The Revolutions Page 4

  In fact, the winter would have been entirely blissful, and quite dream-like, if not for one fly in the ointment; the usual: money.

  Several of Josephine’s clients, being highly strung types, had fled London after the storm. Meanwhile, the Mammoth had gone silent. A lightning-struck warehouse and flooded printing press had put it out of commission. It hadn’t paid Arthur in a month; then two months; then three.

  * * *

  “I should acquaint you,” Arthur said, “with the system of my debts.”

  Josephine frowned. “You have a system?”

  “One may regret the necessity but be proud of the engineering. First the Mammoth—a notoriously forgetful beast—pays me late. A tradition of long standing, but my landlord and the grocer, not being literary folk, don’t see the charm of it; so to pay them I borrow from Borel, or from Waugh—who has a good inheritance, and, besides, will one day be a doctor. To pay Waugh and Borel I borrow from Uncle George—who is something of a big man in publishing and makes a very good living off comic stories about chaps messing about in boats, and is forgiving of debts, but only up to a point. And so in extremis I borrow from my foster-father in Edinburgh to pay George. The old man is not forgiving. It is for God to forgive, he says, as if that were the most baffling and ineffable of all His attributes. And then because of the money I send to Edinburgh, the rent is late. And so on.”

  “A well-oiled mechanism.”

  “Except that the storm has played hob with it. Sand in the gears. Old Borel has windows to mend, and George has a roof to mend, and Waugh—same boat, Waugh says, same bloody boat, old chap. And I wonder if the Mammoth hasn’t absconded entirely.”

  He didn’t mention that he had received that morning a letter from his foster-father, expressing disappointment at Arthur’s impecuniousness and fecklessness, and scolding him for his refusal to apply himself to any manly profession. The old man himself had lost a £500 investment in the Annapolis, wrecked in harbour at St. Katharine’s, and expected no pity for this, but nor did he plan to throw good money after bad. He said that it was madness for Arthur to think of marriage, his prospects being so utterly, disgracefully bleak.

  “Well, then,” Josephine said, taking his arm. “We shall simply have to find a new system.”

  * * *

  At the end of March, Arthur went to pay one last visit to the Mammoth’s offices. He found the door locked and the windows shuttered. Nobody answered his knocking. Nobody had answered his letters for weeks. He pried open the letter-box and shouted into the void.

  It was drizzling, and he still had no umbrella. He stumbled for refuge into the closest pub, the Moon & Star. Inside it was empty and dark, low-ceilinged. There was a terrible reek of stale tobacco. The man at the bar nodded to him in vague recognition. Arthur couldn’t remember his name—big fellow, bald, Tom or John or something of the sort. No doubt Arthur was the last of the Mammoth folk who would ever enter the man’s establishment. The storm had been a bad business all round, and it kept getting worse.

  They shared a gloomy drink. There was an old newspaper on the bar, and Arthur pored in silence over the employment advertisements—God, could he contemplate teaching? Would Josephine be a teacher’s wife, out in the country? The thought of a roomful of schoolboys made him order another drink.

  “Impossible,” he said.

  “Hmm?”

  “Oh—nothing.”

  “As you like, sir.”

  He pushed the newspaper away. The landlord picked it up.

  A story about the late Duke’s funeral caught the landlord’s attention. A photograph showed the stately procession: the long thin coffin on the great black gun-carriage, the cavalry in their snow-white plumes, and Her Majesty’s black and windowless coach.

  “Empty, of course.” The landlord pointed with a stubby finger at the coffin.

  “Empty?”

  “You haven’t heard? Being a journalist, sir, I would have thought you’d have heard. Everyone says—there was a few fellows in here saying it just the other day; said they heard it from His Lordship’s own servant—there never was a body, sir. He burned, poor sod.”

  “Burned?”

  “Oh, it happens, sir! It happens more than you’d think. Spontaneous combustion, they call it. Sometimes a fellow’s just minding his own business and whoosh, or he takes a lady’s hand or puts on his hat too fast, and up in flames he goes. It’s been proved by science. Could happen to any of us, just like that, one day—who knows. Like lightning, if you get my meaning, sir.”

  “Whoosh. Well. Certainly a theory.”

  “They say”—the landlord warmed to his theme—“it happens more often these days. Sunspots, or the influence of the stars—”

  Bells interrupted. It was five o’clock, and Arthur had an appointment. “God,” he said. “Sorry. Stars, eh? Must run.” He drained his drink and hurried out into the rain.

  THE

  SECOND

  DEGREE

  {The Modern Age}

  Chapter Four

  Josephine stepped out of her office into the rain. She opened her umbrella, checked her watch, and sighed. Mr Borel nodded to her through the shop window and she waved to him. She stretched; she’d been typing all day and had a half-dozen little aches to show for it. Then she hurried to catch the bus across town, to an address on Blythe Street, in Kensington, a large and handsome house with lilies in the window. By the time she arrived, the rain had stopped but the sky was darkening. Arthur was there, waiting in the street for her, red-faced and a little short of breath, as if he’d run all the way. She took his arm and he took her umbrella. He smelled of beer and bad news. She gave him a look.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Nothing?”

  He sighed. “Dead as a dinosaur.”

  “Oh. What awful luck.”

  “Left in the lurch, rather. Perhaps your wizard friends can help.”

  “Please don’t call them that; they take themselves awfully seriously.”

  She rang the doorbell.

  A servant opened the door. Behind him stood Mrs Sedgley, in a white mutton-sleeved dress and a necklace of gold and pearls. There was the sound of a young woman singing something vaguely Celtic somewhere inside.

  Mrs Sedgley peered myopically out into the night before putting her glasses on. “Oh, good! There you are, Josephine.”

  “Good evening, Matron. This is—”

  “Arthur Shaw,” he said, bowing.

  He was rather looking forward to making Mrs Sedgley’s acquaintance. He’d never given much thought to this sort of thing before he met Josephine. A whole new world. Just what he needed.

  “Hmm. Yes. The writer. I see. Well, come in, come in, Mr Shaw; the meeting is almost ready to begin.”

  They entered the premises of the Ordo V.V. 341. Arthur paused to say good evening to a very handsome grey cat asleep on a side-table in the hall. Mrs Sedgley said that his name was Gautama, or George, if Arthur preferred.

  * * *

  The Ordo V.V. 341, though it pretended to a certain immemorial tradition, had in fact been founded not very many years ago by the late Mr Sedgley and a few friends, all of whom had previously been members of Mr Mathers and Mr Westcott’s Temple of Isis-Urania. The V.V. 341 had broken away from its parent order after a row, which—depending on whom one listened to—was either about Mr Sedgley’s scandalous discovery that the Hidden Secret Chiefs of the Temple were merely a fraud, or about an unpaid £200 loan. In any case, it involved doctrinal schism, threats of litigation, and several months of open magical warfare, during which Mr Mathers and Mr Sedgley wrote half a dozen letters each to the Occult Review and the Proceedings of the Theosophical Society describing the terrible forces they’d been forced to invoke, the unspeakable curses they’d performed. It ended with both magicians declaring themselves the victor. The Temple went on to become one of London’s most fashionable spiritual fraternities, with an illustrious membership and successful satellite temples in Paris, Edinburgh, and Bradford
; while Mr Sedgley went on to considerable success as a barrister before dying of a heart attack, leaving the care of the V.V. 341 to his widow.

  This was the Order’s first meeting since the storm. They met in a room at the back of Mrs Sedgley’s house: large and comfortable, lined with bookshelves, and thick with the scents of coffee and liqueurs and cigarettes, perfume and incense and paraffin lamps. Ornamental columns in the corners were decorated with fat plaster putti, and the paintings on the wall displayed beautiful and gauzily-dressed nymphs. An imposing oak table dominated the centre of the room; Mrs Sedgley explained to Arthur that her late husband had acquired it at auction, and that it was of prehistoric druidic origin.

  “Druids,” he agreed. “By God.”

  He circled the room, shaking hands. Mr Innes (the Hegemon) seemed to have taken a liking to him. They discovered a shared fondness for Sherlock Holmes, and decided to treat it as if it were a remarkable and significant coincidence.

  Josephine sat down near the window and took out her shorthand pad.

  MEMBERS PRESENT:

  Mrs Esther Sedgley (Matron V.V. 341)

  Mr James Innes, Esq. (Hegemon V.V. 300)

  Mr Mortimer Frayn (Officer)

  Mr John Hare, Esq. (Officer)

  Mrs Lottie Hare (Officer)

  Miss Florence Shale (Probationer)

  Miss Roberta Blaylock (Student)

  Mr T. R. Compton, Esq. (Student)

  Mr Henry Park, Esq. (Treasurer)

  Dr A. D. Varley (Adeptus Major)

  Mrs A. D. Varley (Adeptus Minor)

  Mr Martin Atwood (Guest)

  Mr Ranjit Chatterji (Guest)

  Miss Eliza Hedges (Guest)

  Mr Llywelyn ap Hywel (Guest)

  Mr Arthur Archibald Shaw (Guest)

  Miss Josephine Bradman (Officer; Minutes)

  Josephine excelled at shorthand, thanks to the Breckenridge School of Typewriting and Stenography. If she chose she could let her mind wander while her hand worked, as if she were in a trance.

  THE MATRON called the meeting to order at half past eight.

  MRS HARE blessed the proceedings, and commanded that all ill-wishers reveal themselves or be bound eternally to silence.

  MR FRAYN remarked upon the absence of many close friends from the proceedings, in particular MR and MRS GODALMING, who were recovering from injuries sustained in the Storm.

  MISS SHALE opined that the Storm had been of supernatural origin, and MR HARE and MR PARK agreed.

  THE MATRON reminded all present that mere superstition is the bane of true psychical research.

  MR HARE noted rumours concerning the death of the late Duke of Sussex, and suggested that in these troubling times all spiritualists might be in danger of being falsely considered radicals or revolutionaries, and sought proposals as to how best to allay the suspicion of the unenlightened.

  THE MATRON observed that an Age in which spiritual science had been a matter of interest at the highest pinnacle of the British State had come to an end, and called upon all present to pray that the true science would not fade away in the coming years, but would rise to new and greater heights.

  MR SHAW (GUEST) rose to observe that the press, and those who make their fortune by their pen, have a weighty duty in these times, this perilous and confusing modern age in which a scrupulous love of truth is the highest calling, to neither strangle a revolution in thought in its crib, nor spread falsehoods through laziness or corruption. He also thanked all those present for their kindness in inviting a mere ink-stained wretch such as himself to their august gathering.

  THE HIEROPHANT called for prayers for the Duke’s soul, and for the speedy capture of the guilty party, should there be one; and the members prayed accordingly.

  MR PARK observed that three persons (who would remain nameless) had failed to pay their dues for the month of February.

  DR VARLEY presented his astrological observations. It was his opinion that in the wake of the Storm there had been a great disruption among the Spheres, such that the Austral signs had taken on an unseasonable declining aspect, and the House of Mercury now encroached upon the House of Venus, while the House of Saturn was in ascendancy. MR PARK challenged DR VARLEY’s conclusions. Consensus was not obtained, and THE MATRON proposed that the discussion be adjourned.

  MISS SHALE announced that she felt an Outside Intelligence taking hold of her. She sang, and danced. MR HARE played the piano.

  MR CHATTERJI presented his photographs of Indian temples.

  Mr Chatterji and Mr Atwood were both new to the meetings of the Ordo V.V. 341. Chatterji was tall and rather imposing; a lawyer, of exalted caste and aristocratic bearing; just recently arrived in London from India, or so Josephine had heard, and already a much-desired guest. Arthur applauded each one of his photographs, which were all intended to elucidate some point regarding Indian spiritualism, the architecture of temples, and the stars. Arthur had an interest in amateur photography, albeit a mostly theoretical one. Chatterji answered Arthur’s questions about lenses, collodio-chloride, and other such arcana with aplomb, and corrected various misconceptions about India with great patience.

  Martin Atwood was handsome and well-dressed; perhaps twenty-five or at most thirty, small and slight and rather boyish. He wore a black frock coat of an athletic cut, and a loose black tie. His hair was fair, and he had a neat pointed beard. He smiled at everyone, politely but vacantly. Without ever quite stooping to rudeness, he gave the impression that he had found himself in Kensington by mistake on his way to somewhere infinitely more fashionable and important, but intended to make the best of his evening now that he was here. He dozed through Miss Shale’s dance. He leaned forward to peer at Chatterji’s photographs. He met Josephine’s eye once, and winked at her; she wasn’t sure what he meant to convey.

  MR INNES blessed the conclusion of the proceedings, and closed the circle against evil.

  When the blessings were done, Mr Innes lit the lamps, waking several dozers. Chatterji gathered up his photographs in a leather briefcase; then he left without making conversation. Preserving the aura of mystery, Josephine supposed. Servants brought out wine and coffee. Miss Shale, who had fainted, was examined by Doctor Varley. Josephine tucked her notes away, collected her fee from Treasurer Park, and went in search of Arthur. She found him on the other side of the room, sharing a drink with Mr Hare and Mr Innes and comparing stories about the storm.

  Mrs Sedgley waved to her. “Josephine, my dear! A moment of your time?”

  “Of course, Matron.”

  Mr Atwood stood at Mrs Sedgley’s side, smiling. “Miss Bradman,” he said. “I’m really the one who should be begging your pardon; I’m the one who’s taking your time. I wanted to make your acquaintance.”

  Mrs Sedgley raised her eyebrows and attempted to wordlessly communicate that Atwood was a man of importance, and that Josephine should indulge whatever odd whim he had in mind.

  “Miss Bradman; may I ask what you were writing?”

  “Of course, Mr Atwood. Nothing of great interest: it’s my duty to keep the minutes of the Order’s proceedings.”

  “Ah. Very wise. Let nothing of the great work be lost.”

  “Quite,” Mrs Sedgley said.

  “The preservation of learning,” Atwood said.

  “Yes,” Josephine said, feeling that she was expected to say something.

  “A vital task. When one thinks how much learning has been lost to the world by the inadequate taking of minutes! Who is that, I said, who was taking such assiduous notes, and the Matron told me your name and a bell rang in my head—Bradman, Bradman, Josephine Bradman … I’m certain, I said, that I remember that name … such an awful lot of clutter in the attic, such an awful lot of empty space, too, but also all sorts of interesting people—have you read Bruno on the art of memory? No? I expect the Matron is familiar with the technique. I’m not half as good at it as I would like to be. Think, Atwood, think, I said; then light dawned. A bright star in the great infinite darkness o
f my own foolish head. The poetess!”

  Josephine couldn’t conceal her surprise. She wasn’t used to being recognised for her poetry, which had been sparingly published, and so far as she knew, quickly forgotten.

  “Hah!” Atwood clapped. “I thought as much.”

  “I’m very flattered, Mr Atwood.”

  “I’m relieved. My head is still of some use.”

  Arthur appeared, drink in hand.

  “Fascinating,” Arthur said. “Fascinating. The whole thing. I’m sorry there wasn’t a séance, though. I think I may have put my card in, so to speak, for membership. It’s hard to say. Mr Hare has an awfully indirect way of speaking. Mystical, I suppose.”

  He turned to Atwood and introduced himself.

  “Atwood,” Atwood said. “We were discussing Miss Bradman’s poetry.”

  “Splendid stuff. Are you a poet, Mr Atwood?”

  “Good Lord, no.”

  “Josephine,” Mrs Sedgley said, “is a treasure; simply a treasure. Poetry is so very important; indeed, I believe that poets are our truest guides to the spiritual realm; poets are waking dreamers, awakened spirits—”

  “Quite,” Atwood said.

  “Are you a member of this club, Mr Atwood?”