The Revolutions Part 22

"It's Sunday tomorrow. I intend to go to church."

V: The Hour of Saturn

It was the small hours of morning when Arthur finally arrived back at the flat off Piccadilly. He entered quietly, took off his shoes and coat, and crept into the silent room where Josephine slept.

She wore a white nightdress. No blankets or pillows; not safe. The maid Abby had brushed out her hair. She grew paler every day of her absence, the way that dust will acc.u.mulate in an unused room. Arthur suspected she wasn't eating enough.

There were times when she twisted and moaned, as if she were having a nightmare; and there were times when she was calm, even smiling. When she smiled, Arthur told himself that it was a sign that all was well wherever she was, and that she was on her way home to him. When she moaned, he told himself that it meant nothing at all.

Abby was asleep in a chair in the corner of the room, her knees drawn up and her head on her arm. Asleep, she looked even smaller than she did awake-she was little more than a child, and, curled up in a chair, she looked doll-like.

There were tears on his face. He wiped them with his sleeve. The horror of Dr Thorold's house returned to him and his knees trembled.

He crept out of Josephine's room, and closed the door.

He couldn't sleep. He couldn't even think of sleeping. He lit a candle, poured himself a gla.s.s of Atwood's whisky, and paced. He examined the books on Atwood's mantelpiece: a family history, Lucretius, Milton, various Bibles, the De Lapidibus of Bishop Marbode, and the Contra Celsum. Baedeker Guides: Paris and its Environs, Palestine and Syria, The Eastern Alps. Far-off places he would surely never see. He stared out the window waiting for dawn to come over the rooftops. He cleaned his shoes. He took off his jacket and inspected it for tell-tale signs of the struggle at Dr Thorold's house. It was while he was brus.h.i.+ng at a speck of dirt on his cuff that he noticed that a calling-card sat on the table by the door. Someone must have visited and left it with Abby. He went to examine it.

The card bore a design of an ill-tempered dragon coiled about what might have been a printing press. Beneath that was the name Henry Addington, Lord Podmore.

It gave Arthur a chill to see that name, and a worse chill to think that Podmore or his agents had been knocking at the door that night. The card hadn't been there when he left the house to attend Atwood's Rite of Mars, and that had been at eleven o'clock. It was now perhaps three or four in the morning. A midnight visit could hardly be a friendly one. But then why had Podmore left his card?

There was no note with it, no letter. Nothing was written on the back of the card. The paper was very finely glazed-in fact, it seemed polished, so that in the darkness of the hall it was somewhat dimly reflective. Curious, Arthur held it up so that it caught the faint light of the candle next door. He could see the shadow of his own face reflected in it, dim and wobbling. He lifted the card a little higher and tilted it. The reflection of the candle's light sharpened and brightened, and his own face became clear, as if he were looking into a mirror. Behind him, over his reflection's shoulder, stood four men. His reflection's eyes widened.

Chapter Twenty.

Arthur dropped the card, and his drink. He turned to see that four men stood in the hall, quite impossibly, as if they'd stepped Alice-like from the mirror.

Three of them were young men in s.h.i.+rt-sleeves and caps, all of whom had the grey pallor and inky eyes that Arthur a.s.sociated with Podmore's men. The fourth was older: fat, imposingly tall, black-bearded, in a long green coat. Stranger still, they had brought a long black cabinet with them.

Two men rushed him. He swung his fist and caught one with a glancing blow, but it did no good. They shoved him against the door so hard that the breath left his body, then forced him to his knees. At the fat man's gestured directions, they heaved him up and shoved him into the drawing-room and down onto Atwood's sofa. One man remained to menace Arthur with a knife, while the other two dragged the long black cabinet into the room, then went into the bedroom. One dragged Abby out and threw her in a tearful heap in a corner of the room. The other carried Josephine flung over his shoulder. The knife-man gave Arthur's collarbone a significant jab.

They heaved the cabinet up on its end and stood it against the wall. It was man-height, and extraordinarily ornate, made of polished ebony, inlayed with gold and ivory and pearl. The lower part of it was decorated with complicated, swirling designs that looked Arabic to Arthur's eye, while the upper part was crowded with Egyptian hieroglyphs. Podmore's men opened the lid, put Josephine inside it, and shut her away as if in a wardrobe. There was a loud click and a much louder thump. When the lid swung open again, the wardrobe was empty.

Arthur croaked. He felt faint. The only light in the room was the candle that was now in the fat man's hand, as he tut-tutted at Atwood's bookshelves. The cabinet loomed nightmarishly. The pale men moved through the gloom like burglars, like figments of a nightmare.

The fat man leafed through a book, shaking his head and muttering. Then he sighed, put it back on the shelf, pulled up a chair, and sat facing Arthur.

"Arthur Archibald Shaw," he said. "My name is Addington-Lord Podmore. I hear you are a newspaper man. A n.o.ble profession. I am a newspaper man too, in my way. I do not ordinarily make unannounced visits, or indeed poke my head outside my sh.e.l.l at all; but to make the acquaintance of young Master Atwood's newest a.s.sociate I will make an exception."

He gestured at the man with the knife. "You there-find us something to drink. Mr Shaw will need to wet his throat. He has a great deal to tell us."

Arthur sat on the sofa. Thugs loomed. The wound in his side ached, for the first time in a long while. It had healed so swiftly, thanks to Sun's excellent ministrations, that he'd almost forgotten it, but the struggle appeared to have aggravated it again.

"Well, Mr Shaw. Is it true?"

Lord Podmore had placed the candle on the table. Now his head seemed over-large, floating in the darkness. There was something gross about him; he resembled a caricature that might have appeared in one of his own newspapers. His sallow skin appeared golden, his copious black beard oily and glittering, his eyes recessed in shadow. He had an air of irritation at having been called out so late at night.

"Your wife, Mr Shaw-is it true that Atwood and his fellows sent her among the spheres?"

"We weren't married."

"Ah." Podmore nodded. "My apologies. Sometimes my men err."

"The spheres-yes. So Atwood tells me."

"Well!" Podmore poked one of his men cheerfully in the elbow. The man scowled, and flinched from the contact like an unfriendly cat. "That would be a story, wouldn't it. Imagine it in the newspapers: London bride-to-be visits the moon. I don't suppose she disappeared on her wedding night, did she? No? Was it the moon, Mr Shaw, to which our friend Atwood dispatched her?"

It seemed to be a genuine question, expecting an answer.

"Mars, he says."

"Even better. The public love their stories of Mars. Wandering among the ca.n.a.ls. The ruins of ancient glories." Podmore laughed. His men didn't. They prowled around the room, coming in and out of sight.

"What have you done with her? Where is she? What is that ... thing?"

"That?" Podmore glanced at the cabinet. Its door was closed now; its ornament glittering in the dark. "That is the Cabinet of Osiris." He looked as if he expected Arthur to recognise it.

"What have you done with her?"

Podmore shrugged. "Your wife is with your erstwhile employer Mr Gracewell. Neither of them need come to any harm, but you understand that we must know what your new friends have done to her. There are a great many urgent questions. Matters of emergency, one might say."

"What do you want from me?"

"Answers, Mr Shaw. How do you come to be working for Martin Atwood's merry band?"

"Accident. Bad luck. The storm."

Podmore laughed. "Come on, Shaw. What did Atwood promise you?"

"Six pounds. Six b.l.o.o.d.y pounds a week."

Podmore looked confused.

Abby started sobbing and pleading to know what they meant to do with her. Arthur wanted to calm her, but he was too afraid himself, and couldn't find the words.

"You and you," Podmore said. Two of his men picked Abby up off the floor and threw her on the sofa beside Arthur. Her elbow jabbed his wounded side and he swore.

"I'm sure you will find this terribly difficult to believe, given your current unfortunate predicament, but we-my colleagues and I-have no evil intent. Atwood's lot, on the other hand, are terribly dangerous. We are acting in the best interests of London-of England-the Empire. The world, for that matter."

Podmore settled back into Atwood's sofa as if it were a favourite armchair at his club, folded his hands across his belly, and adopted the style of a man making an extemporaneous after-dinner speech. "And you are here quite by accident. I see that now. An innocent-a bystander-entangled in schemes of greater powers. And yet, this is such a time of crisis that no man can stand neutral. The Company of the Spheres must be stopped. Delenda est."

Arthur reached under his s.h.i.+rt and poked gingerly at his wound. No blood, thank G.o.d. It felt swollen, and itched abominably.

One of Podmore's men stood at his master's shoulder. Another leaned against the Cabinet, and the third was somewhere behind Arthur, by the window. From where Arthur sat, he could reach out and strike Podmore; but what good would that do? They had Josephine. G.o.d only knew where.

"What do you imagine will happen, Mr Shaw, if the Company succeeds?"

"I don't know."

"Man was not meant to walk on the moon. Still less on Mars, or Venus, or wherever else Atwood might choose to gallivant off to tomorrow." Podmore paused, as if expecting laughter, then snorted. He rolled his drink around his gla.s.s. "I never did like that arrogant child, even before what happened to his poor father. He sought my support for his enterprise. I was appalled. Delusions! Lunacy! I blame that woman, whoever she is-they encourage the worst in each other."

He shook his head sadly, then he sent the man who stood at his shoulder off in search of something to eat. "Hungry work, the Mirror of Solomon."

Arthur took him to be referring to the trick he'd used to enter Atwood's flat.

"What do you know of the denizens of Mars, Mr Shaw?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Quite. Nor do I. Nor does anyone. Devils; angels; who can know? Unknown powers. Atwood believes he can master them. Perhaps. I consider his confidence unwarranted. G.o.d knows what sort of wrath he might call down-and not only upon himself."

Podmore's man placed another gla.s.s of whisky in his hand and some bread and cheese in front of him.

"Suppose he prevails-suppose the Company opens a route to the spheres. Imagine, before Columbus discovered the New World, trying to guess what wealth it might hold. Understand, Shaw, I'm not talking of goods or furs or silver or potatoes, I mean power. I mean the magical power that might be the Company's if they control the route to the spheres themselves. How could we permit that? And I shan't even speak of the trouble that infernal Engine could cause-training a mob of riff-raff in techniques they have no business knowing."

Podmore ate a chunk of the bread, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"There is a delicate balance, Mr Shaw, and Atwood threatens to upset it. If we don't stop them now, someone else will-someone worse. Magical war, Shaw, with London as the battleground. The Germans are already here-so my men tell me. And G.o.d help us, what if the Americans get involved? Or the b.l.o.o.d.y Chinese?"

"Germans? Americans? Chinese?"

"Dear me, you are a naif, aren't you, my boy? I am speaking of the magical societies of Boston, of Peking. I am speaking of the Teutonic Order and the Hyperborean Society of Berlin and worse..." Podmore shook his head. "So you see, Shaw, why your friend's ambitions must be stopped."

"He's no friend of mine," Arthur said.

"Good!"

"Will you let Josephine go?"

"Perhaps. If you help us. More is at stake than your young woman."

Podmore held out his hand, and one of his men placed a notebook in it. He leafed through the pages, muttering to himself. His men hovered. They seemed to be waiting eagerly for something awful to happen.

Arthur's wound throbbed so painfully that he doubled over. He stared at his feet, trying not to throw up, contemplating his situation. All this talk of Germans and Chinese was more than he could keep straight; it might be true or it might be fantasy. Podmore had Josephine. That was what counted. If he helped Podmore, Podmore might release her. But then what if he helped Podmore, and as a result Podmore prevailed over Atwood? Then who would rescue her soul? Body or soul, soul or body. If he saved her from Podmore, could she bring herself back from wherever she was? He didn't know what to do. His wound felt as if it might tear open.

Podmore rapped his knuckles on the table. The noise made Abby jump. "The names of your colleagues, Shaw."

"Sun. Mercury. Terra Mater. Mar-"

"Their real names."

"I don't know them all. Martin Atwood. Samuel-Samuel Jessop. But Jessop is in the same boat as me, Podmore. He's hardly a leader of Atwood's group, he's really only a-"

"I know a thing or two about Sergeant Jessop, Shaw-we can discuss him later. What do you know about the woman who calls herself Jupiter?"

"Nothing."

"Remember: the young woman's life is in my hands."

"I can't tell you what I don't know."

"Who is the master of their Company, Mr Shaw?"

"Their master? Atwood, I suppose-or Jupiter, or Sun. I don't know what you mean."

"How did Mr Norman Gracewell come by the idea for his Engine?"

"I don't know. He's a mathematician."

"You believe he invented it himself? Without aid?"

"I don't know what you mean. You have him prisoner, sir-I suggest you ask him yourself."

"Oh, we have. He's terribly uncooperative. Says he doesn't remember. He doesn't remember rather a lot-most of '83 and '84. I'm sure you can imagine how that worries us."

"They have a book."

"A book?"

"They call it the Liber Ad Astra. It's where they write their secrets."

Podmore motioned for him to continue. He began to describe it, but soon Podmore was rolling his eyes.

"This is nonsense, Mr Shaw. Mere fog. Atwood has been wasting your time. Keeping you in the dark." Podmore sighed. "Would you like something to eat? I can see we are going to be here for a very long time."

By now Abby had stopped sobbing and was curled up in a corner of the sofa as if hoping to burrow into it and be forgotten.

Podmore yawned, and for some reason that casual gesture made Arthur furious all over again. He didn't see how the members of the Hyperborean Society or the magicians of Peking could be that much worse than Podmore.

"Now, Shaw, tell me about the operations of Gracewell's Engine."

"What do you want to know?"