The Society of Thirteen

by Gareth P. Jones

  ‘Well?’ said Longdale, impatiently. ‘Do you recognise him?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Ezekiel. I always told him he was destined to burn.’

  As a copper, Longdale was used to some very black humour in the face of horror, but he shivered at the cold delivery of the joke. ‘The boy’s name was Hardy,’ he said.

  ‘A name he gave himself,’ replied Mother Agnes. ‘Each and every child who enters our charitable institution is gifted with a good Christian name.’

  ‘He was found on the south bank of the Thames at Battersea. Any idea what one of your boys would have been doing there?’

  ‘He was no longer one of my boys. He made his choice to leave our protection. After they have done that, there is little we can do for them. Lucifer employs them for his ends.’

  ‘There is bruising beneath the burns,’ said Longdale. ‘Was he known as a scrapper in the orphanage?’

  ‘Such activities are strictly forbidden in our charitable institution.’

  ‘And yet so many who leave your charitable institution end up on this slab.’ Longdale covered the boy’s face with the sheet, no longer wanting to see the brutality of the injuries.

  Mother Agnes’s nostrils flared. Longdale flinched, fearing that she might actually hit him and unsure what his reaction would be if she did.

  ‘I do not appreciate the implication of what you are saying,’ she said.

  ‘I appreciate it no more myself,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘But the fact is that this is not the first boy to have left St Clement’s and found himself on the wrong side of the law. Your charitable institution, as you insist on calling it, is a breeding ground for young criminals.’

  ‘The temptations of Satan –’

  ‘Are indeed strong, but what is it, I ask myself, that makes so many of your students susceptible to his influence? What happens within those walls that makes them so accepting of violence and fear? What do you teach these children?’

  ‘These are not children,’ snapped Mother Agnes. ‘The animal that lies on your slab is the devil’s own spawn.’

  ‘What about his cohorts?’ Longdale checked his list of names. ‘Brewer, Stump and Worms.’

  ‘None of them names I recognise.’

  ‘And yet when they find themselves here in the mortuary I fear you will recognise the faces.’

  Mother Agnes stared back at him angrily. ‘What do you want from me, Chief Inspector? You want me to tell you that the Lord has abandoned us? That hell is risen and is all around us? You want to hear the truth that despair is all that we have left now?’

  ‘I seek the reason behind this boy’s untimely death.’

  ‘And you think I can help you with that?’

  ‘Did he ever come back to the orphanage?’

  ‘We do not have time for visits from those who have turned their backs on us.’

  ‘Quite the Christian attitude, I’m sure.’

  ‘We can only forgive those who seek forgiveness. The unrepentant are damned.’

  ‘And yet as a representative of the law I must treat all as equals.’

  For a moment, nun and policeman stood in deadlock, but with his steely glare Longdale made it quite clear that Mother Agnes was not leaving until she had told him what he needed to know.

  ‘He did come back,’ she admitted, finally. ‘There was something between him and some other ex-pupils, Tom and Esther. He was looking for them. I don’t know why. He threatened me and stole from me.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘That another had come with the same intention, a man by the name of Harry Clay.’

  ‘The illusionist?’

  ‘Yes, I believe that is what you would call him. Now, if we’re quite finished here I’d like to return to the school.’

  Chief Inspector Longdale stepped out of the nun’s way. ‘By all means,’ he said. ‘But I will be keeping a close eye on your donations to this mortuary. As I said before. No one is above the law, Mother Agnes. No one.’

  Chapter 60

  Miraculous

  As predicted, the manager of the Theatre Royal, Mr Dickey, was not impressed with Clay’s sudden change of heart. Not impressed at all. At first he thought it a clumsy attempt to blackmail him into giving up a larger cut of the profits but, whether through Fred’s persuasive nature or Harry’s ability to draw crowds, Mr Dickey finally agreed to all of Clay’s demands. Fred was expecting a little gratitude for his efforts but Harry was busy with his preparations and barely registered the news when he told him.

  Clay was spending most of his time in secret rehearsals and Fred was worried about the company he was keeping. He seemed inseparable at the moment from three juveniles that Fred had never seen before, but instantly knew were trouble. He wondered if the three boys had something on Clay that bound him to them, but when he brought up that subject, Clay dismissed it entirely.

  Finally, when the new opening night came, Fred watched the drastically reduced audience arrive at the theatre. He went to wish his old friend good luck, only to be stopped by Stump and Worms, standing guard at the entrance to the backstage area. When they refused to let him pass Fred did not hold back in letting them know exactly what he thought about them. ‘I’ve known Harry since before you were born,’ he said, after letting loose with a tirade of abuse.

  ‘No one’s to pass,’ said Worms.

  ‘Not a soul,’ agreed Stump.

  Fred let rip with more colourfully worded insults until Clay arrived to see what the fuss was about.

  ‘I’m sorry, Fred,’ he said, taking him to one side. ‘But I can’t have anyone back here. Not even my dearest and oldest friend. You understand, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t like the company you’re keeping these days.’

  ‘A necessary evil, is all,’ said Clay.

  ‘Interesting choice of words.’

  ‘Fred, we’ve known kids like this all our lives. We grew up around them. I can control them because I know what they want. But please, I need you to keep the faith, Fred. Stand at the back and gauge what reaction I get.’

  ‘Harry, you know I love you but you had better pull this one off. Otherwise we’re done, you and me.’

  ‘When you see tonight’s performance you’ll forget all this. Just wait and see.’

  Fred found an inconspicuous spot at the back, where he could hear the grumbles of those who had bothered to fork out twice the original ticket price. The journalists, with their free entry, were no better disposed towards Harry Clay. It was going to take a spectacular performance to prevent them from writing obituaries, mourning the death of his career.

  ‘Miraculous,’ snorted a Fleet-Street man with a nose like a pig.

  ‘Water into wine won’t be enough for this crowd,’ replied another with the complexion of a tomato. ‘This lot are baying for blood.’

  ‘Good line. You going to use that or can I have it?’ replied the other.

  Nor did the audience’s antagonism diminish when the curtain went up. Clay stepped onto the stage to the sound of jeers and boos.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, once they had died down. ‘You know me as a master of illusion. Tonight I stand before you to tell you that everything I have done, everything I have achieved up to this point has been mere deception. Exceptionally executed deception of course but, none the less, no more impressive than the man who stands on the corner of Oxford Street, asking you to find the coin from the three available cups.’

  ‘Harry Clay confesses all,’ cried the pig-nosed journalist.

  Clay continued, unshaken. ‘But tonight I say goodbye to the remarkable and offer up the utterly inexplicable.’

  ‘Not to mention the outrageously priced,’ cried a voice from the circle.

  ‘You can have your money back if you are not completely satisfied,’ said Clay. ‘You see, I have recently learnt that there are forces in this world that are not visible to our mortal eyes.’

  ‘Has Harry Clay converted to spiritualism then?’ asked the
red-faced journalist.

  ‘These last few days my eyes have been opened,’ said Clay. ‘I beg that you keep yours open too. Please, everyone, watch carefully.’

  Clay clapped his hands together and, with the entire audience as his witness, vanished into thin air. There was no puff of smoke or well-placed screen to hide the trick. It was so astonishing that the audience seemed unsure how to react.

  ‘Trapdoor, Clay?’ cried someone.

  ‘I paid double the price for this?’ shouted another. ‘I want my money back.’

  The dissenting voices grew into a crescendo of abuse. Fred was wondering whether he should leave now and avoid another encounter with Mr Dickey when the voices died away. Everyone was looking up, wide eyed and open mouthed. Fred stepped forward and saw the reason. Clay was floating down through the auditorium, arms outstretched. He landed in the centre aisle and those in the seats nearby leapt up and clamoured to feel for the invisible wires. Desperate to understand and explain the trick, more and more pushed themselves towards him until Harry was lost beneath a scrum of people.

  ‘Oi, back off,’ shouted Fred.

  Then, suddenly, the clawing mob was thrown off and Harry Clay emerged, his body entirely surrounded by huge yellow flames. It was beautiful to look at, angelic in its splendour and unlike anything anyone had ever seen. Harry grinned, then performed an impossibly graceful backwards somersault and landed back on the stage.

  Finally, the applause came. The half-full auditorium produced the loudest noise Fred had ever heard. It was the reaction Harry Clay had searched for his whole life. It was beyond appreciation. As the audience took to its feet, Fred wondered whether Jesus Christ had received such applause at the wedding at Cana.

  There was only one moment when something went wrong. Later in the act, Clay asked members of the audience to hold up personal items. Then, without taking one step off the stage, he managed to pluck a selection of these and draw them through the air into his own hand. One of these items was the pig-nosed journalist’s pen. Clay beckoned it easily enough but when he attempted to send it back, he found it would not go. Making up some excuse about the unpredictability of magic, Clay attempted to walk it back but found his feet now glued to the ground. He tried to throw the pen but it would not leave his hand. Clay tried to hide his annoyance and make out that it was all part of the act but Fred could see the frustration on his old friend’s face.

  ‘Enough,’ cried Clay at last, and the pen finally floated back to its owner to the sound of yet more applause.

  Chapter 61

  Nero

  Sir Tyrrell had pulled a lot of strings to obtain private access to the railway tunnel that ran between Rotherhithe and Wapping. The night watchman at Rotherhithe Station had considered it most irregular but he had been easily silenced with a sizable bank note and the promise of a night off. The Society of Thirteen had the tunnel to themselves.

  At the centre of the tunnel, where it was widest, Tom was casting strange shadows on the curved ceiling as he performed his chaotic dance between the tracks, dragging his staff on the ground, drawing the complex spell. By his side, the magpie was perched on the open book, speaking to the boy in a language only the boy could understand. Lord Ringmore stood nearby, silently watching Tom’s every movement.

  Further down the track, Mr G. Hayman and Sir Tyrrell peered at a picture on the wall, faded by time and blackened by the filthy output of the steam engines. Mr G. Hayman held her lantern up to examine it more closely.

  ‘What are they?’ she asked.

  ‘This tunnel used to be a public walkway before it was sold to the railway company,’ explained Sir Tyrrell.

  The scene showed Nero playing the fiddle while Rome burnt. The Roman Emperor’s face was contorted into one of insane joy.

  ‘It makes you wonder, how much these pictures do not show,’ said Mr G. Hayman. ‘How much of the world’s history is hidden from us?’

  Sir Tyrrell glanced over his shoulder at Tom’s elaborate preparations. ‘How long can it take?’

  ‘You are impatient for immortality?’ replied Mr G. Hayman.

  ‘I’m impatient to know whether it is truly possible.’

  ‘You still doubt it after what we have seen the boy do?’

  ‘The same boy who stole the book, a street urchin of no breeding at all. How do we know he does not mean to trick us now?’

  ‘It would not be in his interests. Lord Ringmore has promised him everything he desires, but he will get none of it if any harm comes to us. No, I believe the Eternity Spell is the book’s great gift to us, Olwyn Broe’s final spell.’

  ‘But if it’s possible it raises so many questions. If it has been done before it stands to reason there must be those amongst us old enough to have witnessed the scene painted onto this wall the first time around.’

  ‘It’s not such a stretch of the imagination. After all, I’ve seen your English politicians. I swear some of those are as old as Moses himself,’ responded Mr G. Hayman, dryly.

  Sir Tyrrell snorted at the joke. ‘But would it not be to society’s benefit for those immortals to make themselves known? Imagine the knowledge they would have amassed.’

  ‘Perhaps society’s benefit is not their goal.’

  ‘Well, if I live forever I will take great pride in sharing the wisdom I will have gained from my experience.’

  ‘You seek to influence the future by dwelling on the past?’

  ‘I seek to make the world a better place. What about you? What is your reason for being here?’

  ‘As the poet wrote, You still shall live, such virtue hath my pen, where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.’ Mr G. Hayman took a couple of steps and held her lantern up to an illustration of the pyramids of Egpyt. ‘I used to believe that art was the only path to immortality. It’s what made me want to pick up a pen. But even if my books remain in print after I am dead, what good is it to me? What good is the point of adulation if you are not there to appreciate it?’

  ‘It would appear that was Clay’s view when he decided to split from the Society. There is hardly a soul in London not talking about his new magic show.’

  ‘Clay’s sense of self-preservation has always been his driving force. He is too wrapped up in the present to care for the future. I only hope he can control and contain the power he has unleashed.’

  ‘And what of Ringmore?’ asked Sir Tyrrell, gesticulating towards him.

  ‘Death cheated him out of his parents,’ said Mr G. Hayman. ‘He seeks the last word.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the last word,’ said Sir Tyrrell, ruefully. ‘The question is, once one has conquered death, what is there left to fear?’

  ‘Oh, there is always something to fear.’

  Chapter 62

  Escape

  Posters about Harry Clay’s new magic show had sprung up across the city. Every publication had something to say about it, but it wasn’t any of these things which led Esther to the Theatre Royal in Victoria. She could feel the vibrations of the magic spreading through the theatre walls. Tom was still busy with the Society of Thirteen, which meant that someone else was behind it. Waiting outside, Esther spotted Worms and Stump loitering by the stage door. There was no sign of Hardy but when Brewer emerged, with a hood pulled over his head, obscuring his face, Esther was in no doubt she had found the person responsible for Harry Clay’s new success. Brewer stepped into a hansom cab with Clay, leaving Worms and Stump by the theatre. Esther ran after the cab and jumped onto the back.

  The clattering of the wheels made it impossible to hear what Clay and Brewer were talking about until it drew up outside Clay’s house on Millbank and they stepped out.

  ‘You’re getting careless. You could have killed me tonight,’ said Clay angrily.

  ‘I could have killed you every night,’ replied Brewer, hoarsely. His face was still hidden.

  The door opened and Esther crept around the side of the house to a window. A light came on and she saw Clay and Brewer step into the library. B
rewer retreated to a dark corner and kept his hood up and his cloak gathered around his body.

  ‘I don’t understand what it is you want,’ stated Clay. ‘Have I not stood by our bargain? Have I not lived up to my side?’

  ‘I want more,’ whispered Brewer.

  ‘You’ve already increased your cut threefold.’

  ‘I want more,’ he repeated.

  ‘Now Brewer, I know you’re probably thinking that without you I don’t have an act, but remember, I am the face of this show.’

  ‘Without me, all you got is tricks, the same as everyone else.’

  ‘I could just as easily find another orphan who will be more grateful for the helping hand,’ said Clay. ‘Don’t forget who it was that gave you this power.’

  ‘You think I’ve forgotten it was you who did this to me?’ Brewer threw back his hood and revealed an uneven skull with his thin hair now reduced to clumps clinging onto the sore, blistered skin, with huge, pus-filled warts everywhere. ‘You see what you made me?’ shouted Brewer. With the flick of a hand, he sent books flying across the room. Esther felt the ripples of his magic wash over her but it was dark and ugly.

  ‘Your condition worsens. We must find you a doctor,’ said Clay.

  ‘No doctor can help me,’ said Brewer. ‘You had me draw this poison into my body and now it feasts on my flesh. I sold my soul to you, Clay.’

  ‘I can speak to Hayman and find out more about this condition,’ said Clay. ‘I can help you.’

  Brewer had stopped listening. He sniffed the air like an animal picking up another’s scent. Esther ducked out of sight and gripped her staff tightly. She could feel him moving closer. The potent stench of lifeblood was on his breath. She began to move her staff when there was a knock on the front door.