'We're too much out in the open here,' muttered Quaint. 'And we've got another half-hour's trek through Kensington. We're going to have to keep on our toes if we want to get as far as the park unseen. You're not exactly pocket-sized. We'll need to use those terraced buildings up ahead as cover. With the docks far behind us we've run out of warehouses,' said Quaint, eying the mass of a man next to him. 'It's past midnight, so we should find the roads pretty empty, especially considering the weather.'
'Aye, Cornelius,' agreed Prometheus. 'There's a storm coming.'
'In more ways than one, my friend,' nodded Cornelius.
'Shh,' Prometheus held up his hand. 'D'ye hear that? It's coming this way!'
A minute or two later, a horse and carriage steered swiftly past them in the darkness, the rattling cackle of the wooden wheels against the cobbled streets announcing its presence long before it was seen with the naked eye. Quaint stared at the sumptuous horse-drawn carriage, a spacious cart with a fine, muscular black horse pulling it. Two gas lanterns hung either side of the coach, and the driver was perched atop it, whipping the reins into frenzy, eager to be off the streets as quickly as the horse would take him.
'Fate, it seems, has seen fit to offer us a gift, my Irish friend,' Quaint said.
'I hope you've got money to hire it, 'cos I sure don't,' replied the giant.
'That's no cabbie, Prom,' said Quaint. 'Take a look at those markings. Hansom's are painted standard black, always have been. No, that's official Church transport, and I'm not thinking of hiring it…I'm thinking of stealing it.'
With that, Prometheus and Quaint both leapt from the concealment of the shadows, and tore down the street at full pelt after the carriage. Despite his size, Prometheus streaked ahead of Quaint, reaching his arm out at full stretch to try and grab hold of the side of the carriage. His fingers found the groove of the coach door. But as his slapping footsteps resounded against the cobbles in the enclosed street, the mole of a driver glanced over his shoulder.
'What the bloody hell-?' squawked the man, as he whipped at the reins furiously, urging the horse to run faster. 'Get out of it! Go on, gerrof!'
'Prometheus!' called Quaint from behind, 'Get on top of it!'
Prometheus gave a lunge, and threw himself towards the carriage roof. He gripped onto the luggage rack and used his momentum to swing himself up towards the driver. The hunched man tried desperately to bat the giant away with his horsewhip.
'We ain't about t'hurt ye, man!' said Prometheus, hanging onto the carriage's roof for dear life as his thunderous feet tried to keep pace with the vehicle. 'We only need a lift-it's an emergency.'
'You're a bloody loon, you are-but you're a huge loon, and I want no quarrel wiv' you,' said the man, slowing his carriage to a crawl. 'Strictly speakin', I'm not supposed to do this, y'know -'specially at this time o' night. Me boss'll 'ave me guts fer garters.'
'I'm sorry,' said Prometheus, climbing inside the transport. 'We didn't mean to scare ye, honest. Y'see, me an' me friend need t'reach Hyde Park quick-smart! It's a matter of life and death, so it is.'
Quaint eventually caught up with the carriage. He was bent over double, clasping his kneecaps, and panting like he'd just been forced to run a long-distance race at knifepoint.
'Thank you…for…stopping,' he gasped to the driver.
'Di'nt 'ave much choice, did I? Yer bleedin' mate saw to that.'
'Where are you off to?'
'Westminster Abbey…an' as it goes, I'm goin' right past the park on me way,' the driver motioned the exhausted Quaint inside. 'So get in now, or get left behind, mate.'
'You are doing a great service,' said Quaint, clambering into the carriage. 'You have our thanks, Mister…?'
'Melchin,' said the driver, 'Stanley Melchin.' And with a crack of his whip, the coach driver rattled off along the street like a rocket.
'Bloody hellfire,' said the giant, fingering a silk curtain, admiring the interior. His voice had now returned to full effect, and his heavy Irish accent coated every word with a comical, undulating twang. 'Whose carriage is this then-Prince Albert's himself? Christ!'
'Exactly,' said Quaint, pointing to a lavish picture of angelic cherubs painted upon the coach's ceiling. 'It's not regal, Prometheus-it's religious. Look around at the art in here. Albert prefers the pomp and circumstance type of decor, not flying angels and cherubic scenes. Anyway, we have been most fortuitous, my Irish friend. Not only are we well concealed inside, we shall reach the park in no time, and we might as well travel in style, eh?' Quaint said, pulling closed the carriage's curtains.
Twenty minutes later, Prometheus and Quaint were standing admiring the stark beauty of Hyde Park. The cold winter wind was shaking the naked branches of the trees, sending grit and dust up into the night air. An unwelcome chill skirted around Prometheus as he spied the expansive, rolling fields, and the lines of trees that bordered the vast green space in front of him. The darkness stole most of the park from his vision, but compared to the stifling closeness of most other districts of London, this wide open space felt like another world to the man-mountain.
'Y'know, Cornelius…I've spent the past few days either locked in a police cell, or hidin' out in the docks…I gotta say, this place is just about as beautiful as I c'n imagine.'
'You should have been here a couple of years ago, my friend,' said a reflective Quaint. 'The Great Exhibition of 1851-an amazing spectacle, full of the exotic and the fantastic. The Crystal Palace was simply sublime. Joseph Paxton outshone himself with that building, to be sure,' he said, picturing the gleaming glass-domed roof, and the expansive halls of wonderment within the grand exhibition hall. 'The culmination of the greatest triumphs that Science had to offer, and we sure knocked the socks off those Frenchies-just don't tell Madame Destine I said that.'
Prometheus laughed. 'Cross me heart. So, where's the circus tent stationed, then?'
'Just up past The Meadow,' steered Quaint, strolling along the hilly plains. 'We know the police are watching the train, but this place is out of Crawditch's jurisdiction. Even so, we had best make sure we keep our eyes and ears open!'
CHAPTER XXXI
The Unfurled Agenda
ALOUD RAP ON the door echoed around Bishop Courtney's palatial residence in Westminster Abbey's annexe, and the heavy-set man clasped the glass door knob and briskly yanked the door open.
'What time of night do you call this?' Courtney demanded. 'I said no later than eleven, and it's past midnight, Melchin! What on earth kept you?'
Melchin ambled inside the room with hunched shoulders. 'Sorry, Bishop…I was on me way 'ere, and these two blokes just ran straight out of the bushes, right in the middle of the road.'
'Just make sure it doesn't happen again, Melchin,' interrupted the Bishop curtly. 'So…what news do you have from Crawditch?'
'That, Bishop, is sure t'put a smile on yer face,' Melchin began. 'There's a committee on their way to Crawditch police station tomorrow. A lot of them locals are really jumpy now. So far they reckon they've 'ad about five people or so go missing, although the Peelers're only sayin' there've been them three women you said you wanted 'em to find, like.'
The Bishop nodded. 'Yes, the ones that Mr Hawkspear got a little too…indulgent with during the kill-they were of no use to the body-snatchers. We intentionally let the police find them to light the fuse of fear. I'd be very keen to hear the outcome of that meeting. Anything else of note, Melchin?'
'Yeah, apparently there was some to-do down at the docks tonight, and the coppers found a load of dead blokes, looked like there'd been some kind of scrap. Caused a right bleedin' storm, that did! Word is that the locals want Commissioner Dray to call in Scotland Yard, 'cos of all what's going on. They reckon the place 'as gone to hell…if you'll pardon me reference, your Grace.'
Bishop Courtney gently rocked on the balls of his feet. 'Blasphemy is all relative to your God, Melchin. I am more concerned with what occurs in Crawditch! That committee is exactly what I need…the problem is…Co
mmissioner Dray is no fool. He'll deny their request, of course, if he wishes to retain a semblance of control.'
'He should do,' said Reynolds, stepping into the room from the hallway. 'After all, that is what we're paying him for, isn't it? To turn a blind eye? A man in his position is the linchpin in a place like Crawditch. This needs to be kept contained within Crawditch's jurisdiction.'
'Indeed it does, Mr Reynolds, and a high coup it was indeed for you to ensnare him in the first place. Who knows what you used to convince him, but it worked. We do however need to be mindful that the locals don't lose confidence in Dray. Thank you, Melchin, off you go,' said the Bishop, ushering the driver outside the room. 'I wonder then, Mr Reynolds, if the townsfolk are demanding the Yard's involvement-how will that balance be affected in Dray's absence should we do away with him? We don't want to make things even harder for us than they already are.'
'Certainly not,' agreed Reynolds, snatching up a glass decanter of dark-red wine and pouring himself a glass. 'If Dray goes down, he'll most likely be replaced by his second, one Sergeant Horace Berry. He has been with the Force practically since its inception, no wife, no children.'
'No leverage then? Nothing you can squeeze?'
'And nothing to blackmail him with either, he's as clean as his regulation whistle. Aside from the threat of physical violence, we're out of luck if he gets in charge. I've been thinking, Bishop…perhaps Oliver Dray works best for us right where he is.'
'Although, I must admit that I was somewhat nervous about having a police commissioner of all people on our side, he has so far kept these crimes localised to Crawditch, as you so rightly surmised. That is vital to my plan…this must remain contained.' Bishop Courtney wiped a thin slug-trail of perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief. 'I don't want to stir up a hornets' nest that's going to come right back and sting me in the posterior-my eyes are fixed upon the grander agenda.'
Reynolds focused his gaze upon the Bishop. 'What is the grander agenda? I'm not sure I'm following it any more. I thought this was all about Queen Victoria's grand plans of renovation…that's how you sold it to me. What's all this stuff about Crawditch and its cemetery got to do with what the Queen wants?'
'Victoria's decree is but a smokescreen, Mr Reynolds. A cloak behind which my own personal ambitions are hidden. It is not Crawditch itself that I wish to claim…but a right that should be afforded me as Bishop.'
Reynolds strode to the long windows and rested his hands against the glass. 'Look, Bishop-it really doesn't matter squat to me what your grand plan is. You could be raising an army of the undead to storm Buckingham Palace, for all I care-but I'd just like to know what side I'm fighting on, know what I mean?' Reynolds's face looked almost bone-white in the moonlight, giving him a ghoulish appearance.
'Very well,' bowed the Bishop. 'After all, you're not like Mr Hawkspear. He is a blunt instrument, whereas you, sir, are a keen edge. You have been a great help to me this past week, and I suppose you deserve to know just what is so important to me.'
'What I seek is power. A power greater than words from dusty old Bibles…I mean true power. It is high time the Church of England reclaimed its place as a position of strength…to become again what it once was…an impregnable fortress of authority across this Empire-an authority far beyond that of mere kings and queens…an authority that is Godlike.'
Reynolds clapped his hands noisily. 'An impressive sermon, Bishop,' he said casually, as he walked over to the table by the Bishop's side. 'When we were in the crypt at the cemetery you started to tell me something, but you never finished. Is there something in that crypt that you need, Bishop? You have access to the crypt any time you want, so why not simply walk in there and take what you need? Why do you need the whole of Crawditch emptied first?'
Courtney stroked the corners of his grin. 'Like I have said before, Mr Reynolds…you possess a keen intellect. All good questions, and to answer; what I desire is not hidden in that crypt, Mr Reynolds.'
'It's not?'
'Not any longer, at any rate.'
'I don't understand…'
'It is in my possession, Mr Reynolds-but it was only half of what I need.'
'You're speaking in riddles, Bishop.'
'You asked why the Church was so interested in a dingy dockland borough like Crawditch, Mr Reynolds, and why I am so interested in its cemetery. Well, I shall tell you all, if you really wish to know.'
'Oh, I do wish, your Grace…I really, really do,' pleaded Reynolds sarcastically, like an eager child begging for a toffee.
The Bishop played along, clearing his throat dramatically. 'Many, many years ago Crawditch cemetery was selected as a location to store a very special prize, devised by the Church to secure its future and cement itself as the one, true religion to which all must heed. Part of this treasure was buried in the crypt; the other in the cemetery grounds itself.'
'So, the crypt did have some treasure worth finding then, after all?' asked Reynolds, his beady eyes aflame with interest.
'As I said before, treasure is not always gold or jewels, Mr Reynolds. In this case, the treasure in the crypt happened to be a glass vial containing…an antidote, of a sort.'
'An antidote? That's treasure to you, is it? A bleedin' antidote?'
The Bishop swatted Reynolds's caustic remark away with a wave. 'The antidote itself is not the treasure…it is what it is an antidote to, that certainly is. The true prizes that I sought were both purposefully hidden in separate locations. One location contains the primary chemical, and the other a neutralising agent.'
'"Neutralising agent"? This is all getting a bit above me, Bishop…I'm a mercenary, not a chemist. If this "solution" is such a treasure-why'd you need an antidote?'
'In case someone using the treasure should have second thoughts, Mr Reynolds,' answered the Bishop, 'for it reverses the effects of that vial's solution-although why one would wish to do such a thing is beyond me. I suppose the word "antidote" is a bit misleading, for what the primary vial actually contains is a very special and unique elixir!'
'An elixir? What does it do, cure the pox, or something? Turn lead into gold?'
'Nothing as churlish as that, Mr Reynolds.'
'But this…this elixir thing is hidden in the cemetery?'
'Within the cemetery grounds, yes,' confirmed the Bishop. 'In an unmarked grave.'
'An unmarked grave? So, how come you don't just pay the body-snatchers to dig it up then? Why go to this great plan of yours for something so simple?'
'Simple, Mr Reynolds? I can assure you, if it were simple don't you think I would have the elixir in my hands by now? There are over five hundred unmarked burial sites in that cemetery-and what I seek could be hidden in any one of them.'
Reynolds smiled as the penny dropped. 'And I'd guess the locals would have something to say about you digging up their loved ones, eh?' he asked, purposefully showing the Bishop a furtive smile.
'Which is precisely why I am trying to clear the district,' snapped Courtney. 'It has taken me the best part of twenty-three years to finally track down the location of what I seek, but it's impossible to go any further with the district fully populated…I'd be locked up within five minutes.'
'And then along comes Queen Victoria…with all her talk about reclaiming London as her Empire's capital, and that just falls like a gift-wrapped present in your lap, eh?' said Reynolds. 'Pretty convenient.'
'Have you not heard that the Lord works in mysterious ways, Mr Reynolds?' Bishop Courtney said. 'Victoria gave me the perfect excuse for me to continue with my plans, and now…now we are close to its fruition, Mr Reynolds, so very close.'
'And all that stands in your way are a thousand locals, eh?'
'Thanks to Mr Hawkspear, that number is decreasing by the day, but it's not enough…I need the place empty of all witnesses.'
'Now I get it,' grinned Reynolds, 'Why didn't you just say so at the beginning? We could have surely come up with something that wasn't quite so…messy, somethi
ng a bit more direct. All this subterfuge for something that's buried in a bloody grave? How do you know some grave robber-or someone from your lot-hasn't already beaten you to it?'
'I would know…the Church would know, the whole World would know! The Church has closed its mind to the fact that it even exists. They feel it is just a myth, something lost to the legends of the past. They would not seek something of which they know nothing.'
'I don't want to go digging around for some chemical that could burn my skin off! What on earth is this elixir for?'
'On earth?' said the Bishop with a throaty chuckle. 'On earth it is nothing less than the touch of God's hand.' The Bishop leaned closer to Reynolds, close enough that the gaunt man could feel the warmth of Courtney's breath against his cheek. 'Mr Reynolds, that grave holds a prize that has been elusive since the beginning of time…a dream that many have endlessly searched for, only to watch it slip through their fingers…a prize that man has ever sought.' Courtney rose to his feet, and cleared his throat, like an actor about to deliver the finest performance of his career. 'Answer me this, Mr Reynolds; what are your feelings on the secret of eternal life?'
'Beyond it being complete horseshit, you mean?'
'But you are at least aware of the notion?' said Courtney, clapping his clammy hands together. 'It is far from fancy, Mr Reynolds-it is irrefutable fact. Throughout history, every religion across the world has spoken of such a thing…eternity! Not just of the living soul, but of the physical body itself. Perpetual, interminable life! A chance for mortal man to become…immortal! It's a tantalising thought for anyone, is it not?'
'I've met a lot of people over the years seeking eternal life, Bishop, and not a single one of them ever found it. Misguided fools, the lot of them-and they wasted what lives they had left searching for it.'
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