The Masked City (The Invisible Library 2)

‘Certainly not looking as we do,’ Vale agreed. ‘Besides, there is currently a demonstration in front of the Embassy, so it will have to be the servants’ entrance. And if I am correct, he will be willing to see us with or without a card. Was his manservant with you, when you spoke to him?’

Irene thought back, and nodded. ‘Johnson. A thin man in grey.’

‘He’s our key, then,’ Vale said with satisfaction. ‘Let us prepare.’

And so, later that evening, Irene and Vale were waiting in a line behind the Liechtenstein Embassy. They were swathed in heavy hooded cloaks, which would have been more conspicuous if the half-dozen ahead of them weren’t also heavily cloaked and hooded. Two men were leading sets of dogs - a pair of poodles, a pair of Borzoi, a pair of terriers and a pair of Afghan hounds - all of which played merrily around their legs and caused them to curse frequently and with heavy Russian accents. The Afghan hounds had been bleached white, but the ambient grime of London already lay on their pelts in thick dark smuts. Another man frantically studied a musical score, pausing from time to time to blow a few notes on his long-tarnished flute. And two women - at least, Irene thought they were women - tucked up their cloaks to practise a dance, baring stockinged calves and high-heeled shoes. Behind Irene and Vale, the line stretched further back along the wall of the Embassy. A savvy street-vendor had set up his stall and was selling oranges.

‘Have you done this before?’ Irene asked quietly. The dogs, flautist and tap-dancers made enough noise to cover anything less than shouting on her part.

‘On several occasions,’ Vale said shortly. ‘But please remember your part, Winters. You are—’

‘Your hypnotic medium,’ Irene said obediently. ‘Through whom you can summon up the ancient spirits of the departed Pharaohs.’

‘You are rather glib about this. Have you done anything of this nature yourself?’

Irene wondered if he’d forgotten she was a Librarian by trade, and so usually wore a false identity, but he did have a point. This was more than usually exotic. ‘Not since I was at school,’ she admitted. ‘School?’ Vale queried.

‘Ah. There was one minor incident. An international criminal gang were hiding out in the nearby chalets, and then there was this flood—’

‘Later,’ Vale instructed. The queue had begun to move forward.

However, they had to endure a brief episode when the dogs suddenly refused to enter the Embassy. They had to be lured in by their handlers brandishing beef jerky, prompting several stray dogs to make a determined bid for it. The Embassy staff ended up throwing buckets of water over the lot of them. The two handlers were screaming in Russian, and the flautist was yelling that his sheet music was soaked. But Vale and Irene finally made it through the door and into the Embassy, brushing wet dog hair off their cloaks.

The small receiving room they were shown into was a disappointment. Irene had been expecting something rather more dramatic from the Fae’s inner quarters, but instead the room looked like any shabby below-stairs lounge in London.

Vale leaned forward to speak to the bored-looking maid who’d brought them in, and there was the clink of coins changing hands. ‘We need to speak to Mr Johnson,’ he murmured. The maid bobbed her head and left the room in a rustle of wide skirts.

A long five minutes later, Johnson stepped into the room. ‘You have a private message for me?’ he enquired curtly, his usual civility absent.

Vale nodded to Irene. She took a deep breath and pushed her hood back to show her face. ‘We need to speak to Lord Silver urgently,’ she said.

‘Ah.’ Johnson drew a thoughtful breath through his teeth. ‘Yes. Please raise your hood again. Nobody in the Embassy must know you are here. If you and your friend will follow me, Miss Winters, we will take the back stairs. Lord Silver will see you at once.’

CHAPTER TEN

Silver’s private study surprised Irene. It actually looked like a place where a human being might live and work, rather than an overdone stage set. The divan, although it was upholstered in red velvet, showed the scuffs and traces of regular use, and the tooth marks of something small and gnawy marred one of its legs. The large mahogany desk had stacks of paper on it, rather than being dramatically bare, although the manacles at its corners were a little worrying. The ether-lights in the corners had been turned down, bathing the whole velvet-curtained room in a rich amber gloom. A bookcase in the far corner made Irene itch to wander over and examine its crowded shelves, but she controlled the impulse, looking instead at their owner.

Silver himself was sprawled coatless in a wide chair behind the desk, his cravat hanging loose at his throat. He looked the very model of raffish disreputability, turning a glass of brandy in his hand. He glanced up languidly as Johnson led Irene and Vale into the room, remarking, ‘I must say that you have cut it rather fine. I was expecting you and Miss Winters earlier, Mr Vale.’

Vale pushed back his hood to show his face, and Irene followed suit. She had agreed with Vale that he should take the lead in the interrogation. He had known Silver for longer, and might be able to prod him into a useful revelation. ‘I would hesitate before coming to any appointment with you, sir. You should not be surprised that I am late - you should be surprised that I have arrived at all.’

‘But you received the note, then.’ Silver sipped his brandy.

‘I received it,’ Vale agreed.

‘And you believe I sent it.’

‘I know that you sent it.’

‘And your suspicions as to my motivations?’

‘Hardly suspicions. Certainties.’

‘Entertain me by explaining them, then. I am surprised by so few things these days.’

‘Very well.’ Vale strolled a few steps further into the room. ‘Your dispute with the Guantes is well known. You will not argue that point, I imagine.’

‘My dear Vale, I take pains to cultivate it. You may go on.’