Frankenstein in London by Brian Stableford

Author:Brian Stableford [Stableford, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Coat Press
Published: 2012-09-03T00:00:00+00:00

PART TWO:

THE NECROMANCERS OF LONDON

Chapter One

Waiting for the Night Mail

November 1823 had turned out to be unseasonably cold, and the members of the thin crowd awaiting the arrival of the evening mail coach from Dover were all huddled in the coffee-shop next door to the Post Office, sitting as close as possible to one or other of its two black-leaded stoves. One man, however, had stationed himself slightly apart from the two clusters, alone at a table. He was muffled by a greatcoat, a scarf and a capacious felt hat, with a coffee-pot and a white china cup before him. The dregs had long since gone cold.

The coach was late—unsurprisingly, given that the chill of the night must have frosted all the ruts and potholes in the road into jarring solidity, and that a freezing fog had settled that must be even worse in open country than the streets of London, though not quite as smoke-laden.

When a slender but not unmuscular individual came over to the table where the lone man was sitting, carrying a fresh coffee-pot and a clean cup, the latter looked up gratefully, although he did not allow the concealing scarf to fall from the lower part of his face. The gratitude vanished from his eyes, though, and he scowled behind the scarf. The benevolent newcomer was not a waiter.

“Good evening, Mr. Temple,” the newcomer said, politely. “Or should I say ‘good morning,’ given that it’s past midnight? Do you remember me?”

Gregory Temple cursed the mention of his name, although it had been spoken in tone so soft and silky that he doubted that any other members of the patient crowd had heard it. “I remember all the hirelings who bore false witness against Richard Thompson, with the intention of sending him to the gallows for a crime committed by John Devil,” he said. “Given the chance, I’d bring them all to their due reckoning—and be sure to keep them from the kind of evasion accomplished by Sawney Ross. You have a damnable nerve approaching me, Mr. Hopkey.”

“You can call me Sam,” the actor said, as he sat down and poured out two cups of coffee for himself and the secret policeman. “And I’ll freely admit that I was never comfortable with that affair. I’ve been to the Old Bailey half a dozen times in all, but always to secure an acquittal, save for that once. John Devil took care to snatch Thompson away from the noose, though—for which you might be a little grateful. You’ve forgiven Ned Knob, after all, and taken him into your service.”

“I’ve forgiven no one,” Temple growled, although he picked up the full cup readily enough, and put the hot brim to his lips gratefully, “and I know full well that Knob didn’t send you, for he’s still in the Caribbean with your old master, trying to play the diplomat in the founding of a zombie empire.”

“Might I ask how that work is going?” Sam Hopkey said, with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

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