Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(21)

“Thank you for the show of faith,” Randolph said, once they had shut the door on the Shadow Ministry men. “I wish I shared it.”

“Don’t we all,” Sam said. “What a shambles. I feel like a weaver or some such, watching the masters bring in the Spinning Jennies and move everyone to the factories. Seeing everything industrialised. Ugh.”

“I feel more like the ancient relic of an outmoded regime watching his world crumble, but at least I’m used to that,” Randolph said. “The trick will doubtless be to avoid the guillotine.”

“I’m afraid it’s firing squads these days, that’s progress for you. You need to watch yourself with those bastards, Randolph. I’m just a jobbing ghost-hunter with a useful sibling, but you’re a problem.”

Randolph knew all too well that was true. He had no desire to lead anyone, least of all the motley selection of arcanists and occultists who had lived past 1918, but he was the last Glyde, and people followed him. If he bowed the knee to Whitehall, others would conclude it was the right thing to do. While he didn’t, his refusal was noticeable, and imitated, and irritating.

And there was very little to be done about that. He shrugged; Sam sighed. “I know, I know. I’d better go and check Barney and Max have simmered down.”

“You left them angry?”

“Let me handle them,” Sam said firmly. “And you’d better do something about this Lazenby character. The last thing we need is the Ministry finding out about our problem with Camlet Moat the hard way.”

“Indeed. If only I knew what to do about him.”

“Not to tell you your business,” Sam said, “and I realise this may seem an extreme measure, and very much outside your area of expertise...”

“What are you suggesting?”

Sam grinned. “Have you considered talking to him?”





CHAPTER FIVE


SAUL GATHERED UP HIS COAT and hat, bade goodbye to Major Peabody, and stepped out of the door. The Major lived comfortably on Berners Street; Saul’s tiny rented room was a good half-hour’s walk north, in the much less salubrious area towards Camden Town. At least it was cheap, and the landlady uninterested.

He walked up Berners Street, only vaguely registering a man who lounged against a shop-front at the corner with Goodge Street. The tall, lean figure straightened as he passed with a tip of his hat and said, “Good evening.”

“Surely you’re joking,” Saul said. Somewhat irritatingly, he had to work to repress a smile. The fact that he kept meeting Glyde did not make the man a friend.

“Not at all,” Glyde returned, falling into step. “It’s undeniably evening, the weather is undeniably good—”

“You were waiting for me, Mr. Glyde. And there’s no point pretending otherwise, since I’m not heading anywhere more complicated than my own home.”

“How disappointing. I thought you might care for a drink.”

Saul stopped and turned. “Sorry?”

“Drink. They’re sold in public houses, I believe.”

“I’ve heard that too. Why would I have a drink with you?”

“You already did.”

“Yes,” Saul said. “I have some questions about that.”

“You could ask them over a drink.”

Jesus wept. “Do you intend to answer them? Over a drink or otherwise?”

Glyde’s smile glinted. “Come and find out.”

What exactly would I be signing up to? Saul wanted to ask. He didn’t. Glyde was peculiar, and worrying, and supercilious, but he was also the first person who’d suggested going for a drink to Saul since July 1916. He went into pubs alone when the need for fellowship became intolerably strong, but never chatted; he hadn’t become a regular anywhere, even a silent one, because it seemed unjust to impose himself under false pretences.

Glyde knew who he was and still wanted a drink. If that was all he wanted. Saul could feel those fingers on his face, over his scalp, and the longing stabbed at him.

Blast it. “All right, then. Where?”

Glyde shrugged, pointed, and led the way across the street to a little old place with wooden beams. It was busy enough that nobody looked twice at them—not that there was anything at which to look twice. Glyde bought a gin and tonic for himself and a pint for Saul, and they sat opposite one another at a small, round, sticky table, as one did. As Saul did, anyway. Glyde’s expression as he touched the tabletop with experimental distaste suggested otherwise.

“Do you not go to pubs much?” Saul asked.

“Frequently. A pub, at least. I go to a pub frequently, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say sometimes, but they wipe up the spilled beer there.”

“Ah. A classy place.”

Glyde snorted with what seemed real amusement. Saul leaned back, weighing him up.

He was upper class to a fault. Saul’s father was a country solicitor, and his upbringing had been by no means humble, but Glyde reeked of the right schools, the right connections. Saul had met plenty of his sort at Oxford, cool, confident, older than their years, and had found them attractive and repellent in equal measure.

“All right,” he said. “You wanted me here. What’s this about?”

“My insatiable curiosity.” Glyde sipped his gin with a grimace. “You are, as noted, a highly educated man—”