Latimer sat side by side at the bar, so deep in conversation that no one dared interrupt them. A few people tried to listen in, but were driven away by two sets of very cold eyes. Demonbane had taken up a position behind the bar, preparing very complicated, very dangerous, and very popular concoctions. Sometimes the stigmata in his palms would drip blood into the drinks he was preparing, but that didn’t seem to bother anyone. It was, after all, a very cosmopolitan crowd.
People told increasingly indelicate stories about Jack Drood, from his days in the field right up to the present day. I think most of us would have been shocked at what emerged if we hadn’t all been laughing so hard. Nicolai drank neat vodka and smiled and nodded a lot, but it wasn’t until I asked him point-blank for his memories of Jack that he smiled and shrugged and looked at me thoughtfully.
“Did you know about Jack’s little fling with the Lady Faire?”
“You mean James,” I said.
“No, I don’t,” said Nicolai. “She had both of them! Though not at the same time. As far as I know . . .”
“And let us not forget Jason Royal, back in the Seventies,” said Sir Perryvale. “That most debonair of spies . . . There was a lot of talk, you know, as to whether James or Jack was really his father. James took the credit; but then, he always did. Does anyone here know what Jason’s up to these days?”
“Last I heard, he was retired,” said Catherine Latimer. “Living in San Francisco.”
“I suppose he must be of an age to retire by now,” said Nicolai. “Though I still remember him as that handsome young man, a peacock of the London scene . . .”
“Didn’t I hear he disappeared, rather mysteriously, sometime last year?” said Monkton Farley.
“I thought I heard something like that,” said Dead Boy.
“Was it Jack who went looking for the Holy Grail in Old Shanghai?” said Julien Advent. “Or was that James?”
“No, that was Charles and Emily,” said Catherine. “Back when they were still doing fieldwork for the Droods. They never had the reputation, but they always did good work. You should be proud of your parents, Eddie.”
“I am,” I said.
“Though I sometimes wonder why,” said Molly.
“Hush,” I said.
“But did they ever find the Grail?” said Sir Perryvale.
“I think I would have heard, if they had,” said Isabella.
“No,” said Dead Boy. “It turned out to be just a false sighting of John the Baptist’s head. The Merovingians were always chasing that . . . But in this case it was just Herod’s head. Didn’t Elvis have the Grail at Graceland?”
“No,” said Molly very firmly. “You’ve been reading those supermarket tabloids again, haven’t you?”
Dead Boy shrugged easily. “These days it’s the only way to find out what’s really going on.”
“Here’s to Jack!” Sir Perryvale said loudly. He held up his Champagne bottle, and we all raised our glasses in the toast. “To the Armourer, and all his marvellous toys! Including all the ones that did what they were actually supposed to do! And to a few that should never even have been tried. Remember the gun that fired miniature black holes? And the nuclear grenade?”
“That would have worked,” I said, “if he could have only found someone who could throw it far enough.”
People knocked back their drinks, ordered more, and swapped happy memories of the Armourer’s amazing creations. Which led, naturally enough, to stories about some of the more unusual obsessions and enthusiasms of previous Armourers. I couldn’t help but smile at discovering that so many of my family’s secrets weren’t quite as secret as they thought. There was mention of the Time Train, and Moxton’s Mistake, and a great many others. No one mentioned Alpha Red Alpha, so I didn’t either.
“I’ve never really understood why you Droods need all these wonderful guns and gadgets, when you already have such powerful armour,” said Sir Perryvale.
“Because the armour can only do so much,” I said. “For long distance, for a whole range of other possibilities, and for subtlety . . . you need specialized equipment.”
“Besides,” Cedric said wisely, “it’s never good for a field agent to get too dependent on the armour. To rely on it to do everything for them, and get them out of tight corners. There’s always going to be times when the armour just isn’t the right tool for the job. Or it might not be functioning . . .”
“Really?” said Nicolai.
“Don’t get your hopes