Moon and the Somnambulist exchanged glances.
“What I’m about to tell you is known to only half a dozen men in the country, all of whom exist at the pinnacle of our organization. This is a state secret, so I suggest you keep it to yourselves. It’s a snorting great cliche, of course — and I rather wish I didn’t have to say it — but men have died for less. For the past five months, my organization has been receiving vital information from — how shall I put it? From an unorthodox source. A woman. Since one of my people dug her up last year, my colleagues in Whitehall have begun to lean on her somewhat. More, in fact, than may be considered entirely healthy. Her advice is now thought to be so absolutely crucial on certain matters of policy that it would be no exaggeration to say that without her, the last war in which this country took a part would have ended much less happily indeed.” Skimpole looked down at his feet, embarrassed, like a weak-willed schoolboy caught stealing apples. “I fear we’ve let things get a little out of hand.”
“Her name?” Moon asked.
Skimpole took a deep breath. “Madame Innocenti.”
Moon did his best to mask a smile.
“She’s a medium,” Skimpole finished, his chalk-pale cheeks tinged incongruously with scarlet. “A clairvoyant. Lives in Tooting Bec. Claims to receive messages from the spirit world.”
Moon steepled his fingers, savoring the moment. “In essence, Mr. Skimpole, what you appear to be telling us is that for the past five months, British Intelligence has allowed itself to be led on the say-so of a backstreet fortune-teller.”
The albino winced at Moon’s candor. “Are you shocked?”
“Not at all. There’s something oddly comforting about discovering all one’s worst suspicions to be true.”
The giant smirked, and Moon pressed home his advantage. “How far does this woman’s influence extend? How high does this go?”
Skimpole sighed. “To the top, Mr. Moon.”
“Tell me…” Moon was enjoying Skimpole’s discomfort. “What has she to do with us?”
“For some time, Madame Innocenti has been warning us of a conspiracy directed against the state.”
“Details?”
“Nothing specific. Just as you’d expect — vague, oracular warnings, phrased in the most purple and prolix terms. We’d like you to see her for yourself and discover the truth.”
“I’m afraid I still don’t see why this should interest us.”
Regretfully, Skimpole stubbed out the ashy tip of his cigar. “Madame Innocenti has mentioned three names in the course of her auguries… Cyril Honeyman, Philip Dunbar.”
Moon nodded calmly, as if he’d been expecting this.
Skimpole swallowed hard. “And Edward Moon,” he murmured.
For the home of a latter-day Cassandra, Madame Innocenti’s house was disappointingly unprepossessing. No doubt it was respectable enough in its own way — a modest two-story semi-detached building which might have been more than acceptable as the property of a schoolteacher, say, or that of a clerk or an accountant, but for a seer of Madame Innocenti’s supposed power and influence, frankly it was almost suspicious. It had a tired, uncared-for look, a forlorn atmosphere of abandonment and decay.
Moon stepped up to the rotten-looking front door and, as gently as he was able, knocked by means of an ancient brass knocker that looked as though it might at any moment crumble into rust.
The Somnambulist looked about him at the dreary grayness of the place, the glum homogeneity of Tooting Bec, and wrinkled his nose in distaste. Albion Square, the Theatre of Marvels, Yiangou’s opium den — all of these, however unpleasant they may individually have been, were nonetheless alive with color; they had a glossy, lurid quality redolent of spit and sawdust of the stage. There was none of that about Tooting, this so-called Delphi of London — it was too ordinary, too monochrome, too wearily everyday.
The door opened and a gangling, nervous man stared out, startled-looking and suspicious. Still young, his hair had begun to recede and he was afflicted with a pair of owlish, too-thick spectacles. “Yes?”
“I’m Edward Moon and this is my associate, the Somnambulist. I believe we’re expected.”
“Of course.” The man nodded repeatedly and with such ungainly vigor that Moon wondered if he might not be suffering from the early symptoms of some hideous degenerative disease. “Come through. My wife will join us shortly.”
He led them down a grimy corridor and through into a darkened reception room, barely illuminated by a dozen or so spasmodically flickering candles. A long, narrow table stood at its center, nine chairs set empty around it.
“It happens here,” the man said portentously. “Tea?”
Moon answered for them both; their host bowed and disappeared.
“Fed up?” Moon asked, but before the Somnambulist could scribble a reply their host bustled back.
“Tea and milk on its way. In the meantime, allow me to introduce my wife.”
He stepped back and a woman walked — or seemed, rather, to glide — into the room. She was comfortably into her middle years but looked more striking, more elegant and infinitely more remarkable than any debutante half her age. Feline, sleek, her face framed by a halo of chestnut curls, she was laced into a snug-fitting auburn dress which deliciously accentuated the soft, undulating swell of her breasts. Moon was unsure what he had expected — some toothless Romany, perhaps, a chintzy, obvious fake, gaudy earrings and paste jewelry — but never so exquisite a vision as this.
She smiled, exposing asset of perfect, pearly teeth. “Mr. Moon. Somnambulist. An honor. You’ll have to forgive me if I seem flustered. I must confess to feeling a little in awe.”
“Of me?” Moon began, obviously flattered, only to be silenced by a discreet but brutal nudge in the ribs from his companion. He corrected himself. “Of us?”
“I must have seen your act five times at least. My husband and I were great admirers.” She turned to her balding consort. “Weren’t we, my dove?”
He mumbled something in the affirmative.
“Such a pity what happened,” Madame Innocenti mused. “So tragic. You have my condolences.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Moon bowed his head and, remarkably, a hint of a blush appeared to suggest itself.
“Senor Corcoran has spoken of you. I understand you’re here on behalf of Mr. Skimpole.”
“That’s correct.”
She gave a sniff of disdain. “Are you friends?”
“Not friends, ma’am,” Moon replied carefully. “Associates, perhaps. Reluctant colleagues.”
“So glad. My husband and I can’t stand him. Frightful, whey-faced little man. You must excuse me, I have to prepare. You’re rather early and the others should be along shortly. You don’t mind waiting?”
“Of course not.”
“We’re expecting seven tonight — you gentlemen and five others. Have you attended a seance before?”
“Never, ma’am.”
“Well, there must be a first time for us all,” Innocenti said, turning to go. “Even for you, Mr. Moon.”
She drifted out and they were left once again with her husband — as disappointed as though some empress has swept from the throne room, stranding her subjects with a mere footman.
“Wait here,” he muttered sullenly. “I’ll fetch your tea.”
Tea was served in a tandem with a plate of unappetizingly dry biscuits, and as Moon and the Somnambulist pecked politely but unenthusiastically at these refreshments, the other guests arrived. They were a curious group, all of them smelling strongly of desperation, all prepared to pay whatever it took to receive Madame Innocenti’s brand of wisdom.