“Did you create the mirror?” Venn breathed. “How did it come to you, all those years ago, before Symmes stole it? Did you really dig it from some forgotten grave?”
Maskelyne did not answer. Instead he said quietly, “It knows I’m here.”
“Good Lord,” Wharton muttered, eyes wide.
Because the silver frame of the obsidian glass was indeed strangely alight, the slanted silver inscription no one could read running with ripples of energy.
The lights flickered. One of the cats sat up and spat.
Piers muttered, “Output has just increased. One kilowatt, and rising.”
Venn didn’t move. “Do you know,” he said, his voice arctic, “how to get to exactly when Jake is?”
Maskelyne lifted the bracelet. “I think I could find out,” he said.
Well, it was just what I wanted.
A haunted house!
I cleaned it, had the furniture repaired, engaged a maidservant and a cook, had such fun buying some new carpets and curtains in the smart new department stores of Oxford Street. I opened the shutters and the windows and let the foggy air of London in to invigorate it.
What I did next will surprise you, though. I had posters and invitations printed, on pale violet card, with gilt letters. They read:
Madam Alicia
Spiritualist and Medium.
Do you have a loved one on the Other Side?
Madam Alicia can help you.
Séances, scrying, the tables and the cups.
Respectable and reasonable rates.
Discretion guaranteed.
It may appear amateur now, but at the time I was delighted with it, and thought myself the height of fashion.
Because of course I had to have some source of income.
And I had always wanted to see ghosts.
It was my secret. I had never told anyone, certainly not my hideous uncle and simpering aunt. But always, as far back as I can remember, I had desired desperately one glimpse of the supernatural. I haunted graveyards and crossroads, hoping for a vision of a girl faint as a cobweb, a headless horseman, a faery funeral crossing the road between the muddy carriage wheels. The idea of ghosts did not frighten me. On the contrary, I burned for such an experience. It seemed to me as if they must be still all around, like the echoes of people, doing the things they had always done, for years, barely knowing they were dead, still absorbed in their lives. An old man who lived in the village had a reputation for second sight, and once I managed to ask him about it. He told me he saw many spirits. Some were easy to see, he said, or even speak to. Others—the older ones, in ruff and gown and breeches—were so very pale they were nothing more than a disturbance of the air, like the ripple above a hot plate.
And their voices, he said, were like the rustle of the breeze in oak leaves, a high whisper that no one but him could hear.
I had read all the Gothic novels, every weird tale. I had no talent to make a living out of, no accomplishments. But as soon as I had seen the house, with its fine paneling and stately rooms, I had had the idea.
I would set myself up as a medium, and become rich! London was full of such practitioners. It was the height of fashion for ladies to visit séances or mesmerists, to be thrilled when the glass moved on the tabletop and spelled out mysterious messages. It would be easy to arrange such things, to deliver messages—true or false—from the dead.
There would be a delicious and necessary degree of deception, of course. But maybe one day, if I sought and practiced hard, a ghost would truly come to me.
I gazed at myself in the dark mirror, proud and hugging myself in delight.
What could possibly go wrong!
“Are you sure?” Venn leaned over the desk, intent.
“As I can be. Operate this”—Maskelyne indicated a small switch—“and the mirror will allow us to see where he is.”
“We’ll be looking through it?” Wharton too was fascinated. “How?”
“The bracelet has been there. The mirror remembers.”
At the back of the huddle Sarah glanced at Piers. The small man was officiously tidying away all the tools and wiring he could find. Catching her eye, he muttered, “I would have worked that out. Eventually.”
“Of course you would,” she said, soothing.
The aggrieved look died instantly. “You think so?”
“Yes. And Piers—no one will solve Dee’s ciphers but you.”
He seemed to swell with pride. One of the black cats stopped licking itself to watch, its green eyes slants of scorn.
Venn straightened. Without another word, he clicked the switch.
They saw a dim, greenish interior, its walls rippling.
“What is that?” For a moment Sarah had no idea.
“A tent,” Wharton breathed, “and look!”
The door was opened and fastened back. Beyond it they saw the bombed street, a glimpse of devastated wartime London.
Jake was shoved in. He was dirty and unkempt and there was a desperate look in his eyes that scared Sarah at once. His hands were cuffed together.
“Right.” Venn turned at once. “This is what we do.”
To see the mirror again sent a thrill of relief and purpose through him.
Its tilted black surface looked exactly the same—there was no scratch, no crack in its perfection, its dark depths showed nothing. Even the silver frame was here, dented and battered, but recognizable.
Jake looked his weary reflection in the face. How to do this?
Allenby, behind him, said, “Is this it?”
“Yes.” He turned. “I want the handcuffs off. And no one in here but you and me.”
The inspector considered him. Then he turned. “Evans, outside.”
“Guv . . .”
“I can handle this. Stay in the street. No one comes past the roadblock.”
With one last glare at Jake, the sergeant marched out. They heard him clambering awkwardly over the rubble.
Allenby brought out the leather fob with the key to the handcuffs. But he held it tight.
“First, explain to me what you’re going to do.”
Jake took a deep breath. “You’re in over your head, Inspector. Alicia wasn’t a spy, she was a double agent. Both she and I work for British Intelligence.”
Allenby’s gaze didn’t flicker. Did he believe it? Jake let his imagination race. “The mirror is a highly secret communication device and must not be allowed to fall into enemy hands. I can use it now . . . this minute . . . to contact . . . my superiors. Unlock me.”
Allenby didn’t move. But he lit up a cigarette and his yellow fingers were shaky. “How do I know . . .”
“You don’t know. I’ve had enough of this. Unlock me. Or your career is over.”
In the silence Jake was aware of the vast and wounded city outside, the hundreds of thousands of people all around him, working and injured and scared, not knowing that here, in its heart, was the black hole that could eat them all.
A car door slammed.
Voices argued, somewhere close.
“All right.” Allenby seemed to decide all at once. He stepped close to Jake. But before he could unlock the cuffs, the door was flung open. Two men in uniform barged in. They wore red caps and each carried a revolver.
The military.
Jake swore. Allenby turned.
“What’s going on? This is police business. You have no right . . .”
“I have every right.” The tall officer stared at them both with icy authority. “You sir, will leave now. Wait at the roadblock with your men.”