scarlet scarf that she’d wound with gold chain. She wore a long dark skirt that demanded to be swished dramatically, and a short dark jacket. She looked startling, exotic and more than a little unearthly; somewhat African, somewhat Asian, with a hint of mysterious lost lands of legend.
The effect was breathtaking. Kingsley actually rocked back on his heels and pressed against the bookshelf behind him. He replaced the works of Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, vaguely wondering what the philosopher would say if he’d been confronted by such a transformed Evadne, then he decided that such a modern young woman needed a modern approach. ‘We should go dancing later, when this is all done. You’d be the toast of the town.’ He shrugged. ‘As long as you wouldn’t consider it unprofessional.’
‘Dancing? There’s nothing wrong with dancing.’
‘With me, I mean. Your professional partner.’
Evadne put a finger so unlike her usual white one on her dark chin and tapped it thoughtfully. ‘I’d forgotten that.’ She looked at him. ‘I can see I might need to consider revising my project.’
‘Your project? Me?’
‘That’s right. I might need to move you onto the next stage. You seem to have become accustomed to the theatre and the Demimonde, after all.’
‘And what would this next stage entail?’
‘Oh, many things, but I think you can assume that dancing is part of it, if you’re willing.’
‘Of course. I’m light on my feet and I have a good sense of rhythm.’
‘I meant: “If you’re willing to advance as the next stage of my project”.’
‘And how many young men of your acquaintance have gone onto this next stage?’
‘If this weren’t a professional discussion, that could be construed as an impertinent question.’
Her smile took away the sting of the remark, but Kingsley sensed he was on sensitive ground. ‘I assume Clarence reached Stage Two.’
‘Clarence? Oh, he was certainly Stage Two.’
‘And beyond?’
‘Since he was an imaginary beau, I could imagine he was well beyond.’
‘Lucky Clarence.’ Kingsley was suddenly, unaccountably, embarrassed. He turned away. ‘I suppose I should consider a disguise, too.’
He turned back to find that Evadne had a hand over her face. ‘Evadne? Are you unwell?’
She waved her other hand. ‘Out the back. You’ll find your disguise there. Give me a minute, would you, Kingsley dear?’
It was only some minutes later, while he was gazing at the assortment of clothes, false hair and makeup, that Kingsley realised the last word Evadne had said to him.
He stood still for a moment, in wonder. I think we might be redefining what ‘professional’ means.
The next day, two customers were waiting when Kingsley opened the doors. He welcomed them and led the way to the front desk.
He still had to tell himself that the beauty behind the desk was Evadne. Even though he knew she was in disguise, the change in her appearance was so remarkable that it made him question himself every time he looked at her.
He wondered if she had the same problem with him.
Kingsley’s disguise made him look considerably older, thanks to a bushy beard and dark spectacles. It was enough, he thought. Even though Evadne encouraged him to alter his gait or his posture, he could never achieve this consistently and rather than draw attention to himself by suddenly becoming spry or taller, he opted to remain a bushy-bearded, bespectacled Kingsley.
Mrs Kropotkin was at the desk, too, next to Evadne. She wore a pince-nez and her greying hair was never out of a bun. Her dresses were severe – high-necked, dark grey and so devoid of shape or style that Kingsley suspected they’d been made by prisoners. He had trouble believing Finny’s stories of the off-duty Mrs Kropotkin, who, he assured them, was an outrageous carouser and one of the best lady boxers in the Demimonde.
The two customers were Kingsley’s idea of genuine down-at-heel scholars. They had worn but clean clothes. His sleeves were frayed, her dress was patched discreetly. They approached the desk earnestly and asked to use texts by Plotinus and Numenius. Mrs Kropotkin opened her catalogue ledger and directed them to the appropriate section of the shelves.
We have an institute, Kingsley thought. He beamed at Evadne, then realised s
he may not see through the bushiness of his false beard. As a signal, he gave his ear a tug, then hobbled to the front door again to see if anyone else was wanting to enter. The two scholars were already poring over their books, taking copious notes and contributing to an air of scholarship that that Kingsley hoped would help establish the credentials of their bogus academy.
The leaders of Evadne’s mysterious Free Trojans arrived before noon. Evadne brought them to the workroom. ‘Kingsley, this is Lavinia, and this is Troilus.’
Lavinia and Troilus were both taller than Kingsley, something he was unaccustomed to. They had the most remarkable grey hair he’d ever seen, despite their being only a few years older than him. ‘Don’t worry about staring,’ Lavinia said easily. ‘We’re proud of our hair. It runs in the family.’
‘I see. Oh. That is.’
‘That’s right,’ Troilus said. He was wiry rather than well-built, but his handshake was firm. ‘Lavinia here is my sister.’ He looked around. ‘This is no minor undertaking, Evadne mine. Plato, eh? What’s inside that clever and pretty head of yours?’
Kingsley’s wild self rose at that. He’d encountered brashness before, but Troilus had that special sort of know-it-all way about him that could have been designed to irritate.
‘Troilus, enough,’ Lavinia said, frowning at her brother. ‘I’m sure, from what I’ve heard, that’s it’s Kingsley here who has this play in hand.’
On the other hand, Lavinia seems entirely sensible and thoughtful.
It was Evadne, after all that, who explained what she needed: a rotating cast of characters who would give the Ficino Institute an air of serious and credible study. Lavinia asked questions that Kingsley thought were incisive and intelligent. Troilus made inane comments, and jotted in a notebook, although Kingsley thought he was probably drawing rude pictures.
‘Well?’ Evadne said when the Trojans made their farewells. ‘What do you think?’
‘Lavinia is delightful. I like her thoroughness.’
‘Hmm.
‘Troilus is flighty, though. I hope he’s up to it.’
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