Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(37)

‘It keeps London from falling into riot and disorder,’ said Gale. ‘And I might add it seems a great deal more effective than the police in this regard.’

John Chapman had suggested as much after the summer riots in 2011.

‘He thought they were suspiciously sudden,’ said Gale. ‘He suggested that there might be a spiritual malaise behind the violence.’

And when Chapman said ‘spiritual malaise’ he wasn’t thinking that the youth of today should respect their elders and go to church more often. He meant a vengeful evil spirit that had plagued London since the Romans.

‘And this seemed credible to you?’ asked Nightingale.

‘That the riots were inspired by a vengeful spirit? No – quite apart from the fact that the underclass riots on a regular basis, it wouldn’t explain why the riots spread to other cities. What changed my mind was that madness in Covent Garden. I knew some of the people involved and they were not the Molotov cocktail set.’

‘Quite,’ said Nightingale.

They were the sort of people who have people to do their violence for them, I managed not to say. And not without some effort, I might add.

‘And you’ve held the ritual ever since?’ asked Nightingale.

Patrick Gale confirmed that they had been holding it twice a year– at the summer and winter solstices. John Chapman had suggested these would be the most effective dates. When Nightingale asked where Chapman had acquired all this esoteric knowledge, Gale told us about the Paternoster Society.

‘A secret society,’ he said. ‘They used to meet in a house on Paternoster Row near St Paul’s, until it was knocked down.’

And suddenly annoying little alarm tweets and chirps were going off in my head.

Where the pattern-welded Anglo-Saxon Excalibur candidate had been dug up. Next to the cathedral where John Chapman’s script – and I was pretty certain that all the historical stuff in the script had been his – situated its revenant spirit.

What we desperately needed was some accurate historical sources.

I thought of Father Thames, who was old enough to remember. But when a person like Oxley cautions you about the potential cost of asking such questions it’s wise to pay attention. Especially when you’d just thought of a cheaper alternative.

‘Now, Mr Gale,’ said Nightingale. ‘We reach the question of what to do about you.’

‘I’m not sure there’s any legal action you can take,’ said Gale, with unwise smugness.

Nightingale tapped his fingers and I felt the tick, tick, swish of a subtle little surge, and Patrick Gale sat up straight in his chair and clasped his hands together on the desk in front of him.

‘Mr Gale,’ said Nightingale, ‘the practice of magic is hard and dangerous. Sooner or later you will overstep your bounds and suffer serious injury or death.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Now, I for one would be perfectly happy to let you to take the consequences of your own actions. Were it not for the fact that you have already proved yourself a danger to others.’

‘In what way—’ started Gale.

‘You were Anthony Harden’s teacher,’ said Nightingale. ‘And you were negligent in his training. Now he is dead. I’m afraid that I’ll have to require you to place yourself under my authority for remedial training until such time as I judge you both competent and responsible enough to practise magic on your own recognisance.’

Patrick Gale was doing a good impression of a stunned kipper, but I could see the cartoon slot machine flicker behind his eyes. Nightingale was offering what the ridiculously rich always crave – a chance to be exclusive.

‘Or else?’ he asked.

Yes please, I thought, let’s have option two.

‘We take steps to prevent you practising again,’ said Nightingale.

Cake or death, I thought – three guesses as to which it will be.

‘What sort of schedule are we talking about?’ asked Patrick Gale. ‘For the training, that is.’



But me and Nightingale didn’t get a chance to follow up on the mysterious Paternoster Society, or even get preliminary intelligence on the list of revellers that Patrick Gale had been pleased to supply, once Nightingale had released his hands long enough to write it down. Because we had to prepare for Operation Strong Tower – the Met’s all-singing, all-dancing terrorist attack exercise. In this we were expected to use our ‘special’ abilities to conjure up some bangs and whistles to keep the response teams on their toes.

‘Frightened, but not too frightened,’ were our instructions.

It did mean, during a refs stop at the Café Rouge on Kingsway, that I got a chance to tackle Nightingale about his sudden bout of, to my mind, inappropriate inclusiveness.

‘So what?’ I said. ‘We keep them happy with a clubhouse and a secret handshake?’

‘Well,’ said Nightingale, ‘I hadn’t thought of a handshake, but if you think it might help . . .’

‘These people are not to be trusted,’ I said.

‘These people?’

‘People with . . .’ I looked over at the poshest person I’ve ever met and tried to think of the right word. ‘Entitlement,’ I said. ‘They’re not good at keeping promises.’

Nightingale paused with a forkful of salmon halfway to his mouth and gave me an amused look.