The Society of Thirteen

by Gareth P. Jones

  ‘Sounds peculiar if you ask me. I tell you what, you give me my cut and you’ll be on your way. No trouble.’

  ‘I told you, it wasn’t on your patch.’

  ‘And yet here you are, on my patch now.’ Hardy spoke quietly in Tom’s ear. ‘You know that sooner or later you’ll end up working for me, but think about it. If it’s you that comes to me, rather than Esther, I’ll look on you more favourably, won’t I? She makes all the decisions for you. I know that. But you got a brain just the same as her. You can make your own choices.’

  ‘I already make my own choices.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Just make sure they’re the wise ones, eh?’

  ‘I don’t take orders from you.’

  ‘No, that’s what Esther’s for.’ Hardy laughed. ‘And don’t go thinking you’re safe in that Rotherhithe warehouse neither.’

  Tom said nothing and tried to keep his expression blank.

  ‘Didn’t think I knew that one, did you? But you got no secrets from me. Or, at least, you’d be wise not to have. Now, Stump is going to leave you with a little reminder that I’m not messing about.’

  Stump yanked Tom’s arm further behind his back. Tom could feel the bone creak. Much further and it would break altogether. ‘Please don’t,’ he begged.

  ‘It’s too late for pleading,’ said Stump.

  Tom closed his eyes and awaited the inevitable snap but just as the pain reached an unbearable level, suddenly it was gone. With his arm free, Tom turned to see Kiyaya holding Stump in the air, his short legs dangling.

  ‘Put him down,’ said Hardy, his voice bubbling with barely controlled fury.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Stump, unable to see who was holding him.

  ‘Put him down, you savage,’ hissed Hardy.

  Brewer began to take his knife out but Hardy stopped him with a wave of his hand. All around, people were stopping to stare at the extraordinary sight of the enormous man holding the boy in the air. Apparently not so keen on the attention, Kiyaya placed Stump back on the ground.

  ‘Nothing to see here,’ shouted Hardy aggressively at the gawking onlookers, staring each one of them down until they walked away and went back to minding their own business. He turned to Tom. ‘Interesting company you’re keeping these days, Tom,’ he said, and he and his gang vanished into the crowd, leaving Tom alone with the Indian.

  The huge man looked at Tom, his intense dark eyes boring into him.

  ‘Why d’you do that?’ asked Tom.

  In response, Kiyaya reached out a hand. Tom stepped back, avoiding contact. Something about Kiyaya’s dark eyes filled Tom with dread. He turned and fled.

  Chapter 11

  Magpie

  London had its fair share of bedraggled birds with missing legs, tattered feathers and damaged wings, but Esther had never seen a magpie in such a state as the one which hopped across Bedford Square towards her.

  ‘Morning Mister Magpie,’ she said. She had been taught to greet magpies like this by Sister Eucharia, a superstitious nun who had once told the class that, being the devil’s bird, a magpie could receive the gift of speech by a drop of human blood on its tongue. When Mother Agnes, the prioress, got wind of this she had hauled Sister Eucharia out in front of the entire school and admonished her for teaching such irreligious nonsense, but the lesson had stuck with Esther and it came back as she watched the mangy magpie boldly hopping towards her, squawking loudly. As it got closer, Esther saw what a sorry state it was in. Its feathers were worn. It walked with a distinct limp and one of its eyes hung out of its socket.

  ‘Shoo,’ she said, disgusted by the bird. ‘Go away.’

  The magpie didn’t flinch.

  Esther jumped forward and clapped her hands. The magpie remained unperturbed by her efforts to frighten it. Esther had never seen a bird act in such a way. Something rubbed against her leg. She looked down and saw a black cat arching its back and pushing itself against her shin.

  ‘Hello there,’ she said, scratching its back.

  The cat kept its green eyes focused on the bird.

  The magpie looked as though it would stand its ground until the cat prowled forward with a threatening, low purr. Deciding the cat meant business, the magpie spread its wings and flew to the safety of a nearby rooftop. Esther bent down to pick the cat up, but at that moment Tom returned and his arrival startled the cat and sent it running into the undergrowth.

  ‘Where’s the Indian?’ she asked.

  ‘There.’ Tom pointed to where Kiyaya was coming around the corner.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Esther. ‘How did you get ahead of him?’

  ‘Just did,’ mumbled Tom. ‘He went to the butcher’s, is all.’

  Esther had known Tom since the age of five. They had grown up together. She knew when he was hiding something. ‘He saw you, didn’t he?’

  ‘Not a chance. It was just dull is all. This whole business is dull if you ask me. The sooner we get back to what we do best, the better.’

  Esther knew he wasn’t telling her everything but she also knew that there was no point pushing him.

  By five o’clock, it was dark except for the yellow light spilling down from the streetlamps, but even in the gloom there was no question as to the identity of Mr Symmonds’ visitor. His face may have been hidden beneath his top hat but Lord Ringmore was identifiable by his purposeful stride and by the tap-tap-tapping of his walking stick along the pavement. Before knocking on the door he turned to peer into the darkness in search of Tom and Esther. When the door opened he went inside, re-emerging half an hour later and immediately crossing the road towards the orphans. In his hand he held the book. The number thirteen was visible on the cover.

  ‘Got your book back then,’ said Tom.

  Lord Ringmore tucked it out of sight. ‘Yes. Now I have another task for you,’ he said plainly.

  The orphans stepped out from behind the bush.

  ‘We haven’t been paid for this one,’ said Tom.

  Lord Ringmore reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of coins but held them out of reach. ‘The day is not yet done,’ he said. ‘First you are to gather the other three and tell them to meet at nine o’clock at the same place as last night.’

  ‘Nine o’clock this evening?’ said Esther. ‘There’s no time to reach them all before then.’

  ‘There is if we split up,’ said Tom.

  ‘Split up?’ said Esther, surprised to hear Tom making useful suggestions when he didn’t even want to do the job.

  ‘Yeah, you could tell Clay and Sir Tyrrell, while I go to Soho and tell Hayman,’ he said.

  ‘I do not care how you achieve it, but you won’t get paid until this task is completed,’ replied Lord Ringmore. ‘As before, ensure that you speak directly to each individual. Involve no one else. No servants, no housekeepers, no butlers.’

  ‘You don’t trust servants, do you?’ asked Tom. ‘I mean, I noticed you ain’t got none yourself.’

  ‘I would sooner employ thieves and pickpockets than the serving classes. At least they are more honest about their occupations,’ said Lord Ringmore.

  ‘That why you got us working for you?’ asked Tom.

  ‘I suggest you do not give me reason to change my mind about that,’ said Lord Ringmore, raising his stick threateningly.

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ said Tom.

  ‘We’d better get moving if we’re to reach everyone in time,’ said Esther, tugging Tom’s sleeve.

  ‘I would spend more time listening to the girl if I were you,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘I have not employed you to answer me back. If you are to continue earning, it would do you good to remember that.’

  Chapter 12

  Mondriat

  Mondriat landed on the rooftop and peered over the edge. The black cat had gone again. What was it about that cat? he wondered. A gust of icy cold wind sent a cloud of black smoke from a nearby chimney in his direction, making him shiver and cough. He hopped along the roof to escape th
e smoke.

  Coughing was a funny thing. He had never seen any other birds do it, but every revolting feathered body Mondriat had inhabited over the years had been the same. They shivered and coughed and choked. They even sneezed. He felt the bitterness of life in a way animals did not. Such was the curse of the familiar, he thought, to experience all the pain of humanity without any of the benefits.

  Looking down at the square, he saw the orphan girl retreat to her hiding place. He wondered what he had been thinking, trying to speak to her like that. He hadn’t really expected her to understand him, but was still disappointed when she had turned to look at him and said the three words he detested most in the world.

  ‘Morning Mister Magpie.’

  Given the tirade of abuse that he’d hurled at her, it was probably a good thing that the girl had not been able to understand. But still, the orphans interested him greatly. Why were they watching the book too? This whole business was intriguing. And how wonderful to be intrigued, after all this time.

  Since being confined to these decaying animal bodies, the world had been an interminably dull, flat place. Mondriat chose birds’ bodies because he liked being able to fly but, as time dragged on, he had often contemplated flying into the side of a building and ending it all. It was only his high self-regard and strong aversion to pain that prevented him from going through with it. Instead, he clung onto this pitiful existence in the hope that one day he might experience the splendour and magnificence of Conjury again. Having played his own part in its demise he lived to see it return.

  The book offered this opportunity. After far too long spent living on worms and squabbling with pigeons over scraps, finally it would all be worthwhile.

  The book had first come to Mondriat’s attention a few weeks ago when he had felt something different in London’s stale air. He had stretched his wings and taken to the sky, where he saw a glow more wonderful than any sunset. More colourful than a rainbow. More hopeful than the song of a lark. London’s drab inhabitants were utterly oblivious to its splendour but, to Mondriat, it was unmistakable and utterly breathtaking. At long last his tired eyes were witnessing the ripples of pure Conjury.

  He had immediately begun to search out the cause of this shift. Could a Conjuror have arrived from a distant land? Or perhaps someone had performed the Creation Spell by accident? Flying over the city he had discovered that the disturbances had come from the smouldering remains of a burnt-out shop, south of the river. Mondriat had watched from a nearby roof, tail twitching excitedly until he saw the unfortunate shop owner enter the building, loudly bemoaning his misfortune and searching for any items that had survived the incineration. When this man had emerged clutching a book, Mondriat knew he had found the source. The book’s protective spell must have lain dormant all these years but, when endangered by the fire, the Conjury had awoken to protect it.

  The black cat had been prowling around there then, too. Could it really be a coincidence? How did all this fit together? The book. The orphans. The Lord. The cat. Whatever was going on, Mondriat was determined to learn the truth and, if at all possible, turn it to his own advantage.

  Chapter 13

  Thirteen

  Lord Ringmore sat in the upstairs study of the club, watching the flickering fire. As the clock chimed the ninth hour, he pulled out his pocket watch to confirm its accuracy and considered his wisdom in leaving so much in the hands of a pair of ragged street orphans. Thankfully, his faith was restored when all four remaining Society members entered the room within five minutes of each other.

  ‘We meet again so soon?’ said Clay. ‘Could it be that the great John Symmonds has penetrated the secrets of this book already?’

  ‘I have made some good copies but I’m afraid I am still at very early stages,’ said Mr Symmonds. ‘At this point I am still ruling things out. Having dismissed Latin, Greek, German and Celtic, I have been scouring what I can find on Asian, African and Arabic for some kind of connection, but with no joy as of yet. I am still doubtful that we are dealing with a language at all. Even the pictorial texts, such as ancient Egypt’s hieroglyphics, involve more systematic repetition than is found in this book.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be better to leave the decoding to those of us who have greater experience in the area,’ said Sir Tyrrell.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Clay. ‘Sir Tyrrell is fluent in the ancient language of Hoaxus Pocus.’

  ‘And what qualifications have you, other than the ability to repeatedly escape from tampered locks?’ said Sir Tyrrell.

  ‘Tampered?’ exclaimed Clay. ‘I’ve sued men for saying so.’

  ‘Gentlemen, please,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘This bickering will achieve nothing. Everyone will get a chance to examine the book. In the meantime, I have called this meeting because Mr Hayman has new information.’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Ringmore.’ Mr G. Hayman stood up and bid the others sit. ‘Society members, I have spent many years delving into the true history of your little island as research for my novel writing.’

  Sir Tyrrell snorted derisively. ‘Forgive me, but I hardly think your novels the first port of call when one seeks an accurate account of our rich history. As I recall from the one I read, you misplaced several of our key battles both in time and place.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Mr G. Hayman. ‘I’m sure when you think of history you think of that which has been written down in books, but the history of England is more than a list of squabbling kings and queens. It is more than an account of every battle won and lost. I have precious little interest in these petty skirmishes.’

  ‘So I have noticed,’ said Sir Tyrrell.

  ‘What interests me is the undocumented history,’ continued Mr G. Hayman. ‘The history that is passed down in memory and folklore. I have travelled the length and breadth of the British Isles and everywhere I go, I search for those who remember, but whose voices are rarely heard.’ She pulled out of her bag a pile of bound notepads.

  ‘Which voices are those then?’ demanded Sir Tyrrell.

  ‘Mostly, female voices.’ Mr G. Hayman opened one of the books to a page filled with reams of neatly written notes, diagrams and pictures. ‘In every village and town I visit I interview the elders about the things which they remember and the things they have heard. The real stories of this land are not of the battlefields but of the dark, secluded corners where strange things occur, the places where superstitions lurk and folklore thrives. This is where one may discover the truth about the practitioners of magic who were once commonplace in this land, known amongst themselves as the Infected.’

  ‘Infected?’ repeated Sir Tyrrell. ‘Infected with what?’

  ‘It’s said they were infected with a substance they call the lifeblood, a source of power that flows directly from the Earthsoul.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised we were here to listen to fairy stories,’ said Clay.

  ‘The natural inclination to doubt these things has always been encouraged by those who know the truth. The power the Infected wielded was phenomenal, but it was nothing without secrecy. In your version of history the Infected are shadows, hidden behind the puppet figures they manipulated.’

  ‘And what have these notes of yours to tell us about our durable little book?’ asked Sir Tyrrell.

  ‘When I first saw this book it brought to mind an object I had once been told about, but I had to check my research to be sure.’ Mr G. Hayman flicked to a page where she had written the number thirteen and drawn a box around it. ‘It is known as The Book of Thirteen and it was written by Olwyn Broe.’

  ‘Should we know the name?’ asked Clay.

  ‘She was a Conjuress,’ replied Mr G. Hayman. ‘What you might call a witch.’

  ‘Do we know what this book was used for?’ asked Lord Ringmore.

  ‘I’m still looking into that, but the stories of The Book of Thirteen match the book in our possession. You see, it is named after the numbers which adorn its cover … the number thirteen.’

  ‘None of t
his is much use if we can’t read it,’ said Clay.

  ‘Hopefully Mr Symmonds will soon be able to help with that,’ said Lord Ringmore.

  John Symmonds gave a noncommittal grunt.

  ‘Why thirteen?’ asked Sir Tyrrell.

  ‘I don’t yet know,’ replied Mr G. Hayman. ‘Black cats, smashed mirrors, unlucky number thirteen. All of these things have real meaning and The Book of Thirteen is our connection to them all.’

  ‘I still haven’t heard anything but speculation,’ said Clay.

  ‘Which must mean it’s your turn to step up, Harry,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘While Mr Symmonds is delving into the book’s meaning and Mr Hayman continues to search for its place in our history, we need you to investigate the book’s qualities and ensure that it is not a fake.’

  ‘With pleasure. Hand it over then,’ replied Clay.

  ‘The book is currently under lock and key in my house,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘You will accompany me there once our meeting has concluded to collect it. Then you can subject it to your most rigorous investigations.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Clay, ‘but I warn you, I have never met a medium, magician or conjuror who has been able to convince me of the existence of anything genuinely magical. As you’re so enjoying this fantasy of yours, are you sure you want me to shatter it?’

  ‘We seek the truth,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘The truth about life, about death and about magic.’

  ‘And what about me?’ said Sir Tyrrell. ‘You appear to have passed over all researching duties to this novelist.’

  ‘If you wish to help me, Sir Tyrrell,’ said Mr G. Hayman, ‘I would warmly welcome your involvement. I am to meet one of my interview subjects tomorrow. Perhaps you could join me.’

  Sir Tyrrell let out a small harrumph in apparent acceptance of the invitation.

  ‘Excellent. Then we all have our roles,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘Every one of us will contribute and every one of us will benefit. We have in our possession a key that will unlock doors you haven’t even dared to dream exist. Let us progress wisely.’