From Hell With Love: A Secret Histories Novel (17 page)

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Authors: Simon R. Green

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CHAPTER FIVE
Secret Discussions, With Unexpected References to Heaven and Hell
I
stepped through the Merlin Glass into the Old Library, and the Glass shrank down and disappeared back into its subspace pocket with even more haste than usual. As though it was actually disturbed by the place I’d brought it to. Which was fair enough. The Old Library contains far more than just shelves and shelves of old books. It is a place of secrets, a depository of knowledge too terrible for the everyday world. I was standing somewhere among the rows and rows of stacks, stretching away in every direction I looked. Not that far away, the Librarian, William, and his young assistant, Rafe, were talking quietly together, so intent on the book before them they hadn’t even noticed my arrival.
I took a moment to look around me. Simple, functional, standing shelves packed with books rose all the way to the gloomy ceiling. The floor was just bare wooden boards, that clearly hadn’t known wax or polish in a very long time. There were no windows, the only illumination a sourceless golden glow that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Presumably real lights would be too much of a fire risk. I had to wonder about central heating, since the air was toasty warm—again, presumably to help preserve the books. There wasn’t a touch of dust anywhere, and not a single cobweb, despite the Old Library having
˚
been lost and abandoned for centuries before I rediscovered it.
The golden glow reminded me of the last days of summer, and the place felt more like a chapel than a library. A repository of wisdom, of worship. And yet, not a comfortable setting. Although the many rows of standing shelves limited my view of the Old Library, it still felt unnaturally large, as though the stacks stretched away farther in every direction than the human mind could comfortably accept. There were rumours that the Old Library was actually growing, quietly, to make room for all the books and papers entrusted to it, and I was quite prepared to believe it. Just looking around I had no idea how to find an exit, without the help of a map, a compass, and a ball of thread to follow. And I also had to wonder: if this was a labyrinth, might there be a monster somewhere, lurking at the heart of the maze?
Rafe was patiently trying to persuade William to put aside his work for a while, and get some rest. William ignored him, standing stooped before a great oversized volume set out on a podium. The Librarian was a frail old man, with a sad lost face, wearing a bright cheerful dressing gown and a pair of fluffy bunny slippers. His bushy grey hair seemed to stick out in every direction at once, but his mouth was firm and his gaze was sharp and keen. William had a great mind, but a lot had happened to it, little of it good.
The assistant Librarian, Rafe (
never call me Raphael, I am not a turtle
) was a pleasant young man with a bright beaming face. He always looked like he’d got dressed in a hurry and didn’t give a damn. He had a first-class mind, and was devoted to the old Librarian. He was currently trying to persuade William to be sensible, and getting nowhere.
“You need to go to bed, William; get some proper rest.”
“Haven’t got a bed,” William said craftily. “I’ve got a nice little cot, and my very own blanket. All I need.”
“When was the last time you got a good sleep?” said Rafe.
The old man shrugged. “My memory doesn’t go back that far. Besides, I don’t like to sleep. I have dreams . . . bad dreams. And anyway, I’ve far too much work to do. So many books, so little time . . .”
They both looked round sharply as I approached, but William accepted my sudden appearance the way he accepted everything, because everything was equally important, or unimportant, to him. Rafe gave me a hard look.
“Hello, Eddie. I didn’t think anyone could just walk into the Old Library these days, without setting off all kinds of alarms.”
“I think the Merlin Glass is getting sneaky,” I said. “That’s what happens when you hang around with Droods. Hello, Rafe. Hello, William.”
“Hello, hello, nice to see you, don’t bother me now, I’m busy.” William turned back to the book on the podium. “If you want to make yourself useful, see if you can find my socks. Someone’s been stealing them.”
I looked at Rafe. “I thought the whole idea of allowing William to live down here was that it would help to stabilise him?”
“That was the theory, yes,” said Rafe, coming over to join me. “But it appears that there’s stable, and then there’s stable. He knows who he is, and where he is, and his work is impeccable; everything else tends to vary from day to day.”
“I like it down here,” William said loudly. “I’m not ready to live in the Hall. Too many people. Had enough of that living in the asylum. No, no, I’m not at all ready for people . . . I’m fine down here. Fine.” He broke off, and looked carefully left and right. “Though I’m not entirely alone, down here. Not strictly speaking. There’s Someone in here with me. Someone, or Something. It watches me. Or watches over me . . . hard to tell.”
I raised an eyebrow to Rafe, who shook his head firmly. “I heard about what happened to the Matriarch, Eddie, and to Molly. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it. It’s been years since there was a murder in the Hall, let alone two in one night.”
“Eighteen fifty-two,” said
˚
William, unexpectedly. “And that was a murder/suicide. We were a lot tougher about cousins marrying, in those days.”
“I popped up for a quick look,” said Rafe. “Everyone was running around, shouting and screaming like mad things. Couldn’t get a straight answer out of anyone. Everyone’s looking for you, Eddie. Either because they think you’re guilty, or because they want you to tell them what to do. You did lead the family once, after all.”
“Once was enough,” I said. “Let the Sarjeant-at-Arms run his investigation. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Never thought I’d hear you saying good things about the Sarjeant,” said Rafe. “What have things come to?”
“In a situation like this, a merciless thug and bully is just what we need,” I said. “If there are answers to be got, he’ll get them. But I can’t help feeling . . . there won’t be anything left behind for him to find. This was a professional hit. Someone put a lot of time and effort into planning it . . .”
William slammed his book shut, and spun round to smile cheerfully at me. “It’s really quite fun, having everyone as paranoid as me, for as change.”
“William,” said Rafe. “The Matriarch is dead. Murdered.”
“Never liked her,” William said briskly. “She never liked me. She was a real cow when she was younger, and age did not mellow her. Oh, I’ll stand up to see her avenged; she’s family. But I’m too old, too talented, and too crazy to bother with crocodile tears.”
“Molly’s dead too,” I said.
William looked at me. “Who?”
“Molly! Molly Metcalf! She used to come and visit you, while you were in the madhouse! You met her dozens of times; you must remember her!”
The Librarian’s lower lip trembled, and he looked down at his hands, crestfallen. “I’m sorry, Eddie. I try not to remember anything about that place.”
“Did they treat you badly?” said Rafe.
“It’s more like . . . it worried me, how much at home I felt. Like I belonged there . . . Far more than I ever did here. I’ll think about Molly, Eddie. I’m sure she’ll come back to me . . . What did you come here looking for? No one ever comes down here just to see me, for which I am inordinately grateful. So, what do you want? All the knowledge in the world is on these shelves, somewhere. Try me. My thoughts are clear, even if my memory isn’t what it was. If it ever was . . . Who can tell? I like butterscotch.”
“I need to know about the Immortals,” I said. “And the Apocalypse Door.”
“The Immortals are just a legend!” said Rafe. “Everyone knows that. There are a number of technically immortal individuals out there, or at least, very long-lived . . . but you’re probably already familiar with most of those. Mr. Stab, of course. The Djinn Jeanie. The Griffin . . .”
“No, he died just recently, in the Nightside,” said William. “And his appalling wife. I got a letter from the chap who runs the Nightside . . . Walker! That’s the fellow! Yes. Apparently Satan turned up personally, just to drag the Griffins down into the Pit. Well, that’s the Nightside for you. Terrible place. I don’t know why we don’t just go in there in force, and Do Something about it.”
“I said that,” I said. “It seems there’s an old and very binding pact: no Droods allowed in the Nightside.”
“Really?” said Rafe. “And what do we get out of it?”
“I did ask the Matriarch,” I said. “And she made a point of changing the subject.” I looked at William. “Why would Walker be writing letters to you? Do you and he know each other?”
“Who can say?” said William. “Immortals . . . There’s the Lord of Thorns, Old Father Time, Jimmy Thunder God For Hire, the Regent of Shadows . . .”
“We don’t talk about him!” Rafe said immediately.
“Well pardon me for breathing,” William said testily. “Even when my mind was working perfectly, I never could be bothered remembering who was In and who was Out. The important thing is, there are any number of individual immortals running around, making nuisances of themselves, and always have been. Not all of them human, of course. I once met a Lamia in Liverpool . . .” William grinned nastily. “Big teeth . . .”
“But never a family of Immortals,” said Rafe. “Not organised, like us . . .”
William frowned suddenly. “There are at present two hundred and seventeen books missing from the Old Library, not including folios, bound manuscripts and collected letters. No doubt more absences will make themselves known. With no Index to consult, we can only deduce what these titles might have been from gaps on the shelves, and references in other books. It’s always possible some of these books were removed because they contained information on the Immortals. Or the Apocalypse Door. Lots of people have been bothering me about that Door, just recently.”
“Interesting items have turned up in Alexander King’s secret files, removed from Place Gloria,” said Rafe. “The Independent Agent hoarded all kinds of secret knowledge and lost information. We’ve uncovered strange and wonderful stuff, including a whole crate of books from alternate Earths, where history had taken very different turns. One was written in Martian. With very unpleasant illustrations. New material is turning up all the time, in truck loads. They just dump it here, once a week, and leave it for us to sort out. As if we didn’t have enough on our plate already. Just identifying, sorting and indexing the Old Library’s contents is taking us forever.”
“And the Matriarch won’t allow us any extra help, because so much of the material is
sensitive
,” said William, disparagingly. “Silly cow. If you can’t trust a Drood, who can you trust?”
“The Matriarch is dead, William,” said Rafe.
“Oh all right, I’ll have a word with her later. You know, I’m almost sure I saw something about the Apocalypse Door just recently . . .”
He tottered away and started rummaging through an old tea chest full of papers.
“How is he?” I said quietly to Rafe. “Really?”
“Not good,” Rafe admitted. “Better some days than others. He still has a brilliant mind, when it’s working. But there’s no doubt all those years in the madhouse put their mark upon him.”
“And there’s no telling how much damage the Heart did to his mind, before he fled the Hall.” I frowned. “I think we need to put up the money and hire a major-league telepath, and have them dig around inside his head.”
“I have suggested that, on more than one occasion, but the Matriarch was always very firm,” said Rafe. “She wouldn’t allow it. Apparently William knows far too much about this family, too many dirty little secrets. Things no outsider can be allowed to know. Even if William can’t remember them. We do have a few telepaths in the family . . .”
“You have got to be kidding,” I said. “I wouldn’t trust that bunch to guess my weight. I certainly wouldn’t let them trample around inside a mind that’s been messed about with as much as William’s has . . . They might never get out again. The Armourer did say he’d come up with some kind of mind-scanning device . . . but his methods aren’t exactly subtle, either.”
“You just have to give William some time,” said Rafe. “He’ll recover, eventually.”
“What can you tell me about the rogue Drood known as Tiger Tim?” I said, deliberately changing the subject. “His name came up in connection with the LA auction and, surprisingly, with Doctor Delirium.”
William looked up suddenly from his tea chest. “Now there’s a name from the past! Timothy Drood . . . Yes. Nasty little man. Nice enough when you had something he wanted, but it was always him first and everyone else second. What we used to call a bad seed, in my young days. I can’t believe someone hasn’t killed him yet, if only on general principles . . . He was hiding out somewhere in South America, last I heard. Peru?”
“He’s moved, since then,” said Rafe. “Just ahead of being kicked out, as usual. He’s holed up deep in the Amazon rain forest these days.”
“The same area as Doctor Delirium,” I said.
“Well yes, technically,” said Rafe. “But the Amazon rain forest does cover a hell of a lot of ground. They’re not exactly neighbours.”

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