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Copyright © 2013 by Barbara Cleverly
All rights reserved.
Published by Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cleverly, Barbara.
A spider in the cup / Barbara Cleverly.
p cm
eISBN: 978-1-61695-289-1
1. Sandilands, Joe (Fictitious character)—Fiction.
2. Bodyguard—England—London—Fiction. 3. Police—Fiction.
4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 5. London (England)—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6103.L48S65 2013
823′.92—dc23 2013008767
v3.1
This one’s for Will
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
CHAPTER 1
LONDON, JUNE 1933. DAWN.
On a neglected reach of the Thames, a woman stood counting the chimes ringing out from Chelsea Old Church behind her. Five o’clock. All was going to plan. Miss Herbert—tall, imposing Hermione Herbert—listened on as the bells of other churches made their contribution to the musical round, some ahead of, others hurrying to catch up with the authoritative boom of Big Ben sounding out a mile downstream. She glanced over her shoulder at the string of old-fashioned gas lamps outlining the bend of the river and sighed in satisfaction. The amber glow of the gas mantles was beginning to fade to lemon as a brightening sky quenched them, offering her sensitive eyes a symphony in grey and gold worthy of Whistler.
This was the moment and the place.
And both were full of mystery. Objects invisible only minutes ago began to reveal themselves. A bundle of rags a few yards away on the muddy bank flapped in a sudden gust of wind, taking on a disturbing semblance of human shape. A barge waiting for the tide stirred lethargically as one of its blood-red sails lifted with the half-hearted flirtation of a tired tart’s skirt.
Hermione shivered in anticipation. Looking about her at the desolate scene, she almost expected to catch sight of the frock-coated Victorian figure of Charles Dickens out and about on one of his insomniac forays into the dark alleys of London. The city was never still. She could sense the restlessness. Early though the hour was, there were people about. They weren’t parading themselves, but they were there all right, the lucky ones with jobs to go to: bakers, bus drivers, factory workers, going quietly, almost apologetically, about their business. And there were others lurking there in the shadows above the waterline. The destitute and discarded. Watching. Furtive.
She pulled her tweed cape up to cover her neck, glad of its warmth. Even on a late spring morning, the banks of the Thames were a funnel for cold damp air and, glancing round at her little group, she was pleased to see that they had all taken her advice and kitted themselves out suitably for the occasion with waterproofs and mufflers, gumboots and torches. The six members had been carefully chosen by her. This had been a popular assignment, and as chairman of the Bloomsbury Society of Dowsers (Established 1892), Hermione had had her pick of volunteers:
Doris da Silva had been chosen for her proven ability with the hazel-twig dowsing rod. (Doris could detect a half-crown under any thickness of Axminster carpet in a London drawing room in seconds.)
Jack Chesterton, ancient buildings architect, was here on account of his charm, his common sense and his enthusiasm. And his belief. Jack had earned the admiration of all when he had discovered—armed with no more than a pair of slender parallel rods—a tributary of the Thames, one of London’s lost rivers that had run, unsuspected, for centuries beneath the venerable walls of St. Aidan’s Church.
Professor Stone. Reginald. Present solely on account of his knowledge of Romano-British history. Cynic and Snake in the Grass. The professor was that most disruptive force in any evangelizing society—a self-proclaimed interested disbeliever. Never embarrassed to call a cliché into service, he was pleased to refer to himself as “the piece of grit” in the oyster that was the Society of Dowsers. Hermione had called to mind her father’s advice: “Enemies? Always keep ’em where you can see ’em, my girl!” And here he was among them and rather surprised to have been chosen. Hermione was determined that any success her group might have this day would be witnessed at first hand and authenticated by their chief critic. She was also looking forward to rubbing the professor’s nose in the London mud before the day was out.
A loud harrumph drew her attention to Colonel Swinton. Chosen for his reassuring presence and the authority of his voice, Charles Swinton had vocal equipment so magnificent it could have sounded the charge of the Royal Dragoons above the battle din of Waterloo. And, rather essentially, because he’d been able to offer in support: two of his gardening staff. Strapping, shovel-wielding auxiliaries brought up to town from his estate in Suffolk and hastily enrolled into the Dowsers for this venture, Sam and Joel were eager to get on with it, whatever “it” might be. They were determined to go home with stories to tell about their jaunt up to London Town.
On their presentation to the Society the day before, the colonel had interrupted Hermione’s introduction to the art and science of the discipline, speaking on their behalf: “A moment please, Miss Herbert. May I explain? My boys have grasped the theory that when a sensitive person takes in hand a forked twig and passes it over concealed water or precious metals, the device will announce the presence of the unseen object of interest by movements of a vibratory nature.” He caught himself sounding didactic and added, “An old country practice. We’re not unfamiliar with it in Suffolk.”
He looked for confirmation to the boys. They nodded.
“S’right, sir. Old Malkie—’e found ’imself a well. Far side o’ the six acre. A good ’un.”