27

The Serpent held out a hand before him and noticed the fingers to tremble a little. That was good. Nerves. A man without nerves was a fool who deceived himself.

He moved over to the window and looked out over the lights of the city glittering fitfully in the darkness. He had already been out earlier in that darkness, to set the scene as it were. But now he had returned to wait for the appointed hour.

Some solid banks of fog were beginning to build up. That was good, good for business. What was it the old fellow, regimental batman, ancient mariner, whose gnarled hands were supposed to attend to his every need, had said this morning as he scraped out the ashes?

‘We’ll hae a sea haar the nicht. I feel it in my bones. Cauld as the grave, sir.’

He mimicked the near-incomprehensible accent perfectly, speaking aloud in the silent room, then moved restlessly away from the window to regard himself once more in the stained, cracked, full-length mirror.

Now, there was no going back. Now, it had to be done.

Had the word from the South been cheerier, the early election forecast more promising, he may have considered a halt to the mission. But no, let’s be honest old chap, even with the advent of good tidings, the matter must run its course. He had the taste for blood now.

And it was such splendid sport, to be out in the field once more, not sending others out to risk for him.

It was all a matter of timing. When to play the cards.

On an impulse, he tried to mould his features to those of Benjamin Disraeli, the drooping eyes he could manage but not that splendid nose, that would need some construction. The mouth was possible, hinted at a certain lubriciousness, a delving into dark corners. The reflected mouth smiled at the thought.

For had Disraeli not written, possibly on his knees at the time, to the comely Lord Henry Lennox, ‘I am henceforth your own property, to do what you like with …’?

He dropped the pretence and sneered at himself. But was he not the same? A creature to be used? An instrument, not of pleasure though, but of ruin? His potency dependent on those above? In this case, not even the dignity of direct command, a suggestion here, an implication there, an elegant oblique silence after a subject raised.

A creature. That was all.

The Serpent was suddenly filled with the venom of self-hatred. He spat, quite deliberately, into his own face and watched as the saliva slid down his mirror image.

Then he cheered up immensely. Good to get that off one’s chest. Think of the rewards from on high. Favours bestowed. The power granted. Beyond his peers. No one would deny him. He would be indispensable. Above all others.

Nerves, that was it. Before going into action. Not long now, this was the tricky one, trick o’ the light, all depended on the timing, repeating himself, not a good idea.

He moved away from the mirror and took stock. He knew the time and place, the mark was set, part of the money paid, the route reconnoitred; all he had to do … the Serpent took a deep breath. Relax. Not the first time, old chap. Think of yourself … as the Hand of God. Royal appointment. Relax. That’s the stuff to give the troops.

He summoned up a picture that always turned his bones to water. The first time she had come to him, the little fleshly beast.

The Serpent had been asleep and awoke, heart pounding, to find her at the foot of his bed, golden hair loose to her shoulders. She wore a nightdress he himself had approved and bought. Appeared chasteness itself in the shop, a thick cotton swathe behind which youthful modesty might rest, but now it seemed the very emblem of temptation.

And then it fell, by some strange motion, as if a snake had sloughed its skin, to the carpet.

A naked female is the most terrifying mystery.

She was part in shadow, he could make out the shape of her long young body glowing in the dark. But all that was immediately visible, a shaft of moonlight through a high window playing the pander, was one bare foot.

One slender white foot, on a red carpet.

And then it moved. Towards him. And all else followed. Foot, ankle, calf and thigh. Then perdition.

He’d tried to resist, to protest, but such speech is difficult when the mouth is so otherwise occupied.

From far below the castle walls, there came the sound of laughter. Harsh, jeering laughter from an unknown source.

The Serpent found his lips dry. Surely a cigar was called for? His case was on the table. He crossed, took one out, Dutch, can’t beat the Dutch, lit it up, and found he was calm again.

The operative had her part to play. And so had he. Flesh could wait.

Somewhere a church bell struck nine hours. Not long, now. Not long, now. Action.