Mask of the Verdoy (47 page)

‘Ah yes!
George Harley
. Well, you see—I’m a coward, George; that’s the thing. Always have been. I can’t go through
that
—do you understand? The thought of it has been haunting me, consuming me … even more than the sin. A coward, you see. But the
Wolf’s Bite
—it’s a living hell! … That poor man … and I just stood there, watching …’ The vicar’s head dropped and his breathing began to judder with sobbing. ‘I’ve had such nightmares …’

‘That’s very good, Rev—very convincing,’ said Harley pulling out his packet of Gold Flake. ‘You should’ve been on stage.’

‘What? What are you talking about?’

‘Smoke? Oh, hold on—what’s the form here? See, I’m not really the churchy type. Are you allowed to smoke in church? I’m guessing probably not—right? But then again …’ He regarded the vicar’s soiled vestments. ‘Maybe the normal rules don’t apply in these circumstances, eh?’

He lit his cigarette and leant against the nearest pew, looking up at a series of three stained glass windows opposite.

‘Who’s the fellow at the top, holding the baby Jesus?’

‘What?’ asked Pembroke, wiping his eyes dry on his sleeve. ‘Oh … Saint Anthony—of Padua.’

‘Ah! There we go!’ said Harley, pointing at the part of the window which depicted a medieval scene of monks tending the sick. ‘I’m guessing that’s the outbreak of ergotism on the estate—thirteen-forty, wasn’t it? And there’s your boys there—the monks, from the order of Saint Anthony, tending the sick, being charitable, showing mercy. Just like in your old man’s book.’

Pembroke looked up at the image.

‘See that’s what your lot are supposed to be all about, ain’t they, Rev? Christian love and charity … not poisoning and blowing people up. This story—the ergot infecting the grain, the strange symptoms, the howling like a dog and the wry neck, the St Anthony’s fire—it’s been with you all your life, hasn’t it? I mean, your old man was an expert on it, with the book an’ all … And these windows here … How many times did you gaze up at them when you were a kid, as your dad was giving the sermon, eh? And you’re a keen historian yourself, right? This story’s in your blood, ain’t it? You’re
infused
with it … So, you tell me, Giles—why would your Verdoy pals send
me
to do away with
you
? Especially by using the “Wolf’s Bite” … which I’m guessing is some kind of beefed-up ergot extract. After all—you’re the Rye Wolf himself, ain’t yer?’

‘Me?’ cried Pembroke, incredulously.

‘Yes, you! Oh, I know that it was Girardi that did some of the dirty work, murdering that poor kid at my place, and sending Miss Perkins to Bedlam, like that. But the Spitalfields bombing? The unstable dynamite sent to Lady Euphemia? Admit it—that was you, right?’

‘No, no, no! You’ve got it all wrong, you idiot!’

‘So why the two attempts on Lady Euphemia’s life? Why do the Verdoy want her out of the way, eh? And listen—I know all about her and the Eugenics Society, I realize she ain’t all she’s cracked up to be, that there’s a Verdoy link there somewhere. I mean—look at the uncle … I’m hoping I’m wrong, but I’m guessing she’s using that clinic of hers to gather information to strengthen the Eugenicists’ case, but—’

‘You little fool!’ said the vicar, chuckling and shaking his head. ‘
Me
, the Rye Wolf?’ He struggled to his feet now, beginning to laugh hysterically, waving the whisky bottle at Harley. ‘You haven’t a clue, have you? She’s
got
you! You’ve been bitten—another little victim for the sacrifice!
Not all she’s cracked up to be?
Hah, you don’t know the half of it, man!’

Pembroke now staggered towards the altar and flung his arms out. ‘She’s Morgan le Fay, Harley! She’s the Snow Queen, the Ice Maiden … the Whore of Babylon!
Why do the Verdoy want her out of the way?
She
is
the Verdoy, you bloody idiot! Her and that Saint Clair—the beautiful and the cruel … the übermensch. She’s the brains behind the whole damned thing! Don’t you understand? Effie Daubeney’s the Rye Wolf—not me!’

‘What? Then who’s trying to kill her?’

‘
No one is!
The explosion at Spitalfields was an accident … The dynamite that the Cossack Kosevich had brought over was—’

‘Was unstable, I know. He was using Russian dynamite to point the finger at the Soviets. I get that … But the car was still booby-trapped, wasn’t it? The intended victim must have been Lady Euphemia.’

‘There was no bomb … he had a box of the dynamite in the boot. He was picking up Lady Euphemia to take her to a Verdoy meeting. That Cossack was reckless, dangerous—Girardi as well. Like wild animals, the two of them. Not like Englishmen. I don’t know why we used them. The whole thing’s spiralling out of control … You see, Effie realised that there was a chance that after the explosion a connection between her and Kosevich might be made; so she had me deliver the parcel to her flat. I didn’t even know what was inside … You know, she told me later that it would have been more effective if the maid
had
been blown up—more authentic looking.’

Harley’s head began to reel.

‘So the other bombings … the tram, the shoe factory—are you trying to tell me that Effie was involved in all of that?’

‘Are you not listening to what I’m saying? Her and Saint Clair have the whole thing planned out. They fancy themselves the architects of a New Britain. You must have heard him say it! He’s always saying it—drumming it into the faithful, etching it into their little minds:
the time has come to recognize the inevitability of violence and sacrifice
.’ Pembroke paused to take a swig from the bottle. ‘I should know, I wrote the bloody thing … After all, what are the lives of a few of the great unwashed compared to the glorious renaissance of our great nation?’

As it dawned on him just how far he’d been duped by Lady Euphemia, Harley’s anger flared. He rushed at the vicar, grabbing a handful of vestment and raising his fist, ready to strike. Pembroke flinched, dropping the whisky bottle to smash onto the stone floor.

‘You think that’s funny, do you? You hypocritical cowson! And you’ve got the nerve to stand there, dressed like that? All those innocent people blown to pieces? That night-watchman, that poor pregnant girl—she was only a kid!’

‘Don’t hurt me! Please don’t hurt me!’

‘The inevitability of violence and sacrifice, is it?’ Harley relaxed his grip on Pembroke and pushed him away in disgust. ‘As long as it doesn’t involve you, eh Reverend?’

The vicar staggered to the chancel steps and sat back down again with his head in his hands.

‘So you’re just an innocent bystander in all of this I suppose, are yer?’

‘Would that I were … I have sinned, and am under the judgement of God.
“If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us”
—’

‘I don’t wanna hear all that scripture bollocks! What’s your involvement with the Verdoy?’

‘My involvement? I … I compose the wording of the liturgy, help a little with the speeches … attend at the ceremonies.’

‘Ceremonies?’

‘For the new adepts.’

‘You mean all those toffs playing at dressing up in their little Green Man masks? Oh, don’t look so shocked, Rev—we know all about your little games … Go on, what else?’

‘I can’t say …’

Harley pulled the Luger from his belt and pointed it at Pembroke.

‘What else?’

‘The … the clinic … I help out at the clinic.’

‘The clinic? But how’s that linked to the … 
Oh, no, no, no!
 … You
bastards!
’

Pembroke began to rock back and forth, snivelling.

‘I know—it’s a sin, a sin against God—’

‘
Against God?
What about those poor women? The little kiddies? You shicer!’ He strode over to push the muzzle of the pistol into the side of Pembroke’s head. ‘You tell me what goes on there, now!’

‘I can’t … 
I can’t!
’ shouted Pembroke, the snot beginning to string from his nostril. ‘“
I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh even from the Lord, who hath made Heaven and Earth. He will not suffer”—
’

‘
Cheese it!
Tell me what they’re doing at the clinic! Or, so help me, I’ll kneecap you.’

‘She’s sterilizing them … Effie. She … she uses the drop-in to identify the weak and the feeble, those that are a drain on society, those that water down the nation’s lifeblood.’

‘
Water down the nation’s lifeblood?
What—the Jewish? Irish? Any foreigner? The promiscuous? The unmarried mothers? What about the poor and the sick, eh, Reverend? The uneducated? Oh, and how about the communists, the socialists? Why stop there—what about the working class? I suppose we’re all fucking fair game, are we? And what exactly gives you lot the right to play God?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t know … I only help out, I tell you … It’s just a test, an experiment so that they can perfect the process.’

Harley eased his finger back off the trigger and took a moment to calm himself.

‘How does she do it? How does she sterilize them?’

‘It’s in the medicine they dole out, and the food supplements—a plant extract, from mother-in-law’s tongue; she’s tampered with it in some way.’

‘Tampered with it? … My God!’ said Harley, removing the gun from Pembroke’s head. ‘Her father’s work, and the biochemistry at university … Shit! So the Wolf’s Bite—the ergot extract—that’s her invention as well?’

‘Now do you believe me? Her father, the late Earl … such a decent man … not like that brute of a brother of his … Plant alkaloids—that was one of his specialities … plant alkaloids. Kitty used to help him in the lab, even when she was young … She has such a sharp mind, you see.
Sharp, sharp, sharp!
Like a scalpel.’

‘
Kitty?
’

‘Kitty—Effie; it’s a family nickname. In fact it was an invention of my own. I rechristened them both, when we were children … probably the only time they ever accepted one of my ideas. I remember I was as proud as Punch … Poor little Giles.’

‘Both?’

‘Effie and her twin brother, Rupert—
Kitty and Leshy
. They were so close, like extensions of each other.’

‘He died in the war, right?’

‘Yes,’ said Pembroke, with a deep sigh. ‘Could … could I possibly have a cigarette, old man?’

Harley lit a smoke and passed it to the vicar who wiped his face on his sleeve and then took a long, deep drag.

‘Yes, Rupert fell in France. Two months after he’d volunteered … two months—such a waste. But do you know what? I was glad! There! I’ve said it—another sin … I was glad that Rupert didn’t return from France. And do you know why? Because—the sorry, deluded fool that I was—I thought it would mean that there would be more room for me in Kitty’s life; that it would bring us closer together. That she’d finally notice I was there … It’s strange … I don’t think of her as Kitty
now. For me Kitty was the Euphemia
before
Rupert’s death. In fact, it’s only that idiot Faw Faw who still calls her that … That stupid, bohemian profligate! Do you know how much money he gets through in a month? And that boorish bully of a father just can’t see it … always bailing him out, time and time again.’

‘Get back to Lady Macbeth, won’t yer?’

‘Lady Macbeth? … Ah, yes—very good …’ Pembroke gave another deep sigh.

‘Are you gonna puke again?’

‘No, no—I’m fine, I’m fine … It’s just … well, you see, I adored her so. Still do—even after everything that has happened … Adore her. It’s like a sickness, really, like a pernicious disease that I’ve always suffered from. Or an addiction, perhaps … Yes, that’s it—an addiction. But Rupert’s death—that was the turning point.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Losing him changed her irrevocably. Oh, she’d always had the capacity to be cold, dismissive, but … you see …’

Pembroke went silent for a moment and dropped his head, the smoking cigarette dropping to the floor. Harley realized he’d soon lose him to the drink. He patted the vicar on the cheek to rouse him.

‘Come on, Rev—wake up!
Wake up!
That’s the ticket!’

‘What? Yes … Kitty and Leshy … Kitty and Leshy and poor little Giles, always tagging along … poor little Giles …’

‘Why Kitty and Leshy?’

Pembroke nodded sluggishly towards the front row of pews.

‘Because of the carvings—on the misericords … the Daubeney pews—over there,
there!
Kitty and Leshy … Leshy’s a kind of a Slavic Woodwose, you understand.’

‘Woodwose?’

‘Wildman of the Woods,’ said the vicar with a flourish of his hand.

‘Like the Green Man?’

‘Yes, the Green Man … Folklore and myss … my
tho
logy has always been a … a hobby of mine …’ he answered, his head dropping again.

Harley now fished through his field pack and pulled out a small phial of smelling salts which he uncorked and held under Pembroke’s nose.

‘Come on now, sunshine. That’s it! Wakey, wakey!’

‘Who? What was that?’

‘Nothing … Now listen to me, Rev. We’re going for a little trip in a moment.’

‘A trip?’

‘That’s right—all the way back to The Smoke. Only, first you’re gonna tell me all about the Correction.’

Pembroke sat bolt upright and struggled to get to his feet.

‘Whoa! Easy there, boy! Where are you going?’

‘I can’t! I’ve said too much already—they’ll kill me … or worse. I’ve seen what they do to traitors. They’ll inject me with the Wolf’s Bite. No, no, let me go! I can’t!’

‘Calm down! They won’t be able to get to you, I promise. I told you—I’m working for the police. If you help us we’ll offer you protection.’

Pembroke began to laugh hysterically.

‘Don’t you understand? It’s the
fifteenth
today! That’s why I was waiting here for them, with the gun. They don’t trust me, you see. They think I’m weak … I know too much … no longer any use to them.’

‘But I’m working directly for General Swales, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner. He’ll guarantee your safety.’

‘And who’s going to guarantee his safety? Within a few days there won’t be a Metropolitan Police Commissioner. You’ll all be strung up as enemies of The Party.’