saw me, he smiled.
The dreamer had awoken.
Overwhelmed with joy, I unscrewed the portholes of the sphere. Waves of fluid crashed about me and I screamed in triumph as the old man lurched forward. I caught him before he fell and he leant against me, struggling for breath. I clapped him hard on the back, he coughed, then breathed in great lungfuls of air. He said nothing but only gurgled and hissed like a leaky pair of bellows, spumes of liquid dribbling from his mouth as I held him in a tight embrace.
Moon would not defeat me. I had transformed failure into triumph. The dreamer had awoken, the Chairman walked amongst us and Love was loose at last upon the streets of London.
Chapter 19
Maurice Trotman was eating breakfast when destiny came knocking at his door. Mr. Trotman, you will recall, was the man from the Ministry, the Civil Servant who had succeeded, where so many others before him had failed, in closing down the Directorate. He was a precise, punctilious man, typical of his breed — those passionless, blank- faced automata who tirelessly maintain the grim machinery of state. His ambitions were limited, his vistas modest and he saw life prosaically, as a ladder, a career, a comfortingly regular sequence of promotions and preferments.
He was midway through a poached egg when he heard a determined rap at his front door. Still a bachelor, despite his half-hearted wooing of a colleague’s daughter, he had no servants and lived and ate alone. Consequently, still clad in his fawn-colored dressing gown, it was Maurice himself who opened the door onto death.
“What do you want?” he asked sharply. Like any proper gentleman, he was rarely at his best before eight o’clock.
His visitors made an outre pair. Grown men, one burly, the other slight, both clad in flannel shorts, their legs knobbly and ridiculous.
“Morning,” said Boon.
“What ho,” said Hawker.
“Awfully sorry to bother you so early.”
“Couldn’t be helped.”
“I’m afraid we’re something of a deus ex machina.”
“Don’t chatter on in Latin, old man. You know it’s all Greek to me.”
Boon chortled dutifully. “Hawker’s got a wizard new penknife. Corkscrews and bottle-openers and a how-do- ye-do to get stones out of horses’ hooves. Would you like to see it?”
In the course of their unfeasibly long and bloodstained career, the Prefects had rarely been surprised by much. Strange, then, that they should have been so easily outwitted by a glorified clerk.
Maurice Trotman had not clambered so far up the Service ladder without learning a good deal of guile along the way. He had recognized the Prefects from the first, and as they stood there trolling through their usual blather, their carefully scripted cross-talk and banter, he was formulating a plan of escape. No good fleeing back into the house, of course. There they’d have him cornered, track him down and finish him off in moments. But out in the open he might still have a chance.
While Hawker and Boon talked on (something about conkers), Trotman carefully snaked his left arm around the door and toward the umbrella stand where he skillfully extracted a family heirloom — a slender black umbrella three generations old, passed down from father to son through sixty proud years of Civil Service.
He looked back at the Prefects. Hawker had drawn his knife and was advancing noiselessly upon him when, with surprising dexterity, Trotman produced the umbrella from behind his back and struck the knife from the creature’s hand. Taking advantage of their momentary surprise, he thrust past the Prefects and out into the street where, barely believing his luck, he ran frantically into the center of the city, toward what he mistakenly believed to be safety.
Whilst Hawker howled in surprise and frustration, Boon merely simmered with rage.
“By the living jingo!” Hawker cried. “He’s done a bunk. Rotter’s gone and scarpered. What’ll we do now?”
Boon set his face in an expression of grim determination. “We follow. And when we catch him, we clobber the brute to death with that blasted umbrella.”
The Prefects turned in pursuit and loped silently after their prey, determined as bloodhounds on a scent, implacable as fate.
I suppose I had better tell you what happened to Moon. For all I know you’ve ignored my warnings and gone and got attached to the man, so it’s just possible you might care.
No doubt he was feeling mightily pleased with himself as he left the headquarters of Love and sauntered back to the surface by way of King William Street Station. Oh, he must have thought he had me fooled with that play- acting of his, that fraudulent Damascene conversion. But as we have already seen, he had not counted upon the perspicacity of his sister.
Above-ground again, he hailed the first cab he saw and instructed the driver to deliver him directly to the Yard, promising a sovereign if the fellow could get him there in a quarter of an hour. In the event it took almost double that time, the detective drumming his fingers impatiently all the while. Once he arrived he dashed straight to the office of an old friend, flung open the door without knocking and cried: “Merryweather!”
The inspector looked up from his desk, surprised. “Edward. What is it?”
Desperate to get out his story but uncertain where to begin, Moon sounded like a human telegram, his message fragmented and nonsensical: “Conspiracy… underground… Love assembled… the dreamer… Somnambulist…”
“Calm down. Tell me slowly what happened.”
Moon took a deep breath. “Underground, a man calling himself the Reverend Doctor Tan has assembled an army. He has some crackpot scheme to destroy the city, to reduce it to ashes and begin again.”
I suppose I should feel some slight at the ‘crackpot’ description. But I’m a bigger man than that. Prophets, after all, are never recognized in their own country.
As Moon finished speaking, a bulky shadow stepped from the corner of the room. “So it’s begun,” he stated flatly.
Merryweather rose to his feet. Moon was later to say that this was one of the very few occasions that he had spent any length of time with the inspector when he had not seen him laugh or smile or crack some faintly inappropriate joke. In the face of brutal crimes and fearful murders, assassinations, bloody riots and deliriously horrible killing sprees, Detective Inspector Merryweather had never once lost his sense of humor. That today he was unable to manage even the ghost of a smile was perhaps some measure of the situation’s gravity.
He introduced the stranger. “This is Mr. Dedlock.”
The scarred man made a nominal inclination of his head. “I work with Skimpole.”
Moon stared and seemed to sniff the air, like a fox sensing the approach of the hunt. “You’re Directorate,” he spat. “What are you doing here?”
“
“The agency has been closed down,” Dedlock admitted. “This morning an attempt was made upon my life. Skimpole’s gone missing. I’ve had to come to the police for assistance.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste.”
“Love has outwitted you,” Moon said (and I confess to feeling some pride at the casual certainty with which he made the claim). “They’re ready to make their move. Two weeks from now they’ll burst from underground to destroy everything in their path. The city’s in terrible danger.”
“Sounds incredible,” Merryweather said. He was interrupted by a brisk tap at the door. A police constable, flushed and out of breath, peered nervously into the room. “Sorry to bother you, sir.”
“What is it?”
“We’ve had reports of a… disturbance in the financial district. Fighting in the streets. Fires and rioting. It
