Heathen/Nemesis

Fifty-Three

‘She must die.’

The voice floated through the air like smoke, the words almost visible in the heavy atmosphere.

‘Not yet,’ another said. ‘Not until we have the book.’

The room was large, the walls oak-panelled on two sides. The other two were dark brick. Paintings hung on them, large canvases in gilt frames. The room was lit by a number of small reading lamps, none powered by anything stronger than a sixty-watt bulb. It gave the room an artificially cosy feel, which was added to by the open fireplace and the array of expensive leather furniture that dotted the floor, spread out on thick carpet as dark as wet concrete.

The air was thick with cigarette and cigar smoke; a number of the twelve men seated there puffed away quite happily while they talked. They sat at different places in the room, most of them also with drinks cradled in their hands.

The house in Conduit Street was just two minutes walk from Berkeley Square in one direction and, in the other, the bustling thoroughfare that was Regent Street. The house and the room within were like a peaceful island in the sea of activity that constituted the centre of London.

The room was on the second floor of the three-storey building, its curtains drawn, its inhabitants hidden from those below. Windows like blind eyes reflected the lights of passing cars.

One of the men in the room got to his feet and crossed to a well-stocked drinks cabinet, refilling his glass, offering the same service to his colleagues.

They had been drinking for the best part of an hour but none were drunk. Even so, large quantities of brandy and gin were consumed as the men talked.

There was a large table in the centre of the room, made of dark polished wood. Two men sat at its head, their faces reflected in the gleaming surface. As the first of them drank, the gold ring on his left index finger clinked against the crystal.

‘What if Connelly was lying?’ said the one seated next to him. ‘What if the woman doesn’t know where the book is?’

‘She knows,’ the other said with an air of certainty. ‘She was at Rathfarnham, wasn’t she? She went to the lodge at Mountpelier.’

‘I want to know why she wasn’t stopped there,’ an angry voice from the other side of the room interrupted him.

‘Those responsible for the mistake have been dealt with,’ another said. ‘Besides, we can’t kill her until she’s led us to the book or at least told us where we can find it.’

‘If Ward did tell her about it then she might go to the police,’ a third voice said.

‘Let her,’ chuckled another. Several others joined in the laughter.

One of the men at the head of the table brought his hand down hard on the table-top and the sound ceased.

‘Enough of this. We need the book and we need it quickly. There isn’t much time left.’

‘We’ll get it,’ said another man, approaching the table. ‘We’ll get her and the book.’

The other occupants of the room gradually moved across to the table, each of them taking a seat around it.

‘It must be in our hands within seven days,’ one of the men wearing the gold rings insisted angrily.

‘It will be.’

There was a note of certainty in Peter Farrell’s voice.

‘I hope for your sake that it is, Farrell. I hope for all our sakes it is.’

‘What if she uses the book the way Ward was going to?’ another voice added with concern. ‘If she knew about the book, he may have told her about the contents, too.’

Farrell waved a hand dismissively.

‘She’s being followed now. There are two men on her. They’ll find the book. They’ll make her tell them where it is. And then they’ll kill her. End of story.’

‘What if they fail?’ a worried voice interjected.

‘They won’t,’ Farrell snapped irritably.

‘You said that about the men who went to her house to search. They failed. Perhaps we underestimated her.’

‘She’s a woman,’ Farrell chuckled. ‘Just a woman.’

A chorus of laughter greeted his remark.

‘So, we are agreed,’ said one of the men at the head of the table. ‘Once she tells us where the book is or she leads us to it, she dies.’ He looked around at his companions. ‘Yes?’ He looked at each man in turn and waited for their compliance.

They nodded slowly, solemnly, like a jury passing sentence.

Farrell merely smiled.

‘Perhaps we should have brought her here,’ said one of the men. ‘Let her enjoy our company for an evening.’

There was more laughter.

One of the men at the head of the table rose, his glass in his hand, the gold of his ring clinking against the crystal.

‘A toast,’ he said grandly.

‘To the Death of God, the destruction of morality and to The Sons of Midnight.’

Francis Dashwood spoke the words with a grin on his wrinkled features.

Beside him, Richard Parsons echoed the toast, and so did the other men in the room.

‘To The Sons of Midnight.’