Secret Histories 10: Dr. DOA (11 page)

We headed for the Hall. It loomed up before us, heavy with fate and foreboding. As though just by walking back through its door, I would be committing myself to my last mission. No stepping aside, no turning back. I’d be starting down a road that had only one destination.

I looked the old building over carefully, trying to see it clearly one last time. Drood Hall is old, really old. And it’s always been colourful as hell, just like the family it contains. The sprawling old manor house dated back to Tudor times, and the central section still had the black-and-white boarded frontage, along with heavy leaded-glass windows and a jutting gabled roof. Four extensive wings had been added, down the years. Massive and solid in the Regency style, they contained thousands of rooms. We’re a big family. The roof rose and fell like a great grey-tiled ocean, complete with any number of gargoyles, and grotesque ornamental guttering that probably seemed like a good idea at the time. Add to that an observatory, an eyrie, and a whole bunch of landing pads for the steam-powered autogyros, futuristic helicars, flying saucers, and winged unicorns. Because my family has always been ready to embrace anything that works. The Hall, solid and firm in stone and wood, people and causes. The Droods have always weighed heavily on the world.

“Do you have a bucket list?” Molly said suddenly.

“What, things I should do while I still can?” I said. “Never got around to thinking about it. Bit late now. I’ve got work to do. Do you have a list?”

“I always planned to take you on a pub crawl of the hidden world,” said Molly. “To all the especially off-the-beaten-track places I go, when I really want to let my hair down. Show you all the special places that meant something to me. We never talked like this before.”

“Never had cause to before.” I thought about it as the front door drew nearer. “I suppose I should update my will, before we leave. Make sure you’re properly provided for.”

“Can you be sure your family will abide by your wishes?”

I grinned. “My family doesn’t know half of what I’ve got tucked away.”

We stopped before the front door. Molly grabbed hold of me, and hugged me fiercely.

“I can’t let you go! I won’t let you go!”

I held her tight and said nothing. Because I knew there would come a time when I’d have to let Molly go, and go on alone.

Everyone Wants to Help

T
here are days when you think things can’t get any worse, but somehow they always do. I walked back through the front door of Drood Hall, with Molly on my arm, and there waiting for me was the Sarjeant-at-Arms. Standing right in the middle of the entrance hall with his arms tightly folded, and with the air of someone who’d been waiting for some time. And really wasn’t happy about it. I couldn’t be bothered to give the impression that I gave a damn. I planted myself in front of him and raised a single eyebrow. He drew himself up to his full height, the better to look down his nose at me. I could feel Molly stirring dangerously at my side, and amused myself wondering which way the Sarjeant would fall after she hit him.

“What?” I said.

“I am here to escort both of you to a meeting with the Matriarch and her advisory Council,” the Sarjeant said flatly. “Your attendance is . . . requested.”

That last word stopped me. If he was being polite, if the Matriarch was being polite, something was up. Something had changed. So of course I had to go. Especially if Molly was included in the invitation. Normally, my family does everything short of declaring open hostilities
to keep Molly out of Council meetings. Partly because she’s not family, but mostly because she likes to sit at the back, eat popcorn, and heckle.

“Lead the way, Sarjeant,” I said graciously. “Molly and I would be delighted to attend your little tea party.”

“Oooh! A party!” said Molly. “Will there be tea and crumpets?”

“We can but hope,” I said.

The Sarjeant gathered his injured dignity around him, turned on his heel like the poker up his arse had just sprouted spikes, and led the way into the familiar embrace of the Hall. Without once looking back to check we were actually following. I ambled along behind, while Molly stuck close by me, glaring watchfully around for ambushes, unfortunate comments, or just the wrong look on someone’s face. I let her. I didn’t want her to notice how worried I was.

I’d thought I had time to do all the things I needed to do. Was the Matriarch about to tell me that I didn’t, after all?

It soon became clear we weren’t heading in any of the directions I’d expected. I closed the gap between the Sarjeant and me, and raised my voice.

“We’re still not meeting at the Sanctity? Even though it’s a full-Council meeting?”

“No,” said the Sarjeant.

“At some point,” I said, “you’re going to have to explain to me just what the hell is going on.”

“Not my place,” said the Sarjeant. Carefully not looking back at me.

I couldn’t help but notice that wherever we went, everyone hurried to step back and avert their eyes from me. No more pointing or muttering, no more gathering in groups to enjoy the spectacle of a dead man walking. Possibly because I was with the Sarjeant-at-Arms now.

We made our way into the East Wing, which meant we weren’t going back to the Matriarch’s new garden-centre office. So where else would the new Matriarch feel safe from Ethel? There wasn’t much in
the East Wing; it’s mainly offices and meeting places, where general policy gets discussed and the details hammered out. Drood equivalent of the civil service. Not the most glamorous work, but necessary for the smooth running of family business. Personally, I’d rather hammer nails into my head.

The Sarjeant finally took us out of the East Wing through a side door, and just like that, we were outside the Hall, facing the old family Chapel. Where the ghost of Jacob used to hang out. I stopped where I was, ignoring the Sarjeant’s unhidden impatience, so I could take a good look at the Chapel. It had been some time since I’d last been there. It used to be one of the few places I could go to get away from my family. Where I could feel safe from what the family wanted of me. And now my family had even taken that away. But why were we meeting the Matriarch and her Council here? What was so important, so significant, about this battered old edifice?

Once upon a time, it really was the family Chapel, back before we went multi-denominational. This was after a rather embarrassing period, when the then-Matriarch decided the family was in danger of becoming too in-bred. Too many marriages inside the family, too many cousins connected in too many ways. We were in urgent need of fresh blood. So an outreach programme was launched, and any number of Drood chicks were kicked out of the nest and told to fly off in search of partners. The result was a great many new marriages with outsiders, inevitably followed by an inrush of new ideas and new values. One of which was a more relaxed attitude to Drood religious observance. The Chapel was abandoned, and apparently for a while you couldn’t move in Drood Hall for new churches, red-hot religious debates, and even a few duels. I miss out on all the good stuff.

I’m amazed our established church lasted as long as it did, anyway. There’s nothing like having regular contact with the agents of Heaven and Hell to make anyone a dedicated freethinker.

The old Chapel was a squat stone structure with crucifix slit windows. It looked Saxon, but was really just an Eighteenth Century folly. Put up to replace an older and far more authentic building that was simply too old, and too boring. The Chapel looked as ugly as ever, its rough stone walls all but buried under thick mats of crawling ivy. Some of which was already stirring threateningly as it detected our presence. Until the Sarjeantat-Arms glared at it and the ivy settled sullenly back down again. No one argues with the Sarjeant. Which is, of course, why I always did.

I tried the door, and to my surprise it opened easily. In the old days, I had to put my shoulder to the heavy wood just to get it to move. Because I was the only one who ever used it. But now all the old gloom was gone, dismissed by newly installed electric lighting, and the interior looked completely different. There used to be a pile of old wooden pews stacked against the far wall, and a big black leather recliner chair, where Jacob would slump at his ease and watch the memories of old television shows on a set that didn’t even have any workings. And an old-fashioned freezer, somehow always full of ethereal booze. For a ghost, Jacob really did like his comforts. But all of that was gone now. The place had been cleaned up and cleared out. Someone had even swept the floor, revealing old flagstones worn smooth in places by massed bent knees.

The Matriarch was sitting at the back of the Chapel, behind a richly polished mahogany desk. Complete with telephones and a laptop so she would never be out of touch. She sat up straight in her chair, her hands together and resting on the tabletop before her. She looked calm and composed, with everything she had to say carefully rehearsed in her head so she could shut down any objections I might have before they could get off the ground. The Sarjeant went to stand beside her, holding himself at parade rest. The Armourer, Maxwell and Victoria, sat side by side before the table. Close enough that they could still hold hands. I had to wonder whether that was an affectation, or whether I’d always been too old for love’s young dream. Love, real love, came somewhat late in life for me. I glanced round to make sure Molly was still at
my side, and she smiled and slipped a reassuring arm through mine. I looked back at Maxwell and Victoria; they seemed younger than ever in such a formal setting.

Which was more than could be said for the old gentleman sitting opposite them; he looked tired and fretful and out of place. Though it had to be said William the Librarian did appear pretty spruce, for once. In a heavy tweed suit, a clean white shirt, a peach cravat held in place by a diamond pin . . . and fluffy pink bunny slippers. Suggesting his ongoing rehabilitation to civilised behaviour wasn’t entirely complete just yet. His bushy white hair had been attacked with a brush and comb and partially subdued, and someone had shaved him recently. His gaze was clear and his mouth was firm, but there was still an air of vagueness about him, as though he were trying to remember why he was there. Or why he’d ever thought turning up was a good idea in the first place.

The reason for the general improvement stood beside him; his wife, Ammonia Vom Acht. The most powerful telepath in the world. Ugly as a bulldog licking piss off a thistle and about as convivial, Ammonia had a square, almost brutal face, not improved by a permanent thunderous frown. Short and squat in her shapeless grey suit, Ammonia was still an impressive, striking figure. She and William were devoted to each other. And there was no denying she’d been good for him. The Librarian was a lot more himself these days. It amazed me to think how far he’d come since I brought him back from where he’d been hiding, at the Happy Acres high-security institute for the criminally insane.

Technically speaking, Ammonia shouldn’t have been present at a Council meeting. Just marrying a Drood wasn’t enough to make you family. But as she was only a psychic sending, and not physically present, everyone made allowances. Because Ammonia didn’t give them any choice. Her image looked real enough, until you noticed her feet didn’t quite reach the floor. Because of her incredible telepathic abilities,
Ammonia couldn’t bear to be around people. She lived alone in a cottage on the coast, miles from everywhere, and preferred to limit her travelling to her spirit form. She looked solid enough. I had to resist the urge to give her a quick prod, just to check. She looked at me coldly, as though she knew what I was thinking. I quickly turned my gaze to the Matriarch.

“Where are the Heads of the War Room and Operations?” I said. “Shouldn’t they be here? They were still part of your advisory Council, last I heard.”

“They’re busy,” said the Matriarch. “Clearing up the mess in the field left by Cassandra’s interference. I’ll brief them later. Take a seat.”

I stood my ground. “Why are we meeting here, of all places?”

“Because this location is steeped in ghostly energies and temporal complications, thanks to Jacob’s peculiar afterlife existence,” said the Matriarch. “The psychic plane is so saturated with information, it should be impossible for anyone to observe us.”

“Including Ethel?” I said.

“Yes,” said the Matriarch.

“Is that right, Ethel?” I said.

There was a long pause. Everyone’s head came up, listening, but response came there none.

“What is going on?” I said.

“I’ll tell you when you return from your mission,” said the Matriarch.

“Why not tell me now?”

“Because you’re going to speak to Ethel about your condition before you leave. I would.”

“Am I not supposed to tell her what we discuss here?” I said.

“That would be wisest,” said the Matriarch.

She gestured again at the two empty chairs set out before her table. Set out exactly half-way between the Armourer and the Librarian. I decided I’d pushed her as far as I usefully could, and sat down. Molly settled onto the chair next to me, as stiff and watchful as a
suspicious cat. I looked at Maxwell and Victoria, but they didn’t want to meet my gaze. William reached out to pat me on the arm, as though reassuring a restless dog.

“I’ve been ransacking the Library ever since I heard, looking for something to help you, Eddie. Found all kinds of interesting things. None of them particularly helpful as yet, but . . . early days. It’s a big Library. In fact, I’m not even sure just how big the Old Library really is. I have a suspicion the boundaries move when I’m not looking. My assistant, Yorith . . . You remember Yorith? Of course you do . . . He’s searching through some of the more arcane areas while I’m here.” He stopped to look meaningfully at the Matriarch. “I still don’t know why my presence was deemed so damned essential. You’ll do what you decide to do, whatever any of us have to say. Just like always.”

“I value your opinions,” said the Matriarch.

“Then you should pay more attention to them,” said the Librarian.

“Hush, dear,” said Ammonia. Her hand hovered just above his shoulder, and he settled a little at the seeming touch. “We need to get on with this, William. So Eddie can get on with what he has to do.”

“Of course,” said the Librarian. “Sorry, Eddie.”

“We are still pursuing a number of promising leads!” Maxwell said loudly. “Very promising! The lab assistants have dropped everything else.”

“You must come down to the Armoury before you leave, Eddie,” said Victoria. “You really must. We’ll have something for you.”

“To help you on your mission,” said Maxwell.

“Something useful,” said Victoria.

“We are all doing our best for you, Eddie,” said the Sarjeant. “The whole family is outraged at what has been done to you. An attack on one Drood is an attack on us all.”

“Are you so outraged because I’ve been poisoned?” I said. “Or because Dr DOA got to me despite all your vaunted security?”

“We will throw all of the family’s resources into tracking down your
attacker,” said the Matriarch. Which, I noted, wasn’t exactly an answer to my question. “I know you feel the need to pursue this case yourself. But should the worse come to the worst, and Dr DOA is able to hide himself until you are no longer capable of going after him . . . I promise you, the family will continue the hunt for as long as it takes. He can’t hide from all of us.”