The Society of Thirteen Page 4

  Over time, Georgina Waters had grown into the role of Mr G. Hayman. Sometimes she considered the author to be her greatest creation of all. Neither wholly man nor fully a woman, Mr G. Hayman was something different. Something new.

  She was well accustomed to reactions such as that of the doorman at the club, who took her coat. His slow registering of the undeniable femininity of her shoulders, the embarrassed lowering of his gaze, subtly taking in the curve of the waist, emphasised rather than hidden by the bespoke suit, his inevitable furtive glance at her chest. Mr G. Hayman enjoyed the confusion she caused.

  She did not wear such clothes as a disguise. She wore no false whiskers on her face. She dressed and acted precisely as she chose. She swanned into this exclusively gentlemen’s club without apology. Her confidence gave her power over the poor confused males who struggled to reconcile her behaviour with the obvious evidence of her sex. As usual, the doorman’s inner turmoil was all too obvious. Should he say something? He knew the rules dictated No ladies, but Mr G. Hayman’s confidence caused him to doubt his own eyes.

  ‘Will sir be dining or drinking this evening?’ asked the doorman, finally shutting out the part of his brain that told him this was a woman.

  Mr G. Hayman showed him the invitation.

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the doorman. ‘You are expected in the study on the third floor. Someone will be up presently to take your drinks order.’

  Mr G. Hayman nodded in thanks and made her way up the stairs, aware that the doorman would not be able to resist watching and that the sight of her posterior would be causing him yet more inner turmoil.

  As with most of London’s clubs, Mr G. Hayman found this one depressingly dark. The panelling was always made from the darkest wood. The lamps provided a gloomy atmosphere and the furniture was abysmally faded and worn. She used to believe London’s clubs were like this for fear of waking their nearly dead members, but over time she had developed a new theory. These clubs provided sanctuaries where the wealthy and powerful could hide from the ever-changing world which daily encroached on their existence.

  Outside the study on the third floor there stood a man as tall as the door frame itself. From his colouring and dress she took him to be a native of her own country. He took one look at the invitation in her hand and stood to the side.

  Of the three men inside the study, she recognised only one.

  ‘Harry Clay,’ she said. ‘Why, I should have guessed you’d be involved in this business.’

  ‘Mr G. Hayman,’ replied Clay.

  ‘Mister … ?’ said the older, larger of the other two gentlemen, who looked quite at home in this fusty old club.

  ‘Sir Tyrrell, Mr Symmonds, this is Mr G. Hayman, the critically acclaimed novelist who plunders the superstitions of our land and turns them into extremely profitable fiction.’

  ‘I am aware of your work. I had no idea you were … ’ Mr Symmonds faltered.

  ‘So young. Yes, I am often told as much,’ said Mr G. Hayman.

  ‘John here also writes,’ said Clay, continuing his adopted role of master of ceremonies.

  ‘My output is nowhere as imaginative as yours. My published books tackle the subject of linguistics,’ said Mr Symmonds.

  ‘How many languages do you speak now, John?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Ah well, one has to distinguish between a language and a dialect.’

  ‘Never one for a straight answer, is John,’ said Mr Clay. ‘And this is Sir Tyrrell, high-ranking Member of Parliament and unashamed explorer of the occult.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Sir Tyrrell, who appeared to have recovered from his initial shock. ‘I actually read one of your novels. I found it most diverting.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mr G. Hayman.

  ‘So here we all are,’ said Clay. ‘A politician, a linguist, a novelist and an illusionist. It feels as if we are still lacking, wouldn’t you say? My invitation referred to this as the Society of Thirteen.’

  ‘The title does not refer to our number.’ Lord Ringmore stepped into the room, walking stick in hand.

  ‘Ah, our mystery summoner,’ said Mr G. Hayman.

  ‘I am glad I was able to intrigue you all sufficiently to turn up at such short notice.’ Lord Ringmore turned the key to lock the door behind him. ‘I know you are all busy people and I hope you know enough of me to understand that I would not waste your time.’

  ‘You and I have often disagreed on what constitutes a waste of time,’ said Clay.

  ‘Indeed we have, Harry,’ replied Lord Ringmore. ‘But tonight I am confident that I will reveal to you something truly astonishing.’

  ‘Going by the presence of Mr Hayman and Sir Tyrrell I presume we are talking matters of the occult, and you know where I stand on that subject,’ said Clay.

  ‘I believe that even Harry Clay, the great sceptic, will be impressed,’ said Lord Ringmore.

  ‘In my experience there’s nothing more remarkable in the world than man’s ability to believe remarkable things,’ replied Clay.

  ‘A fact which you have exploited to great effect,’ muttered Sir Tyrrell.

  ‘Mr Clay’s dogged cynicism will help verify the validity of my discovery,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘But before we go any further I must ask that you all give me your solemn vow that nothing you learn here will ever be mentioned outside of this circle.’

  ‘You have my word,’ said Sir Tyrrell.

  ‘And mine,’ said Mr Symmonds.

  ‘Discretion is my middle name,’ said Mr G. Hayman.

  ‘How can I promise not to speak of something I haven’t seen yet?’ asked Clay.

  ‘In which case, I offer you this caveat, Harry,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘You will not speak of anything you see this evening until you can satisfactorily explain it yourself.’

  ‘You mean while it remains a mystery it remains a secret,’ summarised Clay. ‘Now, there’s a deal I will happily accept.’

  ‘Good. You have been a great teacher to me in penetrating the trickery used by those who claim great powers for the sake of profit,’ said Lord Ringmore.

  ‘What about me?’ asked Mr Symmonds. ‘I have never expressed an opinion in spiritualism, one way or the other.’

  ‘No. Language is your passion, John,’ replied Lord Ringmore. ‘And I’m hoping your linguistic skills will prove invaluable.’

  ‘So we all have parts to play in this game of yours?’ asked Sir Tyrrell.

  ‘Each Society member will be expected to contribute,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘You, Sir Tyrrell, have accompanied me on many of my exploratory journeys, whereas no one is better read in the matters of all things supernatural than Mr G. Hayman.’

  ‘And what do you bring, Ringmore?’ asked Mr G. Hayman. ‘Other than the obvious flair for mystery and melodrama?’

  ‘A discovery.’ Lord Ringmore pulled out from his cloak a book, which he threw onto a table between them.

  ‘You’ve discovered a book. Well done you,’ said Clay, offering a slow hand-clap.

  Mr Symmonds picked it up. He examined the shape on the back and the number on the front. ‘I’m guessing these numerals are the reason for the Society’s name?’ he said.

  ‘Thirteen,’ said Mr G. Hayman, thoughtfully.

  ‘I have gathered you to help me decipher this book and its meaning,’ said Lord Ringmore.

  Mr Symmonds leafed through the pages. ‘This is no language. It is a collection of shapes.’

  ‘Is the written word not formed of shapes?’ asked Lord Ringmore.

  ‘Yes, but if this is a language I see no influence of Latin, Celtic nor any Scandinavian languages. I would have to consult my books on Arabic and African script but … ’

  ‘Perhaps I would be better suited to deciphering it,’ said Sir Tyrrell. ‘After all, I have dedicated a great many hours to the study of magical languages, reading runes and suchlike.’

  ‘Magical languages.’ Mr Symmonds snorted.

  Clay laughed. ‘Yes. Why on earth are we to believe t
hat this is anything but a child’s scribbling pad? No, don’t tell me. It was sold to you by a Welsh druid who held a staff and spoke in tongues?’

  Lord Ringmore smiled patiently. ‘Please, Mr Symmonds,’ he said. ‘Would you be so kind as to hand the book around. Let everyone have a look.’

  John Symmonds did as he was asked and the book was passed from hand to hand until it reached Clay.

  ‘Any thoughts?’ asked Lord Ringmore.

  ‘It certainly has age,’ said Mr G. Hayman. ‘Also, the number thirteen reminds me of something I have come across in my research.’

  ‘Yes. It is unlucky for some,’ said Sir Tyrrell.

  ‘Many of our superstitions have their roots in magical lore,’ said Mr G. Hayman. ‘I will consult my notes regarding this book, but I’m afraid at present I am edging towards Clay’s cynicism.’

  ‘Then let us return to basics,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘From what material would you say it was made?’

  ‘Aren’t all books made from paper?’ asked Sir Tyrrell. ‘Now really, what is the point of all this, Ringmore?’

  ‘Paper rips, does it not?’ replied Lord Ringmore. ‘Mr Clay, perhaps you would care to tear a page out of the book?’

  ‘With pleasure,’ replied Clay. He took a page in his hand and tugged, but the book remained intact. He tried to tear a page. He tried another but none would come free from the book. Nor could he make even the smallest rip on the paper. ‘A very neat trick,’ he admitted. ‘I’m guessing some kind of rubberised solution has been added to the book. I could definitely use a prop like this in my show.’

  ‘You are probably right that this is a counterfeit sold to me by a trickster,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘In fact, why don’t you do us all a favour and toss the book into the fire?’

  The others stared at Lord Ringmore.

  ‘Into the fire?’ said Clay.

  ‘Into the fire,’ stated Lord Ringmore.

  ‘Very well.’

  Clay threw the book into the fireplace. The yellow flames shot up as it landed on the smouldering wood.

  ‘What a curious evening’s entertainment this is,’ said Mr Symmonds.

  ‘Your curiosity is the least of my goals.’ Lord Ringmore picked up a pair of tongs, lifted the book from the flames and dropped it back onto the table. To the astonishment of everyone in the room, the book looked exactly as it had before it was thrown into the fire. The paper was not blackened or burnt, and there was not even a blemish on it, nor anything to suggest that it had just been at the centre of a roaring fire. Mr G. Hayman picked up the book again.

  ‘It’s not even warm,’ she said.

  Lord Ringmore smiled. ‘The Society of Thirteen has been formed to investigate this remarkable object. I believe that such an inquiry will reveal the truth about magic. With the combined investigative minds and the resources at our disposal, I think we can penetrate the secrets of this book.’

  ‘The book has my interest and you have my silence,’ said Mr Clay.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Lord Ringmore. ‘It is vital that no word is spoken of this outside our circle. Mr Symmonds’ man may accompany him as there is no danger of his overhearing, but I ask that you only speak of these matters when in a safe and secure environment. Trust no one. Magic disappeared from our land many centuries ago. If we are to reawaken its power, we must do so with great caution. Now, I suggest that we go downstairs and eat. I have a private dining room reserved and we must discuss the way to progress. I should like Mr Symmonds to take the book first so that he may attempt to discover its meaning.’ Lord Ringmore slipped the book back into his cloak and led the others out of the room.

  With the study empty, the only movement in the room was the gentle flickering of the fire, until the doors of a cabinet burst open and Tom and Esther crawled out from their hiding place.

  Chapter 10

  Hardy

  Sometimes Tom didn’t understand Esther at all. After making so much fuss about not betraying Lord Ringmore’s trust, it had been her idea to sneak inside the club, and hide inside the cabinet. It wasn’t the first time she had said one thing then done the opposite, either. It just went to show that no one was completely trustworthy.

  Back in Rotherhithe, the orphans discussed what they had overheard.

  ‘If you ask me, the whole thing is a swindle,’ said Tom.

  ‘Who’s swindling who?’ asked Esther.

  ‘I reckon it’s Lord Ringmore tricking the rest of them,’ he replied. ‘You heard him. Everyone has to contribute. You watch if he don’t start asking for money. He’s going to use this book to get serious coin out of the others.’

  ‘I never heard of a Lord short of a bob or two,’ said Esther, doubtfully.

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll bet half these Lords and Barons and what have you don’t have no real money. They live in big houses but they can’t afford the coal for the fire. Now I think on it, I didn’t see no servants at his place. Maybe he ain’t even a real Lord. We were saying ourselves how much easier it is to trick folk if you look like you don’t need money.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to try and get any scheme past that Harry Clay,’ said Esther. ‘Hayman didn’t seem like no dummy, neither.’

  ‘Maybe they’re in on it too. Maybe the whole thing is about getting money off the fat politician. He looks like he’s got proper coinage.’

  Esther laughed. ‘You’ve got too much imagination.’

  ‘You have to admit that this has everything you need for a good swindle. A fanciful story, a convincing prop … ’

  ‘But what if it ain’t?’ said Esther. ‘You heard what they said about it being impossible to destroy.’

  ‘We couldn’t see a thing in there. It was probably a trick, with two different books.’

  ‘But what if the book really is magic? Imagine.’

  Tom snorted. ‘The only magic I care about is the magic of money.’

  The next day, when the orphans turned up on Lord Ringmore’s doorstep, he handed them payment and told them that their next task was to keep watch outside Mr Symmonds’ house, explaining that ‘Mr Symmonds has in his possession a book of great value to me. I want you to ensure that neither he nor it leave the house. If he does leave, one of you will follow him, the other will inform me.’

  An hour later the orphans were hidden behind a bush in the communal garden at the centre of Bedford Square. It was a cold day to be standing outside and Tom was feeling restless so was pleased when Mr Symmonds’ door opened and his manservant stepped out. ‘Come on, let’s follow him,’ urged Tom.

  ‘Ringmore only told us to watch Symmonds,’ said Esther.

  The American Indian closed the door behind him. Over his broad shoulders he wore a heavily furred animal skin to protect him from the cold. In his hand he carried a long stick, the tip of which was carved into the head of an eagle.

  ‘Yeah, but we don’t know this fella ain’t got the book,’ said Tom. ‘I should follow him. I’ll watch where he goes. You stay here and watch the house.’

  ‘All right, but don’t get seen.’

  Tom took after him, feeling much happier to be on the move. Kiyaya walked with huge strides, meaning Tom had to run to keep up. He kept his distance as the Indian headed towards the bustling streets of Holborn. He was easy enough to follow. If Tom did lose sight of him for a moment, he simply had to look for the trail of turning heads the enormous man left in his wake. Tom had no idea what this man’s homeland was like but he reckoned it was likely to be pretty different from Holborn. Yet the Indian didn’t seem at all concerned by the chaos of the city. He crossed the busy road with the confidence of a native Londoner. It was Tom who got shouted at by a hansom cab driver as he darted after him. Tom shrugged off the driver’s insults and found a lamp post from which to watch as the Indian entered a butcher’s shop.

  ‘Hello, Tom. Where’s your girlfriend?’

  Tom didn’t need to turn around to know who had spoken. He felt a hand on his shoulder. The grip tight
ened and forced him to turn. Hardy stood behind him with his hands in his pockets. He wore the same grubby coat as always and kept the same company. Brewer, Worms and Stump were all former pupils of St Clement’s Catholic School for Waifs and Strays. Hardy was the oldest, but it was Stump who held Tom and kept him from legging it. The gangly limbed Worms was next to him, while Brewer, the youngest of the gang, allowed Tom a brief glimpse of his blade, showing him what would happen if he tried to run off.

  ‘What do you want, Hardy?’ said Tom. ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Busy, is it? Busy doing what? Busy working my patch? Busy taking money from the people in my protection? Busy stealing from me, Tom? That kind of busy, Tom, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Busy coming up with excuses why you shouldn’t pay me what you owe me?’

  ‘We don’t owe nothing,’ said Tom.

  ‘Everyone owes,’ said Hardy. ‘And everyone pays, sooner or later. Tell me what you’re doing on this fine morning if you ain’t picking no pockets. You out doing a spot of shopping, are you?’

  ‘It ain’t your business,’ said Tom.

  ‘Anything that happens on my patch is my business and you know full well this is my patch.’

  ‘Me and Esther have got a job.’

  ‘What job?’

  ‘We’re running errands for some gent.’

  ‘Which would explain this fancy clobber you’re wearing. What kind of errands?’

  ‘What’s it matter?’ replied Tom.

  Stump bent Tom’s arm behind his back. The pain was unbearable but Tom remained silent.

  ‘I always liked you, Tom,’ said Hardy. ‘I remember your first day. What were you? Five years old? You were crying because your auntie had left you. You told everyone that she was going to come back for you. Never did though, did she? Remember, boys?’

  The others laughed cruelly.

  Tom stared back angrily.

  ‘What you really up to, Tom?’ asked Hardy.

  ‘This fella caught us thievin’ from him,’ said Tom. ‘It weren’t round here. It was over Piccadilly way. But instead of shopping us he’s got us delivering messages and that. It’s nothing. Just a few coins is all.’