received a letter in August from Sicily, suggesting that England was a rich but untapped bed of theological synthesis? You thought it came from Aleister Crowley, but it was, infact, from me. I was prepared to offer further incentives, including a situation that would drive you from Shanghai under threat of arrest, but in the end, you readily seized on the idea of transplanting your harebrained theories to the land of your fathers, and were here before the Adlers arrived.
“I paved the way for you. I suggested where you could find an assistant such as Mr Gunderson here. I helped him arrange for your change of identity, your house, and hiring a church hall. And I stood by as your delusions took you over, and you began to slaughter various useless people in search of—whatever it was you imagined you would find.”
“I don’t—” Brothers said. “What do you … I mean to say, Why?”
“My … colleague has always appeared absolutely righteous, untouchably ethical, unquestionably moral. A god among lesser mortals. I’d thought at first I might use the bohemian morality of his nephew—a drugs party, perhaps, or an orgy—to lift the edges of that mask. All I needed was an event linked to my colleague that might plant a seed of doubt among his even more self-righteous superiors. One small doubt was all I needed, but you—good Lord, you gave me a harvest of them! I have to hand it to you, Brothers, I’d never expected to have it so easy—a few minor adjustments to the evidence, and the nephew became the chief suspect for Yolanda’s death. I owe you and your mad theories considerable thanks.”
“Mad! But, the Transformative—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake. Let me see your knife.”
“My—you mean the Tool?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“Mr Brothers, let me see it for a moment, please?”
The voice was so reasonable that Brothers automatically reached for his collar, to loosen his clothing and retrieve the holy object he wore always near his skin. He withdrew it from its soft, thick leather scabbard, dark with decades of his body’s sweat, and contemplated the wicked object. “I don’t know that you should touch it,” he told West. “It is an object of considerable power, and your hands are not—oh!”
West took a quick step back.
The three men gazed at the ivory hilt protruding from Thomas Brothers’ shirt-front.
In no time at all, the energies of Thomas Brothers were freed to explore the Truths of the life beyond.
BOOK TWO
Sunday, 31 August–
Thursday, 4 September
1924
Chapter 20
S unday morning, the last day of August, I woke from my cushions beneath the window to the sensation of being watched. Closely watched. By a child bent so low over my face, I could feel her breath on my right cheek. Which was about the only part of me that didn’t ache.
“Good morning, Estelle,” I said without opening my eyes. “Did you want something?”
“I’m hungry,” she said. “And Mr Javitz is snoring.”
The American did have a prodigious snore, which I had been given cause to admire all the night long. I gingerly pushed away the muchabused fur coat that had been my bed-clothes on the window-seat; with motion, all the previous day’s contusions made themselves felt, from wrenched ankle to bruised scalp. The previous evening, mine host had examined the glass cuts along my back, putting three quick stitches in one of them. I did not want to rise up; I did not want to cater to this child. If I moved, yesterday’s headache might return.
“Where is the Green—Mr Goodman?” I asked her.
“Mr Robert went out. And he left me these,” she said, holding her two fists half an inch from my nose. I pushed them back until a pair of carved deer came into focus, a doe and a buck with small antlers.
“Very nice,” I said. “But you shouldn’t call a grown man by his given name. Call him Mr Goodman.”
“But he told me to call him—”
“I know. But let’s be polite and call him Mr
“I paved the way for you. I suggested where you could find an assistant such as Mr Gunderson here. I helped him arrange for your change of identity, your house, and hiring a church hall. And I stood by as your delusions took you over, and you began to slaughter various useless people in search of—whatever it was you imagined you would find.”
“I don’t—” Brothers said. “What do you … I mean to say, Why?”
“My … colleague has always appeared absolutely righteous, untouchably ethical, unquestionably moral. A god among lesser mortals. I’d thought at first I might use the bohemian morality of his nephew—a drugs party, perhaps, or an orgy—to lift the edges of that mask. All I needed was an event linked to my colleague that might plant a seed of doubt among his even more self-righteous superiors. One small doubt was all I needed, but you—good Lord, you gave me a harvest of them! I have to hand it to you, Brothers, I’d never expected to have it so easy—a few minor adjustments to the evidence, and the nephew became the chief suspect for Yolanda’s death. I owe you and your mad theories considerable thanks.”
“Mad! But, the Transformative—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake. Let me see your knife.”
“My—you mean the Tool?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“Mr Brothers, let me see it for a moment, please?”
The voice was so reasonable that Brothers automatically reached for his collar, to loosen his clothing and retrieve the holy object he wore always near his skin. He withdrew it from its soft, thick leather scabbard, dark with decades of his body’s sweat, and contemplated the wicked object. “I don’t know that you should touch it,” he told West. “It is an object of considerable power, and your hands are not—oh!”
West took a quick step back.
The three men gazed at the ivory hilt protruding from Thomas Brothers’ shirt-front.
In no time at all, the energies of Thomas Brothers were freed to explore the Truths of the life beyond.
BOOK TWO
Sunday, 31 August–
Thursday, 4 September
1924
Chapter 20
S unday morning, the last day of August, I woke from my cushions beneath the window to the sensation of being watched. Closely watched. By a child bent so low over my face, I could feel her breath on my right cheek. Which was about the only part of me that didn’t ache.
“Good morning, Estelle,” I said without opening my eyes. “Did you want something?”
“I’m hungry,” she said. “And Mr Javitz is snoring.”
The American did have a prodigious snore, which I had been given cause to admire all the night long. I gingerly pushed away the muchabused fur coat that had been my bed-clothes on the window-seat; with motion, all the previous day’s contusions made themselves felt, from wrenched ankle to bruised scalp. The previous evening, mine host had examined the glass cuts along my back, putting three quick stitches in one of them. I did not want to rise up; I did not want to cater to this child. If I moved, yesterday’s headache might return.
“Where is the Green—Mr Goodman?” I asked her.
“Mr Robert went out. And he left me these,” she said, holding her two fists half an inch from my nose. I pushed them back until a pair of carved deer came into focus, a doe and a buck with small antlers.
“Very nice,” I said. “But you shouldn’t call a grown man by his given name. Call him Mr Goodman.”
“But he told me to call him—”
“I know. But let’s be polite and call him Mr
Similar Books
