Ghosts of Empire Read online

  He crossed the room and clicked the wireless on, but the weather was interfering with the signal, and try as he might, the only sound he could extract from the thing was a burr of static, which only added to his agitation, his sense of sudden isolation. Mostly, he adored living out here, away from the mad rush of the city, from the filth and the bickering and the lolloping ground trains that rolled through the streets, threatening to crush everything in their path. He supposed that was probably a metaphor of some kind, but he was too on edge to find any humor in it.

  He imagined the state of his garden once the storm had blown over. It would take him days to put everything back in order—not least to work out what he was going to do, now that the avatar had gone. What if it didn’t return? What if it did? Perhaps he’d been a trifle naïve. He should have considered all of these possibilities. He should have planned.

  Horwood flicked off the wireless and returned to the window. There was still no sign of it, out there in the storm. It had been, what, three hours? Maybe more. He hadn’t seen it leave, but he’d found the evidence of its passing when he went outside to check on it—the torn branches and scattered leaves, the strange impressions in the mud, the cavernous hollow where it had stood.

  A sudden gust caused raindrops to drum loudly against the pane, only inches from his face, and he leapt back, nearly losing the glasses from the end of his nose. He pushed them back into place with his index finger, then smoothed his shirtfront in embarrassment, despite the fact he was alone.

  With a sigh, his heart hammering from the sudden shock, he crossed the room and dropped heavily into his armchair by the fire. The logs he’d piled in the grate earlier that afternoon were still a little damp, and they smoldered and crackled as he warmed himself. He knew there was nothing he could do. Worse, though, he felt he had a sense of what was coming, of what would be needed in the days to come, and through his carelessness, he’d jeopardized it all. He thought he might have played a part in it, somehow, found a way to protect the things he held dear, but now he was left wondering whether everything he’d done had been for nothing.

  He picked up his empty wine glass. He supposed there was always the rest of the bottle. He’d regret it in the morning, but for now, it might help. He sloshed another large measure into the glass, and then drained it, gulping it down, willing it to do its work. It warmed the back of his throat, almost causing him to splutter.

  The billowing wind brought another dash of rain against the window. He looked round, craning his neck, but there was nothing to see. This time, he would force himself to stay where he was, to put it out of mind.

  If it hadn’t returned by the morning, then he’d have to start checking the newspaper reports, maybe take a trip into the city.

  He heard the rustle of movement, of feet stirring gravel, and lurched to his feet, upending his wine glass over his trousers. He ignored it, allowing the glass to roll away across the carpet, leaving a stain on the cream pile as stark and uncoordinated as spilled blood.

  He returned once more to the window, cupping his hands against the reflection of the gas lamps, pressing his nose up against the cold glass.

  There! Something moved. He frowned, squinting, trying to make it out.

  There was a thud against the glass beside his head, and, slowly, he stepped back. It was a hand, formed from knotted growths of willow branch and ivy, its fingers splayed. Slowly, it slid away, and he watched it go, listening to the howl of the wind. It was followed by a loud crunch, as something heavy thudded to the gravel, and he knew at once that it was back, and in need of him.

  Horwood glanced around, looking for his coat, but he must have left it upstairs, or in the back room, and there wasn’t time to go searching for it. He stumbled to the front door, sliding the chain from the catch and pulling it open. The wind whipped the rain up into his face, causing him to splutter as he staggered out. After the cosy glow of the fire, the chill air caused his teeth to chatter, and he hugged himself as he ran across the driveway, kicking up stones with every footfall.

  It was there, lying on the ground like so much damp kindling. It had slumped onto its side, its face buried in the crook of its arm, and it was unmoving.

  Huge chunks had been taken out of its torso, and its thigh, and its other arm was missing from the elbow down. As Horwood got closer, dropping to his knees before it, he could see where the vines were trying unsuccessfully to knit themselves back together, to maintain their form.

  “Oh no, oh no,” he muttered, as he ran his hands over its flank, feeling the twigs respond, the ivy curling around his fingers. “What have you done?”

  The avatar stirred, emitting a sorrowful sound reminiscent of a deep, plaintive sigh.

  Shaking his head, Horwood got to his feet, wiping the rain from his eyes. “There’s still time,” he said. “Hold on. I know what we have to do.”

  FOUR

  At this time of night, London seemed utterly forlorn, and yet utterly spellbinding, too.

  It was dissimilar to New York; not simply in the crazed, organic layout of its streets, or the ornate splendor of its buildings, but in its texture, too, in the way it felt, and smelled. It was as if Gabriel could feel the weight of history bearing down upon him, reminding him of his own insignificance. He knew most people wouldn’t understand, but for him, a man who’d spent so long soaring above the rooftops of Manhattan, memorizing every nook and cranny, London was like some strange, archaic puzzle he was yet to fully understand. Its heart beat to a different rhythm.

  He leaned forward in his seat, watching the city flit by as the car hissed down the ancient streets, crooked like gnarled fingers. Rain lashed the windscreen, making it difficult to discern anything beyond a few yards ahead. Everything seemed muted and softened, and even the streetlamps seemed to have difficulty puncturing the shadowy mantle that had settled over the city. The taillights of the van in front were their only beacons, guiding them on. Toward what, Gabriel could not be certain.

  The taxi driver was a short, muscular man in a waistcoat and cap, with tattoos spiraling up his forearms and a burr of unshaven growth over his lower face. When he noticed Gabriel looking, he turned and smiled, and Gabriel noticed his two front teeth were missing.

  “So, what’s your game, then? It’s a miserable night to be chasing after people in an unmarked van.” His missing teeth gave him a pronounced lisp.

  “It’s a friend,” said Gabriel, in as non-committal a tone as he could muster. He’d hailed the taxi outside the hospital just moments after he’d witnessed the three suspicious figures—the woman and two men—bundling Rutherford’s unconscious form into the back of the van, and he’d given the driver directions to follow behind it at a safe distance.

  The driver nodded and turned his attention back to the road. The spray from the van was reducing visibility even further, and they were forced to hang back, allowing the van to pull ahead of them a short way.

  “Don’t lose them,” said Gabriel. He was beginning to wish he’d brought his full rocket boosters with him. It would have been a simple matter to follow the van from overhead, even taking into account the torrential weather. Although, he supposed, walking around with two fuel canisters strapped to his calves wasn’t entirely in keeping with the dress code at the Savoy.

  He reached inside his jacket and his fingers brushed reassuringly against the butt of his modified Luger. At least he’d had the foresight to bring that with him from the hotel—along with a handful of other concealed tools of his trade. He had a sense he might yet have need of them.

  “Right-o,” said the driver, a moment later. Gabriel felt the car slow as the driver eased the brakes on, and they sloshed through a puddle of standing water to draw up to the curb. He kept the windscreen wipers going, ticking across the screen like a metronome, so that Gabriel could peer out at the scene unfolding ahead of them.

  The van had come to a stop outside a three-story house. It was an old, well maintained building on the end of a terrace, the brickwork pain
ted in stark white, with a set of stone steps leading up to the front door, and what appeared to be an iron staircase around the side, presumably leading down to a basement. He guessed the house must have been at least a century old, probably more.

  “Where are we?”

  “Bloomsbury,” said the driver. “Close to Russell Square.”

  Gabriel nodded, and leaned forward, trying to make out what was going on outside. The woman had already left the van and was rapping on the front door of the house, while the two men were unloading the prone Rutherford from the rear of the vehicle.

  Rutherford still appeared to be unconscious, and the men were staggering under the burden. Gabriel only hoped that his friend wasn’t already a literal dead weight—that they hadn’t allowed him to die in transit, or worse, finished him off with a quick bullet to the head. He supposed they’d be unlikely to go to all of this trouble if he were dead; more likely they were keeping him alive in the hope of extracting information from him. That gave Gabriel hope that he’d be able to intervene in time, and try to get Rutherford to safety.

  Of course, he had no idea what Rutherford had gotten himself mixed up in—only that the man had proved a stalwart ally back in New York the previous year, and that Gabriel felt a certain sort of kinship with him, after fighting elbow-to-elbow against a common foe. He owed it to Rutherford to do whatever he could to help.

  He returned his attention to the house. Someone had answered the door—an elderly butler or valet—and was now hurriedly waving the men to the side entrance, while stepping aside to allow the woman to enter via the front door.

  Gabriel watched the two men stagger down the iron staircase, their faces creased with strain, their hair plastered to their scalps by the incessant rain. There was little to distinguish them—they both wore formless black suits and dark woollen overcoats; outfits designed, Gabriel knew, to blend in easily in a crowd. These were men who were used to moving unseen amongst the multitude.

  They reached the bottom of the steps. Rutherford’s arms flopped uselessly by his sides, blood mingling with rainwater, running down his sleeves and dribbling from his fingertips. A moment later the men disappeared from view.

  The front door had closed behind the woman, and suddenly the street was deserted once again. The house might just have been any other in the quiet square, its inhabitants taking shelter from the inclement weather.

  Gabriel sat for a moment, contemplating his next move. Everything was still, silent, save for the drumming of the rain on the roof of the cab. The driver gave a polite cough. Gabriel could sense him fidgeting nervously in his seat. He wondered what the man thought about the scene that had just unfolded before them.

  “So, you getting out here, guv, or you want me to take you back to your hotel or something?”

  Gabriel fished in his pocket for some coins. He examined them for a moment in his palm, and then shrugged and handed them over to the driver. He still had no idea what the strange denominations meant. “Forget you ever saw me,” he said. “Forget you saw any of it.”

  The man looked at the heap of coins in his cupped hands. “Whatever you say. I’ve not seen nothing.”

  Gabriel opened the door and stepped out into the torrential downpour. The raindrops stung his face, and within seconds they were already trickling down the back of his neck, soaking into his collar. Beside him, the car engine coughed, and then the cab reversed, swinging into a side street, before turning and sloshing away into the night.

  Without the steady beams of the car headlamps, the square took on a rather more sinister aspect, and all of a sudden Gabriel felt cold, tired, and homesick. He’d brought Ginny here to recuperate from their recent troubles in New York, and Donovan to get him away from the clutches of a gang lord known as the Reaper, but suddenly they seemed like distant problems, half a world away.

  Right here, now, he was facing a choice. He could still turn and walk away; jump in another cab and be back at the hotel within half an hour, curled up with Ginny, pretending like none of this had ever happened. Did he really want to get embroiled in whatever was going on here between the British Secret Service and whoever had taken Rutherford inside that house? Did Ginny and Donovan deserve that?

  He knew they didn’t, but also that there was never really any choice. He couldn’t walk away and leave Rutherford to die, no matter the circumstances, or the odds. If there was a chance to save him, Gabriel had to take it.

  He decided the direct approach would be best. Turning his coat collar up, he hurried across the road, splashing through the runnels of surface water that were threatening to merge into a stream.

  He took the steps two at a time, and then huddled in the small open porch, brushing the rainwater from his shoulders. He thumped on the front door with the edge of his fist and stood back, his shoulders hunched against the rain.

  He heard footsteps from the other side—the click-clack of heels on a tiled floor—and then a key was turned in the lock, and the door opened inward to reveal the butler he’d seen earlier.

  He was a thin, aged man, probably in his eighties, with a balding pate that still clung resolutely to a few neat wisps of white hair, which he’d swept back from his temples and tucked behind his ears. He had leathery, liver-spotted hands, and his lips were thin and pale. His eyes, however, were bright and alert, and he narrowed them, peering suspiciously down the length of his Napoleonic nose. “Yes?” he drawled.

  “Oh, hey, sorry to bother you. Miserable night, isn’t it? I don’t know how you guys put up with it.”

  The butler glowered at Gabriel, but said nothing.

  “Look, thing is, my car’s broken down around the corner, and I’m stuck out here in the rain. I know it’s a liberty, but I saw your lights were on, and wondered if I could make a call? I just need to speak to my hotel, see if they can’t sort something out.” Gabriel offered his best charming grin.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s rather inconvenient at the moment. Perhaps if you were to prevail on Mr. Laughton, next door?” The butler began to close the door. Hurriedly, Gabriel shoved his foot in the way.

  “Now, look here, what’s a chap to do? I’ll pay, if that’s what you want?” He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. The butler made a sour expression, as if Gabriel had made some kind of vulgar faux pas.

  “That really won’t be necessary, sir. I’m sure Mr. Laughton will be only too glad t—” He stopped suddenly at the sound of a man screaming from deep within the bowels of the house.

  So Rutherford was still alive, and being tortured, by the sound of things.

  The butler coughed. He looked sheepish.

  Gabriel leaned forward over the doorjamb, trying to get a look into the house. The décor was elegant, if a little shabby. There was nothing to suggest it wasn’t an ordinary residence in a well-to-do area of town; nothing, that was, apart from the screaming. “Is everything alright? Look, if I can help in any way…”

  The butler stiffened. “It’s just the hounds, sir. They probably sense the presence of a stranger, and are growing uneasy.” He started to close the door, pushing Gabriel back. “Now if you’d kindly excuse me, I should attend to them. Mr. Laughton will be more than forthcoming, I’m sure.”

  Gabriel considered his options. He could easily overpower the butler and force his way inside, but in doing so he’d undoubtedly raise the alarm and bring the others running. Far better that he allow the man to think his ploy had been successful, to back away and then see if he could enter the house via the side entrance, down below.

  “Alright, alright!” said Gabriel, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “A guy can tell when he’s not wanted. Sorry to have troubled you. Thanks for nothing.”

  He stepped back, and saw the evident relief on the butler’s face as the man hurriedly closed the door. He heard the chain slide across the lock, and then footsteps disappearing down the hall.

  The rain brushed the back of his neck like icy fingers.

  So, his supposition had bee
n right. They’d brought Rutherford here in an effort to extract information. Well, he’d have to see what he could do about that.

  Gabriel backed away from the house and down the steps, and then, with a quick glance up at the windows to ensure he wasn’t being observed, slipped around the side of the house and down the iron stairwell. The metal was cold to the touch, and slick with rainwater, which was pooling in the small lobby area below.

  He splashed down before the door, drew his gun, and listened.

  He couldn’t hear anything on the other side of the door. Cautiously, he tried the handle. It was unlocked, but secured by a bolt on the other side. He’d either have to risk putting his fist through one of the small glass panes, or give the door an almighty shove to try to force the bolt away from the frame.

  Neither option was particularly appealing. As the Ghost he might have kicked the door aside and gone in weapons blazing, but as Gabriel, he was ill-prepared for a fight. He’d have to choose his moment carefully.

  He took a sodden handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the butt of his gun, weighing it in his hand. Then, pressing his ear up against the door, he waited, arm raised, until he heard Rutherford issue another scream, and then tapped sharply at the glass, careful to coincide the noise of the shattering pane with the cries from inside.

  The resultant hole was just large enough for him to get his hand through.

  Hurriedly, he reached in, wincing as the jagged glass nicked his wrist, and fumbled for the bolt, sliding it free.

  The door yawned open.

  Inside, it was dark, the only illumination coming from a narrow, tiled passage that appeared to lead deeper beneath the main house. There was clearly an extensive basement level here, which Gabriel assumed shared the same considerable footprint as the house above.

  He slipped inside, closing the door carefully behind him while avoiding the fragments of broken glass on the floor.