The Naming of the Beasts

‘Those items,’ Caldessa said, not to me but to the well-dressed shepherdess-fancier, ‘are part of a collection. I’m afraid I can’t split them up.’

Turning back to me, she winked conspiratorially. ‘Never make it too easy for them,’ she murmured. ‘Obsession thrives on surmountable obstacles. Yes, Felix, there is another way. Several movements set side by side in one casing would do the job. Each mechanism would still be in the standard range, but together they’d be able to do what you need them to do. What a job though! Not making the individual cylinders - that’s no effort at all. But making them work in time with each other . . .’

‘If you could do it,’ I said, ‘how much would it cost?’

She gave me a slightly surprised look. ‘Oh, more than you could afford, my lamb. A lot more than you could afford. But I assume there’s a story attached?’

‘Yeah, there is. Very much so.’

‘And I’d very much like to hear it.’

‘Done.’

‘I’d very much like to hear it at Claridge’s. Gastronomy Domine says Gordon Ramsay is back on form this year. A coarse and odious little man, but he knows how to cook.’

‘Cheap at the price, Evelyn.’

‘Then I’ll see what I can do. Keep your mobile phone on vibrate, Felix, and in your back pocket. When I goose you, you’ll know it’s time to come see me again.’

From Kensington I grabbed a number 14 bus back into town: not as quick as a cab but cheaper. Now that I was committed to dinner for two at Claridge’s, I was already counting the pennies.

Having Caldessa on the case gave me a sense of having made some progress, maybe spurious, but when your own wheels are spinning in the air it helps to know that other people are moving. In that regard, I called Nicky and asked him about the three stooges known as Tlallik, Ket and Jetaniul.

‘A couple more bites,’ he said. ‘One on Jetaniul this time, and one more on Tlallik. The references are really fucking old, like with the Grazimir citation. Again, just lists of names from a couple of early grimoires: translations of translations of translations, so far from the original context that it’s not worth chasing up. Nothing to indicate who they are, or what they are, or what they do. Judging by the company they keep though, they were pretty big players at one time. Which makes me wonder how come none of them stayed in the hit parade after the thirteenth century.’

‘And no known aliases?’

‘Not yet. I tell you what though: Juliet could ask her brother.’

‘Say again?’

‘She comes from Baphomet’s lineage, doesn’t she? She is of Baphomet the sister, and the youngest of her line, et cetera. His name turns up on one of these lists too, so maybe him and Tlallik ran in the same crew.’

‘I don’t think she phones home all that often,’ I said. It was an automatic response, dating back to when Juliet was trying to keep her nose clean. After last night’s performance, maybe I’d need to revise that estimate.

‘Doesn’t hurt to ask, anyway,’ Nicky said. ‘I’m still on it, but I’m thinking this is a waste of time. These guys all closed up shop a long time ago.’

‘Do demons retire, Nicky?’

‘You can run that one past her too.’

I got off the bus at Trafalgar Square, then walked up St Martin’s Lane, where I found a bank and wired a ton, in pounds sterling, to the personal account of D. Anastasiadis. A hundred quid a book, he’d said, so now he could make a start on Rafi’s journals if he hadn’t done so already. If you’d asked me what I hoped to find in there, and what I thought I could do with it, I’d have had to admit I had no idea. Again, it was the illusion of moving forward that was comforting, even though forward doesn’t really mean anything if you have no clue where it is you’re going.

As I carried on towards Seven Dials and my rendezvous with Trudie Pax, I made one final call, to Juliet - or as it turned out, to Sue Book. She sounded scared and hunted, as though picking up the phone was an act that was fraught with danger. I asked her if Juliet had seemed okay when she got home last night.

‘Last night?’ Sue echoed, sounding uncertain. ‘She wasn’t here. She didn’t . . . I thought . . .’ There was a pause, and then the sound of another voice in the background. Sue answered the other person, but her voice was muffled now - a hand over the receiver, most probably.

‘Sue?’ I prompted.

There was a spate of rattles and clicks.

‘Who is this?’ It wasn’t Sue’s voice. It wasn’t Juliet’s either - or rather, not quite. It was close, but it had a ragged edge to it with oddly placed peaks and troughs, as though it was being played back on the wrong device and in the wrong format.

‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Castor.’

‘She called you?’

The threat in the tone was palpable. ‘Uh . . . no. I called her. I just wanted to see how you were feeling. If you’re managing to . . .’ I groped for a circumlocution that avoided words like devour and soul. ‘If you’re keeping it together,’ I finished cravenly.