The Monster Within

by Darrell Pitt

  ‘There is something else that’s unusual too,’ Scarlet pointed out. ‘It was men who visited the bag store. It seems strange when the Valkyrie Circle is supposed to be behind this.’

  ‘It is strange,’ Greystoke agreed.

  Jack and the team returned to Bee Street. Mr Doyle disappeared to his study to smoke one of his pipes. He never actually smoked tobacco. Instead, it was his own special concoction of ingredients that included lawn clippings from France, poppies from China and other herbs. He said it helped him to think.

  Jack and Scarlet went to the sitting room where they further discussed the case.

  ‘When Mr Doyle smothered the bomb with his body…’ Scarlet’s voice caught. ‘I thought…well…’

  ‘I know,’ Jack said. ‘But it would take a lot to finish Mr Doyle.’ He tried to put a positive spin on it. ‘If there were zombies, he could be brought back to life.’

  ‘Jack.’ Scarlet stared at him. ‘That is possibly the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said.’

  ‘That’s pretty amazing,’ Jack said, ‘because I’ve said a lot of ridiculous things.’

  Gloria appeared in the sitting room. ‘Another letter has arrived,’ she said, ‘from your friend Toby.’

  Jack read the note:

  Dear Jack, Scarlet and Mr Doyle,

  I saw the monster again last night. He was looking in the window where Mum sleeps and watching her. I think he might not be bad. He looked unhappy. I need you to come. Mr Thackeray and Mr Beel were at the factory talking about the monster. They still want to hunt him down and kill him.

  Toby

  ‘I did see something in the drains,’ Jack said. ‘I didn’t imagine it.’

  ‘We can’t do anything about this now,’ Scarlet said.

  Jack wrote a note back to Toby, explaining they were busy, but would return when they could.

  Late that afternoon, Mr Doyle emerged from his study, telling them the time had come to return to Scotland Yard.

  They travelled in the Lion’s Mane. It was late afternoon and people were scurrying home at the end of the long, working day. Newspaper cries were hawking the afternoon edition of The Times.

  The front page carried two headlines: Another Bombing and Women Vow to Defy Marching Order.

  ‘I hope you’re not going,’ Mr Doyle said to Scarlet.

  ‘Nothing would stop me.’

  ‘I must remind you that I am obligated to protect you,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘I promised your father that I would keep you safe. Because of the nature of our work, it is not always possible. But—’

  Scarlet held up her hand. ‘I don’t wish to argue with you, Mr Doyle,’ she said. ‘But my mind is made up. I don’t intend to allow a terrorist organisation or unjust laws to keep me from doing what is right.’

  Sighing, Mr Doyle did not reply.

  Entering Scotland Yard, they were led to the Operations room. It was even more crowded than before, but this time a new man stood at the lectern.

  ‘I don’t believe we’ve met,’ he said, awaiting the three of them. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Charles Kemp, head of Scotland Yard.’ Introductions were made all round. ‘I understand you’ve clashed somewhat with Wolf and his men.’

  ‘If you can call being arrested “clashing”,’ Mr Doyle said, wryly. ‘I’m sure his intentions are sound, even if his methods are not.’

  Wolf entered the room. Spying Kemp, he arrowed over. ‘I advise you to take anything this man says with a grain of salt,’ he said. ‘He’s a part of this, I guarantee you that.’

  ‘I take everything with a grain of salt,’ Kemp said. ‘I understand another message has arrived.’

  ‘It has. Again, a boy was given some money to deliver it by an older woman. It’s the same description.’

  Wolf laid the note on the table before them. Jack read:

  To the Men who would control all,

  I see Ignatius Doyle was successful in derailing our last bomb. I congratulate him on his efforts. Of course, the game is just beginning. The one who holds everything in his hands is not Doyle. It is a love some would cherish, but not I. But what’s in a kiss, after all?

  The next bomb will explode at 7pm. I advise you to hurry if you want to catch time.

  Lady Death

  ‘Monstrous,’ Greystoke muttered. ‘7pm. That gives us just over an hour.’

  ‘But what does the message mean?’ Kemp asked.

  They looked to Mr Doyle, who slowly shook his head. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘But I would suggest we take it phrase by phrase.’

  ‘There’s the bit about derailing the last bomb,’ Jack said.

  ‘She congratulates us and says the game is just beginning,’ Scarlet said.

  ‘Then there’s the business about Doyle not holding everything in his hands,’ Wolf said, grudgingly. ‘And that nonsense about love and a kiss.’

  ‘So what does it mean?’ Greystoke asked.

  But no-one had any idea.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Jack glanced at his watch. ‘We need to come up with something,’ he said. ‘We only have an hour.’

  Mr Doyle repeated the phrases to himself, closing his eyes and meditating.

  ‘It may mean nothing at all,’ Wolf said. ‘Just a ruse to put us off track.’

  Mr Doyle opened his eyes. ‘That’s possible,’ he said, ‘but it seems unlikely they would bother to send a message at all then. No, the sender of this note wants us to play this game to fruition.’

  Inspector Greystoke wrote the phrases on a blackboard.

  ‘Derailing the last bomb…the game is just beginning…not holding everything in his hands…a love some would cherish…what’s in a kiss…hurry to catch time…’

  ‘What on earth does it mean?’ Scarlet asked.

  Wolf said, ‘There are two phrases that may refer to trains: the “derailing” and “catch time.”’

  ‘That’s true,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘But it’s a very large network. What station could it be?’

  They continued to stare in silence at the words.

  ‘It’s all Greek to me,’ Jack finally muttered. ‘I just don’t know what it means.’

  ‘Greek,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘That’s what?’

  ‘Holding everything in his hands. St Pancras’s name comes from the ancient Greek meaning “the one that holds everything”.’

  ‘So it may be St Pancras Station,’ Greystoke said. ‘But what about love and the kiss.’

  ‘There’s a statue at St Pancras Station. It’s—’

  ‘The Kiss,’ Wolf said. ‘By Rodin.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘I’m a lover of great art.’

  Within minutes the group were in steamcars racing across London. Mr Doyle looked at his watch. ‘There’s still time to evacuate the station,’ he said.

  ‘St Pancras is en
ormous,’ Jack said, once they’d arrived. ‘I wonder where the bomb is hidden.’

  ‘We shall see.’

  The station was a huge brick building in a dilapidated state, the ceiling a huge arch of glass with many of the panes broken.

  ‘The roof is the single largest span arch in the world,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘A true work of engineering genius. It’s a shame it has fallen into such disrepair.’

  Thousands of people were streaming across the concourse. The evening peak hour was in full swing. It would remain like this for some time.

  Mr Doyle and the others crossed to Rodin’s statue. ‘Magnificent,’ Mr Doyle murmured. ‘A true work of art.’

  ‘I’m not sure now’s the time to appreciate it,’ Jack said.

  ‘There is always time to appreciate great beauty.’

  They checked around the statue, but found no parcel. A siren began to wail plaintively.

  ‘That must be Greystoke’s doing,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘They’re starting an evacuation.’

  Within minutes, police officers were blocking off entrances and diverting people to other stations, although it sounded like the trains were still running; Jack could hear engines reverberating up through the ground.

  While officers searched cloakrooms, waiting areas and ticket offices, Inspector Wolf came marching across the tiles. ‘I hope you’re right about this,’ he growled. ‘We’ve got half the department here.’

  ‘We can’t be certain,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘This is an educated guess based on scanty information.’

  Wolf stalked off.

  ‘Such a lovely man,’ Mr Doyle muttered. ‘He must be wonderful at parties.’

  ‘What about the platforms below?’ Jack asked.

  ‘We had best see what’s happening.’

  They went down a steam-powered escalator. The smell of smoke filled the air. Trains were still coming and going.

  ‘Most of the trains have been stopped,’ Mr Doyle said, ‘but it looks like the express services are still running.’

  They scanned the board. Mr Doyle tapped his chin. ‘It’s a long shot,’ he said, ‘but St Pancras’s Day is the twelfth of May.’

  ‘So we’ll try Platform Twelve?’ Scarlet asked.

  ‘It’s better than nothing.’

  They went down another escalator. It was so hot and stuffy down here that Jack could barely breathe. A few listless commuters stood around; they had obviously ignored the order to evacuate the station. A distant rattle sounded from the tunnel.

  ‘Must be an express service,’ Mr Doyle said.

  There was a rush of wind and a train, bellowing smoke and steam, chugged by the platform. Jack observed that it was moving fairly slowly.

  ‘Many of the express services slow as they pass through the inner-city stations,’ Mr Doyle explained. ‘The wind is so powerful it can knock people over.’

  Jack saw movement at the engineers’ compartment—then something tumbled out onto the platform.

  ‘Great Scott!’ Mr Doyle cried. ‘That’s the driver!’

  Another figure leapt out of the train and raced away down the platform. Jack ran to the driver, who had a knife jammed in his chest.

  ‘Dead,’ he said.

  ‘Why isn’t the train stopping?’ Scarlet asked.

  It should have come to a halt without the driver, but it continued to charge along the platform.

  ‘The safety brake must be disabled.’

  ‘So the bomb must be on board,’ Jack said.

  Jack ran alongside the train, his eyes darting between the doors. Most of them were shut due to the steam-powered pressure switches—but there were always a few broken ones that slid open. Picking up speed, Jack leapt on board—and someone came crashing through after him.

  ‘Scarlet!’

  ‘Who did you expect?’ she asked. ‘Joan of Arc?’

  ‘But if there’s a bomb on board—’

  ‘I’m a modern woman, not a cream puff!’ she snapped. ‘Besides, this may be a two-person job.’

  They raced through the carriages. The number of passengers tapered off closer to the front. Ahead lay the train’s coal skip, and beyond, the engineer’s compartment.

  The train left the tunnel as Scarlet tried the door. Locked.

  ‘What about the window?’

  Jack pushed the nearest one open. A blast of cold air poured in. There was just enough room to squeeze through. Good thing he was small.

  As he started to climb out, an elderly lady charged over.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she demanded. ‘That’s highly dangerous!’

  ‘I know,’ Jack said, ‘but the driver’s been murdered and a bomb is planted on the train, probably in the guard’s compartment. If we don’t stop it, we’ll all die.’

  The woman let out a small shriek.

  Jack leant out. The train was charging along, buildings whizzing past. Night was falling fast. He spotted a woman hanging her washing. Seeing Jack, she dropped it in astonishment.

  Searching for a handhold, Jack found he couldn’t reach the coal skip, but he thought he could reach the ridge running over the window. He began to pull himself up.

  ‘Bazookas,’ he muttered. ‘There’s got to be a better way to spend an evening.’

  But his fingers were slippery. He should have dried them first. As long as—

  Jack fell. One moment he was holding the train, the next he was freefalling backwards with only his legs looped over the windowsill. Then he felt Scarlet grab him, and he hung out sideways from the train like a flag. A metal stanchion came flying towards him.

  Shrieking, Scarlet pulled him upright, as the stanchion flew past.

  ‘Thanks!’ he yelled.

  Jack didn’t hear Scarlet’s reply. Wiping his fingers, Jack reached again for the ridge and climbed up to the roof. He stood, steadied himself for a moment and then jumped into the heart of the coal skip, landing face first.

  Ouch!

  He leapt over to the roof of the engineer’s cabin. As the train took the bend, the entire locomotive squealed like a feral cat. Jack climbed down through the doorway and spotted the controls. The accelerator had been jammed into position with a piece of pipe.

  When Jack removed it, the train immediately began to slow. Eventually it would stop of its own accord.

  But he already had a bigger problem. At his feet lay a doctor’s bag. It looked so out of place here in the driver’s cab that it could only mean one thing—it held the bomb. He carefully edged open the top. Time was running out. Surely he had less—

  Bazookas.

  The second hand on the clock was ticking away.

  Fifteen.

  Fourteen.

  Thirteen.

  He needed to get rid of it now! The train crossed a bridge over the Thames. More stanchions raced past. Jack had to time this perfectly. If the bomb hit a stanchion, it would rebound back at the train, killing them all.

  Just a few more
seconds, he thought. I just need a gap.

  One appeared in the metalwork. He threw the bomb as hard as he dared and ducked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The evening turned white as the locomotive jolted sideways. Jack’s head hit the wall, and the next thing he knew was that a man was carrying him away on a stretcher.

  ‘You’re right, lad,’ the man said. ‘We’ll have you at the hospital before you know it.’

  No, Jack thought. I don’t need a hospital.

  He pushed against the stretcher and then saw a face at his side. Scarlet. She grabbed his hand.

  ‘Jack,’ she said. ‘Can you hear me?’

  He looked about in confusion. He was at the base of the bridge on the south side of the river. The blast had thrown the train off its tracks. It was upright, but zigzagged across the bridge. Coal, broken glass and shattered timber lay everywhere.

  ‘You did it, Jack,’ Scarlet said. ‘You saved the train.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it.’

  He climbed off the stretcher and thanked the carrier. He was still groggy as Scarlet threw her arms around him. ‘Don’t be hard on yourself,’ she said. ‘If you hadn’t risked your life, it would’ve been a complete disaster.’

  As she led him away, they both heard a shout.

  ‘Jack!’ A figure weaved towards them. ‘Scarlet!’

  ‘Mr Doyle!’

  The detective gave them a mighty hug. ‘You’ve both been incredibly brave,’ he said. ‘Normally I would chastise you for risking your lives, but if you hadn’t…’

  The evidence lay in the train wreck.

  ‘What about the man who killed the driver?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Escaped,’ Mr Doyle said, bitterly. ‘He took a service route away from the platform without being seen.’

  ‘He must have known the station,’ Scarlet said.

  ‘Undoubtedly.’