He comforted himself with reason. If Quill wanted to leave the country unnoticed, he would have done it already. Why send a sealed, obscure message if not to tempt Archer’s curiosity?
It wasn’t until midnight neared that James whispered, ‘Maybe he’s not coming.’
‘He’s here somewhere.’ Archer was sure of it. There had been no movement, but someone had lit the lamp, and that was surely a sign. ‘That’s where he wants me,’ he said. ‘And it’s time to give him what he expects. Have you ever fired a revolver?’
‘Never even held one,’ James admitted. ‘But I’ll give it a go.’
Archer drew his knapsack close and took out a gun. ‘Hold it away from your ear,’ he said. ‘It’s loaded and the safety catch is off. Be ready for a kickback. Aim at the moon and gently squeeze the trigger.’
‘What good will that do?’
‘I want you to lead your horse back to the halt,’ Archer instructed. ‘No lantern, but there’s enough moon to light your way. If you see anyone trying to board the train, fire a shot as a signal. It fires six, but just let off one. If there’s trouble ahead, fire two shots in quick succession as a warning.’
‘Then what?’
‘Stay where you are. We’ll come to you.’
‘Okay. Now?’
Archer nodded, and James took the revolver. ‘Good luck, Archer,’ he said and slipped away.
Fecker was gathering his bag.
‘You stay here, Andrej,’ Archer said. ‘I’m going to investigate.’
‘Nyet. I come with you.’
‘No, my friend. I know what I am doing.’
He backed from the crevice on his belly, checked his revolver and spun the chamber. As he crouched and slid down the slope towards the graveyard, he didn’t hear Fecker’s words.
‘Nyet,’ the Ukrainian repeated. ‘You don’t.’
The ground was rough and wet against Archer’s hands as he half-crawled, half-scurried, his cloak streaming behind like pitch. The moon cast its ghostly light on a crumbled wall beyond which uneven headstones stood in random disorder, some bearing crosses, some with weeping angels, all potential hiding places. Archer was alert, adrenaline pumping not with fear, but with the thrill, his pulse was steady and his breathing silent.
He reached the wall and crouched, but listening, heard no sound from beyond.
Cautiously raising his head above the wall, he scanned the graves picking out a route through to the mysterious light, yellow and warm against the wintry cast of the moon. No shifting shadows, no sense of another man, the scene might have been serene were it not for the uneasy feeling that Quill was somewhere close. If he had a gun, Archer would be dead before he heard its report, but Quill was no marksman. He preferred the soundless sword, the knife, the blade that sliced in silence and surprise.
Archer pictured the bodies in the Greychurch morgue. Youths lost to the world by Quill’s demented revenge; his calling card a succession of pointless deaths strewn on the path he made Archer follow.
There would be no more.
Judging the time right, he followed the wall towards the cliff edge where there had once been a gate. Still crouched, he slipped through the gap and ran for the cover of the nearest headstone, pausing there to listen.
Looking towards the glow, he saw only the silhouette of the tomb. Quill could be behind it. He could be between the buttresses of the church, or even at one of the slitted windows in the tower. If he was at the tomb waiting to pounce, he had the advantage. All Archer had were his wits and time, which was fast running out. Enough of it had passed to allow James to reach Highcliffe Halt, Fecker was above, his rifle trained.
Whatever Quill had in store, now was the hour.
His revolver at the ready, Archer rose from behind the stone and crept towards the tomb. The glow increased and drawing near, he saw it came from a lantern placed on a mound of fresh earth.
A rustle behind made him spin, the firearm aimed.
There was no-one there, just the names of the dead weathered on worn stone. He took another step towards the light, rounding the corner of the tomb and there, he saw what Quill had prepared.
An open grave, deep, dark and newly dug. But it was not empty. The lantern cast light on only half, but it was enough to show him the coffin, its nameplate tarnished, its wood split. The headstone above read, ‘Simon Harrington, 1859 to 1888. Beloved son and brother.’
He had been so much more to Archer. Friend, colleague, lover, he had been all things, but now he was a rotting corpse in a decaying box.
Archer didn’t know where he had been buried. He was forced to deny his relationship for the sake of Simon’s family and his own, and only two people knew of it. His brother, and his once best friend, Benji Quill.
It hit him.
Jealous of what he and Simon had, Quill betrayed them, and when Crispin failed in his attempt to kill Archer, Quill, out of loyalty, spite or insanity took up the reins. He had driven their lives to Simon’s resting place. Where more suitable to leave the viscount buried beneath the waiting pile of earth?
Another sound snapped him back to his predicament. He turned, his gun poised but saw nothing but endless stars and tombs.
It was a diversion after all, he thought, a false trail laid to tease and annoy, Quill was…
Suddenly, someone grabbed him by the ankles. He grunted in surprise, his feet vanished from under him, and a second later he was winded as his chest thudded into the ground. Bright flashes sparked before his eyes, and powerful hands dragged and wrenched him into the pit.
Stones scraped his flesh as he clawed at the earth to find purchase. The revolver was wrenched from his grip and he slid backwards and helpless to land in a heap on the coffin. He was yanked to his feet by his hair, and the next thing he knew, a blade was at his throat.
‘Couldn’t resist, could you, Riddington?’ Quill breathed in his ear. He pressed hard against Archer’s back, forcing him against the dank, earth walls. His breath smelt foul and his voice grated. ‘You’re so easy to trap, you’ll be easy to kill.’
‘Quill, don’t be a…’
Archer was ignored. ‘Know everything don’t you?’ Quill spat. ‘What I want, where I’ll be, but you never knew where he was put. Never cared to find out.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Shows you what you thought of him, you depraved, disgusting sodomite. Well, here he is.’
With a strength he didn’t know Quill possessed, Archer was spun and thrust forward. A savage kick in his back sent him crashing into the wall of earth, and Quill was on him again, kicking the back of his legs. Archer crumpled to his knees, the force splitting the coffin lid. Flailing with his cumbersome cloak, he tipped as the wood gave way.
‘On your front.’ Quill hissed, bunching Archer’s cloak at the collar and pulling. The chain dug into his flesh, strangling him and the razor point of the knife stung the back of his neck. ‘Face to face with your boy. Like you were those nights.’ Each statement was accompanied by a tightening of the chain. ‘The sea churning at the hull. The hammock empty while you took your sport on a dark deck.’ A yank. ‘With my desire. With my love.’
The knife pierced Archer’s skin. He struggled to free himself, but Quill’s weight had him pinned.
‘It’s going to kill you slowly.’ The blade twisted, and a fireball of pain shot through Archer’s spine. ‘Penetrate inch by inch the way you defiled him in your abhorrent, filthy…’
‘You’re sick, Quill,’ Archer croaked, his mind sprinting towards an escape it had yet to conceive. ‘They’ll hang you.’
‘Then we’ll all be together in hell, Riddington,’ the doctor growled. ‘It’s where I’ve been since I learned your truth. It’s where Crispin wants you, and it’s where I promised to put you.’
Archer’s tried to turn his head, but the knife cut deeper.
‘Slowly,’ Quill panted. ‘Enjoy your last breaths.’
Archer’s helplessness fuelled his anger. There had to be a way out of this, but, as the knife burned, he knew there was none.
He pictured Silas standing beside his grave, lost and alone, because Archer had allowed the madman to get the better of him. It was shameful. The image shocked and spurred him. He could not allow it to happen. He had to fight back.
He sucked in his stomach, raised his hips and forced his head against the wood as hard as he could. With one thrust and a flailing kick, he slammed himself into the coffin. The rotting lid gave beneath the weight of two men, and he dropped. It was only a couple of inches, but enough to draw the knife free of his flesh.
The collapse put Quill off balance. He grasped for the walls, giving Archer enough time to spin onto his back. Blood ran warm on his neck, and the wound raged, attacked by earth and splinters. He yelled in fury as he scrambled to stand.
Quill was a mass of darkness silhouetted against the spread of stars, but he had found his feet. As Archer backed against the pit wall, struggling to find purchase inside the coffin, Quill lifted the knife high in both hands and, before Archer could react, screamed like a demon and brought it down.
The end had come suddenly, but he didn’t fear it. He was with Simon, Silas would understand and in time, join them. He would miss Silas’ life, he wouldn’t know if Thomas found happiness with James, he would never know how their lives ran, but this was how his was to end.
The stars were extinguished as the shadow fell. The coffin shuddered, and Archer was smothered. His head cracked against the wood, the stench of decay engulfed him, and a great weight pressed and writhed on his chest.
Helpless, he waited for the blade.
Thomas watched as Silas knelt at the signal box door. He held the lantern close so his friend could see the lock which he picked at first with a knife. When that didn’t work, Silas rummaged in his knapsack and produced a length of thin steel. He inserted it, moving it as if trying to catch something in the barrel, but Thomas doubted it would be strong enough to act as a key.
‘Ah, feck it.’ Silas swore when the metal buckled. ‘This ain’t no good.’
‘Can we break a window?’
‘We could, mate,’ the Irishman said, standing. ‘But I have this. The thing is, see, you need to treat these old locks properly. Tease them to do what you want, you know? Go carefully and with respect.’
He raised a foot and slammed it into the door. The splintering of wood fractured the night in one sharp crack, and, after a second kick, the door flew open and crashed loudly against the wall behind.
‘You might as well send up a flare,’ Thomas mumbled, glancing behind and expecting to see the railwaymen come running.
‘Yeah, well…’ Silas entered the box. ‘Now what?’
The lantern cast shafts of light across a row of levers set beneath the windows facing the tracks.
‘How many do they need for one bloody set of points?’
‘I’d have thought only one,’ Thomas said. ‘But which?’ Each lever had a nameplate, but the words meant little. ‘Shunting up main to four,’ he read. ‘Signal nil or goods yard two. Shunting goods yard to up main five. Any idea?’
‘Only that our set of points is one of these, and if we pull the wrong one we could kill a few people.’
‘You stay here. I’ll ride up and see what’s out there. Maybe our points are identified.’
‘Be quick,’ Silas encouraged.
‘Scared?’
‘Feck off, mate. No, it’s late. If Jimmy’s right, the train will be through in twenty minutes.’
Thomas descended the stairs and, mounting his horse, set off to investigate the siding. The mention of James’ name lit an image in his mind. He pictured his round face and chubby cheeks, the neat cut of his short back and sides, the way his expression changed from thought to realisation in a second with a smile of excited surprise. He remembered the touch of his hand that night which now seemed so long ago, lying beside him in bed, pressed together, their breathing strained with anticipation.
‘Concentrate,’ he admonished himself, approaching the points.
He held the light to the sign there and read the number painted on it. If the upline ran south towards the capital, down was therefore north, and the lever they needed to pull was now apparent. Holding the lantern high, he followed the siding to check the angle of the bend. It curved away gradually, but he didn’t know at what speed a train could take it without tipping and derailing.
As Thomas rode further, the night ahead darkened as the rails led him between trees raised from the ground on a bank of shale. The horse picked its way over the sleepers, slipping occasionally and jolting him. The darkness grew more intense but, after a few minutes, was pierced by a pinprick of red light. He saw the reason. An arched, brick tunnel spanned the track, the signal warning light to one side. The horse was unwilling to go further, and Thomas agreed. There was no end to the blackness, and only a map would tell him how long it was and what was on the other side.
He headed back, checking the time and wondering what was happening at the castle. The thud and grate of hooves accompanied him in their steady rhythm. His gloved hands chilled through the leather, and his lack of vision gave him no focus, leaving him disorientated and dizzy until Silas’ lamp in the signal box appeared to guide him.
He found his companion trying to make sense of the controls.
‘We need to change the up point number one,’ Thomas said, rubbing his hands together and breathing on them. ‘Have you seen it?’
‘Yeah, last one on the end,’ Silas said. ‘What do the others do?’
‘I can’t tell you. There’s a tunnel about a quarter of a mile ahead.’ Thomas found a map in his bag, and they studied it, but it was not as detailed as the one Archer carried. ‘There’s a river not far beyond, and it looks like the track ends at a jetty, to load coal into ships, like Jimmy said.’
Silas pressed his hand to the window and peered through. ‘What d’you think?’ he said. ‘The driver sees a light so he knows he’s been sent on another route and slows down?’
‘I should think so. Railways are new to me, but I didn’t see any lamps at the points, so it must change one further down the line.’
‘The wonders of modern science, eh?’ Silas joked as Thomas inspected the row of levers. ‘They can build stuff like this but can’t get the shit off the streets of the East End.’
‘Aye, but not our concern at this moment. No. Nothing here about lights. The curve’s not too severe. Here, help me.’
Silas joined him at the lever. ‘We press the handle and pull it back?’
‘Can’t see how else it works.’
Thomas wrapped his fingers around the handle, pressing his palm against the wooden shaft. Squeezing the two together was easy but pulling the lever towards him took both men. Once it started to move, however, it slid into place and landed with a satisfying clunk.
‘I’ll go and check,’ Thomas said. ‘The train will be passing in a few minutes.’
The words made no sense.
‘Dyyavol. Ublyudok. Ebat.’
Were these the words of the devil? Was that who was kicking him? Was Lucifer on him, thumping the breath from his body, yelling, screaming, smothering his face with foul smelling cloth and pressing him further into the pit of bones? Where was the sting of the knife?
Fecker’s voice cut through Archer’s confusion.
‘Dyyavol!’ He was growling, struggling to drag Quill away.
A punch, a gasp, the glint of steel, the taste of earth and then the stabbing cold of the night air. Archer’s chest was free, but the shadows fought on his legs, trampling them and sending shards of savage pain from his shins to his groin. He kicked and elbowed his way
from them until the pit wall pressed against his back.
A yell, words screamed in Russian and the sudden realisation that Fecker was scrambling from the pit.
‘You alive?’ he called down.
‘Get after him!’
‘Your hand, Geroy. Give your hand!’
Archer didn’t understand the word but scrambled to his feet. He didn’t want to picture what he was standing on as he reached. Fecker grabbed his wrist and with a jerk that nearly ripped the limb from its joint, dragged him up to the side of the grave.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No, Geroy.’ Fecker collected his shotgun. ‘I don’t shoot or I hit you. Look, he runs for horse.’
‘We must get to ours.’
‘You bleed,’ the Ukrainian grunted, checking Archer’s neck.
‘No time for that, Fecks.’ Archer pulled away. ‘We must ride.’
Twenty-Four
James wrapped his coat tighter about his shivering body as he sat in his saddle listening for any sound of approaching horses or the train. The bitter, barren moor was a far cry from the busy streets of the capital. There, he had been just another runner in a maze of buildings, an inconsequential cog in a machine that relied on every other insignificant component. He kept the machine communicating, but his was only a small role. Unimportant, he had been replaceable.
Here, he was surrounded by space and open heathland, with a vast sky overhead, and he had never felt so small. More accustomed to spending his nights by the hearth helping his sister to read, the smell of grass and countryside was alien but thrilling. A week ago, he could never have imagined that he would be in the middle of nowhere working with devoted, noble men to catch the Ripper. He never knew that men like the viscount existed. Men who were willing to put their lives on the line for the benefit of others. He had never been so accepted and trusted. He had never been as valued, and he hoped he was man enough to rise to Archer’s challenge.
Twisted Tracks (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 2) Page 27