Rachel squeezed the ectophone receiver harder. ‘And which club would that be?’
‘The Alba, madam. May I take a message?’
‘No, that is fine. I will call back later.’
‘As you wish, madam. Good evening to you.’
She put the receiver down and sighed. Symonds would probably stay at the club all night. No doubt he was doing damage control with the other SIS bigwigs, having failed to catch Bloom. Tomorrow would be too late. Harker would be satisfied with nothing less than her resignation by then.
The problem was that the Alba was the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in the capital. It also happened to be Joe’s club and Rachel was well aware of their policies. They never disturbed their members for any reason, always giving polite excuses on their behalf. And one of their foundational principles was no admission for women, not even as a member’s guest. Joe had often used the Alba as a refuge when things were difficult between them.
Sometimes being a woman truly was like being a foreigner in a strange country, visiting—
The idea that came to her was so sudden and absurd that she laughed aloud.
She jumped up and rushed to the hallway where Joe’s old spirit armour stood like an attendant knight. It was a first-generation thing, a heavy contraption of brass, coils and Crookes tubes, rubber and fabric criss-crossed by copper wires, and a small backpack unit of batteries. Joe had kept it in perfect condition.
Rachel touched the plate over the heart. Joe was not the only one who could wear armour in battle, she thought.
* * *
The Alba Club was located in a grand house in Westminster, with a beautiful Palladian facade painted azure with a white trim. The closed curtains and a door lacking a nameplate projected a forbidding reserve.
Rachel was sweating inside the spirit armour as she entered. It was enormously uncomfortable. The joints were stiff and she could barely see through the eyeholes. The batteries were hot and added to her misery.
At least the discomfort distracted her from the feeling that this was the stupidest thing she had ever done.
The entrance hall had a copper-plate memorial to the members of the club who had fought in the Great War. The receptionist gave Rachel an unblinking stare.
‘May I help you, sir?’
The voice was the only truly difficult part. She had called her friend Sykes at the Service’s technical section. He had explained how to plug the armour’s voice box—meant for spirits who could not use the medium’s vocal cords—into a microphone.
‘Yes, I am here to visit a member—Mr Symonds. I am supposed to meet him at the bar.’ It was disturbing to hear the crackling alien words coming out of her chest, an octave lower than her own.
‘Very good, sir. Have you been here before?’
‘A very brief visit with the Earl of Orford, late last century,’ Rachel said, scrawling an unreadable signature in the visitors’ book. ‘I suspect that was before your time.’
‘Indeed, sir. However, if you go past the billiards room, you will find that the bar is still open, just as it has been for the last two hundred years.’
The bar was a narrow, high room with chairs and couches, and a large naval painting on one wall. Joe was nowhere in sight, thankfully. She had planned to ask him to take a message to Symonds but was suddenly not sure what to say to her husband.
Then she heard a familiar voice.
‘Ho there, my dear chap!’
Sir Stewart Menzies, the head of the Winter Court, was waving at Rachel. He had an outdoorsman’s complexion and a thick triangular moustache. He was sharing a small alcove with a New Dead gentleman in a spirit crown and a domino mask.
‘Here, have a drink with us!’ Sir Stewart said. He slapped his knee and motioned towards an empty seat next to him. ‘You, sir, are the perfect man to settle our bet!’
Her superior’s superior officer was gloriously drunk.
Unsure what else to do, Rachel lumbered to the alcove and sat down heavily.
‘Oh my, that thing must be dashed uncomfortable! Are you a member?’
‘No, just visiting. Very kind of you to invite me over. I was at the Carlton earlier this week and never had so much as a hello from any of the members.’
‘Oh, they let anyone in at the Carlton,’ Sir Stewart said, winking at his companion. ‘Right, Symonds?’
Rachel was grateful that the armour’s helmet hid her widening eyes. She had to find a way to speak to Symonds alone.
‘Tell me more about your bet, gentlemen,’ she said.
There were definite political implications to this jovial-looking gathering. Maybe Symonds was worried about the fallout from the Bloom affair and was seeking support against C from the rival Court chief. Sir Stewart must surely relish the opportunity to lay the whole thing at C’s feet: Bloom’s existence would make the Winter Court blameless in the recent Dzhugashvili fiasco in Spain.
Sir Stewart leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘We are all men of the world here, eh? I claim that our living bodies are superior to spirits when it comes to the Venusian arts. Symonds here maintains that the aetheric pleasures far exceed those of crude flesh. We decided to make a bet on the matter and recorded it in the club book. You see our dilemma—we needed a third party to resolve it. And then you walked through the door, sir, fresh from the golden fields of Summerland!’
The barman appeared and put a martini glass with a straw in Rachel’s gloved hand. She managed to take a sip through the armour’s mouthpiece without spilling any.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ she said, ‘that is a topic regarding which I have very little experience.’
Sir Stewart raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’
‘I passed over very young, and still innocent.’
‘My God, man!’ Sir Stewart exclaimed, slapping his knee. ‘That is a tragedy and a shame! I should take you straight to the Golden Calf right now. Then you would be in a position to settle our bet. A very comfortable position. What do you say, eh?’
These were the men she had served her entire life? These were the best the Service had to offer?
‘Your generosity knows no bounds,’ she said quickly, ‘but sadly, I am engaged.’
‘Even more reason for you to try the ways of the world before the marital bed takes it all away!’
‘Do not tease the poor boy. He can always have mistresses anyway. Here’s to youth and innocence, I say!’ Symonds said, lifting his glass.
‘Hear, hear!’
Rachel squirmed inside the armour. This was a waste of time. She felt a terrible urge to yank off her helmet, but she had to keep Sir Stewart out of this.
‘Since you gentlemen are such renowned experts in both marital and extramarital affairs—’
‘And martial!’ interrupted Symonds.
Rachel had to wait for Sir Stewart’s mirth to subside before continuing.
‘I could, in fact, use some advice on the operational side of marriage.’
‘Ask away, dear boy!’ Sir Stewart said.
‘It is a very delicate matter,’ Rachel said. ‘Perhaps Mr Symonds here could advise me privately, our circumstances being similar.’
Sir Stewart slapped his knee. ‘Duty calls, Symonds!’
‘And so does Nature,’ Symonds said. ‘Please follow me to the gentlemen’s, sir, and we will have your problem sorted out in a jiffy.’
* * *
The gents was at the bottom of a long, spiral staircase, and Rachel was puffing like a steam engine when they reached it. She looked away as the Summer Court’s Head of Counter-intelligence emptied his medium’s bladder in one of the seashell-shaped porcelain urinals, expelling fluid at a rate that reminded her of a fountain in Regent’s Park.
‘So, what is it, then?’ Symonds asked, washing his hands. ‘The affair usually goes just fine if you get her good and ready first—What in hell?’