The Society of Thirteen Page 3

  The final say was an invaluable commodity in politics and Sir Tyrrell was pleased to have obtained it. The furious woman sat back down and the discussion returned to more sensible subjects, but there was still an undeniable whiff of change in the air. Sir Tyrrell wondered if this is how it had felt in France prior to the storming of the Bastille. He liked to think England too sensible for such inflammatory nonsense but at times like this he was less sure.

  Once the debate was over, he awaited his hansom cab, composing in his head a speech about how the biggest threat facing the world was change, when his thoughts were interrupted.

  ‘Excuse me, Sir Tyrrell, sir,’ said a boy.

  ‘You don’t have to say “sir” twice,’ said the girl next to him.

  Both children had a look of the street about them in spite of the newish clothes they wore. The girl held an envelope in her hand.

  ‘What is this?’ demanded Sir Tyrrell.

  ‘It’s a letter for you, sir,’ she replied.

  ‘I have a perfectly functioning letterbox for such things,’ replied Sir Tyrrell.

  ‘Sorry sir, we’re charged with delivering this letter into your hand,’ said the boy. ‘Our instructions were clear.’

  ‘Charged by whom?’

  Neither child responded so Sir Tyrrell took the envelope. It was indeed addressed to him. He noticed three more identical envelopes in the girl’s hand.

  ‘For whom are those destined?’ he asked.

  ‘Sorry sir,’ she replied. ‘We are to give you that letter and say nothing more.’

  ‘I should disregard it entirely for your insolence,’ stated Sir Tyrrell, but he couldn’t deny he was intrigued. He broke the seal on the envelope and pulled out the letter. On it was written:

  For the sole attention of:

  Sir Augustus Tyrrell MP

  You are invited to join the first meeting of

  the Society of Thirteen.

  The mysteries of the universe await you.

  Your discretion is imperative.

  Below was a time, date and the address of a London gentlemen’s club located in Piccadilly.

  ‘But who is it from?’ Sir Tyrrell’s question went unanswered for, when he looked up, the mysterious messengers had vanished.

  Chapter 6

  Chains

  Tom and Esther were walking along the south side of the Thames on the Albert Embankment, across the river from the Houses of Parliament. The clock tower shone like a beacon, illuminated by a ray of sunshine that had broken through the otherwise grey sky.

  ‘What do you think the letters say?’ asked Tom.

  ‘It don’t matter,’ said Esther. ‘Ringmore said he’d likely have more jobs for us after this one.’

  ‘He’s a funny one if you ask me,’ said Tom. ‘Fancy giving us this new clobber just to deliver letters. Could have sent them by post and saved himself the bother.’

  ‘He’s paying us, ain’t he? Besides, Hardy will lay off if he sees us like this. He’ll see we ain’t never gonna be his street runners. We’re moving up in the world, you and me.’ Esther hopped onto a bench, ran along it then jumped off.

  ‘It’ll take more than a new pair of trousers to keep Hardy’s gang off our backs. Anyway, once Ringmore’s done with us, you watch if he don’t take these clothes off us and hand us over to the law as punishment for stealing from him.’

  ‘Not after giving us his word,’ said Esther.

  Rolling black clouds had kept away any romantically inclined couples who might otherwise have been walking hand in hand along the embankment but the threat of a good soaking had not dissuaded the large crowd of people standing on the jetty. Nor had the sporadic rainfall dampened their boisterous spirits.

  ‘Where’s this Harry Clay then?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Maybe he’s arriving by boat,’ replied Esther.

  The orphans climbed onto a wall to get a better view. A short, stocky man dressed in a white shirt with braces stood at the end of the crowded jetty, tightly bound with thick rope. Tom pointed out a poster on a wall showing the picture of the same man and Esther slowly read the name written above it:

  THE REMARKABLE HARRY CLAY

  ‘Do we have any sailors in the crowd?’ shouted Clay, who seemed surprisingly calm, considering his predicament.

  Several hands shot up.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t point, but you, sir, with the hat. Please step forward.’ There was a roughness to Clay’s voice, quite unlike the gentrified tones of Lord Ringmore and Sir Tyrrell. ‘I would like you to confirm that these ropes are tied as tightly as possible. Anyone else wishing to check can do so after this gentleman. I want you all to know that there is no trickery here. The risk to my life is very real.’

  Once the sailor and several other doubting spectators had confirmed the knots were good, Clay asked another volunteer to wrap around several yards of chain that lay at his feet. The final touch came in the form of a bag tied securely over his head, hiding his face and muffling his voice.

  ‘And now I, the remarkable Harry Clay, will plunge into the cold waters of the River Thames, subjecting myself to the strong currents that will try to drag me down while I attempt to free myself from these layers of bondage. Due to many years of training I am able to hold my breath for two and a half minutes. That is how long I have to escape. Two and a half minutes. Those of you with pocket watches, I ask that you keep time. If after two and a half minutes I have not surfaced, then you may fear the worst and you can tell everyone that you witnessed the death of Harry Clay.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘Hopefully not though, eh?’

  The crowd laughed uneasily. They had turned up to be astounded, not to witness an overly complicated suicide.

  ‘Begin timing … NOW.’ Clay leapt backwards and landed with a tremendous splash in the water.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Tom. ‘One less letter to deliver. He’ll never get out of all that.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Esther.

  Everyone watched the surface of the water anxiously. The crowd gasped when bubbles surfaced and a voice cried, ‘One minute.’

  ‘He’ll never do it,’ said another.

  ‘It’s impossible,’ said a third.

  Esther felt as though she could taste the crowd’s fear and excitement.

  ‘Two minutes,’ yelled an eager timekeeper.

  ‘Look!’ shouted a woman.

  The bag that had been around Clay’s head surfaced and floated away, carried by the current.

  ‘He must have drowned,’ cried a panicked voice.

  ‘Or been poisoned, jumping into that filthy old river,’ said another.

  ‘Someone do something,’ yelled a woman.

  ‘Two and half minutes.’

  ‘He’s a gonner,’ said Tom.

  ‘No, look,’ said Esther.

  This time it was the rope that appeared.

  ‘Three minutes,’ yelled a voice.

  ‘Over there, Tom,’ said Esther. With every eye watching the spot where he had gone under, no one in the crowd noticed a dripping figure climb up a set of steps on the other side of the jetty. Moving with the easy agility of a monkey, Clay clambered up onto a large metal pillar which supported the jetty. At the top he adopted a victorious pose, with his legs together and his arms in the air.

  A drop of water fell from one of his soaking sleeves and alerted the crowd to his presence. A lady screamed and the entire crowd swung round to see the man standing on top of the huge pillar. The awed silence was broken by sudden, overjoyed applause and cries of ‘Miracle!’, ‘Incredible!’ and ‘Remarkable!’

  A well-dressed man stepped out in front of the crowd and addressed them. ‘If you enjoyed that you can come and be amazed again when the remarkable Mr Clay takes to the stage of my Theatre Royal, Victoria, next week.’

  With this man diverting the crowd’s attention, Clay made his way quickly up the gangway. He speedily towelled himself dry, then slipped into a fresh shirt. By the time he was level with Tom and Esther he had pulled a
hat over his head and become virtually invisible to the crowd that had been enraptured by his stunt. To Esther, who had some experience in vanishing into crowds herself, this was as remarkable a feat as the escape from the water.

  She jumped off the wall and landed in front of him. ‘Mr Clay,’ she said.

  A second man appeared and pushed her to the side.

  ‘Oi, watch who you’re pushing,’ said Tom.

  ‘Harry Clay doesn’t give autographs,’ said the man, who looked about the same age as Clay but wore a crooked top hat on his head and a thick moustache on his upper lip.

  ‘It’s all right, Fred,’ said Clay, spying the envelope in Esther’s hand. ‘Providing you have a pen, I’ll make an exception this once.’

  ‘It’s not for signing,’ said Esther. ‘It’s a letter for you.’

  ‘How kind,’ Clay replied. He took it from her. She watched his eyebrows rise as he read its contents. Whatever these letters said, they were obviously enough to intrigue a man as intriguing as the Remarkable Harry Clay.

  Chapter 7

  Language

  The third envelope took the orphans to Bedford Square. The houses here had several steps leading up to the front door, as though they were far too grand to stand at street level. Iron gates in front of the steps provided an extra layer of protection from the outside world. It was the kind of area that afforded good opportunities for the quick witted and the light fingered, but Tom and Esther had never before had cause to knock on one of the doors.

  It was opened by a tall man with skin the colour and texture of tree bark. His clothes were made not from cotton or wool but from exotic animal hides. Tom nudged Esther and pointed at his bare feet.

  ‘We have a letter for Mr Symmonds,’ said Esther.

  The man held out a huge hand to take the letter but Esther kept it back. ‘It is to be delivered into Mr Symmonds’ hand only,’ she said.

  The man stared silently.

  ‘How do you know this ain’t Symmonds?’ said Tom to Esther, keen to get away.

  ‘He don’t look like a John Symmonds to me,’ replied Esther.

  The man turned and walked into one of the rooms, leaving the door open. They heard voices from within, speaking a language they could not understand. After a brief exchange, a second man appeared at the doorway. He was smaller and paler than the first, dressed in a fussy suit and with thick sideburns framing his flushed cheeks.

  ‘Yes? Can I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘You John Symmonds?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Oh, very interesting. Don’t say another word.’ The man looked at the orphans with great curiosity and rubbed his chin. ‘No. I’ll need more. Please repeat after me: Where are the hares? They should have waited. Those tattered old creatures. Where have they gone? They are running away.’

  Tom and Esther looked at each other.

  ‘Please, if you would be so kind,’ said the man, insistently.

  ‘Where are the ’ares?’ said Tom. ‘They should’ve waited. Those tattered old creatures. Where’ve they gone? They’re runnin’ away. What flippin’ ’ares you on about?’

  ‘Excellent. So what do we have? Two smartly dressed minors, apparently employed in some kind of postal capacity and yet from the dropped Hs and Gs; the habitual glottal stops; the insistent contractions and the flattened vowels, I’d place you amongst the sub-criminal classes of London. Though I do detect some education, which would suggest that you have spent time either in a ragged school or an orphanage. There is a hint of an Irish inflection in your speech, so I’ll guess a Catholic orphanage. How did I do?’

  ‘How did you know all that?’ asked Tom.

  ‘To a linguist such as myself the human voice is as revealing as a man’s attire. Take my man, Kiyaya. You did not need to hear him speak to know that he travelled a great distance to be here, did you? You could tell by his appearance.’

  The huge man stood silently behind him.

  ‘Where’s he from then?’ asked Esther.

  ‘He is a native of America. A fascinating country, linguistically speaking. Kiyaya here speaks only his native tongue.’

  ‘He don’t say much,’ said Tom.

  ‘In his own language he is capable of great loquacity. He is here helping me with my book. I am writing a detailed account of the many languages and dialects of America. Fascinating subject. He also acts as my manservant. Between you and I though, he makes terrible tea.’ Mr Symmonds chuckled.

  Kiyaya’s face remained as impassive as before, showing no recognition that he was the subject of the conversation.

  ‘Now, what is it you are delivering?’ asked Mr Symmonds.

  Esther handed him the letter and watched him open and read it. ‘What a mysterious missive,’ he said. ‘How many of these are you delivering?’

  ‘We’ve got one more to go,’ said Tom.

  Chapter 8

  Novelist

  The fourth envelope was addressed to a Mr G. Hayman, but when the orphans called on the door of his Soho town house, they were informed by the housekeeper that Mr Hayman was currently residing in Brighton. Since Lord Ringmore had issued strict instructions that the letter be delivered by the following evening, Esther asked for an address where he could be located. The housekeeper, a young woman with sharp blue eyes, replied that Mr G. Hayman did not want to be disturbed in Brighton, but the orphans were quite adamant and eventually she relented and furnished them with the address, requesting that they did not reveal it came from her.

  Lord Ringmore had provided the orphans with money for train fares but as they had spent it on breakfast Tom suggested they sneak on board a train at London Bridge. They spent the journey hiding from the ticket inspector and, when the train pulled into Brighton, jumped off and easily outran the station guard. Outside the station, Esther asked a grocer for directions to the address while Tom stole a couple of pears to eat on the way.

  ‘Have you noticed how much easier swiping is dressed up all respectable like?’ said Tom, as they walked up a steep hill.

  ‘Yeah, if you look like you’ve got money why would you steal?’ said Esther.

  ‘I’d still steal even if I had all the money in the world,’ said Tom. He took a large bite from his pear. ‘Swiped stuff tastes better than bought stuff.’

  When they reached the address at the top of the hill, they pressed the bell for the upper-floor flat and waited until an upstairs window slid open.

  ‘Go away,’ called a low voice.

  ‘We’ve a delivery for Mr G. Hayman,’ said Esther.

  ‘Mr G. Hayman, the world renowned novelist hailed by the New York Times as one of the most important writers of a generation?’ said the voice. There was something odd about its tone. There was an American accent, but it wasn’t just that.

  ‘We have a letter for him,’ said Esther. ‘We’re to deliver it into his hand alone.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid his hands are currently otherwise engaged in the act of writing his latest bestseller,’ replied the odd voice.

  ‘People only write with one hand,’ said Esther. ‘Perhaps he could use the other to take this letter then we can be on our way.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, wait there.’

  The window slammed shut again and the orphans heard footsteps coming down the stairs. They saw a movement behind the frosted glass. They were expecting the silhouette to belong to Mr Hayman himself so it was a surprise when the door opened and they found themselves staring at an attractive young woman with neatly cropped hair and a smart, tailored gentleman’s suit.

  ‘For all the deadly perils faced by my hero, I fear he will eventually fall foul of death by interruption,’ snapped the woman. ‘Come on then, let’s have this letter.’

  ‘I’m sorry, lady,’ said Tom. ‘We’ve instructions to deliver it directly to Mr Hayman.’

  The woman held out her hand. ‘I assure you that this is the hand you seek,’ she said. ‘And if you continue to waste its time it will soon be clipping you around the ear.’
r />   ‘You ain’t a fella,’ said Tom. ‘You’re a lady.’

  The woman gasped with mock horror. ‘A lady?’ she said. ‘You think a delicate lady’s hand could have penned such richly woven classics as The Contract of Alderly Edge, The Malmesbury Mystery and The Bloodstain of Boulge Hall?’

  ‘I … ’ began Tom.

  ‘Tom,’ said Esther. ‘I think this is Mr G. Hayman.’

  ‘At least one of you has a brain,’ said the woman. ‘No surprises that it is the female.’

  Tom sulkily handed over the letter.

  The author opened it, quickly skimmed its contents and looked at the orphans. ‘I’ll wager that Lord Ringmore is behind all this,’ she said. ‘I swear he contrives to have more mystery and drama in his life than I could ever cram into one of my novels. Now, I’ll have to ask you both to leave. If I am to make this appointment I will have to double my efforts to get this novel finished.’

  She winked at Esther then slammed the door in their faces.

  Chapter 9

  Formation

  When Miss Georgina Waters had first arrived in London ten years ago from New York she had been struck by the differences. If England was the motherland, she wondered, then why was it so relentlessly male in its attitudes? It had been her publisher’s idea to use a male pseudonym for her first novel. She had spoken out vehemently against it at first but, since her fiction relied so heavily on elements of the supernatural, she saw the point that under female authorship, the critics could too easily dismiss her book as irrelevant fancy. Her publisher’s instincts had proved sound. The Contract of Alderly Edge had been well reviewed, widely read and hugely profitable. With more successes she retained the name but it became less important to hide her true identity.