The Iscariot Sanction (2 page)

‘My lord, it appears that you have taken offence at my terms of business,’ the Artist said, still smiling. ‘I shall forgive the transgression, though, for I know how vexing it can be when all that you hold dear depends upon a wild throw of the dice. You have your answer, and if you persist upon the course that you have set, the outcome is clear. If you wish to commission further works, I will be waiting.’

I will be waiting.
Was it de Montfort’s imagination, or were those last words delivered with a devilish gleam in the eyes? He could scarce believe the Artist’s audacity. De Montfort would have gladly torn apart all in the room if he thought it would uncover the answers he sought; but there was something unsettling about the Artist’s certainty. Some trick, perhaps… this time, discretion would win out. But one day the Artist would get his just deserts—de Montfort was no soothsayer, but he saw that part of the future plain enough. Satisfied by these thoughts, he relaxed, and the guards lowered their wicked knives, visibly relieved.

At least they are terrified
, de Montfort thought.
Good. They should be.

‘I… apologise for my quick temper. I will take the painting and complete our transaction. If there is more work to be done, I shall contact you presently. Rest assured, I always know where to find you.’

* * *

The whore giggled again. Sally, was that her name? Or was it Molly? De Montfort could not recall, and at this stage in their relationship, it mattered not.

He pressed her up against the rough brick wall of the cellar. She smelled of corruption, fitting right into the dark, dank chamber. He brushed his lips across her throat; squeezed her thigh just above her garter. He could feel the gooseflesh of her skin, the thrumming of the blood in her veins. His nerves jangled for a moment… he had to stay in control. She was his no longer.

‘You’re so cold, guv,’ she squealed as his hand slipped beneath her bustle. ‘I bet I can warm you up.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said de Montfort, his voice as cold as his flesh. He withdrew half a step from the bang-tail. Her silly laugh repulsed him. He was drawn to the warmth of her body, but he was beyond carnal desire. He had his orders.

‘’Ere, what do you mean? Come on, lover, don’t go shy on me now. I mean, I know you’re a gent and all, but I can’t be your first…’

The words died on her lips, along with her smile. De Montfort had removed his tinted spectacles, and allowed her to gaze into his eyes for the first time. The glasses must have seemed at first an affectation, but now the girl saw that they hid something peculiar. His eyes gleamed in the half-light, the way that torchlight shines off a fox’s eyes. Like all de Montfort’s kind, his shone violet.

‘Oh, I don’t mean to be coy,’ he said. ‘It’s just that you aren’t mine. You’re for my friends—my cousins, actually.’

The wench suppressed a sob. De Montfort relaxed his hypnotic hold over her a fraction, allowing her to become abruptly aware of her precarious situation. She blinked and looked around, seeing the cellar as if for the first time, snagging her tousled hair on the rough mortar of the wall behind her.

‘I want to leave now,’ she said. ‘This ain’t what you paid for.’

As she made to move past de Montfort, he put a hand to her chest and pushed her back towards the wall, gently but firmly. Her eyes darted around, panicked.

De Montfort leaned in to her. ‘My dear, if it is remuneration you desire, I am sure I can give you more than you bargained for; do not worry on that score.’

He reached past her with his free hand, and her eyes followed, widening as she noticed at last the heavy, studded door behind them. De Montfort unlatched it, opening it to reveal utter blackness beyond. A draught blew through the doorway, carrying with it the rank smell of damp earth and a strong, metallic tang that de Montfort could taste on the air, like carcasses in a butcher’s market.

The girl’s eyes grew wild. This was the kind of thing her friends whispered of in the doss-houses; the kind of thing that always happened to someone else, never to them. Only it was happening now, to her. There came from the dark void the sound of clinking chains, and a low, rumbling growl. Panic grew in the girl. She lashed out, but de Montfort was immovable as stone. She clawed at him, and managed to dig a nail into his face, where a lump of his pale white flesh peeled away beneath her fingernail, yet no blood spilled from the wound. He slammed her against the wall before turning his violet eyes upon her once again.

‘Please…’ she sobbed. Her shoulders sank. The best she could hope for was that his ‘friends’ would take their pleasure and turn her out onto the streets. But she must have known in her heart that this was not the game they were playing. De Montfort savoured the moment—the confused mess of defeat and resignation to a dark fate, coupled as always with the glimmer of hope that all men and women carried with them to the very end.

‘Shh… enough of that. I would like nothing more than to ease your suffering. I am ashamed to say it is in my power to do so; but my kin are not like me. They need your fear.’ He leaned close again, letting her smell the grave-scent that lay beneath his fine cologne and shirt-starch. He looked her in the eyes one last time. ‘Fear… sweetens the meat.’

He flung the girl bodily through the door with a mighty sweep of his arm. Her scream echoed around the subterranean tunnels beyond, and was joined by bestial snarls. De Montfort shut the door against the noise, latching and barring it quickly. He put his back to the door and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

‘Degenerates…’ he whispered, with distaste. ‘But perhaps there is hope for them yet.’

He turned, calmness returning as the frenzied sounds subsided. De Montfort touched a hand to the aged wood, running his fingers over the iron studs. He recalled the words of the Artist, and smiled as he recited under his breath:

‘Thou shalt hear the “Never, never,” whisper’d by the phantom years; And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears; And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy rest again.’

De Montfort smiled thinly. Yes, one should never show Tsun Pen one’s full hand.

16TH AUGUST 1858
—The Fox family consisted of the mother and three sisters, one of whom, Mrs. Fish, was a widow. The rapping performances of the two youngest sisters, Catherine and Margaret Fox, gifted mediums, it seemed, commenced at Hydesville, an obscure village in Wayne County, New York, within a few miles of the spot where the Mormon apostle Joseph Smith found the Golden Plates. For some time their art was the wonder of that neighbourhood, and crowds were wont to collect, chiefly on Sundays, to witness its exercise. But somehow the miracle grew unpopular, and the family removed to Rochester, where their peculiar gift soon began to attract attention. Strange stories were told of secrets revealed, and fates foretold. Each of the sisters was a medium, through whose agency the spirits of the dead conveyed information by alphabetic raps on the floor and upon tables. Committees of leading citizens were appointed, who reported that they heard sounds, but could not tell whence they came. To be sure, there were not lacking statements of fraud discovered and exposed, but the public ear was never open to this side of the question. It craved miracles, and got them in abundance.

The extent to which table-rapping has been carried, not only in this country but in Europe, is one of the greatest marvels of the century; and the phenomena which were first discovered by this family are still a puzzle to philosophers.

‘Everything is ready as you requested, sir,’ said Mrs. Bailey. She sounded weary. She had been working all day to dress the drawing room for Sir Arthur Furnival’s latest soirée. Velvet drapes ran floor to ceiling, gathered double like something from the Lyceum stage, while long tables were adorned with black cloths and silver candlesticks were dotted about the room, supporting a hundred candles.

‘Splendid!’ Sir Arthur replied. ‘That will be all for now, Mrs. Bailey. My thanks again for working so hard at such short notice.’

The middle-aged woman made a small curtsey and left the room. Sir Arthur continued fiddling with his cravat, when finally he saw in the mirror his valet enter the room.

‘Ah, Jenkins, there you are. Be a good fellow and help with this cravat. It really is proving quite irksome today.’

Jenkins looked grave, and strode forward with a letter in his hand. ‘I’m terribly sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘but I think preparations might have to wait. This just came for you.’

Sir Arthur took the letter, and knew instantly what it was. The wax seal on the envelope was imprinted with a cameo of Apollo, and that could mean only one thing. He tore it open while Jenkins adjusted the cravat. Within moments he looked quite dapper again, but his spirits were somewhat deflated.

‘I think you had better send apologies to my guests, Jenkins,’ said Sir Arthur. ‘I simply can’t conduct a séance the day before an assignment.’

‘Of course, sir. It does so take it out of you at the best of times, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘Oh, don’t fuss, Jenkins,’ Sir Arthur chided. But his valet was right. Sir Arthur’s powers as a medium were celebrated amongst London’s intelligentsia, but it was a dangerous path that he trod. And a lonely one at that—beyond the séances and club meetings, he was shunned by society, as were all his kind. And normal folk were right to do so, for since the Awakening the path of the psychic had proven to be fraught with danger. How he longed for those days when he’d simply been the awkward boy with ‘unusual’ talents. It had been frightening at the time, but at least then the world had been ordinary. Who would not crave a little of the ordinary in these troubled times? But what was done was done. He tried to push such thoughts aside, and focus on the here and now. ‘By the way, Jenkins,’ he said at last, ‘did you enquire as to who my assistant might be this time?’ Over the years, Jenkins had almost become as much a member of Apollo Lycea as Sir Arthur himself, and his inside track with the club’s messengers and servants proved most useful.

‘Yes sir,’ and again Jenkins looked most serious. ‘It is Miss Hardwick, sir.’

Sir Arthur sighed, and sat down in his favourite armchair to read the letter more carefully. ‘After the last time, I’m surprised the old goat lets his daughter anywhere near me. Although it was she who damn near got me killed.’

‘And saved your life, sir,’ Jenkins reminded his master, helpfully.

‘Yes, that too,’ Sir Arthur muttered. He looked up at his valet, a sense of foreboding creeping over him. ‘I need to prepare myself. Send word to the guests first; tell Mrs. Bailey she is excused for the evening, and give her my apologies. In fact, best not mention that the séance is cancelled; the poor woman has worked very hard today. And then prepare my case.’

‘Very good, sir. You’ll be needing etherium, I take it? How much shall I pack?’

Sir Arthur’s eyes blazed for an instant before he replied, coolly, ‘If they’re sending me out with Lillian Hardwick, you’d best pack it all.’

The twenty-one candles atop Lillian Hardwick’s cake had barely stopped smouldering when the telegram arrived. Silence had descended upon the little dining room, broken only by the occasional clattering of plates as the servants cleared the table.

Whilst the party guests sat uncomfortably next door in awkward silence, Dora stood at the foot of the stairs in the hallway that now seemed too large and empty for her, wringing her hands with worry for her only daughter. She had urged Lillian not to go; not right away at least. But her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Lillian was her father’s daughter, and duty always came before… before anything, really.

Lillian finally emerged onto the landing. She wore a severe black uniform, which replaced the crimson party gown she had been so reluctant to wear. Dora hated the way her daughter dressed for her work—hated the fact that she had to do such work at all—but there was no point in arguing the point again. Instead she steeled herself for the goodbyes, and watched resignedly as her beautiful girl descended the stairs. Dora pretended not to notice that Lillian scarcely looked her in the eye. When she stepped into the hall, Dora instinctively fussed over her daughter’s hair, trying to push a loose, dark brown ringlet back beneath her hat. Lillian, just as instinctively, leaned away. Dora wondered, as she often did, when exactly Lillian had stopped being her carefree little girl. Looking at the agent before her, bedecked in a fitted black dress and stern coatee, Mrs. Hardwick wondered if her daughter had ever been the way she remembered at all.

‘Will you not at least say a proper goodbye to our guests?’ Dora asked, trying once more to delay her daughter’s departure, on this day of all days. ‘Savill has come all the way from Kedleston, after all.’

‘Mama,’ replied Lillian, firmly, ‘there is not one of our guests who would approve of my occupation, nor even of my attire. I will ask you to say my goodbyes for me, and to apologise for me if you desire. And as for Savill, if we were ever to be a match, do you think it would really work? Could he be husband to an agent of the Crown?’