Clay, who was changing behind a screen, poked his head around the side. ‘It’s a terrible business. What did you say was the cause of death?’
‘The attending physician believes his heart gave up on him but the police coroner is yet to give his verdict.’
Clay’s head disappeared again. ‘Just goes to show, doesn’t it? He seemed as right as rain the last time we saw him.’
‘It is indeed a brutal reminder of the fragility of life,’ agreed Lord Ringmore. ‘We are but fleeting shadows, living on borrowed time.’
‘What will happen to John’s native now?’
‘That’s another odd thing about the business. When the maid arrived she said the house was empty. Kiyaya had gone.’
‘Was anything missing? Could it have been some kind of robbery?’
‘Nothing was taken and, unless Kiyaya has the ability to stop a man’s heart, there is no reason to suspect foul play. Still, I gather the police would like to speak to him, providing they can find him and someone who can translate for them.’
‘It would hardly be difficult to find a man like that,’ said Clay. ‘A man the size of a small mountain, dressed in animal skins; even the old bill should be able to round him up.’
‘That’s true,’ admitted Lord Ringmore. ‘What on earth are you doing behind there, Harry?’
Clay stepped out from behind the screen. He was dressed in a ragged brown dress, stained, tattered and bunched up at the back, giving the appearance of a hunchback. He pulled a hat over his face and adopted a strange, limping walk, performing a perfect impersonation of one of London’s many old begging women.
‘Very impressive,’ admitted Lord Ringmore. ‘But what makes you think you will succeed in locating the orphans where the police have failed?’
‘The police couldn’t find a drink in a gin house,’ said Clay. ‘Talking of which … ’ He picked up a half-empty glass from the sideboard and downed its contents then shouted, ‘Fred, come in here, will you?’
Fred entered the room.
‘Fill me up, will you, Fred?’ said Clay.
‘The potent stench of gin on your breath is all part of the act, is it?’ asked Fred.
‘Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish business from pleasure,’ replied Clay, grinning.
Fred took the empty glass from Clay’s hand and left the room.
‘You’re lucky to have a man like that,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘Trustworthy servants are hard to come by.’
‘Me and Fred go way back,’ said Clay.
‘You haven’t told him about any of this though, I hope.’
‘I trust Fred more than anyone in the world but no, I haven’t told him and he knows not to ask.’
‘Perhaps I should accompany you today,’ said Lord Ringmore, anxiously.
‘No. You go researching with Hayman,’ said Clay. ‘Leave the book to me.’
‘The book is one aspect of our quest,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘But if the orphans have awoken its potential then we need them as much as the book.’
‘When I get the book, the orphans will follow. You’ll see,’ replied Clay.
‘And you’ll tell me as soon as you have it,’ said Lord Ringmore.
‘Of course,’ replied Clay.
‘It is important that we work together on this.’
‘I won’t let you down,’ said Clay.
‘I hope not, Harry.’
Fred returned with the refilled glass. ‘Your gin,’ he said.
Clay took it but instead of drinking it, he threw it over himself, drenching his ragged attire.
‘Now, if you don’t mind I’d better get to work,’ he said.
Chapter 38
Mudstorm
Esther didn’t know what to do with herself. The world was so much bigger, stranger and scarier than she could have imagined. She knew she should go to Spitalfields and wait for Tom but she needed to be alone. She needed to think. Still clutching the book, she felt herself drawn to the river, and soon found herself on the embankment. She felt the power of the river’s flowing water. She drew comfort from its energy. The tide was out. The Earthsoul was exhaling. She followed stone steps down to a beach of mud and stone. She sat down on a rock and leaned her staff against her leg. She needed time to adjust to this. She opened the book and studied the diagrams that filled its pages. They made perfect sense to her now. She gazed at them, filled with wonder and awe. Conjury was beautiful.
An old woman with ragged clothes and a hunched back was making her way across the mud, searching through it for any treasure the Thames might have left behind. Even from such a distance, Esther could smell the gin on her breath. They must have looked like a pair of wretched souls down in the mud but Esther understood that they were both so much closer to the source of real power than any of the top-hatted businessmen of the city.
Esther felt exhausted by her racing thoughts but was unable to stop the questions that sprang into her mind. What should she do with such power? Was it her responsibility to wield it for her own good or the good of others? What had the Conjurors of old done? Where would all this end?
She didn’t know how long she sat there but when she looked up she saw water lapping at her feet. The tide was coming in. Esther stood up to leave and saw Hardy and the gang descending the stone steps.
‘Nice day for a stroll on the beach.’ Hardy jumped down into the mud, not caring how it splattered his trousers.
‘Leave me alone.’ Esther placed the book on the rock behind her and picked up the broom handle.
‘What you going to do with that?’ Hardy asked, mockingly.
‘I don’t want to hurt you, Hardy,’ said Esther.
‘You don’t want to hurt me?’ he echoed. ‘Even after I burnt down your home? You must be some kind of saint not to hold something like that against me. Is that right, Esther? You like one of them saints Mother Agnes used to bang on about?’
‘No.’
‘We’ve got a lot in common, you and me.’
‘I’m nothing like you.’
‘We both got our heads screwed on right. Not like that lot.’ Hardy gesticulated to the others, who watched from the steps. ‘Worms and Stump haven’t got a brain between them and Brewer, well, he’s way too fond of that knife. I need to keep him in his place more often than I’d like. You, though. You understand how things work.’
Hardy continued to approach, squelching through the thick mud.
‘You’re a pretty girl … under all that anger, I mean. I think it’s important for girls to be pretty. Fellas, well, they can be ugly as sin and do all right, but girls like you, a pretty face is gonna make all the difference.’ He was close enough to see the book on the rock behind her. ‘I keep wondering what all this is about,’ he said. ‘I reckon it’s got to be something to do with that book. Is that why all them coppers are looking for you?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Just what I said,’ he replied. ‘Now, why do you think they want you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Lucky it was me what found you first, eh? If you could only learn to trust me I’d be able to help you. I can keep you safe.’ He reached out to touch her hair, but Esther batted his hand away with the broom handle.
‘I can look after myself,’ she said.
Hardy laughed. He looked down at his muddy trousers. ‘It’s disgusting down here.’
‘No one asked you to come here.’
‘You know I’d go anywhere for you,’ said Hardy. ‘Now, what about that kiss?’
He moved in but Esther pushed him, catching him off guard and sending him staggering back. He tripped on a rock and landed in the mud.
‘Oi,’ he shouted, alerting Brewer, Stump and Worms. They hurriedly rushed down the steps to help him.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ said Hardy. He stood and tried to shake the mud from his hands.
‘I won’t tell you again,’ said Esther.
‘You won’t have to.’
Har
dy lurched forward but in a sudden flurry of movement, Esther spun around, making shapes on the ground with the broom handle, drawing power from the rich, oozing mud. With a wave of her left hand she sent a wall of mud up between them. Another movement and she whisked it into a spinning tornado. Hardy stared in disbelief as the mud swirled towards him. It lifted him off the ground, his arms and legs flailing. Stump, Worms and Brewer tried to get away but Esther sent the tornado at them. Her anger too easily turned to destructive power. She scooped them up and, with a final dramatic finish, lowered her hand and sent all four of them flying. They landed face down on the mud and the rocks.
Esther laughed as she watched them scrabble to their feet and run, but the power drained from her as the mud rained down and she felt weak. She went to pick up the book and saw that it was no longer on the rock behind her. The old lady had gone too. She turned to look for her but felt a sudden burst of pain as a wart pushed itself to the surface of the skin on her hand. She stared at it in horror, wondering, what had she done? What had she done?
Chapter 39
Outcast
Judging by the astonished stares of its inhabitants, the East-End slum was not used to such well-to-do visitors as Mr G. Hayman and Lord Ringmore. Many would have felt decidedly uncomfortable under such scrutiny but this was not Mr G. Hayman’s first visit and Lord Ringmore had encountered similar behaviour countless times during his travels around the world. He considered how the journey across town had taken less than an hour and yet they were surrounded by the kind of destitution one might expect from an African shanty town or the backwaters of India. One really could travel the world without ever leaving London.
The housing was every bit as pitiful as its occupants and many dwellings looked on the brink of collapse, giving Lord Ringmore cause to think twice before following Mr G. Hayman into one such ramshackle hut, with sloping walls and boarded-up windows. Inside, he was introduced to Mrs Smith, an old woman with skin as dark and lined as the wooden beams that held up her decrepit dwelling. She sat huddled in a gloomy room, wrapped in blankets, in front of a fire that poured out more smoke than warmth. When Mr G. Hayman made the introduction, Mrs Smith let out a throaty laugh. ‘A Lord. Well, Lord. Me honoured, my Lord.’ She bowed her head and laughed some more.
Mr G. Hayman waited until she had finished. ‘Lord Ringmore shares the same interest as me.’
Mrs Smith kissed her teeth and fixed her sharp eyes on him. ‘You want to know about the old ways, huh? You care for the shadows? You a Lord of darkness?’
‘I have spent my life in search of something beyond our understanding,’ said Lord Ringmore.
‘Something more? Look like you got everything you need, to me. I bet you never felt the pangs of hunger, Lord. But you came to me because you still hungry? That it, Lord?’
‘Mrs Smith,’ said Mr G. Hayman. ‘The last time we spoke you told me of a man you met back in our home country, a man with powers.’
‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘A man who could melt mountains, drink rivers or move as the air. But power’s no use if you outcast. Power’s no good if you shunned.’
‘Shunned by whom?’ asked Lord Ringmore.
‘This man tell me how they all outcast. They feared. And no wonder, given what men like him are capable of.’
‘Mrs Smith spent several nights in the desert with this man,’ said Mr G. Hayman.
‘He like having someone to talk to,’ the old woman added.
‘What did he look like?’ asked Lord Ringmore.
‘His body was painted. Strange patterns on his skin and his eyes were like the blackest night I ever see. There was plenty of death in those eyes.’
‘Please tell us,’ said Mr G. Hayman. ‘Did he ever mention something called the Eternity Spell?’
The old woman tutted reproachfully. ‘If you want everlasting life, you try praying.’
Mr G. Hayman took out a purse of money and placed it in front of Mrs Smith. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Did he ever mention it?’
She took the purse and tucked it away. ‘He say he lived many lives, this man. He seen more years than you and me. He call himself an old soul.’
‘You mean he had performed the Eternity Spell? It really is possible,’ whispered Lord Ringmore.
‘So he say.’ Mrs Smith nodded. ‘But this man, he not a happy man. He say a long life different to a happy life.’
‘Did he give some indication of how it could be done? A clue, anything?’ asked Lord Ringmore.
‘I not ask,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘I not want to know about such things. What I told you is all I know about that. You ask me, the only folk who want to cheat death are the ones that feel cheated by death themselves. Ain’t that right, Lord?’
The interview over, Mr G. Hayman and Lord Ringmore emerged from the house to find hoards of ragged, skinny children gathered around to stare, but none were foolish enough to come within striking distance of Lord Ringmore’s walking stick.
‘Cheated by death?’ said Mr G. Hayman, as they stepped into the sanctuary of a hansom cab. ‘Is that how you feel?’
Lord Ringmore kept his eyes fixed ahead. ‘I was eleven years old when it happened,’ he said. ‘My father’s condition had grown steadily worse. Some days he was unnervingly affectionate, others he barely knew me or he got me confused with some dead family member. One night, after a sustained period of this, I awoke. It was late but I was thirsty so I went downstairs to fetch a glass of water. I heard Roud, my father’s personal butler, in the kitchen. He was talking to the scullery maid, making her laugh with stories of things the old man had said and done that day. I was furious, of course. The man was a scoundrel. Resolving to tell Mother the next day and have him dismissed, I turned to go back to bed and saw my father standing in his nightgown at the top of the stairs.’
‘He had heard too?’ asked Mr G. Hayman.
‘No, I don’t think so. At that stage, he rarely understood anything anyway but he looked at me and spoke my name. I was relieved to hear him say it. Each time he lost his memory I feared it would never return. Then he said something I will never forget. “Silas,” he said, “death comes to us all sooner or later.”’
‘True enough words,’ said Mr G. Hayman. The carriage rattled on over the uneven, cobbled street.
‘Before I could ask what he meant, he let go of the bannister and allowed himself to fall forward. By the time he reached the bottom he was dead.’
‘That’s terrible,’ said Mr G. Hayman.
‘My mother lived another year or so. After that, I was alone.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Mr G. Hayman placed a gloved hand over Lord Ringmore’s, but he moved it away.
‘We need to keep an eye on Clay,’ he said. ‘You and I have believed for a long time, but his world has been rocked by these discoveries. I have seen that look in his eyes. He would take this gift, slap a bow tie on it and put it on the stage. It is too valuable to be squandered on theatricals.’
‘I’ll talk to him,’ replied Mr G. Hayman.
Chapter 40
Spitalfields
Tom had first come across the hiding place in Spitalfields by scaling the side of the market wall and finding a space above a coffee shack. It was a good spot and perfectly hidden from sight. The noises of the market and smells from the coffee shack were comforting. Unlike the crypt it was airy, and a pleasant place to while away a few hours.
Esther was already there when Tom arrived. He instantly sensed the difference in her.
‘I knew you would do it,’ said Tom.
Esther stared back at him. ‘What have we done, Tom?’ she asked, quietly. ‘What have we become?’
‘More than we were.’ He sat down and took her hand. ‘Things will be good from now on, Est. You’ll see. Look, I’m better now.’ He pulled back his sleeve to reveal that the warts had vanished from his arm.
‘Everything feels different,’ said Esther.
‘Of course it does,’ said Tom. ‘And we can say goodbye to hide-spot
s like this. From now on, people will need to hide from us.’
‘It’s all happening too quickly,’ said Esther.
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘I saw Hardy. He said the police are looking for us.’
Tom’s eyes drifted down to the wart on her hand. ‘What did you do to him?’
‘I don’t know. It wasn’t me. I didn’t feel in control. I’m not in control.’
‘Well, I am. I know exactly what I’m doing.’
‘And what of him?’ Esther pointed up at the market roof.
‘Who?’
‘Mondriat. He’s sitting up there spying on us, listening to everything we say.’
Tom saw the mangy magpie poke his head out from behind a rafter then come fluttering down.
‘Where have you been?’ asked Tom.
‘I’ve been learning,’ said Mondriat. ‘And I’d like to have a look at the book, if you don’t mind.’
Esther stared at the magpie. After all that had happened it shouldn’t have been a shock to hear it speak but it was still very strange.
‘Yes, yes, yes, I can talk,’ said the magpie. ‘And funnily enough my name isn’t Mister Magpie, so don’t even think about it. Now, where’s the book?’
‘It’s gone,’ admitted Esther.
‘Gone?’ squawked the magpie.
‘What? You let Hardy take it?’ said Tom.
‘No. Someone else. I don’t know who. I was distracted. What’s it matter anyway? Like you said, we can create our own spells now.’
‘It matters because that book was written by Olwyn Broe,’ said Mondriat.
‘Who?’ asked Esther.
‘Olwyn was the most complicated, beautiful woman I ever met and the most gifted Conjuress to ever cast a spell. Olwyn could imagine the most extraordinary things. She would create the most beautiful Conjury I’ve ever seen. She could even manipulate time itself. What I wouldn’t give to see her again.’ The magpie sighed. ‘That can never happen. She will never forgive me for something I did, many centuries ago. But I can still, at least, see her spells. You’ll just have to get the book back.’
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