by Kage Baker
“That they’re doing their best to close down our operation here,” said Johnson bitterly. “They chose a dreadful place to dig—we think they’ve run into bedrock, and of course they can’t blast. They tried to frighten us out first; the most absurd ghost-pantomime you can imagine! He lurked around the cottage the first few evenings, but we sat in here and laughed at him.
“Two nights ago, we stopped laughing. He galloped through and hurled some sort of detonating device, just over our tunnel. Flash, bang, and the roof collapsed in three places. We got our fellows out, but too late to revive them, and we’ve shored up the roof again—but he came back last night. This time the charge failed to go off, thank heaven—we found it this morning, where it had bounced into a ditch.”
“And you expect him back tonight,” said Edward, who was modifying his pistol with a pair of cylindrical attachments. “I expect I’d better wait for him, then.”
“Then, this is a mining operation?” Marsh ventured.
Johnson considered him sourly. “No briefing at all? Very well. Blow out the light; we’ll sit here by the window and watch for the beggar. How much do you know about Rosslyn Chapel?”
“Planned as a collegiate chapel and never finished,” Marsh said uncomfortably, berating himself for not paying better attention to Wullie. “Smashed up during the Reformation. Lot of nonsense about Freemasons to do with that, er, pillar thing. And ghosts; Sir Walter Scott wrote about a crypt full of knights in armor, glowing with phantom lights. And there is talk of a treasure hidden there.”
“Just so,” said Johnson. “Treasure. Some claim the Holy Grail’s down amid the bones in rusting armor. Some say it’s loot from Jerusalem, brought back by crusaders. The Sinclairs sealed off the crypt in question long ago, which makes it difficult to see for oneself.
“Yet someone appears to have done just that,” he added, and drew a case from an inner pocket of his coat. He opened it and passed it to Marsh. It was a daguerreotype, depicting a young man seated before a painted backdrop. He was a slightly made fellow, prematurely bald as an egg, regarding the camera with a smirk; he had posed with his finger pointing toward his rather large head, as though to call attention to its cranial magnificence.
“Jerome Gytt,” said Johnson. “A self-styled criminal mastermind and a Sinclair in an irregular sort of way, if you take my meaning. As near as we’ve been able to piece it together, he used his family connection to get hold of old documents pertaining to Rosslyn Chapel. Became obsessed with finding a way into the hidden crypt. Did find a way, evidently. Then the family caught him out, and he was given a remittance and banished to the continent.
“Well, it seems he had a certain talent for invention, and offered his services to an organized network of criminals based in Paris. They’re known to the gendarmerie as the Vespertile gang. Gytt amassed a fortune in their service, before breaking with them and returning to Edinburgh.
“There he built a house in Inverleith Terrace, fitted out a veritable alchemist’s laboratory, and settled down to work. That was what brought him to our attention, you see; we have agents planted in wholesale chemists’ firms, who monitor the sales of certain substances. When a suspiciously large amount of one thing or another is ordered, we’re informed; and so it was with Gytt, and we stationed a man to watch the house, to see if we could determine what he was up to.
“Unfortunately, he sent out letters of solicitation to investors, promising to demonstrate the remarkable properties of a substance he referred to as Gyttite. This alerted our people, of course, but also drew the attention of his former associates in crime.
“In brief, they called on him; he went out drinking with them; next morning our man found him dead in an alley with an expression of profound surprise on his face, and discovered the house has been ransacked.
“Had they taken the, er, Gyttite?” Marsh inquired.
“Had they?” Johnson raised his eyebrows in an ironical way. “It appeared that way; we couldn’t find a trace of anything likely when we searched the house ourselves. What we did find, amongst what had been left of his effects, was half a notebook journal kept in code. We decrypted enough of it to know we must have the rest of the journal. Edward got it for us.”
Marsh turned his head to question Edward, but he was no longer in the room.
“Yes,” said Johnson, with a dour smile. “Edward’s a very Robert-Houdin when it comes to vanishing and reappearing. Never mind; he’s about his useful business.
“What we learned from Gytt’s journal was that he had found the Gyttite—whatever it may be—in the Rosslyn crypt. That, moreover, he had discovered a tunnel enabling him to go in and out of the crypt as he pleased, to get samples for his experiments.
“What we didn’t learn from Gytt’s journal was where the damned tunnel was.”
“Well, couldn’t you bribe the watchman to let you in?” asked Marsh.
“We could,” said Johnson, rising in the darkness to crouch before the stove. There was a faint red glow as he relit his pipe, and a ghostly cloud of smoke. “A failure; for the old crypt entrance was sealed with a block of stone so immense we might have removed it by blasting the Chapel into fragments, but not otherwise. Even our discreet efforts at digging were enough to call attention to ourselves. The Sinclairs descended in wrath and the watchman was summarily sacked.
“We took a different tack then: digging our own tunnel. This cottage became available for lease; one of our people engaged it. We took up the flagstones in the cellar and proceeded with a fair amount of success, smuggling the spoil-earth out in barrels under cover of darkness. I’d estimate we’re within no more than a day or so of connecting with the crypt, after three years of work!
“But now it seems Gytt’s associates were on the same track all along. God only knows what they were able to learn from the plundered pages, before Edward retrieved them, or from Gytt’s own bibulous chatter; but a month ago they appeared over yonder. They seem to have realized they’ll never outpace us—”
At that moment they heard the sound of hoofbeats approaching along the lane.
“Here he comes!” said Wilson, who had been sitting in silence by the window. There was a muttered commotion from the next room, and Marsh heard Williams ordering:
“Come up, for God’s sake, men!”
Marsh heard a clatter of boots, and two more men swarmed through the kitchen door like ants fleeing a nest. His attention was drawn and held, however, by the fearful apparition beyond the window glass. A mounted rider, an armored knight as it seemed, and both black horse and black rider shimmered with some livid effulgence. The rider drew up on the lawn, fumbling with something; there was a tiny flame. The horseman lifted the object he had lit, as though to fling it toward the house.
He never completed the gesture, however, for there was a queer hollow pop, and with a cry he fell from the saddle. Before he had landed, a gray blur rushed from the darkness and wrestled with him. Marsh heard a clank, and a splash; the guttering flame was extinguished.
There was confusion, then, as one of the men ran out through the front room and flung open the door. Marsh heard sounds of a struggle, and growled oaths; a feeble cry of pain, then, and the sharp order: “Leave it!”
“We’ve caught him, by God,” said Johnson. He drew the curtains and, leaning forward to the stove again, lit a candle. Light bloomed in the room to reveal Edward, bearing a man across his shoulders and stooping under the doorframe as he carried him within. To either side and behind followed the other two men. Though they wore spectacles and had the appearance of scholars rather than brute laborers, their faces were savage with anger.
“Your chair, Marsh, if you please,” said Edward, and Marsh leaped up hastily as Edward dropped his burden into the seat. The Black Knight of Rosslyn groaned, and lifted his head in the candlelight.
“Got you at last, you bastard,” said Johnson, tearing off the helmet—a thing of so much buckram and pasteboard, crudely daubed with paint containing phosphorous. The pal
e face it had concealed was undistinguished, grimacing, turning away from the flame, and blood flowed freely from the trench Edward’s bullet had cut in its scalp.
“‘So are illusions dispelled,’” quoted Edward. Johnson leaned forward and aimed a blow at the prisoner, before Edward seized his wrist.
“Self-control is called for, gentlemen,” he said quietly, and scarcely audibly over the general mutters of “Shoot the murdering hound!” and “Break his arms!”
“I don’t believe we want to do any of those things until we’ve learned what he knows, do we?” said Edward.
“Do your worst,” said the Black Knight. “I ain’t talking.”
“You aren’t, eh?” said Johnson, fetching a hammer. “Jenkins, bring me a pair of sixpenny nails.”
Marsh, sweating, backed away from the table, and the Black Knight used that opportunity to lunge for the opening he had made thereby; but Edward caught him and threw him down again.
“Don’t be a fool,” he said. “Look at me, man; there’s no point making this any more unpleasant for yourself than necessary.”
The prisoner raised his defiant face. He looked Edward in the eye, about to utter some coarse refusal; but as he stared, some vital spark seemed to go out of him. He closed his mouth, tried to lower his head. Edward held his gaze.
“You’re not an idiot,” said Edward, almost gently. “You know what’s at stake here, don’t you? What has your chief decided to do?”
The man twitched violently, and the words came as though they were being forced from him: “We’ll take the house, if this don’t drive you out. We knows there’s only a handful of you. There’s fifteen of us, see, hard men all. Nobody crosses the Vespertile gang! We’ll get the tunnel—and then we’ll get the jewels and—”
“Jewels?” Edward smiled. “You’ve been told there are jewels down there?”
“Well—o’ course...” said the man, looking bewildered. “We was told it’d be easy...Why’m I telling you all this?”
“Did you make the bombs yourself?” Edward inquired. “Or is there an armory up there?”
“No! All my own work,” said the man, smiling as though he were among friends. “You won’t find a better fuse-man, mate. I was in the army, you know. The rest of ’em ain’t good for nothing except knife-play. Lot of frogs...”
“Really? Have they no firearms?”
“Oh, boxes full, mate,” said the man, quite unconcerned now. “Colt revolvers and the like. We’ll pick off them Society lads like they was clay pigeons!”
Johnson uttered an oath, looking at the others.
“Thank you,” said Edward. He walked behind the prisoner’s chair. “Look up there, at that pitcher on the shelf. Have you ever seen that china pattern before?”
The prisoner looked where he was bid and pursed his lips, trying to remember whether he had seen the pattern before or not, as Edward drew the pistol from within his coat and shot him in the back of the neck.
“Good God!” Marsh staggered back to avoid the body as it fell forward. “You’ve murdered him!”
“Necessary,” said Edward with a cold opaque look, putting his gun away. “And only justice, after all.”
“Black Knight indeed!” said Johnson. “It’s worse than I feared. They’ll be down on us now like a pack of wolves, I daresay. We’ll have to clear out—but we’ll set a pair of explosive charges in the tunnel before we go. I’m damned if they’ll profit by our labor.”
“I beg your pardon?” Edward lifted his head. “Retreat, after three years of work?”
“I don’t see what else we can do,” said Johnson, scowling at the floor. “We can scarcely fight a war here. Slaughter fifteen armed men? I should think that’s a little much even for a man of your ability.”
“I urge you to persevere, gentlemen,” said Edward, and Marsh recognized the same tone of voice, the unnatural mildness he had used on the prisoner. “We are so close to our goal! Consider the disservice you do Civilization, if you fail here!”
Is he some kind of mesmerist? wondered Marsh, looking up into Edward’s eyes, as the other men were doing. Their pale light held him; his fear of the man faded and he felt suddenly that it was a damned shame to give up, so near to success! Whatever that success might be—
“He’s right, by God,” said Williams. “There’s too much at stake.”
“We’re so close!” cried Wilson.
“Yes!” said Edward, his voice rising. “You know we must finish, and will. Just a little farther!”
“Very well,” said Johnson with a sigh, though he avoided Edward’s intent gaze. “Down we go. I hope you can wield a shovel to as much effect as a pistol.”
In answer, Edward pulled off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He strode into the next room. Marsh hurried after him, still fired with enthusiasm, and saw the gaping excavation in the middle of the floor, surrounded by veritable mountains of earth. Edward seized a shovel and leaped into the tunnel, closely followed by the other men; and Marsh had just time to ask himself, What am I doing? before grabbing his equipment-case and leaping too.
The next hour was a closer approximation of Hell than any initiation rite dreamed up by the most perverse of Grand Masters. Afterward Marsh remembered running back and forth through darkness relieved here and there by mining lamps, running until he swam in his clothes for sweat, until his sides were ready to split and his heart hammered in his chest. Now and then he caught a glimpse of Edward and Williams, flailing away like demons with pick and mattock. Now and then he had a breath of cooler air and a glimpse of Johnson’s stern face, as he handed him a bucket of earth to be passed up. Now and then he collided with one of the others, on their way with their own bucket.
And, ever as he ran, Edward’s pale eyes were before his own, somehow, Edward’s voice was ringing in his ears and driving out any sense of weariness or antipathy. They must succeed!
The nightmare came to an end in a confusion of noises. A sudden ring of steel on stone, a crack and hollow crash: Marsh came to himself in time to see Edward hurling himself at a wall of muddy mortar, that gave way and opened into Stygian darkness. Hard on its muffled thunder sounded an echoing volley of shots, and cries from back down the tunnel.
Disoriented, Marsh dropped his bucket and ran until he fell over something. It was square, and painfully solid; his instrument case? Before he could wonder further, it was snatched away, and he himself had been grabbed up and was being dragged along the tunnel at astonishing speed until the black gulf yawned before him.
Edward leaned down and shouted into his face. “In!” He thrust the case into Marsh’s arms and propelled him into the void.
Marsh stumbled forward and fell again, rolling aside just in time to avoid the hurtling bodies of his fellows, who were scrambling through the entrance as fast as they might go. Johnson emerged, bearing one of the miner’s lamps, but its circle of yellow light did little to relieve the palpable dark. More shots, and a cry of pain from someone; the whine and ping of bullets, a confused clattering.
Edward himself bounded through the gap, gripping his pistol. His white teeth were bared. He turned and fired again up the tunnel, and there was a scream and a sudden silence. It filled, gradually, with the strangled gasps of someone dying at the far end of the tunnel.
Marsh rose on his elbow, obscurely proud of himself for being alive.
A voice called down to them, too distorted by distance and echoes to be understood, but its tone of menace was unmistakable. There followed a thump, a crackling hiss and a flare of yellow light in the tunnel-mouth.
“What’ve they—” began Johnson. “Good God! Don’t—”
This was directed at Edward, who had drawn something resembling a thin brass cylinder from his waistcoat. He paid no heed to Johnson, but twisted the thing and, leaning in swiftly, threw it far up the tunnel. Marsh heard it strike and bounce, and then—
“Down!” Edward said, and dropped, covering his ears. Marsh covered his own ears just ahead of the impact,
which came before the sound, and the spatter of gravel and sand hitting him like stinging flies.
Even after the percussive roar had died away, it was a long moment before Marsh dared open his eyes. He sat up, peering about him. The others were getting slowly to their feet. The tunnel mouth had collapsed behind the broken wall, into a mass of earth and rock.
“Was that necessary?” said Johnson.
“Yes,” said Edward, rising and brushing dirt from his trousers. “They’d thrown down a gas canister. Another thirty seconds and you’d have asphyxiated.”
“But now we’re buried!” said Jenkins.
“Ah! But we’re buried in the Sinclair crypt,” said Edward in satisfaction. “And I hope I need hardly remind you that there is another tunnel here, somewhere?”
Johnson stood and lifted high the miner’s lamp. “Good lord,” he said. Marsh looked up, and caught his breath. They must indeed have come out beneath Rosslyn Chapel. All around rose columns of the same intricate carving; this chamber had never known defacement, however.
All the angels, all the saints and greenmen stood out sharply, clean-edged as the day they had been cut, their paint bright, even inlaid with twined patterns of wrought metal. A riot of ornament, from the arched ceiling to the floor... Marsh lowered his gaze and shuddered, for here before him was a defunct Sinclair, brown bones moldering away in rusting armor, stretched out uncoffined on its catafalque. Beyond it was another, and still another, a long row of dead men as far as the light disclosed, with glimpses of yet more in the cold gloom beyond.
But there were no chests of gold, no piled heaps of altar-plate.
“Right,” said Johnson. “What’s your name, Marsh, you’re a metallurgist? There’ll be Gyttite here somewhere. Find it. Likely an alloy of some kind. Perhaps in the armor, or one of the swords.”
“But—” Marsh’s protest died unspoken as Edward bent beside him, opening the instrument case. He brought out the Improved Spectrometer and handed it to Marsh without a word. Marsh, summoning what he could recall of the instructions for use, pressed a switch and held the lenses up to his eyes.