The Shadow Cabinet (12 page)

“There's no record of ten teenagers disappearing all at once at that time,” Thorpe said.

“There wouldn't be,” Clover said, looking at Thorpe as if he were very stupid. “A lot of the kids were runaways, or they were older but their parents had no idea where they were living or what they were doing. You need to understand, it really was a different time. London was full of runaways. They'd join communes, or decide to live in India or California. People went missing. It happened. There was no Internet. No CCTV. You'd hitch a ride and go. And the police were different then as well. These kids were all put down as hippies and freaks, and therefore no one was going to look too hard. We didn't talk to the police. No one cared about those kids but us. And we tried. We put out the word to people in magic communities in other parts of the world. We sent copies of their pictures. No one had seen them. We scryed for them, we held circles. What we got back was strange. Our best seer, Dawn . . .”

“Dawn Somner?” I asked.

“Yeah, that's Dawn. She died a few days past. Good friend of mine.”

Thorpe registered this just as I did. Dawn Somner—the psychic who had fallen out of the window a few days before. That's where I was when Charlotte was being kidnapped. That whole scene had looked set up. Stephen was sure someone had killed Dawn and staged it. This couldn't be a coincidence.

“Dawn truly had the gift—if anyone could find them, it was Dawn.” Clover pulled sadly at his tooth necklace. “Dawn read cards for them over and over. Everything she was getting on the kids was bad, and confusing. What she got on Sid and Sadie, that was even stranger. She never got signs of life or death—she saw things like rivers on fire and bleeding stones.”

“Did you ever find out what happened to them?”

Clover shook his head.

“A month passed, then six, then a year, then two years. There were all kinds of rumors for a while—that they had all gone to Morocco. Then people said India. Then some people said South America, or they were all in Ireland communing with the fairies.”

“Sid and Sadie left a suicide note,” I said.

“Suicide note, my arse. Sid and Sadie would never kill themselves.”

“Jane could have killed them,” I said. “She found the suicide note. She got the house.”

“Jane would never have done that,” he said, shaking his head. “You don't understand. Sid and Sadie
ruled
her. They were her gods. She would have killed herself in a second if they told her to. The only way—”

He cut himself off.

“The only way what?” I asked.

“It's not likely,” he said. “The only way she would have done it was if Sid and Sadie told her to. But like I said, they wouldn't. Sid and Sadie . . . they were
proper
freaks, totally obsessed with themselves and their own magic. They were brother and sister, but the rumor was they were more than that.”

“That they were a couple?” Freddie said.

“It's what everyone thought at the time, and it would make sense. No one else would be good enough for them.”

“But why would they want their followers to die?” Freddie asked. “Wouldn't that defeat the point of having followers?”

Clover looked down at his necklaces.

“Like I said, this is the darkest stuff, the most forbidden. Stuff we don't keep here. Stuff I don't even believe in. Stuff about death energy. Paranoid, crazy stuff. What do I think? I think Sid and Sadie bought a spell off of some chancer who claimed to know dark magic and saw two fools with money. If you go to Egypt and places like that, people'll sell you all sorts, written on old papyrus. I've seen things like it. I think whatever they did—whatever they ingested or performed—maybe something went wrong. Maybe someone died. Whatever happened, Sid and Sadie probably had to get out. I think they left Jane in charge, and they probably live somewhere—could be anywhere.”

“Has Jane been here recently?” Thorpe asked.

“Jane? I haven't seen Jane in forty years. Like I said, it was a long time ago.”

“Then I think we're finished here,” Thorpe said.

“Whatever happened to your friend,” he said, “I can't imagine it has anything to do with Sid and Sadie, or the kids. That was all so long ago. Even if they were alive, any of them, they'd be older now. If any of them had come back, we'd have heard. I'm sure of it. No point in chasing after shadows.”

He twisted in his seat a bit. Talking about these people seemed to hurt him physically.

“I'll see what I can do for your friend,” Clover said. “Do you have a photograph or anything of hers I can work with?”

I shook my head.

“I think we're finished,” Thorpe said again, putting a hand on the middle of my back to guide me out. “We'll be in touch if we need to know more.”

12

T
HORPE
AND
I
STEPPED
OUT
OF
THE
TEAROOM
,
LEAVING
Freddie to say good-bye to Clover. Jerome was sitting on the floor, holding a book and clearly not reading it.

“Go outside and wait,” Thorpe said to him. “We'll be right out.”

Jerome didn't look thrilled to be ordered around like this, but he shut the book and stuck it back on the shelf, then shook his inhaler a few times before leaving. Thorpe guided me over to the farthest aisle. There was little privacy in this shop, and everything you said was pretty easily overheard. He spoke in a very low voice.

“You're a couple,” Thorpe said. “Isn't that correct?”

This seemed a bit personal.

“Really? This is your question?”

“Answer it.”

“Well, we
were
 . . .”

“When did that end?”

“How is that important?”

Thorpe handed me Jerome's phone.

“Give this to him,” he said. “And talk to him. Convince him to keep quiet, at least for a few days.”

“Me?”

“I could threaten him, but I think it would be much easier and more effective if you asked him to comply. He has feelings for you.”

It made me squeamish, hearing Thorpe say something like this, but he said it flatly, as if he were talking about the color of Jerome's shirt or the time.

“Tell him you're fine. Convince him. Tell him you can keep in touch a few times a day by text to reassure him.”

“I can?”

“I'll provide the phone, and I'll be checking the messages.”

“I don't understand . . .”

“The alternative is having him put on a forty-eight-hour psychiatric hold,” Thorpe said.

“But he's not—”

“Of course not. But it's what I would have to do. Stress reaction to the disappearance of his girlfriend, everything he says will be discredited. I don't want to do that. I don't think he's a threat. I think that, given a little information, he'll keep his mouth shut. Do this, Rory.”

The girl in the counter hatch eyed me as I left. Jerome was standing outside, huddling in his coat. He was clearly highly charged, but with which emotion, I couldn't immediately tell. I sheepishly handed him the phone.

“What did he do to my phone?” Jerome asked.

“I don't think he did anything to your phone.”

“Of course he did,” he said, pocketing it. For all I knew, he was right.

“So, what happens now?” he said.

“Look,” I said, “I wish I could tell you everything. I wanted to tell you before, when—”

“At school,” he said. By that, I assumed he meant “when you broke up with me after I asked you where you'd been.”

“Yeah,” I said. “At school.”

“So all this time, you've been with these people. Who the hell is this guy, anyway?”

“Thorpe.”

“Yeah, but who is he? Is he Home Office? MI5?”

“One of those. I don't really know the difference.”

He repeated the words
one of those
silently and looked to the sky in desperation.

“Here's the thing,” I said. “I need your help. I need you not to tell anyone what you saw.”

“I don't
understand
what I've seen. You locked in a tomb, some guy with white hair shows up, some freaky bookshop where some guy tells you about some cult and some people who died in the seventies doing magic?”

So he'd been listening through the door. Of course he had.

“And
who's Jane Quaint
?” he added.

“She's a therapist,” I said. “Mine and Charlotte's. Charlotte went to her after the night we were both attacked, and she recommended that I go too. Jane Quaint lured Charlotte in, and she lured me in. She's likely the last person Charlotte was with. She's likely the person who took Charlotte.”

“Charlotte was
kidnapped
by her
therapist
? Your therapist? And your therapist does . . . magic?”

“It's a really long story,” I said.

“And this has to do with the Ripper?”

At this point, everything had something to do with the Ripper, so I nodded.

“The thing is,” I said, “I need to stay here to help. I know stuff, and these people? Jane Quaint and the others? They tried to get me too. I . . . got away. But they're still looking for me. Thorpe is protecting me.”

“Not very well,” Jerome said.

“He's trying to. I got out.”

Jerome shook his head in confusion.

“Freddie mentioned Boo. Boo's a part of this?”

“She was undercover at school. She's a . . . police officer.”

“I should have realized that,” he said. “The way she just arrived and ended up in your room. Did Charlotte know that?”

“I don't think so. Look . . .” The way we were standing was too awkward to maintain, so I grabbed his hand. I think this shocked him. I know it shocked me. But there we were, holding hands. His hand was warm, and he squeezed, locking the connection. This little throwaway gesture had changed everything, and now that there was touching, his presence was more real.

“This is mad,” he said. “I don't even know how this is happening. I didn't think Freddie would be right.”

“I promise you, when this is over? I'll explain everything. Every single thing. But now, there's no time. So I need you to not say anything to anyone about where I am. It could get me hurt, and it could hurt the effort to find Charlotte.”

“I'm supposed to meet Jaz in three hours,” he said.

“You can't tell her,” I said, shaking my head. “You can't tell anyone. I know this is a lot to ask. I know it. But I can text you a few times a day and let you know I'm okay. And when it's over, maybe we can talk? Thorpe trusts you. He said I should talk to you because he thinks you'll listen, and he thinks you'll help.”

“And do you trust
Thorpe
?”

This was a fair question. It wasn't like I knew Thorpe that well. But everything he had done so far had been designed to help me or . . .

I remembered the intake form that was still in my pocket.

Stephen had trusted Thorpe, though.

“I trust him enough,” I said.

“I'm worried about you,” he said.

When he looked up at me, I remembered what had attracted me to him in the first place—before my life went crazy. Jerome was this really nice mix of competent and loose. And his face was kind. Everyone talked to Jerome, which was part of the reason he was a popular prefect.

“A few days,” Jerome said.

“That's all.”

“And you're going to text me?”

“I'll text you.”

He balled his hand into a fist and rubbed it on his mouth in thought.

“This freaks me out,” he said. “But I'll do it. If I don't hear from you . . .”

“You will.”

“What do I say to Jazza?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “You say nothing.”

“Yeah.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I say nothing.”

I heard the chime of the door, and the creak as it was forced back open. Thorpe and Freddie rejoined us.

“Are we all set here?” Thorpe asked.

I had the uneasy feeling that he had seen the whole thing. It wasn't that Jerome and I had been doing anything in particular, but I didn't like the thought of being closely observed, especially not with Jerome. Especially when we were meeting again after what had happened between us, in a time when weird and terrible emotions were always following me like a dark cloud.

“All set,” I said, looking down.

“I assume you can make your way from here, Jerome?”

Jerome retrieved his Oyster card from his pocket and waggled it at Thorpe.

“Good. Freddie will be coming with us.”

Freddie appeared mildly dazed. I took it she and Thorpe had had a conversation inside as well. She went right to the backseat of the car and put herself in it.

“Okay, then,” I said, looking from Thorpe to the car and back again.

“Get in,” Thorpe said.

There would be no long good-bye, which was probably best. As I got into the car, Jerome came to the door and stopped before I shut it.

“When will you text?”

“Two times a day,” Thorpe said, from the driver's side.

“Three.”

“Fine. Shut the door.”

I shut the door, and then we were driving off, leaving Jerome standing on the street.

• • •

We drove along the river, but Thorpe didn't bother to tell us where we were going. I had a look at Freddie in the side-view mirror and found that she was looking back at me, all apple cheeks and eager eyes.

“Your term ended a week ago,” Thorpe said to her. “When are you due home to your family?”

“A few days,” she said. “I told them I was staying here to finish up some work.”

Having gotten what he wanted, Thorpe didn't feel obligated to add any follow-up. Freddie leaned back. I would occasionally turn my eyes to the mirror to see if we were still watching each other. She had shifted her attention to our route. We stopped in front of what looked one of many London apartment buildings—it could have been Hawthorne, my building at Wexford, just painted white with a black roof. I noticed a sign that read
KING
'
S
COLLEGE
STUDENT
RESIDENCE
.

“Get some clothes,” he said. “Enough for a day or two. Make it a small bag. Bring your laptop and anything you've collected that's relevant. Be back in ten minutes.”

Freddie half fell out of the car in her effort to be quick. Thorpe pulled into an empty space up the street and stopped the car but kept it idling.

“You had one instruction,” he said. “Stay indoors.”

Here it was. I wanted him to do it. I wanted him to get self-righteous so I could level him with the knowledge that I knew what he had done—or hadn't done—for Stephen. But that was all he said. Thorpe was a bit of a mic-dropper, and he left me no open conversational door to lob my grenade into. All I could say was, “Yeah?”

“So why don't you tell me what caused you to disobey a straightforward instruction.”

“Because I read Stephen's report.”

No glint of recognition. To be fair, we had several bags of Stephen's reports, so that had really not been specific enough.

“What report?” he asked.

“His intake form.”

“His intake form?”

I think he was genuinely confused. My bombshell moment was not having quite the
boom!
effect I had been going for. I dug it out of my pocket and shoved it at him. He accepted it and looked it over. The longer I watched him, the more I realized that he really hadn't seen this document before. Three heavy wrinkles appeared in his forehead as he processed the contents.

“Where did you get this?” he said, looking up.

“Stephen had it,” I said. “It was in the box of stuff from his bedroom.”

Thorpe considered the paper for a moment more, then leaned back against the headrest. He looked very tired.

“All right, Rory,” he said. “I'll speak to you candidly, because I need you to listen and to understand my position on this. We need to come to an understanding. Do you agree?”

“I . . . yes?”

“When I was given the assignment to oversee this group,” Thorpe said, “I had absolutely no idea what to make of it. I thought it was a training exercise. Training exercises are quite common, and they can go on for some time. I was given a set of instructions, told that I needed to find a certain kind of person. Young people, highly intelligent and skilled, who had had near-death experiences before eighteen and then reported certain visions. They gave me the termini. They told me about restarting the squad and set me to work. And I did it. I made contacts at a number of hospitals and clinics. And one day, Stephen's name popped up. He was in the hospital following a suicide attempt.”

He looked over at me, I think checking to see if I knew this already.

“He told me,” I said.

“I thought he might have. He's open about it.”

“That's about the only thing,” I said.

“That's part of what made him a good candidate. He had a good sense of discretion. Normally, no one would be recruited while still recovering from an incident like that. Working for a secret service is stressful, and it requires silence. And someone recovering from a suicide attempt and a trauma needs less stress and the opportunity to talk about anything and everything. What made his situation unique was that he couldn't talk about what had happened to him because it involved people that others couldn't see. He was also exactly the kind of person you'd want to recruit—top marks, top schools, physically competent.”