ALOUD RAP ON the door echoed around Bishop Courtney's palatial residence in Westminster Abbey's annexe, and the heavy-set man clasped the glass door knob and briskly yanked the door open.
'What time of night do you call this?' Courtney demanded. 'I said no later than eleven, and it's past midnight, Melchin! What on earth kept you?'
Melchin ambled inside the room with hunched shoulders. 'Sorry, Bishop…I was on me way 'ere, and these two blokes just ran straight out of the bushes, right in the middle of the road.'
'Just make sure it doesn't happen again, Melchin,' interrupted the Bishop curtly. 'So…what news do you have from Crawditch?'
'That, Bishop, is sure t'put a smile on yer face,' Melchin began. 'There's a committee on their way to Crawditch police station tomorrow. A lot of them locals are really jumpy now. So far they reckon they've 'ad about five people or so go missing, although the Peelers're only sayin' there've been them three women you said you wanted 'em to find, like.'
The Bishop nodded. 'Yes, the ones that Mr Hawkspear got a little too…indulgent with during the kill-they were of no use to the body-snatchers. We intentionally let the police find them to light the fuse of fear. I'd be very keen to hear the outcome of that meeting. Anything else of note, Melchin?'
'Yeah, apparently there was some to-do down at the docks tonight, and the coppers found a load of dead blokes, looked like there'd been some kind of scrap. Caused a right bleedin' storm, that did! Word is that the locals want Commissioner Dray to call in Scotland Yard, 'cos of all what's going on. They reckon the place 'as gone to hell…if you'll pardon me reference, your Grace.'
Bishop Courtney gently rocked on the balls of his feet. 'Blasphemy is all relative to your God, Melchin. I am more concerned with what occurs in Crawditch! That committee is exactly what I need…the problem is…Commissioner Dray is no fool. He'll deny their request, of course, if he wishes to retain a semblance of control.'
'He should do,' said Reynolds, stepping into the room from the hallway. 'After all, that is what we're paying him for, isn't it? To turn a blind eye? A man in his position is the linchpin in a place like Crawditch. This needs to be kept contained within Crawditch's jurisdiction.'
'Indeed it does, Mr Reynolds, and a high coup it was indeed for you to ensnare him in the first place. Who knows what you used to convince him, but it worked. We do however need to be mindful that the locals don't lose confidence in Dray. Thank you, Melchin, off you go,' said the Bishop, ushering the driver outside the room. 'I wonder then, Mr Reynolds, if the townsfolk are demanding the Yard's involvement-how will that balance be affected in Dray's absence should we do away with him? We don't want to make things even harder for us than they already are.'
'Certainly not,' agreed Reynolds, snatching up a glass decanter of dark-red wine and pouring himself a glass. 'If Dray goes down, he'll most likely be replaced by his second, one Sergeant Horace Berry. He has been with the Force practically since its inception, no wife, no children.'
'No leverage then? Nothing you can squeeze?'
'And nothing to blackmail him with either, he's as clean as his regulation whistle. Aside from the threat of physical violence, we're out of luck if he gets in charge. I've been thinking, Bishop…perhaps Oliver Dray works best for us right where he is.'
'Although, I must admit that I was somewhat nervous about having a police commissioner of all people on our side, he has so far kept these crimes localised to Crawditch, as you so rightly surmised. That is vital to my plan…this must remain contained.' Bishop Courtney wiped a thin slug-trail of perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief. 'I don't want to stir up a hornets' nest that's going to come right back and sting me in the posterior-my eyes are fixed upon the grander agenda.'
Reynolds focused his gaze upon the Bishop. 'What is the grander agenda? I'm not sure I'm following it any more. I thought this was all about Queen Victoria's grand plans of renovation…that's how you sold it to me. What's all this stuff about Crawditch and its cemetery got to do with what the Queen wants?'
'Victoria's decree is but a smokescreen, Mr Reynolds. A cloak behind which my own personal ambitions are hidden. It is not Crawditch itself that I wish to claim…but a right that should be afforded me as Bishop.'
Reynolds strode to the long windows and rested his hands against the glass. 'Look, Bishop-it really doesn't matter squat to me what your grand plan is. You could be raising an army of the undead to storm Buckingham Palace, for all I care-but I'd just like to know what side I'm fighting on, know what I mean?' Reynolds's face looked almost bone-white in the moonlight, giving him a ghoulish appearance.
'Very well,' bowed the Bishop. 'After all, you're not like Mr Hawkspear. He is a blunt instrument, whereas you, sir, are a keen edge. You have been a great help to me this past week, and I suppose you deserve to know just what is so important to me.'
'What I seek is power. A power greater than words from dusty old Bibles…I mean true power. It is high time the Church of England reclaimed its place as a position of strength…to become again what it once was…an impregnable fortress of authority across this Empire-an authority far beyond that of mere kings and queens…an authority that is Godlike.'
Reynolds clapped his hands noisily. 'An impressive sermon, Bishop,' he said casually, as he walked over to the table by the Bishop's side. 'When we were in the crypt at the cemetery you started to tell me something, but you never finished. Is there something in that crypt that you need, Bishop? You have access to the crypt any time you want, so why not simply walk in there and take what you need? Why do you need the whole of Crawditch emptied first?'
Courtney stroked the corners of his grin. 'Like I have said before, Mr Reynolds…you possess a keen intellect. All good questions, and to answer; what I desire is not hidden in that crypt, Mr Reynolds.'
'It's not?'
'Not any longer, at any rate.'
'I don't understand…'
'It is in my possession, Mr Reynolds-but it was only half of what I need.'
'You're speaking in riddles, Bishop.'
'You asked why the Church was so interested in a dingy dockland borough like Crawditch, Mr Reynolds, and why I am so interested in its cemetery. Well, I shall tell you all, if you really wish to know.'
'Oh, I do wish, your Grace…I really, really do,' pleaded Reynolds sarcastically, like an eager child begging for a toffee.
The Bishop played along, clearing his throat dramatically. 'Many, many years ago Crawditch cemetery was selected as a location to store a very special prize, devised by the Church to secure its future and cement itself as the one, true religion to which all must heed. Part of this treasure was buried in the crypt; the other in the cemetery grounds itself.'
'So, the crypt did have some treasure worth finding then, after all?' asked Reynolds, his beady eyes aflame with interest.
'As I said before, treasure is not always gold or jewels, Mr Reynolds. In this case, the treasure in the crypt happened to be a glass vial containing…an antidote, of a sort.'
'An antidote? That's treasure to you, is it? A bleedin' antidote?'
The Bishop swatted Reynolds's caustic remark away with a wave. 'The antidote itself is not the treasure…it is what it is an antidote to, that certainly is. The true prizes that I sought were both purposefully hidden in separate locations. One location contains the primary chemical, and the other a neutralising agent.'
'"Neutralising agent"? This is all getting a bit above me, Bishop…I'm a mercenary, not a chemist. If this "solution" is such a treasure-why'd you need an antidote?'
'In case someone using the treasure should have second thoughts, Mr Reynolds,' answered the Bishop, 'for it reverses the effects of that vial's solution-although why one would wish to do such a thing is beyond me. I suppose the word "antidote" is a bit misleading, for what the primary vial actually contains is a very special and unique elixir!'
'An elixir? What does it do, cure the pox, or something? Turn lead into gold?'
'Nothing as churlish as that, Mr Reynolds.'
'But this…this elixir thing is hidden in the cemetery?'
'Within the cemetery grounds, yes,' confirmed the Bishop. 'In an unmarked grave.'
'An unmarked grave? So, how come you don't just pay the body-snatchers to dig it up then? Why go to this great plan of yours for something so simple?'
'Simple, Mr Reynolds? I can assure you, if it were simple don't you think I would have the elixir in my hands by now? There are over five hundred unmarked burial sites in that cemetery-and what I seek could be hidden in any one of them.'
Reynolds smiled as the penny dropped. 'And I'd guess the locals would have something to say about you digging up their loved ones, eh?' he asked, purposefully showing the Bishop a furtive smile.
'Which is precisely why I am trying to clear the district,' snapped Courtney. 'It has taken me the best part of twenty-three years to finally track down the location of what I seek, but it's impossible to go any further with the district fully populated…I'd be locked up within five minutes.'
'And then along comes Queen Victoria…with all her talk about reclaiming London as her Empire's capital, and that just falls like a gift-wrapped present in your lap, eh?' said Reynolds. 'Pretty convenient.'
'Have you not heard that the Lord works in mysterious ways, Mr Reynolds?' Bishop Courtney said. 'Victoria gave me the perfect excuse for me to continue with my plans, and now…now we are close to its fruition, Mr Reynolds, so very close.'
'And all that stands in your way are a thousand locals, eh?'
'Thanks to Mr Hawkspear, that number is decreasing by the day, but it's not enough…I need the place empty of all witnesses.'
'Now I get it,' grinned Reynolds, 'Why didn't you just say so at the beginning? We could have surely come up with something that wasn't quite so…messy, something a bit more direct. All this subterfuge for something that's buried in a bloody grave? How do you know some grave robber-or someone from your lot-hasn't already beaten you to it?'
'I would know…the Church would know, the whole World would know! The Church has closed its mind to the fact that it even exists. They feel it is just a myth, something lost to the legends of the past. They would not seek something of which they know nothing.'
'I don't want to go digging around for some chemical that could burn my skin off! What on earth is this elixir for?'
'On earth?' said the Bishop with a throaty chuckle. 'On earth it is nothing less than the touch of God's hand.' The Bishop leaned closer to Reynolds, close enough that the gaunt man could feel the warmth of Courtney's breath against his cheek. 'Mr Reynolds, that grave holds a prize that has been elusive since the beginning of time…a dream that many have endlessly searched for, only to watch it slip through their fingers…a prize that man has ever sought.' Courtney rose to his feet, and cleared his throat, like an actor about to deliver the finest performance of his career. 'Answer me this, Mr Reynolds; what are your feelings on the secret of eternal life?'
'Beyond it being complete horseshit, you mean?'
'But you are at least aware of the notion?' said Courtney, clapping his clammy hands together. 'It is far from fancy, Mr Reynolds-it is irrefutable fact. Throughout history, every religion across the world has spoken of such a thing…eternity! Not just of the living soul, but of the physical body itself. Perpetual, interminable life! A chance for mortal man to become…immortal! It's a tantalising thought for anyone, is it not?'
'I've met a lot of people over the years seeking eternal life, Bishop, and not a single one of them ever found it. Misguided fools, the lot of them-and they wasted what lives they had left searching for it.'
'Mystical amulets, Holy Grails and alchemists' stones, Mr Reynolds? Indeed, they are all works of desperate fiction, and the belief of overactive imaginations. This quest we are currently embarked upon at this moment is one based upon reality.'
'And I suppose you can prove that?' asked Reynolds.
'Proof? You ask a man of the Church for proof of his word?' the Bishop said with a sarcastic smile. 'My, you are a breath of fresh air, Mr Reynolds. As a bishop I'm used to spouting all kinds of rubbish for the avid consumption of unquestioning minds, Mr. Reynolds. But if proof you seek, then how about this; if one were to produce one of these twinned vials, would that surely not prove the existence of the other?'
As Reynolds watched in awed silence, from under the folds of his deep dark purple robes, the Bishop pulled a six-inch-long, jewel-encrusted silver crucifix attached to a broad leather strap. Holding the cross aloft, he twisted it in half, unscrewing it to reveal a hidden compartment in its base. He tipped the cross upside down, and a small, filigree-decorated, cork-topped glass vial fell into his open hand. Bishop Courtney plucked at it with his thumb and forefinger and tilted it towards the staggered moonlight through the window.
Reynolds stepped closer, carefully inching himself towards the Bishop, his jaw gaping open. 'You're serious, aren't you? Is…is that it? The elixir of life?'
'Unfortunately, no. This is but the reversal solution, Mr Reynolds, practical only if consumed within one hour of the primary solution, but like I said; why on earth would someone wish to reverse immortality?'
Reynolds sighed noisily. 'If your alchemists went to the trouble of making an antidote, perhaps they realised that eternal life could be just as much a curse as a blessing.'