“I thought you should know, sir — Moon and the Somnambulist-”
“Yes?” Barabbas suddenly seemed alert, curious, his stash of beauty temporarily forgotten.
“They’re working for Skimpole, sir. Blackmail, if the rumors are true. The Directorate has a reputation. I’m worried he’s getting close.”
The prisoner laughed — a strained, prickly sound.
“Sir? May I advise caution?”
Barabbas seemed oddly jocular. “You may not. I think we can expect another visit from Edward. Don’t you?”
Oswley did not reply, his disapproval obvious.
The fat man grinned, baring his cankered teeth. “I’m going to enjoy this.”
The hotel Skimpole had provided for Moon and the Somnambulist was widely considered to be the most exclusive, and was certainly amongst the most expensive, in the city. Their quarters comprised a small network of rooms, painfully tasteful in their furnishings and design: bedroom, reception room, drawing room, study — all sumptuous and ostentatious, quite beyond anything they had known before. A distinctive scent wafted through the building, a soothing cocktail of wax, polish and the fruity aftertaste of a really good bottle of wine — the old smells of wealth and luxury. On arrival, guests were assigned a personal valet, a servant dedicated to fulfilling their every need, the slightest opportunity to pamper or please sending them into paroxysms of fawning delight.
It was, in short, a horribly gilded cage.
In the three and a half weeks which had passed since the destruction of the Theatre of Marvels, Moon had been allowed out of the hotel on just four occasions — a gentleman’s gentleman who, it transpired, owed his allegiance to Mr. Skimpole. Defeated and humiliated, Moon found himself so trapped in this genteel gaolhouse that the Somnambulist had begun to fear for his friend’s sanity. He was oddly relieved, then, when on their twenty-third day under house arrest, their tormentor came to call.
The albino lowered himself gingerly onto the divan, reached into his pocket and produced an exquisite silver case.
“Cigar?”
Both declined in surly silence.
“Ah, well.” Reverentially, Skimpole helped himself and lit up, something like satisfaction flickering fitfully across his face. “I trust you’re comfortable? For myself, I’ve always found this a charming little hideaway.”
Moon grimaced. “I shan’t forget this.”
“Please,” Skimpole exhaled thin ribbons of smoke from his nostrils. “I’ve come to ask for your help. So sorry I’ve not been able to visit sooner but things have been absolutely frantic. You understand, I’m sure.”
Moon and the Somnambulist glared back.
“To business, then. My profuse apologies for your enforced stay. I know you’ve not been able to pursue your extracurricular activities, Edward, but we had to make certain you wouldn’t renege on our agreement.”
“What do you want?” Moon’s voice was studiedly neutral, the barest intimation of menace discernible.
Skimpole sucked in a lungful of smoke. “My colleagues and I are in possession of information which strongly suggests that a plot is at work against the city.” He spoke baldly, matter-of-factly, as if this were an ordinary conversation, as though disaster were an everyday occurrence, catastrophe the common currency of his life. “We believe that during your investigation into the Honeyman-Dunbar murders you may have stumbled upon some tangential element of this conspiracy, a loose thread in the skein of the thing. A thread which we may yet succeed in tugging loose.”
As if struck by a sudden thought, the Somnambulist scribbled something down.
FLY
Skimpole favored the man with a ghost of a smile. “I don’t think any of us believes the Fly acted alone, my friend. As I understand it, the man was mentally subnormal.”
Skimpole paused a moment and looked the Somnambulist up and down, as though troubled by the thought that he might inadvertently have caused offense. “No,” he continued more firmly, “the feeling is that he was a pawn at best. A minor player. My congratulations on catching him nonetheless. Such a pity he died so abruptly. But his demise is so very typical of what we’ve come to expect from you two. Like something torn from the pages of a penny-dreadful. Needless to say, it would never have happened had you been working for us. We pride ourselves on our prosaicism, our practicality and common sense. There’s no room at the Directorate, gentleman, for melodrama.”
Moon and the Somnambulist exchanged glances.
“What I’m about to tell you is known to only half a dozen men in the country, all of whom exist at the pinnacle of our organization. This is a state secret, so I suggest you keep it to yourselves. It’s a snorting great cliche, of course — and I rather wish I didn’t have to say it — but men have died for less. For the past five months, my organization has been receiving vital information from — how shall I put it? From an unorthodox source. A woman. Since one of my people dug her up last year, my colleagues in Whitehall have begun to lean on her somewhat. More, in fact, than may be considered entirely healthy. Her advice is now thought to be so absolutely crucial on certain matters of policy that it would be no exaggeration to say that without her, the last war in which this country took a part would have ended much less happily indeed.” Skimpole looked down at his feet, embarrassed, like a weak-willed schoolboy caught stealing apples. “I fear we’ve let things get a little out of hand.”
“Her name?” Moon asked.
Skimpole took a deep breath. “Madame Innocenti.”
Moon did his best to mask a smile.
“She’s a medium,” Skimpole finished, his chalk-pale cheeks tinged incongruously with scarlet. “A clairvoyant. Lives in Tooting Bec. Claims to receive messages from the spirit world.”
Moon steepled his fingers, savoring the moment. “In essence, Mr. Skimpole, what you appear to be telling us is that for the past five months, British Intelligence has allowed itself to be led on the say-so of a backstreet fortune-teller.”
The albino winced at Moon’s candor. “Are you shocked?”
“Not at all. There’s something oddly comforting about discovering all one’s worst suspicions to be true.”
The giant smirked, and Moon pressed home his advantage. “How far does this woman’s influence extend? How high does this go?”
Skimpole sighed. “To the top, Mr. Moon.”
“Tell me…” Moon was enjoying Skimpole’s discomfort. “What has she to do with us?”
“For some time, Madame Innocenti has been warning us of a conspiracy directed against the state.”
“Details?”
“Nothing specific. Just as you’d expect — vague, oracular warnings, phrased in the most purple and prolix terms. We’d like you to see her for yourself and discover the truth.”
“I’m afraid I still don’t see why this should interest us.”
Regretfully, Skimpole stubbed out the ashy tip of his cigar. “Madame Innocenti has mentioned three names in the course of her auguries… Cyril Honeyman, Philip Dunbar.”
Moon nodded calmly, as if he’d been expecting this.
Skimpole swallowed hard. “And Edward Moon,” he murmured.
For the home of a latter-day Cassandra, Madame Innocenti’s house was disappointingly unprepossessing. No doubt it was respectable enough in its own way — a modest two-story semi-detached building which might have been more than acceptable as the property of a schoolteacher, say, or that of a clerk or an accountant, but for a seer of Madame Innocenti’s supposed power and influence, frankly it was almost suspicious. It had a tired, uncared-for look, a forlorn atmosphere of abandonment and decay.
Moon stepped up to the rotten-looking front door and, as gently as he was able, knocked by means of an ancient brass knocker that looked as though it might at any moment crumble into rust.
The Somnambulist looked about him at the dreary grayness of the place, the glum homogeneity of Tooting Bec, and wrinkled his nose in distaste. Albion Square, the Theatre of Marvels, Yiangou’s opium den — all of these,
