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Sunday 10th August 1879, midnight: Covent Garden

It is remarkable how one decision can change a life.

I made just such a decision today. Instead of trusting my instinct I turned against it. And that one, simple lapse of judgement could cost me everything I hold dear.

The Coffee House is ablaze and my soul is bereft.

---

Sunday 10th August 1879, dusk: Devil’s Acre

“Explain yourself, Baron!” I thumped the table. “We’ve been running around like headless chickens trying to find you.”

(My reference here to a chicken would turn out to be somewhat prophetic…)

“Where would you like me to begin, madam?”

“The elephants of course!”

“Very well,” the Baron said, settling back in his chair. “The 1865 Napier expedition into Abyssinia…”

Why is it men, when asked a simple question, will proceed to give a long-winded, over-detailed, impossibly circuitous answer?

“…with which Blackwood is very familiar, being an active participant,” the Baron continued to a short nod from the man himself, “Was commissioned by the Queen to rescue hostages from the upstart Emperor Theodore’s castle retreat Magdala. At the time I was stationed manning the mountain guns and co-opted into the affair, along with Sanjeev and Blackwood.”

I was surprised not to hear a note of sadness when Sanjeev was mentioned, the Baron maintaining a stiff upper lip as he spoke. “Naturally we overcame Theodore’s forces, taking the fortress after a short if fierce battle on the plains below. A bloody affair, but the Abyssinian forces were no match for 15,000 of the Queen’s finest under Napier.”

“The troops were encouraged to take what they could carry, in lieu of victory pensions, and the looting was prodigious. Napier then declared a grand auction on the steppes of Egypt, allowing the men to translate goods into coin.”

We need a term for that, I thought, and for some reason my mind drifted to Mrs Pan. ‘Money…laundering’, perhaps? Another thought struck me and I interrupted the Baron’s monologue. “And was this the very auction wherein Mr Rivington-Holmes procured the two copies of the Kebra Nagast?”

“Just so, madam. Rivington-Holmes was seconded to obtain items of interest for the British Museum, and furnished with no less that 1000 pounds sterling to do so. In the looting two copies had indeed been found, and I discovered a third—”

“Third!?” Silas and I exclaimed in unison.

“But there were only two?” Silas spluttered to a furious nod from me.

“Third,” the Baron nodded sternly, “Two went to the Museum, as I presume you are aware. And the third stayed with me. Rivington-Holmes was very interested in that copy as it varied from the other two.”

“Varied how?” I asked.

“The Museum copies of the Kebra Nagast details the location of the Ark of the Covenant, declaring it lay in the city of Axum awaiting its destiny. My copy, however, described how the Ark was moved from Axum to a new location.”

“And that is why the giant Albanian needs your copy,” I nodded slowly, understanding dawning. The Baron frowned at my mention of the giant, but before he could ask I had my own question. “Why is everyone so interested in this ‘Ark’?”

Oh dear, the look on everyone’s face.

The Baron took mercy. “Madam the Ark of the Covenant is said to contain—”

“Not ‘said', Baron, does,” the High Canoness Christina scowled.

“My pardon. Does contain no less than the very tablets whereon the Ten Commandments are inscribed, as delivered to Moses by our Lord.”

“I…well,” I stumbled, astonished. “I see. Please, continue.”

“We were young and stupid—” (here Silas raised a single eyebrow, for had the Baron ever admitted to stupidity?) “—and thus we concocted a plan whereby we might pursue the Ark.”

High Canoness Christina looked less than pleased at this part of the story.

“As Blackwood would recall, on the journey to Magdala we had the good graces of the various local warlords who were to man keen to see the downfall of the Emperor. On the return journey, however, they became far more interested in testing the strength on our company, the great haul of loot we carried a carrot they were unable to resist.”

“They harassed our flanks, trying their luck, and there was one warlord in particular, of no small resource, who harried us relentlessly. We requested of Napier permission to take a force and pursue this troublemaker back to his homeland to prevent further incursion.”

The Baron paused here before continuing. “As you may have guessed, this ruse allowed Rivington-Holmes and I to venture into the very territory wherein the Ark was now said to lie. As I said, we were young and foolish—pursued, the warlord fell back and soon became the least of our concerns. We moved into lands controlled by unknown persons, drawing ever closer to the Ark. But the closer we drew, the greater the resistance to our progress became.”

“Fierce, fanatical opposition, warriors using tactics of ambush and deceit, mounting suicidal attacks we were ill-equipped to repel in order to prevent our approach. Finally a great battle was fought on the plains before their village. Disappointingly we were less than the effort required; a great many good men were butchered.”

Blackwood was grim-faced as the Major spoke, darker than I had seen him.

“As the battle roared, I found myself face-to-face with the warlord, fighting him off single-handed—”

“There is no need to embellish your tale,” I snapped ungratefully.

“He took my leg!” the Baron roared, slamming the table. “I fell, and he stood over me ready to take my life.”

He paused, a long pause, during which no-one dared breathe.

“He stood over me, ready to take my life,” the Baron said softly, eyes reliving the moment, “When the Angel of the Lord came down amongst us, standing between me and certain death.”

Still no one breathed.

“The Angel cast the warlord off and commanded unto me: Pursue not the Ark, for it is not for men to find.”

What on earth? What in heaven? I stared at the Baron, but he was gone from this place. But there could be no doubt he was speaking in deadly earnest, and believed every word he uttered.

“Sanjeev, somehow, managed to drag me to safety as the Angel vanished. And here I sit, whilst Sanjeev lies dead,” the Baron whispered, dropping his head.

Finally.

---

Silas leant forward in his chair, storm clouds on his face. “Baron. Would you mind explaining why a whole slew of people have met untimely ends at the hands of a large bladed weapon in pursuit of the Kebra Nagast?” he growled.

To my surprise Blackwood answered. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“If it were I wouldn’t have asked,” Silas said sourly.

“This ‘arky’ thing—it’s the treasure the giant wants,” Blackwood shrugged.

“Just so, Blackwood, just so,” the Baron muttered, emerging from his trance. “After our retreat, Rivington-Holmes and I decided between us that no man should seek the Ark. We took the map, the diary, and the unique Kebra Nagast and we hid them”

Wait…three items? Oh no.

“The Kebra Nagast we hid in the head of an elephant…”

Oh yes.

“…the map rolled in a tusk, and the diary a foot.”

“And you knew us well enough to know we would ‘keep them safe’,” I groaned.

“I gambled as much.”

“Your gamble paid off.”

“Rivington-Holmes wrote to warn me,” the Baron explained, “Which gave me time to deliver the three pieces to each of you just before they came for me.”

“And they came for you because Rivington-Holmes was tortured,” Silas growled. “I know. I did his autopsy.”

“Dear god,” the Baron had the grace to mutter. “They will pay for this!”

“And what mechanisms can you bring to bear to make that happen?” Silas snapped. “The Foreign Office is very interested in finding you, Baron.”

“Who, exactly?”

“Tristan St John Mortimer, to be precise.”

“Ah yes, a rat of a man,” the Baron said distastefully. “He must be in league with them.”

“And have you no idea who this ‘them’ is, Baron?” I asked angrily.

“None.”

This was too much. He had no idea??

“You know this monster has tortured and killed your oldest friend Rivington-Holmes, and his assistant Arthur Tinsdale, not to mention your dear Susannah,” I glared at the nuns as I counted off my fingers, “Lee Kwon, and Mickey Two Feet?” My voice rose ever higher with each of the dead. “A trail of dead at your feet and you have no idea who is doing this!?”

The Baron merely stared.

“He will know we are here at this very moment! We were seen by a thousand of the Acre residents and every one of them will point the ancient Bulgarian this way! I am surprised he is not upon us already!!”

“We saw no-one follow you,” Arch Vigilant Agnes said with obscene calm.

“Because they do no want to be seen!” I cried.

“I have lived here long enough to know,” Agnes monotoned.

I hrumphed and rolled my eyes.

Silas sighed. “You know Baron we are lucky to be alive. And we’re not even sure why we are.”

“Ms Harrow’s Bulgarian—”

“Hungarian,” Silas corrected, “Gideon struggles with geography.”

(Another hrumph erupted from my throat)

“Hungarian,” the Baron allowed, “Must have a reason to keep you alive.”

“He thinks we know where the third copy is,” I muttered darkly.

“That adds up,” the Baron nodded.

Silas sighed again. “Very well, Baron. You can have your elephants. They are safe.”

“Bring them here,” the Baron ordered.

“That is madness!” I exclaimed, shocked at his naivety—was he not a Major in the armed forces? “We will be immediately set upon by the Abyssinian if we move them after all this time—it is precisely what he has been waiting for!”

“Hungarian,” Silas coughed.

“Hungarian!” I yelled.

“You will make a plan,” the Baron said infuriatingly. “I do not have one for I was not expecting you.”

“There is good reason for that,” I spat. “For we have been chasing a red herring, believing all this time the Papists to be the villains in this pantomime! Why did you not tell us earlier? So much time and effort—and lives—could have been saved.”

“I did not know who to trust.”

“You knew to trust us!”

“Who told you about the papists?” the Baron asked, turning the conversation.

“The bookseller Tinsdale said he saw a crucifix on the hunchback,” Silas explained.

“And Mickey Two Feet mentioned similar,” Blackwood added, his first words for some time.

“Mortimer also warned that you had ‘turned’ to the papists, a traitor to the Crown,” Silas recalled.

The Baron snorted. “A merry game indeed. I am no more a traitor than any of you. Mortimer is far more likely the man to fit that description.” He looked to the two nuns with concern. “But it does seem our enemies know of the Sisterhood of the Vigil,” he warned.

I looked around the chapel, fed up. It was so isolated from the horrors being played out, the Baron’s great ‘game’. It was time to call the his bluff.

---

“Baron you sit here in comfort and safety. You have your life. You have your new papist allies. We are here, your elephants are safe. Is the Hungarian the only thing you want now?”

“No, Ms Harrow. I want whoever our adversaries are. One is Mortimer. One is your Hungarian. But there is an agency at work we have yet to identify.”

“Could it be this warlord you so bravely fought before being saved by God Himself?” I said snippily.

“Not a chance. They have not the resource or influence to infiltrate the foreign office.”

“What about Theodore’s descendants? They would have cause, surely?”

“No. They were routed and dispersed. They have no presence nor power.”

I tapped the table. “Well then we are no the wiser. But it is certain that this adversary kills without compunction, and will continue to do so until your Kebra Nagast is in their keep.” I looked hard at the Canoness, the Arch Vigilant, and finally the Baron. It was time: “We should destroy everything.”

The Baron sat back, surprised, then thoughtful.

“The risk is too great,” I pressed. “You were commanded that no man should have the Ark, and yet you persist in keeping the very means for a man to do so. Destroy it all and your commandment will be kept for eternity.”

There was a long pause. “Perhaps we should have,” the Baron said eventually.

“We still can,” I stressed.

The Baron glanced at High Canoness Christina, who shrugged. “Perhaps she is right. We may have no other choice, Baron.”

“Why have you kept it?” Silas asked keenly.

“The folly of youth,” the Baron said quietly.

“The book is a Relic too, as much as the Ark,” Canoness Christina explained.

“The book?!” I exclaimed. “The book was written by human hand! The Ark and its contents was created by the Lord God Himself!” I was not a religious woman, but this seemed obvious to even me. “You would risk God’s word writ for a piece of religious flim-flammery written by a man?”

“This is a waste of time,” Silas grumbled.

Oh my I was furious. “It is of utmost import, Silas!!” I yelled.

“I was thinking we could move the goods under cover of the laundry service,” he mused.

“Silas!” As much as this was a clever suggestion now was not the time!

“How can we dismantle the elephants safely to retrieve the three items?” Silas said, ignoring me entirely. “Or perhaps we could forge a copy of the book, or map. Which could you afford to lose the most?”

“Well the map could be recreated,” the Baron began to muse, “And with care the stitching on the elephant—”

“I will not sit here and talk about process!!” I yelled again. I threw back my chair, sending it crashing to the hard stone floor, and stormed out.

Not my finest hour, but really. Stitching!?

---

Agnes followed me into the scriptorium and laid a ‘comforting’ hand on my shoulder. “What is it you fear, sister?”

“I am not your sister!” I snapped, “And I am not afraid. I only worry that you are making a terrible mistake.”

“You must follow your heart,” Agnes said in her simpering way.

“I have no heart,” I said darkly…and she laughed.

I slapped her.

Also not my finest moment.

---

Arch Vigilant Agnes led us from the crypt and back upstairs. Blackwood and Silas continued to debate the best means of safely moving the goods while I huffed along angrily. She directed us through the kitchen, a bath chamber in which a naked vagrant washed (causing Blackwood to blush bright red, poor dear), and finally into a narrow lane.

“Left, and to your right,” Agnes directed. “And good luck.”

We traipsed as directed, the looming ruins of the Acre over us once again.

Suddenly a sharp scream sounded out just ahead, a cry of surprise and a grunt. We raced forward to find a youth standing with knife drawn over a second fallen boy.

Blackwood immediately drew his hammer. “Hey! What are you doing?!” he yelled.

I put a quick arm on him. “This is not our fight, Mr Blackwood!”

Until suddenly it was. The youth turned to face us—it was Tommy Crippen!

---

“Tommy!” I exclaimed in horror, “What have you done??” I recalled Mickey Two Feet’s final words to Blackwood, warning the Crippen’s to watch their backs. Too late, it seemed.

“It was ‘im, ma’am, ‘im from Mickey’s!”

Silas looked shocked as he lifted his deadly cane. “Who?! The hunchback??”

“The ‘ook nose! ‘e nearly got me!” the fallen boy, not dead after all, piped up. Tommy’s little brother, Timmy! “But I stuck ‘im good, I did, stuck ‘im good!” He held up a bloodied dagger triumphantly.

---

“‘E went this way’,” Tommy hissed, pointing to a dark, narrow alley, and indeed there was a quite prodigious trail of blood leading that way. “Come on! We can still catch ‘im!” He stepped toward the yard-wide gap and urged us forward.

And this is where I made my mistake. A cold chill settled on me as surveyed the scene. It was all wrong: the Crippen boys had somehow managed to fend of the Ancient Albanian, who had never missed in his life? And not only fend him off, they had wounded him, badly by the amount of blood, and chased him off? It was impossible.

“This is a trap,” I warned my companions in a whisper. “As sure as day, a trap!”

Blackwood cocked his rifle meaningfully.

We were never going to get a better chance, and if I was wrong…

“After him!” I cried.

A decision I will rue forever more.

---

We sprinted away, Silas following the blood and providing running updates. “He’s losing more with each step, he must be badly hurt!” — “The blood thins here, he is holding it in to hide the wound!” — “Here! It is gushing now, we will have him soon!”

Tommy stayed with us, rather fitter than any it seemed, but keen to revenge his brave but fallen brother. We burst into a main street and raced to the corner, where a terrified woman say plucking a chicken. She met our eyes and indicated with her head, and we charged on.

A chicken.

The blood became even more obvious, now flowing freely it would seem. Silas frowned for a moment—“There’s almost too much…but no, he must be on his last legs!” he said pointing to a bloodied handprint on the edge of a well. Silas looked around for someone hiding a limp, but it seemed everyone in the Acre has disabled in some way. The trail continued and Silas detected a change in rhythm. “He’s holding himself up, but barely!” — “He’s slowing, we need to be careful now…”

We skidded into a line of warehouses, then down a passage to another narrow alley. It opened into a small square where a dragged trail of blood led definitively to a half-open warehouse door.

“We have him,” Blackwood growled, yanking the door open.

---

Inside the warehouse was filled with oblong wooden crates, stacked high in some places. A balcony overhung the ground floor to the rear.

“There’s a body!” Blackwood hissed, taking cover behind a large crate stack. Sprawled on the floor ahead was a cloaked figure in a pool of blood.

Behind us the door slammed closed. I spun: “Tommy’s not here!” Oh my god we had been played. I was right: a trap!

“He’s been paid off,” Blackwood hissed. “Look up, and get down!”

A sharp crack sounded as Blackwood fired wildly into the darkness of the mezzanine, surprised when the blind shot drew a yelp of surprise. “Come out!” Blackwood cried.

Silas rolled and dived into cover near the body and peered. “A chicken, it’s only a chicken!” he yelled.

Oh god. We had been made fools of. I ran for the stairs flicking my switchblade free, hoping to intercept whoever was up there. As I ran a dark, cloaked figure emerged from the darkness below the balcony, his eyes glowing gold.

---

‘Eyes…like two discs of fire'…Susanna’s last words.

The Ancient Hungarian had found us. And not only found us, led us into his lair like moths to a flame.

“Welcome,” the Hungarian said nonsensically, “I see you are aware of my companion on the balcony.”

His voice was oddly familiar, if not the tone, and he spoke with an accent which was the Queen’s English. “You’re not Hungarian,” I called into the darkness.

“After all your efforts you deserve a big reveal,” the creature continued, “But unfortunately for you it comes far too late.”

Where had we heard that voice before??

With a flourish the murderous villain stepped into the half-light and threw back his hood.

TOBIAS NEVILLE!

---

“Neville??” I cried. He removed his spectacles which had been reflecting the light, revealing his regular eyes beneath. I could not believe it.

“Ms Harrow, I’m so glad you deigned to join us,” Neville grinned as he pulled a hideous, murderously curved blade from a holster on his back.

---

I cursed, and cursed again. Another clue so nearly followed but ultimately missed! On the day I had stopped by his store, expecting trouble and finding none, I had almost, almost suggested to the gentlemen that we should effect a break-and-enter. Neville had seemed almost too innocent, too befuddled. But I had held my tongue, having been wrong so often before. Gah!

Silas leapt to his feet, drawing his own blade—a brilliantly honed, straight-bladed katana—and slashing at Neville. He was equal to the task, parrying the blade away with more ease than seemed possible. Neville unleashed his trademark deathly strike, driving from neck to groin. I screamed, fearing Silas would fall, but he desperately and expertly (who knew!) turned the attack away with his cane, feeling it flex to breaking point under the weight of the blow.

From overhead I briefly saw the silhouette of Neville’s accomplice. Timmy Crippen! He fired a shot toward Blackwood’s crate, cracking it open but missing Blackwood himself (who later reported the crates were coffins, appropriately—Neville too smart for his own good).

Safe now Timmy had fired, Blackwood stepped out from behind his crate and went to one knee, his rifle settling as he sighted and calmed his breathing to ensure the shot flew true.

As he prepared Neville swung again at Silas, but again Silas was ready, ghosting out of the path of the deadly blade.

And then it happened.

Silas followed the path of Neville’s weapon with his sharp eyes, tracing the arc with his own sword such that it became a single fluid motion. His lovingly hand-crafted blade, the spiritual opposite to Neville’s brutal instrument, fairly sang as it sliced through the air. Using every lesson he had learnt from his father-in-law, channelling the hours of practice and litres of sweat drained under those eagle-eyes, Silas delivered a single irresistible timeless strike that cut the so-called Ancient Hungarian, the Belgravia Butcher, Tobias Neville, book seller, from groin to neck, an elegant and far more complex mirror of his opponent’s blunt method.

Neville crumpled to his knees in disbelief, horrified that Silas had, in short order, done to him precisely what he had intended to do to Silas. He looked up from his neatly opened and certainly fatal wound and laughed.

“It was never my intention to kill you,” he gasped, blood welling in his mouth, “Only to delay you.”

“Delay for what?” Silas said, sword poised.

“Ha ha ha, let’s stop the talk, shall we?”

Silas decapitated him with a simple swing.

I, meanwhile, had sprinted up the stairs to confront Timmy, distracting him with the same cry I had given his brother: “Timmy! What have you done!?” He spun to face me, and as he did his head exploded and he fell with a crack to the ground.

“Oh god, I’ve killed Timmy Crippen!” I cried in a confused panic, turning and running back downstairs. I found Blackwood standing with his rifle, still smoking, pointed to the balcony. “Are you ok, lady?” he asked and I almost hugged him.

---

“He was trying to delay us,” Silas said quickly as he cleaned his blade. “We have to leave—now!”

“The nuns will all be dead,” I whispered before it struck me. “No…oh no no no…if he was trying to delay us he must have known we were going to Covent Garden!!”

Silas quickly searched Neville’s headless body, finding two clues: the hilt of his weapon (‘a khopesh’ Blackwood informed us) had an engraved symbol: a Victoria cross above a curled dragon. We did not recognise it, but we did know the symbol on a membership fob in his waistcoat—the Asklepieion. “Of course,” Silas cursed. It was more evidence linking Mortimer to this murderous cabal.

---

Search done, we raced outside to the nearest thoroughfare and hailed a growler, which was mercifully nearby. “You sweat those horses man and we’ll pay you double!” Silas yelled, and sweat them our driver did.

As we drew near I knew something was amiss. There were people everywhere, traffic cluttered, and worst of all a smell: smoke.

I ran forward, shoving through the onlookers, knowing what I would find. The Coffee House was ablaze, a pillar of smoke billowing from the rear. Firefighters and a bucket brigade were fighting back the flames, but it was touch and go.

My eyes filled with tears, whether from the smoke or the sight I will never know. I grabbed Blackwood to stop from collapsing.

“Good to see you sir,” Gerald, Silas’s butler, said as he emerged from the crowd. To my surprise Hana was by his side. “I knew you wouldn’t be in there,” she said with a nod to Silas, but despite her words I could see the relief in her pretty eyes. “If you don’t mind sir, I’ll muck in with the buckets,” Gerald said rolling his sleeves. He was a good man—a very good man.

“Madam, oh madam!” Eunice’s voice called as she found me. Harriet was by her side, both looking dishevelled and in shock. “We cannot find Liberty!”

Liberty. Of course. “She will be gone,” I said bitterly and to their confusion.

“Oh Lord Jesus! Oh Lord Jesus, I thought I had lost you!” another voice cried. A voice I had longed to hear. I turned to find Mr Clement, real tears in his eyes, arms spread. I fell into that protection, sobbing. “I’m here, Edmund, I’m here.”

---

The night wore on and the flames were slowly brought under control. Edmund had left me to lead the investigations and I was in something of a stupor, unable to move, unable to process what had happened.

When it was safe, Blackwood and Silas accompanied me into the ruins of the Coffee House. We headed directly for the elephants, greeted first by a surprise. Lying dead on the upper landing was Liberty! I apologised to her in my head, as Silas studied the body.

“It wasn’t the fire that killed her,” he said grimly, “She was stabbed to death.”

We looked down the corridor to where the door to the conference room hung open, knowing what we would find.

The elephants were gone.

---

Toward midnight I sat outside, alone, still stunned, unable to think.

“It appears events have overtaken you,” a voice whispered in my ear.

Mrs Pan.

“Have you come to revel in your victory?” I said tiredly, turning to face her.

“Not at all, not at all Ms Harrow. Your grief is mine,” she said.

“Do not mock me, not now.”

“Enough Mrs Pan, there’ll be time for your squabbles later—this is a time for solidarity.” a deeper voice said.

“Hello, sir!” Blackwood piped up.

From the darkness a familiar figure stepped forward. The Rat King, Eziah Cyrus.

My capacity for surprise had been reached some time ago, but I was none-the-less impressed. I glanced around hoping Mr Clement would not see this august gathering, knowing it would cause him great angst to see me in such company.

The Rat King nodded to me, even removing his cap in deference. “Please understand, Ms Harrow, that this will never do,” he said nodding to the Coffee House. “We shall all stand behind you,” he said with a look to Mrs Pan, who, after a pause, nodded. “Until the perpetrators are punished.”

It seems that I had entirely inadvertently managed to unite the crème de la crème of the underworld London in a way that would only hours ago have been an impossibility.

And yet I would have given anything, anything, to undo it all…

…all but Edmund.

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