The Honours (32 page)

She tried to speak, but her jaw was shaking. She dug her nails into her palms.

‘You must save us,' she said.

Miss DeGroot dropped her gaze. Her reply was almost too quiet to hear.

‘I'm trying.'

Up close, the bulge in her throat was formed of little fluid-filled bumps, each one capped with a livid blotch. She swallowed, and they rippled.

Miss DeGroot called to Stokeham: ‘I've chosen.'

Delphine felt her gorge rising. It was over. She had fought and resisted but it had not been enough. She shut her eyes.

‘This one.'

Delphine looked. Miss DeGroot was pointing at the underkeeper, Reg Gillow.

Reg's arms were tied behind his back. The collar of his tan shirt was dark with sweat. He did not look at her when she walked over to him; he seemed barely conscious.

‘I've watched him working around the estate.' She reached out and touched his temple. He twitched. ‘He's young and resourceful.'

Cox raised his eyebrows. ‘It is traditional for a woman to pick female attendants.'

‘Is it.'

‘It is.'

Over to Delphine's left, Alice began to sob. ‘Don't you touch my Reggie!'

‘Reggie? Oh.' Miss DeGroot clenched at the growth on her throat. ‘Oh God . . . I think something's . . . oh . . . ' Her eyes rolled back in her head. A wet smacking sound began to insinuate itself in the nook of Delphine's ears. The vesperi averted their eyes. Cox relit his pipe.

Delphine watched as Miss DeGroot tightened her small white fingers over the blueing flesh in her throat. Buboes burst with a soft
paf
. The popped boils began extruding shining, tooth-coloured tubes. Miss DeGroot squeezed her boils. As the white tubes pattered to the floor Delphine saw what they were: a harvest of sticky, puckered grubs.

Miss DeGroot squeezed again and more grubs oozed out onto her hand. She held her hand to the light, the grubs turning translucent. The loose flesh of her throat hung honeycombed and shredded.

She moved the hand towards Reg. He snapped from his stupor and jerked his head away, kicking the floor.

‘Don't touch me! Ali! Help me!'

Miss DeGroot hesitated.

Cox nodded at the vesperi either side of her. ‘Hold him down.'

Two vesperi clambered onto the leather arms of the chair, pumping their wings for balance. They grabbed his head with eager, fine-furred hands, forcing his mouth open, wedging a dagger between his teeth. He howled, struggling in their grip, as Miss DeGroot brought her grub-covered hand closer, closer.

Her teeth were clenched. She was weeping.

‘Don't fret, Reggie,' she said. ‘Be an angel.'

Reg screwed his eyes shut. Miss DeGroot's fingers cast a lengthening shadow across his face. Delphine stared, her tummy churning, unable to watch, unable to turn away, unsure which was the greater betrayal.

Miss DeGroot smeared her hand across his face. She anointed him.

‘Stop it!' yelled Delphine. ‘Get off him!'

Reg bit down on the knife blade. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth. Grubs were on his nose and lips. The vesperi twisted
the dagger and his mouth opened. Grubs dropped onto his tongue. He was hollering, retching, tongue working uselessly.

‘Please!' Delphine almost rocked forward onto her feet. She was ready to charge, chair still tied to her back, but there were at least half a dozen vesperi between her and Miss DeGroot.

Mr Cox smoked his pipe blandly.

Miss DeGroot stepped away, red-eyed, shaking.

Reggie's howls subsided. There were pale wet shapes all round his mouth. He inhaled, snorted hard several times; a grub dropped from his nose and stuck to his knee. The vesperi slid the blade from his mouth and released their grip.

Reg spat a grot of brownish phlegm onto the rug. He spat again and again. Grubs came out in his spit.

He opened his mouth and brown water gushed over his chest and crotch. His head dropped to one side and he stopped moving. One of his eyes was open. Something twitched beneath the upper lid.

Stokeham turned towards the door. Cox sighed a slow tide of smoke.

‘Now,' he said, ‘where are those troops with my daughter?'

CHAPTER 34

MR GARFORTH SEES IT THROUGH

T
he Little Gentlemen rigged explosives around the spots Henry had marked. They set the charges then sealed spun aluminium washing-up bowls over the top to help direct the blast. They ran a fuse back to the centre of the room. Henry watched their complicated fingers working and felt overwhelmed with sadness and love.

They had not asked for this. He had promised to protect them, and here he was, dragging them into yet another war they had not started. Well, it would end here. One way or another, it would end tonight.

He found himself thinking of Abigail, the warm round loaf of her body in the bed beside him, of walking Molly down by the dunes through the long evenings of an Indian summer, of his father handing him his first taste of soapy ale in a chipped mug, of the shelduck chicks he once rescued from a tomcat, Christmas cake, the sun through mist. He thought of all these things and he was afraid, because he realised he was saying goodbye.

No. Not yet. Come on, you stupid bugger
.

He heard the
thwip
of a tripwire, the gasp of a vesperi being immolated. They were getting closer. The Little Gentlemen stood watching the entrance. He swept the torchbeam across their polished shells.

‘Hide yourselves,' he said. Slowly, they turned to look at him.

It was the eyes. If he lived to be a hundred and fifty, he would never get used to the eyes. Blue pupils floated in pools of brilliant white. And now, they rested on him.

‘I'll be fine,' he said. ‘I'll make a bargain. It'll all end in peace.'

And now, the eyes were on his gun.

‘Go,' he said. ‘Make yourselves shadows.'

The Little Gentlemen blurred and scattered.

Henry wedged the gunstock between his ribs and bicep. Freezing pain lanced through his knees. It was so acute he barely noticed it. It was funny what you got used to. No, not funny. Sad.

A harka stepped out of the tunnel with Delphine's sawn-off in its big hands. Before it knew he was there, Henry shot it in the head.

While he was reloading, an ornate metal flask bounced
tink tink
out of the tunnel, coming to rest beside the body of the harka. It began pouring thick blond smoke. The entrance disappeared. Henry moved to grab it, and as he bent a blow struck him sharp across the brow and he fell onto his backside.

He lay dazed. A beast stepped from the fog in a blue velveteen coachman's jacket and square-buckled boots. A blunderbuss pistol hung at its right thigh, a duelling pistol at its left, and its shrivelled right hand gripped a cudgel. Two vesperi emerged at its flanks, armed with daggers, beating at the smoke with their wings.

Henry reached into his pocket for a cartridge. He had fallen badly on his hand and when he tried to make a fist round the shell, his fingers spasmed with pain.

The valet watched, polishing its little yellow teeth with the hem of its jacket. It took the blunderbuss pistol from its belt and aimed at Henry.

Something dropped from the roof and struck the gun. The blunderbuss discharged into the floor and shots ricocheted around the chamber; a vesperi fell shrieking, clutching its ankle. The valet tossed its pistol aside and advanced. Lying on the ground was a segmented ball of maroon armour. The valet stood over it. Henry tried to slot the cartridge into the breech but his hand slipped and the shell went
skittering across the floor. He tried to rise and his spine erupted in cramps.

The monstrous valet lifted its boot and stamped. Henry cried out. The beast stamped again and the ball ruptured. Black fluid oozed from the cracks. The beast stamped again and again. Henry fumbled for another cartridge but he was too late. The ball was reduced to a pulped mosaic of shell and guts, one snapped leg ticking like a Morse key. The valet stepped over the mess. It lifted the cudgel and bore down on Henry, grinning.

CHAPTER 35

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

A
t a quarter to ten, Miss DeGroot's arm began to melt. The flesh had taken on the clammy, corrugated pearlescence of raw steak on the turn. When she lifted her hand, her middle and ring fingers had fused together.

‘Peter.' Her face was a study in composure. ‘Is this normal?'

Stokeham was staring out the window.

‘The honours manifest in different ways,' said Cox.

She pinched the skin under her forearm. When she let go, it held the imprint of her thumb like clay, leaving a sallow fleshy pouch.

‘Oh dear,' she said. ‘I feel rather queer.'

Behind her, the fireplace danced and crackled.

Mother kept making a face at Delphine. It was very distracting. At last, Delphine mouthed:
What?

Mother glanced about, then she leaned forward on the piano stool and mouthed something like:
Char him
.

Delphine frowned. She mouthed back:
Char who?

Mother shook her head emphatically.
Char him
. She glanced at the guards – who were preoccupied with the deterioration of Miss DeGroot – then nodded at her armpit.
Char him
.

Char him?

Cham
him
.

Cham him?

CHAM
TIM
. The tip of her tongue flicked out from behind her front teeth.

Cham tim?
And then she got it.

Mother was saying ‘jam tin'.

Waiting till no one was watching, Delphine mouthed:
Jam tin?

Mother nodded frantically, then jerked her chin towards her armpit. She was holding her arm at a peculiar angle, as if she had something wedged beneath it.

Delphine mouthed a swearword.

The door burst open and a vesperi skitter-scrambled in.

Stokeham turned.

‘Report,' said Cox.

The creature spat a volley of ticks and chirrups. It was clearly agitated.

Stokeham turned to Mr Propp, hunched and silent in the centre of the room.

‘The first floor is on fire,' said Mr Cox. He held out his palm and a vesperi placed a flintlock pistol in it. ‘Ivan, you are more trouble than you are worth and now I am going to kill you.'

Miss DeGroot let out a throttled mewl. The fingers of her right hand were elongating like warm wax. The vesperi nearest to her began backing away. She tried to make a fist, gasping with the effort, but her fingers swayed limply.

‘Peter! What's happening to me?' She glared at her hand, straining to turn it palm upwards. She gritted her teeth. Slowly, slowly, her long, creamy digits began to retract, like lengths of saliva drawn back into the mouth. Miss DeGroot's cheeks coloured. Her hand was almost restored.

She grunted. Her arm fell and burst on the hearth rug.

Miss DeGroot stood staring at the mess of pink-white fluid. It ran from the stump of her shoulder, dripping down the skirts of her evening gown and spread in a feathering mane across the hearth. She vomited down her front. She looked at Stokeham helplessly, her chin glistening.

Delphine heard a clatter from off to her right. She glanced across and Mother had let the jam tin drop to the foot of the piano stool.
Mother kicked the improvised grenade and it slid towards Delphine like a puck. It caught a nick in the floor and flipped onto its side, rolling under Delphine's chair.

Stokeham had been approaching the fireplace and wheeled round at the noise.

‘What was that?' said Cox.

The remaining sixteen or so vesperi drew their daggers. Delphine slid her ankles together, trying to hide the grenade, but the action drew Stokeham's attention. Cox set down his pipe and advanced on her.

‘What have you got there?'

‘Don't let him have it!' said Mother.

‘Stop her!' said Cox. ‘Bring whatever it is to me.'

Four vesperi converged on her. Delphine rocked forward onto her feet, lifting the chair off the floor. One vesperi grabbed the sleeve of her cardigan. A second reached for the jam tin. Mr Cox was bearing down on her. She twisted, catching the second vesperi in the forehead with the leg of the chair, then toe-punted the jam tin at the fireplace. The old condensed milk can rolled, bootlace fuse whipping round and round like the leg of a clockwork spider. Miss DeGroot blinked dumbly as it spun past. Calmly crouching by the fire, Stokeham reached out to stop it. The tin clipped the lip of the hearth. It bounced over Stokeham's waiting glove and into the flames.

A vesperi tackled Delphine's knees and she let herself fall, yelling: ‘Everyone down!'

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Stokeham stooped over the fireplace, thrusting a leather gauntlet into the glow. Cox screamed.

Everything went white.

In the underground chamber, Henry lay bleeding from the mouth. The bat-monster pressed a bony knee into his chest and raised the cudgel for the coup de grace.

Its gristly face crumpled. It dropped the cudgel. It clutched its gut. Henry grabbed the unloaded shotgun and drove it up into the valet's fangs with the heel of his palm. A crack echoed off the dripping stalactites and the beast staggered back, slobbering blood.

Henry grabbed a cartridge from the floor and slid it into his shotgun. Before he could close the breech, the lone remaining vesperi was retreating. He traced it with the gun as it scrambled for the exit, let it go. The valet was doubled over, spitting out teeth. Henry planted the gun stock on the floor and rose unsteadily, grunting. His kneecaps felt as if someone had driven steel pegs through them.

He brought the muzzle to bear on his opponent.

‘A word about the terms of your surrender.'

From the balcony of the Great Hall, Gideon watched as the front doors opened and the Devil strode in. His curving horns were unmistakable. A dozen angels marched behind Old Nick in perfect lockstep.

It was just like Arthur had promised.

The bowstring was taut beneath Gideon's fingers, the firebombs snug against his belly. He had recovered the righteous weapon, and now Satan stood in the courtyard waiting to be absolved. The chequered floor marked out the distance in neat, stark squares. Black and white. Death and rebirth. An end to all pain. A beginning.

Gideon stepped from cover and let fly.

Delphine heard the windows shatter. A moment later she felt the force of the blast against her closed eyelids.

She tried to look up but the grenade must have blown the fire out and toppled the lamps because the banqueting hall was black. She thought she saw the crystal pendants of the dead chandelier, scintillating like sardines in the darkness, then a vesperi was on top of her, pressing the flat of its dagger to her windpipe. Its dark brown eyes scanned her face, pink bootlace tongue whipping over the grey stumps of fangs. It lifted its head; its nose-leaf flared as it called:
Rrrrrik-ik-ik-ik. Rrrrrik-ik-ik-ik
.

Across the room, calls bubbled in reply. A clawed toe dug into her ribs. A necklace of twine hung from the skinwing's throat, threaded with pink shells that brushed her chin as it breathed. Its breath smelt of burning hair. The fallen chair creaked beneath their combined weight.

She heard the scuffling of taloned vesperi feet converging on the hearth. Delphine concentrated on a white fleck of foam in the corner of the vesperi's mouth. It reminded her of the foam in Mr Kung's eyes on the beach. He had died in a hospital bed, alone and very far from home. Delphine knew she might die now, and the thought of Mother, sitting or lying a few yards away, was comforting. The vesperi's face became blurry, and she had to blink to make it clear.

An unearthly calm had settled over the room. This was what soldiers meant by the dread when the Hun's artillery went quiet. You expected it to feel like a relief, but then you began to wonder: why has it stopped? What are they planning? And you listened for clues but your ears were ringing from the noise and there was nothing but the sense of something terrible and lethal and huge, silently preparing to administer the masterstroke.

The creature kept grimacing, drilling a finger in its earholes. The noise of the explosion seemed to have affected its hearing. It looked back over its shoulder. Downy white hairs filled the hollow of its ear.

She thought about trying to roll out from beneath it while it was distracted. The blade was still at her windpipe, not cutting – restraining. The vesperi on top of her pip-pipped something. A reply echoed back through the darkness, but the creature didn't seem to hear. It returned its attention to Delphine.

Something cracked against its skull. The skinwing hit the floor and skidded a couple of feet on its jowl.

‘Now!' Professor Carmichael stood over her, grasping the huge ceremonial warhammer. He had ripped it from its wall mounts – a steel bracket swung from the gemmed handle as he turned to face the room. ‘Everybody! Fight!' He knelt at Delphine's side. ‘Hold still. I'll cut you loose.' He picked up the vesperi's dropped dagger. He turned left and slashed: ‘Ungh.' She heard the knife rasp through fabric and flesh. A body clattered to the floor and the Professor stabbed it once,
pfft
, the creature expiring with a sigh.

He leant over her and began sawing at the rope.

‘Where's Peter?' said Delphine.

‘You mean that bastard in the mask? Dead.'

‘And Cox?'

‘I don't know.'

She could hear footsteps, chairs scraping, cries. She heard a male exclamation, a thump, a scream. The Professor's knife dug into the trench between her wrists, chewing through the ropes. Her bonds slackened then sloughed off. She slapped her palms to the floor and sprang to her feet just in time to see three javelin-wielding vesperi surrounding her and the Professor. Standoffs were taking place all round the room. Her eyes were adjusting. She saw shifting outlines, havoc.

The Professor pressed Delphine's crab hook into her palm.

‘Give the buggers Hell.'

He lifted the great silver warhammer above his head like some figure from Norse legend. The three vesperi spread out, attempting a flanking manoeuvre. One was whistling – a tremulous, intermittent tone, like someone tuning a wireless.

‘Stick close to me. Yah!' He stamped and all three vesperi recoiled, furling their wings and hopping out of range. Delphine brandished her hook and tried to look menacing. The creature nearest her seemed to sense her reluctance; it advanced, spreading its wings till it was wide as it was tall. She backed away. The creature closed in.

‘Grrrah!' The Professor swung the hammer in a broad arc, missing all three vesperi but driving them back. The weight of the huge gemmed head pulled him off-balance and he stumbled. Seeing its chance, one of the creatures drove at his exposed flank with its javelin raised, but the stumble was a feint and he brought the hammer's pommel nut crashing back into the skinwing's temple. As the creature went down its neighbour jabbed at the Professor's thigh; he parried with the hammer shaft then brought his knee up under the javelin, cracking his opponent's jaw. The creature squawked and he laid it flat with a forehand stroke. The final vesperi, the one which had been cornering Delphine, hesitated. The Professor roared. It fled.

He looked at Delphine. He was panting.

‘In one piece?'

She nodded.

‘It seems,' he said, ‘today . . . you are to put . . . some of your theories . . . on warfare . . . into practice.'

Across the room, the remaining vesperi had surrounded Alice, Mrs Hagstrom and another male guest. The hostages stood marooned on the sofa, arms tied behind their backs. Mrs Hagstrom was kicking and snorting. A vesperi slashed at her and she gasped. The Professor wiped his mouth on his sleeve and charged.

Before she knew what she was doing, Delphine had joined him. The creatures turned round, click-shrieking. She raised her crab hook. The vesperi raised their curved daggers in response. Professor Carmichael bellowed. At the edge of the pack, a skinwing flinched. It bolted. Delphine screamed. The other vesperi glanced from their knives to each another. They held. The Professor raised the warhammer to strike, his tawny hair sticking out in peaks of clotting blood.

The vesperi scattered.

Delphine watched them go. She ran to where Mother lay face down.

‘Delphine?' Mother had a bruise under her eye the size of a mandarin segment.

‘Hold on. You're nearly free.' Delphine sawed through the ropes binding Mother's wrists. She offered Mother her hand. Mother looked at it, disorientated. She closed her long cold fingers around Delphine's palm. Delphine helped her up.

Delphine's eyes were adjusting. Her head felt swimmy. She could make out Stokeham's crumpled body in front of the blown-out fire. It looked as if the masked figure was sleeping, then Delphine tilted her head and moonlight caught the ruptured sternum, the glistering mush. A leather-gauntleted hand lay open, grasping nothing.

A few yards away, Mr Cox lay prone, chestnut locks spreading from his scalp in a starburst, legs splayed beneath his brilliant blue rump. It seemed the servant could not survive without the master.

Delphine and Mother joined the group led by Professor Carmichael. Mr Wightman stepped aside to reveal Mrs Hagstrom lying on her flank, clutching a long deep slit in her arm. Dark blood bubbled up between her fingers. Her skin was tight and marbled.

‘Come on now, my dear.' The Professor rested a hand on her
shoulder. ‘Up you get. It's closing time.' With Mother's help he lifted Mrs Hagstrom to a sitting position.

Mrs Hagstrom looked at Delphine. One of her eyes was flooded with red.

‘Sorry I didn't believe you,' she said.

Through the ringing in her ears, Delphine thought she heard a noise. It solidified into a word:

‘
Wait
.'

The voice was dry, tremulous. It was coming from the middle of the room. Delphine turned.

Miss DeGroot was trying to stand. Her burst arm had hardened into thick strands, stretching from her shoulder to the floor in a fleshy cobweb. Ropes of tendon and scar tissue tightened as she rose, dragging up sections of rug.