The Honours (31 page)

CHAPTER 32

THE ISLE IS FULL OF NOISES

G
ideon Venner was very ill.

Half-deranged, he walked weightlessly through empty corridors. The sling round his shoulders jankled with fire-bombs: turps-filled milk bottles stuffed with rag wicks. He sloshed turpentine over the rug as he went. Arthur had explained. There were 7s in everything. He was setting them free.

The carpet felt cool beneath his bare feet. Its pattern of orange swirls pointed the way. Doors hung torn from their hinges. He walked into the library. Books had crawled from the shelves and lay scattered across the floor like strange, beached crustaceans. Ripped pages quivered in the breeze from the jagged window. Spines scintillated in the moonlight.

He lit a firebomb. Smoke rose in dirty yellow twists. He held it above his head. He was the sun. Shadows stretched and swung. He looked up and watched smoke fold against the ceiling's sunken panels. He was upside-down and the smoke was falling – darkness pouring out of him.

A mosaic showed Arthur slaughtering a bull. Gideon planted his heels and threw the milk bottle.

Glass broke with a high sweet note. Golden ivy bloomed up the wall, dripped onto the floor, spread to the edge of the bookshelves. A wave of love burst against his skin.

Sweat soothed his forehead. His hands tingled.

There was a noise at the door. Angels had appeared. They ran towards him, their black wings spread, gabbling in one of the seven forgotten tongues of Heaven. He lit another firebomb, the wick curling shyly. He threw the bottle and the angels' dark flesh peeled away. They grew fierce new plumage, waving arms in praise of God. They were perfect. He had freed them.

He watched as they lay down to sleep, and then they were gone.

He was surrounded by light. The flames pointed to the open window, urging him to jump.

‘Can't leave yet,' he said, or Arthur said, or God said. His eyes welled. He had to free everyone. He understood now.

Salty smoke bathed his wounds. He followed the path Arthur had left for him between the flames.

The milk bottles chimed against his heart. The heat on his back made him strong. He would find them – Anne and Delphy and Mr Propp, everyone – and he would set them free.

Gideon walked into the burning corridor, full of love.

CHAPTER 33

GOOD SERVANT, BAD MASTER

C
ox and Loosley stood over the slumped body of Lazarus Stokeham, 4th Earl of Alderberen. Loosley hooked the smoking pistol into its belt. Cox's face was a picture of disgust.

‘Typical Englishman. Incapable of meeting his death with dignity.' He sucked on his pipe, grimaced. ‘Consider yourself disinherited.'

Loosley pop-clicked a command and two vesperi hoisted Lord Alderberen by his armpits. Delphine saw a spreading darkness around the old man's crotch.

Loosley had shot deliberately wide.

‘Dump this cur and his wheelchair outside,' said Cox. ‘I never want to see him again. The Alderberen dynasty is over. This is the age of House Dellapeste.'

The vesperi began dragging him.

‘Please!' Alderberen's words were gummy and slurred. ‘Let me prove myself! Don't leave me again!' He tried to dig his heels in as they pulled him across the Persian rug. It rucked up beneath him. ‘Please! Oh God! Oh Jesus! Mother!' A third vesperi struck him on the temple with the pommel of its dagger. He went limp.

A glossy smear led from Cox and Loosley to the door. Cox glanced at Stokeham, who observed with folded arms, blank as an ivory chess knight.

A wheezing vesperi appeared at the door. The harka with the sawn-off clumped over and listened as the vesperi chitter-pipped something. The harka returned to Stokeham and spoke in heavily accented English.

‘Endlessness. The vault has been taken.'

Delphine jolted upright in her seat. Her head ached, and it was hard to make her eyes focus.

Mr Cox appeared at Stokeham's side.

‘What do you mean, “taken”?'

‘It is no longer under our control, Endlessness.'

‘How can that be? Who has taken it?'

The harka dipped its snout. ‘We do not know.'

Delphine felt a rush of jittery excitement. Mr Garforth had made it past the guards. Stokeham rounded on Propp.

‘What's going on?' said Cox. ‘What have you done?'

Propp was kneeling, his eyes closed. He said nothing.

Loosley hit him. The liquid black toecap of the beast's polished boot drove into Propp's stomach again and again and Propp doubled-up, retching.

‘Right.' Cox and Stokeham snapped their right hands into fists. Cox addressed the harka wielding Delphine's sawn-off. Its fierce gaze never left the beakmask. ‘Take a cohort. Seize the channel and kill everyone responsible. Mr Loosley – you go with them. Ensure my will is performed.'

Loosley ran a claw through the patchy fur on his scalp and gave a snort that passed for assent. He chitter-clicked something in the vesperi tongue and a dozen vesperi left the main force to join him. The silent bullman fell in behind him.

The cohort marched out. Stokeham began to pace, boots clomping on hardwood floor, overcoat whipping out with each abrupt about-face. The white beak pointed downward.

Delphine felt the rope biting her wrists. She itched to rip free and rush at Stokeham. Mother was making a face at her again. Delphine could not tell if it was intended to convey worry or support.

The beakmask tilted up, towards the clock on the fireplace. Stokeham produced a pocket watch, flipped it open.

‘It's about time I executed my first prisoner,' said Cox. He leant
over Propp, who lay on his side, coughing. ‘Quite sure you haven't had a change of heart?'

Propp shook his blood-smeared head. ‘Look. See what you have become.'

‘Oh, spare me. You've murdered more than two dozen of my staff this evening. Where was your pity then? Where was your mercy?' Cox turned to the guests. ‘Now . . . which of you shall it be? How about . . . ' His forefinger moved up and down the line of prisoners. ‘You.' It came to rest on Delphine.

‘Don't. You. Dare,' said Mother. ‘Shoot me, you horrible little man. Shoot me in cold blood. Go on!' She shunted her stool towards Stokeham. The legs growled against the wooden floor. ‘Do it. You're a bully and a coward. Without your thugs, you're nothing. Take them away and I'd slit your belly like a pig's.'

Mr Cox flashed her a bored glance. He beckoned the harka with the rifle.

Mother spat. ‘Look me in the eye!' She dragged her stool forward another couple of inches and vesperi moved to intercept her. ‘Take off that ridiculous cow-skull and
show your face
!'

‘Right.' Cox's fists rose to his ears. He pointed to Delphine. ‘Shoot her.' His finger swung to Mother. ‘Then her.'

The harka lifted its rifle, pressing the brass cheekplate to its square jaw.

‘Stop!' said Delphine. ‘I'll tell you! All right, I'll tell you!'

The rifle muzzle dipped.

‘Speak quickly,' said Cox.

Delphine closed her eyes. ‘She's . . . she is in the stables.'

‘Impossible. We checked there.' Cox turned to the bullman. ‘Kill her. She's wasting my time.'

‘No!' Delphine had no idea what she was saying, just knew it had to convince. ‘She's in a secret room. Under the floor.'

‘Nonsense,' said Cox, a note of uncertainty entering his voice. ‘I oversaw the design of every concealed passage, door and annex on the estate. There's nothing under the stables but mud and rock.'

Propp raised his head to look at Delphine. ‘Do not lie. You will only anger.'

‘The room is new.' She turned to Propp. ‘There's no point resisting him. I'm sorry.'

Propp's face flickered with confusion. Delphine widened her eyes, nodding. Propp stared at her. His expression changed.

‘No!' he said. ‘You fool! Once they have her, they kill us all!'

Cox turned to the vesperi, swatting hair out of his eyes. ‘Two. Stables. Now.' The pair nearest him performed a fist salute and began marching from the room. ‘If this proves to be some asinine ruse, I will execute you and three others immediately.'

Delphine glanced at the swarm of vesperi still remaining, the gigantic bullman at Stokeham's side.

‘Wait,' said Delphine. ‘She's not alone.'

‘What.'

‘You didn't think we'd leave her unprotected, did you?' She made herself stare into the mask's dead lenses. ‘She has two armed bodyguards.'

Cox's eyes thinned. ‘What are their names?'

‘Mr Enfield and Mr Vickers. They've got trench guns.'

Mr Propp feigned an anguished gasp.

Stokeham studied the fire for a moment. Cox closed his eyes. He nodded.

‘Very well.' He addressed the harka. ‘The stables are the outbuilding on your left as you leave the house. Lead a cohort inside. Search the building
thoroughly
. If the child is present, recapture her by any means necessary. If she is not, return here immediately, where you may kill this one in whichever fashion you please.' He pointed at Delphine.

‘By your will, Endlessness.' The harka spoke in deep, accented English. It bowed to Stokeham, before leading a dozen vesperi out the door.

Mr Cox cast a worried glance over the remaining troops. There were almost as many guests as vesperi. He peered at Delphine.

‘Pray that he does not return empty-handed.'

Delphine had no idea what to do next. Her bluff had bought them ten minutes, at best. She might have evened the numbers, but her fellow guests were tied and unarmed, most of them in no condition
to fight. She glanced at Propp, hoping he had a plan, but he did not meet her gaze. Professor Carmichael sat beside Mrs Hagstrom, his arms bound, stubbly chin against his chest. His eyes were closed. He was squirming and grinding his teeth.

She watched Stokeham standing at the hearth. The masked figure was so unlike the pale, meek man she had seen in the portrait. The Silent Earl was supposed to have been shy and kindly. How could a person live so long? Who on earth was the child Stokeham wanted? Delphine had never seen another girl at the Hall in all the months she had lived there. What could she bargain with?

Miss DeGroot's legs twitched. Her palm slapped the floor like a landed trout.

‘Ah,' said Cox. ‘She's coming round.' He strolled to her side. ‘Now you will be privileged to witness a truly rare event: the birth of a peer.' He went down on one knee and, with obvious distaste, slipped a palm under Miss DeGroot's brow. ‘I regret the vulgarity of using my herald as midwife, but Mr Loosley is engaged in other business.' He rolled her onto her back. She was pallid. Her eyes were closed. Her throat was swollen and purple. ‘Death is a judgement upon the unworthy.' She began convulsing silently in his arms. ‘Most are unworthy.'

Miss DeGroot spluttered and hacked. She opened her eyes.

She whispered something to Cox. He let out a trickling chuckle.

‘No,' he said. ‘Not quite.'

‘I feel . . . ' Miss DeGroot frowned at the ceiling. ‘Unbalanced.'

‘As you should.' He slid his palm from beneath her head. ‘You are an abomination, madam. You exist in defiance of natural law. Your every breath is a howl of naked rebellion against the Creator.'

Miss DeGroot smiled, rocking the back of her skull against the hardwood.

‘Abomination. I like that.' She bucked and clutched the swelling in her throat. ‘Oh, oh. It hurts.'

‘Try to savour it,' said Cox, rising. ‘It may be the last true pain you experience.'

‘Oh, oh.'

While Miss DeGroot moaned to herself, Stokeham stood at the
hearth, leather-gauntleted hands clasped behind back, the fingers of one hand encircling the wrist of the other. The skirts of the heavy, dark coat came almost to the floor. In profile, Stokeham's silhouette was a black scythe.

At last, Miss DeGroot was still. She lay with her back arched, breathing.

Cox offered his hand. ‘Allow me to help you up.'

She swatted it away. ‘Don't touch me.'

‘As you wish.' Cox stepped back, massaging his knuckles with a thumb.

Miss DeGroot started to get up, using the wall for support. Her blond hair was damp with perspiration. She tested her balance, hesitated. She stroked the wallpaper.

‘My fingers are numb.'

‘The honours manifest in different ways,' said Cox. ‘The full effects may take time to . . . emerge.'

‘And my tumour . . . '

‘Gone. Arising purges the body of impurities. But your elevation is not complete until you anoint your first handmaiden.' Mr Cox closed his eyes as he spoke, folding his fingers round the hem of his jacket. ‘Those in your service are blessed with bearing the discomforts of the flesh on your behalf. They enhance your noble talents while freeing you from petty suffering. Only then may you truly rise above the mundane and the vulgar and turn your mind towards eternity.'

Miss DeGroot took a couple of tentative steps, her face full of wonder.

‘So, I'm . . . alive? For ever?'

‘You are perpetual.'

She examined her hands with an infant's curiosity. ‘I cannot die.'

The corner of Cox's mouth went up. ‘Unless you decide to crawl into a furnace or bathe in acid, yes. This is a gift of the honours.'

‘And my . . . helpers . . . will they live forever too?'

Cox shrugged. ‘If you look after them, certainly. The ravages of age will not touch them, but unlike a genuine peer they are susceptible to frailties of the flesh – destruction, poison, disease.' Delphine thought she detected a twitch in Cox's eye. ‘The honours confer a
hardy constitution upon footmen and handmaidens, but make no mistake – their gifts are in no way comparable to ours.'

‘But still . . . I'd be granting them immortality.' She did not look at Stokeham as she said this. ‘I'd be saving them.'

‘To serve is a great privilege.'

‘Mmm.' Miss DeGroot sniffed; her snub nose wrinkled. ‘And if I prefer to remain . . . independent?'

‘Then you prefer to remain a frail travesty of a peer. Your talents will burn dimly. Your ability to survive injury will be greatly arrested. Your enemies will seize upon your weakness, and rightly so. The agonies that may be inflicted upon a perpetual body are . . . substantial.'

‘Yes, yes, all right. Don't milk it.' The colour had not yet returned to her cheeks, but the bulge in her neck was darkening. She pressed a palm to the ripe, soft flesh. ‘Oh my. I think I'm ready.'

Delphine felt a queasy mix of panic and revulsion. In a few minutes the search party would return empty-handed, and if she had not thought of an escape plan she would die. She cast about the room for inspiration, for a useful object or means of escape, but there were just hard walls and armed vesperi and Stokeham, arms folded, Mr Cox wearing a cruel, smug leer that was surely duplicated beneath the mask.

Miss DeGroot began walking the line of tethered guests, her soles patting against the hardwood floor. She seemed unsure of what to do with her face – her expression kept switching between a show of intense dispassionate scrutiny, half-hearted smiles, and a sort of blanching distaste.

She lingered in front of Alice the maid, looking the girl up and down, cocking her head. Pink streaks broke up Alice's face. Her hair was undone, spilling forward like hanks of wool. She was shivering.

Miss DeGroot frowned and continued down the line. She stopped in front of Mrs Hagstrom.

‘Miss.' Mrs Hagstrom's face was flushed. She raised her chin defiantly. ‘The only service I'd care to render you is ripping your head clean from your shoulders.'

Miss DeGroot blinked and moved on.

She stopped in front of Delphine.

‘Hello,' she said. Her blond hair was clumped in wild spikes. A smudge of cold cream glistened on her earlobe.

Delphine felt her head filling with anger and fear and a strange, needling pity. She could smell Miss DeGroot's citrusy perfume, and it made her think of the treehouse. She had unrolled the rope ladder. She had told Miss DeGroot everything. In fact . . .

Delphine felt breathless. She had given Miss DeGroot Kung's notes. Not a week later, Miss DeGroot had taken the grey book from Daddy's studio. Might Delphine have caused all this?