Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(66)

“The poor bastard was dragged east of the sun, attacked by a fen-grendel, and had Theresa inside his head,” Randolph snapped. “I thought he deserved an evening off.”

“So you of all men took one too?” Sam demanded, sitting forward and twisting round to glare at him. “Come off it, Randolph. And don’t lie to me, I can tell when you’re hiding something. Actually, I’m damned if I know what you look like when you’re not. Why on earth would you—” He stopped dead, then said, more quietly, “Ah.”

“What?” Randolph returned, and realised that Sam was looking down to where he was still holding Saul’s hand. Loose on his lap, fingers interlinked, perhaps a little warmer now.

“Right,” Sam said. “Got you. Sorry, old man. So you had an evening off; then what happened?”

“Saul left—this morning,” Randolph said deliberately, “to go and find out what put his employer, the idiot Peabody, onto de Mandeville. I assume the Ministry picked him up at some point. It’s all circling round him and Peabody and de Mandeville and I don’t understand why. I am well aware I probably shouldn’t have taken the evening off, in case you’re wondering.”

“You’ve had about six in the three years I’ve known you, while Bracknell and the others all go home to the wife and children every night. What is this de Mandeville business?”

“He was the lord of Camlet Moat,” Saul said, eyes shut, something a little odd in his tone. It was pitched lighter than usual, with a clear musical note to it that wasn’t his warm tenor at all, and there was a very faint silvery sheen to his skin through Randolph’s other sight. “Master of London. Custodian of the Tower. Dying in the Fens, begging for life. Hung like meat from a tree for a year and a day, encased in lead. Suspended between life and death, and taken back to where he began in service of the city.”

Randolph hissed. “Hell’s teeth.”

“He swore to guard London,” Saul said, or at least the words came from his lips. “He made a vow, and the vow would be kept so long as the lead should hold him.”

There was a moment’s silence, which Sam broke when it was clear there wouldn’t be more. “Someone explain.”

“You know about blood sacrifice?” Randolph said. “Buildings mortared with human blood, people buried under foundations?”

“Uncle Robert told me about an awful case of it he saw, involving murdered children.”

“Well, I suspect this is what we’re looking at, but I rather have the impression de Mandeville wasn’t dead.”

“You mean he was buried alive?” Sam asked.

“I am wondering if he stayed alive,” Randolph said grimly. “The tree, the hanging man, the lead. Lead is Saturn’s metal. It means death and rebirth, creation and destruction. Betwixt and between.”

“Whether buried or not buried, damned or saved, I do not know; I cannot tell,” Saul whispered.

Sam made a face. “Nasty for him. What does it mean for us?”

“Good question.”

“Randolph!”

“Well, it depends. Dead or alive or neither, he was taken to Camlet Moat to fulfil his duty to London forever. Which may explain the nastiness in the Fens. Saul drank the Camlet Moat water, washed in it, benefited from the blessing de Mandeville was obliged to provide. That must have seemed provocative.”

“Could de Mandeville’s spirit be bound in London and free in the Fens at the same time? That’s surely not possible.”

“If he’s not fully dead, anything’s possible. Or it might have been a particularly powerful spirit of place. I don’t know. Saul and Peabody went up there to look at a collection of de Mandeville artefacts; that was what Peabody was doing when Saul and I took that ill-fated walk. I wonder what he found. Saul!” He turned and gave his lover a shake. “Saul. I need you to wake up and talk to me.”

Saul grunted, eyes flickering open. “Randolph?”

“Did you see Peabody this morning?”

Saul took a second to work through the question in his head. “Uh, no. Wasn’t in. Those men—” He blinked, then straightened, as if waking. “Those men took me to some prison in an office. What happened? What the devil’s going on?”

Randolph squinted out of the window. They were somewhere in the region of Kentish Town, the taxi chugging along towards Camlet Moat. The shadows were long now, the light beginning to fade. “What do you remember? Oh, this is Sam Caldwell, by the way. Saul is a great admirer of your Uncle Robert’s writing, Sam.”

“Good taste. Pleased to meet you, Saul. Go on.”

“I went to see Major Peabody this morning, but he wasn’t there. A couple of Shadow Ministry men turned up there as I waited. They refused to tell me what it was about, just hauled me off to their office, where I was thrown in a cell. And then I fell ill.”

“Ill,” Randolph repeated. “What sort of ill?”

“Food poisoning,” Saul said, and then, more doubtfully, “At least, I think it was. We ate the same thing last night, didn’t we? But I was sick to my stomach. And...” He paused, then delved in his pocket and produced a wrinkled brown leaf. “Well.”

The leaf from the train, if Randolph didn’t miss his guess. “Hmm.”