“During all Thursday, the wind blew over the hills at Norwood with extraordinary fierceness. All stood well till about half-past 7 o’clock on Thursday night, when, during one of the fearful gusts which then swept over the hill, the huge tower fell over among some trees, and lay smashed into millions of fragments on the ground. In the course of two or three minutes, more of the rest of the wing went, by 30 or 40 yards at a time, till a total length of about 110 yards strewed the earth, a mere mass of splinters of glass, wood, and iron. Anything more complete than the destruction it caused would be difficult to imagine. The appearance of the ruin rather suggests that every part of the building has been carefully broken into small pieces, than that it has been merely blown down. A tremendous explosion could not possibly have shattered the place more effectually.”
—The Times of London, Saturday, February 23, 1861.
WILLIAM DAVEY
For we know in part, and we prophesy in part—for now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
Edward Quillinan had said that to me—or, rather, my mind had conjured a dream in which he had spoken those words.
Then he had said, You’ll have to peer through the dark glass and find this one out for yourself.
And as I thought about that dream, I conjured the image of his commonplace book in my mind. It was sitting on the stone bench at the ruined abbey next to Holyrood, and I could see that its cover bore an image—the Trimurti, the three-headed image of Shiva—that I did not actually see until Georgiana Shackleford and I reached Bombay.
No, I thought. I don’t believe in coincidence.
I wondered if I had already gazed through that dark glass. I had been in a cave on Malta, where ancient chthonic beings had warned me that they might be moved to take action; I had felt the presence of a large inchoate photic being, held at bay by Mehmet Nour outside of Cairo; and Georgiana Shackleford and I had done battle with a nereic being that had been summoned from the Indian Ocean to consume me, in place of James Esdaile. Finally, I had arrived in England at the same time as an enormous pneumic spirit, thus completing the elemental cycle—earth, fire, water, air.
In the morning, the destruction was past. I returned without Carlyle, passing through a neighborhood that had seen an extraordinary amount of devastation. I had no idea what had happened to our carriage from the previous night; there was no sign of it.
There was still no train service, but I hired a coach; the driver was understandably grateful—the terrible storm had eliminated his usual customers, and with the Crystal Palace closed until further notice, it was difficult for business.
He drove me up the road through the beautiful gardens toward the structure, which brilliantly reflected the bright afternoon sun. It was clear that there had been considerable damage at the north end of the building; four great voluted columns poked up at the sky. The north water tower was, indeed, missing from its former position.
As I alighted from the carriage, I was suddenly struck with an unusual sensation: the absence of any sort of mesmeric impression.
For those sensitive to the Art, it is scarcely possible to navigate a street without feeling some impression or another; strong emotions, ancient lines and patterns, and knowing or unknowing practitioners are found at every turn. But the absence of any such impression was quite singular.
It was as if the area had been wiped clean.
Avoiding the main entrance, I made my way through the lower gardens to the north end, where I was able to ascend a set of stairs and enter the remains of the wing, open to the air. Close up, I could see the trappings of the Nineveh Court, most of which was still under the great glass and steel roof. Shards of glass and metals, fragments of plaster and wood lay everywhere.
I picked out Fergusson at once: he was standing at a large stone block that had evidently been a pediment for an archway, now broken and lying about in shards nearby. A number of ceramic pieces were arranged in front of him; he had one in his hands, and regarded it with a serious expression.
He saw me approaching, and set the item down with great delicacy.
“Mr. Fergusson,” I said. “Good day to you, sir.”
“Reverend—Davey, was it? I am quite preoccupied, sir. Perhaps at another time—”
“I don’t think this can wait,” I said, as I reached him. “You have—or had—something I want.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I had a conversation with Dr. Mahendra Noboo,” I said. “I saw Esdaile’s letter.”
Fergusson looked me directly in the eye. “I should infer something from that name.”
“Fergusson,” I said quietly, “I have traveled to India and back. It has taken me two years and more to reach the point of understanding I now enjoy. You have lied to me, sir, and I am willing to concede that your sense of duty, or your loyalty to the late Dr. Esdaile, or perhaps some knowledge you possess has motivated you in the past.
“But the time for all of that is over. You were sent the statue that you originally gave to James Esdaile nearly twenty years ago. I wish to have it. You will give it to me.”
His expression conveyed the sense that he might try once more to dissemble with me, but then seemed to dismiss the idea as a bad one.
“Aye. So. If Jamie Esdaile did not wish you to have it,” he said, “why do you think I would give it to you?”
“Because of what I can do to you,” I said. “If not directly, then indirectly. But some things have changed.”
“Such as?”
“I know what it does. It causes wars, Fergusson. It may have helped bring about the Sepoy Rebellion. In England, it could do immeasurable damage in the wrong hands.”
“Aye, and yours are the wrong hands, Davey.”
“I disagree.”
“And,” he said, holding up his hand in an almost mesmeric gesture, “it doesn’t matter. I don’t have it.”
“Noboo sent it to you.”
“Yes,” Fergusson said. He looked weary of a sudden—like someone who had borne a great burden over a great distance. “Yes. He did. In October 1858, it arrived in my hands and I did as I was instructed: I placed it in the safest location I could imagine. Here. In the Crystal Palace.” He lifted up one of the ceramic figures in front of him. “Inside a sculpture very much like this one.
“Within the Palace, Reverend Davey, mesmeric fields were neutralized due to the mathematics of its construction. Esdaile determined that for himself; it is why he chose this place to end his life. He told me that if the statue were concealed here, it would be undetectable. He was right.
“Until the night of the twentieth of February, it was in the safest place in the world: safe from you, from your Committee, and from everyone else. But now it is most certainly gone.”
“Where?”
“God only knows. Perhaps someone took it as a souvenir. Perhaps it was smashed by the storm, allowing—its inhabitant—to escape. But it is not here, and I do not have it.
“And you cannot have it either, Davey.”
“Do you have any idea what this means? Do you understand the serious nature of this circumstance?”
“No,” Fergusson said. “To be honest, I do not. I only know that a man I regarded as a friend, a man whose life you threatened—directly or indirectly—asked me to perform an important task for him. I did so. He is now dead at his own hand. His wife is free, I understand; and my duty is discharged.
“And if you wish to do something to me—have at it. I am not without resources, and I have little regard or respect for your Art and its practices. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”
I could think of nothing further to say. I extended my perceptions once more: if the statue had been concealed nearby, I am certain that I would have felt it.
I turned my back on Fergusson and walked away.