Peter looked at the battlefield and his fallen cavalry unit.
Nanny Schmidt had found Mr Bloom in the morning after his last rally. He had stumbled home late, fallen, hit his head and then suffocated in his own vomit. The doctor explained it all cheerfully, until he learned that Mr Bloom did not have a Ticket.
Peter knew that only the strongest Ticketless spirits, one in a thousand, survived more than a day after passing over—the others got lost in their own thoughts, pursuing dreams or nightmares in the infinite aether until they Faded. His mother refused to get an ectophone to even try, adamant that it was what Mr Bloom would have wanted.
‘Peter,’ Mr West said quietly, ‘you mustn’t blame your mother for not being able to calculate the future. She did what she believed to be right. She loves you, and right now she needs you.’
‘I am not angry with Mother.’
‘Well, she certainly seems to think you are.’
‘I wished he were dead,’ Peter said. The words came out like the ball from a spring-loaded cannon. ‘I wished Father were dead and I never meant it and I never got to tell him I’m sorry.’
‘Peter,’ Mr West said in a throaty voice, ‘he knew. Of course he knew. And if I ever knew my friend Charles Bloom at all, he forgave you.’
Clumsily, he stretched out a hand and squeezed Peter’s shoulder.
‘Let me tell you a secret, Peter. Charles and I had this one big disagreement. In the end, I think he was right and I was wrong, but I just could not bring myself to admit it. And now I’ll never get to tell him. But that’s the thing about those we love. Sometimes they don’t have to be told the important things.’ Mr West’s silver eyes shimmered. ‘Now, shall we continue playing a bit? I do believe you were winning.’
Peter wiped his eyes. They finished the game, which ended in Mr West’s defeat. Peter helped him put the soldiers away.
‘Could you come and visit us again?’ he asked.
Mr West looked down and stroked his moustache.
‘I’m afraid that will not be possible, Peter.’
‘Why not?’
‘It is difficult to explain. You will understand when you are older. It is not a very good answer, I know. But I will be thinking of you, and your mother. You can keep the game.’
There was another world, Peter suddenly knew, where things were very different. Not Summerland, but a land that lay sideways in time. As Mr West put on his coat and hat and said goodbye to his mother, Peter very much wished he could travel there, no matter how far away it was.
* * *
Once, George asked Peter if he hated Herbert West. It had been Peter’s turn to laugh. Whatever West’s faults, he was there for Peter on that evening. After that, Peter had been able to speak to his mother again. And West’s words had convinced him to read mathematics in Cambridge.
No, Peter did not hate West. Sometimes he wished he did.
Although they were alone now, the prime minister’s manner was tense. ‘Mr Bloom, I know you mean well, and no doubt my old friend Mansfeld Cumming’—he used C’s real name—‘has been pressuring you to influence me. I am afraid my decision is made and will not change.’
It had not taken Peter long to figure out why West could not visit him and his mother, especially after his political career started to take off. The continuing rule of Queen Victoria’s Summer Court guaranteed that in polite society, propriety was everything. Still, the man could at least acknowledge that a bond existed between them.
The anger gave Peter the strength to speak.
‘Perhaps you fail to recall the conversation I was referring to. You described a situation where you had been wrong, yet unable to admit it. Well, sir, in this case you still have the opportunity to do so.’
‘That is quite presumptuous of you, Mr Bloom.’ West’s soul-spark looked like a fortress now, pale grey blocks arranged in concentric rings, with faint orange light in the centre. ‘Why do you think I am unable to admit that I am wrong?’
‘Because you think the Summer Court has grown too powerful, and you need to show them that you are still in charge.’
‘Hmm.’ West sounded bemused. ‘That is an interesting argument. Unfortunately, it is also incorrect. There is a bigger picture that you cannot see, which informs my thinking. I suggest you—’
Suddenly, the prime minister’s soul-spark flickered, just as it had before. West made a small coughing sound. The thought-curtain surrounding the central spark of his mind opened.
A bigger picture, Peter thought.
And for a heartbeat, West’s thoughts were unguarded.
Peter dived forward and stared directly into the prime minister’s soul.
In Summerland, living souls were things of light: glowing polygons, flames, bubbles and very occasionally recognisable images. Soul-readers had compiled a basic dictionary of emotion over the decades, but every soul had its unique language of thought-forms.
Peter had never seen a soul like Herbert West’s.
It resembled a miniature cinema or a diorama. In the centre of it was a silver city of towers and buildings, layered like a wedding cake, with countless tiny sparks in every window and street. Giant faces hovered in the sky above the city: West himself and two others, Lodge and Marconi. Peter realised he was looking at the Summer City.
As he watched, a dark tree grew from the abyss beneath the city. Its black branches pierced the silver buildings and twisted themselves around the towers. Wherever they touched, sparks flickered and died. In moments, the city was a shrivelled husk, like an abandoned beehive stuck in a tree, grey and crumbling. A jagged, purple, insect-like thing hatched from it, and distantly, Peter recognised it as the thought-form for guilt.
Then the vision disappeared, replaced by the usual kaleidoscope of consciousness. Whatever tremor in West’s ailing brain had caused the images to manifest was over.
‘Camlann,’ West muttered. ‘Camlann, Camlann.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I am sorry, Mr Bloom. What were we discussing again?’
Peter hesitated. Then: ‘I presented my argument for allowing the Summer Court to continue running the Dzhugashvili operation and you rejected it, as is your prerogative.’
His voice was shrill. The vision in West’s soul burned with a cold fire in his mind and the fear shrank his self-image into boyhood again. He was glad West could not see into the aether.
‘Indeed. Then I think we are done. I have one more meeting tonight. No rest for the wicked, eh?’
Had Peter witnessed the fevered imaginings of a senile author? No, the images had been too powerful, too all-consuming. Somehow, they had to represent the bigger picture West had mentioned. He might have lost the operation in Spain, but perhaps gained something even more valuable to the Presence.
‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ he said aloud.
‘Mr Bloom? I do remember our conversation. You have to understand that the higher you climb, the more eager people are to push you off your pedestal. And I am presently standing on one leg. Under other circumstances, I might have viewed your argument in a different light. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Capital. Do keep up the good work.’
Peter watched the prime minister’s soul close up into a golden ovoid like a Fabergé egg, sealing away all its secrets. Then he entered the Chimney, shrugged his self-image back into adulthood and started the descent into the Summer Court to tell C the bad news.
10
SOUL-READING, 11TH NOVEMBER 1938—12TH NOVEMBER 1938
The Finance Section of the Winter Court was dreadfully cold, and Rachel White had a hangover.
The white noise of the typewriters rolled over her in painful waves. She had been unable to stomach the morning tea in the staff room and her mouth was dry. She hunched over her desk: it seemed to help with the nausea. Thankfully, there was barely any light from the converted prison canteen’s gridded windows. The electric heaters were on full blast and dried up the damp air, but even so, she had to wear a thick scar
f and fingerless gloves.
Very slowly, she took a purchase order from her in tray, rubber-stamped it and punched the serial number into her ectoterminal, one digit at a time. Later, she decided, she would start her path towards treason by seeing if there was a cash stream that could be diverted from a particular, little-used Cresswell & Pike account to fund Max’s small but growing operation. But that would have to wait until her brain dealt with its chemical imbalance.
One more reason to be jealous of the dead like Bloom.
* * *
Joe had heard about what happened at the Harrises’, of course.
Rachel was not sure who had called him: quite possibly it was Philby. When she woke up to the harsh clanging of her alarm that morning, still in that numb, semi-drunken state that preceded the main event of her hangovers, he was already up.
She found him downstairs feeding the finches, already fully dressed but unshaven. The birds were cold and sat still on their perches, fluffed up into feathery balls.
‘We need to keep them warm,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Let’s move them closer to the fire.’
After the ectoplasm incident, they had somehow reached a mutual, unspoken agreement to pretend it never happened. However, he had started taking care of the finches with a dedication that had the tang of penance.
‘I am not sure the female is well,’ Rachel said. ‘I am going to take them to Max’s tomorrow, see what he thinks.’
‘That sounds like a good idea, love,’ Joe said. ‘I could do it, too, if you want to rest.’
‘No, it’s fine. It gives me something to think about besides work.’
‘How are you feeling this morning?’
Rachel wrapped her dressing gown around herself tighter and huddled close to the gas fire.
‘A little worse for wear,’ she said. Her head was starting to have that feeling of fractured glass. Memories of the previous night emerged from the cracks, and she did not like the look of them. Had she really said all those awful things? Master plan or not, it had better be worth it.
‘Your mother tried to call last night,’ Joe said.
Her mother’s calls had been more frequent lately. She was clearly bored, with Rachel’s father travelling.
‘Of course she did. Did she actually speak to you?’
‘No. Gertrude picked up. Maybe you should give her a call tonight.’
Rachel had not returned her mother’s calls for the past two weeks. She was not sure how she would even begin to explain what had been happening. Telling white lies to her mother had been difficult even before she passed over, but now that she could literally see into Rachel’s soul, it was practically impossible. And when she was bored, she had a habit of spending some of her vim pension on thought-travel to hover around Rachel whenever she was in public spaces after sundown. Rachel alternated between finding it comforting and annoying.
‘I will get around to it, dear,’ she said aloud.
‘How is everybody in the Group?’
‘Oh, they were a bunch of pussycats as always. Guy Liddell asked after you. And, you know, people made a few suggestions that I might look into later.’
‘That’s wonderful.’
Joe’s voice was flat. He pushed his hand into the birdcage to change the droppings-covered newspaper at the bottom. It sent the finches into a fluttering frenzy for a moment. The noise made the first ray of pain penetrate into Rachel’s head.
Suddenly, Joe’s manner infuriated her. It was always like a dogfight with him. He circled around a subject in figures of eight, and only when there was no escape would he fire his emotions at you in a single machine-gun burst. And even then, there were things he would simply not speak aloud.
‘Joe, if you have something to say, please say it. I need to go to work soon.’
It was the wrong way to go about it, she knew. She had tried to get him to open him up before and pushing him never worked; he just became quiet or disappeared to his club.
‘Look, Rachel, I just think…’
‘What?’
‘Maybe we should take some time off. You’ve been under so much pressure, and we haven’t been to the Atlantic Coast for a while. My doctor was saying that it could do me good.’
Gertrude came in with a full English breakfast on a tray. Rachel thanked her, but knew immediately there was no chance of getting it down.
‘I don’t know,’ Rachel said after the housekeeper was gone. ‘It feels too early to take leave, with the new job and everything.’
‘I’m sure Miss Scaplehorn will understand.’
‘Have you met the woman, Joe? She is not the understanding kind. I would love to go, but … it just isn’t a good time. I’m sorry.’
The bacon smelled delicious, so she hazarded a nibble. An acidic taste rose into her mouth immediately. She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes and waited for the heaving in her stomach to subside.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Rachel,’ Joe said slowly, ‘but is there something I should know? Something keeping you here?’
For the past few months, she had suspected Joe of seeing other women. It might not even have been a flesh and blood woman. There were places in the East End where spirits and mediums conjured alluring feminine phantasms out of ectoplasm for the discerning gentleman who worried about disease. Or it could simply have been a secretary in Blenheim.
Rachel was not sure which option was the worst, and so she kept the jealousy locked up in a cage, where it stayed still unless disturbed.
She opened her eyes and gave him a pained smile.
‘Just this terrible headache, dear. Would you be a darling and get me some aspirin so I can face Miss Scaplehorn?’
Joe nodded, touched Rachel’s hand briefly as if an afterthought, and went upstairs to fetch her medicine.
* * *
Rachel managed to get to the third invoice when somebody placed a hot cup of tea on her desk. Startled, she looked up and saw Roger Hollis.
‘How are you, Rachel?’
She picked up the teacup and smelled it. ‘You made it too strong. And without any lemon. But thank you.’
‘I suppose you would have preferred proper chai. But you’re welcome.’
Rachel massaged her forehead and sipped the hot tea.
‘I’m sorry about last time, Roger. I was tired, and didn’t want anyone explaining things to me. Especially things I did not want to hear. What are you doing here, anyway? No flowers for anyone this time?’
For a moment, Roger was consumed by a hacking, painful coughing fit and had to wipe his mouth with a handkerchief. The other Finance clerks turned to look. The cold weather had not been good for his health. In all likelihood, he did not care anymore and was just waiting for his transition to Summerland.
‘In fact, I am here to see you,’ Roger managed.
‘Then you can clearly observe that I am taking your good advice.’
‘I couldn’t help hearing about last night. I spoke out of turn earlier. I want to make it up to you.’
Of course. Philby would have already turned her escapade into the talk of Blenheim, with that gift of gab of his.
‘All right,’ she said. Miss Scaplehorn was looking at them pointedly over the thick rims of her glasses. ‘Let’s go somewhere else. It is only a few minutes until the lunch break anyway.’
* * *
They huddled on couches in a corner in the staff room—it was empty with everybody at the canteen for lunch. Rachel drank her tea and offered Roger some dry biscuits from a tin. She took three herself, and then a fourth: her stomach felt able to handle them.
Roger nibbled a brown disc delicately.
‘Rachel, before you say anything, I heard Philby’s version of what happened. He loves to embellish, so I am giving you the benefit of the doubt. I have been thinking, and I may be able to help you.’
‘Well, I have a few hundred purchase orders that need stamping if you are free after this.’
‘I am being serious, Rachel. I thought a
bout what you said, and there is someone I know in the Summer Court who agreed to look into this imaginary mole. One of the Young Turks, in fact. It’s all rather … unofficial, but he thinks there might be something to it.’
‘Why doesn’t your Spook friend just request my report?’
‘Yes, well, you know how it is, not everything gets put into the reports. Besides, like I said, it is all a little unofficial. So I was wondering if there is anything else you remember about this FELIX, anything else that might help.’
Rachel stared at Roger’s familiar, boyish face, his friendly smile.
I could let it go, she thought. Someone would take care of it. I could go to Liddell, accept the transfer back to the Irish Section, tidy up here and no one would ever know.
Then the anger she had felt at the Harrises’ came back. Bloom is untouchable, Max had said. For all she knew, Roger was working for the forces who chose to shield Bloom from discovery. This was her operation, Kulagin’s gift to her, her chance to show the Service what she was made of and maybe get her job back.
‘No, I’m afraid there is nothing I can think of,’ she said. ‘Much as it pains me to admit it, Harker was probably right about it being misinformation. Even a broken clock shows the correct time twice a day.’
Besides, it would be exactly like Roger to do her a favour to win her affections before his time in mortal flesh ran out, their long platonic friendship be damned. Sometimes she felt that the carefree way he flaunted his affairs was meant to make her jealous. Maybe she was just flattering herself.
I could use a little flattery, Rachel thought.
‘Rachel, you do realise that this is not the worst position for you to be in. I really want to help you.’ He frowned. ‘At least with table manners, if nothing else. You have crumbs on your lips. Here.’
He handed her a clean handkerchief. For an instant, they both held on to it, their fingers almost touching. Then she pulled it to her and dabbed her lips with the silky cloth. Absurdly, she felt guilty at the touch. She put it down on the low table between them, next to her empty cup.