Summon Up the Blood (15 page)

All the brilliance of Piccadilly was refracted into the interior of the Criterion. Here was the heart of that strange capital he had imagined earlier. The vaguely oriental styling of the decor, with its pillared walls and arched recesses, suggested somewhere in North Africa, a place he had never visited, except in his imagination.

The Long Bar itself was crowded, exclusively with men. Some wore lustrous top hats, others brushed bowlers. Some were bearded or moustachioed, others clean-shaven. Some were middle-aged or even old; others were young – barely more than youths. Some swaggered and preened, others hung back warily.

Yet all had some unnameable quality, a secret kinship discernible in the subtle ways they interacted. A hand held too long on another’s arm. One body pressed too intimately on to the next. A smutty tone in the laughter provoked by a whispered indelicacy.

At the sight of one man lighting his companion’s cigarette, his hand held steady in the other man’s tender grip, Quinn spun on his heels.

No, it was too much. He couldn’t go through with it. Even though its yellowish paper suggested the cigarette was a Set.

The glint in their eyes betrayed a fierce hunger that sickened him. He needed fresh air again.

As he was ineluctably turned out by the revolving doors, another party burst boisterously in.

‘T
o marriage!’ Sir Michael Esslyn raised his glass of Dagonet champagne towards a chandelier. The clear, creamy liquid glittered as if a thousand tiny diamonds were suspended in it. Esslyn’s crystal-edged voice cut through the din of the Criterion. A startled lull descended, brought to an end by a wave of cynical hilarity.

‘Good heavens, Esslyn.’ Pinky’s monocle flew from its precarious resting place in his eye socket. ‘What an extraordinary toast to propose! What on earth can
you
have to say in favour of marriage?’

‘It is true that I have never married myself, Pinky. However, that is not due to any principled objection to the institution itself. It is rather the result of a want of opportunity. I blame the service. In fact, you may say that I
have
been married – to my career. I fear that any actual bodily wife would have had more than sufficient grounds for a complaint of neglect. Also, I cannot help thinking that my devotion to my work would have provoked such a rage of jealousy in said putative wife as to make a
crime passionelle
inevitable. She would have assumed the worst – a mistress. In which case, I am sure, I would be dead by now. But the pleasures and consolations incumbent in a loving companionship with a member of the fairer sex are not to be lightly brushed aside. There are times, I assure you, when I have deeply regretted their absence from my life. It is too late for me, I fear, but not for Marjoribanks.’

‘What’s this?’ cried Count Lázár Erdélyi, his eyes widening with sincere delight as he picked up Sir Michael’s hint.

‘Yes, it’s true,’ said the fourth member of their party, Lord Tobias Marjoribanks. A thin, barely present smile tensed on his mouth. He tossed his head, shaking the loose lock of hair at the front out of his eyes, but only for a moment. ‘Jane and I are engaged.’

‘Congratulations, Toby!’ cried Erdélyi warmly. ‘Wonderful news!’ He held out his hand to shake Lord Marjoribanks’.

‘Is it?’ said Pinky.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Marjoribanks. ‘I’m not like you, Pinky. I need stability in my life.’

‘Nonsense, my boy! You’re an artist!’

‘Do you know how long it is since I picked up a paintbrush?’

‘Now now,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Let’s not spoil the celebration with all this self-pity.’

‘Oh, I’m not sorry for myself. I was glad when I stopped. It liberated me. I could put my energies into other things.’

‘Such as your love for Jane,’ said Lázár.

‘Let us drink to that!’ said Sir Michael. ‘To love!’

‘Oh, well, if you insist,’ said Pinky, rather churlishly. He took a slow, thoughtful sip of his champagne. ‘Of course I’m pleased for you. Her father is so tremendously rich.’

‘I say, Pinky, there’s no need for that.’ The objection was voiced by Count Erdélyi. ‘Why can’t you just be happy for Toby?’

‘On the contrary, I’m very happy for him. His financial security is assured for the rest of his life.’

‘I would be grateful to you if you would keep such unworthy thoughts to yourself, especially as I have invited Jane and her father to dine with me here tonight.’

‘Here?’

‘Yes.’

Pinky’s monocle dislodged itself again as he made a show of taking in his surroundings. ‘Well, that’s very bold of you, I must say.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. I know you use this place to pick up renters, but the Criterion is a perfectly respectable restaurant.’

‘That’s true. I’ve seen cabinet ministers dine here,’ said Sir Michael.

As if to disprove Sir Michael, a young man with an unlit yellow-tinged cigarette in his mouth came over to accost Pinky.

Pinky refused to look at him. ‘Go away. I won’t talk to you here. I’m with my friends.’

The young man let out a peal of laughter. ‘I thought
I
was your friend,’ he complained.

‘You are nothing but a vampire. I’ve given you all the money you’re going to get out of me, so you may as well be gone. Leave us alone.’

Tommy made a moue of petulance. ‘I only came over for a light.’

‘You have no right to expect even that from me.’

Count Erdélyi picked up a matchbox from the bar. ‘Here.’

Tommy leaned forward for his cigarette to be lit.

‘No. You may take it and find somewhere else to smoke. Now you have what you came for, you will be so good as to leave us in peace.’

‘You ain’t seen the last of me,’ said Tommy as he snatched the matches from Count Erdélyi.

Sir Michael followed his progress across the bar, his lips pursed in distaste. ‘Is it not possible for you to find an outlet for your appetites among members of your own class?’

‘You have certainly managed it, Esslyn. Married to your career, my eye! What keeps you chained to the department year after year is the constant stream of eager junior secretaries passing through. We are not all fortunate enough to have our own supply of compliant young acolytes at our beck and call. Some of us have to take our pleasures where we can. That inevitably requires us to deal with rough trade now and then.’

‘You could follow Lázár’s example,’ suggested Lord Marjoribanks. ‘Develop a hobby. Take your mind off . . . all that.’

‘Chastity does not become me. And I don’t really think it sits well on Lázár, if I am perfectly honest. Have you not noticed how pale and nervous he is looking these days? He’s worse than the
nosferatu
he spends his time chasing.’

‘Please don’t use that term,’ said Count Erdélyi. ‘It’s meaningless.’

‘At any rate, a little self-control on your part would not go amiss. If you will insist on associating with such low types it can only end in scandal – or worse. Tragedy.’

‘Don’t be absurd, Esslyn. You know I am incapable of self-control. You might as well ask . . .’ Pinky cast about for a suitably impressive turn of phrase. His hand hovered about him as if to pluck it from the air. Finally it came to him: ‘A panther not to kill.’

‘There are two problems with your analogy,’ objected Lord Marjoribanks. ‘First, you are the prey and not the panther. Second, you only said it because we have just now come from the Panther Club. And as you will know from the sorry specimen they keep caged up there, it’s perfectly possible to persuade a panther not to kill. All you have to do is ensure that it is well-fed. Then it simply becomes a rather large pussy cat.’

‘How horribly pedantic you are, Toby. I’m disappointed in you.’

Lord Marjoribanks sprang away from the bar and headed towards the door. The magnet for his energy was a young woman who had just entered in the company of a middle-aged man. She was wearing a midnight-blue evening gown with a high waist and hobble skirt. The dress was cut from lustrous satin, covered with a translucent drape, which was held in place between her breasts by a large metal brooch of Egyptian design.

A high nervous excitability showed in her expression – the hint of a tendency towards waywardness. Her face was striking rather than pretty. The boldness of her eye was a challenge; any man who valued convention over adventure was bound to feel unequal to it.

Lord Marjoribanks was evidently not such a man. At the sight of her, his gaze became enlivened; the habitual ennui of his demeanour was shed. Whatever Pinky might say, it was clear that something other than the promise of her father’s fortune drew Marjoribanks to Jane Lennox.

He took both her hands in his. ‘Darling. You look ravishing. I love the ankh.’

‘Dah-ling.’ She delivered each syllable on either side of a greeting kiss. ‘I love my ankh too. It was a present from Daddy.’

Marjoribanks turned his attention to the man who had come in with his fiancée. ‘I didn’t know you took an interest in Egyptian symbolism, Lennox.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Harry Lennox spoke with the hint of an Irish brogue that his daughter lacked. He was a short man, and of slight build. His top hat seemed comically large on his head. But there was no doubting his power. He surveyed the room with the steady disdainful gaze of a man who believed he could buy everything and everyone in it several times over.

‘Jane’s brooch.’

‘Oh, that. Jane picked it out. I merely paid for it.’ If it sounded like a complaint, it was softened by his accent. But there was good humour in Lennox’s voice, and the smile for his daughter was indulgent. ‘It is the father’s prerogative,’ he added.

Jane Lennox looked around distractedly, fascinated by the strange and undeniably attractive beings around her. ‘This is an intriguing place, dah-ling. Quite delightful. Some of these men are practically beautiful.’

‘It looks very Turkish,’ said Lennox, taking in the golden tiles on the ceiling. ‘Like a hareem.’ Lennox now considered the clientele crowding the bar. ‘Only without the women.’

‘You’re so funny, Daddy.’ Jane Lennox adopted a patronizing, slyly mocking tone towards her father.

‘Will Jane be quite safe in here, Marjoribanks?’ asked Lennox. ‘Some of these men are looking at her in the most peculiar way.’

‘Quite safe,’ said Marjoribanks. ‘I can assure you that we are surrounded by . . . gentlemen.’ The pause was perfectly timed to raise Harry Lennox’s eyebrow, and a giggle from his daughter.

Marjoribanks dipped his head towards a bow, before casting an uneasy glance over to the others at the bar. Sir Michael raised his glass in greeting. ‘The bar is rather crowded. I suggest we go through to the restaurant. They should have our table ready for us by now.’

But Lennox had caught the welcoming salute from Sir Michael Esslyn. ‘You said you would introduce me to Michael Esslyn, remember? They say he has the ear of the Home Secretary. It is an ear I would very much like to speak into.’

‘Please, Daddy, don’t talk business tonight!’

The indulgent smile returned to Harry Lennox’s lips. ‘My dear, if you won’t let me talk business then I may as well leave right now!’

Marjoribanks turned his head sharply, suggesting this was an outcome to which he would not have objected. But he bit his tongue as he led his fiancée and her father towards the bar.

O
utside, Quinn lit another cigarette. He cast a half-hearted glance through the glass of the revolving door, surprised to catch sight of the satin-clad back of a woman moving through the press of men.

He looked at the cigarette in his hand. Set cigarettes had led him here. But his nerve had failed him at the last.

Quinn adjusted the position of his bowler on his head. It was as if he believed that setting himself to rights was as simple as straightening his hat. But a deeper shift of alignment had taken place inside him. Something fundamental had fallen out of kilter. As unsettling as this was, there was no doubt that the presence of his hat on his head went some way to reassuring him.

But he could not go back inside. He would direct his attention instead to the other place that Inchball had marked out on his list. On paper, a respectable gentlemen’s club: he would surely have nothing to fear there.

There was no sign, nothing to indicate either the street number or the name of the establishment. This seemed to be common practice among the Georgian mansions of Pall Mall. Quinn spent several moments pacing up and down the pavement, calculating numbers from those few buildings that displayed one. The door upon which he finally settled was discreet, compared to the other clubs he had remarked, most of which were graced with grand, neoclassical entrances complete with columns and porter’s lodges.

The bell-knob was ornately moulded in the shape of a scarab beetle nestling in a shallow bowl. Quinn gripped the metal insect with his fingertips and pulled it on its wire a few inches towards him. The mechanism tripped a bell somewhere deep within. The bell rang again as the beetle retracted.

The door was a panel of liquid blackness poured into the night. The lights of Pall Mall danced wildly in it as it swung open.

A liveried servant peered out. When he had taken the measure of Quinn, his look of enquiry changed to one of disdain.

‘Is this the Panther Club?’

‘If you need to ask, the answer can be of no interest to you.’

Quinn produced his warrant badge. ‘Detective Inspector Quinn of the Special Crimes Department. Who’s in charge here?’ He didn’t wait for an answer before pushing the door fully open and striding past the doorman.

His actions had a restorative effect on Quinn. Making brusque demands, forcing entry, putting servants’ noses out of joint: it felt good to be behaving like a police officer again.

He did not remove his hat. In part, it was a deliberate gesture of defiance, a refusal to be cowed by the marbled opulence and Palladian scale of the grand foyer. His surroundings almost screamed at him to doff his hat, and – while he was at it – touch his forelock. In addition, Quinn was disconcerted by a pungent animal smell, so tangible and abrupt that it almost pounced on him the moment he was inside. There could be no thought of any act of deference in the presence of something so brutal.