Page 46 of Infernal Vices

CHAPTER 22

CLARIDGES

I had not seen Lawrence Blake for a week or so and I must admit his appearance always unsettled me. Blake was, at a guess, in his middle-forties, a hands-span taller than I, his frame was willow-switch thin, and when he moved it was with disarming grace as if he were dancing to a tune only he could hear. His face was clean-shaven, angular, with sharp but not unattractive features. His hair was dark grey and styled with oil. However, the most startling things about Blake were firstly, his heterochromatic eyes, the left eye being a startling cerulean blue and the right, a shade of brown so dark I could not discern the pupil from the iris, and secondly, Blake’s strangely mesmeric personality. Whenever Lawrence Blake entered a room heads turned. The American theosophist was a showman, a curio, and London society was indeed hungry for excitement and therefore, very curious about the man. I observed him while dining at my club, and when we attended society events. He had the kind of powerful; penetrating gaze that I was certain could make a man fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, even if he had not sinned. When learned men challenged his theosophical beliefs he replied in a calm, confident, and passionate manner that made the ladies swoon. And on this occasion, as we’d met before our luncheon with Nissa, Blake did indeed turn the heads of society ladies.

Claridges was the tea room du jour and so it was populated by women wearing those ghastly fashionable voluminous hats. They were here to take tea and share tittle-tattle…as ladies are prone to do! Well, the society ladies certainly had a talking point now! When Blake entered the large, grand tea room, conversation ceased and the clink of china tea cups placed on saucers rang like bells. The ladies stared at the tall disarming figure in the doorway. I rose and waved to attract his attention. He handed his greatcoat and hat to a waiter, as we had all done, and then he wove a path through the tables to reach our table by the window facing the bustling street. Blake took the empty chair and then removed his spectacles with striking octagonal tinted blue lenses and placed them on the table. Then the cacophony of chattering women erupted again.

“Bless-ed is the seed, my brothers,” Blake drawled. Both Ashe and Cavendish sat with me. A pot of tea and four cups with milk and sugar was awaiting us.

“Bless-ed is the seed,” we all murmured, keeping our voices low so as not to be overheard by the patrons at tables around us. We all watched Blake keenly, seemingly desperate for his words of wisdom. His peculiar eyes affixed on me. My skin crawled.

“I understand congratulations are in order, Brother Hannan. You have not only found a girl for dear Leo, but also discovered the whereabouts of the Staff of Asklepios. Is this correct? Where is it? When can I have it?”

“No thanks are necessary, brother. I am happy to help. As for the Staff, I discovered its whereabouts and am conducting a private sale at my own cost. I will of course, reimburse Lord Ardmillan for the loss. When the sale has been completed I will retain the item in the safe at my bank until we are ready to avail of its…mystical powers. I will bring it to the final ritual, of that you need not doubt.”

A flash of frustration passed over Blake’s expression and I was sure then that he expected me to just hand the priceless Greek artefact to him because he wished it so. I am no fool, and was not in the thrall of his persuasive personality. I set my spine and we locked eyes. I would not be swayed on this, and Blake would not gain possession of the Staff before the ritual.

“I must admit, I’ve had my doubts about you, Brother Hannan, because of your connections to…”

“Let’s not mention the betrayers name again,” Ashe interrupted.

Blake pursed his lips as if he’d tasted something foul. “But, you have proven me wrong. I’m impressed by your loyalty and devotion to our work. I am inspired and invigorated, delighted to have the Staff within our brotherhood.” He sat back and was at once a man supremely confident in his self belief, assured that no one could prevent his plan. Blake smiled, the expression not quite reaching his strange eyes. I knew the smile was a façade. I shuddered at thinking that he probably wore that very same grin while abusing my dear Sebastian when he was a young man. I hardened my expression and looked away, unable to bear those creepy eyes a moment longer. I poured tea for all four of us as Ashe spoke up.

“Can we now proceed with the final ritual? We have waited nearly a year for all to be in place, and I am so very excited,” he said in a simpering voice. He played a good toadie did our Charles, and the flattery worked a treat.

“Indeed we can. I’ll need you to pen the notices to my acolytes. The final ritual will be carried out at Easter. Brother Cavendish has donated his out of town property for our use. It’s perfect and away from prying eyes.”

“Yes, I’ll fill you in on the details after this luncheon, Charles,” Cavendish said as he puffed on a cigar, and then put two sugar lumps into his cup followed by a drop of milk. He stirred the sweet dark concoction and laid the cigar in the crystal ash tray as he said,

“I’m relieved beyond belief that this is all coming together at last. It’s been too bloody long and cannot wait to have Leo back with us.” He took a sip of tea and then picked up the Cigar and sat back in his seat.

“Ah, my brother, you know perfection cannot be rushed,” Blake drawled.

“Indeed, indeed. I must admit I’ve missed the scamp. London is rather dull without him. Benedict, you must inform Lawrence and Charles about this young lady you’ve found.”

“Yes, of course. After all, she is the reason we are here.” I paused and took a sip of tea. “Princess Nissa is twenty years old, educated, independently wealthy and of regal heritage. She is new to the metropolis and seeking an introduction to high society,” I explained.

Cavendish brightened “She supplied a hand written letter and photograph which I’ve sent on to Leo to use to convince his father that he has a fiancée. The girl’s a demure young thing, bloody loaded too. She’ll easily to bend to our will. This Princess Nissa will make an excellent talking point at society events, more importantly, she’ll take attention away from Leo and his…extra-curricular activities,” Cavendish grinned and tapped his nose, sending a conspiratorial look to Blake who sat silently, his angular face almost cadaverous as the midday sun beamed through the window to his back. He tapped his right index finger on his lips several times as if deep in thought. Then his expression changed.

“Good, good.” Blake then turned to me and asked, “And you’ve met this young lady before?”

“Yes, I have. We dined together and discussed the requirements. I am sure you will be pleasantly surprised by how mutually agreeable this arrangement will be. And, I must inform you that as the lady in question is a descendant of Indian royalty she should be addressed as Rajkumari Nissa. The word Rajkumari translates as Princess. The Rajkumari is more than willing to be accommodating to our needs.” I heard the first chime of the midday bells and rose automatically. “Now gentlemen, come, let me introduce you to our princess. She resides in the penthouse under the nom-de-geurre Mrs. Mountjoy!”

“Oh how splendid,” Ashe said excitedly. “I feel like one of those secret agents in the James Fennimore-Cooper novels,” he chortled.

We strode through the tea room, and walked into the grand foyer toward the waiting birdcage elevator and then stepped in.

“Which floor do you require sirs?” the uniformed bell-boy asked,

“The sixth floor. We’re attending luncheon at Mrs. Mountjoy’s penthouse,” Blake bragged. I shared a look with Charles whose mouth twitched with a smirk. Blake seemed to already be enamoured by the display of wealth that residing here afforded the princess. The bell boy dragged the cage door closed, then pressed a button which made a crisp warning bell chime before he pulled a lever. With a shudder and the grinding of metal on metal, the elevator began to move upward. The carpeted stairway to the upper floors wound around the elevator shaft and through the gaps in the decorative ironwork of the cage I could see that moneyed guests in their finery used the stairs to give a grand entrance to the foyer. We all remained silent and awkwardly averted our gazes as the creaking, whirring cage made its journey up the shaft.

“There are two penthouse suites on this floor, sirs. Mrs. Mountjoy’s is on the left,” the bell boy informed when we finally arrived at the sixth floor. We all stepped out of the bird cage and waited for the elevator’s descent before I gestured for my compatriots to proceed down the hall.

We strode along the plush burgundy carpeted hallway lit by electric torch sconces with flame shaped shades of moulded glass that gave a bright yellow glow. It was quite the marvel that the whole of this newly built hotel ran on electricity, following on the back of its competitor, The Savoy.

We came upon the gilded double doors to the penthouse suite and I knocked. Moments later the door was opened and a man in his later years. He had a bushy grey beard, unruly silver hair and stood there peering at us over his half moon spectacles. “Yes?” he said gruffly and for a moment I thought we were at the wrong penthouse.

“Good day. My name is Benedict Hannan and these are my associates Mr. Blake, Mr. Cavendish, and Mr. Ashe,” I said gesturing to the men at my back. “We have an appointment to meet with Rajkumari Nissa.”