And as two of the men drew long brass knives and Mr Dew reached into a nearby drawer, Lyle rose up behind Tess like an avenging angel, grabbed her by the collar, dragged her back from the door and threw a glass tube into the room. It smashed on the floor, then exploded.
Thick black smoke billowed out of the doorway, but the flash powder also went off with a dozen little bangs a second as it hissed and crackled, spitting fat white sparks. Thomas ran towards the door as he heard Tate start to bark and people shouting, and wished he had a weapon. He saw, through the dim light, Tate growl at some unseen shadow and lunge through the door, leaping up gracelessly and pulling back his lips to reveal a lot of white canine teeth. He saw Tess rubbing at her eyes, gasping for breath, and Lyle grab something small and spherical out of his pocket which he crunched between his fingers and lobbed into the smoke, and which immediately started to burn with an intense white light. More shouts from inside, then a man hurtled out of the room, and in the dim light Thomas saw that he had a knife.
The man threw himself at Lyle, who jumped back clumsily, grabbing without any particular skill for the knife wrist, and falling back as the man kicked out at his ankles. Thomas saw Lyle stagger and lose his balance, slipping in the damp mud and falling painfully, the man on top of him. He saw Lyle’s grip on the man’s wrist falter and then a furious Tess leapt from the smoke and the fog and threw herself on to the man’s back, wrapping her hands around his neck and clinging to him. He heard a scream - Tess had bitten the man’s ear. He heard another scream - Lyle was holding something small, square and rectangular against the side of the man’s face. As Thomas got near enough to see, he realized it was the magnet from Lyle’s dynamo. As it touched the man’s skin, he screamed and writhed, throwing Tess off and falling to one side, clawing at his face.
As the last of the sparks died, Thomas reached the front of the house - mere seconds had passed. Tess kicked the man lying on the ground, though he didn’t seem to notice, while Thomas helped drag Lyle back up to his feet. Lyle shoved the magnet at him, said, ‘Take this, and don’t let it go!’ and drew out of his pocket a pair of test tubes that he held with more diffidence than he had held the others. He hurled one down into the doorway and waved at Tess and Thomas to back away. Tate, smelling the ammonia as it sloshed over the battered stones, whimpered and galloped in the opposite direction. Lyle held the other test tube, ready to throw, and called out to the now dark and silent house, ‘Come on out!’ Silence. He took a breath, swallowed and called feebly, ‘It’s the police! You’re definitely surrounded!’ Silence. ‘Don’t make us come in there!’
‘Please,’ added Tess under her breath.
A shadow moved against the dark. Lyle saw the gleam of fish-like teeth. ‘Why, Mister Lyle.’
He saw the crossbow swing up, the brass tip on the brass arrow gleaming dully, and threw the test tube at the feet of Mr Dew. It smashed, the liquid inside met with the ammonia nitrate spilt across the cobbles, and this time the explosion ripped up the damp mud and shattered the wood of the half-open door. In the smoke and the confusion that followed, Thomas charged screaming at the man. He didn’t really know why he did it, and later, when he thought about it, was the first to admit it was probably a bad idea; but his hands struck the man full in the chest, and the magnet he held hit him too, and to his surprise Mr Dew staggered back clutching at his chest and calling out in pain. Thomas felt his heart race and bunched his fingers into a fist around the magnet, and swung it for all he was worth at Mr Dew’s face. His fingers hurt like hell, and he wondered if he’d broken something, but to his delight and amazement, Mr Dew staggered back, and looked at him with fear in his eyes.
Outside, Tess hopped from foot to foot impatiently. ‘What do we do?’
Lyle peered into the darkness of the house. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he muttered, and barrelled inside. He saw Thomas swing another punch at Mr Dew, then felt a hand land on his collar and someone, or something, rise up behind him, and grabbed the knife an inch from his throat. ‘Teresa!’
Tess looked around through the smoke and rubble, saw a loose plank of splintered wood, blasted out of the door, grabbed it, turned and swung it for all she was worth at the man who held Lyle. She hit him across the shoulders and saw him stagger, pushing Lyle in front of him against the still shape of Bray. She thought, Hold on, hold on . . .
Then Mr Dew had pushed past Thomas and was running away into the darkness, and his colleague was taking his cue and following him, racing down the dark street as fast as he could. Thomas charged out after him screaming, ‘That’ll show you! You won’t ever mess with England again, will you, because we’ll always be here you . . . you . . . you infidels!’
Lyle followed Thomas into the street at a more demure pace, and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. His own face was grimy and, like Thomas’s, sheened with sweat. He patted Thomas gently on the shoulder and said in a surprisingly soft voice, ‘All right, lad, I think that’ll do.’
Tess walked up to join the three of them as they looked into the darkness and to catch her breath. Finally she managed to gasp, ‘So . . . uh . . . we won, right?’
‘Well . . .’
Behind Tess rose the third and final man. One side of his face was bruised red, black and purple in the shape of Lyle’s magnet. His eyes were wild, his hands shaking and his expression one of pure hatred. He grabbed Thomas by the hair, dragged him into the street and laid a brass knife firmly across his throat. Lyle started after him instinctively, but the man tightened his grip and shouted in a harsh voice, ‘You want the child alive? Keep back, keep the iron away!’
Lyle froze. So did Tess. The man grinned. ‘Your iron will only shed blood, not save it, Mister Lyle. A child’s blood on your hands.’
The knife pricked Thomas’s throat. Lyle said in a soft tone, ‘Thomas, when he goes forward, you go forward too, understand? ’
And Thomas realized that Lyle wasn’t actually looking at him, but at a shadow behind him.
He felt the first bullet enter the man behind him, jerk him forward, and he went forward too. He heard the second bullet more than felt it, but the third one he could feel as the man’s chin jerked against the back of his neck. The retort died slowly away as the man toppled forward, and he toppled with him, worming out with each breath a trainload of puffing, each muscle shaking and wobbling, so that he felt as if there was a second skin under his skin which sensed what happened inside, as well as out. He crawled away, shaking and terrified, and Lyle was there, grabbing his shoulders, demanding, ‘Lad! Lad, look at me, breathe, you’re fine, you’re fine, he’s dead now, just look at me and breathe . . .’
He saw Tess standing by the wall, staring at the body with an expression of horrified fascination that twisted into something strange and miserable only at the very, very corner of her mouth. Then he glanced up and saw the shadow of a man wearing a crooked top hat, pistol still gleaming in his right hand, looking down at him. Then the man turned and ran in the opposite direction, where the fog and shadows quickly consumed him.
Through his chattering teeth, which he tried to silence but couldn’t, he heard himself croak, ‘Was . . . who . . . was . . .’
‘Feng Darin,’ said Lyle in a low comforting voice. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I . . . I . . .’
‘Mister Lyle?’
It was Tess’s voice, and there was something in it, a new and frightened edge, that immediately commanded attention. Lyle turned to look at Tess, then followed her gaze down to the body. Then he reached slowly into his pocket and pulled out a fat match, striking it off his shoe again.
By the dull flame’s light, he saw that the blood seeping slowly from the back of the dead man was thick and white.
Lyle looked at this, at Tess, and said nothing until suddenly the match was burning his fingers, when he jerked back to reality and threw it aside. In the silence, the only sound was of Tate barking frantically from inside the house.
‘Bray,’ he muttered, once, quickly, darting to his feet
and running into the house.
It was dark, rubble was strewn across the floor and Tate was barking furiously somewhere in the shadows. Tess followed numbly and lit the lantern that he gave her. The light fell on Bray, sprawled across the floor, expression vacant. Lyle immediately knelt down by him and grabbed him under the shoulders, dragging his head up and into his lap. His hand, where it fell briefly on the back of Bray’s neck, came away bloody. ‘Jesus,’ whispered Tess, her hand shaking. ‘Oh God, oh Jesus . . .’
‘Tess!’ Lyle looked up at her, and there was pleading in his eyes. ‘Please, it’ll be over soon, please.’
She nodded once, sharply, biting her lip.
Lyle looked into Bray’s face, heard his strained, choking breath, felt the weakness of his pulse. ‘Bray,’ he whispered softly. ‘Bray, they’ve gone, you’re going to be fine now.’
Bray’s eyes flickered and focused vaguely on Lyle. ‘Jack?’ he whispered. ‘You there?’
Lyle swallowed and, his voice only slightly shaking, whispered, ‘I’m here, Bray. It’s all right.’
‘I’m dying, Jack. I’m dying, ain’t I?’
‘You . . .’ Lyle swallowed again. ‘Bray, where’s the Fuyun Plate? Where did you hide it?’
‘Jack? I . . . I didn’t have time, you see? I . . . oh God . . . Mary Mother of Jesus, I was going to go to the priest, I was going to, just like you wanted, I swear I . . .’
‘Bray? Did you tell them where the Plate was?’
His eyes fixed vaguely on Lyle, but his jaw tightened. ‘No. I wouldn’t tell them bastards, not for their . . . their tricks and their magics . . . I wouldn’t tell them . . .’
‘Bray, where is the Plate?’
His eyes started to close.
‘Bray! Where is it? Where’s the Fuyun Plate?’
His eyes flickered on the edge of shut. His voice was barely above a whisper, his skin sodden with sweat, white. The blood seeped on to Lyle’s hands, his clothes, but he clung on still, desperately, knuckles as white as Bray’s face. ‘Bray, where is it?’ he whispered. ‘Jack’s here now, it’s all right, where’s the Plate?’
‘It’s . . .’
‘Jack’s here, just tell Jack.’
Bray’s eyes seemed to focus on Lyle for just one, brief second. He almost smiled. ‘It’s . . . in the hands of justice . . . Jack . . .’ He let out a long breath that seemed to deflate every muscle made bigger by the holding of it. He didn’t take another breath in again.
Tate stopped barking. Out in the street, windows were opening, doors were slamming, lights were starting to burn at the sound of the gunshots. Thomas leant against the door, grey, clinging to it as if for support. The metal of the lantern rattled as it jangled against itself in Tess’s shaking hand. Lyle carefully laid Bray’s head down and slumped back against the cold, ruined floor.
In the distance, a church struck the hour. In Covent Garden, the watercress man began to open up his stall by candlelight. On the highway through Archway, a tired messenger paused to water his horse at the trough. In the docks, a sailor called down from the rigging to his neighbour, who snored under a bottle of whisky. In the seas around Dover, the cabin boy snored, in the Channel south of Hastings the captain looked to the south and saw a storm rising off warmer waters. At the Lizard, where the sea lapped sleepily against grey rocks that had seen harder times, a traveller woke to look to the east.
The first light of dawn flecked the horizon, and slowly spread across the land, towards London.
CHAPTER 13
Awake
As dawn spread across London, someone was angry.
‘He died before he could speak?’
‘It wasn’t meant, my lord, there was smoke and sparks and . . .’
‘Bray is dead and we do not know where the Plate is?’
‘No, my lord. But I am sure that Lyle cannot know either . . .’
‘That is irrelevant! If he has it we can take it; if no one has it we cannot use it!’
‘My lord, I am sorry, I—’
‘Get out! Get out!’
And in a room too large for its occupants, someone else said, ‘My lord? Lord Lincoln?’
‘What is it?’
‘I have been speaking to the Commissioner, sir. There was an incident last night in the King’s Cross area.’
‘Well?’
‘Horatio Lyle was involved.’
‘Has he found the Plate?’
‘I do not know, sir. Sir, one of the bodies was Tseiqin. Lyle saw it. He examined it before he left. The other belonged to Bray.’
‘Bray? The thief?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Did Lyle say anything?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Well. Well, perhaps it is for the best.’
‘My lord?’
‘If Lyle is to survive, he must know how to survive. The Tseiqin will not let him live after this.’
‘Shall I summon him, my lord?’
‘If you believe that he will come.’
‘My lord, I do not know.’
‘Then perhaps you had better find out.’
And as the bells tolled, calling the morning masses to prayer, and the factories whistled, to much the same effect, there was a knock on a door in Waterloo. It opened. A round-faced woman, grey hair loose around a pink face, looked down the short flight of steps to a hansom cab with a near-sleeping driver slumped at the front, a boy asleep in the back and Horatio Lyle holding a small sleeping, bedraggled and grimy girl in his arms, her hands wrapped round his neck. Lyle’s face was dirty; blood clung to his clothes and hands.
‘Horatio?’ said the woman in surprise, not moving, not showing any sign of dismay or horror at the sight before her.
He stared up at her wretchedly. ‘I need help.’
And as the washed sunlight spread in pale waves across the city, a door opened in a small mews behind Hyde Park, and closed again.
‘Feng Darin, welcome home.’
‘Xiansheng.’
‘You were out longer than we expected.’
‘Lyle found Bray. So did the Tseiqin.’
‘Has he found the Plate?’
‘I do not know. Perhaps. One of the Tseiqin is dead.’
‘Then Lyle’s life is not worth living.’
‘I went to his house to warn him. He wasn’t there.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I do not know. He has gone into hiding. Perhaps he is beginning to understand what he is facing.’
‘Feng Darin, how did the Tseiqin die?’
Silence.
‘Feng Darin!’
‘I shot it. Fire and lead. I killed it. I destroyed it.’
‘Do you believe that to have been wise?’
‘He would have killed a child.’
‘Would that child have found us the Plate? Perhaps fatigue is compromising your judgement, Feng Darin. Now we are all in danger.’
‘Xiansheng.’
‘Once again, it seems, we are waiting on Lyle for the next move.’
And the time passed. Tess woke, in another alien bed. The room was small, but the bed was comfortable and at the end of it she found, to her surprise, a small iron tub full of steaming water that seemed to be heated through some strange, foreign mechanism underneath, and a plate of neatly cooked meat and vegetables, left cold for her. A new, clean dress was lying on a chair in a corner.
Tess thought about it, about it all, sunlight over the scrubby houses of King’s Cross, a hand burnt with iron, fires in the night, and made a decision.
For the first time in living memory, she had a bath. To her surprise, it was wonderful.
And the time passed, and Teresa Hatch, newly washed and scrubbed, found herself knocking politely on the door leading to a kitchen hung with herbs. A chubby woman wearing an apron, hands caked in flour, grey hair pinned back from her head, turned, and treated her to a broad grin under her sparkling grey eyes. ‘You’d be Teresa, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, m’m.’ Somethin
g about this lady instinctively made Tess want to be respectful. It was the same unplaceable something that always made Lyle a Mister.
‘Are you still hungry? I have . . . oh, let’s think . . . almost anything you want, really. Nothing too sweet - I don’t think children should have too much sugar while they’re still growing. Don’t linger in the door, dear. I’m Milly,’ she said, holding out a large hand. Tess shook it nervously, getting a light dusting of flour in the process.
‘Tess. Is Mister Lyle . . .’
‘Oh, Horatio dear is in the living room, in Father’s old armchair, brooding. Just like a sulky boy, really. He gets very embarrassed when I ask him about it - says that I’ll think he’s gone potty.’ She laughed, a deafening sound that made Tess both cringe and smile at the same time. In the same jovial tone she chatted on. ‘I assume by the distribution of bloodstains across his jacket he held a man who’d been stabbed no more than an inch from a major blood vessel - probably in the neck, although it could quite easily be the thigh, but not the wrist, and I doubt if it would be the thigh, because then the man probably wouldn’t be dead, which suggests somewhere near the jugular. Tea?’
‘Erm . . . no, thank you.’
Milly put the kettle on the stove anyway, and continued. ‘I’m also assuming by the way he was piecing back together that little dynamo of his that he had need of a magnetic field, which might explain the parallel-plate tube in his pocket. The fact that it had been discharged also suggests he was in a fight, and the mud-stains on the back of his coat - which are very difficult to shift, I might tell you, unless you soak it quickly before it dries - possibly mean that he was involved in a very tight hand-to-hand fight somewhere no more than six miles north or south of the river, probably north by the colour and dirt in the soil, but certainly not north of Alexandra Palace or south of the clay belt. The faint smell of ammonia means he’s been blowing things up, and the vial of white gooey liquid scraped up from a dirty street is something I’ve never seen in my entire life ever, and which probably isn’t a natural compound.’ She sighed. ‘He does get so carried away.’
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