A Spider in the Cup (Joe Sandilands Investigation)

The Last Kashmiri Rose

Ragtime in Simla

The Damascened Blade

The Palace Tiger

The Bee’s Kiss

Tug of War

Folly du Jour

Strange Images of Death

The Blood Royal

Not My Blood

This one’s for Will

LONDON, JUNE 1933. DAWN
.

O
n a neglected reach of the Thames, a woman stood counting the chimes ringing out from Chelsea Old Church behind her. Five o’clock. All was going to plan. Miss Herbert—tall, imposing Hermione Herbert—listened on as the bells of other churches made their contribution to the musical round, some ahead of, others hurrying to catch up with the authoritative boom of Big Ben sounding out a mile downstream. She glanced over her shoulder at the string of old-fashioned gas lamps outlining the bend of the river and sighed in satisfaction. The amber glow of the gas mantles was beginning to fade to lemon as a brightening sky quenched them, offering her sensitive eyes a symphony in grey and gold worthy of Whistler.

This was the moment and the place.

And both were full of mystery. Objects invisible only minutes ago began to reveal themselves. A bundle of rags a few yards away on the muddy bank flapped in a sudden gust of wind, taking on a disturbing semblance of human shape. A barge waiting for the tide stirred lethargically as one of its blood-red sails lifted with the half-hearted flirtation of a tired tart’s skirt.

Hermione shivered in anticipation. Looking about her at the desolate scene, she almost expected to catch sight of the frock-coated Victorian figure of Charles Dickens out and about on one
of his insomniac forays into the dark alleys of London. The city was never still. She could sense the restlessness. Early though the hour was, there were people about. They weren’t parading themselves, but they were there all right, the lucky ones with jobs to go to: bakers, bus drivers, factory workers, going quietly, almost apologetically, about their business. And there were others lurking there in the shadows above the waterline. The destitute and discarded. Watching. Furtive.

She pulled her tweed cape up to cover her neck, glad of its warmth. Even on a late spring morning, the banks of the Thames were a funnel for cold damp air and, glancing round at her little group, she was pleased to see that they had all taken her advice and kitted themselves out suitably for the occasion with waterproofs and mufflers, gumboots and torches. The six members had been carefully chosen by her. This had been a popular assignment, and as chairman of the Bloomsbury Society of Dowsers (Established 1892), Hermione had had her pick of volunteers:

Doris da Silva had been chosen for her proven ability with the hazel-twig dowsing rod. (Doris could detect a half-crown under any thickness of Axminster carpet in a London drawing room in seconds.)

Jack Chesterton, ancient buildings architect, was here on account of his charm, his common sense and his enthusiasm. And his belief. Jack had earned the admiration of all when he had discovered—armed with no more than a pair of slender parallel rods—a tributary of the Thames, one of London’s lost rivers that had run, unsuspected, for centuries beneath the venerable walls of St. Aidan’s Church.

Professor Stone. Reginald. Present solely on account of his knowledge of Romano-British history. Cynic and Snake in the Grass. The professor was that most disruptive force in any evangelizing society—a self-proclaimed interested disbeliever. Never embarrassed to call a cliché into service, he was pleased to refer
to himself as “the piece of grit” in the oyster that was the Society of Dowsers. Hermione had called to mind her father’s advice: “Enemies? Always keep ’em where you can see ’em, my girl!” And here he was among them and rather surprised to have been chosen. Hermione was determined that any success her group might have this day would be witnessed at first hand and authenticated by their chief critic. She was also looking forward to rubbing the professor’s nose in the London mud before the day was out.

A loud harrumph drew her attention to Colonel Swinton. Chosen for his reassuring presence and the authority of his voice, Charles Swinton had vocal equipment so magnificent it could have sounded the charge of the Royal Dragoons above the battle din of Waterloo. And, rather essentially, because he’d been able to offer in support: two of his gardening staff. Strapping, shovel-wielding auxiliaries brought up to town from his estate in Suffolk and hastily enrolled into the Dowsers for this venture, Sam and Joel were eager to get on with it, whatever “it” might be. They were determined to go home with stories to tell about their jaunt up to London Town.

On their presentation to the Society the day before, the colonel had interrupted Hermione’s introduction to the art and science of the discipline, speaking on their behalf: “A moment please, Miss Herbert. May I explain? My boys have grasped the theory that when a sensitive person takes in hand a forked twig and passes it over concealed water or precious metals, the device will announce the presence of the unseen object of interest by movements of a vibratory nature.” He caught himself sounding didactic and added, “An old country practice. We’re not unfamiliar with it in Suffolk.”

He looked for confirmation to the boys. They nodded.

“S’right, sir. Old Malkie—’e found ’imself a well. Far side o’ the six acre. A good ’un.”

“No problems there then,” the colonel went on. “No. What
concerns us, er—shall I say?—us country folk is the
source
of this effect. Does, in short, the power stem from the Light or from the Dark, if you take my meaning? Sam and Joel have asked me to warn you that they will have no truck with vibrations of an occult origin.”

Us country folk?
Hermione smiled at this description. She could have pointed out that the colonel kept rooms in Piccadilly, had his club in St. James’s and was connected to the highest in the land, but she let it pass, appreciating his delicacy.

She’d turned, instead, to his men. “Gentlemen, let me reassure you!” She spoke earnestly. “We think of dowsing as a force for good. Life-enhancing … like bell-ringing or flower-arranging …” Her spine, already straight from three decades of corset-wearing, straightened even further, and she looked them directly in the eye. “In this Society, we stand in the Light. The occult is not even acknowledged by us. Will you accept that we put out no welcome mat for the Devil? That no supernatural presence crosses our threshold?”

“Not unless’n Old Nick were to get your signed permission first, miss, I reckon,” Sam drawled.

“An’ always supposin’ ’e remembered to wipe ’is boots, miss,” Joel added, straight-faced. “Good enough, Sam?”

“Good enough. ’Ave a go, shall we?”

They spat on their hands and held out rough palms for the hazel twigs.

In spite of their compliance, Hermione wasn’t quite sure they’d understood the finer points of the science of dowsing when she’d tried to explain. Indeed, when she’d attempted a demonstration of that pivotal stage—the rising of the rod—they’d gone into helpless convulsions with much flapping of red-spotted handkerchiefs, wiping of eyes and shaking of shoulders. Strong shoulders though.

And warm hearts, Hermione guessed. At any rate, their
scepticism had an edge of amused indulgence. And it was silent, unlike the all-too audible sniping of the professor.

“All present and correct, Hermione, my dear,” announced the colonel. “Dawn coming up like thunder behind Tower Bridge downstream. Time to make a start? Yes?”

Hermione silenced him by extending a finger dramatically toward the river. “A minute or two spent in reconnaissance is never wasted, Charles,” she said, reining him in sweetly. “As you well know! You can give us all a lesson in preparedness.”

The peremptory finger redirected itself to the map she held in her other hand. She peered at it and raised her prow of a nose to align with the silhouette of Battersea Power Station just emerging from the mist on the southerly bank opposite. “Yes, the tide’s out and we have the right place. Last reminder, folks—we have one hour and forty minutes of low tide. I’m going to ask the colonel to plant this red flag at the edge of the foreshore.” She held up a triangular piece of red cotton attached to a pea-stick. “Keep an eye out at all times. When the water reaches this flag, abandon whatever you’re doing and move back to the embankment fast. Spring tides have swept many an inattentive mudlark away! I suggest we confine our search to the fifty-yard stretch from that upturned old boat on the right and the breakwater to the left. We’ll put Doris in from this side and Jack in from the other.” She smiled encouragement. “With our two best bloodhounds straining at the leash, what’s the betting that we shall soon be shining our torches onto … Roman
denarii
, evidence of Caesar’s lost river crossing …?”

“A piece of statuary wouldn’t be bad, would it?” The professor deigned to make a contribution. “They found the severed marble head of the Emperor Claudius in the river—perhaps with your additional supernatural skills, Miss Herbert, you can supply the British Museum with the imperial torso to go with it!”

“Or—better still!—a Celtic warrior’s shield.” Hermione reclaimed the spotlight. “It was a few yards from this place”—she
turned to direct her remarks helpfully towards Sam and Joel—“that the most lovely, bejewelled bronze shield was dug from the mud. Why here? Did it indicate the site of some ancient battle? Or a devotional spot where precious objects were broken up and thrown into the water as a gift to the River God? To Father or Mother Tamesis? If you want to know more, you may ask the professor.” She turned a beaming smile on him.