The Detective and the Devil (20 page)

Now, it was Graham’s turn to sigh, gently and elegantly, but the sigh was cut off by yet another bitter little cough.

‘Such has been Dee’s reputation that the Royal Society has, since its formation, made itself the repository of his thought. The Society purchased Dee’s house at Mortlake many,
many years ago, and we have kept it on ever since. That is itself a great secret; if it were to become public, we would be a laughing stock. The world has moved on from John Dee. Or at least, it
believes it has. Certain Fellows of the Society have worked to reassemble Dee’s library. This library was the finest private collection of volumes in Elizabeth’s England – perhaps
the finest in Europe. But when he left the country under allegations of necromancy and witchcraft, the library was ransacked and destroyed. Dee eventually returned to England and made a claim to
the Crown for compensation – he included a list of the volumes in his library. We have, essentially, recreated it.’

‘Why?’ said Harriott, suddenly. ‘Surely much of the material in it is redundant?’ He sounded angry to Horton’s ears.

‘Indeed, Harriott, much of it is. But it is a record of men’s thought in the years immediately preceding the foundation of the Society. And as such it is of incalculable value. But
that isn’t the main reason. You see, many believe that certain
particular
volumes were stolen from Dee’s library. Volumes containing great secrets. Dee was playing for high
stakes, gentlemen. He believed that through a combination of what we now call science and what he called magic, man might ascend a kind of celestial stair. Might, in fact, move closer to God. This
was the true work of the men we now call
alchemists
– to purify the spirit of man through the combination of elements, as one might make gold. To make man, essentially,
immortal.’

The three old men were still in their room. Mortality stalked them all, and did not bother to hide itself.

This is madness
, thought Charles Horton. It chilled him.

‘Dee claimed he had visited St Helena, in one of his writings on navigation,’ said Sir Joseph. ‘There is no other evidence for him having gone there, but why even mention it?
It was then an obscure staging post held by the Portuguese. Why would John Dee have an interest in it?’

The silence fell again. Horton did not know what to say.

‘Do you believe this, Sir Joseph?’ he asked, eventually. ‘That Halley met a man who was centuries old?’

‘I am not in the business of believing in anything,’ said Sir Joseph, firmly. ‘I am in the business of investigating and confirming, that is all. And I believe we are in the
same business, are we not?’

Sir Joseph smiled that warm smile again, the smile which was practised and worn smooth with much use over the years.

‘We can assume, can we not, that the Royal Society has itself investigated these matters?’ asked Horton.

‘Yes. We have sent dozens of men there over the years, both before and after Halley died. Halley left us with a simple instruction:
watch St Helena
. It is something we have tried
to do over the decades, but God knows it is not straightforward. The East India Company guards its secrets carefully. I have tried to travel to St Helena myself on several occasions, but it has
always been made clear to me that such a journey would not be countenanced.’

‘Countenanced by whom?’ said Horton.

‘By the Crown.’

The three simple words spoke so much: of influence and power, of secrets and schemes. Yet Horton wondered if he quite believed Sir Joseph. Was the man not a friend of the now-mad King? Had he no
influence in this matter? Horton looked at Harriott, and could see some of his own suspicions in the magistrate’s face.

Sir Joseph shifted his enormous weight in his chair.

‘Detective, here is the matter: the East India Company is, to all intents and purposes, the Crown on St Helena, as it is in India. And while we maintain cordial relations with the Company
and its Directors, it is fair to say that in this, as in all things, we are in competition for funds, for attention from the Crown, for influence. The Company watches any undertakings by the Royal
Society within its territories as if we were footpads creeping in to empty their pockets.’

This with a high degree of bitterness.

‘And it may be that it will soon become impossible to ever find these secrets. I have heard of changes to how the island is to be governed. It appears that our interests have become
conjoined, gentlemen. You are interested in St Helena. I am interested in St Helena. I propose, then, that I send you to St Helena.’

‘But what does any of this have to do with the matter at hand?’ Harriott asked.

‘The matter at hand?’ said Sir Joseph, and in his confusion was all the arrogance of the powerful, and their ignorance of the weak.

‘The murder of Benjamin Johnson, his wife and his daughter. The murder of Amy Beavis and her father.’

Sir Joseph had no answer to that, and neither did Harriott or Graham. Charles Horton, though – he did have an answer. A symbol, a
Monad
, inked on the chests of the Johnsons. John
Dee’s symbol. He did not share this thought. It felt like a fragment of influence, a tiny portion of power which might, one day, serve a need.

Horton looked at the faces of the old men, one after another. In their exhausted eyes was the flickering excitement of one last game, a final mystery to be unlocked, perhaps the biggest of them
all. And out there, perhaps, another Monster, stalking him, his wife, his home.

It was a four-hour carriage ride from Wapping to the village of Seal, just outside Sevenoaks in Kent. This considerable ride was made worse by the persistent presence of Edward
Markland, who spent his time saying very little but exuding a smug sense of superiority. It made for a tiresome journey, and Horton found himself staring at Markland on occasion and thinking to
himself of what Sir Joseph had said to him last night.

Detective Horton. It has a ring to it, does it not?

Sir Joseph’s stories of ancient seers and hidden texts had been suitably resonant with darkness descending on the river, but did they hold any root in the real world on this lovely spring
morning? What did that phrase
the real world
possibly mean, when set against Sir Joseph’s tales of mysteries and matters celestial? As he ignored Markland, he pondered Sir
Joseph’s proposal to send him to St Helena.

It was an extraordinary idea, and Harriott had said nothing of it as the strange little meeting broke up. It had been left to Graham to take Horton aside and talk to him of it, while the other
two old men sat silently, not waiting for an answer. It had been more like they were waiting for death.

‘Feel under no compulsion,’ Graham had said,
sotto voce
and with a conspiratorial hand on Horton’s arm. ‘It is an astonishing thing to ask of you. But also, know
this, Horton: your enemies are all around. And soon, all three of us will be gone. And what then?’

Horton pondered that question in the Kent-bound carriage. What had Graham meant, precisely? Who were his enemies? Was Markland one of them? And how did the ancient troika – Harriott,
Graham and Sir Joseph – come to be his protectors?

He had not, he believed, deliberately enraged anyone in his years investigating matters for John Harriott. So it bemused him to think he may have made enemies. But then he considered Sir
Joseph’s strange tales, and wondered if it might be what he had
learned
that made him dangerous to certain powerful men. Not what he did or said, but what he had unearthed.

And then there were practical questions. If Harriott were to die soon, who would he work for? He saw no appetite for his unique skills among other magistrates – even Markland might baulk
at making him an employee. He could be cast into penury at the quiver of a quill. And what then? A middle-aged mutineer with a single indescribable skill – that of a form of investigation
that nobody seemed to know they needed. What possible future awaited him on the other side of Harriott’s death? Did the world need
detectives
?

Perhaps that had been Graham’s meaning. Perhaps he did not have enemies, quite – what he had was a scarcity of friends. Would there be opportunities in St Helena? Or even further
afield? Might he find friends in further-flung corners?

He would have liked to discuss St Helena with Abigail today, during this long ride – but there had been no question of bringing her along on a journey such as this, however hesitant he
might have been about leaving her in London. He had left early this morning and had gone to Harriott to propose this trip, and his magistrate had agreed, on one irritating condition: that he inform
Edward Markland.

Markland had agreed, with resignation, to Horton’s request. But he had insisted on accompanying him to the country residence of Alderman Robert Burroughs. ‘A Wapping constable does
not just show up on the doorstep of one such as Burroughs,’ Markland had said. ‘Is it really necessary to visit him unannounced?’

Horton, and Harriott, believed it was. Markland had been persuaded, and now here he was, glaring at Horton with his remorseless self-obsession, a baleful gadfly with sadly necessary powers.

Turning away from his own future, Horton tried to focus on the immediate questions relating to the immediate matter: why were the Johnsons killed? And, thus, who killed them? There was a form in
the deaths, a pattern shared between those of the Johnsons and those of the former assistant treasurers of St Helena. Each death had told its own little drama; had contained its own staging. A
family smashed to bits on the same street as the Marrs, four years before. A captain dead and naked on Boxhill. A captain dead and stabbed in a side alley in Kingston. A captain impaled on his own
railings, a whore inside. A captain dead in the river, apparent suicide.

Salter’s story, then, of this strange substance
Prussic acid
and its hugely poisonous qualities. Its stench hung over these murders, both literally and figuratively.

And then, that story of the strange marking, the one he had seen on the Johnsons, and the one found on the whore. John Dee’s
Monad
. A direct link between all these deaths, and
across the years – and another obscure association with St Helena, via that reference in the essay on John Dee.

Those two dull syllables:
John Dee. John Dee. John Dee.
Like a heartbeat that would not cease. And four others:
St Helena.
Again and again and again, that mysterious island
rose up before him in this case. It reminded him of another four-syllable island – Otaheite – and the way that place had haunted the eyes of the sailors who had visited it. Paradise had
imprinted itself upon their souls.

They pulled into the driveway of Seal Castle, the walls as high and as grand as any Horton had seen. The drive passed through a thick wood, and Horton watched closely for the shape he expected
to see somewhere in the shadows. But he saw nothing. If the thing he suspected to be there was to be found, it must be behind the house, or further into the woods.

The house was as vast as Markland had said. Robert Burroughs had earned untold thousands from his gold and silver trading, and that gold and silver had been subject to a reverse alchemy,
transmuting back into base elements: stone and brick and marble and glass. Seal Castle was gloriously appointed, supremely tasteful, hidden away behind its walls and within its woods. Horton
thought of the unimpressive heron of a man who had appeared to them at East India House, and hoped fervently he was not at home.

Markland took a scroll from inside his coat.

‘The warrant,’ he proclaimed, grandly. ‘It is incontestable, but it would be better were it to come from me. Particularly if Mr Burroughs is at home.’ His face was grim
and determined, and Horton found an unexpected shard of admiration for this conceited little fellow.

He watched Markland step down from the carriage, and walk up the enormous steps to Seal Castle’s door. He knocked upon it, and a middle-aged fat man dressed in the garb of a butler opened
it. Markland spoke to him, and was shown inside.

Such a house, Horton thought. One could fit the whole of Wapping inside its gardens, and Shadwell and Ratcliffe too. He found himself to be almost afraid of this building, or more precisely of
what the house represented: money, power, privilege. It encapsulated all his concerns as to the future. He was afraid. He was afraid of how men who lived in such places might deal with a Nore
mutineer and his wife should they lose the protection of an ill and impoverished magistrate.

The door to the house reopened, and Markland reappeared, accompanied by the fat butler. They made their way down the steps to the carriage, and Markland opened the door to speak to Horton.

‘Mr Burroughs is not at home today. He travelled to London this morning.’

Perhaps they passed on the road, thought Horton.

‘I have told this fellow,’ continued Markland, ‘that I am charged with asking him some questions, in the name of Justice. And that I have a warrant to enter this property, and
to ask him and the other servants questions.’

The warrant had done its work, then – though Horton believed it would not have guaranteed entry if Robert Burroughs were here. Nonetheless, the butler was acquiescing. Markland’s
words must have had some effect.

‘Now, Horton,’ said Markland. ‘Let us go inside, and get this over with.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Horton, and Markland glared at him. ‘Tell me this: does Seal Castle have an ice house?’ he said to the butler.

The butler frowned, and Markland took Horton’s arm and whispered sharply in his ear.

‘Constable, what on earth are you about?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the butler. ‘We have an icehouse. In the woods behind the house.’

‘We need to see it. Immediately, if you please. And bring a key.’

Burroughs’s icehouse was to the rear of the house. It was of recent construction, its bricks forming a near-perfect red half-sphere embedded deep into sandy soil, the
pointing uniform and without cracks. A small door in the side of the sphere was secured by a heavy padlock. The icehouse was in deepest shade, on a north-facing dip beneath a thick canopy of trees,
hidden from the sun like a sleeping dragon.