The Society of Thirteen (4 page)

Chapter 8

The fourth envelope was addressed to a Mr G. Hayman, but when the orphans called on the door of his Soho town house, they were informed by the housekeeper that Mr Hayman was currently residing in Brighton. Since Lord Ringmore had issued strict instructions that the letter be delivered by the following evening, Esther asked for an address where he could be located. The housekeeper, a young woman with sharp blue eyes, replied that Mr G. Hayman did not want to be disturbed in Brighton, but the orphans were quite adamant and eventually she relented and furnished them with the address, requesting that they did not reveal it came from her.

Lord Ringmore had provided the orphans with money for train fares but as they had spent it on breakfast Tom suggested they sneak on board a train at London Bridge. They spent the journey hiding from the ticket inspector and, when the train pulled into Brighton, jumped off and easily outran the station guard. Outside the station, Esther asked a grocer for directions to the address while Tom stole a couple of pears to eat on the way.

‘Have you noticed how much easier swiping is dressed up all respectable like?' said Tom, as they walked up a steep hill.

‘Yeah, if you look like you've got money why would you steal?' said Esther.

‘I'd still steal even if I had all the money in the world,' said Tom. He took a large bite from his pear. ‘Swiped stuff tastes better than bought stuff.'

When they reached the address at the top of the hill, they pressed the bell for the upper-floor flat and waited until an upstairs window slid open.

‘Go away,' called a low voice.

‘We've a delivery for Mr G. Hayman,' said Esther.

‘Mr G. Hayman, the world renowned novelist hailed by the
New York Times
as one of the most important writers of a generation?' said the voice. There was something odd about its tone. There was an American accent, but it wasn't just that.

‘We have a letter for him,' said Esther. ‘We're to deliver it into his hand alone.'

‘Well, I'm afraid his hands are currently otherwise engaged in the act of writing his latest bestseller,' replied the odd voice.

‘People only write with one hand,' said Esther. ‘Perhaps he could use the other to take this letter then we can be on our way.'

‘Oh, for goodness' sake, wait there.'

The window slammed shut again and the orphans heard footsteps coming down the stairs. They saw a movement behind the frosted glass. They were expecting the silhouette to belong to Mr Hayman himself so it was a surprise when the door opened and they found themselves staring at an attractive young woman with neatly cropped hair and a smart, tailored gentleman's suit.

‘For all the deadly perils faced by my hero, I fear he will eventually fall foul of death by interruption,' snapped the woman. ‘Come on then, let's have this letter.'

‘I'm sorry, lady,' said Tom. ‘We've instructions to deliver it directly to Mr Hayman.'

The woman held out her hand. ‘I assure you that this is the hand you seek,' she said. ‘And if you continue to waste its time it will soon be clipping you around the ear.'

‘You ain't a fella,' said Tom. ‘You're a lady.'

The woman gasped with mock horror. ‘A lady?' she said. ‘You think a delicate lady's hand could have penned such richly woven classics as
The Contract of Alderly Edge
,
The Malmesbury Mystery
and
The Bloodstain of Boulge Hall
?'

‘I  … ' began Tom.

‘Tom,' said Esther. ‘I think this is Mr G. Hayman.'

‘At least one of you has a brain,' said the woman. ‘No surprises that it is the female.'

Tom sulkily handed over the letter.

The author opened it, quickly skimmed its contents and looked at the orphans. ‘I'll wager that Lord Ringmore is behind all this,' she said. ‘I swear he contrives to have more mystery and drama in his life than I could ever cram into one of my novels. Now, I'll have to ask you both to leave. If I am to make this appointment I will have to double my efforts to get this novel finished.'

She winked at Esther then slammed the door in their faces.

Chapter 9

When Miss Georgina Waters had first arrived in London ten years ago from New York she had been struck by the differences. If England was the motherland, she wondered, then why was it so relentlessly male in its attitudes? It had been her publisher's idea to use a male pseudonym for her first novel. She had spoken out vehemently against it at first but, since her fiction relied so heavily on elements of the supernatural, she saw the point that under female authorship, the critics could too easily dismiss her book as irrelevant fancy. Her publisher's instincts had proved sound.
The Contract of Alderly Edge
had been well reviewed, widely read and hugely profitable. With more successes she retained the name but it became less important to hide her true identity.

Over time, Georgina Waters had grown into the role of Mr G. Hayman. Sometimes she considered the author to be her greatest creation of all. Neither wholly man nor fully a woman, Mr G. Hayman was something different. Something new.

She was well accustomed to reactions such as that of the doorman at the club, who took her coat. His slow registering of the undeniable femininity of her shoulders, the embarrassed lowering of his gaze, subtly taking in the curve of the waist, emphasised rather than hidden by the bespoke suit, his inevitable furtive glance at her chest. Mr G. Hayman enjoyed the confusion she caused.

She did not wear such clothes as a disguise. She wore no false whiskers on her face. She dressed and acted precisely as she chose. She swanned into this exclusively gentlemen's club without apology. Her confidence gave her power over the poor confused males who struggled to reconcile her behaviour with the obvious evidence of her sex. As usual, the doorman's inner turmoil was all too obvious. Should he say something? He knew the rules dictated
No ladies,
but Mr G. Hayman's confidence caused him to doubt his own eyes.

‘Will sir be dining or drinking this evening?' asked the doorman, finally shutting out the part of his brain that told him this was a woman.

Mr G. Hayman showed him the invitation.

‘Very good, sir,' said the doorman. ‘You are expected in the study on the third floor. Someone will be up presently to take your drinks order.'

Mr G. Hayman nodded in thanks and made her way up the stairs, aware that the doorman would not be able to resist watching and that the sight of her posterior would be causing him yet more inner turmoil.

As with most of London's clubs, Mr G. Hayman found this one depressingly dark. The panelling was always made from the darkest wood. The lamps provided a gloomy atmosphere and the furniture was abysmally faded and worn. She used to believe London's clubs were like this for fear of waking their nearly dead members, but over time she had developed a new theory. These clubs provided sanctuaries where the wealthy and powerful could hide from the ever-changing world which daily encroached on their existence.

Outside the study on the third floor there stood a man as tall as the door frame itself. From his colouring and dress she took him to be a native of her own country. He took one look at the invitation in her hand and stood to the side.

Of the three men inside the study, she recognised only one.

‘Harry Clay,' she said. ‘Why, I should have guessed you'd be involved in this business.'

‘Mr G. Hayman,' replied Clay.

‘Mister  …  ?' said the older, larger of the other two gentlemen, who looked quite at home in this fusty old club.

‘Sir Tyrrell, Mr Symmonds, this is Mr G. Hayman, the critically acclaimed novelist who plunders the superstitions of our land and turns them into extremely profitable fiction.'

‘I am aware of your work. I had no idea you were  … ' Mr Symmonds faltered.

‘So young. Yes, I am often told as much,' said Mr G. Hayman.

‘John here also writes,' said Clay, continuing his adopted role of master of ceremonies.

‘My output is nowhere as imaginative as yours. My published books tackle the subject of linguistics,' said Mr Symmonds.

‘How many languages do you speak now, John?' asked Clay.

‘Ah well, one has to distinguish between a language and a dialect.'

‘Never one for a straight answer, is John,' said Mr Clay. ‘And this is Sir Tyrrell, high-ranking Member of Parliament and unashamed explorer of the occult.'

‘Pleased to meet you,' said Sir Tyrrell, who appeared to have recovered from his initial shock. ‘I actually read one of your novels. I found it most diverting.'

‘Thank you,' said Mr G. Hayman.

‘So here we all are,' said Clay. ‘A politician, a linguist, a novelist and an illusionist. It feels as if we are still lacking, wouldn't you say? My invitation referred to this as the Society of Thirteen.'

‘The title does not refer to our number.' Lord Ringmore stepped into the room, walking stick in hand.

‘Ah, our mystery summoner,' said Mr G. Hayman.

‘I am glad I was able to intrigue you all sufficiently to turn up at such short notice.' Lord Ringmore turned the key to lock the door behind him. ‘I know you are all busy people and I hope you know enough of me to understand that I would not waste your time.'

‘You and I have often disagreed on what constitutes a waste of time,' said Clay.

‘Indeed we have, Harry,' replied Lord Ringmore. ‘But tonight I am confident that I will reveal to you something truly astonishing.'

‘Going by the presence of Mr Hayman and Sir Tyrrell I presume we are talking matters of the occult, and you know where I stand on that subject,' said Clay.

‘I believe that even Harry Clay, the great sceptic, will be impressed,' said Lord Ringmore.

‘In my experience there's nothing more remarkable in the world than man's ability to believe remarkable things,' replied Clay.

‘A fact which you have exploited to great effect,' muttered Sir Tyrrell.

‘Mr Clay's dogged cynicism will help verify the validity of my discovery,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘But before we go any further I must ask that you all give me your solemn vow that nothing you learn here will ever be mentioned outside of this circle.'

‘You have my word,' said Sir Tyrrell.

‘And mine,' said Mr Symmonds.

‘Discretion is my middle name,' said Mr G. Hayman.

‘How can I promise not to speak of something I haven't seen yet?' asked Clay.

‘In which case, I offer you this caveat, Harry,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘You will not speak of anything you see this evening until you can satisfactorily explain it yourself.'

‘You mean while it remains a mystery it remains a secret,' summarised Clay. ‘Now, there's a deal I will happily accept.'

‘Good. You have been a great teacher to me in penetrating the trickery used by those who claim great powers for the sake of profit,' said Lord Ringmore.

‘What about me?' asked Mr Symmonds. ‘I have never expressed an opinion in spiritualism, one way or the other.'

‘No. Language is your passion, John,' replied Lord Ringmore. ‘And I'm hoping your linguistic skills will prove invaluable.'

‘So we all have parts to play in this game of yours?' asked Sir Tyrrell.

‘Each Society member will be expected to contribute,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘You, Sir Tyrrell, have accompanied me on many of my exploratory journeys, whereas no one is better read in the matters of all things supernatural than Mr G. Hayman.'

‘And what do you bring, Ringmore?' asked Mr G. Hayman. ‘Other than the obvious flair for mystery and melodrama?'

‘A discovery.' Lord Ringmore pulled out from his cloak a book, which he threw onto a table between them.

‘You've discovered a book. Well done you,' said Clay, offering a slow hand-clap.

Mr Symmonds picked it up. He examined the shape on the back and the number on the front. ‘I'm guessing these numerals are the reason for the Society's name?' he said.

‘Thirteen,' said Mr G. Hayman, thoughtfully.

‘I have gathered you to help me decipher this book and its meaning,' said Lord Ringmore.

Mr Symmonds leafed through the pages. ‘This is no language. It is a collection of shapes.'

‘Is the written word not formed of shapes?' asked Lord Ringmore.

‘Yes, but if this is a language I see no influence of Latin, Celtic nor any Scandinavian languages. I would have to consult my books on Arabic and African script but  … '

‘Perhaps I would be better suited to deciphering it,' said Sir Tyrrell. ‘After all, I have dedicated a great many hours to the study of magical languages, reading runes and suchlike.'

‘Magical languages.' Mr Symmonds snorted.

Clay laughed. ‘Yes. Why on earth are we to believe that this is anything but a child's scribbling pad? No, don't tell me. It was sold to you by a Welsh druid who held a staff and spoke in tongues?'

Lord Ringmore smiled patiently. ‘Please, Mr Symmonds,' he said. ‘Would you be so kind as to hand the book around. Let everyone have a look.'

John Symmonds did as he was asked and the book was passed from hand to hand until it reached Clay.

‘Any thoughts?' asked Lord Ringmore.

‘It certainly has age,' said Mr G. Hayman. ‘Also, the number thirteen reminds me of something I have come across in my research.'

‘Yes. It is unlucky for some,' said Sir Tyrrell.

‘Many of our superstitions have their roots in magical lore,' said Mr G. Hayman. ‘I will consult my notes regarding this book, but I'm afraid at present I am edging towards Clay's cynicism.'

‘Then let us return to basics,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘From what material would you say it was made?'

‘Aren't all books made from paper?' asked Sir Tyrrell. ‘Now really, what is the point of all this, Ringmore?'

‘Paper rips, does it not?' replied Lord Ringmore. ‘Mr Clay, perhaps you would care to tear a page out of the book?'

‘With pleasure,' replied Clay. He took a page in his hand and tugged, but the book remained intact. He tried to tear a page. He tried another but none would come free from the book. Nor could he make even the smallest rip on the paper. ‘A very neat trick,' he admitted. ‘I'm guessing some kind of rubberised solution has been added to the book. I could definitely use a prop like this in my show.'

‘You are probably right that this is a counterfeit sold to me by a trickster,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘In fact, why don't you do us all a favour and toss the book into the fire?'

The others stared at Lord Ringmore.

‘Into the fire?' said Clay.

‘Into the fire,' stated Lord Ringmore.

‘Very well.'

Clay threw the book into the fireplace. The yellow flames shot up as it landed on the smouldering wood.

‘What a curious evening's entertainment this is,' said Mr Symmonds.

‘Your curiosity is the least of my goals.' Lord Ringmore picked up a pair of tongs, lifted the book from the flames and dropped it back onto the table. To the astonishment of everyone in the room, the book looked exactly as it had before it was thrown into the fire. The paper was not blackened or burnt, and there was not even a blemish on it, nor anything to suggest that it had just been at the centre of a roaring fire. Mr G. Hayman picked up the book again.

‘It's not even warm,' she said.

Lord Ringmore smiled. ‘The Society of Thirteen has been formed to investigate this remarkable object. I believe that such an inquiry will reveal the truth about magic. With the combined investigative minds and the resources at our disposal, I think we can penetrate the secrets of this book.'

‘The book has my interest and you have my silence,' said Mr Clay.

‘Excellent,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘It is vital that no word is spoken of this outside our circle. Mr Symmonds' man may accompany him as there is no danger of his overhearing, but I ask that you only speak of these matters when in a safe and secure environment. Trust no one. Magic disappeared from our land many centuries ago. If we are to reawaken its power, we must do so with great caution. Now, I suggest that we go downstairs and eat. I have a private dining room reserved and we must discuss the way to progress. I should like Mr Symmonds to take the book first so that he may attempt to discover its meaning.' Lord Ringmore slipped the book back into his cloak and led the others out of the room.

With the study empty, the only movement in the room was the gentle flickering of the fire, until the doors of a cabinet burst open and Tom and Esther crawled out from their hiding place.