Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch [76]
You cannot scratch a pentagram into soft, springy turf with anything less than a back hoe, and in any case I wasn’t about to vandalise such a lovely lawn. Instead I drew the star and circle with charcoal dust using a burlap sack with a hole cut in one corner like an icing bag. I laid it on nice and thick. Polidori had quite a lot to say about the dangers of breaking the pentagram when summoning a spirit. Having your soul dragged out and sent screaming down to hell was only the start of it.
At each cardinal point of the pentagram I put one of my calculators. I’d suggested that I bring Toby along just in case the substitution didn’t work, but when it was time to leave the Folly the dog was nowhere to be found. I’d picked up a packet of chemical glow sticks from a local camping shop, and these I cracked and placed where the crib sheet called for candles. The conjurer – in this case, me – was supposed to impart some of his essence, which was late eighteenth-century magic speak for ‘put some magic into’ the circle around the pentagram. There’s a particular forma created for just that purpose but I hadn’t had time to learn it – instead, Nightingale suggested that I just create a were-light in the centre.
I took a deep breath, created the werelight and floated it into the centre of the pentagram. I adjusted my light and started to read the conjuration from my notebook. The original had gone on for four manuscript pages, but with Nightingale’s help I’d managed to shave it down some.
‘Nicholas Wallpenny,’ I said. ‘Hear my voice, accept my gifts, rise and converse.’
And suddenly he was there, as shifty-looking as ever.
‘I knew you was special as soon as I laid eyes on you,’ he said. ‘Your governor not around, is he?’
‘Over there,’ I said, ‘beyond the gate.’
‘Mind you keep him there,’ said Nicholas. ‘I was right about the murdering gent, weren’t I?’
‘We think it’s the spirit of Pulcinella,’ I said.
‘You what?’ said Nicholas. ‘Mr Punch? I think you must have had one too many. Get thee to a lushery. ’
‘You wanted my help last night,’ I said.
‘Did I?’ asked Nicholas. ‘But that would make me a blower and a slag, and ain’t nobody ever said that Nicholas Wallpenny ever put the jack on a cove, lest he get a visit from the punishers.’ He gave me a significant look. A ‘blower’ was old London slang for an informer, and ‘punishers’ were likewise slang for men hired to beat people up – presumably for ‘blowing’.
‘That’s a relief,’ I said. ‘How’s … death treating you?’
‘Fair enough,’ said Nicholas. ‘Can’t complain. Certainly a lot less crowded than it once was. This being the Actor’s Church and all, we’re never short of an evening’s entertainment. We’ve even had the occasional guest artiste for our further edification. We had that famous Henry Pyke – that’s Pyke with a Y – mind you, he’s very particular. He’s popular with the ladies on account of his long nose.’
I didn’t like the way Nicholas looked; tense, nervous and as if he would be sweating if he could still sweat. I considered backing off, but the cruel fact is that informants, dead or alive, are there to be used if necessary.
‘This … Henry Pyke, is he planning a long run?’ I asked.
‘Best to say that he’s bought the theatre,’ said Nicholas.
‘Sounds good,’ I said. ‘Any chance of me catching a show?’
‘Well, Constable, I wouldn’t be so damned keen to get on the bill if I was you,’ said Nicholas. ‘Mr Pyke can be strangely hard on his co-stars, and I daresay he’s got a role in mind for