It had become the same with vestigia. When I put my hand on the limestone blocks that made up the portico, the sensations, the cold, vague sense of presence, an odour in the nostrils that might be sandalwood, were the same – only now, like a copper reading a street, I had some inkling of what they meant. I also expected them to be much stronger. I tried to think back to the last time I’d touched the stones. Had the impressions been the same?
I checked to make sure nobody was watching. ‘Nicholas,’ I said to the wall. ‘Are you in there?’
I felt something through my palm, a vibration, I thought, like a distant tube train. Toby whined and scrambled backwards, claws skittering on the cobbles. Before I could take my own step backwards Nicholas’s face, white and transparent, appeared in front of me.
‘Help me,’ he said.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘He’s eating me,’ said Nicholas, and then his face was sucked backwards into the wall. For a moment I felt a strange tugging sensation on the back of my head and threw myself backwards. Toby barked once, and then turned and shot off in the direction of Russell Square. I landed heavily on my back, which hurt, so I lay there feeling stupid for a moment and then got back on my feet. Cautiously, I approached the church and gingerly laid my palm on the stone again.
It felt cold and rough, and there was nothing else. It was if the vestigia had been sucked out of the stones the same way it had been back at the vampire house. I snatched my hand away and backed off. The Piazza was dark and quiet. I turned and strode into the night, looking out for Toby as I went.
He’d run all the way back to the Folly. I found him in the kitchen curled up in Molly’s lap. She comforted the dog and gave me a stern look.
‘He’s supposed to face danger,’ I said. ‘If he stays, he works.’
Just because I had an active case didn’t mean I was excused practice. I’d persuaded Nightingale to show me the fireball spell, which was, not surprisingly, a variation on Lux, with Iactus to move it about. Once Nightingale was convinced I could do the first part without burning my hand off, we went down to the firing range in the basement to practise. Not that I had known we had a firing range until then. At the bottom of the back stairs you turned left instead of right, through a set of reinforced doors that I’d always assumed was a coal store, and into a room fifty metres long with a wall of sandbags at one end and a line of metal lockers at the other. A row of vintage Brodie helmets hung from pegs above a line of khaki gasmask cases. There was a poster, white lettering on a blood-red background, that said: ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’, which I thought was good advice. There was a stack of cardboard silhouettes at the target end, brittle with age but still discernible as German soldiers with coal-scuttle helmets and fixed bayonets. Under Nightingale’s direction I set up a row of them against the sandbags and trotted back to the firing line. Before we started, I checked to make sure I wasn’t carrying my brand new mobile phone.
‘Watch carefully,’ said Nightingale. Then he flung out his hand, there was a flash, a sound like a sheet being ripped in half, and the target on the extreme left-hand side was blown into flaming fragments.
I turned at the sound of excited clapping, and found Molly hissing with delight and standing on tiptoe like a small child at the circus.
‘You didn’t say the Latin,’ I pointed out.
‘You practise this in silence,’ he said, ‘from the outset. This spell is a weapon. It has a single purpose and that is to kill. Once you’ve mastered it you are under the same obligations as any other armed constable, so I suggest you familiarise yourself with the current guidelines on firearms use.’
Molly yawned, covering her mouth to hide how wide it opened. Nightingale gave her a bland look. ‘He has to live in the world of men,’ he said.
Molly shrugged as if to say, Whatever.
Nightingale demonstrated again at a quarter of the speed, and I attempted to follow suit. The fireball I had already practised, but when it came to apply Iactus it felt slippery as if, unlike the apples, there was nothing to get a purchase on. When I flung out my arm in the approved dramatic fashion my fireball drifted gently down the length of the firing range, burned a small hole in the target and embedded itself in the sandbags behind.
‘You have to release it, Peter,’ said Nightingale, ‘or it won’t go off.’
I released the fireball and there was a muffled thump from behind the target. A wisp of smoke curled up towards the ceiling. Behind me Molly sniggered.
We did an hour of practice, at the end of which I was capable of flinging a fireball down the range at the dizzying speed of a bumblebee who’d met his pollen quota and was taking a moment to enjoy the view.
We broke for morning tea, and I broached my idea for recovering Nicholas – assuming that enough of the ghost remained, after ‘something’ had ‘eaten’ him, to be recovered.
‘Polidori refers to a spell that can summon ghosts,’ I said. ‘Does it work?’
‘It’s more of a ritual than a spell,’ said Nightingale. In an attempt to stop Molly from overwhelming us with food we’d taken to having tea in the kitchen, the thinking being that if she didn’t have to lay six tables in the breakfast room we might only get two portions. It worked, but they were big portions.
‘What’s the difference?’
‘You keep asking the kind of questions,’ said Nightingale, ‘that really shouldn’t be coming up for another year or so.’
‘Just the basics – the Jackanory version.’
‘A spell is a series of forma strung together to achieve an effect, while a ritual is what it sounds like: a sequence of forma arranged as a ritual with certain paraphernalia to help move the process along,’ said Nightingale. ‘They tend to be older spells from the early part of the eighteenth century.’
‘Are the ritual bits important?’ I asked.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ said Nightingale. ‘These spells don’t get used very often, otherwise they’d have been updated in the 1900s.’
‘Can you show me how to do it?’ I asked. Toby spotted me buttering a teacake and sat up attentively. I broke off a bit and fed it to him.
‘There’s another problem,’ said Nightingale. ‘The ritual as it stands requires an animal sacrifice.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Toby’s looking good and fat.’
‘Modern society tends to frown on that sort of behaviour, especially the modern church on whose grounds, incidentally, we’d have to carry it out.’
‘What’s the sacrifice for?’
‘According to Bartholomew, at the point of death the animal’s intrinsic magic becomes available to “feed” the ghost and help bring it into the material plane,’ said Nightingale.
‘So it uses the animal’s life essence as magic fuel?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Can you sacrifice people?’ I asked. ‘Take their magic that way?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But there’s a catch.’
‘What’s the catch?’
‘You get hunted down even unto the ends of the earth and summarily executed,’ said Nightingale.
I didn’t ask who would be called upon to do the hunting and the executing.
Toby barked, demanding sausages.
‘If all we need is a source of magic,’ I said, ‘I think I’ve got an acceptable substitute.
*
According to Bartholomew, the closer to the ghost’s grave site you were the better, so I spent a couple of hours going through the parish records while Nightingale persuaded the Rector that we were interested in catching some church vandals. It’s a very strange church, a great big rectangular stone barn designed by Inigo Jones. The east portico, where I’d first met Nicholas Wallpenny, was fake – the actual entrance being at the western end of the church and giving out onto the churchyard, which had been made over into gardens. Access was via a pair of high wrought-iron gates on Bedford Street. Nightingale managed to talk the rector into lending him the keys.
�
�If you’re planning a stake-out,’ said the Rector. ‘Shouldn’t I stay behind, just in case?’
‘We’re worried that they might be following you,’ said Nightingale. ‘We want them to think the coast is clear so we can catch them in the act.’
‘Am I in danger?’ asked the Rector.
Nightingale looked him in the eye. ‘Only if you stay in the church tonight,’ he said.
The gardens were enclosed on three sides by the brick backs and shuttered windows of the terraced houses built at the same time as the rest of the Piazza. Cut off from the traffic noise, they formed a calm green space watched over by the true portico of the church. Cherry trees, pink with flowers in the May sunlight, were planted along the path. It was, as Nightingale said, quite the loveliest spot in London. It was just too bad that I was going to be coming back at midnight to perform a necromantic ritual.
The Parish burial records were sketchy, and the best approximate position I could get for Wallpenny’s grave was over on the north side of the gardens, somewhere near the middle. Since Nicholas had been loath to show himself with Nightingale around, he was going to be stationed by the gate on Bedford Street, safely within screaming-for-help range. There was still the occasional trill of birdsong as I entered just after midnight. The night was clear, but you couldn’t see any stars through the haze. The iron of the gate was cold under my hand as I swung it closed and headed for the grave. I had a Canadian survival torch which came with a headband; I used it to read the crib notes in my standard-issue police notebook.
You cannot scratch a pentagram into soft, springy turf with anything less than a back hoe, and in any case I wasn’t about to vandalise such a lovely lawn. Instead I drew the star and circle with charcoal dust using a burlap sack with a hole cut in one corner like an icing bag. I laid it on nice and thick. Polidori had quite a lot to say about the dangers of breaking the pentagram when summoning a spirit. Having your soul dragged out and sent screaming down to hell was only the start of it.
At each cardinal point of the pentagram I put one of my calculators. I’d suggested that I bring Toby along just in case the substitution didn’t work, but when it was time to leave the Folly the dog was nowhere to be found. I’d picked up a packet of chemical glow sticks from a local camping shop, and these I cracked and placed where the crib sheet called for candles. The conjurer – in this case, me – was supposed to impart some of his essence, which was late eighteenth-century magic speak for ‘put some magic into’ the circle around the pentagram. There’s a particular forma created for just that purpose but I hadn’t had time to learn it – instead, Nightingale suggested that I just create a were-light in the centre.
I took a deep breath, created the werelight and floated it into the centre of the pentagram. I adjusted my light and started to read the conjuration from my notebook. The original had gone on for four manuscript pages, but with Nightingale’s help I’d managed to shave it down some.
‘Nicholas Wallpenny,’ I said. ‘Hear my voice, accept my gifts, rise and converse.’
And suddenly he was there, as shifty-looking as ever.
‘I knew you was special as soon as I laid eyes on you,’ he said. ‘Your governor not around, is he?’
‘Over there,’ I said, ‘beyond the gate.’
‘Mind you keep him there,’ said Nicholas. ‘I was right about the murdering gent, weren’t I?’
‘We think it’s the spirit of Pulcinella,’ I said.
‘You what?’ said Nicholas. ‘Mr Punch? I think you must have had one too many. Get thee to a lushery. ’
‘You wanted my help last night,’ I said.
‘Did I?’ asked Nicholas. ‘But that would make me a blower and a slag, and ain’t nobody ever said that Nicholas Wallpenny ever put the jack on a cove, lest he get a visit from the punishers.’ He gave me a significant look. A ‘blower’ was old London slang for an informer, and ‘punishers’ were likewise slang for men hired to beat people up – presumably for ‘blowing’.
‘That’s a relief,’ I said. ‘How’s … death treating you?’
‘Fair enough,’ said Nicholas. ‘Can’t complain. Certainly a lot less crowded than it once was. This being the Actor’s Church and all, we’re never short of an evening’s entertainment. We’ve even had the occasional guest artiste for our further edification. We had that famous Henry Pyke – that’s Pyke with a Y – mind you, he’s very particular. He’s popular with the ladies on account of his long nose.’
I didn’t like the way Nicholas looked; tense, nervous and as if he would be sweating if he could still sweat. I considered backing off, but the cruel fact is that informants, dead or alive, are there to be used if necessary.
‘This … Henry Pyke, is he planning a long run?’ I asked.
‘Best to say that he’s bought the theatre,’ said Nicholas.
‘Sounds good,’ I said. ‘Any chance of me catching a show?’
‘Well, Constable, I wouldn’t be so damned keen to get on the bill if I was you,’ said Nicholas. ‘Mr Pyke can be strangely hard on his co-stars, and I daresay he’s got a role in mind for you.’
‘Still, I wouldn’t mind getting to meet …’ I said, but suddenly Nicholas was gone.
The pentagram was empty, with just my werelight burning at its centre. Before I could snuff it out I felt something grab me by the head and try to drag me bodily into the pentagram. I panicked, pulling and twisting frantically to try and escape. Nightingale had been emphatic about not stepping into the pentagram, and I had no intention of finding out why. I yanked my head back, but I felt my heels scrape in the turf as I was dragged forward – towards the pentagram. Then I saw it. Below my own werelight, in the centre of the pentagram, was a dark shadow like the mouth of a pit dug into the earth. I could see the roots of the grass and the worms frantically trying to burrow back into the sides, the layers of topsoil and London clay fading into the darkness.
I was almost on the brink when I realised that whatever was dragging me was working through my own spell. I tried to shut down the werelight but it stayed lit, glowing now with a sullen yellow colour. I’d pushed my shoulders so far back that I was practically lying vertical, and still my heels ploughed forward.
I heard Nightingale yelling and looked over to see him running flat out towards me. I had a horrible feeling that he wasn’t going to make it in time. In my desperation I had one more thing to try. It’s not easy to concentrate when you’re being dragged into oblivion, but I forced myself to take a deep breath and make the correct forma. Suddenly the werelight burned a fiery red. I made the shape with my mind that I hoped would pour in the magic, but I couldn’t tell whether it was working. My heels ploughed through the edges of the pentagram and I felt a rush of excitement, a hunger for violence and a whole ocean of shame and humiliation and lust for revenge.
I dropped the fireball half a metre and let go.
There was a disappointingly quiet thump, like the sound a heavy dictionary would make if you dropped it. Then the ground lifted up underneath my legs and knocked me tumbling backwards. I hit the branches of the cherry tree behind me and caught a glimpse of a column of earth shooting upwards like a freight train leaving a tunnel, before I fell out of the tree and the ground got its licks in.
Nightingale grabbed my collar and pulled me away as cherry blossom and clods of earth rained down around us. A big chunk landed on my head and shattered, sending dirt trickling down the back of my neck.
Then there was silence; nothing but the sound of distant traffic and a nearby car alarm going off. We waited half a minute to catch our breath, just in case something else was going to happen.
‘Guess what,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a name.’
‘You’re damned lucky still to have a head,’ said Nightingale. ‘What’s the name?’
‘Henry Pyke,’ I said. ‘Never heard of him,’ said Nightingale.
Predictably my headband torch had died, so Nightingale risked a werelight. Where the hole had been was now a shallow dish-shaped d
epression three metres across. The turf was completely destroyed, ground into a mix of dead grass and pulverised soil. Something round and dirty and white was resting near my foot. It was a skull. I picked it up.
‘Is that you, Nicholas?’ I asked.
‘Put that down, Peter,’ said Nightingale. ‘You don’t know where it’s been.’ He surveyed the mess we’d made of the garden. ‘The rector’s not going to be happy about this,’ he said.
I put the skull down, and as I did, I noticed something else embedded into the ground. It was a pewter badge depicting a dancing skeleton. I recognised it as the one Nicholas Wallpenny had ‘worn’. He must have been buried in it.
‘We did say we were hunting vandals,’ I said.
I picked up the badge and felt just the tiniest flash of tobacco smoke, beer and horses.
‘Perhaps,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I doubt he’s going to accept that as an explanation.’
‘A gas leak, maybe?’ I said.
‘There’s no gas main running under the church,’ said Nightingale. ‘He may become suspicious.’
‘Not if we tell him the gas leak story is a cover for digging up an unexploded bomb,’ I said.
‘A UXB?’ asked Nightingale. ‘Why make it that complicated?’
‘’Cause then we can bring in a digger and have a good rummage around,’ I said. ‘See if we can’t disinter this Henry Pyke and grind him up into grave dust.’
‘You’ve got a devious mind, Peter,’ said Nightingale.
‘Thank you, sir,’ I said. ‘I do my best.’
Besides a devious mind, I also had a bruise the size of a dinner plate on my back and a couple more beauties on my chest and legs. I told the doctor I saw in A&E that I’d had an argument with a tree. He gave me a funny look and refused to prescribe any painkillers stronger than Nurofen.
Rivers of London Page 18
