by George Mann
“Ah, yes, hello,” said Rutherford. Gabriel could tell from his bumbling manner that he was nervous about the impending meeting. He seemed to be treating the whole matter with the sort of reverence usually reserved for movie stars or retired politicians of great standing. “My name is Rutherford, and these are my associates, Mr. Cross and Ms. Gray. We were hoping to speak with Sir Maurice, if he’s at home?”
The woman smiled. “Secret Service?”
Rutherford frowned. “Well, I’m not—”
“It’s always been easy to spot them.”
The woman eyed him through her spectacles, and then nodded, as if coming to a decision. She opened the door a little wider and stood to one side. “Come in. He’s in the drawing room.”
Rutherford thanked her, and led the way into the house.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting tea,” said the woman, whom Gabriel took to be the housekeeper. “We’re not interested in that American nonsense here, I’m afraid.”
“You mean coffee?” said Gabriel, with a smile.
“That’s the stuff.” The woman pulled a face. “Never understood the attraction. Sir Maurice, on the other hand, prefers a pot of Earl Grey. Now that’s an afternoon tea, by tradition, but we all have to make compromises sometimes.”
“Blythe, leave the visitors alone!”
The voice echoed from a room down the hall. The housekeeper rolled her eyes. “Sounds like you’d better hurry along.” She ushered them down the hallway with her hands at their backs, until they were standing before the door in question. Rutherford knocked, and then pushed it aside, stepping into the room beyond. Gabriel and Ginny followed, while the housekeeper tottered off toward the kitchen.
The drawing room was not at all what Gabriel had expected. Where the exterior of the property had appeared orderly and well maintained, here, inside, it was a triumph of chaos and disorder. Crooked bookcases with bowing shelves lined the far wall, overstuffed with peeling spines, fat paper files and bizarre trinkets. Further books were heaped in tottering piles in the middle of the floor, forming a barely navigable island of dusty paper and board. A yellowing cat skull sat on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, which was black with soot and ash. A sideboard groaned beneath the weight of a bizarre mechanical contraption, for which Gabriel could discern no obvious purpose, and a thick fug of cigarette smoke hung in the air, swirling in the shafts of light from the window. Gabriel thought he could detect the faint aroma of something sweet and pungent beneath the nicotine musk, too.
Two wingback armchairs were placed before the fire, and a soft divan was almost hidden beneath the piled cushions and blankets. A small, mechanical owl was perched atop one of the chairs, and it turned to regard them as they entered, cogs whirring.
Newbury himself was sitting in another armchair by the window, his head turned away from them. Smoke from a cigarette wreathed his head. He was wearing a rather dapper brown suit, and appeared wiry and fit despite his advancing years. His hair was silver-gray, and he had a square, clean-shaven jaw. Despite the sea of chaos around him, he looked peaceful and serene.
Rutherford cleared his throat. “Sir Maurice?”
Slowly, Newbury turned to take in the interlopers. He raised a single eyebrow, as he looked Gabriel up and down. “You’re a long way from home, Mr. Cross.”
Gabriel grinned, immediately disarmed. “Quite. I must admit—it’s not exactly the vacation I had planned.”
Newbury grinned. “Let’s hope someone’s keeping an eye on matters back in New York while the Ghost is abroad in London, eh?”
So Newbury knew exactly who he was. He must have read Rutherford’s report, following the matter with the Goliath and the attempt to unleash a doomsday weapon on London. Either that, or he was uncannily perceptive and up to date with foreign affairs.
Gabriel noticed Ginny was staring at him. He fired her a reassuring smile. “I’m sure they can make do for a couple of weeks. And besides, if things get out of hand, it’ll give me something to do when I get home.”
Newbury laughed. “Indeed. And a delight to meet your companion, Ms…?”
“Gray, Ginny Gray.”
He turned to Rutherford. “And you, Mr. Rutherford. I understand you’re making quite a name for yourself in the Service.”
Rutherford looked flustered. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir Maurice.” He walked forward, his hand extended, and Newbury shook it with an amused grin.
“Well, as you can see, I don’t get many visitors these days,” he gestured to the state of the room, “but then, even when I did, it looked much the same. If you can find somewhere to sit, you’re welcome to it.”
Gabriel felt himself warming to the man immediately. He crossed to one of the armchairs by the fire. Embers were still crackling in the grate—the remnants of a fire from the previous evening. Ginny perched on the edge of the divan, and Rutherford remained standing, close to where Newbury was sitting.
“I’m sure Blythe will be along with the tea shortly—along with a scattering of acerbic words. In the meantime, I presume your visit has something to do with your visit to the Fixer the night before last, and the ensuing conflict with a number of hooded characters in the street?”
“You remain incredibly well informed,” said Rutherford. There was no hint of suspicion in his voice—clearly, Newbury was still very much connected to the Service, even if he was no longer an active agent himself. Rutherford had explained a little of his reputation on the drive over, explaining how Newbury had once served Queen Victoria herself as an agent of the Crown, but had later defected to the Secret Service to work against the Queen, after it became clear that she no longer had the best interests of the nation at heart. His exploits were legendary, Rutherford had claimed, and he continued to be held in very high regard. Gabriel could see why.
“It pays to stay abreast of the news, Mr. Rutherford.”
“We’re hoping you might be able to shed some light on the nature of the men we encountered. They were Russians, presumably part of some clandestine order. They were somehow able to harness a type of ‘light energy’, using it to open portals, or control the very air around us. Major Absalom referred to them as ‘Koscheis’, and said that he’d encountered something akin to them during the war.”
Newbury sucked thoughtfully on his cigarette, resting his head against the back of his chair. “From what I know of them, the Koscheis were an elite fighting force created during the war, schooled in the ways of the arcane, and taught how to turn themselves into weapons. They had no need for machine guns or artillery—it was said they could conjure demons from the abyss itself, and bend reality to their whims.” He plumed smoke from the corner of his mouth. “That was the propaganda, anyway, although I gather it wasn’t very far from the truth. There’s some disagreement about whether the creatures they pressed into service were really ‘demonic’, but that’s just a matter of semantics.”
“Major Absalom said that he encountered some of them back here, after the war, working out of a house in Bristol,” said Rutherford. “He implied that they’d escaped. Do you think they could be back?”
“It’s quite possible,” said Newbury. “These days, the Empire is not what it was. Queen Alberta’s rule is faltering. While her attention has been overseas,” he flicked a glance at Gabriel, “her domestic policies have left her open, and there are those even within the Empire itself who would see it crumble. Our enemies take advantage of our weakened state. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Russians—or at least the followers of this particular imperial cult—were seeking to further destabilize the nation.”
“Alright, so what more can you tell us about these Koscheis?” said Gabriel.
Newbury placed his cigarette between his lips, and stood, straightening his back. “That’ll have to wait a moment, I’m afraid. Here comes Blythe with the tea.”
Almost on cue, the door opened and Newbury’s housekeeper walked in carrying a tea tray adorned with an array of mismatched crockery and teapots. Unst
eadily, she crossed the room and placed the tray upon the top of the sideboard.
After she’d shut the door behind her, Newbury turned to the others. “Anyone for tea?”
Five minutes later they had all returned to their seats brandishing steaming cups of tea. Rutherford was still standing by the window. “You were saying, Sir Maurice?”
“The Koscheis, yes. As I understand it, they originated as a secret order created by the self-proclaimed ‘mystic’ Grigori Rasputin, who at the time was a favored member of the Tsar’s inner circle. Rasputin claimed to have mastered a form of elemental magic, drawing upon ancient pagan texts recovered from the vaults of monasteries he visited during his many pilgrimages around Russia. He plundered these texts for references to ancient rites, and spent years deciphering them, slowly discerning how to recreate them. It’s thought that hundreds of people died during those early experiments, as he lost control of the things he had created, but that, over time, he was eventually able to master them.
“Following his arrival at St. Petersburg, he performed demonstrations of his hard-won powers, and soon came to the notice of the Tsar himself, who took him under his patronage ostensibly as an advisor and a ‘healer’. But secretly, the Tsar charged Rasputin with assembling an inner circle of ‘black monks’—an order of magicians trained in the use of elemental magic, as a means of protecting the realm. These were the Koscheis.”
“Elemental magic?” said Rutherford.
“Yes, in that it draws upon the fundamental energies of the universe. The Koscheis made use of light and air, time and gravity, life and death. It is a distinct and esoteric discipline, most distinct from my own particular field of interest, which tends toward the more spiritual.” Newbury sipped his tea.
“So how do we stop them?” said Gabriel. “We took some of them down with brute force, but there are clearly greater forces at play.”
“Indeed,” said Newbury. “Although I fear my own expertise in this area is severely lacking. I’ve never had the misfortune to be on the receiving end of such an attack, although it must be quite fascinating to witness. As I understand it, the solution lies in deploying opposing elemental forces to combat the conjured elements of the Koscheis—countering death with life, and so forth. But I fear my most useful role in this matter may be in pointing you in the direction of another. There is an old acquaintance of mine, a man named Roland Horwood, who may be able to assist you. He is far better versed in such matters, and I suspect, if the Koscheis are, as you fear, in London, then Roland might well know of it already.”
“Thank you,” said Rutherford. “Your help in this matter is much appreciated, Sir Maurice.”
“Thank me when the matter is closed,” said Newbury. “Now, pass me that notepaper and pen, would you, and I’ll give you Horwood’s address. I’ll telephone ahead to warn him I’ve sent you.”
Rutherford placed his teacup and saucer on a small side table, and passed Newbury the notepad and pen for which he’d gestured.
Newbury wrote the address with a brief flourish, tore the page from the pad, and handed it to Rutherford. “I trust you can decipher my scrawl.”
Rutherford grinned. “Quite so.”
“Then I bid you good day, and good luck. The gentlemen in the room, at least, are likely to need it.”
Ginny narrowed her eyes. She looked as if she was about to say something, but the amused expression on Newbury’s face told them everything they needed to know. Not only had he correctly identified Gabriel, but he knew precisely who Ginny was, too—and more, had implied he was aware of her particular… circumstances. Gabriel got to his feet, and took Ginny by the hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Sir Maurice,” he said. “I hope we’ll meet again.”
THIRTEEN
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate what he’s trying to do for us. He paid for us to come all the way out here, to give us time together, away from all that business back home.” Donovan chewed on the end of his cigarette. He was feeling agitated. It was cold out, and the streets were slick with the aftermath of a sudden downpour. He was beginning to get a sense that the weather here—like his mood—was eminently changeable.
He knew he wasn’t being fair to Flora, dragging her all the way out here. But what else was he supposed to do? He couldn’t stand by and allow Rutherford to lead Gabriel and Ginny on a wild goose chase around London, while the men who had tried to kill them made good on their escape.
“I think I know what’s coming next, Felix,” said Flora, from beside him. She sounded more amused than concerned. “You’re going to say ‘but I’m a cop, and I should be out there helping them, and they’re making a mistake’. Or something along those lines, anyway.”
Donovan turned to look at her, and couldn’t help but grin. She hit him playfully on the upper arm. “You know me too well,” he said.
“I know that the man I married wouldn’t sit by while his friends put themselves in danger. No matter what they thought about it. I’ve told you before, Felix, you don’t have to make allowances for me. I wouldn’t have married you if I hadn’t known what I was getting into.”
“I know,” said Donovan. “It’s just… it’s Rutherford’s case. And if he doesn’t want to listen…” He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the gutter. Close by, cars and omnibuses streamed past in a seemingly endless parade, stirring puddles of surface water and belching thick black smoke in their wake.
“You’ve never let that stop you before.”
“No, but it’s always been on my own turf. That’s the difference. What if I’m wrong? If there’s something I’m not seeing?”
“And what if you’re not?” said Flora. “Look, this isn’t getting us anywhere. Trust your gut, Felix. Do what you think is best.”
Donovan had reached the street corner, and paused outside a tall, pentagonal brick tower, which looked like to him like the bizarre offspring of a neo-classical temple and a local shop. It had clearly been boarded up for some time—white paint was flaking off the brickwork, the hoardings were damp and partially rotten, and trash was collecting in the grounds. Dead leaves from the surrounding trees were slowly turning to mulch. He could smell the mold from the street.
“That’s exactly what I am doing.” He put a hand on her arm. “I’m just going to be a few minutes, alright? Then we can go and get some lunch, wait for the others back at the hotel.”
“Why, what is this place?” She looked up at the tumbledown building in confusion.
“This is City Road Underground station,” said Donovan. “The concierge at the hotel told me how to find it. It’s been closed for years.”
“So there’s a whole abandoned subway station down there?” She jerked her thumb at the building.
“Yes. And that woman we interviewed last night said the Russians who attacked Rutherford were particularly interested in it. They were trying to get blueprints of the whole Underground system.”
Flora laughed. “I knew it! I knew you were up to something. There’s me trying to give you a bloody pep talk, and all the while, you’ve been bringing us out here so you can go snooping around regardless! I knew you wouldn’t be able to sit it out.”
Donovan shrugged. “I owe him, Flora. Not just for the flights and hotels. For everything. I can’t let him go headlong into this without me.”
Flora smiled, sincerely this time. “I love you, Felix Donovan.” She looked down at her dress. “I just wish you’d warned me about this little excursion before I went and put on a nice dress.”
“Oh, no. Hold on a minute. You can’t come in there with me.”
“To hell I can’t! You try to stop me.”
“Flora…” She shot him a warning look so severe that he almost took a step backwards. He held up his hands. “Look, if these Russians are down there…”
“Then we face them together, or not at all.”
“I don’t like this, Flora, not one bit.”
“And you think I do? Every day you put on that suit and go out to work, an
d I’m left wondering if you’re going to come home that night, or if you’re going to get shot at, or stabbed, or sacrificed to some damn pagan god from the dawn of time. Well I’m telling you, Felix, I’ve had enough of sitting around too. If there’s something I can be doing to help, then I’m going to do it.”
Donovan grinned. There she was, standing before him, chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath, just as beautiful as she’d been the day he met her, all those years ago. And just as strong and single-minded, too. He took her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the times I haven’t listened. It’s not because I don’t trust you. It’s because I’m so scared about what life would be like without you.”
“I’d rather we lived it together than tried to keep each other wrapped in cotton wool,” she said.
“Alright. I’ll take you with me. But you’re right about one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“You’re going to regret wearing that dress.”
Still holding her hand, he led her around the rear of the old station building. Here, the hoardings had partially collapsed, and within minutes they’d clambered through to reach the boarded-over door that had once, he presumed, served as a staff or engineering entrance.
Sheltered from view behind the remains of a hoarding, it was a relatively simple matter to jimmy the board away from the door, and while Flora kept watch, he used the corner of an old brick to smash open the rusted padlock behind. Within five minutes, the door hung open, revealing a gloomy, dust-ridden ticket hall beyond.
“Come on,” he called, beckoning Flora over. “We’re in.” He’d brought a flashlight with him from the hotel—another helpful concierge had helped him to procure that—and he withdrew it from his jacket pocket and passed it to Flora as she came over to join him, wrinkling her nose at the foul stench emanating from the abandoned station.
“What is that?” she said.
“A flashlight. I know we’re in England, but I wouldn’t have thought they’re that different.”
