Ancient Appetites (11 page)

He handed Nathaniel an envelope.

'And you're only giving it to me now?' Nate asked.

'My apologies, sir, but Master Marcus made it very clear that you were to receive it alone.'

His heart pounding, Nate ushered the footman into his living room and tore open the envelope. There was a folded piece of notepaper inside. This was it, he was sure. The key to explaining Marcus's death. His eyes flicked down over it. Written on the paper in Marcus's neat, flowing script, were the words:

Find Babylon

He did not realize he was holding his breath until he let out a yell of frustration.

'That's it?! Those are his last words? What the bloody hell's Babylon got to do with anything?'

'I'm sure I wouldn't know, sir,' Winters replied.

D
aisy Wildenstern was no stranger to death. With all the new steam-driven machines, industrial accidents were becoming a new and increasingly common way for poorer people to pass on into the next world, while common illnesses and poor nutrition still claimed huge numbers of their children every year. The Grim Reaper showed a stubborn defiance of modern medicine, striking down even the noblest members of society with terrifying diseases such as typhoid, smallpox and tuberculosis. Funerals were a common sight in Victorian Ireland.

And they were expensive. Daisy's father was a self-made man, a former draper's assistant who had started with next to nothing and gone on to make his fortune. She remembered when one of her older sisters had died of influenza at the age of twelve, the family had nearly bankrupted itself to pay for a decent Christian funeral. Society judged people on how they buried their dead. Struggling families would often go hungry so they could put money aside in case their children should die. Anything to avoid the disgrace of a pauper's burial.

Perhaps it was because of her humble origins that Daisy felt uncomfortable sitting in the coach with her husband as it followed the hearse from the house to the family's church. Or perhaps it was the obscene, overwhelming pomp with which the Wildensterns were burying their favourite son.

For a start, the coaches for carrying the mourners were completely unnecessary. The road that wound round the hill from the house to the church was little more than a mile long – an easy walk, and one that Daisy did every Sunday unless there was inclement weather. She could have walked it faster too, but a more rapid procession would have given the spectators less to see. The lampposts that stood along the road were hung with wreaths and under them, standing along each side in orderly lines, were the workmen from the railroad – the 'navvies', as they were called. They were a strange breed – a culture unto themselves, dressed in velveteen coats, their felt hats held to their chests as the funeral procession passed.

The hearse resembled some kind of devil's flowerbed, laden with elaborate wreaths and black velvet and dressed with a mass of black ostrich feathers. The horses too wore sprays of the bushy plumage. The coffin was barely visible through the glass sides, but Daisy knew it had cost more than most middle-class people made in a year. Attendants walked solemnly alongside the coaches, wearing long black tail coats, tall-crowned hats and black gloves. The whole procession was led by mutes dressed in gowns and carrying wands. Marcus was being laid to rest with all the ceremony of a state funeral. Daisy wondered if Queen Victoria – when she eventually gave up the ghost – would be treated with such honour.

There must have been a thousand people lining the road and around the church, come to pay their respects. Even the weather seemed to have submitted to the Wildensterns' grief, with swollen grey clouds hanging in a brooding sky. Daisy had been given an ostrich-feather fan with a tortoiseshell handle and she waved it in front of her. She wished for rain, if only to clear the muggy air.

Along the edges of the crowd were armed guards, and she knew there were more dressed in plain clothes among the spectators. Most of the important men of Ireland were gathered here today and many feared an attack by the new rebel organization that had emerged recently – the so-called 'Fenians', named after the legendary Irish warriors, the
Fianna.
To her it seemed slightly absurd; the family had marginally less power than God in this country and the greatest threats to their safety were their own relatives. But she still found herself feeling nervous. If Marcus's death had not been an accident, whoever had done away with him might well have their sights set on Roberto.

She sat in the lead mourner's coach with her husband and Edgar. There were no horses drawing this vehicle; instead, four velocycles pulled at the harness, trained to move with their engines silenced. None were as impressive as Nathaniel's beast but the engimals still drew stares. Because of the Patriarch's great bulk, Nathaniel and Tatiana had been forced to take the second coach. The blinds were drawn and it was just as well, for Roberto could not contain himself; his body was racked with sobs, and tears streamed down his face. Daisy had never seen Edgar show any emotion other than a kind of muted pleasure or bursts of intimidating anger, but today he too was different. His face was impassive but his head was slumped on his chest and his breath heaved in and out like ocean waves. His sunken eyes were rimmed with red. She gazed through her veil at this implacable brute of a man and realized that he had truly loved his son.

They disembarked at the church and the coffin was lifted from the hearse and carried in on the shoulders of six footmen especially chosen for their uniform height and looks. Daisy took Roberto's arm and walked inside with him as he struggled to compose himself. Nathaniel and Tatiana followed them, and she could hear Tatty's shuddering breaths at her back. Edgar ignored them all completely, limping on his cane just behind the coffin.

Behind Nate and Tatty walked Edgar's brother Gideon with his wife, Eunice. Daisy hated them both with a passion. Even now they wore masses of gold jewellery when everybody else had dressed in sober colours, the women trading gold and silver for jet necklaces and brooches. Like the other Wildensterns, Gideon and Eunice believed that the precious metal had healing properties. But they took this belief to extraordinary lengths; clinging to the hope that draping themselves in gold would grant them long life despite their enormous appetites for rich foods and their sloth-like lifestyle. After them came their gaggle of obnoxious offspring – five sons who were the image of their father and reflected all of his worst qualities. Then there was Edgar's deaf sister, Elvira, a footman pushing her in her wheelchair while she tried to pick up snippets of conversation with her listening horn. Alongside her walked the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland – the Queen's representative, sometimes known as the Viceroy – and then, behind them, a great horde of other relatives Daisy still did not know. No doubt they were all wondering how Marcus's death would change their positions within the family.

She heard very little of the archbishop's sermon as she was kept busy throughout, comforting Tatiana on one side of her and Roberto on the other. Nathaniel sat motionless, staring at the coffin with an expression that was almost hostile. He looked more like a man who had been denied revenge than one grieving for his brother. The archbishop's voice droned on and on, echoing like the voice of God in the stone confines of the church, adding to the sense of menace that Daisy had been feeling for most of the day. It was as if the weight of the Wildensterns' brooding grief was crushing her in its attempts to gain release.

After the archbishop was finished, both Nathaniel and Roberto walked up to the pulpit to give eulogies. Nathaniel spoke briefly but touchingly of his brother in a distant voice, as if distracted by something. Then he eagerly surrendered his place to Roberto.

'I find myself unable to conjure the words to express my feelings,' Berto said, his voice trembling with emotion. 'So I have chosen instead to use the words of another. This is
When the Lamp Is Shattered,
by Percy Bysshe Shelley'

He paused to ensure he had everyone's complete attention for his performance. Then he began:

' When the lamp is shattered,
The light in the dust lies dead –
When the cloud is scattered . . .'

Daisy saw Nate heave a weary breath. He was no fan of poetry; in fact, she knew he had earned himself beatings from Berto all through their childhood by running round shouting his elder brother's favourite poems, replacing key words with obscenities. Nathaniel rolled his eyes now as he listened, but suffered in silence.

The congregation, however, were deeply moved by the lament and were nodding tearfully in approval as Roberto returned to his seat. Daisy felt a rare moment of pride for her husband and clasped his hand as he sat down. Even Nathaniel gave him a soft pat on the back when he took his seat beside them. Daisy tilted her head back to gaze up into the arched ceiling. The late morning sun was shining through the centre of one of the stained-glass windows. She recognized the biblical scene the window's image portrayed: it was the story of Lazarus, the man Jesus had raised from the dead.

Francie lay in the long grass beside his father, who was surveying the foot of the neighbouring hill with a telescope.

'They'll have left a couple of guards wanderin' round the site to keep an eye on all the equipment,' Shay said as he swung the eyeglass slowly from side to side. 'We'll have to deal with those. Spud, Vinnie and Padraig aren't known to 'em, so they'll handle that part. Me an' Jimmy'll go on into the tunnel and find the spot. Francie, you'll keep watch outside while we do the job. Got it?'

'Aye.'

Francie was nervous. He wiped sweat from his brow – it was a heavy day with grey, menacing clouds overhead and a feeling of tension in the air that might just be his imagination or might not. He had never been involved in one of his father's 'jobs' before and it was only now beginning to dawn on him what he was doing. The other four men with them were hardened crooks; lads that Shay knew and trusted. Francie was the odd one out. He was also the only one who was supposed to be at the funeral that was taking place on the hillside below Wildenstern Hall; but he was confident that his absence would not be noticed among the crowds of servants in the cemetery.

Right now, the remains of Marcus Wildenstern were being loaded onto the back of the hearse and carried slowly from the house, where they had been lying in state, to the church. Francie and the other stable boys had been up most of the night cleaning and polishing the brass fittings on all the horses' tackle. He was dog-tired and nearly cross-eyed by the time they were finished, and he couldn't resist a yawn now as his da passed him the telescope to have a look.

The family's church was full to brimming and there was still a large crowd outside. It was hard to say if all those people were there because Master Marcus had been, so popular, or if they were attending because they all lived under the influence of the Wildensterns and were expected to show up if they knew what was good for them. What was important was that beyond the church the army of navvies lined the road like a guard of honour, dressed in their best duds.

'Any other day, there'd be more guards on the site with all that gear there,' Shay muttered. 'But they don't want to be seen to be disrespectful to the family today. Every man they can spare will be standing along that road, hat off and lookin' proper grief-stricken.'

He took the telescope back off Francie and had one last searching look at the area of broken ground around the railroad.

'Right. Let's get on with it.'

Navvies were tough to the core but Spud, Vinnie and Padraig knew their business. There were only two guards and they didn't stay in sight of each other. Shay's hard men took them one at a time, putting each one down with a few savage blows, then tying him up and pulling a sack over his head and shoulders. Once the unconscious men had been pulled out of sight behind a shed, Francie followed Shay and Jimmy towards the tunnel.

His heart was thudding against his ribs. Unable to decide if he was thrilled or terrified, he knew there was no turning back now. Even if the raid were successful, he would have to be back at the stables in an hour before the funeral crowd broke up. Shay had said the gang would have to go straight back to their normal lives after they pulled off the job, and keep their heads down for a few weeks to avoid any suspicion. As he ran into the darkness of the tunnel, Francie wondered how the hell he was going to live under the Wildensterns' roof after robbing them blind.

A light burst over him, dazzling him, and he stopped short with a terrified cry. It was over; they'd been had. They'd walked right into a trap. It would be prison for the lot of them. His da had stumbled to a halt in front of him.

'Jaysus, what the bloody hell is that?' Shay gasped.

Francie held up his hand to shield his eyes and then breathed a relieved sigh. 'It's just the engimals, Da. They light the way'

'Frightened the bejaysus out of me is what they did,' Shay growled.

There were two of the creatures, nestling at the entrance to the side tunnel where Francie had found O'Keefe and his men the other day. Waist-high, they had large heads – each face dominated by a single eye that shone brighter than any lantern. Their necks were hinged like arms and could fold and rotate in a full circle to tilt their heads at almost any angle. Francie stepped forward and petted one on the back of its dark-brown neck. Its leash was tied round a hook in the wall.

'They're bright-eyes, Da. They use 'em in the digs sometimes instead of candles and lanterns,' he explained. "Cos they don't have any flames that could set off the black powder.'

The black powder was used for blasting through rock in major digs such as this one. It was dangerous work, made worse by the unpredictable explosives. Two men had died building this very tunnel.