Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(69)

‘And if this doesn’t work?’

‘Then it’ll be Lesley’s turn to come up with a plan,’ said Nightingale.


We drove back to the Folly, where Nightingale vanished into the magic library, presumably to bone up on his revenant-tracking spells, while I went upstairs to my room and took my uniform out of the cupboard. I had to hunt around for my helmet, and eventually found it under the bed with my silver whistle, absurdly still part of the modern uniform, inside. Since my latest phone hadn’t survived Tyburn’s fountain I retrieved the police-issue Airwave from my desk and slotted in its batteries. As I packed it in my carryall with my uniform jacket I realised that the room still looked like somebody’s spare bedroom, somewhere I was just staying in until something better came along.

I slung the carryall over my shoulder and turned to find Molly watching me from the doorway. She cocked her head to one side.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But we’ll be eating out.’

She frowned.

‘I’m the one who’s going to be out front,’ I said, but it didn’t seem to impress her. ‘He’ll be fine.’

She gave me a last sceptical look before gliding away. By the time I was out of my room she was nowhere to be seen. I went downstairs and waited for Nightingale in the reading room. He emerged half an hour later dressed in his ‘working’ suit and carrying his cane. He asked me whether I was ready, and I said that I was.

It was a beautiful warm spring evening, so rather than take the Jag we strolled down past the British Museum before cutting through Museum Street and into Drury Lane. Even though we’d taken our time we still had hours to spare, so we popped into a curry house near the Theatre Royal, with the promising name of the House of Bengal, for dinner.

As I checked a menu mercifully free of potatoes, thick crust pastry, suet and gravy, I realised why Nightingale liked to eat out so much.

Nightingale had the lamb in wild lemon and I made do with a chicken Madras hot enough to make Nightingale’s eyes water. It was a little on the mild side for me. Indian cooking has no terrors for a boy raised on groundnut chicken and jelof rice. The motto of West African cooking is that if the food doesn’t set fire to the tablecloth the cook is being stingy with the pepper. Actually there’s no such motto – from my mum’s point of view it was simply inconceivable that anybody would want to eat anything that didn’t burn the inside of your mouth out.

We ordered a beer while we waited, and Nightingale asked me how my diplomatic efforts were progressing. ‘Leaving aside your little contretemps with Tyburn.’

I told him about the visit to Oxley’s river and Beverley’s response. I left out the whole wanting-to-jump-in-myself aspect of the visit. I said that I’d thought it had gone well, and had established that there was a mutual connection between the two sides. ‘It’s something we can build on,’ I said.

‘Conflict resolution,’ said Nightingale. ‘Is this what they teach at Hendon these days?’

‘Yes sir,’ I said. ‘But don’t worry, they also teach us how to beat people with phone books and the ten best ways to plant evidence.’

‘It’s good to see the old craft skills are being kept up,’ said Nightingale.

I sipped my beer. ‘Tyburn’s not a big fan of the old ways,’ I said.

‘Peter,’ he said. ‘Of all of Mother Thames’s children you had to pick a fight with Lady Ty.’ He waved his fork. ‘That is why we do not throw magic around until we are trained.’

‘What was I supposed to do?’

‘You could have talked your way out of it,’ he said. ‘What do you think Ty is – a gangster? Did you think she was going to “plug a cap” in your head? She pushed you to see where you’d go and you blew up.’

We ate our curries for a while. He was right – I’d panicked.

‘It’s “popped a cap in my ass”,’ I said. ‘Not plugged – popped.’

‘Ah,’ said Nightingale.

‘You don’t seem that worried about it, sir,’ I said. ‘The Lady Ty business.’

Nightingale finished a mouthful of lamb and said, ‘Peter, we’re about to offer ourselves up as Judas goats to a powerful revenant spirit who’s killed more than ten people that we know of.’ He dug into his rice. ‘I’m not going to worry about Lady Ty until after we’ve lived through that.’

‘If I remember rightly,’ I said, ‘I’m the Judas goat, the “constable” in this scenario. And considering that it’s my backside hanging out in the air, sir, are you sure you can track him?’

‘Nothing is certain, Peter,’ he said. ‘But I’ll do my best.’

‘And if we can’t run him into his grave?’ I asked. ‘Do we have a plan B?’

‘Molly can do haemomancy,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s very impressive.’

I sorted through my slim store of Greek. ‘Divination through the agency of blood?’

Nightingale chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. ‘Perhaps that’s not the best term for it,’ he said. ‘Molly can help you extend your sense of vestigia out some distance.’

‘How far out?’

‘Two to three miles,’ said Nightingale. ‘I only did it the once, so it’s hard to tell.’