The Feaster From The Stars (Blackwood and Harrington) Read online

  ‘And you’ve been asked to look into this affair by Her Majesty as well, haven’t you?’

  Sophia raised an eyebrow at this, and Exeter gave a low chuckle. ‘I have no special wisdom, your Ladyship, but I do have many sources of information, and I’m aware that the government has got itself mighty worked up over this – as well they should. What’s going on down there is crazy, beyond belief, and I want an end put to it as soon as possible.’ He lifted Sir William’s letter of introduction from the blotter on his desk and waved it as if it were a banknote of a particularly low denomination. ‘That’s why I agreed to see you. I’m running out of options, see? Pretty soon, the world’s first and most extensive underground railroad system will be empty: there’ll be no trains running, because no one will want to drive them, and the system will fall into ruin because no one will want to maintain it. That’s a problem for all of us.’

  ‘And for you especially, Mr Exeter,’ Sophia could not resist observing. ‘Not only do you own the Central and South London, you also have invested heavily in the new deep-level line from Bond Street to Westminster. You stand to lose a great deal if the Tube Railway should fail.’

  ‘You’ve done your homework,’ said Exeter with a thin smile. ‘But the fact remains, we’re all in this together. I’ll lose a heck of a lot of money, sure, but Great Britain will lose a heck of a lot of prestige if the Underground goes belly up… a heck of a lot.’

  ‘Then I suggest we get down to business,’ said Sophia. ‘What can you tell me about the new deep-level line?’

  Exeter gave her a puzzled look. ‘Why do you want to know about that?’

  ‘It may be relevant to the current situation.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Sophia gave him a smile every bit as thin and humourless as the one he had given her. ‘I don’t know until you tell me. But I must ask you to be completely honest with me and to withhold nothing.’

  Exeter was silent for some moments, and Sophia took in his expression. She had clearly hit a nerve: she could see it in his eyes, and in the apprehensive drawing together of his lips. You may be a good businessman, she thought. But I suspect you’re a terrible poker player.

  ‘Something happened down there, didn’t it?’ she said. ‘During your excavation of the new tunnels… you found something.’

  She watched as Exeter’s expression darkened, and she continued to meet his gaze until, presently, he dropped his eyes to the desk and gave a low chuckle. ‘You certainly have done your homework, ma’am. I congratulate you.’

  Sophia shrugged. ‘We at the SPR also have our sources of information, Mr Exeter.’

  His well-manicured fingers drummed upon the ink blotter for a few moments, as if he were debating with himself whether to accede to Sophia’s request that he share all relevant information concerning the new excavation. Sophia waited patiently, for she knew that, ultimately, he had no choice.

  Presently, Exeter stood up and moved to the table beside his desk, on which sat the model of the curious contrivance. ‘Let me show you something, Lady Sophia.’ He indicated the model. ‘This is a Greathead tunnelling shield – a remarkable piece of equipment. The ground beneath London is mostly clay, relatively easy to tunnel through, but not particularly good for it.’ He glanced at her with a half smile. ‘Too soft, has a tendency to cave in. The shield prevents that. It’s an iron cylinder, twenty-four feet in diameter and sixty feet long, and fitted with pneumatic jacks which allow it to be propelled forward an inch at a time.’

  Exeter pointed to the front of the model, which contained two levels nestling within a complex arrangement of iron braces and girders; each level contained a number of tiny human figures representing workmen. To Sophia, who was not an engineer, it was a hideously ugly thing, which looked like some loathsome, fat mechanical worm with a gaping maw in which the figures seemed trapped.

  ‘It’s an elegant solution to the logistical and engineering problems of tunnelling through clay,’ Exeter continued. ‘The men at the front of the machine excavate the working face as the shield is moved forward, supporting the newly-cut tunnel, while behind it the lining of cast iron segments is fitted into place.’

  ‘You make it sound easy,’ said Sophia.

  Exeter laughed. ‘It’s anything but that. It’s slow, dirty, dangerous work, but the tunnelling shield is the only practical means we have of excavating the deep-level Tube lines. We have three of them – one of which began work on the new line between Bond Street and Westminster three months ago.’ He hesitated, as if he were recounting the events from an unreliable memory. ‘We… did find something. Yes… we did find something.’

  Sophia leaned forward in her chair. ‘What, Mr Exeter?’

  The director shrugged and heaved a deep sigh. ‘At first, we thought it was a plague pit… you know about them?’

  Sophia nodded.

  ‘There are lots of them – more than I would have imagined.’ He shook his head. ‘What a strange and tragic history this city has! So much death and misery, as if the city itself were built from them.’

  Sophia was surprised at Exeter’s turn of phrase. Men like him were not usually possessed of such darkly poetic imaginations. ‘You found a chamber filled with bodies,’ she said. ‘Like the one at Aldgate, perhaps?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not like that. One of the first things I did when I embarked on this venture was to acquaint myself with the history of London – and in particular the history of the Tube Railway. I read about the discovery at Aldgate and the others. But this was – is – different.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It’s… more like a proper burial chamber… like the ones you read about in Egypt or Rome, I guess. It was decorated…’

  ‘Decorated?’

  Exeter nodded. ‘Like it was planned a long time in advance. The floor, ceiling and walls are covered with thousands of tiles – I believe they are terracotta. Whoever built it did so for a purpose other than disposing of the bodies of plague victims, I’m quite sure of that. At first, I thought it might be a mine left over from the Roman period.’

  ‘It’s true the Romans did mine for silver and other precious metals during their occupation of Britain,’ said Sophia. ‘But if you found human remains in there… perhaps it was discovered during the Great Plague, and used as a makeshift mausoleum.’

  Exeter offered her a grim smile. ‘I doubt that, your Ladyship.’

  ‘Have you been there, Mr Exeter?’

  ‘Yes. As soon as the discovery was made, I went down there to take a look for myself. I noted two things which undermine the theory that it had anything to do with the plague.’

  ‘And what are they?’

  Exeter didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned to a large metal file cabinet which stood beside his desk. He unlocked the cabinet with a key taken from his pocket, pulled open the top drawer and withdrew something wrapped in a length of chamois. He placed the package carefully (as if, Sophia thought, it contained an object of great value or fragility) on the desk between them.

  ‘The first thing I noted was that none of the twenty-three skeletons we discovered in the chamber had a skull. They had all been decapitated; their heads are nowhere to be found.’

  Sophia swallowed. ‘And the second thing?’

  Exeter unwrapped the package. ‘This is the second thing,’ he said.

  Sophia looked at what the package contained, and saw that it was a tile, evidently terracotta, about six inches square and an inch thick. She felt her breath quicken as she saw the symbol which was carved in bas-relief upon its surface.

  It was identical to the one which Blackwood had shown her in the Fantasmata of Simon Castaigne.

  It was the Yellow Sign.

  The platform was deserted and eerily silent as Blackwood and de Chardin descended the stairs from the ticket hall. Aldgate was one of the earlier Tube Stations; built in 1876, it had been constructed by means of the original cut-and-cover method, by which a trench was excavated and then roof
ed over. The skylights overhead shone with the dull lemon colour of the overcast sky, their feeble light augmented by three large gaslights spaced along the platform. As the Special Investigator and Templar Detective walked, their heels clicked upon the paving stones, sending faint echoes flitting into the tunnels.

  ‘Feels odd, doesn’t it?’ said Blackwood quietly.

  ‘A little,’ de Chardin replied, glancing around the deserted platform. ‘They must have every available man in the tunnels.’

  ‘I daresay.’ Blackwood walked to the edge of the platform, leaned over and glanced into the northbound tunnel. The darkness was broken only by a single red signal light and a couple of pale tunnel lights whose glow was quickly overwhelmed and swallowed in the surrounding gloom. With a single, lithe movement, he stepped off the edge and dropped to the ballast with a loud crunch. Turning, he threw a grim smile at de Chardin. ‘Shall we?’

  The detective took an electric flashlight from his coat pocket and jumped down to join Blackwood, who took out his own light, and together they began to walk along the line into the northbound tunnel.

  The darkness was thick and oppressive and seemed to take on a life of its own. Blackwood could feel it upon his skin, touching his face: a repulsively warm caress. The strange tingling in his chest grew more intense as the amulet responded to the presence of… something.

  From what seemed like an infinite distance, phantom voices drifted along the tunnel to them. They assumed the voices belonged to the track-walkers and other searchers who were looking for the missing maintenance man. At times, Blackwood thought he could make out Brennan’s name being called.

  Presently, they came to the place where, according to Tench, Brennan had met his singular end. Blackwood paused and played his flashlight beam over the rails. He bent down and, between thumb and forefinger, plucked a single hair from the metal. As he did so, he felt the amulet stir very slightly in his chest, a curious and unpleasant sensation. ‘Something did happen here,’ he said. ‘Something very unusual.’

  A sudden breeze took hold of the hair and snatched it away into the darkness.

  ‘Where did that come from?’ asked de Chardin. ‘There are no trains running in this section of the Underground.’

  ‘The ventilation system?’ Blackwood wondered.

  As if in answer to their questions, a faint moan drifted along the tunnel towards them. In an instant, Blackwood was standing straight and casting his beam into the darkness.

  ‘Brennan?’ whispered de Chardin.

  ‘I rather doubt it.’

  The moan sounded again.

  ‘Come on.’ Blackwood began to walk along the tunnel again, casting his beam to right and left, the light reflecting periodically from the rails. ‘We’re getting closer,’ he said.

  ‘How can you tell?’

  Unconsciously, Blackwood touched his chest. ‘I just know.’

  De Chardin caught the movement and frowned at his companion. ‘And do you know what we’re getting closer to?’

  ‘I’m not sure… but I’ll wager it’s something extraordinary.’

  De Chardin sighed, and Blackwood could practically hear him thinking, There’s something you’re not telling me. He felt a brief surge of guilt, but he was not about to unbutton his shirt and bear his chest to the detective at this particular moment, nor was he inclined to explain verbally what had happened to him while in the Realm of Faerie. He would share his ‘alteration’ with de Chardin soon enough, but now was not the time.

  They walked a few yards further, and then Blackwood stopped, for the strange tingling in his chest had begun to grow fainter, as though they were now walking away from whatever was causing it. Turning, he played his flashlight beam across the tunnel walls.

  ‘There,’ he said, indicating the entrance to a small access tunnel, which they had not noticed as they passed. Without waiting for a response from de Chardin, he moved towards it. As he did so, the tingling returned with renewed intensity, so much so that he had the feeling that the amulet was trying to release itself from the skin in which it was embedded. Blackwood wondered whether it was trying to flee from him or trying to lead him into the deeper darkness ahead.

  ‘Is that where it is?’ de Chardin whispered.

  ‘I believe so.’

  They stopped at the entrance to the access tunnel, which was barely broad enough to accommodate them side by side, and which was steeped in a darkness more profound than either of them had ever encountered. ‘Do you know where this leads?’ de Chardin asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps it leads to maintenance areas or other Tube tunnels…’

  ‘What an ugly place it is,’ said the detective.

  Blackwood glanced at him, surprised at the utterance. Nevertheless, he was right: the curved walls of the little tunnel glistened with a mucus-like condensation, and the narrow ribbon of the concrete floor was strewn with black puddles. Ahead, the hungry darkness swallowed their flashlight beams so completely and utterly that they might as well have been trying to illuminate the interplanetary Æther itself.

  It was indeed an ugly place, repulsive in its dampness, in the depth and totality of its gloom. It was an affront to the centuried earth through which it had been dug, and for the first time, Blackwood felt with his instinct rather than his conscious intellect that man was not meant to delve too deeply into the great realm of the subterranean.

  Nevertheless, the amulet spurred him to movement, although whether its strange stirring was an encouragement or a warning, he couldn’t tell.

  Slowly and carefully, he entered the tunnel, and as he did so, there came another faint moan from the far distance ahead.

  ‘What do you hope to achieve by this, Blackwood?’ de Chardin asked quietly as he followed the Special Investigator through the entrance.

  ‘Why did we come down here in the first place?’ Blackwood responded with a grim smile which was invisible to his companion. ‘To find answers.’

  ‘And do you think we’ll find any in here?’

  ‘That is my intention, but if you’d rather wait outside, I’ll quite understand.’

  De Chardin grunted. ‘You do me a disservice, sir! I’ll see this through; you may have no fear on that score.’

  It was only then that the detective realised Blackwood’s true intention: he meant to gather information not from an examination of the scene at which Seamus Brennan had met his end, but from one of the ghostly creatures who inhabited it. With this realisation, de Chardin’s respect for the man grew yet greater, although he could not help but wonder as to the wisdom of Blackwood’s strategy. They might learn much from one of the lost souls who dwelt here, but they might just as easily encounter the filthy abnormality that had put an end to Brennan. Nevertheless, it was apparently a risk the Special Investigator was willing to take, and de Chardin had no intention of letting him take it alone.

  They moved on through the darkness, the damp walls of the tunnel closing around them in a massive yet tentative embrace. The voice came to them again, a little louder this time, and with its increased volume they became more strongly aware of the plaintiveness of it, the despair, the misery, the terrible loneliness of it.

  ‘I pity the creature that is making that sound,’ de Chardin whispered.

  ‘As do I,’ Blackwood replied.

  Presently, they became aware of a subtle alteration in the quality of the darkness ahead, as if someone or something were stirring there. Blackwood doused his light and asked de Chardin to do the same. After a moment’s hesitation, the detective complied, and the darkness became complete… or almost complete, for up ahead there came to their eyes a faint glow which painted the distant walls a pale watercolour blue.

  ‘Great God!’ said de Chardin. ‘There’s something there!’

  Blackwood had already taken the measure of the floor ahead and had seen no obstacles, and so he continued walking through the thick blackness, his light extinguished, bidding his companion to follow.

  Whether the blue glo
w was stationary or was moving towards them they couldn’t tell; it was not long, however, before it filled the tunnel ahead of them, and they were able to discern, at its centre, a tiny, frail figure.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked de Chardin, his voice trembling with terrible awe.

  ‘I believe,’ Blackwood whispered, ‘that it is the ghost of Anne Naylor, also known as the Screaming Spectre.’

  Sophia felt a curious sense of isolation as her carriage made its way through the noisy, bustling streets towards Whitehall. Her interview with Charles Exeter had concluded shortly after he had shown her the curious terracotta tile containing the Yellow Sign. She had asked him if she might take it with her for further analysis, and, somewhat to her surprise, he had agreed: she had half expected him to be reluctant to part with it, but then there were thousands of others in the recently-discovered chamber.

  The strange artefact now lay beside her on the seat, wrapped in its chamois. Having also secured his permission to visit the chamber to conduct further investigations (Exeter, indeed, had practically insisted upon it), she had left his office with a strange combination of great elation and profound apprehension clutching at her heart.

  Her feeling of isolation grew more intense as she watched the people outside, in the streets, in carriages and omnibuses, all going about their daily business with no inkling of the mysterious drama being played out beneath their feet – a drama which Sophia herself had yet to understand. She had little doubt that the supernatural disturbances in the tunnels of the Underground had their origin in events which had happened a long time ago, perhaps thousands of years, when London was little more than a village, if it existed at all. As to the nature of those events, she could only speculate, and Sophia recognised the danger of speculation when one had so few facts to hand. She needed more information… no, she corrected herself: she and Blackwood needed more information…