The Parliament of Blood (14 page)

Eddie waited, but no one else emerged from the carriage. The door slammed shut and the carriage pulled away.

With a sigh of annoyance, Eddie ran after it, wishing he'd stayed in his cab. Luckily the carriage did not go far. It turned at the end of the street, then again almost immediately – doubling round to the back of the same building.

As it drew up again and once more the door swung open, Eddie realised where he was. He recognised the building and he knew instinctively that this must be where Charlie had seen the carriage.

A small figure climbed out and walked slowly towards the back door. Eddie drew back into the shadows as the Coachman called out to the boy – because Eddie could see now that it was a boy. Dressed in a dark jacket and trousers that were caked in mud. A boy whose pale face was also smeared with grime, and whose unruly fair hair was stained brown by the earth.

The boy turned as the Coachman spoke to him. Eddie
couldn't hear what the Coachman said, couldn't make out the shadowed features of the man's face. But he could see the boy clearly now in the light spilling out of the building. It was Charlie. Charlie, who had climbed out of his grave to get into a carriage that had brought him here. To the Damnation Club.

Liz stood at the side of the ballroom with Henry Malvern, watching the couples dancing, the people drinking. Everywhere she looked, men in smart dinner suits and women in beautiful gowns talked and danced and drank red wine. She felt underdressed and out of place. She was grateful for the mask.

Malvern wore a plain black mask, a single red teardrop painted beneath one of the eye holes. The mask reached from his mouth to his hairline, so Liz had to judge his expression from his mouth and his eyes. He had brought a smaller half-mask for Liz. It covered just the area round her eyes. It was brilliant green, matching her dress, with thin black whiskers painted over the lower part and almond-shaped eye holes so that with her fair hair tied up behind her head she looked like a cat.

The variety of masks was amazing. A horned devil danced with an angel – small wings attached to the side of the woman's mask. A grotesque gargoyle was talking quietly to a woman whose face was covered by a blue butterfly.
A woman with a totally blank white mask was standing with a man in a dark cloak whose entire face was a skull …

Several waiters were carrying trays of drinks. The trays were made of a dull metal, perhaps pewter. The glasses of red wine looked heavy and misty with age. The waiters themselves were wearing grinning golden cherub masks that covered their entire faces. They were no bigger than children – perhaps they were children.

One of the gold-faced waiters brought a tray over to Liz and Malvern. There were two glasses on it – one of red wine, one of white. Henry took the glass closest to him – the red wine. Liz was happy to take the white. It was sweet and viscous and she could immediately feel it going to her head. There did not seem to be anything to eat, and she hoped that food would be served later.

Later … how long should she stay? Liz felt out of place already and she had only just arrived. And then there was her father … she should never have agreed to leave him. What had possessed her?

Sensing Liz's discomfort, Malvern raised his glass to her and his mouth smiled. ‘Your father will be fine,' he assured her. ‘We need not stay long, then I will take you home. There are, I'm afraid, people here that I need to see but I can return and talk to them later.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Enjoy yourself. Just for an hour. Forget your troubles and worries and make the most of the company and the dancing and the wine.'

‘I think the wine is a little strong,' Liz admitted.

‘Then do not drink it. The red is … interesting.' Malvern took Liz's glass from her as a waiter walked past. ‘I'm not sure it's really to my taste either.' The waiter paused for him to place the glasses on the tray, then continued on his way.

‘The trouble with a masked ball,' Malvern said after a few moments' uncomfortable silence, ‘is that it is so difficult to recognise people you actually wish to speak to. Though I think I see Sir Harrison Judd.'

‘The police commissioner? He was at the Unwrapping the other evening.'

‘As was Lord Ruthven,' Malvern said. He nodded towards a tall, thin figure who was handing his coat to one of the waiters at the door. His mask was divided in two down the middle. On one side, the face was white and smiled with an upturned cut-out mouth. On the other side it was black, the mouth turned down in misery.

‘How clever of you to know it was him,' Liz said. ‘Do you come to many events here?' She was not entirely sure where ‘here' actually was.

‘I confess I saw Lord Ruthven putting his mask on. And no, I wouldn't say that the Damnation Club is one of my frequent haunts.'

‘Damnation Club?'

‘Oh, just a nickname. It's actually called, I believe, the Society for Mystic Nominees or something of the sort. The invitation is something of an honour.' He leaned closer to Liz, and added quietly: ‘Though between you and me I can't say I'm mightily impressed.'

But Liz hardly heard this last comment. She was watching a figure arriving behind Lord Ruthven. A figure adjusting a plain black eye-mask similar to Malvern's and dressed in a suit that looked decidedly shabby compared with the others on show.

‘George?' she murmured. ‘What's George Archer doing here?'

A pale, thin-faced man greeted George at the door to the Damnation Club. He seemed to know who George was, and ushered him in with several other guests. If he thought that George looked a little down-at-heel compared with the others, he did not comment.

‘Mask, sir,' was all he said as he took George's coat.

‘Er, sorry.'

‘That's quite all right, sir. The Society can provide. Please wait here.' He returned a moment later without the coat, but with a small black mask that would cover George's eyes and nose. He led George through a hallway to a large ballroom, and waited while George put on the mask before entering.

The room seemed to be filled with dancing, talking people – all dressed more expensively than George and with more impressive masks. No one spared him a glance. He looked round, hoping to catch sight of Clarissa's distinctive red dress.

A woman was looking back at him, from the other
side of the room. All he could see was her face, over the shoulder of the man she was with. The woman's hair was tied up behind her head so George could not see it, and the face was hidden behind a green cat-like mask. But even so, George felt a sudden shock of recognition.

‘Liz?' he said out loud.

Then a couple on the dance floor between them obscured his view. A pig-faced man danced with a fox-headed woman. When their dance moved them on, the woman with the cat's mask was gone.

A hand came down on George's shoulder and he turned, startled.

‘Mr Archer. I am so pleased you could come.' The man wore a simple black mask like George's. Seeing George's confusion, he lifted it for a moment so George could see his face.

‘Sir Harrison,' George said. ‘I'm sorry, you startled me. I was …'

‘Overwhelmed? It's to be expected.' Sir Harrison still had his hand on George's shoulder and steered him further into the room as he spoke – away from where George thought he had seen Liz. ‘An impressive evening, though sadly our patron and benefactor – the man in whose honour we are holding this ball – is indisposed and cannot be with us. A great shame.'

‘I wish him a speedy recovery,' George said.

‘As do we all. Let me introduce you to some of your fellow society members – or rather, future fellows. But we
are all friends here.' He paused to take two glasses of red wine from a passing waiter – a child in a golden cherub's mask. ‘You will soon be a part of all this.'

George sipped at the wine. It was heavy and slightly rough on the tongue with a strange, bitter metallic taste. It was certainly an impressive gathering. But George didn't feel as if he fitted in at all. He was conscious of how awkward and out of place he must look in his old suit and scuffed shoes.

He was barely aware of the people that Sir Harrison was introducing. With their masks, he was not sure he could recognise them again anyway. And he was constantly looking round for the woman with the cat mask – had he imagined it? Or was Liz here somewhere? Could she be a member of the Damnation Club?

Sir Harrison steered George round several people who were laughing together in a corner. ‘And I think you already know this lady,' he said.

The woman with the cat mask was standing in front of them, as if she had been waiting for George. She wore a long, pale green dress trimmed with white lace. It looked simple compared with so many of the other women's gowns, but that made her seem even more beautiful.

Liz had murmured an apology to Malvern and hurried to find George. She pushed past people, apologising and smiling politely. But when she got to the door, the figure in the shabby suit was gone.

She looked all round and thought she caught sight of him. She hurried towards the man, saw him pause to sip at his wine, and walk on.

Eventually Liz managed to reach him. ‘George – it is you,' she said. She felt surprised and relieved and slightly excited. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘I'm sorry,' the man in the shabby suit said in a voice that was not George's. ‘I think you have me confused with someone else.' And when he slowly lifted his mask to reveal the pasty, flabby features beneath, it was not George's face either.

‘I'm so glad you came,' the woman in the green dress said to George. She turned her head slightly, watching Sir Harrison leave, and George could see that her hair was midnight black.

Taking his arm in hers, Clarissa led George through the room to an open door that led out on to a balcony looking out over a small lawn and a high wall beyond.

‘You changed your dress,' George said. He was confused – had he seen Liz? No, it must have been Clarissa all along.