Chapter 9
The Artifice Club, #8.
The building was a grand, five-story affair a few streets from Covent Garden. Four massive Doric columns extended from the second to the third floors. The rooms facing the street were lit, and he saw figures moving behind curtains.
He maneuvered through the evening traffic, mostly theater patrons, and arrived unscathed at the building’s front door.
Comparing the card to the brass plaque near the door did not ease his worries. It listed no name, only No. 43.
Playing their games again, he groused. He had no choice but to enter the lion’s den, providing it was the right den.
He rapped on the door. Stomach clenched in a knot, he straightened his jacket and ran a hand over his hair. The portal opened smoothly. A skeptical face appeared. The rest of the person was clad in burgundy livery.
Yes?
Is this the Artifice Club? Alastair asked.
An eyebrow arched in disdain. No, the man replied stiffly.
Irritated, Alastair shoved the card at him. I was told to come here. If this is the wrong place, just tell me.
You are not at the wrong place; you’re just posing the wrong question, the fellow retorted, and then beckoned him inside.
Already disconcerted, the building’s foyer further upset Alastair’s emotional equilibrium. He’d been inside a gentleman’s club before; Doctor Hanson had taken him round to his private club and Alastair knew what to expect. This foyer did not come close to his expectations. The two chairs positioned either side of the entryway were threadbare. The floor desperately needed polishing. The paintings appeared to be cheap imitations. Nothing was as it should be.
Artifice Club. Of course.
This way, sir, the club steward gestured. They traveled the length of the hall and paused at a door, one of ten that lined the walls. All were identical. Number Eight, the man announced.
Alastair stared at the door and then at his escort. There was no number to indicate this was the first door, or the eighth or the tenth. How do you know that? Why isn’t it that one, for instance?
he queried, pointing to the closest portal across the hall.
Today, this is Number Eight. Tomorrow, it will be another door. It changes every day. I know this is the right one for today.
Alastair’s mind strived to make sense of this peculiar logic.
What if someone else must take your place? How will he know?
The steward solemnly tugged on his burgundy jacket in an officious manner. There is no one else.
If you are ill? Alastair pressed.
Then a number of important people will be severely inconvenienced,
the man replied, as if that settled the matter. The steward produced a key, unlocked the door and pushed it open.
Two flights up, then to your right, sir.
Thank you.
Alastair hiked upward. When he reached the first landing, he realized that the steward hadn’t taken his coat and hat. But then, there’d been no place to store them in the entryway. Below him, the door closed firmly.
When he reached the top stair, he took a moment to catch his breath, then veered right as instructed. Another unmarked door.
At least this time it was his sole choice. Steeling himself, he gave a firm knock. It was immediately opened by a man in royal blue livery, the exact color of the edging on the card clutched in Alastair’s hand.
Ah, Doctor, welcome. The liveried man waved him forward.
They are waiting for you. May I take your hat and coat? Buoyed by the fellow’s cheerful welcome, Alastair stepped into the antechamber and relinquished his outer garments.
I’m Ronald, the 8th Room Steward. Should you need anything, just ask. Alastair had a number of questions, but kept them to himself. The answers would probably not be to his liking.
The antechamber was pleasant, warmed by a toasty fire. The painting on the wall was of infinitely better quality than the ones in the foyer. Intrigued, Alastair leaned closer to study it. A sharply turned-out butler stood at attention while his portly master labored behind a massive desk piled with stacks of gold coins. Clearly oblivious to anything but the wealth in front of him, the master of the house ignored his fine wife and two small children who played on the carpet with an energetic kitten. One portion of the painting echoed domestic bliss; the other a man’s physical and emotional decline.
Beneath the painting, on the frame, was a gold plaque with a Latin inscription.
‘Pecuniae imperare oportet, non servire,’ Alastair quoted. His mind scrambled through the Latin. Money should be mastered, not served.
Ronald fixed him with a pleased smile. Exactly right, sir.
Excellent advice. The fellow is neglecting what is most important.
Indeed.
Do any of them read Latin? Alastair asked.
Only one, and he found it quite instructive. Before Alastair could ask the logical question, Ronald inquired, Are you ready, sir?
Yes, I am. Let’s get this over with.
Right before he opened the door, Ronald murmured in a low voice, Don’t let them get your goat.
The doctor did not have time to respond to this astonishing advice before the steward swung open the door.
Gentlemen, Doctor Alastair Montrose, he announced in a crisp voice.
Four heads bobbed upward in unison. Alastair stared at them in mute horror, his mouth agape. Facing him, brandy snifters and cigars in hand, were the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
What in the blazes? Alastair muttered under his breath. He shot a quick glance toward the steward.
Ronald gave a bemused shrug. They always fancy a good dress up, sir.
Have a seat, Doctor! War boomed. He gestured toward a chair, his face obscured by the visor of a red-plumed helmet. A naked sword perched on his lap. When he took a long puff of his cigar, whiffs of smoke poured out through the visor’s apertures.
Alastair took the proffered chair. Ronald appeared at his elbow, offering him brandy and cigar. No, thank you, he said. He had no desire to socialize with these men, not after their venomous threat against the clinic. The steward retreated to the back of the room on silent feet.
It was good of you to be so prompt, Famine said. He sat clothed in judge’s robes, a large brass scale resting at his feet. He swirled his brandy snifter absentmindedly. Alastair studied his face but could not determine who resided behind the illusion. The voices gave no clue, either. He was running blind tonight, and that did nothing for his confidence. Why hadn’t he paid more attention when Keats talked about The Conclave?
I had little choice but to be prompt, as you put it, Alastair replied, dropping the blue-edged card on the serving table next to him. I was told to be here by ten sharp.
Now, now, young man, no need to be that way, Pestilence said jovially. His illusion was the starkest. Clad in rough-woven linen such as a peasant might wear, his face bore pockmarks. A skeletal hand with blackened fingernails clutched his drink.
Alastair caught movement near the man’s feet. An illusionary rat peered around a dirty boot, yellow teeth exposed. The doctor suppressed a grimace.
Death sat on Pestilence’s right, clad in classic black robe and hood. A gloved hand held a scythe, its blade coated in dried blood.
The hood obscured the specter’s face. Alastair counted that as a blessing.
Why am I here? he demanded, keen to be away from this surreal masquerade.
War took the lead. You need to embrace your unique ability and become an active part of our community, Doctor.
And if I choose not to be party to this…delusion?
Smoke huffed out of the visor. You have no choice, young man.
You are a Transitive, no matter how desperately you seek to ignore your heritage. Your peculiar behavior places us all at risk.
I thought the Wescombs were clear on that point.
Alastair chafed at the man’s lack of respect. Lord and Lady Wescomb did present your case quite succinctly. Nonetheless, I fail to see why I am under scrutiny.
There was ponderous silence. War tapped a finger on the sword’s hilt while Famine fiddled with his robes.
The fog cleared abruptly. My God, you think I have something to do with the murders.
More silence, the condemning kind.
You dare suggest that I would butcher a woman, no…two women, dissecting them as if they were mere scientific curiosities? Alastair challenged.
Do you view women as such? Death asked. His voice was smooth, like ice on a tranquil pond. Hairs raised on the back of Alastair’s neck. He heard the trap, satin-lined though it was.
When he didn’t respond, Death prompted, They are, after all, just whores. What are a few more dead ones? Less to trip over when you take an evening stroll.
Alastair’s anger burst into flame. On the contrary; they are just as important as any of us. They’re God’s creation, though their unfortunate state argues against them.
I would hardy equate an East End trollop with such as us,
Pestilence replied tartly.
Alastair felt heat rise to his face. There is little difference, gentlemen. We are all whores in our own way.
Another huff of smoke through War’s visor. It could be said, Doctor, that you have lost your objectivity. Perhaps some time away would be of value, he advised. He stubbed out the end of his cigar in a silver bowl. Ronald assisted in the lighting of a new cheroot and then stepped back into the shadows.
Let us strike a balance, Famine said, gesturing toward the scales at his feet as if he’d made some clever jest.
What are you suggesting? Alastair asked.
War took up the cudgel. We propose to mitigate the threat to our community while keeping you safe.
This trap had more teeth. In what way?
We wish you to close the clinic and resign your position at the London Hospital until this madman is caught.
Why would I do that? Alastair demanded, astonished at the audacity of the request.
War continued, oblivious to his reaction. We feel that you should leave the country until such time as the police, inept as they are, bring this lunatic to justice. For no doubt they will eventually bumble across him, and he will meet his deserved end.
Yes, a trip to America would be ideal, Pestilence added. You could visit your medical school chums. Of course, we would finance the journey and all expenses incurred. A pause. Within reason, of course.
But not France, Famine cautioned, waggling a finger in Alastair’s direction. Too close to London.
If you wish to take someone with you, a young lady perhaps, that can be arranged, Pestilence said with a knowing smile. You need time to rest, to reflect. Think of it as a sabbatical.
I can’t believe you’re asking this of me, Alastair sputtered. It was one thing to threaten the clinic’s closure, but to suggest that he shutter it voluntarily beggared belief.
War jumped in. When the fuss dies down, you can begin anew.
To show our appreciation, we will finance your clinic for two years.
Within reason, Pestilence interjected.
Really, Alastair said flatly. He shifted his eyes toward Death.
The fourth member of The Conclave had remained silent during the bargaining phase. And what do you say to this?
There will be more killings. If you stay in London, you threaten not only your own future, but ours. The specter rubbed a thumb along the scythe’s blade. He continued in dulcet tones, You have been noted by the constabulary. You fit their profile. It is best you are gone from London before the next whore’s blood stains the cobblestones.
You sound sure that there will be more deaths, Alastair said.