Chapter 57

Dawn was just breaking and the rain was no more than a fine mist when, in Philip District—Birmingham's old quarter—a newsstand stood one kilometre from Westing Street.

The vendor greeted a peculiar customer: on a foggy day he wore sunglasses, and on a drizzly morning he carried a parasol.

"Not from around here, are you?" the vendor said.

The visitor paused. "How could you tell?"

The balding vendor chuckled and thrust a hand outside the kiosk, letting the drizzle patter on his palm. "In England no one bothers with an umbrella for this sort of sprinkle."

The black-haired youth said nothing for a moment, then folded the parasol and handed it to the vendor.

The vendor blinked in surprise. "Sir, you really needn't—"

"I only wanted shelter," the youth said, stepping inside.

"L. My name is L." He spoke as if it hardly mattered. "Recognition phrase: 'All that glitters is not gold.' I need every Birmingham paper that reports injuries or fatalities from the past six years."

According to the Westminster map provided by the Times, this newsstand was one of their safe houses.

"Show me your white card."

"White card? I don't have one."

No white card? Then still a probationary agent?

The vendor's expression, which had begun to warm, cooled at once.

"I'm a Grade-B intelligence agent for Birmingham," he said flatly. "Without the appropriate clearance, I can't open the archive. No authorisation, no service."

No authorisation? A white card was required? That wasn't what Stella had told him.

Baron's brow creased—a flicker the vendor read as raw inexperience. The bald man yawned and waved a hand.

"All right, probationary agent. Pay the regular fee... though the labour surcharge is a bit steep—"

"No white card. Will a black card do?"

Baron drew the card Stella had given him.

"Ah, a black card—fine—black card?!"

The second half came out a squawk. The vendor dropped his voice, his manner shifting like a stage performer.

"A-Plus agent! Please, have a seat. The wind's sharp this morning—some macarons with your coffee?"

Inside moments the table sagged beneath pastries and savouries, and minutes later six years of Birmingham newspapers were stacked high.

"It's all here, sir," the vendor said, rubbing his bald pate.

Baron nodded, entirely at ease. For the first time since crossing into this world he felt the usefulness of authority; days of pursuit and ambush had left him half-traumatised. Westminster's hierarchy had its perks.

The macarons, however, were cloying.

While Baron leafed through the papers, another visitor arrived, bending to murmur the same recognition phrase and produce a white card.

"Gull, did you win the lottery? All those sweets—macarons, doughnuts..."

The man made to sit beside Baron, but the vendor—Gull—blocked him.

Gull set out a small stool. "Sit by the door. Out of the way."

The agent protested, but Gull whispered in his ear; the man fell silent, looking at Baron with fear, envy, and awe.

In Westminster only three sorts of agents carried black cards: those of terrifying potential; those who were not good people; or those who were both.

...

Baron spent the entire morning at the stand and at last finished the six-year survey. He noticed things he had previously overlooked.

He thanked Gull and took the paper detailing the car-crash deaths of the Baggin family—three lives lost six years ago.

At the kerb he rang the Inside's Baggin Clinic. As expected, Don Quixote answered; Master Baggin was still asleep.

Baron asked one question, received the answer he needed, and hung up.

A clear plan was forming. If he could not yet shift the blame for Anthony's death in the Inside, he could at least rid himself of the blame for the murder of Mrs Eleanor's family in the Outside.

With that thought he pushed open a gate—and collided with someone with a soft gasp and the scent of white lilies.

His gaze travelled up a gauzy white dress, past the waterfall of golden hair, over the swan-like neck, to meet eyes as clear and blue as a summer sky.

His heart sank. Alice.

Alice Lovira, office secretary and Baron's former superior. The original Baron's diary mentioned her frequent visits.

Alice had recognised him, yet she only pressed a hand to her brow and complained it hurt; she had not seen past the disguise.

Baron relaxed. The wide sunglasses, the bespoke suit, the subtle shift in bearing—no casual acquaintance would link him to a vanished fugitive.

He murmured an apology and stepped past her.

Safer to keep clear of risk.

"Mr Constantine," Alice said softly, "an apology alone is far too cruel."

Baron kept walking, steady and unhurried.

Alice bit her lip, gathered the scattered lilies, and hurried after him.

"Mr Baron Constantine, stop pretending. I know it's you."

"You're mistaken."

"No. I'm sure. Your scent is familiar—safe, reliable. You're Constantine." She hugged the flowers and followed.

"I can't smell anything," Baron said.

Behind the lenses his eyes flicked sideways. Alice trotted along, light as a dandelion on the wind.

Baron halted so abruptly that Alice bumped into him. He steadied her.

"How long are you planning to follow me?"

"Until you apologise properly and admit you're Constantine."

Baron sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Terribly sincere," she teased, then smiled. "But I forgive you, Mr Constantine."

"Miss Alice, how did you know? Don't tell me it was the scent—you're no bloodhound."

He abandoned the disguise. Whatever danger or trap lay behind her smile, he would not lie.

Alice's sea-blue eyes blinked. "That's a secret."

"A secret?" Baron said. "Did you forget I'm a wanted killer? Aren't you afraid I'll abduct you and wring it out of you?"

"No. Because you're a good man, Mr Constantine. Even if you don't believe it, I do."

She gazed seriously at the sunglasses—or rather at the black eyes behind them.

Trust, inexplicable and absolute.

Baron gave a wry smile. He had meant to ask about the debtor's business card, but let the question drop. Instinct told him Alice would know nothing.

She was, after all, just an ordinary girl.

Instinct? To hell with instinct.

"Miss Alice, who gave you that debtor's card, and why did it list Mrs Eleanor's address?"

"Card?" Alice frowned, brows knitting prettily. "That's odd. I don't remember slipping you any such thing."

Baron's heart sank. Seeing her distress, he changed tack.

"Miss Alice, what brings you here?"

Her face fell. Whatever she felt showed plainly.

She lifted the lilies he had scattered. "I'm on my way to the cemetery to visit Mrs Eleanor's family."

Mrs Eleanor's family...

An idea struck him, urgent and wild.

"Let's go together," he said.

...

At the cemetery Alice dried her tears and, after warning him not to let the police catch him, left by cab.

When night had fallen and the grounds were deserted, Baron returned to the grave she had tended that afternoon.

He studied the photograph of the three family members—grandfather, grandmother, granddaughter.

After a moment's hesitation he donned the concealment coat and began to dig.

When the coffins lay exposed, he stilled himself, calmed his heart, and silently recited a purification mantra three times before opening the three caskets side by side.

Thunder cracked; a flash of lightning lit the night and the inside of the coffins.

Baron's hair stood on end. A chill raced from his soles to his skull; blood seemed to freeze, every breath edged with frost.

The coffins were empty. There were no bodies at all.

Thunder crashed and rain hammered down, each drop striking the face like a blade.

Baron sensed instinctively that something was wrong. He looked up and saw more than thunder accompanying the falling rain—figures were dropping with it.

Silver blades flashed; long legs flashed from beneath flapping skirts—Battle-Sisters!

Leading them was the green-haired, full-breasted Camilla of that day.

She swept her machete in a gleaming arc, the water on the blade looking like blood, and called out sweetly, "Hey, handsome—found you!"