The Society of Thirteen (6 page)

Chapter 12

Mondriat landed on the rooftop and peered over the edge. The black cat had gone again. What was it about that cat? he wondered. A gust of icy cold wind sent a cloud of black smoke from a nearby chimney in his direction, making him shiver and cough. He hopped along the roof to escape the smoke.

Coughing was a funny thing. He had never seen any other birds do it, but every revolting feathered body Mondriat had inhabited over the years had been the same. They shivered and coughed and choked. They even sneezed. He felt the bitterness of life in a way animals did not. Such was the curse of the familiar, he thought, to experience all the pain of humanity without any of the benefits.

Looking down at the square, he saw the orphan girl retreat to her hiding place. He wondered what he had been thinking, trying to speak to her like that. He hadn't really expected her to understand him, but was still disappointed when she had turned to look at him and said the three words he detested most in the world.

‘Morning Mister Magpie.'

Given the tirade of abuse that he'd hurled at her, it was probably a good thing that the girl had not been able to understand. But still, the orphans interested him greatly. Why were they watching the book too? This whole business was intriguing. And how wonderful to be intrigued, after all this time.

Since being confined to these decaying animal bodies, the world had been an interminably dull, flat place. Mondriat chose birds' bodies because he liked being able to fly but, as time dragged on, he had often contemplated flying into the side of a building and ending it all. It was only his high self-regard and strong aversion to pain that prevented him from going through with it. Instead, he clung onto this pitiful existence in the hope that one day he might experience the splendour and magnificence of Conjury again. Having played his own part in its demise he lived to see it return.

The book offered this opportunity. After far too long spent living on worms and squabbling with pigeons over scraps, finally it would all be worthwhile.

The book had first come to Mondriat's attention a few weeks ago when he had felt something different in London's stale air. He had stretched his wings and taken to the sky, where he saw a glow more wonderful than any sunset. More colourful than a rainbow. More hopeful than the song of a lark. London's drab inhabitants were utterly oblivious to its splendour but, to Mondriat, it was unmistakable and utterly breathtaking. At long last his tired eyes were witnessing the ripples of pure Conjury.

He had immediately begun to search out the cause of this shift. Could a Conjuror have arrived from a distant land? Or perhaps someone had performed the Creation Spell by accident? Flying over the city he had discovered that the disturbances had come from the smouldering remains of a burnt-out shop, south of the river. Mondriat had watched from a nearby roof, tail twitching excitedly until he saw the unfortunate shop owner enter the building, loudly bemoaning his misfortune and searching for any items that had survived the incineration. When this man had emerged clutching a book, Mondriat knew he had found the source. The book's protective spell must have lain dormant all these years but, when endangered by the fire, the Conjury had awoken to protect it.

The black cat had been prowling around there then, too. Could it really be a coincidence? How did all this fit together? The book. The orphans. The Lord. The cat. Whatever was going on, Mondriat was determined to learn the truth and, if at all possible, turn it to his own advantage.

Chapter 13

Lord Ringmore sat in the upstairs study of the club, watching the flickering fire. As the clock chimed the ninth hour, he pulled out his pocket watch to confirm its accuracy and considered his wisdom in leaving so much in the hands of a pair of ragged street orphans. Thankfully, his faith was restored when all four remaining Society members entered the room within five minutes of each other.

‘We meet again so soon?' said Clay. ‘Could it be that the great John Symmonds has penetrated the secrets of this book already?'

‘I have made some good copies but I'm afraid I am still at very early stages,' said Mr Symmonds. ‘At this point I am still ruling things out. Having dismissed Latin, Greek, German and Celtic, I have been scouring what I can find on Asian, African and Arabic for some kind of connection, but with no joy as of yet. I am still doubtful that we are dealing with a language at all. Even the pictorial texts, such as ancient Egypt's hieroglyphics, involve more systematic repetition than is found in this book.'

‘Perhaps it would be better to leave the decoding to those of us who have greater experience in the area,' said Sir Tyrrell.

‘Oh, yes,' said Clay. ‘Sir Tyrrell is fluent in the ancient language of Hoaxus Pocus.'

‘And what qualifications have you, other than the ability to repeatedly escape from tampered locks?' said Sir Tyrrell.

‘Tampered?' exclaimed Clay. ‘I've sued men for saying so.'

‘Gentlemen, please,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘This bickering will achieve nothing. Everyone will get a chance to examine the book. In the meantime, I have called this meeting because Mr Hayman has new information.'

‘Thank you, Lord Ringmore.' Mr G. Hayman stood up and bid the others sit. ‘Society members, I have spent many years delving into the true history of your little island as research for my novel writing.'

Sir Tyrrell snorted derisively. ‘Forgive me, but I hardly think your novels the first port of call when one seeks an accurate account of our rich history. As I recall from the one I read, you misplaced several of our key battles both in time and place.'

‘Well, yes,' said Mr G. Hayman. ‘I'm sure when you think of history you think of that which has been written down in books, but the history of England is more than a list of squabbling kings and queens. It is more than an account of every battle won and lost. I have precious little interest in these petty skirmishes.'

‘So I have noticed,' said Sir Tyrrell.

‘What interests me is the undocumented history,' continued Mr G. Hayman. ‘The history that is passed down in memory and folklore. I have travelled the length and breadth of the British Isles and everywhere I go, I search for those who remember, but whose voices are rarely heard.' She pulled out of her bag a pile of bound notepads.

‘Which voices are those then?' demanded Sir Tyrrell.

‘Mostly, female voices.' Mr G. Hayman opened one of the books to a page filled with reams of neatly written notes, diagrams and pictures. ‘In every village and town I visit I interview the elders about the things which they remember and the things they have heard. The real stories of this land are not of the battlefields but of the dark, secluded corners where strange things occur, the places where superstitions lurk and folklore thrives. This is where one may discover the truth about the practitioners of magic who were once commonplace in this land, known amongst themselves as the Infected.'

‘
Infected
?' repeated Sir Tyrrell. ‘Infected with what?'

‘It's said they were infected with a substance they call the lifeblood, a source of power that flows directly from the Earthsoul.'

‘I hadn't realised we were here to listen to fairy stories,' said Clay.

‘The natural inclination to doubt these things has always been encouraged by those who know the truth. The power the Infected wielded was phenomenal, but it was nothing without secrecy. In your version of history the Infected are shadows, hidden behind the puppet figures they manipulated.'

‘And what have these notes of yours to tell us about our durable little book?' asked Sir Tyrrell.

‘When I first saw this book it brought to mind an object I had once been told about, but I had to check my research to be sure.' Mr G. Hayman flicked to a page where she had written the number thirteen and drawn a box around it. ‘It is known as
The Book of Thirteen
and it was written by Olwyn Broe.'

‘Should we know the name?' asked Clay.

‘She was a Conjuress,' replied Mr G. Hayman. ‘What you might call a witch.'

‘Do we know what this book was used for?' asked Lord Ringmore.

‘I'm still looking into that, but the stories of
The Book of Thirteen
match the book in our possession. You see, it is named after the numbers which adorn its cover  …  the number thirteen.'

‘None of this is much use if we can't read it,' said Clay.

‘Hopefully Mr Symmonds will soon be able to help with that,' said Lord Ringmore.

John Symmonds gave a noncommittal grunt.

‘Why thirteen?' asked Sir Tyrrell.

‘I don't yet know,' replied Mr G. Hayman. ‘Black cats, smashed mirrors, unlucky number thirteen. All of these things have real meaning and
The
Book of Thirteen
is our connection to them all.'

‘I still haven't heard anything but speculation,' said Clay.

‘Which must mean it's your turn to step up, Harry,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘While Mr Symmonds is delving into the book's meaning and Mr Hayman continues to search for its place in our history, we need you to investigate the book's qualities and ensure that it is not a fake.'

‘With pleasure. Hand it over then,' replied Clay.

‘The book is currently under lock and key in my house,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘You will accompany me there once our meeting has concluded to collect it. Then you can subject it to your most rigorous investigations.'

‘Very well,' said Clay, ‘but I warn you, I have never met a medium, magician or conjuror who has been able to convince me of the existence of anything genuinely magical. As you're so enjoying this fantasy of yours, are you sure you want me to shatter it?'

‘We seek the truth,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘The truth about life, about death and about magic.'

‘And what about me?' said Sir Tyrrell. ‘You appear to have passed over all researching duties to this novelist.'

‘If you wish to help me, Sir Tyrrell,' said Mr G. Hayman, ‘I would warmly welcome your involvement. I am to meet one of my interview subjects tomorrow. Perhaps you could join me.'

Sir Tyrrell let out a small harrumph in apparent acceptance of the invitation.

‘Excellent. Then we all have our roles,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘Every one of us will contribute and every one of us will benefit. We have in our possession a key that will unlock doors you haven't even dared to dream exist. Let us progress wisely.'

Chapter 14

The orphans looked up at the sliver of light from the gap between the thick velvet curtains of the gentlemen's club study. Had there been time to slip inside, they would be benefitting from the warmth of the fire, but Tom had arrived late so they were stuck out in the cold, listening to each other's chattering teeth.

‘What do you think they're talking about?' asked Esther.

‘Who cares?' said Tom. ‘We need to get our money and move on.'

‘Lord Ringmore said there would be more tasks.'

‘I say we get out while we're up and leave them to their silly society,' said Tom.

‘Are you completely Bedlam?' demanded Esther. ‘This is a good thing we're on to.'

‘Running around London for a couple of coins whenever Lord Top Hat decides to throw them our way?' said Tom. ‘It ain't much better than begging.'

‘Don't you want to know about the book though?' said Esther. ‘All that stuff we overhead them say before. What if it's true?'

‘What? Magic?' scoffed Tom. ‘And you call
me
mad!'

‘Why not? All them miracles the nuns used to bang on about, what were they if not magic?'

‘That's the Bible. It's different,' argued Tom. ‘And this business has got nothing to do with us.'

‘Since when did we let that get in our way?' asked Esther.

‘We have options. There are other ways to get by.'

‘What ways? What options?' Esther turned to face Tom. He tried to look away but she refused to let him. She could see he was hiding something. She would find out what if she had to shake it out of him. ‘What is it?' she demanded. ‘You've been acting odd since this morning. What happened while you were following the Indian?'

‘Nothing. Nothing happened.'

‘I don't believe you. Tell me what.'

Tom met her gaze. ‘All right, so I bumped into Hardy,' he admitted. ‘So what?'

‘Hardy? What did he do to you?'

‘He threatened me is all.'

‘But you got away?'

‘Yes  … ' Tom hated it when Esther spoke to him as though she was his mother. ‘I told him about Ringmore. I couldn't see it would do any harm. I thought it might even make him lay off a bit.'

‘Did it?' said Esther.

‘It will now. I done a deal, you see,' said Tom. ‘I went to see him again just now. Everything's going to be all right. That's why I was late here.'

‘What deal?'

‘A deal to keep him off our backs. We'll be safe from him now.'

‘What have you done, Tom?'

‘I told him about Ringmore's house being empty tonight is all. He'll go and clear it out and we'll get our cut and then he'll leave us alone. You see? I done good, didn't I Est?'

‘
Good
?' exclaimed Esther. ‘Ringmore will know it was us!'

Tom shrugged. ‘So we'll get our money when he comes out here, then disappear. Ringmore won't send the coppers after us. You've seen how secretive he is about everything.'

‘We've got to tell him.' Esther made to cross the road but Tom grabbed her hand and dragged her back, almost pulling her arm free from its socket.

‘Tell him?' said Tom. ‘Have you lost your mind? What are you going to tell him?'

‘I'm going to tell him he needs to send the coppers round.'

‘You can't. They'll find Hardy there.'

‘Good. He deserves to swing.'

‘He'll get away. You know he will, Est. Then he'll come looking for us. He'll kill us. There's nothing we can do now. It's done, Est. It's done.'

Esther stared angrily at Tom. She knew he was right. She looked up at the study window where silhouettes shifted behind the thick curtains. ‘He trusted us,' she said. ‘And you've betrayed him.'

‘You seen how quick he was to raise his stick when I asked the wrong question. He's using us and when he's finished he'll throw us to the dogs. We're nothing to him, people like us.'

‘You're right. We are nothing, but he was giving us a chance to be something.'

‘Chances get taken, not given.'

Esther knew she couldn't win the argument. Tom was too stubborn and it was too late. They had betrayed Lord Ringmore and that was that.