Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(47)

Erasmus Wolfe wrote extensively about genii locorum in his ground-breaking and – at two thousand pages – wrist-breaking Exotica. He theorised that there was an upper limit to the size and power of an individual genius loci and, unlike many of his contemporaries, he provided some facts and figures to back himself up.

None of the really huge rivers of Europe – the Volga, the Danube or the Rhine – appeared to possess a single tutelary deity. Instead there were Rhine Maidens, plural, a French and a German Mosel, and at least ten recorded gods and goddesses of the Don.

And surely, Erasmus wrote, had the long length of the Volga possessed a single guiding spirit with loyalty to the people on its banks, Napoleon’s invasion of Russia would have foundered before it began.

Or the Mississippi when the foreign invaders tooled up there, I thought, or the Congo, or the Limpopo or the Ganges or the Amazon.

That is, if you assume a power so wide in scope would even be remotely human in conception or thought. But, relatively small as they were, I wouldn’t go up against either of the Thameses. And we already knew what happened to the last person who took a shot at Lady Ty.

Then there were the ghosts, or echoes or possibly past avatars, of genii locorum who possessed a strange half-life in the magical memory of the city.

Suddenly I had a cunning plan, but I’ve had too many of those in the past not to run this one past Nightingale first.

I found him in the mundane library working on a lesson plan for Abigail. He had Bassinger’s First Steps in Effective Combinations open in front of him and was taking notes.

I know for a fact that Nightingale thinks my training has been a bit rough-and-ready. And he seems determined that, between him and Varvara, our Abigail was going to get a more thorough grounding in the basics. To do this, both her teachers were going to have to up their own basics – so I had every intention of copying Abigail’s notes.

‘We need the real story on Punch,’ I said.

‘Agreed,’ said Nightingale, putting his pen down. ‘Are you thinking of asking Father Thames?’

‘I think we might end up paying more than we can afford,’ I said. ‘Oxley warned me there’s always a price.’

‘His sons are not going to speak on this without his permission,’ said Nightingale.

Not even Ash, who could generally be induced to do just about anything for a pony and a couple of free drinks.

‘I was thinking of closer to home.’

‘Mama Thames’s daughters are too young, surely?’ said Nightingale.

‘But they have long memories,’ I said.

Nightingale nodded.

‘You’re going to pursue Sir William.’

‘Who claims to have been around before the Romans,’ I said. ‘Which makes him the god on the spot.’

‘He only seems to appear when you’re in extremis,’ said Nightingale.

The first time while I was buried underground, and later when Martin Chorley launched his abortive attack on Lady Ty.

‘I think the trick is to alter your state of consciousness,’ I said.

Nightingale frowned.

‘I hope absinthe isn’t going to play a role in this,’ he said. Apparently some of the younger, more bohemian, wizards of Nightingale’s youth had tried that. ‘And sweat lodges and . . .’ He paused to search his memory. ‘Peyote.’

‘Did any of it work?’

‘I’m not sure they were entirely serious. Although I couldn’t fault them for diligence.’

David Mellenby, Nightingale’s friend and go-to guy for what passed for empiricism at the Folly, hadn’t thought much of these ‘experiments’.

‘And in any case I’m not authorising any operation involving hallucinogens without permission from Dr Walid first.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘What I’m proposing is going to involve some elbow grease, a bit of ritual humiliation, about four litres of bleach, one of Hugh’s staffs, and the best possible bottle of wine you can prise out of Molly.’



The River Tyburn, which we must never call a repurposed storm drain if we mean to carry on walking around on two legs, splits into two branches downstream of Buckingham Palace. The northern branch flows to either side of the Palace of Westminster, marking the ancient outline of Thorney Island. The southern branch outflows just upstream of Vauxhall Bridge. Upstream the Tyburn can be pretty narrow and, let’s face it, encrusted, so I wanted somewhere downstream where it’s wider. The problem is if you start poking about underground near the Houses of Parliament armed guys from CTC turn up to ask you questions. This is because Counter Terrorism Command has an institutional memory that goes all the way back to Guy Fawkes.

Fortunately on the southern branch, once known as the Tachbrook, there’s easy access through the manholes on Tachbrook Road. Right next to the Tachbrook Estate. Because Lady Ty may be underground, but she makes her presence felt.

So I drove down to Tachbrook with a ton of gear in the back, including my heavy-duty waders, filter mask, goggles, four litres of bleach, a plaque that I’d had made up against just this sort of need, a variety of cordless DIY tools, a bottle of 1964 Romanee Conti Grand Cru burgundy and the one present that I knew would really get her attention.

I met my Thames Water contact, Allison Conte, on the corner of Tachbrook and Churton Street, because you don’t go in the sewers without asking Thames Water first, and even then they weren’t happy about me going down alone.