Underworld

by Oliver Bowden

  FIFTY-ONE

  Later, when the children had gone to bed with the image of a choking, gurgling man painting the cobbles scarlet with his own blood still fresh in their heads, George and Ethan had retired to the study. Both were shaken by what had happened and troubled by the questions for which they had no ready answers, and so it was that they drank two glasses of Ethan’s best Highland whiskey before either of them even said a word.

  (Which, having crept down from upstairs, Evie was there to overhear . . .)

  “A new development, then,” said George.

  “You could say that.”

  “Damnedest thing.”

  Ethan stared off into nothing. He was thinking that he needed to send word to Amritsar first thing. Tell them they might be short an Assassin—and what news of Kulpreet?

  He said, “I suppose, on the bright side, it prepares the twins for their blooding.”

  George gave a dry laugh as his friend’s eyes came back to him. “This letter.” He held out the document. “Shall we decode it?”

  A short while later they sat at the study desk with the document and several Assassin codebooks open in front of them and the translation. Ajay’s note had read, “Position compromised, must abort. A friend.”

  “‘A friend’ who’s lying out there somewhere not far from Oakley Lane.” George set down the letter. The body would be discovered soon. At any moment the two Assassins expected to hear the sound of a peeler’s rattle.

  “The man out there died of shame,” said Ethan.

  Outside Evie crouched, listening, thinking of Ajay, who had died of shame. She knew from her readings that in the annals of Assassins there was another, Ahmad Sofian, who had taken his life by the same means and for similar reasons.

  “Shame. Indeed. It would seem so,” George was saying. “A traitor to the Creed. But how much has he told our enemy? What does he even know to tell them? You’ve always been scrupulous with the information you’ve given me; I can’t imagine what he could have told them.”

  “Put it this way, George, if you and Ajay had got together then you might have been in possession of most of the facts. But one without the other? No chance.”

  “Even so, you must inform your Ghost at once.”

  Ethan chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. I know The Ghost. He will err on the side of caution and abort the mission.”

  “Well, that’s what the note says to do.” George leaned forward. His face clouding with incomprehension. “I’m not quite sure I can believe what I’m hearing, Ethan. If you inform The Ghost and he decides to continue with the operation, then he is guilty of rank and dangerous optimism at best and a tendency to suicide at worst. If he aborts, he will be doing the right thing—the course of action we would recommend if we were thinking with our heads instead of our desires. Either way, we must tell him so he is able to choose.”

  Ethan shook his head. His mind was made up. “I trust The Ghost. I trust him to look after himself. Most of all, I trust him to recover the artifact.”

  “Then you must also trust him to make the right decisions.”

  “No, George. I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”

  From far away came the familiar clacking of the peeler’s alarm.

  FIFTY-TWO

  And so a day of great excitement came to pass. The Metropolitan Railway had placed an advertisement in the previous evening’s newspapers to announce that tonight was a new beginning for the railway: Charles Pearson was to take a journey on the reopened stretch of line between King’s Cross and Farringdon Street. Not only that but he would be making the journey in an enclosed carriage. An enclosed carriage. Gladstone had traveled in an open one. The new “enclosed carriage” was said to be the last word in underground-railway luxury. Other railway dignitaries would be present, said the notices, and members of the public were also invited to witness this grand occasion—just so long as they stayed on the right side of the picket fence.

  The public would come. Despite the excavation turning their lives into a living hell of noise and mud, closing roads and businesses alike; despite the fact that it had made thousands of already poverty-stricken Londoners homeless—twelve thousand in the Fleet Valley alone—yet had had no discernible impact on the well-to-do; and despite the fact that it was over a year behind schedule and that the cost was now estimated at £1.3 million.

  They would come.

  A team of carpenters had been employed to build a set of steps down into the shaft at King’s Cross. Unlike Gladstone’s inaugural trip from Bishop’s Lane two months before, the underground station at King’s Cross had yet to be built. Next year it would be constructed as an adjunct to the ten-year-old mainline station, with gables at either end, as well as pavilion roofs and parapets. What were currently cuttings acting as makeshift boarding points would be fashioned into proper platforms with stairways, ticket offices, kiosks set into the walls and footbridges at each end.

  But for now, it was little more than an ugly hole in the ground, and to accommodate railway top brass and their wives, the steps were built, and the cuttings were laid with planks to best approximate a proper platform, and instead of the flares that the men had used for night work, there were to be lamps strung along the top of the trench as well as inside the shaft.

  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 three years there would be no clamor of tools in northwest London, no constant rattle of steam engines, no swinging leather buckets silhouetted against the skyline. No constantly grinding conveyor.

  Not that laborers 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 workers looked the part as they milled about in time-honored laborer 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 men were more than mere decoration. They were Templar men.

  As he watched day become night he knew one other thing too. He couldn’t take the life of an innocent man. He could not allow it to be taken.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Abberline heard about the run but had gone 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 drawer of his 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 favor? 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 embezzleme
nt 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 thick 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 fenceposts 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 downward. 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 lanterns providing light and 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 bona fide rail 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 helped it happen: various Metropolitan Railway Company bigwigs whom he didn’t recognize, as well as a few familiar faces: Cavanagh, Marchant, two of the punishers, Mr. Smith and Other Mr. Hardy (and that was a point, where was the third, the charming Mr. Hardy?) You have 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 toward 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 toward 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 laborers stayed where it was, a guard of honor, or maybe just a guard—and a curious silence descended over the site. 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.

  Farther 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 but not knowing what.

  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.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  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 got, and the more value he became to 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 the 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; 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 toward 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 the head. Why? His mind raced. Would there be time afterward? 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 armrests 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 provides easily 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 toward the rear, where a door provided a portal through to the second carriage.

  Mr. Pearson thumped the tip of his cane excitedly on the boards. The driver appeared at the open door, gave them a good-to-go signal with a gloved hand, grinned in at the dignitaries, 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 be.

  With a clank and a trundle, the train moved off.

  The Ghost felt Marchant’s gaze on him. Mr. Smith and Other Mr. Hardy were staring at him, too. All had the eyes of men who were hungry for their supper. The absence of Mr. 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.

  “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.

&nbs
p; All eyes in the carriage were on Mr. Pearson now, watching as he patted his belly. “No, no. My watch and chain are 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.”

  “You had it on the platform, sir,” called Other Mr. Hardy from their end of the carriage. 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 . . .” Mr. 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, then raising his eyes 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, knowing exactly what was happening, sitting motionless as though watching the whole scene through glass. Cavanagh, sticking to the script, a picture of false concern for poor Mr. 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 Mr. Smith or it might have been Other Mr. 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.”