Hermes Fleece wasn’t his man after all. St. Cyprian couldn’t help feeling slightly disappointed, and, strangely sad. The latter feeling came as something of a shock to him, and he quickly pushed it aside. Whatever ill feelings he’d borne Fleece, he hadn’t wanted him dead. Steeling himself, he bent forward onto his knuckles and examined the wound. Tell-tale black marks around the edges of the hole in Fleece’s head spoke to how close the shooter had been when they’d shuffled Fleece off the mortal coil. He was suddenly grateful for the weight of the Webley Bulldog in his coat pocket.
St. Cyprian thrust himself back onto his heels, questions running laps in his skull. He stood, and went to the desk. The telephone that Fleece had been using when he’d been shot in mid-call had been yanked off the desk and dumped on the floor. He lifted it up and put it carefully back on the desk.
He recognized some of the papers scattered across the desk from before, but there seemed to be fewer of them. Mostly bills of sale, invoices and the like. He looked down at the map of Wiltshire, and noted the astrological symbols scrawled in the margins. He recalled the calendar he’d noticed on his first visit. Something about the vernal equinox.
Fleece had been calculating more than simply geographical markers by the look of things. “Wayebury,” St. Cyprian murmured, noting the name of a village, circled and marked. It was familiar, but he couldn’t say why—something to do with sheep, he thought. He blinked, as the answer came to him. “Oh,” he breathed. “If it was a snake, it would have bitten me.” That was it. Wayebury was the ancestral seat of the Fleece’s. And it was also the birthplace of the Order of the Cosmic Ram.
An equinox was an important event, in magical terms. A shifting of seasons, a time of change, where the old gave way to the new. Ceremonial magic was big on that sort of thing. The stars needed to be right for a rite, as one wit of his acquaintance had put it. But what sort of rite had been set in motion? And what had Fleece been up to, when he’d been shot? Why had he called Melion—to warn him? Or for some other reason? That question still uppermost in his mind, he heard the door creak, and spun about, drawing his Webley and extending it.
Sadie Fleece screamed, and thrust out her hands.
“Sadie, I—what are you doing here?” he said, lowering his pistol, startled by how close he’d come to shooting her.
“I could ask you the same question, Charles,” she began. Her eyes widened as she caught sight of her father’s body. She lunged forward with an inarticulate cry, and he caught her before she could fall over.
“Sadie, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, speaking into her ear as she began to sob. He stroked her hair gently. “If it’s any comfort, I think he was taken completely by surprise. I don’t think he felt a thing.”
“That’s no comfort at all, Charles,” she hiccoughed. She shoved away from him and staggered towards the desk. “What happened? What did you do?”
“Me?” He looked at her in shock.
“You’re the one with the gun,” she said harshly.
“Sadie, you know me better than that. Whatever has passed between us, between your father and I, I would never murder him in cold blood,” he said, looking down at the body again.
“Yes…yes, I know that, really,” Sadie said. He heard the creak of a chair, but didn’t turn around. She sounded as if she were in shock.
“Then you also know that I’ll do whatever I can to see his killer brought to justice,” he said, shoving his Webley back in his coat.
“Oh yes, I’m sure you would,” she said.
St. Cyprian blinked. “Would?” he murmured, and began to turn. His vision was filled with the shape of Fleece’s chair rushing towards him. This was followed by a moment of shattering impact, and he fell to the floor.
“Poor, chivalrous Charles,” she said. “You should know better than to turn your back on a woman. We are the deadlier of the species, after all.” He heard, as if from a great distance, the sound of Sadie tossing aside the remains of the chair.
“Your father…” he began, trying to clear his head.
“His death is entirely on your head, Charles.”
“I told you, I didn’t kill him,” he said. His head and neck ached, but his vision was beginning to clear. It wasn’t the first time he’d been hit with a chair. He looked up at Sadie as she strode around the desk towards where he lay.
“Oh, I know.” She smiled. “I did.”
St. Cyprian stared up at her in shock. “You what?”
“Yes, I killed him.” She shook her head. “But you made it necessary. You murdered him, as surely as if you’d pulled the trigger yourself.”
“You’re mad.” Blindly, he groped for his pistol. Sadie’s foot came down on the Webley a moment before his fingers touched it. He heard the click of a revolver, and looked up.
“Where’s my demon, Charles? I sent it to deal with you, and I must say I’m disappointed to find you here and in one piece.”
“Banished, for the moment at least,” he said. Pieces were beginning to fall into place, and he didn’t care for the picture that was beginning to form. “What are you doing, Sadie? Demons? Murder? That’s not you.”
“I’m rather insulted that you think you know anything about me,” Sadie said, glaring down at him. “We were hardly affianced, now were we? Despite my best efforts, I might add.”
“No, and I have never been more grateful for anything in my life,” he said.
She laughed. “You and I both, Charles. It was father’s idea, in the main. He rather liked you, though God knows why.”
“Why did you kill him?” he asked.
“I told you,” she snapped.
“No, you tried to blame me, which simply isn’t done. I have a karmic burden of my own; I don’t need yours added to it. You killed him because Baphomet told you to, didn’t it? The same way it told you to help Melion, and then steal his property?” He spat the words quickly, hoping to head off a bullet. It was a guess, but a good one, he thought, especially when he saw her expression. It lasted only a moment, and then it was gone, and her face might as well have been a mask.
“I told you—there are some in the Order who are—were—unhappy with his hesitancy,” she said coolly. “I simply neglected to mention that I was one of them.” She tapped the side of her head. “Siege-mentality, Charles. My father was stuck on maintaining what was left of the Empire. I, however, want to stir the imperial fury of Albion anew and take back what we have lost, and more.” She smiled. “But for that sort of job, I need the proper tools. And I need to clear out the clutter.”
“Meaning me,” he said. He tensed. She was within arm’s reach of him. The thought of trying to outmaneuver a bullet wasn’t a pleasant one, but he had little choice. Sadie had always been one for a good gloat, when she thought she had the upper hand. He could use that to his advantage.
“Meaning all sorts of people, Charles. You’re hardly special.”
“That’s a bit of a blow to the old bread basket,” he said. He slid his feet under him, hoping that she would think he was only preparing to stand. “And what part does Zhang Su play in this ‘job’ of yours?”
“Oh Charles, you are smarter than I gave you credit for,” she said, stepping back slightly. The pistol didn’t waver. “My jade prize is a tool, just like Baphomet. A weapon for the war to come, and a key to unlocking the power I need to do what must be done. It’s really in everyone’s best interests to let me get on with it, frankly.”
“I recall the Kaiser saying something similar,” St. Cyprian said.
“Sod the Kaiser,” Sadie said, grinning. She lifted her pistol. “And sod you as well, Charles. You know, I’m glad Baphomet didn’t do for you…I think I much prefer doing this face to face, as it were.”
“Sadie, you don’t have to do this,” he said, raising his hands. “We can still talk this out.”
“There’s been too much talk already, Charles…goodbye,” she said. Her finger tightened on the trigger. St. Cyprian uncoiled and lunged towards
her. As he’d hoped, the sudden lunge startled her, and he felt the heat of the shot as it sped past his ear. He grabbed awkwardly for her, but she avoided him, kicking him in the jaw in her haste to evade his hands. He fell as she fled for the door.
St. Cyprian groped around and caught up his revolver. He brought it up even as she turned in the doorway, weapon leveled. She fired again, calling out, “Albert!” as she did so. St. Cyprian rolled onto his belly as her bullet dug a gouge in the wall behind him, and fired a shot of his own. Sadie yelped, but he didn’t think he’d hit her. A moment later, he heard feet pounding on the stairs. He scrambled to his feet, pistol in hand, and made for the door.
As he stepped through, and out into the corridor, he heard the distinct sound of a grouse gun being readied. Just before he jerked back into the office, he saw Shepherd standing at the top of the stairs, a double-barreled shotgun in his hands. The shotgun belched fire and part of the door frame was chewed to splinters. St. Cyprian fell back onto his rear. He heard Shepherd hurry down the stairs. The front door slammed.
He climbed to his feet, heart hammering. His face hurt. He touched his cheek, and his fingers came away red. There were splinters in his face. He leaned against the doorframe and peered towards the stairs as he fished his handkerchief out and pressed it to his face.
Sadie and Shepherd were gone. But he thought he knew where they were heading. Dropping his weapon into his pocket, he went back to desk and picked up the phone. He had a call to make.
Cheyne Walk, Chelsea Embankment, London
“Wiltshire? I’m not certain of the extent of our remit, but I’m fairly certain Wiltshire falls well inside of it, Charles,” Lady Molly Robertson-Kirk said, setting aside her tea. “What was the town called again?”
Special Branch had responded quickly to St. Cyprian’s call. The Mayfair headquarters of the Order of the Cosmic Ram had been closed by order of His Majesty’s government, and its membership roster was now considered evidence in an ongoing investigation. St. Cyprian could only hope that more than a few men and women were quietly squirming in nervous anticipation of a knock on their door as the sun rose over London.
But the wheels of justice ground slowly, and the vernal equinox was only a scant few hours away. That left them little time to bring a halt to whatever Sadie was planning, if that was even possible. After calling Special Branch, he’d contacted Gallowglass at Melion’s, and had her bring Melion and Ghale around, while he’d chivvied Robertson-Kirk with tales of dark doings and dastardly deeds.
Now they all sat in the sitting room of No. 427, planning their next move. At least, that was what he and Robertson-Kirk were doing; Gallowglass was filling her cheeks with biscuits, Ghale was sitting silently and Melion was staring into the fire, arms crossed, face set in a scowl. Melion hadn’t been happy about involving the police, but he knew Robertson-Kirk, and had kept his initial outburst to a low roar.
“Wayebury,” St. Cyprian said, in reply to Robertson-Kirk’s question. He had cleared the floor and unrolled a survey map of Wiltshire, tapping a spot with a finger. “Here it is. It’s the ancestral seat of the Fleeces, as granted them by William the Bastard, and recorded in the Black Pages of the Domesday Book.”
“Black Pages? What the deuce are those?” Robertson-Kirk asked. “And what the devil is in that foot stool that’s causing it to shake so?”
“Pagan sites, innit?” Gallowglass said, around a mouthful of biscuit. “And hands. Hairy ones,” she added, wriggling her fingers. She had her feet propped up on the devil-box which still contained the Hairy Hands of Dartmoor. At the sound of her voice, the box shuddered loudly. St. Cyprian could hear the sounds of knuckles rapping on the inside, and clawed fingers tearing at the hinges.
Robertson-Kirk looked at St. Cyprian, who said, “She’s right, for once.” Gallowglass made a rude gesture, which he ignored. “Certain of the parcels of land which were doled out by the Normans had an—ah—persnickety nature, so to speak…faerie mounds, stone circles, barrows, curses, dragon-sightings, that sort of thing. If one of William’s followers got such a parcel, it was because the individual in question had either proven capable of handling such matters in the past or…well, or they wouldn’t be missed. Often both. You wouldn’t believe how often the two traits go hand in hand.”
“I can take a guess,” Robertson-Kirk murmured, still staring at the devil-box. “And Wayebury was one of these, then?”
“Oh yes. Wayebury is the site of Scap Barrow. The proper pronunciation is Sceap,” St. Cyprian said. “The Old English word for ‘sheep’, appropriately enough. Because where else would gentlemen in robes be but the only Neolithic barrow within ten miles of Wayebury? And one quite awash in the old psychical thingamabobs, according to Carnacki’s notes about the place.” He gestured to a small moleskin notebook sitting near his hand.
“Carnacki spent a summer visiting every site listed in the Black Pages and testing them for various things. The Order of the Cosmic Ram chased him off, but not before he got a few readings. Scap Barrow is a sort of…crossroads of the supernatural. Everything from ghostly lights to cacodemonical herdsmen. It’s a sump of power, just waiting to be tapped. And that’s exactly what Sadie Fleece intends to do.”
“For what purpose?” Robertson-Kirk asked. St. Cyprian turned and looked at Melion.
“Well William? Here’s where you do your bit for King and Country and add to the conversation,” he said. “I think you’ve stayed silent on this mystery illness of yours long enough.” He stood, when Melion refused to speak or look away from the fire. “I’m not completely inobservant, William, no matter what you might think. I notice things, even when I’d rather not.” St. Cyprian went to the other man, and leaned over him, so that his back was to the others. He grabbed Melion’s shoulder, provoking a groan.
Ghale was on his feet in a moment, one hand flying to the hilt of his kukri. Gallowglass had him covered before he could draw it, the barrel of her pistol pressed to his kidney. She swallowed a bite of biscuit and smiled genially up at him. “Wotcha, Mr. Ghale. Siddown, or get sat down, eh?”
“Charles, what is this about?” Robertson-Kirk said.
“Merely getting to the truth of the matter, Lady Molly,” St. Cyprian said, glancing over his shoulder. He looked back down at Melion. “I saw your scars earlier, when Baphomet attacked,” he said, his voice pitched low. “Bite marks, unless I miss my guess.” His eyes narrowed. “Just what sort of pestilence was it that old Zhang Su fought, I wonder?” he asked, more softly still. “What sort of beast is in your belly, eating you hollow?”
Melion looked up at him. “Charles, I…” he began. Then he looked away, into the flames. St. Cyprian could feel the tension radiating from the other man and he felt a stab of pity. If he were right, Melion was suffering as badly as any sinner in Hell.
St. Cyprian stepped back. “I wondered why Fleece was so adamant about not bringing it back into the country. But I suspect I know. And I suspect that I know what Sadie intends.”
“Well, I’m all ears,” Robertson-Kirk said.
“She’s adding to her menagerie,” St. Cyprian said. He turned and looked down at the map. “She’s already got a demon, but she’ll have something a good deal worse come the vernal equinox, unless we get to Wayebury and stop her.” He looked at Robertson-Kirk. “We’ll need Special Branch’s help.”
“Whatever you need, Charles,” Robertson-Kirk said. She smiled and added, “Within reason, of course.”
“We need constables, the doughtier the better, and we need enough of them to handle a few dozen rapscallions, at least,” he said. “I’d wager that there’ll be Order members coming from all over the Empire to this gathering. Sadie will be wanting a show of power—her power—and this will be an effective way of doing it. Two birds, one stone, so to speak.” He ran his hands through his hair. “They won’t have any idea that Fleece is dead, or that the Order’s Mayfair residence has fallen into the tender hands of Special Branch. We might be able to use that to our advantage.
”
“Scare them into giving up, you mean?”
“I hope so,” St. Cyprian said. “Otherwise it could get rather messy, what?”
“Fine.” Robertson-Kirk clapped her hands together and rose smoothly to her feet with a rustle of her skirts. “I’ll gather the yeomanry and march for Roundway Down this very day.”
“We don’t have much time,” St. Cyprian warned. “A few hours at most—the vernal equinox will occur tonight. That leaves us just enough time to get to Wayebury, and Scap Barrow, and not much time for anything else.”
“Special Branch will meet you in Wayebury this evening, Charles, never fear. But you owe me for this. Word from on high is that we’re to let the Order scatter like mice, and not go chasing after them. I’ve never been one for half-measures, however, so if I must tack into an ill-wind, so be it. But I’ll want a favor in recompense.”
“What sort of favor?” St. Cyprian asked dubiously.
Robertson-Kirk kissed him on the cheek and swiftly headed for the door. “I’ll let you know after this nasty business is seen to. Ta, Charles.” She swept out, the door closing quietly behind her. St. Cyprian stared after her for a moment, and then shook himself and looked at Gallowglass.
She had holstered her pistol. “So, what am I doing?”
“You’re getting the car ready. We’ll need to pack. I have no idea what sort of forces Sadie will be seeking to unleash, but I want to be prepared for anything. And that includes that demon of hers. We need to even the odds…”
A slow, unpleasant smile crept across her features. “I think I’ve got just the thing.” She kicked out and knocked the devil-box over.
“No,” St. Cyprian began.
“What? You haven’t figured out a way of getting rid of it, and we need to even the odds, so…” Gallowglass said, as she headed for the stairs. She was out of the room before he could come up with a reply.
The Jade Suit of Death (The Adventures Of The Royal Occultist Book 2) Page 15
