The Obsidian Dagger (Horatio Lyle) Page 10

  Lyle, Tess, Thomas and Tate stood together, elbows on the Embankment walls or, in the case of Tate, nose on Lyle’s shoe, and ate greasy pies in contemplative silence.

  ‘I ain’t never seen it freeze like that before,’ said Tess. ‘It looks all pretty.’

  ‘What are we going to do now, sir?’ asked Thomas.

  Lyle pulled out the crumpled note from his pocket. ‘Find Father Ignatius Caryway, I’d say. The man who hired Captain Fabrio to bring in our mysterious passenger.’

  ‘The mysterious passenger what was the killer?’

  ‘So we suspect.’

  ‘How will we find him?’

  ‘At the moment, I’m not entirely certain. But there was someone else mentioned in the letter. And I think I know where we can find him.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Church

  In the plush suburb of St John’s Wood, the Church of Our Blessed Lady stood far enough out of town to keep the smoke of the city’s factories off its new, especially pointy, especially knobbly spire, while close enough to Regent’s Park to attract a certain kind of gentry: the kind who understood that Church was a social as well as a religious experience.

  To an artist of certain taste, the church was a monstrosity. The stone arches along the centre aisle were well enough, and it was doubtful if fault could be found with the simple wood benches. However, the gargoyles that clung with pointed talons to every corner and stuck out their long, thin tongues in a perpetual leer, and the cherubs who smiled angelically from every wall, with bloated cheeks and huge popping eyes, had an unhealthy disproportion about them, not to mention, as Lyle would have pointed out, a certain aerodynamic unsoundness. The stained-glass windows, showing this saint dying horribly or that angel blessing this bishop, or this virtue overcoming that sin, or this sinner burning for all eternity, or that demon doing something unhygienic with a particularly pointy poker, were at best tackily graphic.

  Into this church on the edge of the city and the edge of the country, a boundary defined by prim houses and manners, walked Horatio Lyle and Friends at eleven a.m. on a cold, snow-covered morning.

  ‘Father Fornaio?’ Lyle’s breath was visible in the chill of the nave. The light crawling through the windows was meagre, and most illumination came from giant candles.

  Father Fornaio, still in the robes of his morning’s duty, examined the visitors from where he’d been restoring the altar to its original pristine glory. Lyle approached down the aisle, followed by the children at a cautious pace. Tess’s eyes darted off every gold chalice and candlestick with a hungry gleam, and Thomas shuffled along with the suspicious glare of a religious critic.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The priest’s voice took Thomas by surprise. Father Fornaio, a short, neat man, oddly proportioned in his voluminous robes, had an East End accent, close to Tess’s but twisted by an educated refinement that gave Thomas the feeling of being trapped in a schoolroom. The priest smiled politely as they drew nearer, until Lyle stopped, just below the altar, looking up at him.

  ‘Are you Father Fornaio?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Confessor to Captain Fabrio?’

  The smile remained, though a frown flickered across the priest’s features. ‘I know the Captain.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Lyle in a restrained voice, ‘I am with the police. May we talk?’

  In the vestry and without his robes, Father Fornaio looked, to Thomas, a lot less intimidating.

  ‘You are an interesting policeman, who brings two children and a pet . . .’ Tate growled ‘. . . on your investigations.’

  ‘Yes, well, it wasn’t safe to leave them in the kitchen,’ said Lyle meekly.

  ‘I hope you understand, even if the Captain had told me anything, I would not break the confidences of the confessional.’

  ‘Did he tell you anything?’

  ‘No. I haven’t seen the good Captain for nearly two months.’

  ‘Did he come to this church often when in England?’

  ‘Very rarely. I used to see him more frequently down in the docks. He was not a wealthy man.’ Thomas glanced at Lyle, who shook his head very slightly. Thomas looked away again, and wished he knew how much money a giant gold cross was worth, and how much a loaf of bread would cost in comparison.

  ‘What were you doing in the docks?’

  ‘I serve the Italian immigrant community in that area, as well as any other souls who can’t find a guide of the appropriate denomination. The city has grown so rapidly in that direction that I fear the Roman Catholic Church has been too slow in catching up with the needs of the people. I sometimes fear, Mister Lyle, there is more than enough danger and dirt and darkness in that maze for religion to cure. It is sometimes enough to make a man doubt his faith.’

  Lyle hesitated, then said in a less brisk voice, ‘Are you Italian? You don’t sound very -’

  ‘My parents were Italian, but I was raised from birth in this city.’

  ‘Did Fabrio trust you as a fellow Italian, or as a fellow Catholic?’

  ‘Both, I hope. He was a friend as well as a member of the flock.’

  ‘Do you know where he went on his last voyage?’

  ‘I believe it was back to Italy. On the Church’s business, so he claimed, although I never entirely believed him - the Captain was a good soul, but . . .’

  ‘Flamboyant?’ suggested Lyle politely.

  ‘That is one way of seeing the matter.’

  ‘Have you heard of an island called Isalia?’

  Surprise passed across Fornaio’s face, followed by an answer that was just a bit too sharp. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘It was where Captain Fabrio last sailed. We believe he was paid to go to Isalia, collect something from the island and return it to London. You know of Isalia?’

  ‘There is a monastery there. Nothing more.’

  ‘Father Fornaio,’ said Lyle, smiling a little, pained smile, ‘forgive me for saying this, but it hardly seems like nothing more.’

  ‘What gives you that impression?’ Even Thomas heard it - the priest’s reply was too fast. At his feet, Tate began to growl.

  ‘The way your hand went to the cross around your neck the instant I mentioned it, sir.’

  A heavy silence. ‘Are you trustworthy, Mister Lyle? Are these children secretive, will they do what you say?’

  ‘I don’t do nothin’ unless I want’a,’ said Tess firmly. Lyle glared at her. She shrank back into her usual slouch and mumbled, ‘An’ today I want’a be all secret.’

  ‘Sir, it would be my honour and privilege to guard any secret until my death, whenever that may be, and give you my word as a gentleman that, no matter what may -’

  ‘The lad can keep a secret,’ Lyle said quickly.

  Fornaio sat down, laying his hands flat on the vestry table and looking at each pair of eyes in turn. Finally he said, ‘There are only rumours, but Isalia is ... sometimes whispered of. The monks there keep things that the Vatican doesn’t want in the world. It is a place of protection - protecting us from them.’

  ‘Who’s them?’

  ‘I don’t know. You sometimes hear stories of . . . things leaving Isalia. Strange men or creatures, dogs grown to the size of a man or men shrivelled to the size of dogs. Stories of men and women with bright green eyes who talk the sweetest, most seductive words -’

  ‘Green eyes?’ Lyle’s head snapped up. ‘Tall, thin people, pale skin, emerald green eyes? Certain allergy for iron and magnetic fields?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ A shard of fear was visible behind the priest’s eyes. ‘You haven’t had contact with . . . I mean to say, you aren’t . . .’

  ‘Does the word “Tseiqin” mean anything to you?’

  ‘No. Who are they?’

  ‘They are usually them,’ said Lyle darkly.

  Tess’s head rose from its usual slouch and she sat upright, eyes wide. ‘Them? There’s them again? But they were all dead, we beat ’em good an’ -’

  ‘Enough, Teresa.’

&n
bsp; ‘But Mister Lyle, he said how that they -’

  ‘Teresa! Enough!’ Tess met Lyle’s eyes. Just for a second she saw the fear that had been stewing deep, deep down inside, the fear of a rational man confronted with something inexplicable by any normal laws of logic or reasoning, and remembered bright green eyes and the thunderstorm when Lyle had fallen too long and too far, and hastily closed her mouth.

  Lyle coughed and said quietly, ‘Forgive me. Let’s talk about something else. Does the name Father Ignatius Caryway mean anything to you?’

  Fornaio shook his head.

  ‘We think he’s a Roman Catholic priest, possibly the one who arranged for the Captain to go to Isalia. Possibly American, about . . .’

  ‘American?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Not by name, but I met an American with the Captain, once. He did not tell me his name, but he shook my hand most warmly and commended me on my sermon.’

  ‘This was here?’

  ‘Yes, at evening Mass. With a lady who sometimes comes in the evenings.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Shorter than you, with auburn eyes and a very intense gaze. Auburn hair too, good skin, worn hands, strong grip.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Just before the Captain sailed, I think - yes, I remember the weather had just started to turn bad.’

  ‘Who was the lady?’

  ‘That I do know. Lady Diane Lumire. She comes quite a lot - but only in the evening.’

  ‘Does Lady Diane live near here?’

  ‘I never asked. We get people from many places.’

  Lyle was already on his feet. ‘Thank you, father, you’ve been most helpful and generous.’

  Thomas was ahead of him at the door, Tess not much further behind. Her face was lit up with the sweet, tantalizing prospect of that most magical of wonders, a clue. Tate darted between their legs, racing out into the nave of the church. Lyle turned to follow and ...

  ‘Mister Lyle?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mister Lyle, you must understand, there are things in men’s lives beyond our control. Call it magic, call it God, call it luck, call it fate; we cannot control it, we do not even know what it is. You are already afraid of secrets that you know, the things that you cannot explain or control, the things that come out at you from nowhere and which you have to fight though you cannot explain them or say why you have been chosen. Please understand. ’

  Lyle hesitated, then nodded. ‘Thank you, father. We’ll take no more of your time.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Houses

  In a room plush with decadence, a man with auburn eyes, a voice like rich maple syrup and an accent distinctly American, a man who may or may not travel by the name of Ignatius Caryway and may or may not wear a small golden cross on a chain underneath his black shirt, slammed a newspaper down on a nearby table and snapped in a voice slightly louder than usual, ‘Henton!’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I read that there was another murder in the docks last night.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Of a potential witness?’

  ‘So I hear, sir.’

  ‘I thought you said you were with his grace all last night.’

  ‘I was, sir. Perhaps her ladyship . . .’

  ‘Her ladyship is a child of nature, Henton! She would not understand the sacrifices demanded by the cause.’ His voice darkened. ‘How did his grace do it? I saw him kill the captain and the spy . . . but how did he leave in the night and kill that witness? Unless he . . .’ The voice trailed away. The auburn eyes widened. ‘Where is his grace?’

  ‘In the cellar, father. Hiding from the light.’

  ‘And her ladyship?’

  ‘In her room.’

  ‘Good. Inform me if she leaves it.’

  And the man with the eyes that burn with a bright, auburn fervour and who walks with a determined step, stood up, and strode from the room into a long, gloomy corridor, dully illuminated by the occasional candle. His face was set in a cold expression, and his feet clicked on bare stone as he trotted down a flight of stairs, then padded across deep burgundy carpet. As he descended, the air got thicker and colder; his breath steamed. Down he went to the darkest part of the house, where he picked up a lantern glowing feebly by a heavy wooden door, inserted a slim metal key in the lock and turned it. Light crawled weakly from a single high window, forming a small rectangle on the floor. Behind it, in total darkness, a shape, long and wide and powerful, sat utterly still.

  ‘Your grace.’

  The shape didn’t move.

  ‘Your grace, I trust you are well.’

  Something gently raised itself up from its hunched position. Eyes gleamed for a second in the darkness, catching the orange lantern light. ‘I was re-examining this city. There are some things you have neglected to say, Father Caryway.’ In the tight, claustrophobic darkness, the sound was almost overwhelming.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘There is a church nearby.’

  Did Father Ignatius Caryway feel, just for a second, a moment of fear, or a moment of guilt about the inevitable? Perhaps, but he hid it well behind the lamplight. ‘Your grace, I would like to ask you a few questions.’ Silence. ‘I am looking for the blade.’ Silence. ‘I found a reference to Selene. The most beautiful woman of her age, they said. Emerald green eyes and a voice like warm marble, cold and passionate all at once. They said she never grew old. There was no mention of the blade.’

  ‘The blade is made of hyresium, the first element formed on this planet. Once, people known as Tseiqin knew how to manipulate it. The knowledge died.’

  Ignatius cleared his throat, telling himself he wasn’t nervous, though sweat was beginning to gleam on his face. ‘You say you have been exploring the city? How, your grace, have you been doing that?’

  ‘The stones are speaking, whispering, frightened. Are you frightened, priest?’

  ‘What are the stones saying?’

  No answer. Then a tap, loud and hard, fingers tapping against a rough stone wall. Tap, tap, tap-a-tap, tap, tap. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘There was a witness, to when you arrived, and there are people looking . . .’

  ‘I can kill anyone who walks these streets, priest. It is but a thought. I merely choose to wait. The daylight . . . is painful to me. It turns my skin to stone, no one cannot see me for what I am . . . I prefer the night.’

  Tap, tap-a-tap, tap, tap-a-tap, tap, tap.

  The sound put Ignatius in mind of a rhyme he’d once heard, or possibly a chant, but when he tried to remember it, it seemed to dart out of reach, laughing a child’s laugh, and hide in the fog of memory. Hark, hark ...

  ‘You are . . . stronger? I have found more stones, you said that you need stones to control and . . .’ Ignatius’s voice trailed away.

  ‘I do.’ Ignatius swallowed, then immediately wondered why. ‘Priest.’ The shadow had unfolded itself, risen to its full height. It moved forward. He saw brown eyes, dark skin, dark hair, fine silks cut in an oddly old-fashioned style, to a point where they were almost dramatic costume rather than clothes any more; he felt the shadow fall over him. ‘Your grace?’ He kept his face straight, his voice steady.

  The figure moved towards him, but he held his ground, holding the lantern up at shoulder height. As it neared him, the figure passed through the tiny square of light from the window. Ignatius watched it travel up across his foot, his shin, his knee, and as it moved, the colours of the silk and the tiny hint of skin between trouser and shoe changed, dulled, turned old and hard and grey, and the bend of the joint as the light passed over the knee suddenly seemed old and crooked and stiff, instead of the fluid, powerful movement which had preceded it. The figure stopped, right in front of Ignatius, towering over him. The light fell on half his face, where smooth dark skin shimmered, dulled, drained of colour until it was grey and hard, worn rough with centuries of erosion. His features were frozen, his eye a dull grey fi
xed point, with just a tiny spot of blackness in the centre. He spoke through one side of his mouth only, the other unable to move, but now his whole shape seemed to vibrate with the sound, ringing out. ‘I have eaten the stones of the city, and hear its song. Do not think for a moment, priest, that you have tamed me. You serve me, priest, my purpose and my revenge. I am immortal, I am stone, I am unstoppable and indestructible, and I cannot be tamed! ’

  Now, only now, when it was arguably too late, did Father Ignatius Caryway feel fear.

  A hansom cab, rattling through the streets of London.

  ‘Mister Lyle?’

  ‘Yes, Teresa?’

  ‘You gone all quiet, Mister Lyle.’

  ‘Yes, Teresa.’

  ‘You thinkin’ bad thoughts, Mister Lyle?’

  ‘Not now, Teresa.’

  Tess sighed and turned her head to look out of the window as they passed Regent’s Park. ‘I got a bad feelin’,’ she muttered, idly tickling Tate behind the ears. ‘It’s all goin’ to be bad. An’ I’m hungry.’

  ‘Miss Teresa,’ said Thomas half-laughingly, ‘you have a remarkable appetite.’

  Tess glared. ‘Don’t you be rude!’ As Thomas recoiled, she turned her glare on Lyle. ‘Can we ’ave food now, Mister Lyle?’

  ‘Yes, Teresa,’ murmured Lyle absently.

  ‘Lots of food?’

  ‘Yes, Teresa.’

  ‘An’ then . . . an’ then can we go on holiday? Somewhere really far from this place ’cos I got a bad feelin’, Mister Lyle, it’s all goin’ to go really bad.’

  ‘Not now, Teresa.’

  She hissed in frustration, put her chin in her hand and stared moodily out of the window again. The cab rattled on in silence. To Thomas, the silence weighed down oppressively, he heard each breath his companions made, each shuffle of Tate’s, smelt overwhelmingly the sweaty, dirty, coal-stained stench of the city, the rotting feet and the rotting teeth, heard the cry of the street-sellers and street-walkers and bobbies and thieves and horses and cabbies and felt as if the silence was going to suffocate him.