“Trust me, Prudence. This isn’t devil worship or witchcraft. This ritual is from the South Sea Islands, from a land the French once described as La Nouvelle Cythere, an island where a woman with your skills would be considered a queen and welcomed in the highest realms of power.”
Intrigued, the working girl looked up. “Nice island that would be—where did you say it was?”
“Does it matter? Prudence, I am making you an offer of a lifetime. Who knows what might happen if it works? I’m also offering you twenty crowns.”
For the first time in their conversation Prudence looked interested, her pretty face sharpening as she made some quick mental calculations. “Twenty-five . . . and ten for my . . . ‘assistant.’ . . .”
D’Arcy inhaled sharply. Twenty crowns was double her usual fee and thirty-five was exorbitant. He simply didn’t have the money. Calculating wildly, he realized he had no choice; he would have to visit at least two of his more sympathetic unmarried relatives to borrow the money and live off cockles and cheap beer for the rest of the month. But he was committed: he was determined to execute the ritual at any cost. “Done. There’s just one other point: there is another man involved.”
“Oh saucy, Mr. D’Arcy, but I suppose two men and two girls could have a lot of fun. And it’s lucky for you that I do like the occasional tryst with a pretty young girl. Still, servicing three is a lot more work. Is he a reasonable chap?”
“I think you’ll like him. He’s young, handsome, and clean enough.”
“And you’ll be the master of ceremonies, so to speak?”
“I will be directing the movements of the ritual,” D’Arcy replied cautiously, settling on the word movements because of the musical connotation, and thinking of the ritual as a benign symphony somehow gave the whole notion a dignified legitimacy. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his last ten crowns. “See this as a deposit.” He held out the crowns. Finally Prudence’s fingers closed around the money. “The rest we get on the night?”
“Gentleman’s word.”
“Well,” the prostitute said, sliding the money into the large purse she always kept hanging off her belt, “at the very least it will be an education. And I’m always looking for original ways to educate meself. I think this new girl Amelia has talent. She’s very pretty and has an enthusiasm for the theatrics. Just tell me the time and place and what we should be wearing and I promise prompt and professional service, as always, Mr. D’Arcy,” she concluded with a tiny flick of her very pink tongue.
• • •
The young sweep glanced about the private garden square, then slid closer to D’Arcy on the park bench. “You mean to say that we will all spoon together for the sake of . . .’ow would you call it . . . magic?” His voice was a tense mixture of incredulity and excitement.
D’Arcy stared out at the small pond, upon which a drake was strutting his prowess to a disinterested mate. If only his life was as uncomplicated as that of the lusty drake. Swallowing his own nervousness, he mustered up the last of his resolve. “It is more in the pursuit of a native science, young Harry, and I will be following the words of the diary to the last letter.”
“And these are definitely the words of the great man himself?”
“Absolutely; I have verified both the handwriting and Banks’s very turn of phrase. It is indisputably his reportage. You have made a great find, and I shall see to it that you are mentioned in my book.”
“An honor, sir, but I was hoping for a more fiscal kind of reward. . . .”
“Indeed, and I will, naturally, pay you well for partaking in our little secret ritual.”
“How well?”
D’Arcy knew he would not be able to borrow more than the sum of sixty crowns and already his expenses were mounting up. Disheartened, he ran through a mental inventory of all his assets, attempting to calculate which he could more or less happily part with. Finally he arrived at an old set of pewter drinking mugs he had inherited from his grandfather. At least one hundred years old, it was safe to assume they might be of value to the pawnbroker. “I was thinking of the sum of fifteen crowns?” he ventured, assuming the young man’s services might be worth less than the professional Prudence as, he reasoned, another man might actually be willing to pay as opposed to being paid to be included in such a venture.
“I’m in. Harry is always one to mix pleasure with commerce,” the chimney sweep retorted swiftly, winking and licking his lips as he broke into a broad smile. “As long as I’m back at the chimneys by nine the next morning.”
“Nine? Oh, I can get you back to London well before nine—after all, the whole ritual climaxes at the crack of dawn. Then we all go our separate ways. . . .”
“I’m rather looking forward to it. Very titillating, Mr. Hammer, even if I say so meself, making love and making history! Something to tell the grandchildren, I daresay.”
“Something you cannot ever tell of, sir. Unless you wish to condemn both of us to both notoriety and prison,” D’Arcy snapped back firmly.
“I was joking, Mr. Hammer. I am as discreet as a monk in a nunnery. As far as I’m concerned, as soon as it’s over it never ’appened.”
D’Arcy studied the young sweep, who returned his gaze, steady and unflinching. The young biographer then held out his hand and the two men shook on the agreement. From a distance it all looked very innocuous.
• • •
Later that day, D’Arcy visited two wealthy cousins and an uncle. He borrowed the total of sixty crowns, then hocked his pewter mugs and received another forty crowns. After further study of Banks’s description of the ritual he went in search of a number of other essentials: a piglet (required as an animal sacrifice to Atanua, the Polynesian goddess of fertility and of the dawn); a sweet vegetable ca
lled a yam, which was also required as a ritual offering; a ground cloth, upon which the orgy was to take place, that had to be marked up with magical symbols and totems exactly as described in Banks’s notes; and, finally, a wooden bowl to be held up at the point of climax by the two male participants.
The piglet he rescued from a slaughterhouse in Smithfields market. The small, cowering beast appeared so grateful D’Arcy couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for the innocent adoration of the animal, who had no idea that D’Arcy had merely substituted one nasty fate for another. The yam was harder to locate. After a lengthy search he remembered a shipping colleague of his father’s who imported vegetables and fruit from the colony of the West Indies. He visited the offices of the company at the London docks and, after paying a visit to the bemused gentleman, left an hour later with a box of the strange, twisted yellow vegetable. As for the ground cloth, he left this task to his tailors with a drawing of exactly how it should look. Discreet as ever, the Savile Row tailors asked no questions. The wooden bowl he bought from an importer of exotic goods off a small arcade on Bond Street. It was, to his immense satisfaction, actually from Tahiti. Finally the last but most essential ingredient of the ritual—an object belonging to one’s nemesis, the person one wished to inhabit for an hour—was already in his possession: Tuttle’s white glove.