by George Mann
* * *
Outside of Newbury’s cabin, the Keeper paused, his ear to the door. He could hear the sound of voices—women’s voices—squabbling inside the room, followed by the crash of a smashing vase. A struggle, he decided. This was an unexpected development, but not an unwelcome one. He’d thought to dispose of the girl, slitting her throat before searching the cabin—again—for his prize, but there was an inherent risk in such an endeavour, that she might escape or raise the alarm before he’d finished. With Newbury absent, it sounded as if someone else was seeing to the problem for him, however.
Mercifully, this section of the train appeared—so far—to be free of revenants. He would bide his time for a short while, catch his breath and wait to see what transpired. Then, when the moment was right, he would make his move.
His mission would soon be over, and he would return triumphant to London. The book would be restored to its rightful place at the heart of the Cabal, and with it, proof positive of Newbury’s death. The Cabal’s revenge would have been enacted. The Keeper’s sense of certainty was almost palpable. One way or another, Newbury was not getting off this train alive.
CHAPTER
20
Things had evidently returned to normal in the dining carriage. The heady scent of roasting meat and spices, along with the general hubbub of scandalised gossip, was sign enough that despite the events transpiring elsewhere on the train, the passengers here were relatively unconcerned. Or perhaps less unconcerned, and more exhilarated, Newbury considered, judging by the snatches of conversation he overheard as he passed through, sidestepping buzzing waiters.
“Oh, haven’t you heard? There’s been a murder onboard!”
“How terribly alarming.”
“… I hear she was covered in blood, from head to toe. She came right in here before she collapsed in shock.”
“In here?”
Newbury left them to their salacious chatter, and ducked out the far side of the dining car, through the vestibule, and into the next carriage. Here, just like his own carriage, a narrow passageway traversed the length of the car, but unlike the suite he shared with Amelia, the cabins were far bigger. From what he could tell, there were only two of them, comprising a number of linked rooms. This was the first carriage, where Petunia Wren had taken a suite—typically the domain of the excessively rich. He chose not to loiter, in fear of disturbing the woman and inadvertently announcing his presence.
The door at the end of this carriage led to another small vestibule area, which in turn opened out onto the rear platform of the engine itself. Here, the brisk force of the wind buffeted him, and he was forced to catch hold of the railing to steady himself as the train sped through the velvet night.
The best of the light had long since gone, but on the horizon he could see the jagged slopes of mountains capped in snow, shimmering in the reflected twilight. A ragged patchwork of farmland spread out at their feet, demarked by a web of dry stone walls. The scent of soot and smoke was cloying and familiar.
The engine’s tender was of an unfamiliar design. Unlike typical load-bearing cars, which would be piled high with heaps of dusty coal and pulled along behind the engine, this tender was a smaller, enclosed unit that formed part of the engine housing itself, accessible, he presumed, from somewhere close to the furnace.
Newbury inched along the narrow walkway, feeling exhilarated by the sense of motion. The wind whipped through his hair, blowing away the last vestiges of his dreariness. He reached the covered housing of the furnace a moment later.
He ducked his head inside, aware immediately of the hot glow of the fire. There was something else, too: an acrid, rotten stench that caught in the back of his throat. He spluttered, drawing the attention of the fireman on duty, who until that point had been gainfully stoking the fire with a long, iron shovel.
He was a thickset man with a stocky, angular profile. He was balding, in his late forties, but looked fitter than many men half his age. He was dressed in similar navy overalls to the ones Newbury had seen hanging in the other fireman’s cabin, and wore thick, padded leather gloves. He was covered in a patina of black soot, all the way up to his elbows. Newbury saw his grip tighten on the haft of the shovel as he slowly turned to regard him.
“Good day,” called Newbury, over the roar of the engine. “May I come in?”
“Looks to me like you already have,” said the fireman. He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?” His voice was low, his tone measured. He spoke good English, with a thick, Gallic accent.
“My name is Maurice Newbury. You might say that I’m an inspector, investigating the death of your colleague.”
Newbury saw the other man swallow. “Might I, now?”
“Look, I’m not here to cause any trouble.” Newbury showed his hands, holding them both palm out, as he stepped forward, ducking fully under the cover of the engine room. “I’m just trying to get to the bottom of…” He trailed off as his eyes caught sight of the open door to the tender and what lay beyond. “Good Lord.” He took a step closer, and the fireman tensed, but Newbury was beyond offering platitudes.
There was an arm on the floor.
It was limp and pallid, the fingertips ending in vicious protrusions. It had once been clothed, but now all that remained were the ragged remnants of a cuff and shirtsleeve. He took another step forward, peering around the door, holding his breath in horrified anticipation of what he was about to see.
The arm was still attached to a torso, although that torso was no longer attached to its head or legs. Similarly, there was a leg, another arm, a head, and an almost complete corpse. The room was filled with pile, upon pile, upon pile of human bodies. It was a charnel house, a repository of desiccated plague corpses. There were hundreds of them, thousands, even, crushed into the small interior of the tender, their sallow expressions eerie in the partial light of the furnace.
Newbury felt bile rise in his gullet and choked it back, raising his hand to his mouth. So many abandoned souls. He took a step backwards, reaching for a handhold as the engine shook. After a moment, when he had regained his composure, he looked again at the fireman, who met his gaze, eyes defiant.
“You’re burning them for fuel,” said Newbury. “Revenant corpses.”
The man made a minute gesture with his shoulders that might have been a shrug. “What else are we to do with them?” he said.
“They were people once,” said Newbury. “Men, women, children.”
“They were monsters,” said the fireman. “And damn their souls to Hell.”
Newbury watched as the other man scooped an appendage from the floor and cast it into the hungry mouth of the furnace, as if to underline his point. A shower of sparks blossomed where it disturbed the embers. He could see it now—the chain of events that must have led to the bloody mess he’d seen on the floor of the other fireman’s cabin. The padded leather gloves—they weren’t designed to protect the men from the heat, but from wounds, scratches, infections. All it would take to spread the terrible blight was a single cut, an open sore.
He backed away towards the gangway, stepping out onto the platform. The fireman eyed him suspiciously for a moment longer before returning to his work, stirring the embers with his shovel, seemingly oblivious to the horror right before him.
Newbury gulped at the rush of cool air, hoping to cleanse himself of the cloying stench. This was all the confirmation he needed. Now he was in no doubt: A revenant was loose upon the train.
CHAPTER
21
The salty stench of the river permeated everything here, suppressed only by the rancid stink of the gutters, and the human effluvia swimming in them. It had been some months since Veronica had last had cause to visit Limehouse, and she was not pleased to be back. The place had a lawless, frontier sort of atmosphere, and although on one hand she could appreciate the heady mix of ethnicity and cultures, the depravity, homelessness, and general disdain for the law made it an unwelcoming district, for both a woman and an a
gent of the Crown.
She could tell Bainbridge was having similar thoughts, judging by his sour expression and wrinkled nose.
“It’s like a warren,” she said. “People could disappear here, and no one would ever know.”
“In my experience, that happens all too often, my dear Miss Hobbes,” said Bainbridge. “The gangs here harbour wanted criminals in exchange for payment, or favours. It can be near impossible to ferret someone out of this maze once they go to ground. It’s worse than that damn rookery. We could do with Newbury here. He has a remarkable working knowledge of these streets.”
“Yes,” said Veronica, “but only because he has a penchant for a particular type of establishment.”
Bainbridge shrugged. “Nevertheless, it would be useful now.”
“Oh, I don’t think we’re that incapable,” said Veronica. “Look, down here.” She led him into a narrow lane on their right, sandwiched between a warehouse and a small, run-down mews. These were tenement buildings consisting of three floors, largely given over to the workers and their families, or those too poor to afford anything better. “This looks like the place,” she said, indicating a doorway.
Unlike the others surrounding it, the navy blue paint was not peeling, but looked as if it had recently received a fresh coat. The steps were clean and, despite everything, there appeared to be a certain aura of respectability about the place.
Bainbridge cleared his throat and rapped on the door. Within moments, a young woman had opened it and was peering out, her expression concerned. “Yes? How may I help you?” she said.
Bainbridge smiled. “Good afternoon, Miss…?” He let the question hang for a moment, but the woman, unfazed, simply put her hand on her hip and cocked her head, waiting for him to go on. “Um … my name is Sir Charles Bainbridge, of Scotland Yard, and this is my associate, Miss Hobbes. We’re looking for a man whom we understand may lodge here, by the name of Mr. Ernest Pargeter. Perhaps we could speak to the landlord?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I am the landlord,” she said. “Miss Carstairs.” She looked from Bainbridge to Veronica, and then held out her hand. “Look, I’m going to need to see some identification.”
With a sigh, Bainbridge reached into his jacket and withdrew his papers. He handed them to the woman, who unfurled them, studied them for a moment, and then handed them back with a brief nod.
“Very well, you’d better come in,” she said, opening the door a little wider to permit them.
Inside, the place was nicely kept, and although the furnishings were all a little worn or cheap imitations of the sort Veronica might see in some of the grander homes she visited, it was homely and welcoming.
“So, Miss Carstairs, you’re the landlady of this establishment?” said Bainbridge.
“Yes,” said the woman. “I thought we’d established that. I’ve managed the house ever since my father passed away. I try to keep it as he would have wished me to.”
“I’m sure he’d be very proud,” said Veronica. She looked young to be running an establishment like this, in a place like this. Veronica felt herself warming to the woman. She clearly had some mettle.
“And Ernest Pargeter?” prompted Bainbridge.
“Yes,” said the woman. “Yes, of course. He keeps a room here, just down the hall.”
“He lives alone?” said Veronica.
Miss Carstairs nodded. “Yes, ever since … well, I’ll let him tell you.”
“He’s at home?”
“I’ll show you his room. This way.” She led them along the hallway, past a silent grandfather clock, to a door that, Veronica considered, had probably once served as a dining room. It was now given over as living quarters.
“Do you have many lodgers?” said Veronica.
“Another four,” said Miss Carstairs. “I don’t mind telling you that I’m a little choosy over whom I welcome into my home. Mr. Pargeter is a good soul. I can’t imagine what Scotland Yard might have to do with him.”
“Just a few questions,” said Bainbridge. “In here?” He indicated the door.
Miss Carstairs nodded, then rapped three times. “Ernest? It’s Jane. You have some visitors.”
The floorboards creaked on the other side of the door. “Tell them to go away,” came a brusque voice. “I have no need of visitors.”
“Well, Ernest, I think that might be a little ou—”
“Sir Charles Bainbridge, Scotland Yard,” said Bainbridge, over the top of Miss Carstairs. “Open up.”
“Subtle,” said Veronica, under her breath.
More footsteps, and the door creaked open.
Pargeter was a strapping young man in his early twenties: tall, slim, fair-haired, and handsome. He was dressed in black trousers and shirtsleeves, and his left arm was held in a sling. He was unshaven, but alert and interested. “Scotland Yard?” he said, with a hint of incredulity.
“Yes,” said Bainbridge. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”
Pargeter frowned. “I can’t imagine what you’d have to ask me. I keep my head down and my business to myself.”
“Quite,” said Bainbridge. “We simply want to ask you about your hospital treatment since returning from the war. Nothing sinister, I assure you. All part of an ongoing investigation.”
“Very well,” said Pargeter. “You’d better come in.” He smiled at Miss Carstairs who, Veronica noted, was watching him most attentively.
“I’ll put a kettle on the stove,” she said.
“No,” said Pargeter, firmly. “I’m sure our guests won’t be staying long.”
Miss Carstairs appeared a little crestfallen at the rebuke, but nodded all the same. “Well, then I’ll leave you to it.” She turned to Bainbridge. “I’ll be just down the hall in the kitchen if you need anything,” she said, before making a swift exit, her cheeks reddening with embarrassment.
Veronica eyed Pargeter with interest. That was no way to speak to a woman who so clearly doted on him.
He must have seen the disdain on her face, as his demeanour softened as he ushered them into his compact little room. It was far from the squalid hole that Veronica might have expected in this part of the city. Inside, the sparse furniture was neatly arranged, with Pargeter’s scant belongings precisely ordered upon a chest of drawers. There was a small table with two chairs by the window, and he beckoned for Bainbridge and Veronica to accept them, taking a seat himself on his low bunk in the corner.
“Please forgive me,” he said, “if I seem a little brittle in my dealings with Miss Carstairs. She’s a remarkable woman, and I know she means well, but I fear she sees me as a project, a thing to be fixed, and I am not that.”
“No, I can see that,” said Veronica.
“The Boers?” said Bainbridge, nodding in the direction of Pargeter’s damaged arm.
“Yes. It damn nearly put me out of action completely,” said Pargeter. “The bullet tore through my arm and lodged in my chest. The arm was near useless, and I would have bled out on the battlefield if it hadn’t been for one of the other men, who dragged me to safety. Took a bullet in the thigh for his trouble, too.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine the horror,” said Veronica. She’d seen so much in her time as an agent—more so again since she’d fallen in with Newbury—but conflict on that scale, the sheer bloodshed … she was grateful she had never had to face it.
“The trouble is,” said Pargeter, “no one has much time for an invalid.” He hung his head while he talked, refusing to make eye contact. “I’m an educated man. I fought for my country, but now I am reduced to this”—he gestured at the walls, as if they were somehow closing in on him—“eking out an existence like a pauper. Pitied by my landlady.” He looked up, catching Veronica’s eye. “Fate can be a cruel mistress.”
Veronica could see that he was clenching his jaw. He was clearly a proud, honourable man, and she decided that perhaps she had misjudged him, despite his obvious mistreatment of Miss Carstairs. Nevertheless, she refused to
feel sorry for him. He wouldn’t want that.
“So, what is it?” he said, after a moment. “What do you want to know?”
“Information is all, Mr. Pargeter,” said Bainbridge. “We were hoping you could answer some questions regarding your recent hospital stay?”
Pargeter looked bemused. “Well, I don’t suppose it could do any harm.”
“Excellent,” said Bainbridge. “Then tell me—your treatment took place at an institution in St. Giles?”
“That’s right,” said Pargeter. “A private hospital, created with the specific goal of helping returned soldiers like myself. The work they do there is quite remarkable. The doctor said he could repair my arm.”
“And earn some money into the bargain?” said Bainbridge.
Pargeter shrugged. “The treatment was experimental. I suppose he needed willing test subjects. I didn’t have much to lose—the arm was already useless.”
“Tell us,” said Veronica. “What did it involve?”
Pargeter sighed. “If I’m honest, I don’t recall a great deal of it. I was down on my luck when I checked into that place, with barely a penny to my name, and nowhere to go. I needed money, and one of the other lads, a chap I’d known out in Africa, told me about the place. He said they paid well for soldiers willing to take part in an experimental treatment.”
Veronica glanced at Bainbridge, who was studying Pargeter intently.
“Well, the whole place appeared to have been hastily put together, but I didn’t have any other choice. I agreed to undergo the treatment. I was administered a series of injections and given a bed. That’s really all I can remember. I think I must have suffered a bout of fever, a reaction to the medicine. I have vague recollections of strange dreams, of the other men on the ward raving, chained to their beds, sprouting strange growths from their mouths, chests, and fingertips, when in truth, they were nothing but the fevered imaginings of my mind. When I came round, the other patients were all fine, and I’d been moved to a side ward to recover.”