The Iscariot Sanction (10 page)

Kate Fox, indeed, calls these people the greatest gift to the world as we know it. She calls them ‘Majestics’.

I, gentlemen, have seen the danger that they pose to the very fabric of reality.

I call them the greatest threat to the safety of our world since the bubonic plague.

The Awakening was a phenomenon aptly named, as it had certainly awoken something in Sir Arthur, not to mention countless others around the world.

As a boy, Arthur Furnival had but one ‘talent’ of note, though he himself had thought it a curse. Sometimes, when he held an object close, he would become enraptured by such a violent glimpse into its past as to send him into a fit, and give him night terrors for weeks afterwards. The doctors did not know what to do with him; how could he have explained to their satisfaction that he received visitations from shades of the long dead? He’d become an object of ridicule at Harrow. He’d learned to fight—both physically and politically—at public school. Those talents at least had consistently served him well since.

The family physician had thought that some time in the seminary would ease Arthur’s troubled mind. He might as well have sent him to Zululand to see a witch doctor. As the youngest of the three Furnival sons, it was his duty to enter the clergy upon leaving university. Yet fate took an altogether different turn, taking Arthur’s brothers early, and thrusting a troubled youth into an inheritance for which he was ill prepared. His extensive reading of theology was all for naught, and the awkward, pensive youth entered a whirlwind life of society balls and philanthropy. Not that he embraced such at all. Despite the baronetcy and the prestige it brought, Sir Arthur Furnival mourned his eldest brother, Horace—the second to depart this earth—for the longest time. It was that very process that drew him to Spiritualism. And it was his new-found status that had opened doors to audiences with the American prophet of that church, Kate Fox.

Arthur had been inducted into mysteries profound, learning that the powers that had for so long been a weighty source of misery had a name: psychometry, the power to sense the history of an object through touch. The visions, he was informed, were ‘echoes’ of powerful emotions, vibrations left by an owner, and channelled through the afterlife itself to the waiting medium. It was not a pure gift, like the clairvoyance that Fox herself possessed, but it was strong in the baronet nonetheless.

All that had changed with the Awakening. Like so many others who laid claim to the most modest psychic talents, Arthur’s powers had increased a hundredfold on the day that Kate Fox lost control of her ‘spirit guide’. Tragedy and miracle both; lives were for ever changed, and the world had not been ready. Then, and since, Sir Arthur had performed his duty for Queen and country. He had travelled the globe many times in the name of that duty. In truth, he preferred far-flung assignments, for leaving London these days was more a blessing than a curse; an opportunity to see clear skies, and perhaps to feel a modicum of peace rather than be plagued by the repercussions of his uncanny powers.

Arthur only wished he could be less troubled. In the years since the awakening he had seen things that would have driven lesser men mad. He had seen, he believed, the very denizens of hell spill forth into the world, and had done his part to turn back the tide of evil that could surely only signal the reckoning. Judgement Day.

Something terrible was coming: he could feel it in his marrow. What had happened in the Dials, and what had happened to John Hardwick in the north… He shuddered, nodding his thanks to Jenkins, who solemnly withdrew the syringe from his master’s arm. So-called ‘mundane’ etherium, the only thing that could bring him peace after he had used his powers. The only thing that could quiet the voices in his head. Sir Arthur dismissed his servant, and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes until respite washed over him, enjoying the moment’s silence, while it lasted.

He and Lillian had seen horrors indeed. And yet the creatures had been flesh and blood. They were not the ravening things that couched behind the veil, scratching for egress into the world of men. They were something else. Sir Arthur Furnival, with his long experience in Apollo Lycea, had an idea of exactly what they were.

‘You mean to say that there is a… creature… on the loose in the Underground?’ Sir Toby Fitzwilliam, that staunch and unswerving Lord Justice, frowned at his agents from beneath his bushy, greying eyebrows.

Lillian was about to reply, when Arthur beat her to it.

‘It is uncertain,’ Arthur said. ‘What we stumbled upon was a construction tunnel for an aborted line. Although it was closed off, I’m afraid the Board of Works believe it to be connected to further tunnels, and to the old sewers, via maintenance shafts. In short, the creature could be anywhere.’

‘It is wounded,’ Lillian offered, with optimism. ‘It has the use of but one arm.’

‘And a lot of good that does us.’ Gazing out of a large sash window across St. James’s Square, was the Minister for Defence, Lord Hardwick, formerly Brigadier Sir Marcus Hardwick. To the populace he was the most important man in England, the man who would revive a cursed empire and lead it back into the light. To Lillian, he was simply her father. He had not spoken until now. Even so, he did not turn away from the window.

Agents Furnival, Hardwick and Hardwick stood to attention, side by side in Sir Toby Fitzwilliam’s office. From this unassuming cloister did the judge exert control over Apollo Lycea—the Order of Apollo—the most powerful covert agency in the Empire. Lillian glanced askance at her brother; she had barely spoken to John before the meeting, and he had seemed most strange in his manner. He had been overjoyed to see her but remarkably stand-offish when asked about his mission. He was usually tight-lipped about official business, even with other agents—the pillar of integrity, some said—but this was different. He was troubled.

‘I shot it,’ Lillian said at last, when any wisp of clever retort eluded her. ‘It may be dead.’

‘The reports do not tally on that matter,’ said Sir Toby. ‘As far as we know, the creature is alive, and is even now posing a threat to the citizens of London. However,’ his tone softened, ‘we are a step closer to discovering who is behind the killings. You have other avenues to investigate, do you not?’

‘We—’ Lillian began.

‘Yes, Sir Toby,’ Sir Arthur interrupted. ‘The cabman, Dresden, is currently under watch. We think he was lying about his involvement with the killer.’

‘We should bring him in. What do you say, Cherleten?’

A third official leaned forward from a plume of cigar smoke. ‘I concur,’ he said, his voice rasping. ‘Let’s hand him to my Nightwatch. I’ll have them poke about in his head for a bit. Whatever secrets he’s keeping will soon come tumbling out, eh, Sir Arthur?’

If it was a jest, it was a mirthless one. But Lord Cherleten was famed for his black humour. He sat smoking fat cigars in the corner of the room, always away from the light of Sir Toby’s desk-lamp, somewhat theatrically, Lillian thought. He was the Order’s foremost keeper—and discoverer—of secrets. Lord of the armoury, and founder of the Nightwatch. Spymaster supreme, and second in command of the Order of Apollo.

‘I’m sure you know best,’ said Sir Arthur, with an air of distaste. Lillian fancied she saw Cherleten smirk before vanishing into the shadows again, his tufts of pale red hair the only thing to distinguish him. She knew Arthur was the only field agent who could get away with speaking his mind to Lord Cherleten, due primarily to his title, but also to his prodigious psychical gifts. Even her brother would think twice before crossing Cherleten, though heaven knew he’d considered it often enough. Lillian wondered why Cherleten was at the debriefing at all.

Sir Toby looked up at them from beneath bushy eyebrows the colour of gunmetal. ‘Agents, you have been brought together because your reports contain several disturbing correlations. It would seem that the suspects in your seemingly disparate cases are connected, if not, indeed, the same person.’

Lillian looked at John—he seemed as perplexed as her.

‘Lieutenant Hardwick returned this morning from Hyde, where he was investigating certain irregularities in the army’s munitions supplies.’ Sir Toby passed a pair of grainy photographs to Arthur, who handed them in turn to Lillian. ‘These pictures were taken less than a week ago by Corporal Henry Moreton, of Debdale. The army sent him to take a look at one of their munitions factories near Hyde. You see, it ceased production a month ago, citing an outbreak of fever amongst its workers, and thus it failed to fulfil the month’s orders. Dockets were sent to the War Office and the Admiralty defaulting on the agreement to supply shells for at least another month. And yet, as you can see from Mr. Moreton’s photographs, the factory is very much operational. The photographs were sent with a note, explaining that the factory is not only functioning as expected, but is also working through the night, every night, with goods coming in and out regularly. And yet, we do not know where those goods are going. A telegram was sent to Moreton the day before yesterday, to which he did not respond.’

‘Has he been found?’ Arthur asked.

‘What was left of him, at any rate,’ John replied.

‘I see,’ Arthur said.

From the look on Arthur’s face, Lillian guessed he was remembering the scene in the Dials; it was certainly not far from her own thoughts.

‘Lieutenant Hardwick managed to trace one of the most recent deliveries to the factory,’ Sir Toby went on. ‘A consignment of guncotton; a very large consignment. It began its journey at a freight-house in Faversham, and ended up being packed into weapons of war in Hyde, for purposes unknown.’

Faversham was Lillian and John’s old family home, before their father’s promotion had brought them to London. At its mention, Lillian glanced over at Marcus Hardwick. He stood in silence, his back to the three agents, thrown into silhouette by the roiling red sky through the window.

When had the sky first started to burn? It seemed like for ever ago.

She ought to remember—the Great Catastrophe had marked the end of her childhood, and the loss of her father as she knew him. She blinked the thought away—it was pointless to wish her father back. They were worlds apart now, it seemed.

‘Although Lieutenant Hardwick was unable to retrieve any physical evidence, he also stumbled across an etherium distillery. An unlicensed etherium distillery.’

Lillian noted Arthur’s unease at mention of the Majestic drug.

‘I’m sorry, Sir Toby,’ Arthur said, ‘but is this not a military matter? Why this is the business of the Order?’

‘Because I decided it was,’ growled Lord Hardwick. He turned away from the window, and the hellfire beyond illuminated his weathered face in a most ghastly fashion. ‘Have you any idea of what is happening in the north?’

‘A little, sir,’ Arthur said, coolly. Lillian was surprised by her father’s tone. Arthur usually commanded more respect, even from his superiors in the Order. She hoped the unpleasantness was not on her account. Arthur went on, ‘The tearing of the veil has affected northerners most terribly, and disease and dispossession run rife. I have heard talk of insurrection, in some quarters…’

‘Insurrection… indeed; and what if I told you that in every great hub of industry in this realm, rebellion has begun to take hold? What if I told you that the people of Manchester, Sheffield, York and Newcastle—among others—no longer respect the Crown, or the government? That no metropolitan force or yeomanry dare to even try to enforce law and order?’

‘How… how could we not have heard of this?’ Arthur asked.

‘Because,’ Sir Toby picked up the thread, ‘we cannot allow anyone to hear of it. We face the most terrible crisis mankind has ever faced. Demons prey upon the weak, the dead do not rest easy in their graves, and more and more people succumb to the madness that stalks our streets with each passing day. To allow news to spread that political factions are on the verge of fracturing the country would be the final straw. There has to be law, here in London at least. You ask why Lord Hardwick has entrusted the Order with this matter? Because it is a delicate operation indeed. We believe the munitions factories are being targeted by a group of well-organised political dissidents, who wish to use their possessions to hold the Crown to ransom. Can you imagine if these rebels managed to manufacture weapons of mass destruction to use against our own armies in our own country? Or sell them to our enemies? What began as mutinous grumbling from petty councillors and labour unions has become something dire indeed. This game is a political one, and the factories are the tipping point in the balance of power.’

‘John’s—Lieutenant Hardwick’s—assignment in Cheshire has undoubtedly uncovered part of this terrible plot,’ said Lillian. ‘But I do not understand how it links with the murders in the East End. What has poor Molly Goodheart to do with this?’

‘Nothing,’ said Marcus Hardwick, ‘but her killer may have everything to do with it. Your brother uncovered the identity of a man we believe to be a prime agitator in the north, and has long evaded the law—operated above the law, in fact. His name is Lord Lucien de Montfort, though his claims to the peerage are tenuous at best. He belongs to a group calling themselves the “Knights Iscariot”—a cabal of occultists and aristocrats who claim to be older even than our Order. When he is not lobbying for devolution of political power to himself and his allies, he has been known to indulge in… somewhat salacious and even barbaric activities here in London. If your cabman can admit dealings with de Montfort, then our suspicions will be confirmed.’