Christopher Fowler - Disturbia

Slowly, painfully, he climbed the rungs one at a time until his head was level with the top of the shaft. With his free hand he attempted to push the lid free, but there was not even a quarter-inch of movement. His right thigh, where the crossbow dart had entered, felt as though it was on fire. God only knew how many inoculations he would need if they ever got out of here alive.

He stepped down a rung to try and get a better grip, and the aluminium shaft of the dart caught inside one of the ladder struts, causing him to yell out in pain. His fingers closed on air as the rung eluded his grasp, and he fell back. For a moment he lay across the shaft breathing hard, his shoulder against the slime-covered wall opposite. Then as Pam screamed his name he slipped again and fell feet first, bypassing the ledge, into the storm-driven cloacal rage below.

'BUT ARTHUR, we need your knowledge down here,' pleaded Maggie Armitage. 'You still remember all the old, esoteric stuff even I've forgotten.'

'I'm not sure I take that as a compliment,' replied the elderly detective. 'Anyway, there are too many cooks in this room. You need to go over those paintings inch by inch, preferably with a magnifying glass. Someone should be working out what the League of Prometheus is up to.'

'Surely we know that already.'

'No,' said Bryant emphatically, 'that is precisely what we don't know, beyond the fact that Vincent Reynolds is being used. Could their meeting have been prearranged right from the outset, d'you suppose?'

'I don't see how,' answered Masters. 'Vincent says he found Sebastian's name in a magazine.'

'Hmm. Harold, may I borrow your wife?' He extended his hand. 'Jane, you have a lively mind. I know it's late, but you wouldn't mind helping me for a few minutes, would you?'

'Not at all,' replied Jane, flattered. 'What do you want me to do?'

'I'm not a fan of the Internet, as you know. It seems to me rather like the stack of magazines one always finds in dentists' waiting rooms. They cover all the subjects you have no interest in reading about, and the only pages you'd like to read are partially missing. Still, it could be useful in this situation. Harold was telling me that you use it at the museum, and that you have a connection set up here. Can you show me how to locate those page-things?'

'Web-sites, yes, of course. I'll show you where the terminal is.' She led the way upstairs. Unlike his partner John May, who was in the thrall of all things cybernetic, Bryant had no love or understanding of technology. Its usefulness in locating information, however, could not be denied. He needed to probe deeper into the newspaper files for reports of the drowning of Melanie Daniels, and knew that he could probably access all the archival material he needed through the Internet. At the back of his mind was the suspicion that Sebastian had somehow been responsible for the girl's death. Either it was an accident that he had unwittingly caused, or he had actually murdered her in a fit of anger. Suppose Sir Nicholas had discovered the truth, and had refused to help his boy out of the situation? Surely that was reason enough for father and son to become estranged?

And yet this alone was not enough to explain the League's mobilisation in the last few hours. It seemed unlikely that an accident occurring over seven years ago had any bearing on the drama now being played out, but what else did they have to go on? As he seated himself before the console and Jane switched on the modem for him, he realised how little time there was left before the dawn would start shedding its unwelcome light on the events of the night.

'Let's have a good look at these pictures,' said Masters. He adjusted his bifocals and scanned the page. 'We'll take the clues in the order that they were written down. The night of September 3rd and the passing of Proserpine.' He opened a heavy, battered copy of The Works of William Hogarth, bound in brown leather, and located the Times of the Day engravings. The sequence of four ended with Night. 'Well, Proserpine is Persephone, the wife of Hades, the goddess of the underworld…'

'I know a fair amount about these pictures,' said Maggie keenly. 'Hogarth is often cited by our coven members because of his reliance on symbolism and myth. The members like that sort of thing. Look, here, at the Night picture.' She tapped it with a crimson nail. 'It's apparently set in Hartshorn Lane, Charing Cross. The road is long gone, of course. The oak boughs on the sign and the oak leaves in the freemason's hat suggest the date – May 29th, the anniversary of Charles the Second's restoration. There's a crashed coach in the bottom right-hand corner. I think it's meant as a sort of nasty parody of Persephone bringing on the night. Most of Hogarth's jests have a sadistic edge created by his love of paradox. There's another joke in the surrounding scene – rather than preparing for bed, everyone is getting ready to go out.'

'That's what Vince has done, isn't it?' said Purbrick. 'He's been forced to swap night for day, going out when everyone else has gone to bed.'

Maggie turned the page back and pointed to a reproduction of Evening. 'Diana and her cuckold Actaeon. We know this is who the painting is meant to represent because the characters are painted on the fan held by the central character. The spirit of Diana hangs over the picture, but in a sort of perverse parody. Actaeon was changed into a stag for looking upon Artemis while she was bathing, but here he's been turned into a cuckold. He's standing in front of a bull.'

'What does that mean?' asked Purbrick.

'It looks like he has horns. Putting horns on a man is the traditional manner of showing that his wife is unfaithful, Stanley, surely you know that.'

'I don't see how it helps us,' Purbrick complained.

'According to these notes it's supposed to be five in the afternoon because there's a milkmaid milking a cow in the background, and we're at Sadler's Wells. Those are the hills of Highgate in the distance.'

'Not much help. Turn to the next one.'

'Noon,' said Maggie, holding up the third reproduction. 'Ruled by Apollo, associated with the sun, and Venus, whose love is inverted here to be symbolised by a vulgar marriage and various earthy lusts, lots of sloppy feasting and debauchery.'

'I like this one,' said Purbrick. 'It's a bit saucy. Where the good woman is silent. Who is the good woman, then?'

'She's on the sign outside the inn.'

'But she's got no head.'

'That's what makes her good; she can't nag.'

'Hmm. What about the last picture?'

'Morning. The church dial says five to eight. An old maid crossing Covent Garden Square. She's dressed in yellow, the colour of the dawn sun, like the goddess Aurora -'

'Like the fire that Prometheus himself carries,' added Purbrick.

'That's right. She's on her way to church, but this is another inversion, another cruel paradox. She's peppered with black spots, venereal marks, and dressed less for religious service than personal vanity, hence less pious than she appears. She looks more like she's been out all night and is going to church to repent her carnal sins.'

'Well, the symbolism of the paintings is obvious, then, isn't it?' said Purbrick. 'He's commenting on Vincent.'

'How do you mean?' asked Maggie.

'The four goddesses, they all represent some aspect of what Sebastian perceives to be Vincent's world tonight. Persephone runs into the night and into the underworld, Diana the huntress takes on a challenge, Venus the lover turns the love into sin, and Aurora is the dawn-bringer, carrier of fire. Vincent befriended Sebastian, but the friendship soured under false pretences, that's Venus -'