The Flower Seller ( WAYHAUGHT)

Chapter 27

Heavy footsteps echoing on marble alerted Lord Coward to the arrival of Ambassador Standish at the Temple of the Four Orders. The pair shook hands, walking together to the ceremonial hall where the other members were waiting. Their number had reduced following the arrest and trial of Blackwood, some fearing their reputations would be tarnished forever for having been involved with such a rogue, others not willing to take the risk of possible criminal prosecution in light of what Inspector Lestrade and his men witnessed the night of the raid.

Every single person apprehended had willingly signed a statement blaming Blackwood. Most concluded it ill-advised to take responsibility for their actions when a scapegoat was readily available. Lestrade was astute enough to know he had these respectable gentlemen well, and truly by the bollocks. He also knew their signatures sealed Blackwood's fate far more securely than any attempt to bring Blackwood to justice on his own.

When news got out Blackwood had cheated death the few members of the Four Orders who had sneaked back, in the hope of maintaining anonymity, were scared away. It left those who were happy to overlook the rot which had set in since Blackwood's arrival, those who believed in his fantasies of world domination, of a British Empire more powerful than ever before.

Lestrade too had overlooked the goings on at the Temple, leaving those who chose to believe in such nonsense to continue whatever it was they did behind closed doors. In, and of itself, the practising of white magic, or black magic, or any form of ritual was not illegal, unless someone was murdered in the process. Not that Lestrade agreed with these ritual activities, believing himself to be a man not swayed by superstition and rituals. A practical man by nature, curious only to the extent it got the job done, relying on the likes of Sherlock Holmes to provide the necessary deeper thinking to solve his more unusual cases.

He, like Sherlock, was under no illusion Blackwood had used trickery to avoid the hangman's noose. How, he no idea. All that concerned him was the prisoner had escaped his clutches just when he was satisfied he had seen the last of that bastard. And, like Sherlock, he would stop at nothing to bring that man to the end he deserved, even if it meant doing the hangman's job himself. Given what Lady Haught had mentioned in Rotherham's bathroom, it made sense Blackwood would seek to establish himself as the head of this secret society, even if it meant killing his own father. Proving that, however, would be every bit as difficult as capturing Blackwood the first time. Lestrade didn't care. He had got him once, he would do so again.

Lord Coward headed to the ceremonial chair at the front, motioning for the others in attendance to be seated. He stood waiting for the Temple clock to strike three in the morning, several sheets of paper in his hand ready to speak. On the last chime he began. "Those of us present are witness to a new dawn. A dawn unlike any other. We have long waited such a day, one which will see our Temple, and all it stands for, on the ascendant."

A nervous ripple went through the crowd, heads nodding behind leather masks hidden under black hoods. One member began clapping, shouting "bravo," to which others joined in. It took several minutes for the noise to subside, enough to allow Lord Coward an opportunity to continue.

"We are saddened by the sudden death of Lord Rotherham. A fine man, a man who understood the importance of our work here. His death will not be in vain. Another has accepted his place, the rightful heir. Lord Blackwood has returned to lead us to victory."

The murmur through the crowd was louder this time, heads turning to look at each other, any indication of shock on faces concealed by their costume. There was no clapping, or the shouting of "bravo," only gasps as Lord Blackwood emerged from a door behind the ceremonial chair, as alive as any man in that room.