The Dark Palace--Murder and mystery in London, 1914 by R.N. Morris Page A
Authors: R.N. Morris
Ads: Link
high jinks and horseplay. But the truth was these days everyone he knew (that is to say, everyone he was prepared to acknowledge knowing) was just too lazy to go to all this trouble.
If it wasnât a joke, he was forced to conclude that it was something more sinister. A warning, perhaps. Or a threat.
You are being watched , it seemed to say. We have our eye on you!
â We â, yes. For he was sure that a grouping rather than an individual was behind this.
As he had peered down at the object on the floor of his club reading room, he had had the sense that he was being watched right then, that the eye (which was not really an eye) was capable of seeing him. And through the eye, they somehow knew everything there was to know about him. They were watching him there and then. They had been watching him the night before. They had been watching him for weeks, months even. They had witnessed all cavortings and couplings. And now, in sending him this fake eye, they were merely signalling their readiness to make use of everything they had seen. This was the first move in a blackmailing operation, he felt sure.
A chill passed through him. What if they wanted more than money from him? What if they wanted control, or access? What if they were not just some grubby opportunists out for their own profit? What if they were agents of a foreign power?
He imagined the darkness enclosing the loathsome object as it lay dormant in the drawer of his desk. In his mind, it had become the thing that it was meant to represent. It had become an eye. No, it was more than an eye. It was a sentient thing. It could see, but it could also think. It was self-aware. It had intent. It was malign. And it hated the darkness into which he had plunged it. It would bide its time, feasting hungrily on the thin slivers of light that leaked through the cracks in the box. Storing up its hatred. Plotting its revenge.
He knew that the darkness to which he had now consigned it could not contain it forever.
NINE
A wan light seeped thinly through the packed clouds above Whitehall. But straightaway it seemed to retract, as if cowed by the grandiose buildings of government.
Quinn held his head self-consciously high as he strode across Horse Guards Parade. Once or twice he had to blink away the memory of Miss Dillardâs reproachful expression. Her eyes, dewy with disappointment, had become the eyes of his conscience.
Blink!
He had to get on with the job. Duty demanded it. And right now the job consisted solely in striding purposefully across the empty parade ground. That was all that was asked of him for the moment, and on balance he felt himself equal to the task.
The thing was if he did not get on with the job, if he did not continue striding â in other words, if he gave in to the mute reproach of those eyes ⦠No, it did not bear thinking about. That way, madness lay.
Blink!
He allowed the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath his shoes to signal his determination. It was time to bring some purpose to the investigation. He would have it out with this Admiralty fellow, no matter that he was a lord of the realm. They needed specific information about a real danger; names and photographs of suspect individuals, addresses to be monitored. Details of a concrete plot against which they could pit themselves.
Otherwise his men were just aimlessly prowling.
Ahead of him, the Admiralty Extension was a concrete enough presence. Its very existence was testimony to the dangers the country faced. It had been built with one purpose only, to prepare for war. And even while it was being built, it had grown in scale from its original conception, spawning additional corridors and offices as its sense of imminent threat increased. At the same time, it had something of the air of a fairytale palace. The baroque frontage, in red brick and white stone, created a fussy pink effect that put Quinn in mind of sleeping princesses, rather than grey, frock-coated men on a
If it wasnât a joke, he was forced to conclude that it was something more sinister. A warning, perhaps. Or a threat.
You are being watched , it seemed to say. We have our eye on you!
â We â, yes. For he was sure that a grouping rather than an individual was behind this.
As he had peered down at the object on the floor of his club reading room, he had had the sense that he was being watched right then, that the eye (which was not really an eye) was capable of seeing him. And through the eye, they somehow knew everything there was to know about him. They were watching him there and then. They had been watching him the night before. They had been watching him for weeks, months even. They had witnessed all cavortings and couplings. And now, in sending him this fake eye, they were merely signalling their readiness to make use of everything they had seen. This was the first move in a blackmailing operation, he felt sure.
A chill passed through him. What if they wanted more than money from him? What if they wanted control, or access? What if they were not just some grubby opportunists out for their own profit? What if they were agents of a foreign power?
He imagined the darkness enclosing the loathsome object as it lay dormant in the drawer of his desk. In his mind, it had become the thing that it was meant to represent. It had become an eye. No, it was more than an eye. It was a sentient thing. It could see, but it could also think. It was self-aware. It had intent. It was malign. And it hated the darkness into which he had plunged it. It would bide its time, feasting hungrily on the thin slivers of light that leaked through the cracks in the box. Storing up its hatred. Plotting its revenge.
He knew that the darkness to which he had now consigned it could not contain it forever.
NINE
A wan light seeped thinly through the packed clouds above Whitehall. But straightaway it seemed to retract, as if cowed by the grandiose buildings of government.
Quinn held his head self-consciously high as he strode across Horse Guards Parade. Once or twice he had to blink away the memory of Miss Dillardâs reproachful expression. Her eyes, dewy with disappointment, had become the eyes of his conscience.
Blink!
He had to get on with the job. Duty demanded it. And right now the job consisted solely in striding purposefully across the empty parade ground. That was all that was asked of him for the moment, and on balance he felt himself equal to the task.
The thing was if he did not get on with the job, if he did not continue striding â in other words, if he gave in to the mute reproach of those eyes ⦠No, it did not bear thinking about. That way, madness lay.
Blink!
He allowed the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath his shoes to signal his determination. It was time to bring some purpose to the investigation. He would have it out with this Admiralty fellow, no matter that he was a lord of the realm. They needed specific information about a real danger; names and photographs of suspect individuals, addresses to be monitored. Details of a concrete plot against which they could pit themselves.
Otherwise his men were just aimlessly prowling.
Ahead of him, the Admiralty Extension was a concrete enough presence. Its very existence was testimony to the dangers the country faced. It had been built with one purpose only, to prepare for war. And even while it was being built, it had grown in scale from its original conception, spawning additional corridors and offices as its sense of imminent threat increased. At the same time, it had something of the air of a fairytale palace. The baroque frontage, in red brick and white stone, created a fussy pink effect that put Quinn in mind of sleeping princesses, rather than grey, frock-coated men on a
Similar Books
