Free A Madness of Angels: Or the Resurrection of Matthew Swift by Kate Griffin Page A

it?”
     
“Resemblance?”
     
“To our sadly departed dead sorcerer, Matthew Swift.”
     
“Ah.”
     
“Although as far as I know, he had no brothers.”
     
“I don’t.”
     
“Of course, of course,” he said. “You don’t. In fact, if I recall correctly, you have no living relatives?”
     
“I have a grandmother in a nursing home.” A sudden pang of guilt that I hadn’t even thought of her until now; alive, dead?
     
“Do you?”
     
“I did when I last checked.”
     
“See her often?”
     
“She only likes talking to the pigeons,” I replied, honestly enough.
     
“I see. Such a shame.”
     
“The pigeons let her fly with them. They bring her all the news. It is not sad.”
     
He smiled again, but this time the smile was tighter: less friendly but somehow more honest for it. “Indeed, indeed,” he mumbled. “But forgive me; I’m going about this terribly rudely. We should introduce ourselves before digressing to personal matters.”
     
“You know who I am.”
     
“I know who you say you are. And I know what you appear to be, which is quite different. But for the now let me say that I am Dudley Sinclair, and that it is my honour to make your acquaintance.”
     
He held out his hand. I shook it, after only a moment’s doubt. The cold clamminess of his grip clenched hard around my fingers and lingered a second longer than politeness required. We pulled our fingers away.
     
“You know the fortune-teller?”
     
“Dear boy, I know everybody . It’s my business, you see?”
     
I didn’t have anything to say to that, so resumed my quiet study of the two men’s reflection against the glory of the city.
     
“Yes, yes,” he muttered, not particularly for my attention. “Of course.” The smile reasserted itself, broad, but somehow not revealing any teeth as it ran from ear to ear. “Well, yes, this is a remarkably fortuitous encounter. Indeed. Shall we dispense with the boring questions for now and say that yes, indeed, you are Matthew Swift, a sorcerer in every form, way, and guise. Yes, I think this is best, don’t you?”
     
I shrugged.
     
“A man of few words; I can respect that, although personally I find you can discover a lot about a fellow even in the meaningless detritus with which he may litter his speech, an unconscious, perhaps, symptom of who he really may be, beneath his conscious mind. But you, sir, seem to play a close game – well, good. Yes, very good.”
     
“There was talk of mutual benefit,” I said. “The fortune-teller said… there were people who can help me.”
     
“And, I believe, there was talk of revenge, yes?”
     
“I can manage my own affairs.”
     
“Of course you can, yes! A very capable gentleman, certainly – indeed, to be Matthew Swift and to have survived when so many others have died would suggest quite how capable you may indeed be!”
     
“Who died?”
     
A flicker in the eyes, a tiny movement around the corners of his mouth. “I take it you are unfamiliar with current events.”
     
“I’ve read some newspapers.”
     
“I was thinking of events within that… special area in which you and I both happen to dabble.” “You dabble, but he” – I nodded at the silent young man by the door – “does a bit more than that, I think.”
     
A moment’s hesitation; hard to tell whether the tightening around his eyes was surprise, or pleasure, or both. The young man showed no feeling – we could have been talking about a dead stranger as far as he seemed to care. “A man of insight, sir,” murmured Dudley Sinclair finally, his voice quieter and deeper than before. “I can see why she thought you curious.”
     
“Who died?” I repeated. “I tried calling some… who died?”“A list? Crude, certainly crude, but perhaps necessary. Very well – as far as I’m aware, you – I mean Matthew Swift – were the first, although we do not entirely know whether your death fits the pattern since, as of course you know, no body was ever found. Alfred Khan died shortly after – the theory goes he had visions of your death,