She was considering the best way to sort them out without leaving the road when the car behind switched its headlights to full beam. She was unable to make out the vehicle that loomed in her rear-view mirror. What was its problem? She was doing nearly sixty in the centre lane, and there were no other cars around. Was the driver mad? Her heart started thumping as her grip tightened on the wheel. Her mirror was a panel of white glass. The interior of the car was filled with light.
When the vehicle came so close that it gently touched her rear bumper, she panicked, allowing the wheel to slip through her hands as she swerved left into the slower lane. But the car was still with her, just as close, and she fought to control the sliding wheels beneath her and failed. The last thought to pass through her mind as her cigarettes slid from the dashboard and the vehicle began to slowly turn over, fighting the force of gravity, was the realisation that she would not hear the end of Dickens' epic tale of chancery.
On a freezing afternoon in early November Vince met with Esther Goldstone at her office in Covent Garden, and described what had happened in the Holborn chambers. Esther listened patiently, waiting for him to finish. She looked tired.
'I have some bad news,' she said finally. 'Your commissioning editor – my friend – was involved in an accident a few nights ago. Her car left the road and overturned just outside Bristol. It was burned out by the time the emergency services arrived. Nobody seems very sure how it happened. There were no other vehicles involved.'
'Prometheus brought her fire,' said Vincent.
'What do you mean?'
'Sebastian warned that Prometheus would bring me a fiery sign. It was meant to show me the seriousness of the challenge.'
'You think Carol's death was to do with you?' Disbelief creased Esther's face. 'Even if it were true, how could you prove such a thing?'
To Vince, this was obviously the handiwork of the League. They were stopping the book at its source. 'That's how they work, don't you see,' he said quietly, 'they leave no trace. You told me to use my heart, my instincts. Well, I know they did it, and I have absolutely no way of proving it. The fire cleanses. It destroys all the evidence, wipes out everything except your inner knowledge of the truth.'
Esther eyed him unsurely. The distant soprano was singing her scales in the Opera House's rehearsal room. On such a day as this it was hard for anyone to imagine that behind the normality of the streets, real, honest-to-God conspiracies were being hatched. Esther tried to shake his fears from her head. 'If these people really were responsible for such a terrible thing – which I have to say I doubt – they've failed to stop the project going ahead.'
'Why?'
'I offered to take her work over as a freelance assignment, and the publishers accepted. I came from the editorial ranks, after all. I'm familiar with the background and I'm aware of Carol's intentions for the series. I also know most of the authors involved. As far as I am concerned, the book will remain on schedule. And I hope to God your fears are ungrounded.'
'I'm positive the League was involved -'
'Carol was a terrible driver,' Esther cut in. 'It was late at night and raining hard, and she'd had a couple of glasses of wine. I know. I was with her when she drank them.'
'Oh God, I'm sorry.'
'Don't be. Just make this the best thing you've ever written, because her name is still going to be on the cover.' Esther slapped her palms on the table. 'Let's get back to what we were discussing. Are you sure about everything you've described to me? The way this League operates, for example? You're not exaggerating?'
Vince dug in his leather duffel bag and produced a fistful of crumpled photocopies. 'I think I've barely begun to scratch the surface.'
'You were on the premises illegally,' she pointed out. 'You were very lucky they didn't call the police. Telling people you're a writer guarantees you no immunity.'
'Do you think that's what I should do? Go to the police?'
'And say what? You're annoyed because your feathers were ruffled by members of a meeting to which you were not invited? Don't be so naive, Vince. If you really want to research the organisation – and while I find the subject interesting I don't think it's essential to your thesis – you need to approach it through more orthodox channels. Talk to associates, business colleagues, students who knew these people at Oxford. You have some contacts of your own. Your London articles showed that.'
'They're not the right sort. I don't get any sense from them about this kind of thing,' he said gloomily. 'Reliable sources won't talk about Prometheus because their knowledge is based on hearsay. It's all so hard to define. They're a bunch of blokes who hold private meetings – not an illegal thing to do – and they're used to getting their own way. People owe them favours. Friendships go back the best part of a century. No one's going to say anything bad. It's impossible to confirm or deny the simplest statement. There's nothing on paper anywhere.'
Esther set down her cup. 'Have you asked yourself why you need to find a conspiracy? This isn't just going to be a hatchet job on someone who's annoyed you, is it?'
'They broke into my flat -'
'You don't know that for sure. They might have obtained their information in other ways. Do you have a landlord?'
'A landlady, but she's not on the premises.'
'She has a key, though?'
Vince reluctantly nodded.
'There you are. You have to stop jumping to conclusions. If you're going to do that, you're no good to me. You need facts. If you have any doubts about the material you're using, if you're concerned about legal infringements, bring it to me and we'll sort it out together.'
'Thank you,' he said softly. Esther was right; the activities of the League were not essential to his piece. Her friend's death could have been a coincidence. Accidents happened all the time. He resolved to forget about his feud with Prometheus and concentrate instead on creating a piece of powerful journalism. He assured Esther of this, then left her office and returned to Tufnell Park.
A few days later his agent reported that a verdict of accidental death had been decided in the case of Carol Mendacre, there being no evidence to suspect otherwise.
For the next three weeks Vince worked late every night, often with Louie helping him.
At the end of the third week, just as he had completed his first draft, he arrived back at his flat and found a piece of hand-delivered mail on the mat beneath the letterbox. When he tore open the envelope a small steel key fell out, along with a letter from Sebastian Wells.
Part Two
'Prepare for death if here at night you roam,
And sign your will before you sup from home.'
– Samuel Johnson on London
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HE TOOK the letter over to the kitchen table, seated himself and began to read. When he had finished, he tried to decide if it was meant to be a joke. Outside, shopkeepers were hauling down the graffiti-sprayed steel carapaces that protected their stores, and commuters were quick-stepping from the tube station, casting apprehensive glances at the clouds above them. The day had been unseasonably warm, and a soft poisonous haze had hung in the air, blurring the edges of the buildings, modifying and improving the cityscape. Heavy rain was forecast for the evening, with the possibility of thunderstorms, and the overcast sky had grown ominously black with the departure of day, preparing to make good its threat.