The Perfect Poison Page 6

  “I suppose that is true.”

  Caleb pulled out his pocket watch and frowned at the time. “Damn.”

  “What now, Mr. Jones?”

  “I have a great many more questions for you, Miss Bromley, but they must wait until tomorrow. There is another extremely urgent investigation which requires my attention tonight. Preparations must be made.” He dropped the watch back into his pocket. “When that affair is concluded, I will be free to concentrate on Hulsey.”

  He started toward the door without any pretense of a polite farewell.

  Alarmed, she leaped to her feet. “One moment, if you please, Mr. Jones.”

  He turned, his powerful hand on the doorknob, and elevated an impatient brow. “Yes, Miss Bromley?”

  “Let us be clear on one very important point, sir,” she said firmly. “I am hiring you to investigate the theft of my fern. If it so happens that your mad scientist, Hulsey, is the one who stole it and prepared the poison that was given to Lord Fairburn, well and good. But I am most certainly not employing you to apprehend some crazed alchemist who is trying to perfect the formula. Your task is to keep me out of prison. Do we have an understanding?”

  He gave her the first full smile he had bestowed upon her.

  “We do, indeed, Miss Bromley,” he said.

  He opened the door.

  “Furthermore, I insist that you make frequent and regular reports on your progress to me,” she called after him.

  “Never fear, Miss Bromley, you will hear from me again. And soon.”

  He went out the door into the hall.

  Her heart sank. I’m doomed.

  There was no doubt in her mind but that, as far as Caleb Jones was concerned, the Arcane Society’s interests would always come first. She could only pray that her desperate attempt to avoid a murder charge would coincide with Caleb’s plans to capture Hulsey. If he was forced to choose between the two objectives, she knew she would come second.

  SIX

  THE STENCH OF UNWHOLESOME EXCITEMENT RISING from the ranks of cowl-draped men was so thick that it seemed to darken the very atmosphere inside the ancient stone chamber. The shifting shadows cast by the lanterns appeared to Caleb’s heightened senses as living, breathing entities that pulsed and throbbed in terrible rhythms, strange beasts of prey waiting to gorge on the blood that had been promised.

  With an effort of will, he suppressed the imagined monsters. It was not easy. The ability to perceive dangerous patterns and dark connections where others saw only random chance was his gift. It was also his curse. While his ability to make huge intuitive leaps on the basis of only a few vague hints or clues was certainly useful, it had some unfortunate side effects. Lately he had begun to worry that the dazzling, multidimensional mazes he constructed in his mind when he was working on a problem were not merely the product of his strong talent but rather full-blown hallucinations created by a fevered brain.

  From his position in the second row he had a clear view of the altar and the arched, curtained doorway on the far side. A boy of about twelve or thirteen lay stretched out on the surface of the stone slab, wrists and ankles bound with rope. He was awake but dazed, either from fear or a stiff dose of opium. Probably the latter, Caleb thought. He gave thanks for that small blessing. The boy was not alert enough to comprehend the danger.

  This was not the way he had wanted to handle the case but by the time he had received the message from his informant, it had been too late to come up with any other plan. As it was, there had been barely enough time to attempt a rescue.

  The first rumors of the existence of the cult had reached him only a few days ago. When he had realized that the man who had established it was powerfully talented and quite possibly dangerously unhinged, he had consulted immediately with Gabe. Neither of them had seen any way to build a case that could be handed over to the police, at least not before grave violence had been done. They had concluded that the Jones agency had no choice but to act.

  The low chanting started in the front tier of hooded figures and spread swiftly to the second and third rows. It was a mix of mangled Latin with the occasional Greek word thrown in for effect. Caleb doubted that any of those standing with him actually understood what was being said. The acolytes were all young males in their teens and, judging by their accents, they had come from the streets.

  He had done a quick head count when he and the others filed into the chamber. There were fifteen figures arrayed in ranks of five in front of the altar. Two more acolytes stood at either end of the stone slab. One was somewhat taller than the other and more solidly built. A man, not a youth. The leader and his closest associates had not yet appeared.

  The harsh rumble of the chant grew stronger and louder. Caleb absently translated while he watched the curtained doorway.

  . . . Great Charun, oh Demonic Spirit, we seek the power you promise to those of us who follow the true path . . .

  . . . Praise to our master, the Servant of Charun, who commands the forces of darkness . . .

  The black velvet curtains that covered the arched doorway were abruptly swept aside. A youth in flowing gray robes that were far too big for him strode solemnly into the room. He gripped the hilt of a jeweled blade in both hands. The lantern light seemed to flare a little higher. It glinted on the malevolent weapon. Power hissed and slithered across Caleb’s senses.

  No doubt about it, he thought, the group had found the dagger that had been used by the ancient Etruscan cult. A nasty paranormal artifact if ever there was one.

  A hush fell over the crowd. The sick energy of unholy lust intensified in the chamber. Caleb slid his hands into the folds of his robes and gripped the handle of his revolver. The gun would be of only limited use against the large gang of tough young males. He would be able to get off a shot or two but the acolytes would soon overwhelm him. Mindlessly enthralled by their leader, they would sacrifice themselves for him, he had no doubt. That aside, the last thing he wanted to do tonight was shoot some poor boy who’d had the misfortune to come under the mesmerizing influence of the master of the cult.

  “Behold the Servant of Charun and show him all honor,” the boy holding the dagger intoned in a voice that cracked a little. “Tonight he will reach through the Veil to summon great powers.”

  Another figure appeared in the doorway, his tall, thin frame shrouded in black robes. Large rings glinted on his fingers. The cowl concealed his features.

  Even from where he stood in the second row, Caleb sensed the dark, sick energy around the Servant.

  The acolytes fell to their knees. Caleb reluctantly did the same.

  The Servant of Charun looked at the boy holding the dagger.

  “Is the sacrifice ready?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the boy said.

  The intended victim surfaced from his drug-induced stupor.

  “What’s this?” he mumbled, the words slurred. “Where the bloody hell am I?”

  “Silence,” the boy holding the dagger ordered.

  The sacrifice blinked a few times, still disoriented. “Is that you, Arnie? What are ye doin’ in that silly-looking robe?”

  “Silence,” Arnie shrieked. He sounded very young and very scared.

  “Enough,” the leader decreed. “He should have been gagged and blindfolded. It is not fitting that the sacrifice look upon the face of the Servant of Charun.”

  Always hard to get good staff, Caleb thought. He could almost sympathize. He had lost track of how many housekeepers he’d gone through in the past few years.

  “Yes, my lord,” Arnie said hastily. “I’ll take care of the business.”

  He hesitated, uncertain what to do with the dagger. Then he set it down on the altar.

  “Give me the dagger,” the Servant of Charun commanded.

  The taller of the two hooded acolytes standing at the altar moved slightly as though to pick up the blade and hand it to the leader. His hand brushed against the weapon. The atmosphere around the blade blurred ever so slightly, as
though it had been enveloped in fog. In the next instant the artifact disappeared altogether.

  For a few seconds no one moved. Everyone, including the Servant of Charun, just stood there, staring at the place where the blade had been a heartbeat earlier. Caleb took advantage of the collective confusion to get to his feet. He went swiftly toward the altar.

  The Servant of Charun looked up, still bewildered, and saw Caleb coming toward him. He finally appeared to grasp the fact that the situation had become complicated.

  “Who are you?” he shouted. He moved back, one hand raised as though to ward off a demon.

  Caleb showed him the gun. “There’s been a small change in tonight’s performance.”

  The Servant stared at the gun. “No. Impossible. Charun will not allow you to harm me.”

  The boy on the altar sat up with a groggy air. The ropes that had bound his wrists and ankles had been severed.

  “What’s going on?” he said.

  The dagger reappeared in the hand of the tall acolyte.

  “We’re leaving,” the acolyte said.

  He scooped up the boy, tossed him over his shoulder and disappeared through the curtained doorway.

  “Stop him,” the Servant of Charun shouted.

  There was a mad scramble as several hooded figures tried to get through the opening at once.

  Glass shattered on stone. Caleb realized one of the lanterns had been knocked to the floor. There was an ominous whoosh. Flames leaped high, snapping eagerly at nearby robes.

  “Fire,” a boy yelled.

  Hoarse, terrified shouts reverberated through the chamber, echoing off the stone walls. There was a great thunder of shoes and boots as the frightened acolytes rushed to jam the only two exits.

  A panicked youth intent on escape caromed into Caleb. The impact sent him sprawling. The gun flew from his hand and skidded out of reach across the floor.

  “Son of a bitch,” Caleb muttered. This was not going well.

  He rolled to his feet in time to see the Servant dashing toward the curtained doorway. He leaped forward and managed to seize the back of the other man’s cowl. He yanked hard.

  The Servant of Charun did not go down but he reeled back against the altar. His cowl fell away, revealing the aquiline face of a man in his early thirties. His hand plunged into the folds of his robes and emerged with a pistol.

  “Damn you,” he roared. “I’ll teach you to interfere with Charun’s Servant.”

  He pulled the trigger but he was off balance and quite frantic. Not surprisingly, he missed by a wide margin. Before he could make a second try, Caleb was on him.

  They hit the unforgiving stone floor with a bone-rattling thud. The muffling, entangling robes proved a great hindrance to landing solid blows. In the rising tide of firelight Caleb saw his opponent’s pistol on the floor.

  The cult leader fought back like a man who was, indeed, in the grip of a demonic possession. But there was no science in his efforts, just a great deal of wild thrashing, punching and screaming. There was also a great deal of odd cursing.

  “You will burn in Charun’s dungeon of fire, unbeliever.”

  “By the power of Charun, I command you to die.”

  The man was truly mad, Caleb thought. He was not just another dangerous criminal talent who had set himself up as the head of a cult. The Servant actually believed in the demon lord that he had created in his own demented mind.

  “We have to get out of here,” Caleb said, trying to reach some remnant of sanity in the man’s disordered brain.

  “It is Charun.” The leader struggled to his knees, suddenly fascinated by the flames. “He is here.” In the flaring light there was awe and euphoric wonder on his face. “He has come to deliver me from you. Now you will pay with your soul for daring to assault one who serves the demon.”

  The flames had reached a cloth-draped table. The black fabric quickly caught fire. Heavy smoke roiled through the room. The leader appeared utterly transfixed by the growing inferno.

  Caleb picked up his gun and brought the butt of the weapon down quite forcefully against the back of the other man’s skull.

  The leader slumped forward.

  Caleb dropped the gun into his pocket. Staying low in an effort to avoid the worst of the smoky atmosphere, he pulled out a large handkerchief and clapped it across his nose and mouth. A quick glance around told him that they were the only two people left in the chamber.

  Once again he seized the cowl of the Servant’s robe and used it to drag the unconscious man across the stone floor.

  He hauled his burden past the black velvet curtain. The air on the other side of the doorway was much sweeter but the passageway was unlit. Darkness loomed.

  He dropped the handkerchief and flattened one hand on the wall of the stone tunnel. Behind him there was another violent whoosh as the velvet curtain fell to the flames. He did not look back. Using the old stones and the scent of fresh air as a guide, he made his way toward the far end of the tunnel, dragging the leader behind him.

  Lantern light splashed ahead, pushing aside the darkness. A moment later a figure loomed. The glary yellow light illuminated a familiar face.

  “Imagine meeting you here, cousin,” Caleb said.

  “What the devil kept you?” Gabriel Jones reached down to assist with the unconscious leader. “The plan was for you to come out with Fletcher and the boy.”

  “Didn’t want to risk losing this bastard.” Caleb sucked in the clean air. “Then there was a small problem with a fire.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Who is he?”

  “Don’t know his name yet. Calls himself the Servant of Charun. Whoever he is, he’s mad as a hatter. Fletcher and the boy are safe?”

  “Yes. They’re waiting for us outside. So are Spellar and some constables. They’ve rounded up several of the cult members.”

  “No point arresting them. They were all young, gullible street boys. I’m quite sure that whatever belief they had in the powers of their demon lord just got extinguished.”

  They emerged from the tunnel to find several frightened acolytes and a considerable number of constables milling around the yard of the old, abandoned inn that had served as the cult’s temple. Lanterns lit the chaotic scene.

  Edmund Fletcher hurried toward him. The boy he had rescued was at his heels.

  “Are you all right, sir?” Edmund asked.

  He radiated an exultant excitement. Caleb recognized the aftereffects that often accompany a close brush with danger combined with the powerful thrill that comes from pushing one’s talent to the maximum degree. He was starting to feel a similar rush of sensation, himself.

  It was not the first time he had experienced this sort of edgy intoxication. What he did not comprehend was why he was suddenly thinking of Lucinda Bromley.

  “I’m all right,” Caleb said. He started to cough but he managed to clap Edmund’s shoulder. “You did excellent work back there. You got us inside without drawing any attention, through all those locked doors, and you got the boy out safely. A fine performance.”

  Edmund grinned. “Will you have other assignments for me, do you think?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m certain that the Jones agency will have occasional use for a man of your talents.”

  The boy looked up at him. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but Mr. Fletcher and I have been talking about your detective agency. It sounds like very interesting work. Would you have any need for an agent with my skills?”

  Caleb looked down at him. “What is your name?”

  “Kit, sir. Kit Hubbard.”

  “What sort of skills do you possess, Kit Hubbard?”

  “Well, I can’t make items disappear like Mr. Fletcher here does,” Kit said seriously, “but I’m very good at finding things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a skill that just sort of came to me in the past year or so. I never used to be able to do it, not the way I do now.”

  Strong psychical talents usually a
ppeared at puberty.

  Caleb exchanged a look with Gabe. Until recently, membership in the Arcane Society had been largely limited to those who had been born into it or who had married into it. Secrecy had been critical to the survival of the organization for centuries. In previous eras those who claimed to possess psychical powers had been accused of witchcraft. That dangerous history had kept the group from actively recruiting outsiders with talent, regardless of their social class.

  But the world was changing. This was the modern age, and the new Master of the Society was a very modern-thinking man.

  Gabe studied the boy. “That sounds like a very interesting talent, Kit.”

  Kit gestured at the jeweled dagger Edmund Fletcher still held. “I’m the one who found that blade for Mr. Hatcher, there.”

  They all looked at the cowled leader, who was just beginning to stir.

  “That’s his name?” Caleb asked. “Hatcher?”

  “That’s what Arnie called him,” Kit said. “Arnie works for him, you see. He told me that if I brought that dagger to Mr. Hatcher, I’d get more money than I’d ever seen in my life. Well, I found it for him, all right. It was in an old house on Skidmore Street. The owner died a long time ago and no one ever cleaned out the basement. The next thing I knew, I woke up on that slab of rock with Arnie holding the damn blade over my head.”

  “I’d like to hear more about your talent, Kit,” Caleb said. “I’m almost certain my agency could use a young man of your abilities.”

  Kit grinned. “Do you pay well, sir?”

  “Very well. Just ask Mr. Fletcher, here.”

  Edmund laughed and ruffled Kit’s hair. “One job for the Jones agency will take care of the rent for a few months and leave some money left over to buy your mother a pretty new bonnet.”