walked together on the beach at Ramsgate. But what he spoke of most of all was an old dream, something he had imagined as a young man with his best and closest friends.
Moon inclined his head to suggest that he had not.
“It was a scheme of enormous audacity, an experiment, he said, in human perfectability. There were twelve of them, fresh from the university. They planned to create the perfect society, to quit England and live in America on the banks of the Susquehanna in absolute self-sufficiency. It was to be a utopia based equally upon agriculture and poetry. They thought they’d discuss metaphysics as they chopped wood, criticize verse as they hunted buffalo, write sonnets whilst they followed the plough.” Love laughed, all but clapping his hands in glee. “Wonderful! Quite, quite perfect.”
“It sounds admirable,” Moon said briskly. “If a little idealistic.”
“Ah, well, there you have it. That’s the rub. It could never have worked. They fell out over money, weren’t able to raise enough capital to make the trip. The whole project was abandoned.”
“I’m afraid I have yet to see a connection with the firm.”
“The abject failure of Pantisocracy had become the old man’s greatest regret, and toward the end it came to dominate his thoughts above all other things. He felt he had squandered his only opportunity to change the world for the better. And as we grew closer, the old man somehow got hold of the notion that I was his successor, that I’d be the one to succeed where he had failed — that I would revive Pantisocracy. I knew he was dying, of course, so I did the decent thing and told him what he wanted to hear — that I would do everything I could to carry out the plan, that I’d move to America and live out his fantasy. All bunkum as far as I was concerned but if it made a dying man happy I reckoned it could do no harm. What I didn’t realize was this: Coleridge was not a rich man, but most of what he possessed was placed in my care for me to do with as I would when I eventually came of age. It’s only due to the old man’s generosity that I was able to go to one of the universities. The remainder, he said, should go to the formation of a company dedicated to the resurrection of his Pantisocratic dream. In his will he insisted that I name it after myself. I can see you wondering, Mr. Moon. There are four Loves in the title. Time was, I had sons of my own.” At this mention of his family, he reached again for the bottle.
“I graduated with a good degree and found, much to my astonishment, that I had a way with figures. I did as I’d been told and established the company according to Mr. Coleridge’s instructions. But I could muster little interest in Pantisocracy, and whilst the firm ostensibly remained loyal to his intentions, I was able to make a good deal of money over the years by investing in property and playing the markets. At the peak of our success, I employed nearly a hundred staff and enjoyed considerable profits.”
“You betrayed the ideals of your benefactor for the sake of money.”
Love seemed upset. “Harsh words, Mr. Moon. Very harsh. You have to understand that the old man was very ill when he died. Some might say not quite in his right mind. I did what I was able with my inheritance and doubled it — doubled it dozens of times over. I’m not a selfish or avaricious man. I was generous with our earnings. There was a time when I was one of the most prominent philanthropists in London. I did feel guilty. But a few thousand a year will help a man forget his duty.”
“So what happened?”
“Five years ago, the golden times had passed. I’d got too old to run the company, and, like me, it had grown somewhat decrepit. None of my boys showed any real interest in succeeding me, and I was at my wits’ end as to what to do when I was approached by a consortium. They were men of God, they said, representatives of an organization called the Church of the Summer Kingdom. I see you recognize the name. So did I, as it happens, since I had donated money to their cause on more than one occasion. Their names were most improbable — Donald McDonald and the Reverend Doctor Tan. They said they were devotees of Mr. Coleridge, said they venerated the man and were almost embarrassing in their effusive deference to me — one of the last men alive, they said, who had actually known the poet personally. They knew all about the will, about the old man’s plans for the company, and they made me an offer. They promised to keep the firm operating exactly as it was, to retain all my staff and instate me as Chairman Emeritus on the one condition that we return to Coleridge’s original intentions. They actually planned in the fullness of time to live as Pantisocrats. It was an old man’s weakness and no doubt you’ll think me foolish, but I took them at their word. I see now that they were silver-tongued rogues, but I had wearied of the place and I felt guilty, so I allowed them some measure of power. It seemed the right thing to do.”
“Let me guess,” Moon said. “The church took absolute control of the company and ousted you.”
“They threw me out onto the street. I thought the only path left to me was one of meditation and repentance. And so you find me like this, an unsuccessful anchorite.”
“Could you not appeal? Surely the company still belonged to you?”
“They had clever lawyers. In my stupidity I had signed documents which gave them complete control. I admit it — I was thoroughly gulled. Cuckoos, Mr. Moon. Cuckoos in the nest. And my boys were under their spell. I was told they took part in my downfall, though I can’t bring myself to believe it. Can you blame me for hiding myself here?” He reached again for the whisky bottle. And drained it dry.
“Courage, Mr. Love. What changes did they make in the firm? This McDonald, this Reverend Tan?”
“Those are not their real names, are they?” Love asked, rather sadly.
“Aliases, I’m sure of it. But tell me — what happened to Love, Love, Love and Love?”
“From the start, they went against their word. They fired most of my staff and brought in their own men — and women, if you can credit it. Oh, they were a queer lot and no mistake. Peculiar creatures, all of them. Some looked like they’d been plucked straight from the gutter. Knowing Tan, I wouldn’t even put that past him. Then they started building. Underground. Lodgings, they said, for the staff. By the time I left, most of them were living there. Names, too. They began to frown on
“I have an associate on the inside at the firm and it would seem that since your departure matters have got very much worse.”
“Worse?”
“The place sounds more like a commune than a business. They’ve all been numbered. Branded like cattle. They seem to be waiting for something. Like an army before a battle, so I hear. Tell me, Mr. Love — what are they planning?”
Love seemed exhausted by the effort of talking for so long and the drink had finally begun to work upon him. He slumped back, confused. “I’m not entirely certain. Once, in his cups, Tan made insinuations about his real plans. The old man would not have approved. You can take my word on that. I may not have done as he wished but I would never go so far as the church. Something terrible is afoot. But tell me, who is this ally of yours inside the firm?”
“My sister.”
“Your sister?” Appalled, Love struggled to his feet only to lose his balance and collapse onto the ground. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”
“Explain.”
Love shook his head. “How could you send your own sister in there? You’ll have to get her out immediately. She’s in terrible danger.”
“Danger?”
“They have a way of… turning you. They’re extremely persuasive. She’s not safe. You must fetch her at once.”
“Are you sure?”
“Ho now, gentlemen. I shall wait for you here.”
Moon stood up and gestured for the Somnambulist to join him. “We’ll come back.”
“Please go. I couldn’t bear it if something awful happened.” Love’s speech had become slurred and when he’d finished speaking he rolled slowly onto his back, like a turtle, close to passing out.
Moon and the Somnambulist left him there, and at something approaching a run they headed back toward the old city and the black gates of Love.
The Archivist was filing a series of reports on the notorious Finchley Cannibal of 1864 and thinking about retiring early for the night when she was disturbed by a sudden sound: the telltale clump and clatter of visitors feeling their way into the gloom of the Stacks.
