Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(16)
He’d wanted so much in that moment. Not just the touch, not just the promise those stroking fingers made to his skin, but the care with which they moved. The understanding in Glyde’s eyes. The kindness. Saul was a man of science; he would never, even alone, have given in to the urge to make a superstitious gesture. Glyde had dirtied a fine pair of trousers to soak that handkerchief, and done it in such a serious, priestly way that Saul had been left with a feeling of something almost like absolution. It was a comfort, even if an illusory one, to imagine his sin and shame rotting away with the cloth, and Glyde had given him that when other men had spat.
He’d given comfort and made a lot of cryptic remarks, and he’d also managed to make Saul do as he was told, twice. Drinking the water, walking away on command like a child, as though he’d had no control of his own will. The word mesmerism pricked at his mind. He didn’t like it.
One thing was for certain: Saul didn’t intend to dissuade Major Peabody from his researches. He wanted to meet Randolph Glyde again. He had questions.
The answer to one of those questions came to him that afternoon. Glyde had described the Major as a man liable to end up with ancient masonry falling on his head, a peculiar remark that had rung a vague bell at the time. Saul thought of it again in the Major’s library, and this time the bell was loud and clear. He hurried to find the obituary of Mr. Julian Karswell, author of that deeply unpleasant History of Witchcraft, and read over the text with decided uneasiness.
While examining the front of St. Wulfram’s Church at Abbeville, then under extensive repair, Mr. Karswell was struck on the head and instantly killed by a stone falling from the scaffold erected round the north-western tower, there being, as was clearly proved, no workman on the scaffold at that moment.
“Well,” Saul said aloud and stood in the library, wondering what the devil it all meant.
CHAPTER FOUR
WITH THE USUAL INFINITE VARIETY of an English spring, the next day was a downpour. Randolph resented that. If it had rained like this yesterday he probably wouldn’t have found Lazenby prowling around the undergrowth of Camlet Moat and thereby given himself a headache.
You could never tell with Camlet Moat, that was the problem. The well would go dry for months at a time; sometimes Randolph couldn’t find the bridge for hours. Nevertheless, if the water had been foul to Lazenby’s mouth, that would have been conclusive. The Moat had its own ways, and he was terrifyingly aware how little he knew of them, but it had let Lazenby in and offered him healing.
Or, at least, he thought it had. He’d had a strong impulse to come to the Moat in the first place, and an equally strong one to give Lazenby the water, but he lacked any understanding of why. He couldn’t even swear, now, that he’d wanted to test the man entirely on the Moat’s behalf, given the relief he’d felt when Lazenby had found the water good. Randolph would have been...disappointed, one might say, to learn that Lazenby was a villain.
Of course he could still be a puppet, or a blunderer: Randolph had four years, several nasty scars, and a lot of dead friends to remind him of the damage good intentions could do. Come to that, Lazenby could easily be a villain who suited the Moat’s obscure purposes. Randolph, the last and by far the worst-informed Walker of Camlet Moat, didn’t know enough to guess. But he was not happy that he had found the man there, and he needed to look into this.
He clapped on a hat, turned up his collar, bade a reluctant farewell to his warm, dry bachelor rooms in the Albany, and went to 166 Fetter Lane.
It was a tall, thin house with a profoundly odd atmosphere, thanks to two centuries’ occupation by occultists. In recent times the appalling runecaster Karswell had lived here, then his daughter Miss Kay, a diviner, along with the ghost-hunter Simon Feximal, his companion Robert Caldwell, and the homeless youngsters they’d acquired, Jo and Sam. Now only Sam Caldwell was left. He’d opened the house to the rest of their group because, Randolph suspected, he found its emptiness unbearable.
Barney and Isaacs each had a room on the top floor, for which Sam had provided reinforced locks and bolts on the outside of the doors, as if that would do any good. Randolph had no intention of leaving his luxurious and solitary rooms in the Albany, but had joined the Fetter Lane household to the extent of carrying a key.
He let himself in now, and shouted a greeting that echoed in disappointing silence, which made him realise he hoped Sam was in. That was absurd; he was here to work, not chat. He headed up to the first floor, and shouted, “Shop!”
“Hello!” Sam yelled from the book room, so Randolph went in.
Sam was glaring at a pile of papers, but looked up long enough to give Randolph a nod. “Morning. How are you?”
“Tolerable. Yourself?”
“Mustn’t grumble.”
“I don’t know why not,” Randolph said. “There’s nothing I’d rather do. I don’t suppose you know anything about Geoffrey de Mandeville?”
“Is that a research topic, a ghost, or someone who owes you money?”
“You’re a lot of use.” Randolph looked around the shelves. It wasn’t a huge room; occult libraries rarely were. There were only so many books of any value, though the supply of rubbish was endless. “Ugh. I’m not sure where to start with this.”
“What are you after?”
“I don’t know.”