Death Dogs

by Andy Emery

  Cotter spluttered. ‘Christ, Seamus. Are we goin’ to see some action soon? I’ve just about had enough of the stink in ’ere.’

  Flynn ignored him, his attention fixed on the building opposite.

  Gedge sat back. ‘Let’s sum up what we know. O’Neill has abducted Ruby. Sally, the girl I’m looking for in connection with my friend’s death seems to have become one of O’Neill’s trusted lieutenants, and she has a connection with Theodore Levitt, who himself is linked to the activities of this Egyptian cult. And it looks like the asylum riot was engineered in order to get Levitt out and into the hands of O’Neill. So potentially we could tie up a lot of loose ends tonight. Do we know O’Neill’s in there, Flynn?’

  ‘My man saw him entering half an hour ago, with a woman. That could have been Ruby, Sally or some other bint for all we know. Whether this bloke Levitt’s in there, we’ve no idea. But I’ve got men watching all sides of this place, and nobody else has come in or out.’

  Gedge nodded. ‘Unless there are tunnels. They could have escaped beneath our very feet. Not very likely, though.’

  ‘No. He’s in there. I am grateful for the information you brought me, but you do remember my condition for bringing you along, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. O’Neill is to be left to you.’

  Flynn grunted his assent. ‘If nothing occurs in the meantime, we’ll go in there on the hour. The weak point is the stage door. We’ll leave a man at the front, and when we get inside we’ll split up.’

  ‘It’s a pity my friend Darius couldn’t be here; he’s tied up driving a cab for Lord and Lady something-or-other. He’s a very useful man to have around in a fight.’

  ‘Don’t let that worry you. I think I’ve got enough muscle to handle O’Neill’s traitors.’

  They settled down again in silence.

  Apart from a couple of staggering drunks heading home, there was nobody on the street as the church half a mile away struck the hour. The three men descended from the cart.

  Gedge stretched, bringing some feeling back to his limbs after being cooped up for hours. Fortunately, the stab wound he’d received wasn’t troubling him too much.

  He saw the shadowy form of Flynn’s man by the main door to the venue as they skirted around to the side street. Here were six more men, among them the watchers from the cemetery the day before.

  Flynn stood by the stage door. ‘Right. Go ahead, lads.’ Two of the men produced crowbars and set about the door.

  He turned to Gedge and Cotter. ‘Let them go in first. Just like I have these loyalists, O’Neill has a few who are determined to see him succeed me. We’ll let these boys battle it out before we try to find the ones we seek.’

  Gedge nodded. ‘But what about the rest of the gang? There must be quite a few who don’t fall into either camp?’

  ‘I have no illusions that most of the gang are opportunists waiting to see which way this thing plays out. It was always thus.’

  The wood of the door rended, and, with a whining crash, the whole thing fell inwards, to a great roar from inside. Flynn’s henchmen leapt inside, and were evidently met by O’Neill’s faction.

  Shouts, groans, the crunch of fists on jaws, the clunk of clubs on craniums.

  Gedge peered into the melee. It was dark in there, with just a few muted gas sconces providing dabs of illumination. Between them: the flashes of swinging arms and weapons, spraying blood and spittle. No gunshots. Had both sides opted not to use them for fear of attracting the attention of the law? Gedge’s thoughts turned to Jack Cross and what he would say about his involvement in this spectacle.

  Cotter flew past, squeezing through the fighters like a monkey.

  Flynn called out. ‘Cotter, you idiot. You should have waited!’

  Gedge gritted his teeth and threw himself after the photographer. He dodged a swinging arm wielding a bottle and spotted Cotter passing through a lit doorway at the other side of the room. He followed, past racks of costumes, and boxes and trunks full to bursting with textiles.

  He emerged into the light and found himself in a foyer area, next to a counter and ticket booth, opposite the inside of the main doors. He could hear Cotter’s running footsteps along a corridor beside the ticket booth.

  He hurtled on, down the passageway. Shouts echoed ahead: male and female. He realised this was the way customers approached the auditorium itself, and as he emerged into the huge open space, he saw what the commotion had been about. On the stage ahead of him, illuminated by the limelights, was O’Neill, in that trademark green hat. He had an arm round Ruby’s throat, and aimed a gun at Cotter, who had reached the edge of the orchestra pit, and was hurling threats up at the stage.

  ‘You’re a dead man, O’Neill! You’ll leave ’er alone now!’

  ‘Ah, lover boy! I knew you’d be coming. It’ll be a pleasure putting paid to you. You’ve meddled in my business for long enough.’

  ‘It’s you meddlin’ in Seamus Flynn’s business that’s the problem, mate! You might as well give it up. He’s got men all over this place.’

  O’Neill hauled Ruby back towards the plum-coloured stage curtain. ‘Try to get up on stage and I’ll kill you, then her.’

  Gedge was still in the shadows at the edge of the seated area. He flanked around the edge of the auditorium, hoping to intercept O’Neill backstage. He could see that Cotter was like a cat on hot bricks, hopping from one foot to another.

  O’Neill looked up and saw Gedge. It seemed to distract him for a moment, and Ruby got an arm free, flailing it around and knocking the green hat off O’Neill’s head.

  ‘Bitch!’ O’Neill hurled her to the floor and aimed the pistol at her head.

  Cotter yelped and vaulted up onto the edge of the stage.

  Gedge dashed forward. ‘O’Neill! Don’t do it!’

  But just as it seemed as if O’Neill was going to fire, another shot rang out: the deep roar of a shotgun blast. O’Neill, Ruby, Gedge and Cotter all jumped, and stared at the source of the sound.

  The stage curtains had parted to reveal Seamus Flynn, Storm growling at his heels. He lifted the barrel of the shotgun down from a steep angle, and a soft cloud of dust and plaster fragments rained down onto O’Neill from where the pellets had hit the roof high above.

  Flynn had his right-hand man at his mercy now, with one of the two cartridges yet to be discharged.

  He looked at Ruby. ‘Girl, get out of the way. Gedge, get them all out of here. I’d go upstairs if I were you. As I was coming round the back I saw a black-haired girl and a strange-looking chap running from me, up the staircase round there. I’ll warrant that was Sally and the Levitt fellah you’re looking for.’

  Cotter helped Ruby to her feet and lifted her down off the stage. They all moved towards the auditorium’s exit.

  On stage, Flynn called out. ‘Drop the gun, Michael.’

  O’Neill held on it to his pistol for a few more moments, then let it drop to the ground between them. Keeping the shotgun on him, Flynn crouched down and picked up the pistol.

  ‘Not quite so lame now, eh, Seamus?’

  ‘No. I’d recovered from that injury a little quicker than I let on. Just a bit of subterfuge, mind. Nothing compared to what you tried to pull off. But at the end of the day, I’m disappointed in you. Just a couple of days after I hear about your great plan and already you’re on your knees. Vanity, eh? You thought you’d be the big boss man, the young thrusting up and comer. Knew better than the old man. But you didn’t. Drugs may be the future for some, but it’s the gateway to another world. A world we won’t be able to control. Foreigners will run that game, not East End tearaways or refugees from the Emerald Isle.

  ‘What were you planning for me? A knife in the back? Poison? Doesn’t matter, I suppose. It won’t happen now. I intend to live to a ripe old age. You know, it’s a pity, I looked on you like you were my own, but you’ve turned out to be your tinker father’s son. Just one more worthless chancer.’

  O’Neill whirled round and hu
rled himself at Flynn. But the older man was expecting it and pulled the shotgun’s trigger, blasting pellets into O’Neill’s leg and sending him cartwheeling backwards, landing at the edge of the stage.

  Gedge, Cotter and Ruby had been about to disappear up the corridor, but Gedge turned back. ‘What are you going to do to him, Flynn?’

  ‘None of your concern. Away with you. You’ve other fish to fry.’

  Cotter looked at Gedge, and gestured for them to leave. This wasn’t their fight and Gedge knew it.

  Blood poured out of the holes in O’Neill’s leg, centred on his shattered knee. Flynn drew his foot back and kicked O’Neill in the side, sending him crashing down into the orchestra pit. He was wedged between two chairs, arms and legs akimbo, unable to move, his mouth writhing in agony.

  Flynn looked down at his dog. ‘Storm, here: fiercely loyal to me, as you know. Somehow I’ve missed feeding her for a couple of days, but still she doesn’t blame me. Sometimes I think she hates everyone else, though. Always growling and barking at them. And she never did take to you, did she, Michael? Turns out she was a good judge of character. I think I’ll give her the final say on the matter.’

  O’Neill struggled to get up, but couldn’t untangle himself. Flynn slowly leant down and slipped the hound’s collar off the lead. Storm’s head reared up in triumph, her jaws slavering.

  She plunged down into the pit, teeth biting and tearing.

  Gedge, Cotter and Ruby hurried up the stairs as O’Neill’s screams echoed around the auditorium.

  IV

  38

  The next morning, Gedge, Polly and Darius made their way to Paddington railway station. In a few hours they would hopefully set eyes on the infamous Lykopolis Grimoire.

  Polly had not seen Gedge the previous night, as he’d got back late after the events at the Music Hall. He had told her the story over breakfast, then assured her that Ruby was fine, considering her kidnap ordeal, and that Cotter was looking after her. Unfortunately, they’d found neither Sally O’Riordan nor Theodore Levitt at the Music Hall.

  The three friends climbed aboard the train and settled in. A few minutes later, the guard blew his whistle, and was abruptly shoved aside by five rough-looking men who ran past him, flung open the nearest door, and leapt onto the train as it started to move off.

  Seated in the last compartment of the rearmost carriage, a tall, black-bearded man regarded his four companions. They were useful to have around in a tussle; hard men who could handle themselves. But they were none too clever, and he’d decided, with reluctance, that he needed to provide the brainpower for this mission himself.

  Black-beard spoke up. ‘Right. We made it. We know Gedge and his friends are somewhere on this train. Remember. We’re just keeping tabs on them for now. We'll follow them when they get to Oxford and see where they go, and then at some point after they get the grimoire we’ll take action. I know it will be difficult for you gentlemen to exercise patience and restraint for a number of hours, but our ultimate success depends on it.'

  The journey was expected to last just over an hour. As the train pulled into Reading, forty minutes out from Paddington, Polly chatted with Gedge about the transfer of the grimoire from the Professor to the Pitt Rivers Museum. As usual, Darius was quiet, studying the scene outside the window.

  None of them noticed the man with a weather-beaten face topped by a battered bowler, who took a sidelong glance into their compartment before retreating back towards the rear of the train.

  They emerged onto the forecourt outside Oxford station, and Gedge hailed one of the waiting hansom cabs. They wedged themselves inside, piling their bags on the spare seat.

  ‘Summertown please, driver. The address is 13 Longfellow Road.’

  For the first part of the journey, the cab rattled over cobblestones and in and out of potholes between rows of warehouses, and through narrow streets of mean terraced houses. After half a mile they started to see the historic architecture they associated with the ancient university city.

  They emerged at the end of George Street, with its tightly packed business buildings, and turned into a wide thoroughfare. An ancient church surrounded by a grassed graveyard sat on an island between the north- and south-flowing streams of traffic.

  Polly turned to Gedge. ‘I came here several times with father. That’s St Mary Magdalen. It’s one of the many medieval buildings still standing here.’

  ‘So, is Magdalen College nearby? That’s one of the larger ones, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s actually another half mile east of here, with a lot of other colleges in between. And by the way, you pronounce it “Maudlin”.’

  ‘I gather it’s an interesting city. Pity we have no time to enjoy it.’

  They passed the church, and the street widened even more, lined by college buildings and inviting hostelries. Then they were on the Banbury Road, heading north away from the city centre. The buildings became larger, mostly Gothic style, with the occasional hotel or guest house.

  After a couple of miles, the driver announced that they were in Summertown. ‘A lot of posh types live up here. What’s the address?’

  The hansom came to a halt outside a large detached house, built from a warm, creamy sandstone.

  As they disembarked, a wiry man in his seventies bounded out to meet them. ‘Hello! I say, Mr Gedge? Welcome to Oxford! I checked the train times and I’ve been looking out for you. Come inside and I’ll get the kettle on.’

  Gedge smiled. ‘That’s quite a greeting, sir. You must be Professor Stark?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Please excuse my manners. Percy Stark at your service. Please do call me Percy. I so dislike formality. And forgive my exuberance! I’ve been away at an extremely tedious colloquium across the channel for the past few days, but while there I had news about your wanting to see me. I must say it sounds extremely exciting!’

  ‘And Hugh Garland used to be one of your students, I gather?’

  ‘Ah, Hugh... He was one of the best. It’s so pleasing to see him successful in his chosen career. The secret service. Imagine! Well, by the sound of it, you don’t need to imagine… But I’m waffling. Please do come in.’

  ‘Thank you, Professor. But first let me introduce my friends. Polly Rondeau and Darius.’

  Stark bowed extravagantly to Polly, and shook Darius by the hand. He led the group into the house and settled them in a cosy parlour room with windows looking out onto the street and a crackling fire in the grate. He left them there and went out to fetch some tea.

  Polly watched him leave. ‘An encouraging start. He seems a lovely man.’

  Gedge nodded. ‘Fingers crossed.’

  Darius surveyed the room, taking in the overflowing bookcases and Egyptian artefacts, including a representation of animal-headed gods and goddesses on some kind of textile, mounted in a display case on the wall, and a miniature statue of a bird of prey carved into a jet black stone and set on a pedestal.

  Clattering china announced the Professor as he arrived back with a tray loaded with teapot, cups and saucers, and a plate of cakes.

  ‘Do tuck in, please. Travel can diminish one’s energy so much, don’t you find? The tea is an interesting Assam blend. Very refreshing.’

  Gedge spoke up. ‘Percy. Hugh Garland must have told you that the subject of our visit is the Lykopolis Grimoire.’

  ‘Yes indeed, Lucas. It was my pride and joy. Among all the wondrous items the ancient Egyptians preserved for us, that set of papyrus sheets has a special place in my heart. The pity is, because of the foolish legend surrounding it, I have felt the need to lock it away and keep my ownership a secret all these years.’

  ‘It’s a relief to know you still have it. But you said it was your pride and joy?’

  ‘That’s right. With all the fuss made about the grimoire, and this talk of people even committing murder in an attempt to own it, I have begun to hate the thing, to be honest with you. Hugh’s suggestion of it being held securely elsewhere has come at an opportune time.�
��

  Gedge glanced at Polly. ‘Again, a relief to hear. So you approve of our plan to take it from here to the Pitt Rivers Museum?’

  ‘Oh, yes. As you might expect, I’m familiar with that extraordinary institution. The curator, Arnold Blythe, is a good friend.’

  ‘Excellent. And you understand hieroglyphics? You can actually read the grimoire?’

  ‘Yes. I still find it an adventure to untangle the meanings behind those splendidly detailed pictograms. In this case, whoever inscribed the hieroglyphs also teased the reader by hiding part of the invocation spell, forcing one to untangle a word puzzle to find it elsewhere in the book. Reputedly there’s also a special shabti floating around that provides the missing passage. Not that I need it myself.’

  ‘We gather that the passage of interest to the cult relates to the god Wepwawet and some sort of return to Earth in the present day?’

  Stark nodded. ‘The text takes Wepwawet’s title, “the opener of the ways”, to mean that incanting a set of spells would allow Wepwawet and his retinue to appear in our own time. That is indeed what the hieroglyphics claim. It’s clearly nonsense, and probably not even meant to be taken literally, even at the time it was written. It’s unbelievable to think that such things are being given credence in our so-called rational age. Now, I don’t wish to be rude, but I took the liberty of forewarning Arnold of my bequest to his institution, and he’ll soon be awaiting your arrival with the object. So, please refresh yourselves, and then come with me into the basement where I’ll retrieve the item you seek.’

  They descended a spiral staircase. Gedge noticed it went deeper than most, as if the cellar were two floors down rather than just one. The air was cold at the bottom as Stark unlocked a heavy studded door and reached around to light a wall sconce.

  They found themselves in what looked more like a cave than the cellar of a house. The walls seemed hewn out of solid stone and were lined with tall cupboards and strongboxes.

  Stark led the way to the far wall. ‘Most of this furniture was surplus to requirements at various university departments at one time or another. I kept my eye out. Invaluable for storage. What we’re after is in here.’