“Yes, but only in regards to myself, obviously.” St. Cyprian smiled. “I’m allowed to be impatient with you. That’s how our arrangement works, old bean.”
Morris snorted. “Duly noted.” He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and said, “It still needs salt.” He put his fork down and added, “Someone attempted to break into the Tower, last night.”
St. Cyprian’s smile slipped. “That’s…not good.”
“No. Quite the opposite, in fact.” Morris looked at him. “You know about the Tower, then? Carnacki told you that much, I assume.”
“And a bit more besides, but yes. I know about the Tower and all of its nasty little secrets. Tell me, is Swinburne still screaming in his cell?”
Morris made a face. “No, he stopped that about ten years ago. He’s singing now.”
“Must make for a nice change. I’m sure the warders appreciate it. The human ones, at any rate,” St. Cyprian said. “It’s been what…four hundred years, give or take? 1598 or thereabouts? Just after the Plague of Beetles.”
“You’d know more about that than me, I’m sure. Enoch Swinburne was a Royal Occultist, after all,” Morris said.
“Dee had bad luck with apprentices,” St. Cyprian said.
“He’s not the only one.”
“I assure you that, unpleasant as she can be, Ebe Gallowglass is no Enoch Swinburne. Nor is she an Edward Kelley or a Montague Peveril.”
“No, she is not. They were gentlemen, at least,” Morris said.
“And murderous fiends, the lot. When they weren’t traitors, rapscallions or alien intelligences posing as gentlemen,” St. Cyprian said firmly. “Given that your life expectancy exceeds mine by a good deal, Morris, chances are you will be working with her at some point, so you’d best just get used to it.”
Morris flushed. Then, after a moment of obvious hesitation, he said, “I do wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Charles. It gives me indigestion.” He sighed. “As much as I find you to be a persistent annoyance, you are…effective in your position. My life would be made more difficult by your untimely passing.” He shook his head. “Do try not to die any time soon, there’s a good chap.”
St. Cyprian sat back. “Morris, I’m touched.”
“Yes. In the head. You wanted to know why I asked you here?” Morris said, brusquely.
“Yes, do tell,” St. Cyprian said.
“I’d prefer not to tell you. Not until—ah, here he is now,” Morris said. He rose from his seat and extended his hands towards an older man as he made his way towards them, across the lounge. St. Cyprian rose as well, his psychical senses quivering like the nose of a bloodhound who’s just caught a scent. “Lord Godalming, may I present Charles St. Cyprian, His Majesty’s Royal Occultist? And Charles, may I present to you Lord Godalming, of the Westenra Fund.”
St. Cyprian cocked his head, as the newcomer shook hands with himself and Morris. “The Westenra Fund,” he said. “Aren’t those the chaps who—?”
“We kill vampires,” Godalming said. He was an older man, in his late sixties, carrying more weight than he ought, St. Cyprian judged. Nonetheless, he was spry and energetic. Indeed, he fairly hummed with vigour. “St. Cyprian, eh? I knew your predecessor, and his as well. Edwin Drood—now there was a chap to storm Hell with. Him and the old Dutchman were a right pair,” Godalming added. He looked St. Cyprian up and down. “Whatever happened to him, by the by? I heard he vanished into thin air, or spontaneously combusted or some utter twaddle of that sort.”
St. Cyprian took a drink before answering. “He vanished from a locked garret in Soho,” he said. “Carnacki didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t pry,” he added, referring to his predecessor.
He’d first met Thomas Carnacki in the crypts below the Guildhall, hunting giant ghosts—that is to say, the ghosts of giants. Carnacki had saved his life that night, and many nights after, until the War. He frowned as the memories of those final hours on the Kemmelberg rose up as strong and as fast as ever. He saw Thomas Carnacki, reaching out to him through the mud of Ypres, his pale face going slack. He’d been plucked out of one world and sent into the next by a sniper’s bullet. An inglorious death for a man who deserved much better. St. Cyprian himself had only caught a few in the leg—two deep and one long—and for the most part, it was only bothersome in the damp.
“Hmph. Yes, well, probably for the best you didn’t,” Godalming said. “Best never to ask questions you don’t already know the answer to, in my opinion. You were in Constantinople, with Carnacki?”
The sudden change of topic threw St. Cyprian for a momentary loop, but he caught up a second later. “Yes, for a few months. Not long at all.” He looked at Morris.
The man from the Ministry coughed discreetly. “William Melion was our man in Istanbul, Lord Godalming.”
“Then why isn’t he here?” Godalming demanded.
“Ah, well, regrettably, Mr. Melion has—ah—severed his ties to our apron strings, as it were,” Morris replied. “There was an…incident. In Budapest.” He took a gulp of tea. “We call it the Budapest Incident.”
“Careful Morris, you’re skirting dangerously close to poetry with that one,” St. Cyprian murmured. Morris glared at him, and St. Cyprian matched it with a look of placid bemusement, even as he wondered whether the incident Morris had referred to was the source of Melion’s current predicament.
Then, perhaps referring to lycanthropy as a ‘predicament’ was making light of a highly dangerous situation. Melion’s single-minded determination to cure himself of his devilish ailment had already prompted him to make more than a few rash decisions. The most prominent of which was sneaking the not-quite-all-the-way-dead mummified body of Zhang-Su, philosopher, sage, and ravenous werewolf, into Blighty in an effort to discover a cure. Not to mention letting said werewolf fall into the hands of a murderous cabal of blinkered imperialists, looking to restore the British Empire to its former glory.
“So, you’re currently at the crease, then, eh St. Cyprian? Second in batting order, what?” Godalming said, looking at him. “Fine, fine. Be warned…bit of a bouncer, this one. Not my game, really. Not my wicket.” He sat back and looked at Morris expectantly.
Morris grunted and pushed his plate away. “You’ve read Stoker’s book, of course.” It wasn’t a question.
“He wrote several. Care to narrow it down?” St. Cyprian said.
“Don’t be obtuse, Charles. Given the context, you know damn well which one I’m referring to,” Morris said. “The one Edwin Drood helped get published, despite an official protest from the head of the Ministry at the time.”
“Ah, of course…The Jewel of Seven Stars, how silly of me.”
“Dash it all!” Morris snapped, slapping his hand on the table and causing the cutlery to rattle. Heads turned, and waiters became alert. Morris irritably waved the latter off. “You know what I’m talking about,” he said again, more quietly.
“Steady on, old man,” Godalming said. St. Cyprian glanced at the older man, and saw that he’d gone pale. “No need to say the name. I’m sure he’s just having a bit of a poke.”
“Yes,” St. Cyprian said. “What about it? Based on some case or other of Drood’s, I’m given to understand. Some bally Wallachian of sanguinary habits showed up in 1887 or thereabouts, and made himself a bit of a bother before Drood put the kibosh on him.”
“Not alone, he didn’t,” Godalming said. “There were a half dozen of us.” He looked away. “Now there’s just me.”
“After the affair was concluded, the—ah—remains of the gentleman in question were inhumed in the Tower of London. Out of sight, out of mind,” Morris continued.
“Until now,” St. Cyprian mused. He laughed at Morris’ expression. “Oh unclench Morris. It’s obvious we wouldn’t be here now, having this lovely bit of breakfast, if something foul weren’t afoot.” He leaned forward. “So, let’s cut to the chase, shall we? What’s going on? And what does it have to do with Dracula?”
About the Author
&n
bsp; Josh Reynolds is a professional freelance writer who has contributed to numerous publications, including such anthologies as Hills of Fire: Bare Knuckle Yarns of Appalachia from Woodland Press and Use Enough Gun from Emby Press. He has also contributed to Gold Eagle’s Executioner novel series and Black Library’s Warhammer Fantasy and Warhammer 40,000 tie-in fiction line. Visit his site at:
http://joshuamreynolds.wordpress.com/
The Jade Suit of Death (The Adventures Of The Royal Occultist Book 2) Page 22
