Part 16 (2/2)
”Well? Shaw?”
”Well what?”
”Put that down, unless you intend to strike me with it. Has her condition changed?”
”See for yourself,” he said.
She couldn't be woken, not by shaking or shouting or sal volatile or pleading, not by tears or by whispering sweet nothings, not by lighting matches or ringing bells or singing or cymbals or familiar songs on the piano, not by Arthur's kiss, or by the various spells Atwood uttered, or by anything else that occurred to them in the course of the morning. Sometimes she smiled. Sometimes she furrowed her brow. She could be coaxed to swallow water. Atwood had a servant make soup, and Arthur managed to make her eat a little. Sometimes she sighed, or made other small motions-matters of habit. Her mind and her soul were elsewhere.
Atwood's guilt seemed quite genuine. For most of the morning he looked like he might be sick at any moment. Then, around half past ten, he decided that it was somehow all Lord Podmore's fault, and he went off to plan his revenge.
Of course his affections for Josephine were quite plain. He hardly troubled to hide them, which was insulting in itself. Arthur didn't for a moment suppose that Josephine had succ.u.mbed to Atwood's dubious charms, but that didn't mean he had to like the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.
Atwood returned for dinner. The cook produced a late meal-pork cutlets in tomato sauce. Arthur ate at the table in Atwood's parlour. On the wall facing him was a hideous painting. It depicted the t.i.tan Saturn devouring his children, or at least Atwood said it did. All Arthur knew for sure was that it depicted a twisted old man in the dark eating a child, and that it did nothing for his digestion, and that he did not consider it art. Otherwise, the room was decorated with photographs of Atwood on bicycles, or in fencing garb, or hiking. Atwood sat primly, legs crossed, watching Arthur across the table. He claimed that he wasn't hungry.
”Listen, Atwood.” Arthur pointed his fork at him. ”I can't call these people Jupiter and Mars and Halley's b.l.o.o.d.y Comet. Twinkle twinkle little b.l.o.o.d.y star. What are their names?”
”Our Company has always had nine in its inner circle, and we have always been identified, in our ritual roles, by the names of the planets.”
”Immemorial tradition, and all that.”
”On the contrary-we're scarcely five years old; and tradition means nothing to me, except when it's of use. We go by ritual names to facilitate the correct mental state for our experiments. And because some of us are secretive. I don't know who Jupiter is-not in the way you mean. She goes by Moina, but I believe it to be an alias.”
”Hmm.”
”And why should I care? She is a woman of extraordinary perception-one of the few in London I would consider my equal. She is-perhaps you will understand this, Shaw-she is the other half of my soul. Between us there is a profound communion, as of the Moon and the Earth. Why should I want to know more? Why should I want to know that she is married to a solicitor, let's suppose, or lives in Chelsea, or if she has children, or G.o.d, what their names are?”
”If you say so, Atwood.”
Arthur chased sauce around his plate, and tried not to let his gaze wander to the horrible painting. ”And you must be some sort of grand something-or-other. Lord of something, I expect.”
”Yes.”
”Thought as much. And Sun is a prince of some sort? Hmm? The b.l.o.o.d.y lot of you!”
Atwood raised an eyebrow. Arthur continued eating. He was far past the point of ordinary deference.
One of Atwood's flunkeys had left a pot of tea on the side-table. Arthur attacked it with gusto.
”What are our plans, then, Atwood? For getting Mr Gracewell back, that is, if that's the only way to get Josephine back.”
Atwood picked up a knife and toyed with it.
”Well?”
”I don't know, Shaw. We will confer. I don't know where Gracewell is. Lord Podmore will be well defended. Sun will counsel patience-he always does.”
”I always say the way to attack a problem is by thinking clearly.” Arthur ignored Atwood's expression of unmitigated contempt and went on. ”Let's hear about these enemies of yours, Atwood. These rivals. Who are they? What are their numbers? Their motives? Their-”
”I don't know precisely who is or isn't opposed to us. I suspect Mathers is one of their fraternity. But Mathers is mostly show-a posturer. Dr Sandys at King's College has made his opposition to our experiments plain. But ... some of our enemies may be men I meet at my club every morning, and talk to about the newspapers, and exchange cards with, and consider friends, while behind my back they are bent on my destruction. Podmore was a friend of my father's. Until quite recently, I would have said we were on cordial terms. I once offered to bring him into the Company, as a matter of fact.”
Atwood sighed, and poured himself tea. ”The forces arrayed against me are great. And subtle. Any beggar I pa.s.s by as he lies in the road may be my enemy. Any woman who smiles at me or glances my way. Any shopkeeper or cab-driver or policeman. I do not even trust the cats or the pigeons. My enemies are not some criminal conspiracy. They are London; they are all of its old magic.”
”Those kidnappers looked like common criminals to my eye.”
”So much the worse for your eye, Shaw.”
”Podmore owns a lot of newspapers. Man about town. I'm certain we can find out where he lives.”
”Of course. I was a guest at his house last November! But to attack him in his place of strength would be disastrous.”
Atwood sipped his tea, then frowned at Arthur's sceptical expression. ”My enemies are not to be taken lightly.”
”I take them very seriously, indeed. I expect the police would too-arsonists and kidnappers and knife-wielding maniacs...”
”I refer to their magic. They caused the storm last winter.”
”So I've been told.”
”Oh, you have, have you? I hope I'm not boring you.”
”Mr Gracewell believed that they caused the storm, and so did Mrs Archer. Which reminds me: who is Mrs Archer? Your friends seemed quite put out to hear you've been employing her.”
”Archer,” Atwood sighed. He went to the mantelpiece and found a case of cigarettes. ”Archer! You're quite right, Shaw. I kept her involvement a secret from the others. You put me in an embarra.s.sing spot. Jupiter will want an explanation.”
”Well-who is she?”
”An awful old woman. You have no idea how old or how awful. Even my father was scared of her. There are-Mr Shaw, there are old ways of doing things. Do you understand what I mean? Old-fas.h.i.+oned superst.i.tions. Bats and rats and eye of newt. The calling up of devils.”
”Devils?”
”Black cats. Et cetera. Nonsense, of course. The modern pract.i.tioner of the art understands that there are no devils; there is only the will. Nothing but. But old nonsense is sometimes more efficacious than the new-fangled kind. n.o.body in London knows the stars quite like Mrs Archer. n.o.body has watched them for quite so long. And so I enlisted her aid, yes, that's true-it was necessary in the construction of the Engine, Shaw! The others don't always understand necessity.”
He lit his cigarette, tossing the match into the fireplace.
”She doesn't know what we're doing. Piecework, that's all. She has certain talents that we can use. We told her nothing. You steer clear of her, do you hear, Shaw?”
Arthur poured himself some thick black tea.
”So Lord Podmore caused the storm,” he said. ”Mrs Archer said it was ... how did she put it? She said they did it to b.u.g.g.e.r about with her stars.”
<script>