The Last Watchman

by Kevin Partner

  “Why so?”

  Our footsteps echoed along the quiet street. “Because the hasty stroke oft goes amiss. They were disturbed in the act and left the bill at the scene. There's also Williams—I suspect he was carried off.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Either because they were disturbed or because they desired a plaything and a source of food. Possibly for all those reasons. Williams may still be alive so we must hurry, but we must also remember the higher stakes here. There is something beneath all this, John, something that links the attacks on our people with Peregrine and the asylum inmates. My gut tells me we're heading into deep and choppy waters—we'd better be sure we can float.”

  We strode along the dark cobbled streets in silence. I chose not to tell my companion that I’d never learned to swim.

  The White Rose was a small and shabby theatre. It had been a favourite of the acting greats in previous decades—the sort of bijou place that made them feel like they were still in touch with their audience—but had since fallen into disrepair and dishonour. It had been rescued from demolition by an anonymous benefactor who'd begun putting on productions of Shakespeare. According to The Times, this had not gone down well with the locals who generally preferred melodrama over culture, but attendances were, overall, on the up.

  “There's a performance starting in an hour,” Grimes said, pointing up at the noticeboard outside, “so we have a little time to poke around. Come on.”

  I followed Grimes along a small alley that ran beside the theatre. Droplets of mist fizzed around the small light above a door that had once been green but was now covered with peeling remnants of many colours.

  Grimes looked left and right before turning the handle and going inside. I gave my pocket a tap and felt the reassuring heft of the revolver before pulling the door quietly closed behind me. How much my life had changed in the few days since I'd rescued Grimes? It was almost as if I'd had two existences—Before Grimes and After—and it seemed that the new John Makepeace thought nothing of breaking and entering. Or perhaps this John's perspective had altered after experiencing so much horror and fear in so short a time.

  I could see Grimes' back as it turned a corner, so I hurried along the narrow corridor to catch up. I'd never been behind the scenes in a theatre before, but I couldn't imagine the dank odour and mouldy walls here were typical of the species. This place reeked of age and neglect.

  Grimes stopped suddenly and put his finger to his lips then thumbed at a closed door. The word “cast” had been stencilled roughly onto the formerly white paint and I could hear a murmuring from inside.

  He raised two fingers, though I could tell easily enough that there were only a couple of voices. I couldn't hear what was being said, but it seemed to me, in tone at least, to be just the sort of trivial conversation two people might have. Then one voice became louder and Grimes pushed me back to the corner we'd just turned as the door opened.

  A man emerged wearing pantaloons that were dazzling even in the dingily lit corridor. He turned to walk away from us, and Grimes darted out at superhuman speed, grabbing him by the collar and slamming a massive hand across the struggling actor's mouth. I helped him return to the dark corner and tried to calm the man as his eyes threatened to explode out of their sockets.

  “We're not going to harm you. Be calm,” I said, then nodded at Grimes to release his grip.

  “Please... Please don't hurt me!” He was a young man of perhaps nineteen or twenty, and he was shaking from top to toe. “We were told we were safe here.”

  Grimes pushed him against the wall. “Keep your voice down or I'll truss you up like a fowl!”

  The actor shook so violently that I thought he was about to go into convulsions. “Grimes!” I hissed.

  He relaxed a little and looked at me as if to suggest I take over.

  “Andrew Aguecheek?” I said.

  For a moment, the boy looked nonplussed. Then he relaxed a little and nodded. “Yes. It is my first professional role.”

  “You're a bit young, aren't you?” Grimes mumbled from his position beside the turn in the corridor.

  “It's called acting, Grimes,” I snapped. He flashed me a poisoned look but returned to watching the door.

  I turned back to my captive. “I am John.”

  “I'm Robert,” he said, casting an eye at the sulking figure of Grimes, “Robert Brice.”

  “Well Robert, we're looking for a policeman. Have you seen one? Or anything else that struck you as strange.”

  Robert shrugged and gestured around himself as if not knowing where to start. “I've seen no-one, but then we are only permitted to occupy this floor, we actors.”

  “What do you mean? Are there other floors?”

  “Of course—there's a basement where they keep props and equipment they're not using. Look, who are you? Why don't you just ask Mr DeVere? The theatre manager. He can answer better than me.”

  I looked across at Grimes who shook his head. “What have you been told about the basement?”

  “Only that we're not to go there under any circumstances.”

  “Why?”

  Again, Robert shrugged as if the question was of little consequence. “Dangerous equipment, subsidence, I don't know.”

  “Can you take us to the basement entrance?”

  Robert struggled against my grip. “No! It isn't allowed!”

  “Why are you so scared of it?” Grimes said as he leaned back from the turn in the corridor.

  “Mr DeVere was most insistent,” the young man responded before looking from Grimes to me and then sighing. “Look, there are stories, right? All theatres have them, I'm told, but… I don't know… the ones about this place seem more real. I mean, old Raymond, he said he was going down there, and no-one saw him again. Mr DeVere says he was sacked, but... but... look, you're not going to report me to him, are you? I said not to go down there, didn't I?”

  I let go of his shoulders and he leaned against the wall, causing a momentary effusion of dust to erupt from the wig he was wearing. “No, we'll not report you, as long as you show us where the entrance to the basement is.”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “And then I can go? I need to get ready for tonight's performance.”

  “Yes,” Grimes said. “By the way, have you been playing to packed houses lately?”

  Beneath the powder, Brice's face flushed. “No. Regrettably we haven't yet been able to convince the public of our interpretation.”

  “That's what DeVere says, is it?”

  “And he's right. We do our best as actors, but there's so little appreciation.”

  “There is no darkness but ignorance,” I said and was rewarded with a smile from the boy.

  “If music be the food of love, play on,” he responded.

  Grimes scowled. “If you two swots have quite finished, we've got work to do. Come on.”

  Beneath the White Rose

  My heart sank as I watched the young man scamper away. I didn't fear him reporting us to his manager—not least because he seemed in as much terror of that man as he was of Grimes. No, I was torn between a desire to follow him back into the real world (perhaps even watch the performance) and the certain knowledge that my path lay down the unlit steps beneath my feet.

  “Is your revolver to hand?” Grimes whispered.

  “It's exactly where it was the last time you asked. And the time before that.”

  I couldn't see his face, but I caught a half-suppressed growl that I thought at first was anger before realising with a thrill that he was masking his fear.

  “Do you believe the missing policeman is down there?” I asked.

  “Could be. There's certainly something in the basement they want us to see.”

  That caught me. “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, John. Don't you feel it? We're being led by the nose. First the playbill and now this forbidden basement.”

  “Then perhaps we should contact Pitt and await reinforcements
?”

  He shifted in the darkness and I caught a waft of a rich spicy aroma. I hadn't noticed it before but knew it had already been there though I couldn't place it. Some cheap cologne, I decided.

  “No, that would only risk more lives and besides, I get the feeling we're being strung along.”

  “But Grimes, in that case we must regroup.”

  I felt the air stir as he turned to me and, for a moment, imagined a smouldering amber glow in his eyes. “There isn't time. And, in any case, we have one advantage—we know they're playing us, so we go into this with our eyes wide open.”

  The irony of that last statement wasn't lost on me as I made my way blindly down the stairs, my hands gripping the handrail as I went. Grimes, on the other hand, stepped down them as if he could see perfectly.

  I found him waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. He grasped my shoulder. “Now, we must be careful, my dear Makepeace, and you must play your part. I must have my wits about me and cannot concern myself with your safety.”

  “I can look after myself,” I said.

  Grimes must have noticed the tone of my response. “Do not be offended. Few men, or women, would have the courage to even descend those steps and I admire you for it, but I must focus my attention exclusively on what lies behind that door. Now, do you have—”

  “Yes, I have my revolver!” I hissed. What I really wanted was a generous measure of single malt.

  My hand shook in the dark as I hefted the weapon. I felt him move. The door opened with no sound other than the rushing of air. I breathed in and was barely able to stop myself crying out in disgust as bitter bile rose in my throat. A stench like a thousand dead things threatened to unman me as I staggered backwards and fell onto the bottom-most step.

  I sensed a shape moving in the darkness beyond the threshold and then light, like ink on blotting paper, began to penetrate that dreadful place. I screwed my eyes together as they adjusted and then, when I saw what was there, I wished the darkness could return and wash from my mind the horror of that scene.

  I saw a man's naked body, his skin ripped and his ribs folded back exposing where his heart had once been. My stomach tightened and I staggered out of the room to vomit at the foot of the stairs then, as I stopped heaving, I shook as I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder.

  “Come now, John. We have little time and if we are to catch the filth that did this before others die, we must learn what we can before we escape.”

  I wiped a tear away as I turned to face him. “I cannot conceive of such cruelty.”

  “Stick around me for long enough, my friend, and you will,” he said, his craggy features compressed in the half-light. “I'm sorry. Are you ready?”

  I nodded and then followed him back inside the room of horror. The gas lamp lent a flickering unreality to the scene, which was probably just as well. The corpse was upright, the torso lashed to one vertical beam and the arms to cross beams either side, spread wide as if he were welcoming good friends.

  “Is it Williams?”

  Grimes was examining the body and didn't turn as he answered. “Yes, I fear so. He matches the description given to us by Pitt.”

  “Are we going to cut him down?”

  This time he turned to look over his shoulder at me. “No, there must be no evidence that we were ever here.”

  “Why not, in heaven's name? We're working with the police.”

  “Right now, John, trust is a luxury we do not have. Many have died over the past few nights and betrayal lies at the heart of it, I'm certain. But this is not the time for such talk. Take it on faith that we must be out of here quickly. Now, please come closer, you must see this also.”

  Reluctantly, I went to stand beside him. The theatre basement was a small space punctuated by vertical wooden beams that threw blurred shadows against the walls. It was filled with the reek of death and I held my handkerchief against my nose as I gazed upon the wrecked body of PC Williams.

  “You see how his ribs have been opened,” Grimes said, “that is a form of the blood eagle.”

  “The blood eagle? I thought that was a thing of Norse legend?”

  “Most legends have a basis in fact, however distorted, and evil things stalked the earth long before the Vikings took inspiration from them. This form, where the ribs are split from the front, is actually a dark angel.”

  I made myself look again at the ruined body. The bulbous pink lungs had been folded back under his armpits and nailed to the beam, leaving the chest cavity empty and open. There was remarkably little blood and it reminded me, more than anything, of the hanging carcasses in a butcher's shop. I reeled with shock at the comparison. This was a man, I reminded myself, or had been.

  “What does it mean, Grimes?”

  My companion was examining the lower half of the body which had, until that point, been hidden in shadow. “As I thought. His manhood has also been removed.”

  This time, I managed to keep myself from looking. “But why?”

  “The dark angel is a sacrifice to the evil gods. First the genitalia are removed and burned before the face of the victim. Then the chest is opened, the heart is cut out and burned before, finally, the lungs are pinned in mockery of the wings of angels.”

  “And he was alive for this?”

  Grimes stood beside me and gripped my arm as if to steady himself. “For the first part. It is to be hoped that he lost consciousness before they went any further.”

  “But Grimes, this is monstrous!”

  “In every sense,” he said before reaching up and closing Williams' eyes. They had been staring at the ceiling as if imploring help that never came. “We must go, or risk being discovered and, at the very least, forced to answer inconvenient questions, or possibly being accused ourselves.”

  I was in no mood to argue the point as I wished nothing more than to escape from that place and breathe the open air—even the fetid miasma of a wet winter's night on the streets of London.

  We passed no-one in the theatre corridors as we left. I could hear the voices of the actors above us and the occasional burst of music, so it seemed likely they were all busy about their craft, though I was completely at a loss to explain the connexion between the theatre and what we'd found in the basement.

  “Grimes,” I said as we approached the doorway that would allow us to escape into the alley, “you said that you'd seen enough. Aside from the obvious facts of a man's cruel death, what did we learn?”

  He pushed open the door and the blessed wet air flooded in. “Obvious? What is obvious to you, John, is not so clear to another. But yes, as soon as I saw what awaited us, I knew. It was a message to me, my dear Makepeace. A message to tell me, with no room for doubt, that the enemy has returned. They are back.”

  I cannot tell you with what sense of relief I closed the door of 215 Bow Road and followed Grimes up the stairs. He had refused to discuss matters on the long walk home, but I hoped that he would be less taciturn once we'd reached the security of our rooms.

  We could see that Derricks had been busy as we reached the top of the stairs. There was no sign of his possessions, and a door frame had been built where the steps met the landing which would, when complete, seal off the top floor of the building.

  Grimes grunted in acknowledgement and headed for the manager's former room which lay between his and mine, its doorway in the centre of the landing wall.

  “As I thought,” Grimes said as he lit the candle by the door and held it up to send ghoulish flames along the walls, “Derricks chose the biggest rooms for himself. Look, there's even a small parlour over there. Ah, and the coup de grace...” He raised his arm and yellow light spread from the gas fitting above him as it spat irregularly before settling into a gentle hiss.

  “The cheeky scoundrel! He had gas fitted for himself while the rest of us made do with candlelight.”

  Grimes strode around the room as if sizing it up. “No, I think the gas lights have been here for some time. If he were lining his own nest,
he'd be installing electric. I suspect he removed any such lights from the other rooms except for the downstairs so that he didn't have to pay the gas bill.”

  The room was entirely bare except for curtains at the windows. Grimes and I shut them to keep out the night and the horrors it hid.

  “This will do,” he said. “We shall use this as our living room.”

  I shot a glance at the parlour as if expecting something to be lurking within. “Is it safe, do you think?”

  “Once the door at the top of the stairs has been completed, I believe it will be the safest place in London outside of the Tower.”

  I confess it didn't feel safe to me. Crumbling brick and—no doubt—rotting wood, rattling windows and threadbare carpet. Hardly a place to defend against the evil powers we were pitched against. I said this to Grimes, and he gave a most malicious grin.

  “Oh, my dear John, you must understand that what is often less important than where.”

  Seeing the confusion on my face, he waved his hands dismissively. “Not tonight, my friend. We must sleep and regroup in the morning. But I suggest taking shifts at it as, considering what we've seen this night, we know we are pitted against merciless foes who would think nothing of dragging us from this place and ripping us apart. I can't imagine Derricks or our fellow tenants doing much to stop them, can you?”

  “I will take the first watch,” I said.

  Grimes shook his head. “No. I will not be able to sleep, and I have much thinking to do. Please try to get some rest and I'll wake you when I can no longer keep my eyes open.”

  So I made my reluctant way to my room. I turned to bid him goodnight, as he sat on the top stair, the light from his pipe infusing his white hair and his gnomish face still and contemplative as if it were set in stone.

  Bryant

  It wasn't Grimes that awoke me, it was the pale light of morning seeping through the cracks in my curtains, and the church bells as they peeled their invitation to the sinners of the parish.