‘The Home Office has never really understood that science and magic are not mutually exclusive, sir. The founder of my society provided proof enough of that. I believe there has been a slow but steady increase in magical activity.’
‘The magic’s coming back?’ asked the Commissioner.
‘Since the mid-sixties,’ said Nightingale.
‘The sixties,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Why am I not surprised? This is damned inconvenient. Any idea why?’
‘No, sir,’ said Nightingale. ‘But then there never was any real consensus as to why it faded in the first place.’
‘I’ve heard the word Ettersburg used in that context,’ said the Commissioner.
For a moment there was real pain on Nightingale’s face. ‘Ettersburg was part of it, certainly.’
The Commissioner blew out his cheeks and sighed. ‘The murders in Covent Garden and Hampstead, these are connected?’ he asked.
‘Yes sir.’
‘You think the situation will get worse?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Enough to warrant breaking the agreement?’
‘It takes ten years to train an apprentice, sir,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s better to have a spare just in case something happens to me.’
The Commissioner gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘Does he know what he’s getting himself into?’
‘Does any copper?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Very well,’said the Commissioner. ‘On your feet, son.’
We stood. Nightingale told me to raise my hand and read me the oath: ‘Do you, Peter Grant of Kentish Town, swear to be true to our sovereign Queen and her heirs. And well and truly serve your Master for the term of your apprenticeshood. And ye shall be in obedience to all the wardens and clothing of that fellowship. In reverence of the secret of the said fellowship ye shall keep and give no information to any man but of the said fellowship. And in all these things ye shall well and truly behave yourself and secretly keep this oath to your power so help you God, your Sovereign and the power that set the universe in motion.’
I so swore, although I did almost stumble over the clothing bit.
‘So help you God,’ said the Commissioner.
Nightingale informed me that as his apprentice I was required to lodge at his London residence in Russell Square. He told me the address and dropped me back at the Charing Cross section house.
Lesley helped me pack.
‘Shouldn’t you be at Belgravia,’ I asked, ‘doing Murder Team stuff?’
‘I’ve been told to take the day off,’ said Lesley. ‘Compassionate – don’t get on media’s radar – leave.’
That I could understand. A family annihilation involving charismatic rich people was going to be a news editor’s dream story. Once they’d picked over the gruesome details, they could extend the mileage by asking what the tragic death of the Coopertown family told us about our society, and how this tragedy was an indictment of modern culture/secular humanism/ political correctness/the situation in Palestine – delete where applicable. About the only thing that could improve the story would be the involvement of a good-looking blonde WPC out, I might add, unsupervised on a dangerous assignment. Questions would be asked. Answers would be ignored.
‘Who’s going to Los Angeles?’ I asked. Somebody would have to trace Brandon’s movements in the States.
‘A couple of sergeants I never got a chance to meet,’ she said. ‘I only worked there a couple of days before you got me into trouble.’
‘You’re his blue-eyed girl,’ I said. ‘Seawoll’s not going to hold it against you.’
‘I still reckon you owe me,’ she said as she picked up my bath towel and briskly folded it into a tightly packed cube.
‘What do you want?’ I asked.
Lesley asked if I was likely to get the evening off and I said I could try.
‘I don’t want to be stuck here,’ she said. ‘I want to go out.’
‘Where do you want to go?’ I asked, and watched as she unfolded the towel and refolded it into a triangle shape.
‘Anywhere but the pub,’ she said and handed the towel to me. I managed to stuff it into my rucksack, but I had to unfold it first.
‘What about a film?’ I asked.
‘Sounds good,’ she said, ‘but it’s got to be funny.’
Russell Square lies a kilometre north of Covent Garden on the other side of the British Museum. According to Nightingale, it was at the heart of a literary and philosophical movement in the early years of the last century, but I remember it because of an old horror movie about cannibals living in the Underground system.