The Shadow Lamp Page 4

  “Your ultimate destination is London, yes,” replied Brendan, his long legs covering ground in easy strides. “From here it is a three-jump journey, but if all goes according to plan, you should be able to make it in one day, relatively speaking. You will be moving backwards in time, aiming for the year 1665—although anytime between 1663 and 1667 will probably be acceptable.”

  “That exact? Really?”

  Brendan laughed, his voice ringing clear in the early morning air. “If only! That would be something.” He glanced at her, enjoying her guileless reaction. “The temptation to show off for you is almost irresistible. But no, I claim no such expertise. We can be reasonably certain in this case because London at that time is the home of Sir Henry Fayth. Cosimo Livingstone is a Londoner too, as it happens. As members of the society, Sir Henry and Cosimo have travelled back and forth to enough society functions over the years to establish and document the way very well.” He smiled at her. “You simply follow in their footsteps.”

  “Almost literally,” Cass remarked.

  “The notes I gave you are from the directions Cosimo Livingstone placed on file. They lead to Clarimond House—Sir Henry’s home in London. Follow them to the letter and you shouldn’t go too far astray.” He glanced sideways at her. “I would go with you, but Society business keeps me here just now.” He offered her a reassuring pat on the back. “Don’t worry. By the time this is over, you’ll be giving lessons in ley travel.”

  “Let’s hope.” Cass thought for a moment, then asked, “So what is the mechanism involved here? What is it that drives ley travel?”

  “That is the million-dollar question,” began Brendan. “The short answer is we still don’t know. We have theories.” He gave a small laugh. “Many good and useful theories.”

  “Pick one.”

  “Well, the best current thought is that where two different dimensions of a multidimensional universe impinge on one another, they form a line of force on the physical landscape.”

  “A telluric energy field,” said Cass.

  “You know about telluric energy—good. To us earthlings, it manifests as a straight line, but there is reason to suspect that in reality this energy field is anything but straight. If we had the physical apparatus to perceive this field of force in its actual multidimensional representation, I suspect it would look very different.” Brendan glanced at Cass. “Ever seen the aurora borealis?”

  “Only in pictures,” said Cass.

  “In the northern lights you have these tremendous swirls and snarls of high-energy particles whipping wildly through the upper atmosphere by a violent solar wind. The phenomenon appears to observers on the ground as an enormous shimmering curtain of ghostly light wafting gently in an unfelt breeze.” He glanced at Cass, concluding, “If we could see a ley line as it really is in time and space, that is what I think it would look like.”

  “And this chaotic whiplash movement is what makes them so unpredictable, I suppose,” ventured Cass. Brendan nodded approvingly. “But,” she quickly countered, “we travellers do not experience anything like that when we make a leap. For me, at least, it is more like a blink of the eye—one moment you’re one place, and the next moment you are someplace else with nothing in between. You don’t really travel any distance at all.”

  “It’s funny,” replied Brendan, “but most people hear the term quantum leap and think it an enormous, superhuman jump, but actually it is nothing of the sort.”

  “The very opposite, in fact,” said Cass. “An electron pops from one level to another in its orbit around the nucleus of an atom—simply passing from here to there instantaneously, and without traversing the incredibly miniscule space in between.”

  “Correct. In that analogy, we are the electrons. When we interact with a ley, we jump from one dimensional reality to another without traversing any distance in between—though I suspect that in space-time terms the distance actually travelled may be mind-numbingly vast indeed—whole galaxies or universes away.” He was silent for a moment, then gave another laugh. “Or maybe not. We may never know.” Pointing to another stone marker just ahead, he said, “There is the beginning of the ley.”

  Cass looked where he indicated and saw a rounded stump of stone—like that of a broken column set on a much-eroded base. A shallow ditch stretched from the pillar stone, merely a scant indentation in the rough earth; easy to miss if one was not looking for it. Another stone stood a hundred metres or so away, and beyond that the smooth round hump of an earthen mound—a tel, in local parlance.

  “I can see it,” said Cass. They stopped at the pillar stone and looked down along the arrow-straight line of the ley. She gazed along the narrow path and gave a curt nod of determination.

  “Any questions?” asked Brendan. She shook her head. “Then off you go.”

  “If all goes well, I’ll be back before you know it.” Cass started for the path. “Bye for now.”

  “God be with you, Cassandra,” he called after her.

  She gave him a wave and walked to the starting point, then paused. “Right,” she said, preparing herself for the unpleasant travel-sick sensation awaiting her on the other side. That fleeting queasiness was nothing compared to the psychological dislocation involved in leaping from the 1930s to the 1660s.

  What followed, although convoluted, was detailed on two handwritten cards in easy-to-follow steps that led her across two different worlds—of which she saw almost nothing—to the very outskirts of a version of London Samuel Pepys would easily recognise, if not, at this moment, actually inhabit.

  Now, quivering on the point of mental and physical exhaustion, Cass waited for a heavy wrought-iron-clad door to be answered and the next challenge to begin. She knocked again and was just at the point of lowering herself onto the doorstep in utter collapse when she heard the sound of footsteps on the other side. There was the click of a latch being lifted, and the door opened.

  A man in a long black coat, white shirt with a soft collar knotted in a tie, and white stockings below his short, knee-length trousers stood holding a brass lamp. “Yes?” he said dryly, gazing at Cass with the bored expression of the habitually unimpressed.

  “Good evening to you, Villiers,” said Cass, using the name Brendan had supplied.

  The servant raised the lamp and held it closer. “I fear I am disadvantaged, Miss . . . ?”

  “My name is Cassandra Clarke,” she replied. “I have come a very great distance to speak with Sir Henry Fayth. Is he at home this evening?”

  The valet stared at her more closely, taking in her travel-stained clothes, before answering. “His lordship is not at home,” he replied at last and began closing the door. “I wish you a good night.”

  “Villiers?” came a voice from somewhere inside. “Is there someone? I thought I heard the door.”

  A moment later a figure emerged from the gloom of the interior, and Cass found herself in the presence of an almost radiantly beautiful young woman. Dressed in a long gown of glistening blue satin edged with cream-coloured lace at the throat, wrists, and hem, her long russet hair spilling abundantly over slender shoulders, she stepped into the light cast by the oil lamp, an expression of sincere interest on her lovely face.

  “A beggar woman seeking Sir Henry, my lady,” intoned the servant stiffly, his hand still on the door. “I have informed her that his lordship is not in residence. She is just leaving.”

  “To be sure,” replied the young woman. Turning to Cass, she said, “It is true, my uncle is not home at present. Perhaps I may be of some small service? Is it food you want? Or work?” She smiled sweetly. “Forgive my forthrightness, I beg. I am Lady Fayth.”

  CHAPTER 4

  In Which a Reasonable Chariness Is Overcome

  The two young women stared at one another for a long moment as, slowly, the light of recognition came up in their eyes—each seeing in the other something only another ley traveller could identify. For Lady Fayth it was not the scuffed shoes and dusty clothes of the young
woman on her threshold, nor her curious way of speaking the King’s English—with the same clumsy intonation and construction of Kit and Wilhelmina—it was more an attitude, a quality of having experienced something, of possessing a secret. Ley travel itself seemed to impart an air or energy other sojourners could sense.

  Haven knew, without being told, that the dowdy creature before her was a fellow traveller. Still, she was not ready to admit a stranger into the secret sisterhood just yet. “Pray, forgive my ill-mannered presumption,” said Lady Fayth, “but in what manner are you known to my uncle?”

  “I was given Sir Henry’s name by a mutual friend—Mr. Brendan Hanno. Perhaps you know him?”

  “I must confess that I have not had the privilege of the gentleman’s acquaintance,” replied Lady Fayth. “Am I to understand that this Mr. Hanno is also a friend of Sir Henry’s?”

  “It is my understanding that they are indeed very good friends,” answered Cass, trying to adapt to a more archaic style of speech. “They are fellow members of the Zetetic Society. I am here representing that society in a matter of some importance.”

  “Are you indeed?” The young woman favoured Cass with a look of piercing appraisal, then, as if making up her mind to accept her visitor, she opened the door a little wider. “I am Haven Fayth, Sir Henry’s niece. It has fallen to me to keep this house in my uncle’s absence.”

  Cass, her last reserves of strength running low, swayed on her feet as Haven finished speaking.

  “Oh, my dear thing!” exclaimed Haven. “You must think me a very barbarian. I can see that you have travelled a very great distance. I expect you are thoroughly spent.”

  Cass nodded. “You are very gracious, I’m sure. And yes, I have come a . . . an unbelievably long way.”

  “It is not meet that we stand here on the steps gabbling like fishwives,” replied Lady Fayth lightly. “You must come in and allow me the honour of offering you succour.” Turning to Villiers, who stood silently by, she commanded, “Tonight’s table is to be set with an extra place, and bring wine and cheese to the library at once.” Then, taking the lamp from the steward’s hand, she turned to her guest. “Pray follow me, if you please, Cassandra. Rest and refreshment are at hand.”

  Lamp held high, Lady Fayth conducted Cass into the great house’s cavernous interior and down a corridor steeped in heavy evening shadows. She opened a door and led Cass into a room lined floor to ceiling with shelves of books, pausing to light candles on two side tables. “Please be seated,” she said, placing the lamp on a large desk nearby. As Cass settled gratefully into a large leather armchair beside the empty fireplace, Lady Fayth said, “I feel this room has a chill. If you will excuse me but a moment, that will soon be put right.”

  Haven disappeared, leaving Cass alone. She closed her eyes and luxuriated in the blessed comfort of a chair that seemed to hold her tired body in a fond embrace. Against her will, she drifted off to sleep—awaking when a teenage girl entered the room with a pan of red-hot coals and proceeded to make a fire. She closed her eyes again and dozed, rousing again to find Lady Fayth and a young man standing over her.

  “It is a very pity to wake you,” said Haven softly, “but there is refreshment and I think it would restore you wonderfully.” Turning to the young man, she said, “Giles, would you mind?”

  A young man stepped to a side table on which rested a silver tray with a decanter and crystal goblets. He poured three cups, then returned with two of them, which he offered to the ladies.

  “It is my pleasure to introduce you to Giles Standfast.”

  The young man bowed from the waist.

  “Giles, this is Cassandra Clarke, an acquaintance of Sir Henry’s through a mutual friend.” To Cass, she said, “Giles was coachman and body servant to Sir Henry.”

  “My lady,” said Giles with a nod. “A nasty, grievous affair, no doubt.”

  “Pardon?” said Cass, looking from one to the other. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “She does not know, Giles,” said Haven, touching his arm as if to restrain him from saying anything more.

  Giles lowered his head. “I apologise, my lady. I have spoken out of turn. I thought—” He lapsed into silence.

  Haven said, “Perhaps you might explain your interest in contacting Sir Henry?”

  “Your uncle and a Mr. Livingstone were expected to attend a recent meeting of the Zetetic Society. They failed to arrive and, apparently, no one has had any communication from either one of them for some time. There is concern on the part of the members that something may have happened to them.”

  “Yes, I see.” Lady Fayth’s expression grew sorrowful and her voice took on a sombre note. She paused, then drew a breath and said, “I would to heaven there were a more salubrious way to relate this . . .” She hesitated, then blurted, “It grieves me full well to say that Sir Henry is dead and Cosimo with him. Both were struck down by vile enemies while on a journey to Egypt.” She dropped her head. “It was a sad and terrible end to two truly noble lives.”

  Though Lady Fayth was the very picture of sorrow, Cass nevertheless sensed that the young woman standing before her was being less than candid, perhaps as if she were reciting scripted lines from a play. Shame on you, Cass, she told herself. Behave yourself.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” replied Cass after a moment.

  Haven raised her glass. “Let us drink to their memories.”

  Cass lifted her goblet and took a drink; the wine was very raw and sour on her tongue, but it was stimulating. The three sipped quietly for a moment and Giles passed the plate of cheese. The food and drink did revive Cass, and after a moment she felt better prepared to face whatever came next. “Would you mind very much speaking about what happened? I am certain the society will want to know whatever I can tell them.”

  “To be sure.” Lady Fayth proceeded to give a careful yet oddly perfunctory explanation of what had transpired in Egypt: how she, Kit, and Giles had tracked Cosimo and Sir Henry to the wadi containing High Priest Anen’s tomb, and how they had fought the Burley Men but were overpowered and imprisoned with Cosimo and Sir Henry, who were already quite seriously ill by that time.

  “There must have been a rank miasma in the air of the tomb, and both men were mortally sickened by it. We would have caught the contagion too, if we had not been rescued in time,” Haven concluded. “As Giles was present when Sir Henry met his demise, he will happily answer any further questions you might have regarding the tragic circumstances of his death.” She tilted her head to one side. “Was there something else you wished to know especially?”

  Cass thought for a moment, then said, “Lady Fayth, you mentioned the younger man—Cosimo Livingstone’s great-grandson, Kit? But you have not said what happened to him. Perhaps Giles can tell me what became of him.”

  “Indeed, my lady,” replied Giles. There was a slight hesitation and he glanced at Lady Fayth. Something passed between them, Cass could tell. “We were all together when we were taken captive,” he said simply. “Mister Kit and I escaped to safety together.”

  “Is he with you now?” asked Cass. “Could I meet him?”

  Again Giles glanced at Lady Fayth, who nodded, encouraging him to answer. The servant’s mouth twitched into a frown. “The ones who killed Sir Henry and Cosimo found us again. They gave chase. Lord Burleigh was mounted and had possession of a pistol.” He presented a bandaged arm. “I came away wounded, but Mister Kit made good his escape.”

  “In the confusion, Kit was lost,” Haven added, “and no one knows where he has gone—at least, his whereabouts are not known to us at this time.”

  Brendan and Mrs. Peelstick had warned Cass of dark forces and the mysterious enemy known as Lord Burleigh, but this was the first mention of an actual attack and violence. “This Lord Burleigh and his men—the people who chased you—are you quite certain they were the same ones who killed Sir Henry and Cosimo?”

  “Aye, my lady.” Giles gave a sharp nod; his voice took on a defiant tone
. “They are always lurking about, waiting for opportunity to wreak havoc with anyone who gets in their way. They fear neither man nor God, and quail at nothing to work their wicked will. They did for Sir Henry and Cosimo, no mistake.”

  A thoughtful silence settled on the group. “What is to happen now?” asked Cass after another fortifying sip of wine.

  “I suppose that is for us to decide,” replied Haven. She cocked her head to one side and regarded Cass with a frank expression. “May I be so bold as to ask how you came here?” When Cass hesitated, she pounced. “It is a perfectly simple question. By what mode of transport did you effect your arrival at this house?”

  “I came on foot—mostly,” Cass hedged.

  Haven sniffed. “And whence came you?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The place of your departure—from where did you come?”

  “I came directly from Damascus—more or less,” she said. “Where the society has its headquarters.”

  A subtle smile turned up the corners of Haven’s lips. “How did you come to know Lord Burleigh?”

  Cass frowned. “But I do not know him at all,” she protested. “I have only heard the name, nothing more”—she nodded at Giles—“until just now.”

  “How long was your journey?”

  Again Cass hesitated. Why was she being subjected to this interrogation? “Look,” she said finally, “I think we both know how I came here. I travelled on what some call Ghost Roads—regions of electromagnetic power. I think you know them as ley lines. That is what Brendan called them.”

  Lady Fayth and Giles exchanged a glance, and Giles nodded. “She is a ley leaper,” he said firmly.