From a Drood to A Kill: A Secret Histories Novel Read online

  “Did he know my uncle well?” I said politely.

  “He saved your uncle’s life!” said the Bear. “Didn’t Jack ever tell you about that?”

  He would have said more, but the Sea Goat chose that moment to pick a fight with the Soulhunter called Demonbane, and the Bear had to hurry over to break it up. Molly and I looked at each other. Sometimes there just aren’t any words.

  Representing the Ghost Finders of the Carnacki Institute was the Boss herself, the intimidating Catherine Latimer. Sitting quite calmly on a bar-stool, sipping an old-fashioned cocktail complete with a little parchment parasol. Chatting quite happily with Monkton Farley and Waterloo Lillian.

  Catherine had to be in her late seventies by now, if not more (and some gossip suggested a lot more), but she still gave every indication of being unnaturally strong and vital. She looked like she could rip your head off and spit down your neck if you were dumb enough to offer to help her across a busy street. Medium height, of stocky build, she wore a smartly tailored grey suit, and smoked black Turkish cigarettes in a long ivory holder. She wore her grey hair cropped short in an unflattering bowl cut, and her face was all hard edges and icy-cold eyes.

  Monkton Farley, that renowned consulting detective, shouldn’t really have been at the wake. Given that he was the illegitimate son of Jack’s brother James, and therefore half Drood. But it was hard to keep him away from any gathering where there was a chance for him to show off. I didn’t mind that he solved impossible cases with style and elegance; I just wished he’d stop talking about them. He was dressed in the same old-fashioned outfit he’d worn to the funeral, complete with a starched high collar and immaculate white spats on his shoes. Because he had to make an impression wherever he went. He did look a little bit lost at the Wulfshead without his usual crowd of adoring followers, always ready to listen intently to his latest story and hang on his every word and tell him what a genius he was. Like he didn’t already know that.

  Waterloo Lillian was dressed as a showgirl, looking almost unbearably sexy and glamorous in dark fishnet stockings, a sparkling basque, and a tall feathered headdress. Presumably because he’d come straight from work. And, as he was wont to say, Glamour is my life, darlings. He was currently sipping absinthe from a champagne flute, with his little finger suitably extended.

  Catherine Latimer saw me looking, and left the other two talking together so she could come over and join me and Molly. She was a good foot shorter than me, but I still felt like I should be looking up at her. Even Molly seemed a little unsettled in such overpowering company.

  “I knew your grandmother Martha well, back in the day,” said Catherine. “Girls together, and all that. I watched Jack and James grow up. And your mother, Emily, too, of course, Eddie. Now Martha and James and Jack are gone, and I’m still here. Don’t ask me why. The good die young, perhaps. I shall miss Jack. He did a little work for me, you know, on the quiet. Always ready to help out the Ghost Finders with the odd weapon or device, in an emergency. The family never knew, I take it?”

  “I’m pretty sure not,” I said. “They tend to frown upon such things.”

  “Jack did have a life outside the family,” said Catherine.

  “So I’m finding out,” I said.

  I circulated through the Wulfshead, mingled, made conversation. And the more I heard about Jack, the less I felt I’d ever really understood him. I’d only known him as the Armourer, the old man in his lab coat who hardly ever seemed to leave the Armoury. I’d heard about his earlier career as a field agent, of course, but that had seemed like some other person. More and more, it was becoming clear that I’d known him only at the end of his life, when most of his activities were over. I felt . . . honoured to have shared a few of his last adventures with him. I wished I’d listened to him more, asked more questions when I had the chance.

  And finally, because I could no longer avoid it, I just happened to bump into the Soulhunter called Demonbane. I could feel Molly tense at my side. No one really likes or trusts the Soulhunters; they’re all crazy. But then, if you had to do their job . . . you’d want to be clinically insane too. Everyone else was giving him plenty of room. Demonbane was a scrawny, wild-eyed, almost feral presence who could have been any age. Wearing a pale lavender suit of eccentric cut, with big padded shoulders and no shirt underneath. His gaze was unblinking, and his constant smile actually disturbing. He bounced up and down on his bare feet before me and Molly and cocked his head to one side, the better to observe us.

  “Hello, Eddie! Commiserations on your loss. Let’s just hope he stays dead, eh? Molly, darling! Haven’t seen you since that nasty business with the Notional Man and the Sleeping Tygers of Stepney. What a night that was . . . You know, you promised you’d call me, but you never did. Why not?”

  “Is that a trick question?” said Molly.

  I looked at her. “Another of your dodgy exes? Why am I not surprised?”

  “Because you’ve got a nasty suspicious nature,” said Molly.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m a Drood.” I fixed Demonbane with a thoughtful gaze. “How did you know my uncle Jack?”

  Demonbane grinned. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to nuke the planet from orbit, just to make sure.”

  “That can’t be your real name,” I said. “Demonbane . . .”

  “Of course it isn’t, Shaman. In our game, to know the true name of a thing is to have power over it. And that kind of knowledge in the wrong hands can get you killed. Or worse. So I chose Demonbane as my username. It’s harsh, it’s brutal, it’s . . . me.”

  “But it’s so obvious!” I said. “It’s not exactly original, is it?”

  “It’s still a name you can use to make people wet themselves, in certain circles,” he said complacently. “And some things that aren’t even a little bit people.”

  “You’re showing off now,” I said.

  “This, from a Drood?” said Demonbane. “Ooh! Look at me, wearing my bright shiny armour!” He prodded me hard in the chest with one finger. Still smiling his unwavering and really unsettling smile. “You need the Soulhunters. To do the dirty work your family doesn’t want to soil their precious hands with. And given some of the things you admit to doing, that says a lot . . .”

  “Retrieve your finger,” I said. “Or I’ll tie it in a knot.”

  Molly moved quickly forward, to stand between us. “What are you doing here, Demonbane? You never gave a damn about the Armourer.”

  “The Soulhunters wished to express their regret at his passing,” said Demonbane. “His death means there’s one less of Us. So They are winning.”

  “You’re weird,” said Molly.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Demonbane. “Besides . . . our precogs said one of us needed to be here. Because something’s going to happen. Right here, at the Armourer’s wake.”

  He turned abruptly and walked away. Molly and I watched him go, and then looked at each other.

  “Precogs?” I said. “Since when have the Soulhunters had precogs?”

  “Don’t ask me,” said Molly.

  “Even my family knows better than to depend on visions of the future,” I said.

  “But . . . ,” said Molly.

  “Exactly,” I said. “But . . . this is the Soulhunters we’re talking about. Even my family doesn’t know much about what goes on inside that group. Though given the kind of work they do, it’s probably just as well. I can’t believe anything could happen here, though. Not inside the Wulfshead, with all its famous defences and protections.”

  “Maybe his people just wanted an excuse to get him out of the way for an evening,” said Molly.

  “Now that I’ll buy,” I said.

  Perhaps fortunately, Molly’s sister Isabella called out to us, so we went over to join her and Louisa at the end of the long bar. Isabella was wearing her usual tight blood-red leat
hers, plus a black choker round her throat that positively bristled with pointy steel things. She’d dyed her spiky hair a flaming red to match her leathers. Her face had the same beauty as Molly’s, but in a harsher style. Louisa was wearing a pastel-coloured Laura Ashley outfit, finished off with white plastic stilettos. She was the baby of the family, and her sweetly pretty face looked pleasant enough, until you made the mistake of looking into her eyes. And saw just how deep they went. Louisa was the really dangerous Metcalf sister, and it showed. Her hair was currently peroxide white and fluffed out like a dandelion.

  “We could have made it to the funeral,” said Isabella, “but we thought it more tactful not to.”

  “You thought that,” said Louisa, sipping delicately at her Bacardi Breezer. “I’ve never gotten a handle on this whole tact thing.”

  “Trust me,” said Isabella, “we’ve all noticed.”

  “One Metcalf witch was enough,” said Molly. “To say good-bye.”

  “We can say our good-byes to Jack more properly here,” said Isabella. “Over drinks.”

  “Over many drinks,” said Molly.

  “I want a mouse!” Louisa said loudly.

  “You’ve already had three,” Isabella said crushingly.

  Louisa looked at her sister with big, pleading eyes, until Isabella sighed deeply and produced a small white mouse from out of nowhere. It peered around from Isabella’s hand, twitching its whiskers in a charming sort of way. Louisa made delighted sounds, snatched the mouse away from Isabella, crushed it in her hand, and greedily inhaled its essence. Blood dripped thickly between her fingers. She smiled dazzlingly back at all of us—and when she opened her hand, it was empty.

  “Can’t take you anywhere,” said Isabella.

  “Did the two of you know Jack well?” I said, just a bit desperately.

  Isabella and Louisa smiled. I decided I really didn’t like those smiles.

  “Your uncle Jack got around,” said Isabella. “And not just as a field agent. That man knew how to have a good time. He had his own life, outside your family.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me,” I said. “I’m starting to feel like an underachiever.”

  Molly quickly cut in, launching into some seriously sisterly discussions, about people and places of interest only to them. I took the hint and moved off on my own. If there’s one thing I understand, it’s the importance of family secrets. The club seemed more packed and crowded than ever. There was still no sign anywhere of Charles or Emily. I’d been sure they’d turn up for Jack’s wake, even if they couldn’t show their faces at the funeral.

  While I was looking around, I suddenly spotted a distinguished-looking old gentleman making his way steadily through the crowd towards me. I didn’t recognise him. He was average height, average weight, in a smart city suit, and he looked professionally anonymous. He seemed old enough to have been a contemporary of Jack’s, but a very well-preserved one. His faultless civilised smile was undermined only by his cold eyes, which wanted nothing to do with it. He seemed polite enough, and not obviously dangerous, but I tensed despite myself as he drew nearer. I can always recognise another agent when I see one.

  The old man came to a halt a respectful distance from me and gave me a polite bow. Molly drifted forward to stand beside me. I’d been concentrating so much on the new arrival, I hadn’t even noticed her, but she’d noticed what was happening. The old man inclined his head to Molly, a bow carefully calculated to be polite without being in any way deferential. He turned his attention back to me, and when he finally addressed me his English was the perfect kind you learned only from books; it had no discernible accent.

  “Do I have the honour of addressing the estimable Eddie Drood? And the illustrious Molly Metcalf? Good! Good . . . I am Nicolai Vodyanoi. Retired, ex-KGB, a counterpart of your dear departed uncle Jack. Back during the Cold War. You know my grandsons, I believe?”

  I looked at Molly, and she looked at me. Oh yes, we knew them well enough. Thugs, bully-boys, werewolves. We both smiled politely at Nicolai.

  “We’ve met,” I said. “Most recently at the Lady Faire’s annual do, at Ultima Thule.”

  He shook his old head sadly. “Ah yes. I understand they disgraced themselves . . . ?”

  “You could say that,” I said. “They were asked to leave and had to walk home. Did they get back safely?”

  “Eventually,” said Nicolai. “Such boisterous boys!”

  “Boisterous . . . ,” I said. “Yes.”

  “We were always bumping into each other, Jack and I,” Nicolai said carefully. “In this city, or that. In this country, or that. Some of which don’t even exist any more . . . In secret science cities, or hidden underground bunkers, usually trying to kill each other as we fought it out for the same prize. For what seemed like perfectly good reasons at the time.”

  Molly and I looked at each other and shared a smile.

  “We’ve been there,” I said. “Molly and I were often at each other’s throats when we weren’t fighting back to back.”

  “The good old days,” said Molly. “Before we settled down and got civilised.”

  “Well, almost,” I said.

  I returned my attention to Nicolai, who was waiting patiently. I gave him my best meaningless smile. “So, you and Jack knew each other during the Cold War. Did you know his brother James as well?”

  “Oh yes!” he said immediately. Glad to be back on familiar ground. “I knew the Grey Fox. Everyone did, in our line of work. One way or another. James had the reputation, but Jack did good work too. Getting things done in his own quiet way.”

  He reached inside his jacket, with a heavily wrinkled but still very steady hand, and I tensed for a moment until he brought out a battered leather wallet, from which he produced an old black and white photo. He handed it to me, and I held it carefully so Molly could see it too. The photo showed a much younger Nicolai and Jack, standing side by side in tuxedos, at some glittering ambassadorial ball. They were both smiling for the camera, but their body language suggested a wary and even watchful feel, as though they’d been brought together only by circumstance, in roles that they were required to play in public. They both looked as though they might draw a weapon at any moment. And they both looked so young, and in their prime, with that indefinable glamour so many secret agents had, back in the day, almost despite themselves. When the sides were clear, everybody’s reasons were clear-cut, and everyone knew what they were doing, and why.

  “This is from the Sixties?” I said to Nicolai. “Thought so . . . I have to say, you don’t look nearly old enough for this to be you . . .”

  “State secret,” he said smoothly, smiling fondly at the old image of himself. “We still have a few left in my country.”

  “Who’s that?” Molly said suddenly, pointing at a figure standing behind the young Jack and Nicolai. “I feel I should know him . . .”

  Nicolai studied the image carefully. “Yes . . . I remember him! Something of a mystery man, as I recall. Such an unusual name . . . Deathstalker.” He saw me and Molly react, and raised an eyebrow. “You know this man?”

  “I know the name,” I said.

  “So,” said Nicolai, taking the photo back from me and slipping it carefully back into the wallet before making it disappear inside his jacket again. “I heard about Jack’s wake through the usual unusual channels, so I knew I had to be here. They tell me he died at his work. It’s what he would have wanted.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” I said. “He wanted to live forever. He was working on something in that line, but . . .”

  “He ran out of time,” said Nicolai. “Yes. It comes to us all, in the end.”

  * * *

  The evening wore on. Many drinks were drunk, many songs were sung, and a great many toasts were made. Men made passes at women holding glasses. Isabella backed Monkton Farley up against a wall. The general mood
became emotional, even wistful, as people looked back on their pasts and found they went back further than they realised. Dead Boy and Waterloo Lillian slow-danced together to an old Frank Sinatra song. The Sea Goat cut in, and Dead Boy stepped politely back. Julien Advent and Catherine Latimer sat side by side at the bar, so deep in conversation that no one dared interrupt them. A few people tried to listen in, but were driven away by two sets of very cold eyes. Demonbane had taken up a position behind the bar, preparing very complicated, very dangerous, and very popular concoctions. Sometimes the stigmata in his palms would drip blood into the drinks he was preparing, but that didn’t seem to bother anyone. It was, after all, a very cosmopolitan crowd.

  People told increasingly indelicate stories about Jack Drood, from his days in the field right up to the present day. I think most of us would have been shocked at what emerged if we hadn’t all been laughing so hard. Nicolai drank neat vodka and smiled and nodded a lot, but it wasn’t until I asked him point-blank for his memories of Jack that he smiled and shrugged and looked at me thoughtfully.

  “Did you know about Jack’s little fling with the Lady Faire?”

  “You mean James,” I said.

  “No, I don’t,” said Nicolai. “She had both of them! Though not at the same time. As far as I know . . .”

  “And let us not forget Jason Royal, back in the Seventies,” said Sir Perryvale. “That most debonair of spies . . . There was a lot of talk, you know, as to whether James or Jack was really his father. James took the credit; but then, he always did. Does anyone here know what Jason’s up to these days?”

  “Last I heard, he was retired,” said Catherine Latimer. “Living in San Francisco.”