had glanced at the paper once and then given it no further thought.
Some time later, he left the house alone and hailed a cab to the West End where he made his way directly to the Reading Room of the British Museum. Despite the earliness of the hour the place was filled almost to capacity as people reserved their seats for the day, their crumbling volumes heaped before them, hoarded as fiercely as dragons would their gold. Moon recognized a few of his fellow regulars and they exchanged polite, noncommittal nods. For many of them the Reading Room was a second home, the eternal hush of the place, its tangible atmosphere of scholarship, a sanctuary from the relentless clamor of the city.
He presented himself to one of the librarians, a sandy-haired, neatly scrubbed young man freshly down from one of the universities.
“I’m here to see the Archivist.”
The librarian looked at him uncertainly, then glanced warily about. “You have an appointment?”
“Naturally.”
“Quickly, then. Follow me.”
He led Moon toward the rear of the room where a small black door was situated, cobwebbed, unprepossessing, paint peeling from neglect. Checking that no one was watching, the librarian fished an oddly shaped key from his jacket pocket. Moon noticed that his hand shook slightly with nerves and that he experienced a moment’s difficulty slipping the key into place.
“Good luck.”
Without reply, Moon stepped inside.
Not bothering to hide his relief, the librarian shut the door smartly behind him and Moon heard the key creak and complain as it turned in the lock.
The room beyond was so poorly lit that it was impossible at first to see how far the space extended. In the gloom it seemed cavernous, resembling less a man-made structure than something hewn out by the Earth itself, formed by the processes of time. The place was filled with paper — shelves of it, vast stacks and racks, acres of documentation, books, journals, manuscripts, pamphlets, periodicals and ledgers — stacks stretching almost to the ceiling and lending the room a dizzying, vertiginous air.
“Mr. Moon. It’s been too long.” The voice came from behind a pile of leprous-looking newspapers, all of them faded, curling at the edges and stacked so high that they would dwarf even the Somnambulist. The speaker stepped into the light. She was a woman in the furthest reaches of old age, enfeebled, bent all but double with decrepitude. She looked up at Moon with a milk-white blankness where her eyes should have been.
You’ve heard of the Archivist, I suppose? She knew every inch of that place. She was its guardian and tutelary spirit, and through her files and records, she felt, physician-like, the fevered heartbeat of criminal London.
“You may turn up the light,” she said. “One of us, I know, has need of it.”
Obediently, he adjusted the lamp and the room was illumined by a gentle glow.
“I take it you’re working on a case?”
“Yes, ma’am. The Glendinning business.”
“Ah. All most unpleasant, from what one’s heard. I gather it was poison. Such a cruel method. But will we ever see an account of your investigation? I understand Mr. Stoddart has made you an offer.”
Moon wondered how she had come by this information. “I doubt it, ma’am.”
“Pity.” The Archivist tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose, noisily and at length. Moon could hear the mucus rattling through her system like an old boiler filled with air. “You’re bored,” she said.
“I’ve not had a case to test my abilities for a year or more.”
“Since Clapham,” the old woman commented quietly.
Moon ignored the aside. “Pulling rabbits from hats is no way for a man of my talent to make a living.”
“I’ve visited your theatre, Mr. Moon. I saw neither rabbits nor hats. But I mustn’t keep you. You’ve a killer to catch. Let me see what I can dig up.” She tottered precariously away amongst the stacks.
Moon took a seat by the door, but no sooner had he done so than the Archivist returned, half a dozen musty ledgers in her hands, as though she had known all along what he had come for and had set aside the relevant volumes accordingly.
She put a wrinkled hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got two hours. I’ve a visitor at eleven.”
“I don’t suppose it’s worth my asking for a name?”
“You ought to know the rules by now,” she answered, unsmiling.
Chastened, Moon flipped open the first of the books.
“Tell me if you require anything further.”
“Of course,” he murmured, already engrossed. The Archivist patted him gently, maternally, on the shoulder and vanished into the depths of the room.
The stacks were a secret known to fewer than a hundred men in England. Edward Moon was proud to be one of them.
When he emerged by the iron gates of the museum at eleven o’clock sharp, he was gratified to see that the Somnambulist was already waiting, hirsute again.
Were YOU SUCSESFUL
“Very,” said Moon, trying not to grimace at the spelling.
Shouldering aside a newsboy who was busy straining his larynx by hollering about the death of an actor in bizarre and scandalous circumstances, Moon hailed another cab, gave the driver Lady Glendinning’s address and, clearing his mind of all external distraction (especially, unfortunately, the child still bellowing outside), began to prepare himself for the main event.
Lady Glendinning lived in Hampstead, in a grand town house, grossly outnumbered by servants, butlers cooks, drivers, gardeners, scullery maids — all the human paraphernalia, in fact, of the seriously rich. When they arrived, the conjuror leapt excitedly from the cab, leaving the Somnambulist to pay the driver.
Moon had hoped for an opportunity to employ his usual modus operandi: to examine the murder room, interview the suspects one by one, size up the likeliest culprit and summon them all into the drawing room to unveil the killer. But as soon as they arrived he saw that the house was alive with activity — bustling blue-coated policemen, swarms of scribbling reporters, the idle public gawping at the sport of it all.
Lady Glendinning must have observed Moon’s arrival. She walked up the drive toward him — press, police and hoi polloi parting before her as though she were some terrible queen whose slightest glance might mean death. She stopped mere inches before him.
“You’re too late.”
“If you’ll permit me to say so, ma’am, I think we’re absolutely punctual. Though I’m surprised at all this activity. I hope to goodness the police haven’t trampled over too much of the scene.”
“No, I mean you’re too late. Hard cheese, Mr. Moon. It’s over.”
“Over?” Moon asked, but the woman had already turned away and was returning to the house.
The Somnambulist frowned.
In the distance, they heard probably the most inappropriate noise possible at a murder scene: a raucous, slightly dirty laugh. At a nudge from the giant, Moon looked up to see a familiar figure strolling toward them, waving delightedly. “Mr. Moon!” The man drew closer, beamed and stuck out his right hand in greeting. “Edward.”
The conjuror could muster little enthusiasm. “Good morning, Inspector.”
Bulky, ruddy-cheeked, fanatically jovial and sporting an extravagant pair of muttonchop whiskers, Detective Inspector Merryweather was in look and manner powerfully reminiscent of Mr. Dickens’ Ghost of Christmas Past. He chuckled. “Seems you’ve missed the boat, old man. Early bird and all that-”
“I’m sorry?”
“Case closed, I’m afraid. Murder’s been solved. We’ve got the killer in custody.”
Moon gave him a skeptical look. “Are you sure? This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve arrested the wrong man.”
“True enough, and don’t say I haven’t admitted it. But not here. It’s a simple business. Open and shut. We’ve got a confession.”
