by Andy Emery
‘What are you raving about? I’ve never heard so much rubbish in all my life!’
Gedge held up a hand to forestall any more denials. ‘Yallop, we will find out what you know about Sally and where she took Levitt. It would save you a lot of pain if you just came clean now.’ The old man’s expression made it clear that wasn’t going to happen. ‘Darius, if you please.’
Yallop was firmly propelled across the floor towards a doorway, within which he could see the warm orange glow of a real fire.
There was a wooden chair in the middle, facing the crackling fireplace. At the side of the room a bench held a selection of tools: pliers, a hammer, a saw and a wrench, together with off-cuts of rag.
‘Please take a seat, Mr Yallop.’
Gedge and Darius emerged from the room, leaving Yallop slumped in the chair. Gedge wiped his hands on a cloth.
Darius smiled. ‘I am thankful he eventually comprehended that there was little point in keeping the information from us.’
‘I’m not sure I could have gone through with all of what we threatened. Anyway, I think we’ve got all we were going to get out of him.’
‘It was garbled, but as I understand it, Sally realised that any information she might have been able to extract from Levitt regarding the grimoire would now be of little value without O’Neill.’
‘Yes. Flynn isn’t interested. He just wants to concentrate on what he calls the gang’s “core business”, and get over the O’Neill episode. He’s even banned the use of the term “Banshees”. They’re going to be known as the Flynn Gang again.’
Darius tapped his head. ‘And the death of O’Neill has affected Sally badly?’
‘So he says. Lost her zeal for the Banshees without her sponsor, apparently. But it seems it’s also to do with the tenth anniversary of her own father’s death, which happens to be tomorrow.’
‘And that is how we may find her and Levitt.’
‘Hopefully. We know he’s buried in a cemetery in East London, but we don’t know which one. We can ask Jack Cross about getting hold of the registers so we can find out. He said the grave is next to an ancient yew tree. They’re not exactly rare in graveyards, but it could help us. Yallop said he follows Sally round like a little dog, so if she goes to the graveside, there’s a good chance that Levitt will be there, too.’
41
EA Hawthorne turned up his collar against the cold wind blowing across Grosvenor Road, and entered the square opposite his house. Trees lined the space, and in the centre was a grassed area, crossed by gravel paths leading to gates at each of the four sides. He walked to the appointed bench, but didn’t sit down, and instead paced back and forth.
After a few minutes he heard a rustling sound, and looked around to see a short, hooded figure emerging from some bushes a few yards away. In readiness, he hefted the cane he’d brought with him.
The figure approached, and lifted the hood a few inches, just enough for the dim gaslight filtering through the trees to pick out some facial features.
‘For God’s sake, Greatorex. What is the meaning of this charade? You’ve been reading too many Penny Dreadfuls.’
‘Keep your voice down. I mustn’t be seen. Sit down on the bench like I asked you.’
Hawthorne did so. ‘Word reached me that you’d gone missing. There were concerns. Where have you been?’
‘I’ve been in hiding.’
‘Whatever from?’
‘It concerns the esoteric society you’re aware I belonged to.’
‘Belonged? Have you done something to upset them?’
‘Of course not. It’s all a big mistake. But I’ve decided the esoteric life is not for me.’
Hawthorne snorted. ‘Finally. Well, what do you want with me?’
‘I just wanted to know if you’d heard anything about the Lykopolis Grimoire lately? You have so many connections, Hawthorne.’
‘Oh, it’s that old myth that’s preoccupying you, is it? Is that what’s got this ridiculous sect all hot and bothered?’
Greatorex shook his head. ‘I’m convinced the grimoire’s real. I ask again. Have you heard anything? Even a rumour?’
‘It came up in conversation a few days ago, that’s all. But you’re taking it too seriously. I wouldn’t waste your time with it.’
‘You’re just as infuriating as ever, Hawthorne. Well, never mind, you’re obviously going to be of no help!’ Greatorex pulled the hood firmly down, got up and stalked off, leaving Hawthorne smiling and shaking his head.
Greatorex remained behind the trees for a while and watched as Hawthorne went back up the steps to his house.
Howard Woakes had been wracked with nerves since the disappearance of Greatorex. He was terrified about what Dexter and his new friend Frei had planned. His own belief in raising the ancient gods of Egypt had evaporated long ago, and the fear of having the Death Dogs set loose on him was the only thing that prevented him moving away from London and out of this nightmare. But he did find some sort of hope in this final ceremony. Since his rational mind had taken over, and he’d realised there was no way the predicted apocalyptic events would take place, he’d come to believe that his best chance to escape the clutches of the cult would be after tonight’s happenings.
He pulled on the robes of the lower-order priest that had been assigned to him. Of course, that insufferable prig Dexter was the High Priest, with the gold regalia and ridiculous painted face. And Dexter’s new best friend Frei was some sort of assistant. The assembled cult members were quiet as they went about their preparations.
Greatorex had been right: there was definitely something sinister about the German newcomer. Woakes had seen him slap one of the Death Dogs, a cockney thug called Greenslade, for some perceived slight. For most men, that would have been the death of them, but Woakes observed Greenslade shrink away, as if he saw something more evil than himself in the German. And the hold he seemed to have over Dexter was even more concerning. Dexter the great egotist, the man who moved through government, society and this secret world of his with equal ease: swayed by a foreigner.
An hour later, Woakes reckoned the so-called ceremony was approaching its climax. So far, it had consisted of the senior cult members droning through the various incantations they’d been given to read out. He’d dutifully spoken his piece, attempting an exotic pronunciation of the meaningless phrases that had been written down for him. For all he knew, they were nonsense words made up by Dexter.
But now the event was coming to a head. Dexter had ordered a couple of acolytes to add drama to the proceedings by setting light to a circle around the group, previously marked out and treated with oil. Flames leapt up around them. It was a dramatic effect, Woakes had to admit, but anyone could step through the thin wall of flames with little risk of harm.
Frei had appeared silently by Dexter’s right hand. He carried an ancient book, the red leather of its cover cracked and moth-eaten. Dexter looked at him, smiled, and turned to the watching cultists.
‘And now, followers of great Wepwawet, the meaning of our great God’s title, The Opener of the Ways, will become clear. For we have secured a relic of unimaginable importance. An invaluable artefact that was illegally held in private hands, thus preventing the unleashing of the power that only we know exists.’
His voice rose on that last phrase, and most of the cultists roared their approval.
Dexter continued. ‘This is the great Lykopolis Grimoire, a book of magic long thought lost. But we discovered it, and we have deciphered the ancient language in which it is written. And the words within are truly staggering, my friends. In one short passage, the arcane priests of thirteenth dynasty Egypt provide the means of summoning Wepwawet himself. He and his attendant deities will enter our realm through a portal connecting us not only to ancient times, but to the realm of the gods themselves.’
He’s finally cracked, thought Woakes, looking around for a possible escape route.
Dexter intoned further. ‘Our colleague Herr Fr
ei has been instrumental in delivering this priceless object to us, and in helping me translate the Egyptian hieroglyphics. Rightly, I give him the honour of reading out the crucial passage and summoning our master.’
Woakes noticed that some around him looked askance at the central role for the German, but that was soon forgotten in the exultant atmosphere.
Frei stepped forward, replacing Dexter at the lectern, and slammed the grimoire down on it. He passed a meaty hand through the unruly hair of his beard, and held it up for silence. With his gaze fixed on the throng, he turned to a page near the back, ostentatiously smoothing out the leaves.
‘Prepare yourselves. These are the words of the ancient Egyptian High Priest Senefer. And they will call forth undreamed-of pleasures to the chosen few, of which we can count ourselves members, and unbidden pain to those who deny what is about to happen. Namely, most of the rest of the human race!’
Around Woakes, the other cultists were wide-eyed, smiling, if not drooling or doing a jig on the spot, so enthralled were they by the picture of the future painted by Frei. Yet Woakes was still troubled by his accent. Surely not German. It sounded more like Russian.
‘My friends, you are about to get what has been coming to you ever since you formed this cult. You expected much. You hoped to be transported into a different world, and now you will get your wish.’
The expression on Frei’s face changed from a grave mask of concentration into a fiendish grin. And instead of reading from the grimoire, he slammed the book shut, tucked it under his arm, and shouted above the heads of the crowd, ‘Now! Do it now!’
Several figures stepped through the flaming circle from the shadows beyond. Woakes couldn’t be sure how many. Three? Four? As they emerged into the light, he could see the fur-covered heads, the pricked-up ears, the demonic eyes and the slavering jowls. The Death Dogs. And although he knew they were merely masks, Woakes could not forestall his fear.
The mood of the crowd changed from exultation to apprehension. It looked like most of the cultists believed this was part of the ceremony. But Woakes could sense that it was something different, something far worse. He froze to the spot in terror.
Frei’s face contorted with glee as he turned to his supposed mentor, Dexter. ‘You fat charlatan.’
He pulled out a revolver and shot the civil servant in the chest at point blank range. For an instant, Dexter looked shocked, as if it was the first time in his life that he had experienced doubt. He fell backward as if poleaxed.
Mass panic. Cult members ran in all directions, but they were like vermin caught in a trap. Gunshots rang out. Several men fell to the ground. Woakes stayed rooted to the spot. He felt a spasm of surprise that it seemed he was being ignored in the chaos unfolding around him. But then he saw Frei’s eyes alight on him and he stumbled backwards.
The German approached, still smiling madly. ‘It is all up, little man.’
Even in this supreme moment of terror, Woakes was still able to summon some semblance of discrimination. ‘Just tell me, please. Your voice… You are not really a German at all, are you?’
Frei tilted his head back and roared with laughter. ‘You are thinking something like this, at this moment? Extraordinary! I have no need to tell you anything, little man. But by the same token, why not? You are of course correct. Not that it makes a difference to my deception, but I am a proud Russian. Not a German at all. It just suited my purposes. While you British hate the Germans, you also have a grudging respect for them. Alien, but somehow formidable. Russia, meanwhile, is still a mystery to you people.’
‘You never believed in resurrecting Wepwawet?’
‘Of course not! The very idea is absurd, as I suspect you realise. I am surprised that Dexter found so many adherents. But as he did, it provided an ideal cover for someone who wanted the same thing they did: the grimoire.’
‘But why do you want it, if you don’t believe?’
Frei appeared to hear something from afar. He looked up and behind him. When his gaze snapped back to Woakes, his expression was blank, the eyes glazed over.
‘Enough! Its time to go.’
It seemed to Woakes that the clearing had suddenly become silent, as Frei’s hands closed around his throat.
42
Here we are, gentlemen!’
The cart drew up outside a wedge-shaped building at the junction between Clerkenwell Road and Hatton Garden in London’s jewellery district. The six passengers waited a minute for a covey of chattering, black-coated Hasidic Jews to pass before they disembarked.
Captain Frei addressed the other five. The satchel containing the grimoire was slung over his shoulder. ‘The building we’re about to enter may become legendary in the history of warfare. Have you heard of Hiram Maxim?’
Blank looks.
‘Sir Hiram invented the first automatic machine gun. The thing can fire six hundred bullets a minute. The British government will soon be using it to mow down the natives in far-flung corners of their empire. It was invented, and until recently manufactured, here in this very building.’
The five men didn’t look especially enlightened. They stomped their feet in the chill evening air.
Frei shrugged. ‘Not interested in history, then? Oh well...’
‘Haven’t been here before, boss.’
‘No. This place should be more secure than our usual haunts. It’s a little way away from the East End proper. I’m going to keep the book in a safe here until I can sell it. Now, come with me. We need to go down to the basement.’
Twenty minutes later, with the grimoire safely stashed away, Frei brought out a case of beer and had the men sit round a table, while he strode back and forth at one end of the room. Behind him, a curtain screened off the far wall.
Finally, he turned to them. ‘Drink up, men! Let us celebrate a well-executed operation.’
He cracked the lid on the first bottle, and the men followed suit, quaffing the ale.
Frei wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It’s good to have all the Death Dogs together. It’s a shame our friend was captured by the enemy at the auction rooms, but I’m sure they couldn’t make him talk.
‘And now, I owe you an explanation. You were the only ones I could trust with my plan. The reliable ones. The only really practical men in that so-called cult.
‘It is obvious by now that I am not who I claimed to be. I am not Herr Kapitan Frei, late of the Imperial German Army. I am not German at all. It shouldn’t matter to you gentlemen what my nationality is, but like you, I am a patriot. Someone who is looking to help my countrymen throw off the yoke of tyranny. To do that, my friends need money in order to buy supplies, to stand any chance of combatting the huge might of the ruling elite.
‘Although my identity was false, I did make a study of archaeology many years ago, and when I heard whisperings about a magical book from ancient Egypt, that had seemingly come to light after decades apparently lost, my ears pricked up. I know that to the right people, this artefact would be worth a great deal. And so it has proved. The book we have in the safe back there is that grimoire. And, gentlemen, I have found a buyer who is keen to acquire it. A buyer of not inconsiderable means. And of course, of most significance for you is that you will each get a handsome share of the price. Enough, I should think, to set each of you up for life and allow you to give up your criminal pursuits, should you wish to do so.’
One of the men nodded to his two comrades in appreciation of Frei’s words. ‘That sounds very impressive, mister. And you’ve shown you’re a man not to be messed with. But if you’re not Frei, what should we call you?’
‘Ah, how remiss of me! To tell you who I am not, but not who I am! Let me put that right. I am in fact a proud Russian, but one who is not unfamiliar with England, and who lived for a time many years ago in your very own East End of London. My name, gentlemen, is Volkov, Nicolai Volkov.’
The drinking continued for another couple of hours. Volkov encouraged the Death Dogs to share details
of their previous exploits, as well as the alcohol. Tales of robbery, intimidation and murder were vividly retold, and doubtless embellished. It seemed they were more criminal enforcers for hire than crazed worshippers of ancient gods.
Two of the men had become raucous, the other three on the verge of slipping off their stools and into unconsciousness. They hadn’t noticed that Volkov had actually had very little to drink.
He stood up, and looked out at the intoxicated rabble, shaking his head, then turned and slipped behind the curtain. His sudden disappearance was noticed by one of the Dogs, who stared, dumbfounded, as though Volkov had vanished into thin air. He soon refocused on his beer bottle.
If the Death Dogs had not been carousing so vociferously, they might have heard some metallic clicking and sliding sounds from beyond the curtain. A couple of minutes later, Volkov very quietly parted the fabric.
The same man who’d noticed Volkov vanish now saw him reappear. His jaw dropped open, but words failed to come.
‘Gentlemen. Mr Hiram Maxim used this basement for testing purposes. The walls are a foot thick, the ceiling also soundproofed. The targets stood at the far end of the room, behind you. And this particular example of his work remains on the premises a year after Mr Maxim moved on.’ Volkov ran his fingers over the smooth, cold metal of the gun’s fat barrel. He sat on a low stool behind it.
‘Of course, I lied earlier. I had no intention of rewarding you. What would be the point? Idiots like yourselves are typical fodder for the capitalist system. You would squander any riches you ever managed to acquire. Whereas I have a nobler purpose. Soon my comrades will have dozens, hundreds of these guns. And we will use them to cleanse my country of the bourgeois autocrats who run it.’
The Death Dogs were cowed and drink-sodden, grouped together ten feet from the muzzle of the gun.
