Chapter Two

After Lindsay Street I followed the man over Charterhouse—busy now that it was seven in the morning—on to a narrow road I’d never been down before. The white Georgian houses on either side were lined with black iron railings, had steps leading to their front doors, and boasted majestic white-pillared porches. I wasn’t sure how many were homes; most of them were in darkness and had brass plaques attached to their walls reading things like Homeopathic Consultancy, Fairwell Institution and Belvedere House of Communication.

There was no one around. It was just us. I became acutely aware of the dimness of the street. The low autumn sun couldn’t penetrate here, neither could any warmth. It was bitterly cold and my breaths billowed like clouds. The sound of the bustling road faded with each step I took on the frozen path.

On and on he went. Down Smokehouse Yard, then along a curved avenue lined with golden-leafed trees. The looming terraced houses didn’t change, they stayed the same, lifeless, their windows dark nothingness. Still we were alone. It was odd. This time of the morning commuters should be joining the rat race, dashing from their homes still munching toast and shrugging into jackets. Kids should be piling out, weary looks on their faces as they headed for another day of education. But there was absolutely nobody. It was as though this was a forgotten road in the busy hubbub of London.

I was grateful for my silent sneakers, though his smart shoes clacked on the pavement, as did his cane.

Eventually he stopped.

Frantically, I looked for somewhere to hide should he turn. There were no parked cars. The street was as empty of vehicles as it was of people. My only shelter was a lean sycamore tree whose dying leaves were crisp and coated in frost.

Slipping behind the slim trunk, and not at all convinced it would hide me, I continued to watch him.

He was climbing deep stone steps up to a building considerably wider than the others and in the dead center of the arc of joined houses.

It looked at least five stories high, its first-floor windows ten feet up from the pavement, which led me to believe it had a substantial basement. The numerous windows, all identical in height and darkness, appeared to be sash-style and had deep sills. The roof was gray slate with terracotta chimneystacks—a wisp of sooty smoke danced upward from one.

He disappeared through a polished black door with brass furniture. I nibbled on my thumbnail. What should I do now?

I could just go back to the market or even tell the police so they could question the suited man with the intense stare. But would anyone do anything? I doubted it. I was the only one who cared about Denny, so it seemed.

As I moved toward the closed door, my mind whirred. I touched the cool points of the railings lining the front of the house, the chill going right to my spine. There was something ethereal about this street and the big house with its huge, heavy door. It was weird in a way that made the hairs on the back of my neck spike.

As I got closer I noticed two things. Next to the door, instead of a house number, was a polished brass plaque that read Worshipful Company of the Ancient Order. And two, the house wasn’t completely joined to the one next door. At pavement level there was a small archway that led to a dark passage, probably for domestic deliveries to the rear of the house.

I stared first at the plaque. Ancient Order, what on earth was that? But then again quite a few of the plaques on the houses leading to this one had boasted vague titles.

So was I right in assuming this wasn’t a home? Perhaps this was his place of work.

The idea of knocking on the door and asking him outright if he knew anything about Denny crossed my mind, but only for the briefest of moments. I didn’t feel ready to speak to him again. The last time he’d made my head spin, my heart pound and my breathing slip from my control. No, I needed to do my own investigating first, so I had something to go on.

My attention returned to the tunnel-like passageway. I wasn’t intrinsically nosey, didn’t relish gossip like some girls did. But what I was passionate about was loyalty. I knew damn well if the tables were turned, if it was me missing, Denny would go down every creepy avenue and through every gloomy passageway to find me.

Without further hesitation I slipped through a gate in the railings and headed to the tunnel. The air temperature instantly dropped another few degrees and I struggled to see where I was stepping. But the gloomy passage appeared clear of anything other than moss on the walls and a couple of metal grates on the floor.

My footsteps and breathing echoed around the dampness as I hurried to the arch of white light at the far end. I couldn’t get there fast enough and sped up to a jog, the sound of my slapping footsteps ricocheting eerily.

I slowed once the weak light of day surrounded me again and then spotted a wooden gate, arched like the tunnel and with thick iron hinges and handle. It was set in a high stone wall and appeared to be the only place to go from here, the path led to a dead end of tangled weeds and a cracked red plastic crate.

Pushing thoughts of trespassing from my mind, I twisted the rusty circular handle. Like the railings out front, it was icy cold. The gate squeaked as I opened it and I pushed just enough to step through into what appeared to be a very well-tended courtyard garden about the size of a tennis lawn.

Precision-cut hedges lined graveled walkways. Conical topiary bushes sat in terracotta pots, as did lollipop-style bay trees. There were two wooden pergolas strung with frost-laden ivy, each sheltering chilly-looking benches.

I shut the gate quietly, carefully, then glanced to my right and spotted a stone shelter. Pillared like the front of the main house, it had a pitched, tiled roof and a single low seat pressed into the deep recess.

Quickly, I stepped into it, pleased that it offered a good vantage point to view the back of the building and somewhat of a hiding place in its damp shadows.

“You are either incredibly foolish or brave to the point of suicide,” said a voice out of nowhere.

I clutched my chest. “Fuck,” I gasped, looking up into the hypnotizing dark eyes of the man I’d been following. I had no idea where he’d come from. I hadn’t seen or heard him approach or caught him in my peripheral vision. One second I’d been alone, the next he was there, standing right in front of me, within touching distance.

“So which is it?” he asked, twitching his eyebrows and stepping a little closer.

“I…I, well…” I retreated deeper into the shelter, my tongue heavy, my mouth dry. My heart was pounding violently. It was a combination of surprise and fear. The way he was looking at me could be perceived as predatory, like a fox staring into the face of a rabbit, or a slaughterer meeting the pig. But it could also have been victorious, like a champion athlete raising a medal after decades of hard work. “Where did you come from?” I managed, my breath puffing from my mouth between words.

“You tell me. You appear to be keeping a close track of my movements.”

I glanced toward the building. I could only make out the very corner of the brickwork, he’d backed me so deep into the shadows. He must have walked straight through the building to meet me here.

“Please,” I said as my shoulders touched cold wall. “I’m sorry, I was just looking for my friend.” There was only one thing for it, and that was to come clean, offer him the truth. He could be a murderer or a rapist for all I knew, and I was in a deserted, shadowy garden with him. Who would hear me scream?

No one.

“Your friend?” He tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth, which, despite my inner turmoil, I noticed were perfectly white and beautifully straight.

“Yes, he’s missing and I wondered if you, or someone here, might know where he is.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because…” I hesitated, not because I didn’t know what to say but because something had suddenly struck me as incredibly odd about him. It wasn’t just the dapper suit or the flawlessness of his face, or the way his eyes seemed to invite me in— it was his breath, or rather lack of it. While mine was like smoke, huffing from my nose and mouth to hang in a cloud before dissipating into the atmosphere, his was clear, as if it weren’t there, or at least, as if it were the same temperature as the cold air outside. “Why haven’t you…I mean, why can’t I see your breath?”

His gaze shifted, as though studying my vaporous breath. “Mmm, observant little thing, aren’t you?”

I folded my arms, hugging myself against the cold.

“You must be freezing,” he said, stepping back and raising his stick toward the house. “Why don’t we go inside and talk about your friend. Perhaps if you fill me in on the details I may be able to help.”

Suppressing a shiver, I swallowed tightly. My instinct was to run, not go in there— The Worshipful Company of the Ancient Order. That would be madness. No one knew I was here, for goodness’ sake.

But I was considering it.

Am I crazy?

Probably.

I tried to think straight. Worshipful Company? Ancient Order? I had no idea what it meant. And if this equally beautiful and terrifying man was part of that order, I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet his contemporaries, who might be even more extreme in both departments.

But despite my trepidation a tremble of excitement ran up my spine. It had been so long since I’d had something other than hard work in my life. The thought of interesting people and handsome men was incredibly luring. Not to mention I really did need to find Denny.

“I mean you no harm,” he said. “You were wrong to follow me, that is true, but I admire loyalty between friends.” He reached out and touched the tips of his fingers to my elbow, pressing against my sweater. “So we will call it even, and if I can help you then I assure you I will.”

“Really?” He seemed genuine, and those eyes, they were like deep vats of hot chocolate I could happily lose myself in.

He raised his fingertips to his nose, the ones that had just touched me, inhaled deeply and fluttered his eyes shut, the way I’d seen him do to the black pudding at the market. It was as though he was trying to catch a scent of me lingering on his fingers. It was such a primitive thing to do yet he looked such a gentleman, as far removed from primeval urges as a human could be. The trouble was I found it strangely erotic that he wanted to smell me. I wouldn’t mind smelling him too.

“Mmm, yes,” he said, gesturing out of the shelter with his cane. “I am sure we will be able to find something to go on. I have many contacts who I can ask for information.”

“Um, thank you. That would be great.” I stepped past him onto the gravel and headed toward the building, my feet crunching on the stones and my fingers bunched into the sleeves of my sweater. My common sense was wondering why the hell it was being so rudely ignored while my sense of adventure was punching the air in victory.

As we stepped through an enormous black door, similar to the one at the front of the house, the temperature rose a fraction, but not much. I could still see my breath.

“Come, follow me,” he said, heading toward a narrow, scarlet-carpeted staircase with a mahogany banister. “This isn’t the usual route for visitors to the Company but when we have set the wheels in motion for finding your friend, I will show you around properly.”

“What does it mean, Ancient Order?” I asked.

“It will all become clear in time, but for now just think of us as one big family trying to live quietly and do good when we can.”

“That sounds very commendable.”

And weird.

“I’m glad you think so, now come, we have much to do.”

I stared at his neat, long body, almost gliding up the staircase, and my heart suddenly swelled with gratitude. He was the first person to take my concern over Denny’s disappearance seriously. Not only that, he sounded proactive about finding him. Okay, he was a bit strange, the way he dressed, spoke and had smelled his fingers after touching me, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and I needed any help offered my way.

The staircase curled up and around then deposited us onto a wide landing where the banister continued, highly polished and with decorative balustrades. There was an enormous tapestry hanging on the wall. It reminded me of the Bayeux Tapestry I’d seen in history books at school, except something was different about it.

I peered a little closer and studied the figures stitched into the material. It was a battle scene. The armor one side wore was metallic and cumbersome, the opposition dressed in just loincloths, and in two instances, capes. The armored soldiers also carried weapons, swords, daggers, scythes, whereas the near-naked army had empty hands, but despite this they seemed to be coming off best. None of them were lying on the ground, compared to almost half of the others, who were sprawled higgledy-piggledy, limbs akimbo with bloodied throats and chests and chunks taken out of their faces. The threads of the tapestry were faded and worn with age, but what struck me most was the heavy embroidery around the mouths of the undressed army. It was over-stitched several times in burgundy and black, making it look as though they had blood dripping from their lips.

“Do you like it?” he asked, stepping close.

“It’s intriguing,” I said. “What’s it of?”

“An ancient fable.”

“What, like a fairy tale?”

“You could say that.”

“It’s pretty gruesome.”

“It tells the story of victory for a kind who were persecuted until they fought for the right to exist, and won.”

I pointed at the victorious army. “And that’s these blokes, is it? With the blood around their mouths.” I glanced up at him. “Who are they?”

A small tendon flexed and unflexed in his cheek as he studied the picture with me. “The story goes that it was a needless battle. Compromise could have been sought with words yet instead blood was spilled. I like to think this image is a reminder that violence is the last resort for settling disputes.”

“I agree. Thank goodness society has moved on, eh?”

He gave a small huff, almost like amusement, then said, “Eh, indeed.” He tapped his cane on the floor. “But right now we must get to the matter at hand.”

He opened a door to the right of the tapestry and ushered me through.

The room was large, wooden-paneled and smelled of polish and pine. It was also gloriously warm, like midsummer, only cozier.

“Oh wow,” I exclaimed, quickly moving toward a fireplace that boasted crackling logs set in a high grate. I held my palms at the ready to claim some heat and longed for the permanent shiver in my spine to ease. “A real fire, that’s so lovely,” I said, glancing around. “Is this your office?” There was a large desk holding several stacks of neatly piled papers and a red telephone that looked like a throwback to the nineteen seventies.

“Please,” he said, shutting the door and indicating one of two bottle-green leather chairs pulled up next to the fire. “Take a seat, make yourself at home. This may take a while.”

Again he hadn’t answered my question, but I presumed that meant it was his office, his place of work.

I sat, enjoying the fire with all my senses, the smell, the heat, the way it reminded me of delicious Christmas flavors—mulled wine, fruit cake and pheasant.

He fiddled at a tall dresser and as I stared at the flames I heard the bubble and boil of a kettle.

“Here, drink this.” He walked over and pressed a thick black mug into my hand. “Tea,” he said, “the perfect drink to warm your blood.”

“Bones,” I said. “You mean warm my bones.”

“Of course.” He inclined his head slightly and sat opposite.

“That is what I meant.”