The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi (50 page)

“Need I remind you of our first encounter? You adopted a false name and assaulted me in an alleyway. Hardly legal, I'd venture.”

“I judged it a necessary ploy.”

“As I do this.”

With that, Trounce had departed, accompanied by Levi and a very verbosely indignant Thomas Lake Harris, whose last words to Burton were, “You'd better pray the Lily Queen never gets her hands on you, you goddam snake in the grass!”

Burton spent the next few hours applying makeup and false hair, transforming himself into a convincing approximation of the American. He and Swinburne then rode his velocipedes to Upper St. Martin's Lane, where the poet was now waiting for Burton in the Queen's Arms.

Outside the church, Burton put away his timepiece and gazed at a litter-crab as it lumbered past. The already bad weather was worsening and rain was starting to fall again, the water steaming from the machine's humped back.

Trafalgar Square was congested with traffic. The din was such that he initially failed to hear the individual who stopped behind him and said, “Mr. Harris?” The man reached up and tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Harris?”

Burton turned to see a short, ferrety fellow, whose lack of teeth caused his bearded chin to be much closer to his nose than was natural.

“Yes. You are Count Sobieski?”

The man bowed. He didn't look like a count. His clothes were baggy and unwashed. He smelled bad. His breath reeked of stale gin.

In a Russian-accented voice, he said, “Follow me, please.”

He led Burton toward the Strand but turned left before reaching it and plunged into the network of narrow streets and alleys behind the eastern side of St. Martin's Lane. They turned left, right, left, and right again, then stopped at a gate. Sobieski pushed it open, crossed a yard, and unlocked the back door of one of the shops lining the main street. Burton followed his guide inside, to the end of a short corridor, and through another door into a workshop. There was a large safe in one corner and a number of workbenches, all scattered with tools. He recognised the place instantly, and a mystery was solved. He was in Brundleweed's jewellery shop. Plainly, the old man was either captive or done away with.

With difficulty, Burton pushed the thought of his engagement ring aside. He couldn't allow the pain it brought with it.

“This way,” Sobieski murmured. He opened a door and descended a narrow staircase, emerging into a mildewed basement, empty but for broken packing crates, a rusty iron bedstead, and an old chest of drawers. The far wall had a hole cut into it. There was a dark passage beyond.

Burton's heart began to thud.

Bismillah! Must I venture underground again?

The Russian lifted an oil lamp from the chest of drawers, lit it, and stepped through the ragged gap. The explorer trailed after him and said, in an American accent, “Say, Count, this is a mighty strange tour you're takin' me on. What's the game?”

“Just a little patience, please, Mr. Harris,” Sobieski replied. “This is a secret route into the clubhouse. All will be explained when we get there. Not far to go now.”

The passage was short. It opened into the side of a clay-walled tunnel through which one of London's many subterranean rivers flowed, its brown surface heaving and frothing as it sped past.

They went to the right and carefully shuffled along an outward-thrusting shelf, moving upstream. It was slippery, and Burton, using his swordstick for balance, imagined himself sliding from it into the water and being carried into darkness. His corpse, he supposed, would be ejected into the Thames, which—now that he considered it—wasn't very far away.

They hadn't gone far before the damp chill permeated the explorer's bones. His left forearm started to ache.

The lamplight slid over the clay walls. Parts of the roof had been shored up with wooden struts. Their shadows swung disconcertingly beneath the illumination, giving the impression that the tunnel was slowly collapsing. Burton paused and closed his eyes, trying to control his shaking.

Sobieski had stopped just ahead, at the foot of a ladder. He looked back, said, “Come,” and started up it.

Burton's respiration was rapid and shallow, hissing unsteadily through his teeth. He straightened, opened his eyes, cursed himself, and followed.

The count pushed open a trapdoor and disappeared through it.

Quickly, Burton ascended. He crawled thankfully out into a room furnished with coat-, hat-, and umbrella stands, plus rough mats and stiff-haired brushes. Taking the cue from his companion, he used the latter to clean the mud from his boots.

“I'll take you to Doctor Kenealy, sir.”

Sobieski opened a door and ushered the explorer through, across a wood-panelled hallway, and into a plushly appointed sitting room.

Two men got up from leather armchairs and faced the newcomers.

“Thank you, Count,” one of them said. “The others are awaiting you in the temple chamber.”

Sobieski left the room, closing the door after him.

“We're honoured to have you with us, Mr. Harris. Come, sit. I am Doctor Edward Hyde Kenealy, president of the League of Enochians. This is my advisor, Mr. John Dee.”

Dee be damned! Damien Burke, more like!

“I'm mighty glad to be here, gents,” Burton said, continuing to imitate Harris's accent. He shook the proffered hands, sat in the indicated chair, and nodded when Burke offered him a glass of red wine.

“I trust you're enjoying your visit to London,” Kenealy said.

“I'd sure like it more if the rain stopped fallin'.”

Kenealy smiled. He had a wide face outlined by an enormous bush of dark hair which curled down into a shaggy beard. His upper lip was clean-shaven, his nose flat, his small eyes half-concealed by round pebble-like spectacles.

“The tears of the angels, Mr. Harris. They weep for the civilised world.”

“They lament the rise of evil men,” Burke added, “don't you agree, Mr. Harris?”

“Well now,” Burton drawled, “I don't know nothin' about that. What men do you mean?”

“The ones who believe that Europe should cower in the face of Germanic ambition, sir,” Kenealy said. “The men who promote appeasement and cooperation, blind to the danger.”

Burton took a sip of wine. He saw fanaticism in Kenealy's eyes, ruthlessness in Burke's.

“Danger?”

Kenealy leaned back in his seat, crossed his legs, steepled his fingers, and said, “A discussion for later, Mr. Harris. First, I have a confession to make. We have brought you here under false pretences.”

Burton was inclined to raise an eyebrow, but both of them being false, decided not to risk it, and instead said, “How so? You'll still want to hear my presentation on the invoking of angels?”

“As a matter of fact,” Kenealy responded, “we Enochians are already very proficient at summoning. We have regular communication with an angel named Perdurabo, who has taken a great interest in your work, sir, and now wishes to address you directly.”

Burton gripped the arms of his seat, giving every indication of barely suppressed excitement. “That's real interestin'. This Perdurabo asked specifically to speak with me, you say?”

“Yes, Mr. Harris, which is why we're inviting you to join us in a summoning ritual. No doubt you noticed that the person who escorted you here, Count Sobieski, is, shall we say, not the most sophisticated of men. He does, however, possess one redeeming quality, it being that when he's under the influence of certain drugs, he becomes a powerful medium. Channelling Perdurabo is too stressful for most—it can cause the heart to burst—but in Sobieski we have a strong vessel through which the angel can speak for a prolonged period.”

“About what?” Burton asked. “Have you received information about Lilistan?”

“Lilistan?”

“Sure! The interspace between the planets, sir, where the angels dwell.”

“Ah, I see. Perhaps Perdurabo has reserved such revelations for you alone.”

Damien Burke said, “Are you willing to join us for the ritual, Mr. Harris?”

“Mr. Dee, I sure am. Yes, sir!”

Burke stood and bowed, “Then, if you'll excuse me, I'll go and prepare the chamber.”

Burton watched the man leave and wondered what had happened to Gregory Hare. Had he survived the collision on the outskirts of Downe Village? It was difficult to imagine so.

“Will you tell me somethin' about your organisation, Mr. Kenealy?” he asked. “Its history?”

“Certainly. The Marquess of Waterford founded it in 1841, three years or so after an angel visited him in the grounds of his estate. The marquess came to believe that angels hold the key to the advancement of mankind.”

“Advancement? In what way?”

“Spiritually, Mr. Harris. Beresford—the marquess's name was Henry Beresford—didn't regard angels as messengers of God. In fact, he regarded the belief in God as a repudiation of responsibility. The human race, he said, should be accountable only to itself. It should feel shame for its many mistakes and pride for its many achievements, abandoning the notion of an unknowable divine plan, to which these things are so often attributed. As for religion, he wanted it dismantled, for it is nothing but a primitive form of politics, enabling an elite minority to control and feed off the masses.”

“This Beresford fella sounds like an astute guy, but what did he think angels are, then?”

“The liberated spirits of humans, sir. He attempted to make the Enochians the seed of a movement he named ‘Libertarianism.' This had as its basis the philosophies of the Marquis de Sade, which he perceived as the means through which we can cast off the church-imposed moralities that quash the natural expansiveness of the human spirit. We don't require a supreme deity, he proposed, because we ourselves, like the angel he saw, can become godlike.”

“You say ‘attempted'? So he didn't succeed?”

“He didn't. It went wrong about ten years ago, when Beresford tried to recruit a group of influential artists led by a man named Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Rossetti rejected his philosophy and instead formed the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, which went on to produce many paintings linking human dignity with Christian religious themes—a direct challenge to Beresford's ideas. Rossetti was then made the government's minister of arts and culture. From that position, he was able to influence the Home Office, instigating the repression of Libertine activity. Many Enochians were arrested on charges ranging from lewd behaviour to being drunk and disorderly, but the biggest loss was that of Mr. Francis Galton.”

“Who's he?” Burton asked.

“A scientist. He joined the Enochians early in 'forty-four and immediately shook things up by introducing to Beresford the idea that angels—he designated the species
Supreme Man
—must develop at some point in future history, and if they are godlike in their abilities, then they should be able to penetrate the barrier of time, if not physically then certainly mentally. Beresford had long been fascinated by the works of the sixteenth-century occultist John Dee—”

“Dee?” Burton interrupted. “The same name as the gent who just left us?”

“Yes, Mr. Harris. I often wonder whether such coincidences indicate some deep pattern in the substance of time, don't you? Anyway, as I was saying, the marquess was already well versed in the theories of Dee, who was much obsessed with the summoning of angels, and so responded with great enthusiasm when Galton suggested that angels could communicate from the future. This idea provided a new impetus for the Enochians, and the art of summoning became its primary focus. Indeed, very quickly, the club achieved its first contact with Perdurabo, who, via a mediumistically talented member, instructed Galton in great detail with regard to a new science called Eugenics. This, it was hoped, would give Galton the means to artificially hasten the transformation of man into Supreme Man. Unfortunately, disaster followed. The medium suffered heart failure, and there was no one strong enough to channel Perdurabo again, so Galton was forced to proceed without further assistance from him. The experiments went wrong, Eugenics was banned by the government, and the experience caused Galton to lose his sanity.”

Burton adjusted his face into an expression of concern and confusion. “Hold on there! Are you sayin' that my knowledge of the interplanetary realm is nothin' but hogwash? That angels ain't the supernatural beings I take 'em for?”

Kenealy made a calming gesture and smiled. “Not necessarily, sir. It might well be that you have insight into the nature—or perhaps I should say,
super-nature
—of future humans.”

Burton said, “I guess. So what happened?”

“After Galton? Not a great deal, unfortunately. From the mid 'forties, the Enochians lacked a medium strong enough to summon Perdurabo—or any other entity, for that matter. There was no progress until the start of this year, when I was approached by Mr. Dee and his companion, Mr. Kelley, who had with them Count Sobieski. They informed me that someone wanted to communicate with me from the Afterlife. I consented to a séance, during which Perdurabo took possession of the count. He revealed his true nature—not a spirit from Beyond but, as Galton had suggested, a being from the future—and told me Henry Beresford's time on Earth was nearly done and that I should move to take over the running of the League of Enochians. New and influential members would join to support me, he said. Well, I was a lawyer at the time, Mr. Harris, and my career was in tatters after my decision to defend the poisoner William Palmer, in which undertaking I'd failed miserably, so I was very much enthused by this new opportunity. During January and February I started to wrest control of the Enochians from Beresford, and in March was greatly assisted by a man named Laurence Oliphant, who is Lord Elgin's private secretary. Oliphant's interest in summoning was inspired by your work, sir, which is how I became aware of you and the enormous contribution you might make to our cause. On the evening of the twenty-eighth of March, Dee, Kelley, Oliphant, Sobieski, and I conducted a séance during which Perdurabo again possessed the count. He informed us that the marquess would die on the morrow and we must now prepare for an undertaking of inordinate significance, upon which humanity depended. He then asked for private audiences, first with Dee and Kelley, then with Oliphant, and finally with me. During mine, he informed me that each of us was being set a task, which we must not discuss with each other. My own was the simplest: I was to close the Enochians to further membership, establish a secret route into the clubhouse, prevent intruders from entering, and follow whatever instructions Dee and Kelley issued. For this, he said, I would be amply rewarded.”