‘I have an actor to do that. A discreet fellow. And he’ll continue to be discreet if he wants the generous fees I pay him.’ She opened another cabinet and paused in front of a collection of swords. ‘Most of my business is conducted through the post. His Majesty’s Postal Service is rather more reliable than even the best of actors equipped with the most superb of scripts.’ She selected one of the blades. ‘I do love a sabre, don’t you?’
‘I’m astounded.’
‘I can tell.’
‘So you paid for all of this through your patents?’
‘I’ve licensed – sorry, Montague Dobbs has licensed – a number of patents useful in the optical industry.’ She belted on her sabre then tapped her spectacles. ‘I’ve also allowed them to be used in astronomical research.’
‘You’re rich.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Rich enough. The financial speculation helped.’
‘Naturally,’ Kingsley said desperately.
‘Bonds, consols, that sort of thing. I’d rather have my money working for me than not. Daddy is enormously wealthy, but I wouldn’t touch anything of his. After some lean times, I’m now wealthy enough to do what I want.’
‘Which is to invent things and to go on the stage.’
‘I couldn’t have a retreat like this if I didn’t invent things.’
‘Of course not. It must have cost the earth.’
‘It wasn’t cheap.’ She made a few ghostly juggling motions with both hands. ‘Everything here is powered by a revolutionary source.’ Small dimples creased the corners of her mouth. ‘It’s called phlogiston.’
‘Oh, phlogiston.’
‘You’ve never heard of it, have you?’
‘Not in this context, no.’
‘In what context have you heard of it?’
‘None, really. I was just trying to give myself some time to cudgel the old brain to come up with something.’
She eyed him with cool amusement. ‘Phlogiston was thought to be the vital part that materials released when burning, which explains why something burnt couldn’t be reburned. And don’t say “but”. This was early chemistry, remember, and really has nothing to do with what we call phlogiston, which is a magical fluid that can be extracted from air.’
‘Magic.’
‘We’re in the Demimonde, remember? Some magic works. Some of the time.’ She wrinkled her brow. ‘Phlogiston is tied up with the Immortals, strange to say. Neo-Platonism anyway. They say that phlogiston is the exhalation of the Earth. It’s the outpouring of the supernatural entity of which our planet is only a physical manifestation.’
Kingsley looked at her blankly. ‘That makes no sense.’
‘It makes perfect sense, just not a sense that you’re accustomed to.’
‘So you use phlogiston to power this place?’
‘I invented a neat little phlogiston extractor, much better than the stuff I could buy out there. It’s hideously expensive, which is my point.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Did I mention that it’s also highly explosive?’
‘No, but I have no trouble accepting it.’
‘Wait here.’
Evadne went to her safe again. She returned holding a glass vial, the size of a finger and glowing red. She was smiling. ‘Phlogiston.’ Then she pulled another vial from the pocket of her robe with a flourish. ‘More phlogiston.’ Then she leaned over and, with a capable piece of sleight of hand, pulled another vial from Kingsley’s ear. ‘And more phlogiston.’
With another smile, a different one this time, rather more professional, Kingsley decided, she began to juggle them.
She began slowly, sending all three vials in an easy loop, then she began tossing them higher, plucking them out of the air, passing them behind her back, showering and cascading them, faster and faster until the glow was a blur.
Kingsley was impressed and alarmed. He hesitated, not wanting to break her concentration, but he had to ask: ‘Didn’t you say this stuff was explosive?’
‘It’s safe in the right hands, which mine are.’
With a toss of her head, Evadne launched all three skywards. She caught the first in her pocket, the second behind her back and the third fell perfectly into her upraised palm without her looking at it.
Her eyes were bright and she was breathing fast. She held up a finger, asking for a moment, then she answered. ‘Under the right circumstances, it’s highly explosive, which means with a correct detonator and such. With the right preparation, a hundred different effects can be achieved, thanks to phlogiston’s remarkable qualities.’
‘What happens if you drop one? The glass would break and then what?’
From the look on her face, Kingsley immediately regretted the fact that words didn’t have strings tied to them so he could have tugged back the questions he’d just asked.
‘Firstly,’ she said, ‘I don’t drop things when I juggle. Secondly, these aren’t simply glass. They’re embedded with phlogiston itself for extra strength.’
‘I’ve never seen a better juggler.’
She curtseyed. ‘I thank you.’
‘Remarkable stuff, that phlogiston.’
She leaned close in her enthusiasm and Kingsley could appreciate how fine her eyelashes were, as if they were extracted from the breath of snow. ‘It’s what I used to collapse those tunnels, the ones the Spawn were using to get to us, to make sure we are safe here.’
‘Versatile stuff.’
‘Even more exciting, I’m working with anti-phlogiston.’
‘And why would you do that?’
‘Apart from pure scientific rascality? It’s exciting, that’s why! Something that is equal and opposite to phlogiston must have enormous potential. Apart being extremely antagonistic to phlogiston, which is rather too obvious to be interesting.’
‘So that’s science. What about the theatre?’
She narrowed her eyes at the sudden change of topic, but replied. ‘I love the theatre, but, to tell the truth, it serves another purpose.’
‘I’m surprised. Everything else has been so straightforward.’
‘Another bon mot. You’re rising to the occasion, Kingsley and I’m glad. I thought you might be becoming Byronic, swanning about all gloomy and handsome.’
‘I tried being Byronic once, but it gave me a headache.’ Kingsley was trapped inside a whirlwind, but he was determined to keep up. ‘You were telling me how the theatre had a double purpose for you.’
‘Most of those who exploit children end up in the Demimonde, so I needed access to it. The theatre was my entry.’ She made an odd gesture then, putting both hands side by side, palms up, then bringing them together – as if she were closing a book.
Kingsley decided that it was clearly the end of the matter.
‘This mission,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?
‘Sure?’ Evadne’s lightness of mood fell away. ‘Hardly. I’d love to live a life of certainty, but it’s not for me. I live a life of maybes, perhapses and howevers. Nothing is certain.’
‘Which gives room for hope.’
She touched his cheek. ‘Now that, Kingsley, is just what I needed to hear.’
Kingsley felt exposed. He reminded himself again that this was part of the plan – he had to be visible. Attract attention at the Floating Market, and then track any Spawn back to the Immortals’ hiding place. Simple, straightforward and with a touch of terror to make things even better.
As Evadne had explained it, the Floating Market floated in more ways than one. Its physical location changed, sometimes when authorities from the overworld roused themselves enough to do something about the state of repair in parts of their sewer network and other times when one of the bouts of periodic hostility erupted into outright
warfare between the shadowy groups in the Demimonde. And physically, it was composed of ramshackle rafts adrift in the huge confluence of five lost sewer mains, a veritable lake, if only a few feet deep.
Evadne had found it without too much trouble this time, near Camden, as rumoured. Once night fell, they’d taken a roundabout route to get there, above and below ground. Every step of the way Kingsley felt eyes on his back. Evadne, as usual, was sure-footed in the dim light but he had to struggle and trust to her lead, something that frustrated him enormously. His frustration was only partly mollified by the time-honoured method of jamming his fists into the pockets of his jacket, something he gave up quickly when he nearly pitched on his nose after a misstep, due to not having a restraining hand ready to fling out.
Evadne had spun at that, her leather coat swinging about her litheness, the bright blue scarf a highlight at her throat. She’d laughed, not unkindly, and helped him up with such pragmatism that he couldn’t object. Besides, the scent she wore was infinitely preferable to the stink of the tunnel his face had become acquainted with.
While they went, water dripping from the rotting brickwork above roused in Kingsley a dim memory and a pang of nostalgia, as if he were in the jungle where rain often continued to fall long after clouds had passed. It called to him.
In deference to its location, the Floating Market didn’t deal with foodstuffs but otherwise the range of merchandise was eye-popping. After skipping across the freshly laid stepping stones on the south-east approach, Kingsley did as planned and made himself conspicuous. He moved from raft to raft and inspected the stalls, questioning store holders about the provenance of Renaissance artworks, arguing with the makers of weapons that were chained to tables, and simply wondering at the exact nature of objects that could be mere decoration or could be some sort of machine for lifting walls. Stalls abounded with items purporting to be magical and the matter-of-fact way they were presented and spruiked did more to dent Kingsley’s scepticism than any mountebank’s shouting could have.
The stallholders were as various as their wares. Kingsley had to strive not to stare at those who towered feet above the crowds and at the doll-sized merchants who called from atop their piles of velvets and satins, their voices shrill and piping. Others were even less human, and his wild self bridled at a cat-like thing, as tall as he was, upright and clothed, haggling with a huge woman clad in furs.
The Demimonde was diverse, if nothing else, he decided.
His task of being conspicuous was assisted by the garments that Evadne had insisted he wear. While she maintained that the canary yellow trousers with the royal blue top coat weren’t out of place in the Demimonde, he thought he was a fop’s dream of an ideal fop. To add to this eye-catching ensemble, she gave him a silver-topped cane. She reiterated that his job was to stand out, not blend in, so he acquiesced and donned the pale grey gloves and top hat that completed the outfit. Even the weight of the special pistol Evadne had given him in his jacket pocket failed to make him feel any less of a goose, nor did his careful hiding of his standard escapology tools in the jacket’s lining, the seams of his trousers and the collar of his shirt.
Kingsley couldn’t see Evadne, but that was part of the plan. She was moving around the outskirts of the market, staying close to the walls and keeping Kingsley in sight. She’d been concerned about the sparseness of the crowd at the market, an unusual phenomenon, she said, but since they were committed, she reluctantly patted Kingsley on the back before he strode off.
Kingsley took a deep breath and threw himself into his role, so much so that when the plan bumped into action, he was taken by surprise.
Kingsley was musing over a pile of scrolls. The stallholder shrugged when he expressed doubt over the claim that they were saved when the Great Library of Alexandria was burnt. Kingsley was lamenting his lack of Aramaic when his shoulder was seized from behind.
Kingsley let his body do the work. He bent at the knees and brought his cane around as he whirled. He was happy when the silver knob plunged right into the midriff of the first of the Spawn, making it double over and become a perfect target for the shoulder shove that sent it sprawling.
The second Spawn didn’t react at the fate of its comrade. It reached for Kingsley. ‘Come with us.’
While the stallholder raised his voice in protest, Kingsley danced back a few paces. He swung his cane, snapping from the wrist, making sure to keep his animal side in check. It wanted to go for the throat, no subtlety, no plan – which wasn’t what he needed.
The first Spawn climbed to its feet and for a moment the two stood and simply looked at him. They were almost identical. Thin, stretched features and garments that would have been at home on a parson in a particularly poor area: shabby black suits, too short at ankle and wrist.
The stallholder prodded Kingsley from behind and shouted. Kingsley ignored him and reached into his inner jacket pocket to find the weapon Evadne had given him. He brandished its unlikeliness but the Spawn advanced, unworried by its appearance.
It had an ivory handle and three brass prongs six or eight inches long. In between the prongs was a ball of what looked like steel wool woven with wires of brighter reflecting metal.
The leading Spawn reached out. Kingsley jabbed at it with the weapon. Instantly, a bolt of white light leaped out and enveloped the Spawn. It hissed, then collapsed bonelessly, smoke rising from its sightless eyes.
The babble of commerce around them immediately stilled. Kingsley gaped at the weapon in his hand. He’d almost laughed when Evadne warned him of its power.
The handle was warm. He held it gingerly. The second Spawn looked at it, then at him, before disappearing through the crowd that had gathered.
‘I’ll give you a fiver for him,’ a voice at Kingsley’s side said. It took him a moment to realise he was being made an offer for the dead (deactivated?) Spawn that was stretched in front of him.
‘Done,’ he said faintly.
The river was chill that night and the rain pitched down in slashes. Soames had managed to position himself in the wheelhouse because the captain was a hireling of his, one usually given to smuggling and illicit deliveries up and down the Thames, a time-honoured Demimonde trade. If the captain were asked, and if paid for his response, Soames was sure that he’d divulge that this was one of the stranger deliveries he’d ever made. The more he were paid, the more he’d expound on the various strangenesses, including the time of day (near midnight), the destination (just past Greenwich) and the passengers (brawny men – very brawny men – muffled, swaddled and hooded as if on a polar expedition and prepared to sit cross-legged on the open deck despite the rain and despite a perfectly good hold they could settle themselves in).
Soames had no intention of dispelling any of this. He’d found that a reputation for the mysterious was almost as helpful as a reputation for violence. A combination of both, naturally, was the way to comport oneself in the Demimonde, if one wanted to maintain a level of pride.
It would do no good, for instance, to reveal to the skipper that his passengers hated the thought of river travel. Enclosing themselves in the hold – perhaps even below the level of the water – was the stuff of nightmare for them. Huddling on the deck was their way of coping with what they saw as the unnaturalness of this mode of transport.
Soames was proud of his capacity to work with the Neanderthals. Sporadic though his commissions from these most private of Demimonde denizens had been, he was confident that he could deal with them again and perhaps make them good, steady customers. He knew they hated humanity with a passion beyond words, which limited their interactions with outsiders. Many years ago, after tense and guarded negotiations, he had convinced the Neanderthals that he could be the trusted intermediary they needed. He had made the most of this opportunity. It had been much to his profit, even if he still had trouble with the way they looked at him, as if wondering how stringy he�
��d be.
There was no doubting, though, that they prepared well for any excursions beyond their secret lair. Underneath their heavy coats, each of the Neanderthals carried firearms of their own construction, each different from the one his comrades bore. They also had heavy hand-to-hand weapons. Most were clearly derived from clubs, but a few were more medieval – giant-sized axes and maces. They hefted these with ease, single-handed, even though Soames was sure he couldn’t have lifted them with both hands.
Soames had been delighted that the frivolities at the White City had acted like a huge plughole, drawing people from across London towards Shepherd’s Bush. It meant that the river was quiet and the Greenwich area empty. All the craft tied up were dark. Soames had the warm feeling that signalled that things were falling into place.
The boat pulled in. The Neanderthals nearest the bow made her fast just in time to get out of the way of their comrades, who lost no time vaulting over the gunwales. For such bulky people, Soames noted, they moved quietly, landing softly and in a crouch, ready and alert.
In a show of her seniority and courage, Damona waited for him before she disembarked. ‘Your captain,’ she said to Soames, ‘he won’t leave without us?’
Soames looked back at the wheelhouse. The captain was relighting his pipe. The flare of the match threw light over his deep-set eyes and grey beard. ‘Not if he knows what’s good for him. And for his bank balance.’
‘Greed.’ Damona eyed the wheelhouse. ‘Your people are different from mine.’
‘Your people aren’t greedy?’
‘Not for gold.’
Soames let the matter drop.
The Neanderthal woman had gathered twenty of her kin for the attack and had looked askance at Soames when he asked if they’d be enough, and her disdain made him uneasy. Matters hadn’t been helped when he overheard two of the brawnier youngsters mutter, ‘Say what you like about Invaders – at least they’re tasty.’
Business is business, Jabez, he reminded himself, and the thought comforted him. Business always did.
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