Simon Green: Nightingale lament

I was looking unobtrusively around for an exit. I've never been much of a one for this kind of confrontation if there's an exit handy.

"Kill them," said Mr. Cavendish, in his cold, clipped voice.

"Kill them all," said Mrs. Cavendish, in her sharp clear voice.

"No," said the Jonah, and both the Cavendishes looked at him, surprised. He smiled, unmoved. "I want to see them suffer first."

The Cavendishes looked at each other. Both of them started to say something, then stopped. They considered the Jonah thoughtfully. Something had just changed in their relationship with their hired gun, and they weren't sure what.

"Come up onstage, all of you," said Billy Lathem, the Jonah, son of Count Entropy. "I want you to know exactly how badly you've failed, John. I want to ex­plain it all to you, so you can see you never really stood a chance."

"Why should I do anything you say, Billy?" I said, genuinely interested in what his answer would be.

"Because I'll tell you the truth about what we did to poor dear Rossignol," said the Jonah.

Just like that he had me where he wanted me, and we both knew it. So I shrugged casually and headed for the stage, with all my hackles stirring. Something bad was coming, I could feel it, and it was aimed right at me. Dead Boy and Rossignol came with me. The Jonah said a few low words to the Cavendishes, and they followed him up onto the opposite side of the stage. We all stopped a cautious distance apart, then we all looked at the Jonah, to see how he wanted to play this. He was smiling a happy cruel smile, a predator about to play with his prey, for a while.

"We allowed Rossignol to escape from Caliban's Cavern," the Jonah said easily, "in order that we could follow her, to you. We were waiting for someone to make contact with her, and it wasn't really any surprise when the go-between turned out to be the besotted and predictable and stupidly loyal Ian Auger. The Cavendishes wanted me to trail Rossignol, then . . . take care of things, but I persuaded them to come along. I wanted them to see me take you down, John, to watch and appreciate as I destroy you, inch by inch. They don't get out much these days. Well, you can tell that from their awful pallor, can't you? I've seen things crawl out from under rocks sporting better tans. And they really don't like to be out and about in public, but I wanted them to be here, so here they are. Isn't it mar­velous how things can work out, if you just put your mind to it?"

"So the servant becomes the master," I observed to the Cavendishes. "Or the monster turns on his creator, if you prefer. Not for the first time, of course. You do remember Sylvia Sin, don't you?"

"Charming girl," said Mr. Cavendish. "Always said she'd go far, didn't I, Mrs. Cavendish?"

"Indeed you did, Mr. Cavendish." The woman looked at me thoughtfully. "Have you seen the dear girl recently?"

"Yes," I said. "She was a monster. So I put her out of the misery you put her into."

"Oh good," said the woman. "We do so detest loose ends. And as for the Jonah - why, he is our dear friend andally, and we are very proud of him. We predict great things for him, in the future."

"Couldn't have put it better," said the man. "A per­son to be watched, and studied."

"What happened to Ian?" Rossignol said suddenly. "What did you do to him?"

"Ah yes," said the Jonah. "Never cared much for the shifty little runt. Let's just say that the trio . . . has now become a duet." He sniggered loudly at his own wit, while Rossignol turned her head away. The Jonah looked at the Cavendishes. "Tell them. Tell them every­thing. I want them to know it all, to know how badly they've failed, before I do terrible things to them. You can start by telling them who you really are."

"Why not?" said the man. "It's not as if they will be around to tell anyone else."

"You tell it, Mr. Cavendish," said the woman. "You have always had a way with words."

"Butyou have always been the better storyteller, Mrs. Cavendish, and I won't have you putting yourself down."

"And I thank you kindly for saying that, my dear, but. . ."

"Get on with it!" said the Jonah.

"We are older than we look," said the man. "We have assumed many names and identities, down the years, but we are perhaps still best known for our original nom de guerre, in the nineteenth century - the Murder Masques."

"Yes," said the woman, smiling for the first time as she took in our expressions. "That was us. Uncontested crime lords of old London, the greatest villains of the Victorian Age. No sin was ever practiced there, but we took our commission. We laughed at police and politicians. We even brought down the great Julien Advent himself."

"Or rather, you did," said the man. "Credit where credit is due, my very dear."

"But I couldn't have done it without you, dearest. Now, where was I? Ah yes. We became involved with corruption in business, along with everyone else, and discovered to our surprise that there was far more money to be made in business than in crime, if business was approached with the right attitude. So we put aside our famous masques, cut off our old contacts, and made new names for ourselves in Trade. We prospered, mostly at the expense of our more timid competitors, and soon enough we became a Corporation. And as corporations are immortal, so we became immortal. Such things happen, in the Nightside. As our business thrives, so do we. As long as it exists, so shall we. Money is power, power is magic. And, of course, when the well-being of Cavendish Properties is threatened, so are we."

"So we take all such threats very seriously," said the man. "And we take all necessary steps to defend ourselves."

"You're just vultures," said Dead Boy. "Profiting from the weaknesses of others, feeding on the carcasses of those you bring down."

"The very best kind of business," said Mrs. Cavendish. "Born of the Age of Capitalism, we now embody it."

"That's why you call yourself Mr. and Mrs. all the time," I said, just to feel I was contributing something. "Because you've had so many identities, you have to keep reminding yourselves who you are these days."

"True," said Mr. Cavendish. "But irrelevant."

"Julien Advent will track you down," I said. "He's never forgotten you."

The Cavendishes shared a warm smile. "And we have never forgotten him," said the woman. "Because there's one part of the story, that oft-told legend, which dear Julien has never got around to telling. The great love of his life, the one who betrayed him to the Mur­der Masques and their waiting Timeslip, was me. I shall never forget the look of shock and horror on his face when I took off my Masque. I thought I'd never be able to stop laughing."

"He cried," said the man. "Indeed he did. Real tears. But then Julien always was a sentimental sort."

"He really had no-one but himself to blame," said the woman. "I was working as a dancer in the chorus line when he met me. Just another pretty face with an average voice and a good pair of legs, but he took a fancy to me. Gentlemen often did, in those days. He in­troduced me to a better life, to all sorts of expensive tastes and appetites. Some of which he proved unwill­ing to provide. He thought he was saving me. He should have asked me whether I wanted to be saved.

"Since he wouldn't give me what I wanted, I went looking for someone who would, and at one of Julien's soirees, I made the acquaintance of the generous gentleman at my side. The Murder Masque himself. He showed me a whole new world of monies and plea­sures, and I took to it as to the manner born. And so I took up a Masque, too, and I found far more thrills as a lord of crime than I ever did in poor Julien's arms. In the end, when I pushed him into the Timeslip to be rid of him, I didn't feel anything at all."

"Tell them," the Jonah said impatiently. "Tell John what we did to Rossignol. I want to see his face, once he realises there's nothing he can do to save her."