It all added to the celebratory air. When the bell tolled three times at midday it was to signal the change, but on this occasion there was no next shift waiting to take over. The men were welcome to take their leave. They could stay and watch, of course, just so long as they stayed on the right side of the fence, but they were also welcome to spend their free time supping ale in pubs called the Pickled Hen or the Curious Orange or the Rising Sun, or with their families; it was up to them. Either way, for the first time in two years there would be no clamour of tools in north-west London, no rattle of steam engines, no swinging leather buckets silhouetted against the skyline. No constantly grinding conveyor.
Not that navvies were to be absent from the site. ‘We want the bigwigs seeing proper workers, not that bloody rabble,’ Marchant had said, and so a squad of ‘pretend’ workmen had been drafted in. At first glance this new group of thirty or forty navvies looked the part as they milled about in time-honoured navvy fashion, but a closer look revealed that they were smarter and more serious-looking than their regular counterparts. What’s more, as they stood awaiting the arrival of the dignitaries, there were no jokes or laughter, no lolling around or snatching each other’s caps and setting up impromptu games of cricket. The Ghost knew that these powerful-looking navvies were more than mere decoration. They were Templar men.
As day became night he knew one other thing too. Not only could he not take the life of an innocent man; he could not allow it to be taken.
53
Abberline had heard about the exhibition journey but went home to see Aubrey first. ‘You think you can make it down?’ he asked him.
‘No, Freddie, but you pop along if you’ve a mind. Say hello to the old gang for me. You going in uniform, are you?’
Abberline looked down at himself. ‘I figure our friends will have more on their minds than looking out for me. Plus I can make my way through the crowds more easily as a peeler. There are still some who have respect for the law. Oh, one more thing.’
From the draw of his roll-top desk, Abberline took a naval spyglass that he extended then closed with a satisfying click click. ‘Think I might be needing this,’ he said, and with that he took his leave into the balmy September evening, feeling a little guilty about leaving Aubrey behind, truth be told; after all, it wasn’t so long ago that he, Abberline, had been the one to brood, with Aubrey doing his best to shake him out of it. How was Abberline returning the favour? Exactly. He wasn’t. He was off gawping at big nobs taking train rides when he should have been investigating whatever fiddle it was Cavanagh had going. Fraud was his best guess. Some kind of embezzlement scam. It was the not-knowing that was the problem – the not knowing how to make it safe for Aubrey to rejoin his family.
Lost in thought, he made his way along a roadway crowded with traffic, where the air seemed to crackle with the constant trundle of horse and carriage. An omnibus passed, packed with men on the upper deck, and to Abberline their top hats were like chimneys. In the distance smokestacks poisoned the East End with ribbons of thick black smog.
Just as predicted, the crowds were heavy at King’s Cross and he was glad of his bobby’s uniform as he elbowed his way through to the fence surrounding the site. Hypocrite, he thought. You’re not above using your own status when it suits you. Around him was the usual crowd attracted by such events: families with children on parents’ shoulders, sightseers, men in suits and women in bonnets – a general air of expectation. Abberline put them to his back and stood with his hands on the fence posts feeling like a man imprisoned as he stared out across the site.
What a change it was from usual. Where the shaft was, he could see a new wooden structure with steps leading downwards. The whole site had been spruced up. Wagons and carts were lined neatly at the far end of the site, and there were no mountains of spoil awaiting their turn to be taken away. Just an empty apron of mud, a series of lit glaziers providing light, and then the trench itself, where lamps had been strung up so that it looked almost pretty, like a fairground.
As for the tunnel, it was mostly covered. What had spent so long as a groove in the earth was now a bone fide railway line. All, that was, apart from one short stretch nearest to the newly built steps, which awaited the covering process. Aside from that, Abberline was looking at a real underground railway.
There they were, the men who had helped it happen: various Metropolitan Railway bigwigs that he didn’t recognize, as well as a few familiar faces: Cavanagh, Marchant, two of the punishers, Smith and Other Hardy (and that was a point, where was the third, the charming Hardy?) You had to hand it to the murdering scum, he thought. Whatever their racket, whatever their fiddle, whatever crime they had perpetrated in the name of the underground railway, they’d done it. They got the bugger built.
With them was the Indian lad, Bharat Singh. Abberline trained his spyglass on that handsome implacable face. There was something different about him today, thought the peeler. His eyes seemed to move nervously. Abberline kept his spyglass to his eye as, with introductions over, the group began to move across the apron and towards the new steps, the railway company men breaking into a polite smattering of applause as they passed.
The group reached the steps, but before descending were due to greet a gang of foremen. Mr and Mrs Charles Pearson were ushered forward. There was more shaking of hands as they were introduced to the foremen by Bharat Singh.
When that was over, Cavanagh thanked the foremen and, with doffed caps, they left. Bharat went to move away as well, to follow the foremen, but Abberline saw Cavanagh’s hand shoot out, take Bharat by the upper arm and usher him towards the steps instead.
Then they were gone. The cap-doffing foremen moved away, the railway bigwigs stood consulting their watches, awaiting their turn, and the line of navvies stayed where it was – a guard of honour, or maybe just a guard – and a curious silence descended. Until from the tunnel came the whistle of a steam engine, and great chuffs of smoke passed through the planks of the uncovered section as the driver stoked his engine.
The train was about to pull off.
Further along the fence was an enclosure where the bigwigs’ carriages were tethered. There stood drivers chatting, smoking pipes or tending to their horses.
There was nothing unusual about the scene, but even so Abberline’s gaze went to it, his eyeglass lingering there. For some reason he was sure he’d seen something out of place, as though he’d walked into a familiar room in which a piece of furniture had been moved.
Then it hit him. How the devil had he missed it for so long? Standing there at the fence, bold as brass and with his eyes on the events at the tunnel, was a man in white robes.
54
The Ghost had seen the future. It was a future in which he was inducted as a Templar, and the more he was trusted by them, the closer to their inner circle he went, and the more value he had for the Assassins.
Which meant they wouldn’t let him leave. Even when this operation was over, they would make him stay, and he would have to do it because the innocent life of Charles Pearson had paid his way to purgatory.
He wasn’t prepared to do that, and so he’d decided that when Cavanagh dismissed him he would go to the carriage enclosure as arranged and there he would tell Ethan his decision. That he was out.
Disarm Ethan if necessary. Hurt him if needs be. But end this right now.
Except Cavanagh hadn’t dismissed him. Instead the director had ushered him towards the steps – ‘You know, I’ve changed my mind, I really think you should see this.’ – and he had descended with the rest of the party.
He’d flashed his boss a
quizzical look. I should be taking up position. But Cavanagh dismissed it with a quick don’t-worry shake of his head. Why? His mind raced. Would there be time afterwards? Was that the game Cavanagh was playing? Was this all part of an ongoing test of The Ghost’s mettle?
Or was it something else?
At the makeshift platform stood a locomotive and two carriages. The group proceeded to the front one and Cavanagh led the way inside.
‘As you can see, our newest carriage is most commodious,’ said Cavanagh, welcoming the Pearsons into it with a flourish. ‘Compartments and arm-rests in first class make overcrowding impossible, while the leather-upholstered chairs mean that even our second-class passengers will enjoy the utmost comfort at all times.’
‘There are no windows,’ said Mrs Pearson with a touch of panic in her voice.
‘Ah yes,’ said Cavanagh. ‘But windows are not necessary in an underground train, Mrs Pearson. Besides, first-class passengers shall have the benefit of gas lighting. The gas is carried in long India-rubber bags in boxes on top of the carriages, and when we pull off you will see that the gas lighting easily provides enough light by which to read a morning newspaper.’
They took their seats, with the Pearsons and Cavanagh at the far end, and the rest towards the rear, where a door provided a portal through to the second carriage.
Pearson thumped the tip of his cane excitedly on the boards. The driver appeared at the open door, gave them a thumbs up with a gloved hand, grinned at the dignitaries, and then closed the door and went back to the locomotive. Gas lamps flickered but the darkness was kept at bay, just as Cavanagh had said it would.
With a clank and a trundle, the train moved off.
The Ghost felt Marchant’s gaze on him. Smith and Other Hardy were staring at him too. All had the eyes of men who were hungry for their supper. The absence of Hardy – so far unexplained – began to gnaw at him. At the other end of the carriage, the Pearsons and Cavanagh kept up a polite conversation but The Ghost wasn’t listening. He was wondering what malice lay behind the stares of his companions.
The train pulled in at Farringdon Street and let out a great belch of smoke. Moments later the driver opened the carriage door and peered inside to check on his passengers, as well as basking in the compliments on the smooth journey from Mr and Mrs Pearson. A short while later, and they were on the move for the return journey to King’s Cross, Mr Pearson reaching for his pocket watch to check the journey time.
But …
‘My watch,’ he said, fumbling for it but not finding it.
The train clanked on.
‘What is it, dear?’ said Mrs Pearson. Cavanagh had leaned forward with false concern. The Ghost began to feel a new onset of dread, daring to hope that the Solicitor of London had merely misplaced his pocket watch, but knowing somehow that there was more to it than that, knowing that whatever it was involved him.
All eyes in the carriage were on Pearson now, watching as he patted his belly. ‘No, no. My watch and chain is definitely gone.’
‘When did you last have it, dear?’ Speaking loudly over the noise of the engine, Mrs Pearson’s voice seemed to shake with the movement of the train.
‘I can’t remember.’
Other Hardy called out from the end of the carriage. ‘You had it on the platform, sir –’ he flashed a grin at The Ghost before continuing – ‘if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, because I saw you take it out and consult it.’
‘Oh well, that’s a relief, then it must be around here somewhere …’ Pearson planted his cane on the boards and got shakily to his feet, already struggling with the movement of the train.
‘Charles, sit down,’ admonished Mrs Pearson. ‘Mr Cavanagh, if you would be so kind as to ask your men to look for the watch …’
‘Of course, madam.’
As Marchant and the two punishers went through the motions of looking, The Ghost’s mind raced, desperately trying to come up with a solution. He surreptitiously checked the pockets of his jacket, just in case the watch had been planted on him, and then raising his eye to the two punishers, caught them smirking at him.
No, they hadn’t planted the watch on him. Not yet.
‘No, no watch here,’ said Marchant, steadying himself with a hand on the carriage shell.
The Ghost sat motionless as though watching the whole scene through glass. Cavanagh was sticking to the script, a picture of false concern for poor Pearson’s missing pocket watch. ‘Then I must ask that you men turn out your pockets,’ he said. ‘No, better still … turn out each other’s pockets.’
They did as they were asked. They went through the charade. The Ghost was near rigid with tension now. Knowing where this was going but unable to do anything about it.
He felt a tugging at his coat. ‘Oh dear, sir,’ said Smith or it might have been Other Hardy, but it didn’t matter, because the trap was sprung. ‘I believe I may have found Mr Pearson’s watch. It was in the pocket of young Bharat here.’
Smith took the watch to Pearson who identified it and, with a rueful look at The Ghost, replaced it in his hip pocket. Meanwhile, Cavanagh had stood, the very picture of fury, a man whose trust had been betrayed in the worst possible circumstance. ‘Is this true?’ He glared at The Ghost. ‘Did you take the watch?’
The Ghost said nothing, just stared at him, mute.
Cavanagh turned to his guests. ‘Mr and Mrs Pearson, I offer you my sincerest apologies. This is quite unprecedented. We shall place Bharat under arrest. Mrs Pearson, may I ask that one of my men accompany you to an adjoining carriage, away from this young thief? I fear he could well turn nasty.’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Pearson, concern etched on his face. ‘You should go.’
Marchant wobbled up the carriage towards Mrs Pearson, giving her an oily grin as he held out his hand in order to accompany her away from the nasty mess that was to come. She left, meek as a lamb, with a fearful, uncomprehending look at The Ghost as she passed.
Now they were alone.
And then, just as the train pulled into King’s Cross, Cavanagh drew a pearl-handled knife and plunged it into Pearson’s chest.
55
Cavanagh opened the carriage door in order to call out to the driver, congratulating him on a smooth journey and telling him they would alight presently.
And then he closed the door and turned back to where Pearson lay with his legs kicking feebly as the life ebbed out of him. Cavanagh had hammered the knife directly into his heart before withdrawing the blade, and Pearson hadn’t made a sound; in the next carriage his wife was oblivious to the fact that the Metropolitan Railway director had just stabbed him to death.
Anticipating The Ghost might make a move, the two punishers had grabbed him, pinning him to his seat. Cavanagh smiled. ‘Oh my God,’ he said, ‘the young Indian ruffian has killed Charles Pearson.’ He wiped his blade clean on Pearson’s body and sheathed it, then looked at The Ghost. ‘You would never have done it, would you?’
The Ghost looked at him, trying to give away nothing but sensing it was too late for that anyway.
‘“Blowpipe”, that was good,’ said Cavanagh. ‘I liked that. You telling me you wanted to use a blowpipe gave me everything I needed to know. It told Mr Hardy everything he needed to know too, and he’s gone with a squad of men to apprehend or possibly kill, I can’t say I am much troubled either way, your friend and my enemy, Ethan Frye.’
The train seemed to relax as the locomotive exhaled steam. The Ghost thought of Ethan. The born-warrior Ethan, an expert in multiple combatant situations. But careless Eth
an, prone to error.
‘He is as good as dead, Jayadeep, as are you. Ah, that surprises you, does it? That I know your name. Know your name, know your weakness, know your protector would be along to take over a job you didn’t have the backbone to complete. The jig is up, I’m afraid. You played a good game, but you lost. Mr Pearson is dead, the Assassins are finished and I have my artefact.’
The Ghost couldn’t disguise another look of surprise.
‘Ah yes, I have the artefact,’ smiled Cavanagh, enjoying his moment. ‘Or should I say –’ he reached to scoop up Pearson’s cane – ‘I have it now.’
He presented the cane up and The Ghost saw that its handle was a bronze-tinged sphere about three inches in diameter. ‘There,’ said Cavanagh, and his eyes were aflame, his lips pulled back over his teeth, a strange and ugly look of love at first sight. ‘This is the artefact. Recovered by labourers some weeks ago and given to Mr Pearson as a token of their esteem. And Mr Pearson liked it so much he made it his cane handle. But Mr Pearson walks with the angels now. And he won’t be needing his cane.’
Standing at the carriage enclosure, Ethan Frye had watched the dignitaries descend the steps and wondered why they’d taken The Ghost – and tried to dismiss a queasy sense that maybe something was going wrong.
Next he’d seen the great smoke emissions as the train pulled out of King’s Cross, and he’d waited as it went to Farringdon Street then returned, and he’d stood patiently, awaiting the emergence of Mr and Mrs Pearson, daring to believe that all would still go to plan. I’m sorry, Mr Pearson, he thought, and reached for the blowpipe beneath his robes.
From within the ranks of carriages, Ethan was being watched. He was being watched by a man who drew a knife that glinted in the moonlight, who when he smiled, revealed a gold tooth.
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