by Alan K Baker
She felt a brief flaring of the resentment and indignation which had earlier risen in her, until she recalled Sir William’s words: the Special Investigator had merely acted out of concern for her safety, which had nothing to do with his opinion of her abilities. She supposed she was flattered by the gallantry of his concern, however misplaced it might be, and yet, she desperately wanted to face the mystery directly, to confront the origin of the awful strangeness which seemed to have infected the very ground beneath the metropolis, to gain an understanding of it and, if necessary, to vanquish it. The Queen herself had ordered the involvement of the Society for Psychical Research in this affair… and after all, who was Thomas Blackwood to decide how she contributed to the investigation?
Sophia gave a miserable sigh: try as she might, she could not rid herself of her resentment: it smouldered in her heart like the embers of a fire which should have died but refused to do so. She checked her watch: it was nearly half-past four. She hoped that Blackwood and de Chardin had returned from their excursion into the tunnels around Aldgate Station, for, in spite of everything, she found herself looking forward to presenting the Special Investigator with this new and intriguing piece of evidence which she had managed to secure. She glanced again at the chamois-wrapped object on the seat beside her and gave a brief involuntary shudder.
What was the meaning of the Yellow Sign?
The carriage came to a halt outside the grand arched entrance to the Foreign Office. Sophia gathered up the package, stepped down to the street, and, asking her driver to wait for her, walked swiftly up the steps and into the building. With barely a glance at the clerks and other functionaries populating the vast foyer, she strode to the non-descript door in a far corner, which led to the Foreign Office’s most secret section.
Very few people possessed a key to this particular door, and of the entire staff of the Society for Psychical Research, only Sophia and Sir William Crookes did so. Sophia quickly unlocked the door and stepped through into a small landing from which an ancient stone staircase descended into the ground. Clutching the package to her breast, she tripped lightly down the stairs, her shadow dancing upon the curving wall in the subdued glow of the gaslights.
In a matter of moments, she had reached the bottom of the staircase and was hurrying along a corridor, at the far end of which a black-uniformed guard stood before a single door. Without a word, the guard glanced at the identification Sophia showed to him and stepped aside to let her pass.
As Sophia entered the outer office of Her Majesty’s Bureau of Clandestine Affairs, its sole occupant looked up from her cogitator and smiled. ‘Why, good afternoon, Lady Sophia. A pleasure to see you again,’ said Grandfather’s secretary.
‘And for me, Miss Ripley,’ Sophia replied, returning her smile. ‘I wonder if you could tell me whether Mr Blackwood has returned yet.’
‘I’m afraid he hasn’t. Would you like to wait for him?’
Sophia sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose I should, rather.’
At that moment, the communication funnel on Miss Ripley’s desk whistled. ‘Yes, sir?’ she said into it.
Grandfather’s gruff voice issued from the funnel. ‘Is that Lady Sophia Harrington there with you, Miss Ripley?’
‘Yes, sir, it is.’
‘Good. Ask her to step in, would you?’
‘Of course.’
Miss Ripley gave a shrug and indicated the door behind her desk.
Sophia walked past the heavy oak file cabinets that lined the outer office and stepped through the door into the office of the head of Her Majesty’s Bureau of Clandestine Affairs, the man who was known only by his codename, Grandfather.
As Sophia closed the door behind her, Grandfather stood up from his desk with the faint hiss and clank of his steam-powered artificial legs and strode forward to greet her. As he walked, tiny white clouds emerged from the knees of his trousers, and like everyone else who knew him, Sophia studiously avoided looking at them.
‘Good afternoon, your Ladyship,’ said Grandfather, extending his hand.
Sophia shook it. ‘Good afternoon, Grandfather. I take it you would like an update on my investigations.’ She could not resist omitting Blackwood’s name from her observation.
‘If you’d be so kind. By the way, where is Mr Blackwood?’
So much for that, she thought. ‘He is at present examining the scene of the latest encounter at Aldgate Station, in the company of Detective de Chardin of New Scotland Temple.’
Grandfather gave a humourless snort, and his handlebar moustache twitched derisively. ‘Encounter, you say. That’s a pretty euphemism indeed.’ He turned, and clicked and wheezed back to his desk. ‘Do have a seat, your Ladyship.’
Sophia sat in one of the two burgundy leather chairs facing the desk and placed the package on her knees.
‘Would you care for some tea?’ Grandfather asked.
‘No, thank you.’
He indicated the package. ‘May I ask what you have there?’
Sophia unwrapped the terracotta tile and placed it on the desk for Grandfather to see, explaining how she had come by it. Pressing a monocle to his eye, he leaned forward to examine it. ‘What’s this symbol?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. What does it mean?’
‘It is known as the Yellow Sign. We believe it is associated with a personage known as the King in Yellow, among other things.’
‘Never heard of the fellow. Who is he?’
‘We’re not entirely sure, but we believe that he lives on a distant world called Carcosa.’
‘Indeed! And what’s his sign doing a hundred feet below the streets of London?’
Sophia sighed. ‘I’m afraid we’re not entirely sure about that either, sir.’
‘And what does Mr Charles Exeter have to say about all this?’
‘I believe he is most anxious that we should get to the bottom of the affair as quickly as possible.’
Grandfather snorted again. ‘I don’t doubt it. The Queen shares his desire for a speedy resolution – as do I. What’s your next step?’
‘I have requested – and received – Mr Exeter’s permission to investigate the chamber in which this object was found. Sir William believes it to be the focal point of the disturbances, their origin and nexus, if you will.’
‘Hmm… do you trust Exeter?’
Sophia blinked at the question, her surprise clearly evident upon her face. ‘Sir?’
Grandfather leaned back in his chair and regarded her. A faint, aqueous gurgle sounded from beneath the desk. ‘I don’t like him – don’t like the sound of him or the way he’s come by his money.’
‘It’s true his business methods have occasionally been… less than ethical…’
‘That’s one way of putting it. I don’t much care for the cut of his jib; we have more than enough sharp practice going on in London without some Johnnie American sticking his oar in. In your dealings with Mr Exeter, Lady Sophia, I advise you to use the utmost caution. Men like him are never what they seem.’
Sophia considered this in silence for a moment. Was Grandfather simply displaying the British traditionalist’s dislike of American extravagance and aggression in matters of finance and commerce? Or was his intuition telling him something of which Sophia was unaware?
He interrupted her thoughts with another question. ‘Mr Blackwood mentioned Simon Castaigne, the occultist. Do you know anything about him?’
Sophia hesitated, feeling suddenly helpless. ‘I… regret to say that I do not – aside from his apparent connection with Carcosa. He claims to have travelled there – non-corporeally, that is. This sign,’ she indicated the tile, ‘is reproduced in a book he wrote, called the–’
‘The Fantasmata; yes, Blackwood told me.’
Grandfather regarded her, and Sophia had the sudden feeling that he was less than impressed with her contribution to the investigation. Again, she felt indignation rising in her; after all, it was she who had secured the tile, she who had discovered the d
irect link between Carcosa and the disturbances on the Underground. And yet, she realised miserably, that was not really true. Exeter’s workers had been the ones to discover the artefact and the chamber in which it had lain for untold centuries; she had merely asked to borrow it! And it had been Blackwood who had made the connection between Alfie Morgan’s ramblings and the distant, mysterious planet…
She felt a flush of embarrassment blooming upon her cheeks, which only served to increase her annoyance. ‘Dr Castaigne is delivering a lecture this evening at the Society of Spiritualistic Freemasons in Mayfair,’ she said. ‘It is Mr Blackwood’s and my intention to attend and to speak with him afterwards, if possible.’
Grandfather chuckled. ‘Blackwood will make it possible, my dear – have no fear on that score.’
Of course, Sophia thought bitterly. Blackwood will make it possible.
‘Well,’ said Grandfather, pushing the tile towards Sophia. ‘I’m sure Blackwood will get to the bottom of this – with your able assistance, of course, your Ladyship. I don’t think I need detain you any longer.’
Sophia forced a smile as she replied, ‘Thank you, sir. We will of course keep you informed of further developments.’
‘You’re most kind.’
Sophia re-wrapped the tile and returned to the outer office, where she sat down in a chair to wait for Blackwood.
I’m sure Blackwood will get to the bottom of this, she thought. With my able assistance indeed! Why, he is quite incorrigible in his condescension!
Miss Ripley glanced at her occasionally as she continued with her own work but said nothing. She had taken in the look on Sophia’s face and decided that silence would be far more prudent than any attempt at conversation.
Sophia tried to gather herself and calm down a little and then a thought came to her… and that thought was comprised of three names: Exeter, Carcosa, Castaigne.
She repeated them under her breath. ‘Exeter… Carcosa… Castaigne.’ Was there a greater, more profound connection between them than she had hitherto supposed? Grandfather had intimated that Exeter was not to be trusted and that recollection had set off in Sophia’s mind a curious train of thought which she was at present unable to formulate properly, but which nagged at her consciousness, refusing to be ignored.
In an instant, the decision was made, and Sophia felt a thrill of fear and excited anticipation as she hastily bid goodbye to Miss Ripley and hurried from the office and the Bureau.
‘Where to, your Ladyship?’ asked her driver.
‘To Mr Blackwood’s apartments if you please, John,’ she replied. ‘I need to leave a message for him with his housekeeper.’
The small girl approached Blackwood and de Chardin – although neither man could be entirely sure whether she was walking or gliding over the floor of the tunnel. In any event, they were unaware of any movement on the surface of the puddles as she moved over them. The blue glow that emanated from her frail body now filled the tunnel, so that they could see both her and each other quite clearly. She came to a halt and looked up at them in silence.
‘Hello, child,’ said de Chardin very quietly, his voice nevertheless echoing along the narrow tunnel.
The little ghost simply gazed up at him.
‘Your name is Anne, isn’t it?’ said Blackwood gently.
She offered him no verbal response; instead, her eyes became fixed upon his chest, and a frown spread across her pale blue face. Slowly, she raised a slender arm and pointed to his heart, and Blackwood felt the tingling sensation, which had begun as soon as he entered the station, surge like a cold rain through his body.
The amulet, he thought. She’s aware of it and wants to see it.
Slowly, he undid the top buttons of his shirt and drew aside the fabric to reveal the metal tracery embedded in his skin. De Chardin watched him and drew in his breath when he saw the irregular five-pointed star with the staring eye at its centre. ‘What the deuce…?’ he whispered.
‘I’ll explain later,’ said Blackwood, his gaze still fixed upon the child.
‘That is something of our world,’ said the ghost of Anne Naylor, her voice heartbreaking in its ethereal fragility.
‘Yes, Anne,’ Blackwood replied. ‘It is.’
‘Are you of our world?’ she asked.
‘No, I am not, but I have friends who are. One of them gave me this gift.’
‘Who?’
‘Oberon, King of the Faeries.’
‘Oberon…’ whispered Anne Naylor. ‘I have never seen a faerie. Are they as beautiful as people say?’
‘Yes, they are.’ Blackwood buttoned up his shirt again, and the ghost’s outstretched arm dropped once more to her side. ‘Why are you here, Anne? You’re far from the place where you normally linger.’
The child frowned up at Blackwood again. ‘The place where I linger?’
‘Farringdon Street Station.’
‘Is that what it’s called? I didn’t know. What I am is like a dream. I don’t like it there anymore.’
‘Why not?’ asked de Chardin.
The ghost regarded him with eyes that were dead and yet alive: eyes that were looking back from the other side of the veil which hides the ultimate mystery of human existence. Her voice became yet more tremulous as she replied, ‘There is something there which I don’t want to look at.’
Blackwood and de Chardin glanced at each other. ‘What is it, Anne?’ said Blackwood. ‘What’s there?’
‘A monster,’ she whispered. ‘A horrible monster.’
‘Can you describe it?’ asked de Chardin.
Anne Naylor closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Where would I be if Sarah hadn’t killed me? I wouldn’t be here… where would I be?’
‘Who is Sarah?’ de Chardin whispered into Blackwood’s ear.
‘Anne was an orphan. She was adopted by a seamstress named Sarah Metyard,’ Blackwood explained. ‘She was most cruelly treated by Metyard, who eventually murdered her. She cut up her body and disposed of it in the sewer at Chick Lane, but parts of the body were later discovered. Metyard’s daughter turned her in, and she was convicted at the Old Bailey in 1768 and sentenced to death. As was the practice then, her body was given to the Surgeons’ Hall to be dissected by medical students.’
‘A fitting end,’ de Chardin observed, ‘given the appalling nature of her crime.’ He regarded the little ghost, whose eyes were still closed, as if she were struggling to imagine a gentler history for herself. ‘Poor little devil,’ he whispered.
‘Anne,’ said the Special Investigator. ‘We need your help to rid this place of the… the monster.’
Her eyes opened.
‘Can you describe it to us?’
‘Nobody likes it,’ she said. ‘None of us who linger here like it. It frightens us… makes us want to go away. But we can’t… it won’t let us. It gathers us.’
‘Gathers you?’ Blackwood recalled the words of Barrymore Tench in the police cell. Even the dead are afraid of what’s down there. ‘What do you mean it gathers you?’
Anne Naylor began to weep.
Blackwood sensed that she was preparing to flee, back into the labyrinthine darkness of the Underground. ‘Listen to me, Anne,’ he said, quietly yet urgently. ‘If you help us, we can rid this place of the monster, and I promise that when all this is over, I will do my best to help you.’
She shook her head. ‘How can you help me?’
‘You do not belong here, in the grime and the darkness. I promise I will help you to enter the other world, the place which is hidden from you by the fear and despair of your earlier life, and by the dreadful way in which that life ended.’
‘I want to leave,’ she whispered, ‘but the monster won’t let me. It won’t let any of us.’
‘I will help you, but first you must help us. What do you mean when you say it won’t let you leave, that it gathers you?’
‘It takes us inside – thousands of us, the ones who died of the big disease in the olden days. It’s got them all inside i
tself – they can’t get out…’
‘Good God,’ said de Chardin with a shudder. ‘Sounds like the thing has eaten them.’
The child seemed to consider this for some moments and then said, ‘No, not eaten. It gathered them. That’s why we’re all so afraid.’
‘And why is it doing that, Anne? Do you know?’
Anne seemed about to answer: she opened her mouth to speak but then stopped and began to glance fearfully around.
‘What is it?’ Blackwood asked.
‘Something is coming.’ She turned her terrified gaze upon them, and as she did so, Blackwood felt the amulet in his skin begin to throb urgently. ‘Oh, sirs, you must flee, for it is coming!’
As if in response to her cry, there came to their ears a low, rumbling, echoing moan, as of something vast and powerful and unthinkably malignant moving through the earth.
‘Great God, what is that?’ said de Chardin.
‘Whatever it is, it’s coming towards us,’ Blackwood replied, glancing each way along the tunnel.
‘Back the way you came, sirs!’ cried Anne. ‘Back the way you came!’
The concrete floor beneath their feet began to tremble with the passage of the unseen thing, the black oily puddles rippling with the vibration. The guttural moan sounded again. Damp, obscene and utterly blasphemous, it gave the impression of having been produced by something which had never walked – should never walk – upon God’s Earth.
‘It sounds massive,’ said Blackwood. ‘But how can that be? Such a creature would destroy the entire Underground!’
‘This is no time for analytical thinking, sir,’ declared de Chardin. ‘Let’s take the waif’s advice and get the deuce out of here!’
Blackwood glanced at the ghost child. ‘Come with us, Anne.’
But it was quite evident that Anne Naylor had no intention of doing so. She opened her mouth, gave a single, piercing scream and vanished, plunging the tunnel into darkness.
Both Blackwood and de Chardin had their flashlights out in an instant, as the tunnel floor began to buckle as if in the grip of some horrible, unnatural earthquake. The moan sounded yet again, much closer now, and in spite of his terror, Blackwood marvelled at the sheer, incredible power of it. As he and de Chardin ran back along the tunnel towards the main Tube line, he thought again that whatever was making the sound must be truly gigantic – the size of a whale, or bigger. How could such a creature exist down here?