by David Wood
Crowley took a long, deep breath. “Let’s go, before someone else does come.”
Rose let go of his hand and walked on ahead. Crowley smiled to himself, amused by his disappointment, and followed. Only a few yards along the passage, they came to a door and opened it. No one on the other side, and they hurried on. Another corridor led them to stone steps leading down, all exactly as Margaret had described. She had been brought this way herself, she had told them, by Declan himself. It had been quite the adventure for her, and Crowley could see why. The Wilsons certainly kept strange company.
They found themselves under the Old Bailey, in a tight passageway of white painted brick. Pipes and air-conditioning ducts ran along the ceiling, barely an inch or two above Crowley’s head. Power and Ethernet cables ran along the wall at elbow height, enclosed in a cage-like metal housing. Everything was a strange mix of historical architecture and modern technology.
“How old is this place?” Rose whispered as she hurried along.
“First built in 1673,” Crowley told her. “But it’s been remodeled lots of times. According to Margaret’s description, if we’ve gone the right way, we should find the Roman wall soon.”
“It’s here,” Rose said, pointing to a section of ancient wall constructed of large stone blocks. “Amazing to think how long this has been here.”
Crowley nodded. “The courts are built on the old site of Newgate Prison, which for centuries was the chief holding place for condemned criminals, and not far away is the church of St. Sepulchre.”
They paused to look at the old architecture, then scanned around nearby.
“That much is well-documented history,” Crowley went on, warming to his subject. “The condemned would be led along Dead Man’s Walk up there on street level, between the prison and the court. Quite a few of those, after execution, were buried in the walk itself. But huge crowds would gather, often excited beyond reason, to watch the executions. They would pelt the condemned with rotten fruit and vegetables, or even stones. Sometime in the early eighteen hundreds, I forget when exactly, a massive riot ended in the deaths of twenty-eight people, crushed to death after a pie-seller’s stall was overturned. A strange catalyst for such mayhem!”
Rose stifled a laugh. “Oh, that’s really not funny, but is it true?”
“It is. People went crazy for the public killings back then. No TV, I guess.” They shared a grin. “Anyway, a secret tunnel was subsequently created between the prison and St. Sepulchre’s church, to allow chaplains to minister to the condemned man without having to force their way through the crowds, and to move the condemned back and forth as well. Some suggested the tunnel might be used too for the beginning of the journey to Tyburn gallows, down near Marble Arch. But there’s no proof of that, and no proof of other tunnels leading from the one below Dead Man’s Walk.” Crowley gestured around himself. “Which is where we are now. Carry on and it leads beneath St. Sepulchre’s, but Margaret said there was a secret entrance to more tunnels before we get there. All kinds of stories like that have long been conjectured, but to my knowledge, the tunnels have never been found. It’s all urban legend.”
“But Margaret insists it’s not,” Rose said. She was smiling, a half-cheeky, half-challenging look.
“What?” Crowley asked.
“While you’ve been busy lecturing,” she held up a hand to stave off his outrage, “which was genuinely interesting, don’t worry, I’ve been looking at Margaret’s directions. And I found this.” She pointed at the ground beneath their feet.
Crowley looked down, gazed around, but saw only old, well-worn flagstones. “What?” he asked. “I don’t see anything.”
Rose crouched, brushed her hand over one stone to reveal faint, shallow etched markings. Crowley squatted beside her and squinted in the dim basement lighting. The carving was a crucifix, encircled by a laurel wreath.
“I’ll be damned,” he whispered.
“Just like Margaret said.” Rose traced her finger from the base of the crucifix to the stone block wall, then counted up to the third stone.
Crowley shook his head. “I was convinced this was all a waste of time.”
Rose lifted her eyebrows at him once, then pressed her palm against the stone as Margaret had instructed, and pushed. It grated slightly, but moved easily, pressing into the wall a good couple of inches then slowly sliding back into position. Something in the etched flagstone at their feet clicked.
Crowley allowed himself a soft laugh. “Amazing.” He pushed down on the flagstone and it sank slowly, then tilted on its central axis, opening up like a car’s air-conditioning vent. The gap between the now vertical stone and the next flagstone over was a good couple of feet, plenty of room to slip through, and a metal ladder disappeared down into the gloom. Its rungs were spotted with rust, but it appeared sturdy. Crowley looked up at Rose, met her wide eyes with what he was sure was a matching expression. “Want to go first?” he asked.
She gestured generously with one hand. “I’ll follow you.”
Chapter 13
Camberwell
Margaret Wilson spooned sugar into the two mugs and then walked to the back door. “Tea, dear!” she called down the immaculately tended garden. The neat, bright green lawn, bordered on both sides by beds of multi-colored flowers, only extended about twenty feet before it ended in George’s dark-stained wooden shed. It was a tiny patch of nature in their city street, but it was George’s pride and joy.
Margaret frowned when no answering call came. The window of the shed reflected the slightly overcast sky, acting more like a mirror, and she couldn’t see any movement inside. The gate in the red brick wall behind the shed, which led out onto their narrow back lane, was closed, so George hadn’t stepped out there to the bins.
She shook her head and smiled to herself. Poor old fellow, his hearing was beginning to fail. She’d noticed him regularly nudging the volume up on the television in the evenings, casting sidelong glances at her to see if she noticed. Her nose was usually buried in a book and she pretended to be oblivious.
She picked up the mugs and headed along the flagstone path, like stepping stones through the grass. The shed door was slightly ajar and she nudged it open with one foot, careful not to spill the tea.
“Made you a cuppa, dear,” she said. Her scream of horror drowned the crash of the mugs smashing against the concrete footing of the shed. Hot tea splashed over her feet and legs. She ignored the distant pain of the scalding liquid and stared wide-eyed into the barrel of the pistol leveled at her face, not two feet from her nose. Behind it was a hard-faced man, teeth bared in a grimace, and behind him sat George, tied into the chair in front of his wooden desk, black masking tape pressed tightly over his mouth. His eyes were wide and terrified above the gag and he moved his head left and right in impotent denial. Muffled grunts and groans made it through, but no words.
Margaret stood motionless but for the trembling that racked her entire body. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was suddenly too dry to accomplish such a simple task.
The man’s grimace turned into a mean smile. “Very good of you to save me a trip up to the house. No need to sneak in now.”
“What do you want?” Margaret’s voice wavered on the verge of tears. George’s wide eyes narrowed in empathetic pain.
The man moved aside from the door and gestured with the gun. “Do come inside.”
George shook his head more vigorously, but what choice did she have? If she tried to run the man might shoot her anyway. And he was young and fit, would easily overtake her if she bolted. She wouldn’t even make it to the back door, despite the distance across the garden being so small. She stepped inside and the man pointed to a pile of plastic sacks of fertilizer. It was a ridiculous amount for such a small garden.
“It’ll take you years to use all that!” she had said the day George brought it all home from the garden center.
“But it was on sale, dear,” he had replied. “I simply couldn’t ignore a bargain lik
e that. It was less than half price.”
Margaret sat and shook her head at the ridiculous train of thought, remembering such pointless minutiae of life. Then again, that was real life, wasn’t it? All those little things, those seemingly insignificant interactions that actually made up the vast majority of every day lived.
“What do you want?” she asked again. “Money? We don’t have much, but you can have it. Please, just don’t hurt us.”
“I don’t need your money. Information is what I’m after.”
Margaret nodded slightly. She had assumed that would be the case. Danny’s disappearance, then the strange visit from Rose Black and her friend the day before. Something very strange was going on, and she and George had inadvertently stumbled right into the middle of it. Or perhaps it had stumbled right into the middle of them. “Information?” she asked.
“The whereabouts of Rose Black and her friend.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know...” Margaret’s voice choked into silence as the man surged forward and pressed the gun barrel hard into her sternum. It was cold through her light blouse, and he ground it painfully into the bone.
“You see, I think you do know, Mrs. Wilson. And I am absolutely certain you will tell me.”
Margaret shook her head, adrenaline pulsing up, her heart slamming against her ribs. “But I really don’t know...”
“We know she was here yesterday,” the man shouted, spittle flying from his lips.
Margaret flinched, clutched her hands together. “Yes, she was here yesterday. But I couldn’t help them and I don’t know where they went. I don’t know where they are!” Her voice rose shrill in panic.
The man leaned closer, his breath stale and redolent with old tobacco and coffee. “I think you do, and I think you’ll be telling me. How are you at dealing with pain?” He lowered the gun barrel to press against her kneecap.
Margaret began to cry, muttering, “No, no, no.”
George’s muffled protestations grew louder, more violent. He rocked the chair he was tied to as he thrashed.
The armed man spun to face him, pressed his gun to George’s knee and George suddenly stilled. “Or how are you at watching your loved ones bleed?” he wondered. “Now I’ll ask you again. Where is Rose Black?”
Chapter 14
Somewhere beneath the Old Bailey, London
Crowley walked slowly, just ahead of Rose. The light from his small flashlight pierced the darkness, swept back and forth across old stone and worn floors. He was mystified, stunned that Margaret’s seemingly crazy musings had turned out to be true. How many people had ever walked these secret tunnels? Very few, he was sure of that. Excitement and concern battled each other, made his hand tremble slightly. He hoped Rose didn’t notice the wavering of his torch light. He kept it moving left and right just in case.
“We’re looking for an Egyptian ankh carved at ground level on a stone that sticks out an inch or so further than the others,” Rose said, using her own small penlight torch to read her notes. “That’s like a crucifix with a looped top, right?”
“That’s right.” Crowley paused, squinted ahead. “There.” He steadied his light on one stone protruding slightly from the wall.
They approached it cautiously. Rose watched up and down the tunnel while Crowley felt around for the edges of the door Margaret had described. The ladder down was lost now in the gloom behind them and the tunnel continued on. He wondered where it might lead. The historian in him was alive with glee at the thought. Once all this was over, he was definitely coming back here and he planned to explore every inch of the place. He paused. When all this was over. When might that be? What might the outcome be? He mentally shook himself. Keep your mind on the battle at hand, soldier.
His fingers found the deep groove above the stone carved with the ankh and he got a good grip with eight fingertips and pulled. The door moved more easily than he had expected and he almost stumbled back. The stones were cut thin, made a simple façade over a thick wooden panel hinged deep in the wall. An ancient, crumbling set of stairs led down into darkness.
Secret tunnels within secret tunnels. How far did all this go? “Here we are then,” he said, and started down.
Rose followed. He heard the soft scrape as she pulled the door closed again. “It’s cold down here!” she said.
Goosebumps ran along Crowley’s exposed forearms, the chill old and permanent. “Yeah. I don’t think this place has ever been warm, no matter how hot the days might get. We’re too deep now.”
They emerged into an open space, pale stone walls and flagstone flooring. Three deep pits took up the majority of the floor space in the long room, arched recesses along one side. A wide, arched doorway led out the far end, a wide mouth onto complete darkness.
“What is this place?” Rose whispered.
Crowley shook his head, smiled. “I’ve seen lots like it. It’s an old Roman bathhouse. Loads have been found in various places over the years. Whatever might have been above this, some dignitary’s villa or whatever, has long since fallen to ruins and London has grown over it like an ever-thickening mold. There are many who think things like this exist all over the place, buried in numerous lost underground parts of the city. I’ve never really given it much credence before, but maybe I should reconsider that.”
Crowley shone his light into the wide doorway at the other end, picked out a passage leading away. “This way, I guess.”
They moved forward and had only covered a few yards when Crowley’s soldier sense prickled. Was that the scrape of a shoe he heard? Before he could turn to locate the source, a soft, warm voice came from his left.
“Don’t move. What do you want here?”
Crowley took a deep breath, quelled the sudden spike of adrenaline. “Are you Declan Brown?”
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is Jake Crowley, and this is Rose Black. We were given directions to find you by Margaret Wilson.”
“Ol’ Maggie, eh?” Shadows moved in one of the alcoves and a man stepped out into Crowley’s light. He was short, but muscular, his skin a deep shade of chestnut brown. Tightly curled black hair was cut fairly close to his head. His eyes were large and friendly in the gloom, his smile wide. “Well, if Maggs sent you then you must be okay. You’d better come in.”
He turned and went back into the shadows of the arch. Crowley looked back to Rose, gave her a grin and a shrug, and followed. Beyond the arch was a small anteroom, maybe a changing room for the baths, Crowley speculated. At the back of that space was a wooden door pushed wide. Light flickered and flared as Brown lit a glass oil lamp inside, revealing a comfortable-looking room with threadbare couch and armchairs. Brown turned up the light, chasing the shadows out of the large room to reveal a wooden table surrounded by four dining chairs, several bookcases bowing under the weight of books. A small gas camping cooker stood to one side, on another table loaded with canned food, bread, cutlery and other cooking tools in one corner.
Brown hung the lantern from a hook in the low, brick ceiling and turned to face them. “Have a seat. You want a cup of tea?”
As Brown made three mugs of tea, Rose gave him a fairly good, though abridged, version of what had been happening. “And so we decided we needed to learn more about what Danny Bedford believed,” she finished. “And Margaret told us you were the man to talk to about that stuff. You and Danny studied occult things together, she told me.”
When he turned back with the mugs, Brown seemed unsurprised. “I brought her here to visit once. She thought it was tremendous fun. I knew she’d remember the way, you see. I’d divined that someone would need my help, and find it through her. And here you are. The wheel turns, eh?”
Crowley sipped tea, kept his mouth closed and his ears open, trying to get the measure of the man. He seemed entirely comfortable in his subterranean solitary confinement, unfazed by a lack of modern conveniences. And, Crowley reluctantly admitted, he appeared to be completely sane, contrary to everything Crowley had e
xpected. Then again, madness often presented in strange and subtle ways, so Crowley wasn’t about to make any firm assumptions yet.
“So that’s why Margaret sent you to see me?” Brown said, sitting down. “Something with Danny? I’m worried. I haven’t been able to reach him for too long.”
Over Brown’s shoulder, Crowley read the spines of books on the shelves. Most titles covered subjects of occultism, history, Nazi Germany, ancient cultures, geography. For such a small collection, it covered a surprisingly extensive range of subject matter. Brown, it seemed, was an educated man. “You haven’t been able to divine what happened to him?” Crowley tried to keep the skepticism from his voice, but failed rather spectacularly.
Brown smiled softly, shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Margaret seemed to think you might have more answers for us,” Rose said, her voice a little weak. Perhaps she doubted the likelihood of help from such a strange quarter, but Crowley thought maybe this was the closest they might have got to an answer yet. If there was an answer to be found. Just because they had lots of questions, it didn’t automatically follow that there were answers to them all. “You believe,” she paused, lost in thought for a moment. “You know,” she went on, “a lot more of the lore and history of this stuff than we do, Margaret said.”
Brown smiled. “And I do believe too. I have reason to believe. You told me about your mark, and I have seen Danny’s. These are powerful things. The influence of history to make itself heard through the marks on generation after generation of people is well-documented.”
Crowley wanted to roll his eyes, but kept the urge in check. Not least because of Brown’s relaxed, easy delivery. He didn’t sound evangelical in any way, showed no signs of zealotry despite his bizarre choice of abode.