Fallen Angels (22 page)

There were times when, instead of shame at the memory of the two nights when she had come into this gallery to seek the Gypsy, she felt only regret. To be touched once, she thought, just once and feel the glory. If the glory existed.

She suddenly felt a terrible, terrible fear, as though that empty darkness above Two Gallows Hill was her future. The thing in its chains no longer hung there, but it seemed to her that the dry corpse, mere bones held by sinews like bowstrings, still danced and mocked at her. She was to be married, and where there should be life and joy and expectation was only a sullen dread.

And then, sensibly, she decided that her thoughts were no more and no less than the thoughts of any other young woman on the threshold of marriage. She was not special. She had no right to expect more from love than anyone else. In all things, she told herself once more, she had been blessed above others. In this one thing, marriage, she would be ordinary.

She smiled. She was a calculator too.

She put the seals in their box.

One by one she closed the windows, saving the servants the task, and shut the darkness out with the mirrored reflection of candlelight.

There was no certainty. There could be no certainty. The only thing to do was to live. Soon she would be married, she had promised it, and with that promise she had abandoned the hopeless dreams of love and had accepted the realities of life.

She closed the lid on the golden seals.

She was a calculator.

Then so be it. She picked up the box and went to bed.

The walls of the room were undressed stone. Water dripped to make puddles on the stone floor. Despite the spring weather it was cold in this great, echoing hall of stone that was lit by high-bracketed torches. There were no windows.

It was night.

The echoes rose, fell, then rose again. Grunts, the slap of feet on the stone floor, the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

There was a deep shadowed gallery at one end of the hall, a place for people to watch the proceedings on the flagstoned floor below, though on this night the gallery was empty. It should not have been empty. Valentine Larke, one of the men in the hall, kept looking to the gallery to see if Chemosh had yet arrived. Larke frowned. If Chemosh did not come this night, then Chemosh would have failed the Fallen Ones and Chemosh would die.

Valentine Larke, Belial of the Fallen Ones, owned these premises. London knew them as Harry Tipp's Rooms and it was here that the gentry came to meet the Fancy, the prizefighters, to box with Harry Tipp himself, to fence in the long hall, and to exchange stories in the steam baths that Harry Tipp kept filled with lithe-bodied foreign manservants who understood the needs of tired gentlemen.

Yet the greatest appeal of Harry Tipp's Rooms, greater even than the curtained alcoves of the steam room, was the presence of the criminals who came to meet the gentry in the liniment stinking halls.

The gentry and the criminals were, in Larke's view, made for each other. Each had a distaste for work, a passion for gambling, and no aversion to tipping the odds their way. The hungry, cruel men who came from the rookery of St Giles could find employment of a sort at Harry Tipp's; mostly commissions from gentlemen who wanted an enemy maimed, killed, or merely terrified. Harry Tipp's was where a young man came to prove the part of his manhood that Abigail Pail's establishment could not satisfy. It was a masculine institution, loud with shouts and brave with boasts, and, with the exception of Abigail's profits, it was Valentine Larke's most lucrative business.

Yet tonight the curtained alcoves of the steam baths were empty, the plunge pool's surface was still, the punching bags rested, and no shoes squeaked on the French chalk of the fencing hall. No cooks served pie and eels in the echoing dining room, and the wine cellar was locked. Harry Tipp's Rooms were closed by order of Mr Larke. Closed but not empty.

In the echoing, stone hall Valentine Larke motioned with his hand for the big man to cease his work. He walked past him and stared at the naked man who was sprawled on the floor. The man was bruised and bleeding. One eye was almost closed, his lips were swollen, yet still the naked man seemed to spit hatred and defiance at Valentine Larke.

'Bugger's got nerves,' Abel Girdlestone said grudgingly.

Abel Girdlestone, more than six feet tall, was one of Harry Tipp's prizefighters. His face was mashed from the times he had stood toe to toe with opponents and hammered with bare fists for more than a hundred rounds. Girdlestone had once gone a hundred and eight rounds with the Jew, Mendoza, before that famous fighter had pounded him insensible to the turf. That defeat was among Abel Girdlestone's proudest memories. His fists, hardened by spirit and the leather punching bag, were like hammers of scarred flesh and bone. He was stripped to the waist, his great chest gleaming with perspiration.

'Bugger's got nerves,' he said again. 'If you'd just let me hit him proper, sir,' he added eagerly.

Larke shook his head. 'He has to live.'

'We have all night.' The man who had spoken, his voice like something from the pit, was even bigger than Girdlestone, a man of such vast size that to look at him was to be astonished. Harry Tipp was a Negro, rumoured to be an escaped slave, and seemingly made of ancient, blackened oak. Tipp had stood a hundred and nineteen rounds against Mendoza until, in awed admiration, the Prince of Wales had declared the fight to be drawn and then ordered the cheering spectators to pull the two bloodied heroes back to town in an open chaise.

To be a confidant of Harry Tipp was now the height of fashionable ambition in London. He called no man 'My Lord', even the Prince of Wales only received an occasional and grudging 'sir'. To be praised by the huge, unsmiling Negro was an achievement more prized than the Garter itself. He stood over the naked man, looked at him with an expert eye, then turned to Larke. 'Use the girl.'

Larke considered the black man's suggestion. Behind him, at a small table, the two lawyers said nothing. They were awed by the two huge men, terrified of the violence they had seen, and hoping only that this night's work would soon be done. Larke nodded slowly. 'The girl mustn't know I'm involved.'

Tipp jerked his massive head at the balcony. 'Watch from there.'

Sir Julius Lazender moaned. His tongue, exploring his swollen, bleeding lips, found a tooth missing. His body seemed to pulse with the pain of the great fists, yet, like a mastiff that would not see that the bear had him beaten, he tried now to get to his feet and strike at Valentine Larke who had arranged for this pain and humiliation.

Harry Tipp casually slapped Sir Julius down. Girdlestone laughed. 'You snicker him, Harry.'

'The girl will be quicker. Help me with him.'

There were iron rings high on the stone wall, rings left from the time when the hall had been a warehouse, and the two huge men lifted the naked, bleeding Sir Julius and, ignoring his kicks and shouts, tied his wrists so that he hung with his back to the stone. There was blood in his cropped, black hair, blood on his ribs and thighs, yet still the belligerent, twisted face snarled and cursed them.

Valentine Larke left them. He climbed the winding gallery stairs. He ducked under the low door at the top and there stopped. He felt a sudden, welcome relief. At the balustrade, silhouetted against the flamelight of the fighting hall, was the tall figure of Chemosh. The man had evidently just arrived, was even now shrugging his caped greatcoat from his shoulders. Larke, who had feared treachery, suddenly knew that the plans of the Fallen Ones were still intact.

Chemosh stared down at the naked, beaten, bleeding man. He turned as he heard Larke's footsteps. 'He doesn't give in easy.'

'He's stupid. He has a brain of bone. You're late.'

'For which I apologize.' Chemosh sounded unworried by the curt, ungracious words. He dropped his hat and cane on the floor. He was superbly dressed, his silk stock tied to perfection, his blue jacket brilliant with embroidery. Beside him Valentine Larke, in dull, dark cloth, seemed drab. Drabness had become a way of life to the politician, a man who preferred to stand in the shadows and let others dazzle the fools in the crowd.

Valentine Larke's father had been the tenth Earl of Melstead. His mother had been the wife of Lord Melstead's coachman. Valentine Larke was the eldest son of an Earl, and all for nothing because he was a bastard.

He had hated his coachman stepfather who had fawned on Lord Melstead, bringing up his Lordship's bastard and thanking his Lordship for that honour and for every new favour. And favours there were many. Lord Melstead educated the boy, encouraged him, and secured him employment as a clerk in the Admiralty. Valentine Larke spent his long days copying state documents and working his silent, obedient way up the hierarchy of the civil service.

And his nights he spent as a hunter.

The tenth Earl of Melstead died and was succeeded by his son, and Valentine Larke hated his young half-brother who had set about dissipating the fortune which, according to Valentine Larke, should have been his birthright.

At night, the ink still on his fingers, Valentine Larke followed the eleventh Earl until he knew the places where the Earl whored and gambled and drank and vomited and whored again.

There was war then. A French army, helping Washington's rebels, was driving Britain out of the thirteen American colonies, and somehow the French government always knew when new British Battalions sailed and where they sailed to, and how many ships escorted them, and what the fleet orders were.

Valentine Larke had a sober, serious, painstaking reputation as an Admiralty clerk, while his air of discretion and willingness to work long hours brought him advancement. He worked on papers of the highest secrecy and each paper, carefully copied, was paid for by the French. At night that money was used for other purposes.

He gambled and discovered that his intelligence, his love of science and mathematics, made him a formidable player of whist. He never won too much, and took care to lose when it was politic to lose.

He was tolerated by the quality. They did not know who he was, except that he spoke well enough, dressed with modest elegance, and paid his debts. If he needed to cling to their coat-tails then they were happy to let him. He was the butt of their jests, the object of their insults and a willing runner of errands. They thought it was pathetic to see the gratitude he showed whenever he was noticed.

The eleventh Earl of Melstead, ten years Larke's junior, did not even recognize his half-brother. They had rarely seen each other in childhood, and Larke did not remind him of their relationship. He did not even give his first name when they met.

'Larke! Old coachman called Larke!' Melstead guffawed. 'Up early, what!'

Larke ruined him that night. No one knew, of course. They saw Larke win a modest thousand pounds and took no notice when Melstead pushed his note of hand across the table with a bored air. 'Settle you soon, Larke.'

'Of course, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord.'

The eleventh Earl had turned his fat, stupid face to the rest of the company. 'Anyone fancy Mother Tillie's tonight?'

They left Larke and went noisily into the night and Melstead tupped his last whore. He came out of Mother Tillie's in the small hours and found two men waiting. They were huge men, one black, the other white, and they had been hired for this night's work.

'Larke! Damned inconvenient. They were positively rough!'

Valentine Larke had not said a word. As if laying cards on the table he put down the Earl of Melstead's notes of hand. He had bought them, bought half the Earl's debts, and on his broad, intelligent face there was no sign of mercy.

'The bailiffs will be at all your houses today.'

'Larke!'

'You call me "sir"!'

He had, too. Larke smiled at the memory. The fat fool had begged on bended knees, had wept when Larke had threatened him with debtor's prison, but had fallen into abject, terrified silence when Larke played his last card with exquisite care.

'You want the world to know that your coachman's son is now your master?'

The Earl of Melstead had signed the papers prepared by Larke's lawyers and then, on that same morning, blown his brains out. Two huge men who wanted to make their names in the Fancy ensured that he did so, and thus did Valentine Larke secure his first great property, mortgaged to be sure, but redeemable. He had left the Admiralty, regretted by all, claiming that a maiden aunt had left him a modest windfall.

Wherever the quality went to enjoy themselves, there Larke was. He was mocked still, no one knew he was the money behind the whorehouses and behind the gambling clubs and cockpits. He was Valentine Larke, rumoured once to have been a clerk and now, by a lucky will, a man of independent means. He was still good for an occasional loan, for a bottle of champagne, even to run out into the rain to call a coach, yet no one ever thought to connect Valentine Larke with the men who disappeared, who ran from their country, who committed suicide, who sold their last acre and last jewelled pin.

He became a Member of Parliament, buying a Midlands constituency that he never visited, but which regularly returned him to Parliament in return for his gold. He bought it, not to be respectable, but because the
Illuminati
had ordered it. They hoped for a revolution in Britain, a revolution like the one they had sparked in France, and Larke spied out the land for them. He was a politician, a man of business, yet above all he was a hunter.

He hunted the privileged. He enticed the gaudy beasts into his garden of earthly pleasures, and there he picked his prey. Only one of his victims had escaped, and that was Chemosh. Instead of running or fighting, Chemosh had recognized Larke's strength and had proposed that they join forces. Chemosh went where Larke could not go. He scouted victims for Belial. They had hunted together for seven profitable years.

Now Chemosh smiled as he stared down into the wet, stone hall. A girl had been admitted through a side door. 'Who on earth is she?'