astrakhan. He wore a top hat of richest silk plush. His black necktie was fixed with a horseshoe pin and his unbuttoned chesterfield revealed a massive gold watch chain hanging from his waistcoat.
‘W, w, w, what shall I call him?’ I said, my stammer threatening to embarrass me.
‘Call me—’ he said. Oh God, he had heard. I wanted the ground to open up beneath my feet.
‘Your lordship?’ suggested Cliticia, nudging me in the ribs.
He paused and doffed his hat in salutation. Then, replacing it on his head, he continued his ascent. ‘Are we ready, ladies?’ he ventured, when he stood before us. He was taller than Mr Kirchner, but only slightly older, I saw now; in his mid-thirties, I would have guessed. Like him, he possessed a head of thick, blond hair; his eyes were steel blue; and his accent was clipped. He and Mr Kirchner could almost have been brothers, one a prince (it was immediately apparent that ‘his lordship’ was a man of authority), the other born on the wrong side of the bed. Consumed in a somewhat over-earnest study of my interlocutor’s demeanour, it was some seconds before I realized that his attention was upon me, and me alone. ‘Perhaps your friend, Miss Lipski, has already told you, but Mr Kirchner here’—he gestured towards his factotum—‘has been employed to effect renovation work. And a fine job he’s doing, too.’ Mr Kirchner smiled thinly, as a chef might who has been complimented on serving a particularly fine gruel. ‘The legacy of Hawksmoor has of late, it seems, been ill-served.’ His lordship gestured more expansively. ‘Proceed, Mr Kirchner, proceed!’
Mr Kirchner pulled a key from his pocket and walked up to the church’s front doors. ‘In 1836 a fire destroyed the tower,’ he said, treating us to the rationale that gave him access. ‘In 1851 the original altarpiece was sold. The communion table, also.’ The key engaged the wards. Placing a gloved hand against the door, he slowly eased it open. ‘In 1866 they took away the side galleries, altered the windows, removed the box-pews, and replaced the pulpit.’ He looked over his shoulder and waved us forward. ‘And the work continues, of course. It has to. Hawksmoor may have been one of us, but he lacked the requisite scientific expertise to keep the Gate permanently open.’
Nicholas Hawksmoor, a member of the Black Order? Impossible, I thought. The Black Order could not possibly be that old.
Mr Kirchner stepped inside; Cliticia and I followed, once again carrying the carpetbag between us. His lordship brought up the rear.
‘Everything all right, ladies?’ said his lordship, in a possible effort to reassure us.
‘Fine,’ I said, nervously.
‘Tickety boo,’ said Cliticia.
The space beneath the belfry was filled with shadows. They were darker, more menacing, than those that had swarmed about the portico and infested the streets. I stumbled, lost my grip of the carpetbag and heard it fall upon the floor.
‘Let me assist you,’ said Mr Kirchner. Effortlessly, he picked up the bag with one hand and then once more strode ahead. I held out my own hand and found Cliticia’s. Supporting each other, we walked deeper into the church.
As we reached the nave, the shadows gave way to light. Mr Kirchner had found a bull’s-eye lamp and lit it. Depositing our luggage next to a small table, he swung the lamp this way and that, perhaps to ensure that the church was empty. Then, setting the lamp down on the table, he retraced his steps, passed under the balcony seating, and closed the door. Oh God , I have to go back. I thought. Go back before it’s too late. I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘Your name?’ said his lordship.
‘Madeleine,’ I said, ‘Madeleine F, F, F—’
‘Fell,’ said Cliticia.
He offered me his arm. I took it. This is unreal, I thought. Go, you stupid girl, run!
‘Shall we, Miss Fell?’ Leaning against his arm, I allowed myself to be led up the aisle. The church was deserted
‘W, w, w, what shall I call him?’ I said, my stammer threatening to embarrass me.
‘Call me—’ he said. Oh God, he had heard. I wanted the ground to open up beneath my feet.
‘Your lordship?’ suggested Cliticia, nudging me in the ribs.
He paused and doffed his hat in salutation. Then, replacing it on his head, he continued his ascent. ‘Are we ready, ladies?’ he ventured, when he stood before us. He was taller than Mr Kirchner, but only slightly older, I saw now; in his mid-thirties, I would have guessed. Like him, he possessed a head of thick, blond hair; his eyes were steel blue; and his accent was clipped. He and Mr Kirchner could almost have been brothers, one a prince (it was immediately apparent that ‘his lordship’ was a man of authority), the other born on the wrong side of the bed. Consumed in a somewhat over-earnest study of my interlocutor’s demeanour, it was some seconds before I realized that his attention was upon me, and me alone. ‘Perhaps your friend, Miss Lipski, has already told you, but Mr Kirchner here’—he gestured towards his factotum—‘has been employed to effect renovation work. And a fine job he’s doing, too.’ Mr Kirchner smiled thinly, as a chef might who has been complimented on serving a particularly fine gruel. ‘The legacy of Hawksmoor has of late, it seems, been ill-served.’ His lordship gestured more expansively. ‘Proceed, Mr Kirchner, proceed!’
Mr Kirchner pulled a key from his pocket and walked up to the church’s front doors. ‘In 1836 a fire destroyed the tower,’ he said, treating us to the rationale that gave him access. ‘In 1851 the original altarpiece was sold. The communion table, also.’ The key engaged the wards. Placing a gloved hand against the door, he slowly eased it open. ‘In 1866 they took away the side galleries, altered the windows, removed the box-pews, and replaced the pulpit.’ He looked over his shoulder and waved us forward. ‘And the work continues, of course. It has to. Hawksmoor may have been one of us, but he lacked the requisite scientific expertise to keep the Gate permanently open.’
Nicholas Hawksmoor, a member of the Black Order? Impossible, I thought. The Black Order could not possibly be that old.
Mr Kirchner stepped inside; Cliticia and I followed, once again carrying the carpetbag between us. His lordship brought up the rear.
‘Everything all right, ladies?’ said his lordship, in a possible effort to reassure us.
‘Fine,’ I said, nervously.
‘Tickety boo,’ said Cliticia.
The space beneath the belfry was filled with shadows. They were darker, more menacing, than those that had swarmed about the portico and infested the streets. I stumbled, lost my grip of the carpetbag and heard it fall upon the floor.
‘Let me assist you,’ said Mr Kirchner. Effortlessly, he picked up the bag with one hand and then once more strode ahead. I held out my own hand and found Cliticia’s. Supporting each other, we walked deeper into the church.
As we reached the nave, the shadows gave way to light. Mr Kirchner had found a bull’s-eye lamp and lit it. Depositing our luggage next to a small table, he swung the lamp this way and that, perhaps to ensure that the church was empty. Then, setting the lamp down on the table, he retraced his steps, passed under the balcony seating, and closed the door. Oh God , I have to go back. I thought. Go back before it’s too late. I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘Your name?’ said his lordship.
‘Madeleine,’ I said, ‘Madeleine F, F, F—’
‘Fell,’ said Cliticia.
He offered me his arm. I took it. This is unreal, I thought. Go, you stupid girl, run!
‘Shall we, Miss Fell?’ Leaning against his arm, I allowed myself to be led up the aisle. The church was deserted
Similar Books
