The Revolutions (9 page)

Josephine couldn’t quite judge its size, because as soon as she started to think too closely about it she felt dizzy, and she had to hold on to the edge of the table. (Miss Shale, watching with one eye open, saw Josephine holding the table and followed suit, so as not to be left out).

From the far side of the room came the sharp sound of glass cracking.

Mrs Bloom started at the sound. She dropped her pen and it rolled off the table. Mr Innes got up in a hurry and moved about the room igniting the lamps, and gaslight banished whatever Josephine had seen or thought she’d seen.

Mrs Bloom sat veiled and very still at the head of the table. The pen had burst and her hand was soaked with ink, but she hadn’t flinched in the least; she had controlled herself utterly. Everyone else pushed back their chairs and inspected behind themselves and underneath the table for something broken, until Mrs Sedgley thought to pull back the curtains, revealing that one of the windows had a crack running down it from top to bottom.

“
Well
,” Bloom said, in a voice that silenced all whispers. “The spirits have made themselves known to us. But what is their message? Clearly they are agitated. I can see that I may have to prolong my visit to London; this investigation will be a challenging one.”

*   *   *

Josephine’s hands shook as she packed away her things.

On the way out she noticed that the mirror in the hallway was gone. In fact, now that she thought about it, the mirror in the drawing-room was gone too, replaced by a painting of some sheep. She asked Mrs Sedgley what had happened to them.

“Oh, yes. That was Lord Atwood’s idea. He says that mirrors are a way for evil influences to get in.”

“
Lord
Atwood?”

“Oh, my, yes.”

“Who is he, Esther?”

“Ah—that’s a question, isn’t it? He has a very interesting reputation—or so I’ve heard. I’ve heard it said that he was a close acquaintance of the late Duke—and one can plainly see that he’s a man of unusually penetrating and forward-thinking intelligence…”

Mrs Sedgley appeared uncharacteristically flustered, as if she couldn’t quite recall what she’d heard about Atwood, or where she’d heard it.

“Anyway, we’re very lucky that he’s taken such an interest in us—very lucky. Mr Sedgley would have been very proud. One in the eye for Mr Mathers’s lot—don’t you think?”

*   *   *

As Josephine hurried to catch the omnibus, she saw Atwood leaning against a lamp-post. When he took off his hat to her and smiled, she had no choice but to stop and say hello to him. “Well,” he said. “Miss Bradman—may I call you Josephine? What did you think?”

“Of what?”

“Bloom. A dull performance, no?”

“Dull?”

“Dull! Between you and me, Bloom doesn’t have a sensitive bone in her body. I can tell. She might just as well have stayed in New York.”

“I thought she was rather interesting.”

“I don’t think I’ll be visiting the old V.V. again. The whole thing’s been rather a bore, and it’s time to move on.”

“Mr Atwood—
Lord
Atwood—I consider Mrs Sedgley a friend.”

“I’m sorry, Josephine. I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget my manners. Which brings me to the matter of my apology. I don’t make them all that often—but I was rude when we last met. My eagerness got the better of me. And then I was terribly sorry to have to leave in such a hurry. As a matter of fact, I came to Bloom’s little show tonight hoping I might see you again. I meant it when I said that I was impressed by your poems. I should say that the editor of the
Theosophist
is a, well, an acquaintance of mine, at the least … not to mention old Stead…”

By Stead, she supposed he meant W. T. Stead, editor of
Borderland
, the fashionable new occult quarterly; he was dangling an offer. He held out his card to her.

“Arthur,” she said.

“Hmm? Oh yes. The young man. A friend of yours?”

“You sent him off to your—your accomplice in Deptford—”

Atwood shrugged. “He struck me as short of money. Was I wrong? I thought he could be put to use. Has he not been happy in Deptford?”

The fact was that she’d hardly seen Arthur in weeks. She was growing accustomed to his absence again—which pained her. Whatever he was doing for Mr Gracewell out in Deptford, it had begun to obsess him. He was released from it only at night and on occasional and unpredictable half-days. He was haggard, exhausted, snappish. Whatever strange telepathy they’d seemed to share was fading now—or perhaps it had never existed at all. Perhaps she’d imagined it; or perhaps she was imagining her current fears. She blamed Gracewell’s work for coming between them. She blamed money. The last time they’d walked out together, they’d quarrelled, fiercely. She’d probed; she’d said his new work worried her. Six pounds a week, he said, that was all he could say. He took offence; God knows what he thought she’d meant to insinuate. She made some little private joke, of the kind that not long ago would have made him laugh, and he took it badly. As if he didn’t have enough in his head, he said, without more little codes and puzzles …

Atwood was staring at her, waiting for a response.

“But what on earth is he doing there?”

“Work. For which he is no doubt well paid. You’d be wasted there, Josephine—I have a better use for your talents.”

She was getting a headache, and starting to lose her temper.

He leaned close. “What colour was it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What colour was it?”

She took him to be referring to the apparition in Mrs Sedgley’s drawing-room. “Red.”

He nodded, as if she’d confirmed something very important. “I would like to extend an invitation to you.”

He offered her his card again, and this time she took it. Then he put his hat back on.

“Sir—what happened tonight? Did you see it too?”

“She uses an electric light, Mrs Bloom.”

“Oh.”

“Well, you didn’t think it was real, did you? Red light, and an accomplice outside to throw stones at the window; and imagination does the rest. Yes? Or am I wrong?”

He whistled.

A cab waited idly on the street corner. The driver and the horse both perked up their heads at Atwood’s whistle, and the cab came round at a slow trot.

“For Miss Bradman,” he told the driver, counting out money. “Take her home—no, I insist—home, or wherever else she wants to go.”

He made to help her up into the cab, and she stiffened. He smiled, held out his hands as if to show that they were empty, and turned and walked off.

The driver watched Josephine with frank curiosity. His horse sniffed the air.

The card bore a Mayfair address. Nothing else.

THE

THIRD

DEGREE

{
Perdurabo
}

Chapter Seven

Notes on a mystery—begun April 3.

Strictly forbidden, of course, this writing. God forbid that the secrets of Mr Gracewell’s business should fall into the wrong hands. But if I can manage not to leave my journal on an omnibus in a fit of exhaustion, I expect all will be well.

—April 4

Let us begin with Mr Irving. It is to his service that I have been assigned, in Room 13. Christian name unknown. Somewhat menacing aspect—tall, heavy-shouldered, quite bald. Shuffles, heavy-footed. Taciturn. Always there in the morning when the men arrive, and always there at night when we depart. The look of the new schoolmaster, of whom one isn’t quite sure, who might have Done Things when he was a soldier. He is the Master of Rooms 11, 12, and 13. A veteran of the old Engine—of which more later.

His days are spent moving between the rooms of his domain, watching us as we work, as if he were invigilating an examination. From time to time he takes out his chalk and alters the instructions. He distributes the ledgers. He makes whispered reports on the telephone—the only time one sees him speak, presumably to Gracewell himself.

Every room has its own telephone! Extravagant beyond all reason.

—April 8

When I began a week ago, fourteen of the room’s fifty desks were occupied. The other Rooms—there are at least fourteen, not counting all the little store-rooms and cupboards—appear equally half-empty. Or half-full. We are undermanned.

By the middle of the week, our number had climbed to sixteen. Two of the new men brought news to us of Room 8, from which exotic location they had been transferred. “Same bloody thing, Shaw—different boss.” One quit; we are down to fifteen. Some of us were insurance clerks, or stockbroker’s clerks—young men of some education who labour under debts. Some are very poor; it is a miracle some of them can read or write at all; and yet we have writers of poetry, and painters, and we have would-be aesthetes who it seems to me do very little, but aspire to do it beautifully. We have all sorts; but all of us need money.

And in the various rooms there are men of what must surely be representatives of all the races of Man, or at least all that can be found in London. The Work obliterates all distinctions among men. On my left in Room 13 sits Mr Vaz, who I believe hails from the Portuguese province of Goa; I cannot say with certainty, because even he claims not to know his birthplace. Born at sea, as in Stevenson—a sailor. If half of what he says is true, then he has seen a good percentage of the Earth; and though he is no older than me, he claims to have been ship’s steward, cook, navigator, good-luck mascot, fortune-teller, diver, and nurse, at various times and in various far-flung locations. He speaks very good English and he claims to speak half a dozen other languages more or less well. His moustache is long and thin; he is short and thin. Quick to make conversation and a quick hand at the Work, which he says reminds him of his days working at a telegraph office in Mombasa.

To Mr Vaz’s left are five scowling and secretive Liverpudlians: Mr Harriot, who was once a solicitor’s clerk, and then a painter, and now works here; and Mr Morley, who is working on a novel about the grim life of the factory worker, and will tell you about it if you are not careful. On my right is a sandy-haired fellow called Simon, who says he is a medical student. He is sickly most of the time.

It is hot under electric light and we sweat like men in a foundry.

Rooms 6 and 9 and one or two others are occupied by women, barefoot and bareheaded like us, with whom we are forbidden to fraternise. Also an odd lot. Perhaps even odder.

A long omnibus journey in the dark and cold brings one down by the river at the building’s door by eight—at the latest, for we must be in our desks by half past or the whole great machinery might run wild—and there a mob of men and women remove their shoes and hats under the supervision of Mr Dimmick, who struts and shouts like a sergeant-major. A crush in the hallway as we sort ourselves into our various rooms and desks, where the ledgers and instructions await us. More in due course.

—April 10

The ledgers are thin, and bound with black card. Damnably cheap. What Gracewell spends on telephones and electric light he saves on paper and ink. They appear for the most part identical, except for a tiny row of numbers hidden away on the spine. I suppose these numbers mean something to Mr Irving. Somewhere there must be a ledger of ledgers, and perhaps a ledger of ledgers of ledgers.

Sometimes you might find the same ledger on your desk two days running, but rarely three, and most days the thing is new. At occasional intervals and at the end of the day Mr Irving will collect the work and transmit it upstairs by means of the dumbwaiter hatch in the corridor outside.

It was Vaz who brought the numbers on the spines to my attention. He shares my curiosity. He has been here longer than me.

“Once,” Vaz told me, “when we were idle, I asked to see everyone’s ledgers. The ledger I worked on the day before had ended up with the man at the back of the room—he’s gone now. All the others were different. After that I started keeping count. In my head. I have a good memory.”

“Excellent! I wish I did. And what have you learned?”

“Nothing, Mr Shaw. I can make no sense of it. Yet.”

Idle
is what we all call it when the Work stops for any reason; for instance, when Mr Irving shuffles into the room, wipes the board clean, hunches over the telephone for a few minutes, then chalks up new instructions.

—Friday

A half-day! An error in the calculations, transmitted like a disease through all the ledgers, requires a halt to work and Gracewell’s personal attention—God help the fellow responsible!

The Work—one can’t help but think of it that way, as if it were something religious—the Work continues on Saturdays and Sundays. I suppose that all the men have made their accommodations with their various gods. It seems to me that God in His infinite wisdom would understand that the Sabbath comes every week, but six pounds comes but rarely.

—April 15

We are counting something, calculating something, but not money; not insurance, or accounts, or banking—so far as I can tell. Someone is paying Mr Gracewell a very large sum of money to do it, though. Fifteen rooms, each one-third full: more than one hundred men and women. A telephone in each room. Electric light. I am too tired to add all this up, and my head aches terribly. To bed.

—April 16

At the front of the room, printed on a placard above the instructions, is the motto
PERDURABO.
Latin is not one of Mr Vaz’s many languages, and he was under the impression that it meant something to do with perdition and hell-fire. So was I, at first. But Mr Harriot has a classical education, and informs me that it means
I WILL ENDURE TO THE END.