“Morning.”
Donovan sat hunched over the breakfast table in the hotel restaurant, wreathed in a pall of cigarette smoke. There were two empty coffee cups on the table before him, and he nursed a third in his right hand. He looked up as Gabriel approached the table, and then used the side of his boot to push out one of the chairs by way of greeting.
Amused, Gabriel sat, reaching for the coffee pot. It was empty. He beckoned to the waiter. “Where’s Flora?”
“She’s eaten already. She’s unhappy I decided to leave her out of last night’s little encounter.” Donovan gulped at his coffee as if it were medicinal.
“She’s a capable woman, Felix.”
Donovan leaned back in his chair. “I know that better than anyone. Of course I do. But that’s not the point, is it? I mean—why put her in harm’s way if I don’t have to. Why risk it?”
“You make it sound as though it’s your choice.”
Donovan sighed. “She says I’m being selfish. The way I see it, I’m trying to protect her.”
“Have you considered that she might feel the same?”
Donovan took another sip from his coffee cup, and then reached for his cigarette, which had been slowly burning down in the ashtray. “Maybe,” he admitted, with some reluctance. He looked up as the waiter appeared at his elbow. The newcomer was a tall, lean man, impeccably dressed in a black suit. His upper lip looked as starched as his collar. Donovan took a draw on his cigarette.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said the waiter.
“Morning,” said Gabriel. “Can I get some coffee? And some eggs. Scrambled, with Tabasco sauce.”
The waiter raised an eyebrow, suggesting disapproval, but nodded curtly. “And for sir?”
“Just some more coffee,” said Donovan.
“Very well.” The waiter drifted away toward another table, at which a young family had just taken up residence. The mother was wrestling a menu from the hands of her youngest child, while the father sat looking in the other direction, as if embarrassed to be associated with them.
“Anyway,” said Gabriel, returning his attention to Donovan. “You can make it up to her this morning.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rutherford’s got another lead. A man named Newbury, a former British agent with experience dealing with this sort of thing.”
“You mean the Russians?”
Gabriel shrugged. He lowered his voice. “I’m not entirely sure, but Rutherford thinks he might be able to shed some light on what we saw during the ambush. That strange energy they were throwing around.”
Donovan stared forlornly into his cup. “Maybe he’ll know where to get a decent cup of coffee around here, too.”
Gabriel laughed. He reached over and took a cigarette from Donovan’s crumpled packet. “Do you mind?”
“You know you don’t have to ask.”
Gabriel placed the filter between his lips and pulled the ignition tab. He allowed the smoke to flood his lungs. The taste reminded him of home.
“What did you mean, about making it up to her?” Felix pushed the remains of his coffee across the table in front of him, and twisted in his seat, looking for any sign of the waiter. The man had disappeared from view.
“Well, just that you can spend a little time with her this morning. Do something that she wants to do. Rutherford thought we should avoid descending on this Newbury guy mob-handed. That’s all.”
Donovan’s lip curled in obvious disagreement. “You can’t seriously expect me to go sightseeing, Gabriel, with all this going on?”
“Look, we’re supposed to be on vacation. Think about Flora. You said yourself that you wanted to keep her out of it.”
“Yes, but I’m a goddamned policeman. I can help.” He paused to grind out the end of his cigarette. “And what about that Glogauer woman, and all that talk about the Underground stations? Don’t you think we should be looking into that?”
“Look, don’t get me wrong, Felix. You know there’s no one I’d rather have by my side. But I think it’s worth finding out what we’re really up against before we go looking for them. We’ve no idea what we’ll find down there, but judging by what we saw during that ambush, it can’t be anything good.” Gabriel nodded to indicate the waiter was returning with their coffee.
Donovan practically seized it from the man’s hands. He splashed some into Gabriel’s cup.
“If we don’t act quickly, there’s every chance we’ll miss our window of opportunity. You know how this works. The moment they find out the woman talked, they’ll be gone. It’ll be as if they were never there.”
“We have to trust Rutherford to handle it.”
Donovan shrugged. “Look, this is Rutherford’s business. I’m here to help, just like you. And I’m telling you, it’s a mistake to wait.”
“Alright. He’ll be here soon, so you can tell him yourself.”
Donovan grunted something non-committal, and then lit another cigarette. Gabriel sighed, leaned back in his chair, and willed his eggs to arrive more quickly.
* * *
Donovan’s exchange with Rutherford had, in the end, been brief and to the point. Rutherford maintained that the priority was to find out all they could about their enemies before making their play, and while Donovan protested, Rutherford wasn’t about to be swayed. Like Gabriel, he’d seen first-hand what this faction of Russian occultists—which he’d taken to calling “Koscheis”—was capable of, and he was intent on finding a means to comprehensively defeat them. If, he argued, they were establishing some sort of presence on the Underground, then they’d work together to flush them out—just as soon as they understood what they were contending with.
As a result, Donovan—who’d remained adamant throughout—had taken Flora out for the morning, having agreed to rendezvous with the others back at the hotel after lunch.
Now, Gabriel, Ginny and Rutherford were across town in Chelsea, searching for the address that Rutherford’s commanding officer had provided him with. They were standing in the correct street, as far as Gabriel could tell, but Rutherford appeared somewhat less certain. Gabriel watched him turn the scrap of paper over in his hand and examine the scrawled address for a second time. He looked up at the house, then back at the paper, as if finding it somehow difficult to correlate the two.
“Not what you were expecting?” said Ginny.
“Well… no,” said Rutherford. “It’s just that… well, Sir Maurice Newbury has a certain reputation. I don’t really know what I was expecting. Something a little less traditional, I suppose.”
Gabriel looked the place up and down. It was traditional in a way only British houses could be—a smart, terraced property, probably built sometime toward the end of the previous century, with large bay windows, a pillar-box red front door, and a small rose garden enclosed by a low wall, which was capped by a row of ornamental iron railings. It looked homely—if a little conservative, and small, for Gabriel’s taste.
“Well, are you going to knock on the door?” urged Ginny.
“Yes, sorry,” said Rutherford. He walked up the path to the house. The others hung back. Rutherford smoothed the front of his jacket, and then lifted the knocker and rapped loudly, three times.
Moments later the door swung open, and a short, thin woman appeared in the opening. Her hair had once been midnight black, but was now shot through with streaks of gray, and she was wearing wiry spectacles, pushed right up to the bridge of her nose. She was wearing a red cardigan and black skirt, with a lace-edged apron tied around her waist. “Hello?” she said, her voice cracking slightly with age. Gabriel guessed she must have been in her sixties, if not older.
“Ah, yes, hello,” said Rutherford. Gabriel could tell from his bumbling manner that he was nervous about the impending meeting. He seemed to be treating the whole matter with the sort of reverence usually reserved for movie stars or retired politicians of great standing. “My name is Rutherford, and these are my associates, Mr. Cross and Ms. Gray. We were hoping to speak with Sir Maurice, if he’s at home?”
The woman smiled. “Secret Service?”
Rutherford frowned. “Well, I’m not—”
“It’s always been easy to spot them.”
The woman eyed him through her spectacles, and then nodded, as if coming to a decision. She opened the door a little wider and stood to one side. “Come in. He’s in the drawing room.”
Rutherford thanked her, and led the way into the house.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting tea,” said the woman, whom Gabriel took to be the housekeeper. “We’re not interested in that American nonsense here, I’m afraid.”
“You mean coffee?” said Gabriel, with a smile.
“That’s the stuff.” The woman pulled a face. “Never understood the attraction. Sir Maurice, on the other hand, prefers a pot of Earl Grey. Now that’s an afternoon tea, by tradition, but we all have to make compromises sometimes.”
“Blythe, leave the visitors alone!”
The voice echoed from a room down the hall. The housekeeper rolled her eyes. “Sounds like you’d better hurry along.” She ushered them down the hallway with her hands at their backs, until they were standing before the door in question. Rutherford knocked, and then pushed it aside, stepping into the room beyond. Gabriel and Ginny followed, while the housekeeper tottered off toward the kitchen.
The drawing room was not at all what Gabriel had expected. Where the exterior of the property had appeared orderly and well maintained, here, inside, it was a triumph of chaos and disorder. Crooked bookcases with bowing shelves lined the far wall, overstuffed with peeling spines, fat paper files and bizarre trinkets. Further books were heaped in tottering piles in the middle of the floor, forming a barely navigable island of dusty paper and board. A yellowing cat skull sat on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, which was black with soot and ash. A sideboard groaned beneath the weight of a bizarre mechanical contraption, for which Gabriel could discern no obvious purpose, and a thick fug of cigarette smoke hung in the air, swirling in the shafts of light from the window. Gabriel thought he could detect the faint aroma of something sweet and pungent beneath the nicotine musk, too.
Two wingback armchairs were placed before the fire, and a soft divan was almost hidden beneath the piled cushions and blankets. A small, mechanical owl was perched atop one of the chairs, and it turned to regard them as they entered, cogs whirring.
Newbury himself was sitting in another armchair by the window, his head turned away from them. Smoke from a cigarette wreathed his head. He was wearing a rather dapper brown suit, and appeared wiry and fit despite his advancing years. His hair was silver-gray, and he had a square, clean-shaven jaw. Despite the sea of chaos around him, he looked peaceful and serene.
Rutherford cleared his throat. “Sir Maurice?”
Slowly, Newbury turned to take in the interlopers. He raised a single eyebrow, as he looked Gabriel up and down. “You’re a long way from home, Mr. Cross.”
Gabriel grinned, immediately disarmed. “Quite. I must admit—it’s not exactly the vacation I had planned.”
Newbury grinned. “Let’s hope someone’s keeping an eye on matters back in New York while the Ghost is abroad in London, eh?”
So Newbury knew exactly who he was. He must have read Rutherford’s report, following the matter with the Goliath and the attempt to unleash a doomsday weapon on London. Either that, or he was uncannily perceptive and up to date with foreign affairs.
Gabriel noticed Ginny was staring at him. He fired her a reassuring smile. “I’m sure they can make do for a couple of weeks. And besides, if things get out of hand, it’ll give me something to do when I get home.”
Newbury laughed. “Indeed. And a delight to meet your companion, Ms…?”
“Gray, Ginny Gray.”
He turned to Rutherford. “And you, Mr. Rutherford. I understand you’re making quite a name for yourself in the Service.”
Rutherford looked flustered. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir Maurice.” He walked forward, his hand extended, and Newbury shook it with an amused grin.
“Well, as you can see, I don’t get many visitors these days,” he gestured to the state of the room, “but then, even when I did, it looked much the same. If you can find somewhere to sit, you’re welcome to it.”
Gabriel felt himself warming to the man immediately. He crossed to one of the armchairs by the fire. Embers were still crackling in the grate—the remnants of a fire from the previous evening. Ginny perched on the edge of the divan, and Rutherford remained standing, close to where Newbury was sitting.
“I’m sure Blythe will be along with the tea shortly—along with a scattering of acerbic words. In the meantime, I presume your visit has something to do with your visit to the Fixer the night before last, and the ensuing conflict with a number of hooded characters in the street?”
“You remain incredibly well informed,” said Rutherford. There was no hint of suspicion in his voice—clearly, Newbury was still very much connected to the Service, even if he was no longer an active agent himself. Rutherford had explained a little of his reputation on the drive over, explaining how Newbury had once served Queen Victoria herself as an agent of the Crown, but had later defected to the Secret Service to work against the Queen, after it became clear that she no longer had the best interests of the nation at heart. His exploits were legendary, Rutherford had claimed, and he continued to be held in very high regard. Gabriel could see why.
“It pays to stay abreast of the news, Mr. Rutherford.”
“We’re hoping you might be able to shed some light on the nature of the men we encountered. They were Russians, presumably part of some clandestine order. They were somehow able to harness a type of ‘light energy’, using it to open portals, or control the very air around us. Major Absalom referred to them as ‘Koscheis’, and said that he’d encountered something akin to them during the war.”
Newbury sucked thoughtfully on his cigarette, resting his head against the back of his chair. “From what I know of them, the Koscheis were an elite fighting force created during the war, schooled in the ways of the arcane, and taught how to turn themselves into weapons. They had no need for machine guns or artillery—it was said they could conjure demons from the abyss itself, and bend reality to their whims.” He plumed smoke from the corner of his mouth. “That was the propaganda, anyway, although I gather it wasn’t very far from the truth. There’s some disagreement about whether the creatures they pressed into service were really ‘demonic’, but that’s just a matter of semantics.”
“Major Absalom said that he encountered some of them back here, after the war, working out of a house in Bristol,” said Rutherford. “He implied that they’d escaped. Do you think they could be back?”
“It’s quite possible,” said Newbury. “These days, the Empire is not what it was. Queen Alberta’s rule is faltering. While her attention has been overseas,” he flicked a glance at Gabriel, “her domestic policies have left her open, and there are those even within the Empire itself who would see it crumble. Our enemies take advantage of our weakened state. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Russians—or at least the followers of this particular imperial cult—were seeking to further destabilize the nation.”
“Alright, so what more can you tell us about these Koscheis?” said Gabriel.
Newbury placed his cigarette between his lips, and stood, straightening his back. “That’ll have to wait a moment, I’m afraid. Here comes Blythe with the tea.”
Almost on cue, the door opened and Newbury’s housekeeper walked in carrying a tea tray adorned with an array of mismatched crockery and teapots. Unsteadily, she crossed the room and placed the tray upon the top of the sideboard.
After she’d shut the door behind her, Newbury turned to the others. “Anyone for tea?”
Five minutes later they had all returned to their seats brandishing steaming cups of tea. Rutherford was still standing by the window. “You were saying, Sir Maurice?”
“The Koscheis, yes. As I understand it, they originated as a secret order created by the self-proclaimed ‘mystic’ Grigori Rasputin, who at the time was a favored member of the Tsar’s inner circle. Rasputin claimed to have mastered a form of elemental magic, drawing upon ancient pagan texts recovered from the vaults of monasteries he visited during his many pilgrimages around Russia. He plundered these texts for references to ancient rites, and spent years deciphering them, slowly discerning how to recreate them. It’s thought that hundreds of people died during those early experiments, as he lost control of the things he had created, but that, over time, he was eventually able to master them.
“Following his arrival at St. Petersburg, he performed demonstrations of his hard-won powers, and soon came to the notice of the Tsar himself, who took him under his patronage ostensibly as an advisor and a ‘healer’. But secretly, the Tsar charged Rasputin with assembling an inner circle of ‘black monks’—an order of magicians trained in the use of elemental magic, as a means of protecting the realm. These were the Koscheis.”
“Elemental magic?” said Rutherford.
“Yes, in that it draws upon the fundamental energies of the universe. The Koscheis made use of light and air, time and gravity, life and death. It is a distinct and esoteric discipline, most distinct from my own particular field of interest, which tends toward the more spiritual.” Newbury sipped his tea.
“So how do we stop them?” said Gabriel. “We took some of them down with brute force, but there are clearly greater forces at play.”
“Indeed,” said Newbury. “Although I fear my own expertise in this area is severely lacking. I’ve never had the misfortune to be on the receiving end of such an attack, although it must be quite fascinating to witness. As I understand it, the solution lies in deploying opposing elemental forces to combat the conjured elements of the Koscheis—countering death with life, and so forth. But I fear my most useful role in this matter may be in pointing you in the direction of another. There is an old acquaintance of mine, a man named Roland Horwood, who may be able to assist you. He is far better versed in such matters, and I suspect, if the Koscheis are, as you fear, in London, then Roland might well know of it already.”
“Thank you,” said Rutherford. “Your help in this matter is much appreciated, Sir Maurice.”
“Thank me when the matter is closed,” said Newbury. “Now, pass me that notepaper and pen, would you, and I’ll give you Horwood’s address. I’ll telephone ahead to warn him I’ve sent you.”
Rutherford placed his teacup and saucer on a small side table, and passed Newbury the notepad and pen for which he’d gestured.
Newbury wrote the address with a brief flourish, tore the page from the pad, and handed it to Rutherford. “I trust you can decipher my scrawl.”
Rutherford grinned. “Quite so.”
“Then I bid you good day, and good luck. The gentlemen in the room, at least, are likely to need it.”
Ginny narrowed her eyes. She looked as if she was about to say something, but the amused expression on Newbury’s face told them everything they needed to know. Not only had he correctly identified Gabriel, but he knew precisely who Ginny was, too—and more, had implied he was aware of her particular… circumstances. Gabriel got to his feet, and took Ginny by the hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Sir Maurice,” he said. “I hope we’ll meet again.”