The Feaster From The Stars (Blackwood and Harrington) Page 7

  ‘I should strongly advise it, Mr Blackwood. I’m sure that you and Lady Sophia will find much to ponder on if you do attend.’

  ‘But how can I attend?’ asked Sophia, ‘if the venue is a Masonic Lodge?’

  ‘The Society of Spiritualistic Freemasons is not like other Lodges,’ Blackwood explained. ‘They have devoted themselves to the study of Spiritualism, and since women make far better mediums than men, they have secured a special dispensation from the Grand Lodge to allow female participation in all of their activities. I think that you will find the audience to be divided more or less equally between men and women.’

  ‘A most enlightened attitude, I must say,’ said Sophia.

  ‘As must I,’ agreed Shanahan. ‘But now I must reluctantly take my leave of you, for as I said, I have pressing matters to attend to elsewhere.’

  ‘Well,’ said Blackwood, ‘whatever they are, I wish you the best of luck with them.’

  ‘Thank you, sir!’ Shanahan replied as he rose into the air on his dragonfly wings. ‘And good luck to you, and to your Ladyship. Farewell!’

  And with that, he was gone in a puff of lilac smoke.

  CHAPTER TWO:

  The Fluffers

  Seamus Brennan and Barrymore Tench climbed down from the platform at Aldgate Station and looked into the pitch-black tunnel.

  ‘This ain’t fair,’ muttered Brennan. ‘This just ain’t fair.’

  Tench said nothing; he merely gathered his broom and canvas sack from the edge of the platform, threw the empty sack over his shoulder and picked up his Tilley lamp.

  ‘I mean,’ Brennan continued, ‘this is women’s work. Fraser’s a prize bastard, and no mistake!’

  ‘Yes, but he’s the boss, and he’s the one who caught it over the business at Farringdon Street. Are you surprised he took it out on us? We’re the ones who saw the girl. It’s ’cause of us that there was a track search and the test had to be postponed.’

  ‘And what about Bartie Smallwood? He saw her too!’

  ‘Well, matey, I suppose that just proves they need drivers more than they need blokes like us. Now, shut yer mouth, pick up your lamp and broom, and let’s get started.’

  ‘Fluffers,’ said Brennan. ‘Bloody fluffers. It’s… it’s demeanin’, that’s what it is.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Tench replied philosophically as they headed into the tunnel. ‘It’s still important work, you know…’

  ‘What, picking up bits o’ rubbish from the lines? Dust and dirt… and hair? God almighty, what a job!’

  Tench shrugged. ‘Well, if you let all that stuff build up, it gets dangerous. The lines have to be kept clear all the time. It can cause accidents if they’re not kept clean.’

  ‘Women’s work,’ said Brennan.

  His friend sighed. ‘Look, Seamus, I’m just tryin’ to make the best of it, all right? I don’t like it any more than you do, but we’ve got no choice: we either do it, or we’re out on our arses. You want that?’

  Brennan sighed. ‘No… but why did it have to be Aldgate, of all places?’

  ‘I’d rather be here than in one of the deep-levels.’ Tench glanced at his friend, who was looking back longingly at the mouth of the tunnel, which was gradually growing smaller as they trudged on. ‘What the bleedin’ hell’s the matter with you, Seamus?’

  ‘This is where they found one o’ them plague pits.’

  ‘That was years ago, when they first built this place.’

  ‘A thousand bodies, they found. A thousand skeletons, all flung on top of one another. No proper Christian burial… just flung into the ground and covered up.’

  Tench was getting fed up with Brennan. He was his mate, but sometimes he really got on his nerves. The truth was, Tench didn’t like being underground either, not anymore – not since the previous night, when they’d seen the girl and been sent fleeing by her terrible screams back out into the station. Fraser had looked at them like they were mad and had ordered a track search. ‘If there’s a child in the tunnel,’ he’d said, ‘we’ll have to stop the test.’ When they’d told him exactly what they had seen, he had looked at them in disgust and said he didn’t go in much for ghost stories (apparently, he had not heard the screams), and when the track search had revealed nothing – and no one – out of the ordinary, Fraser had told them that if they did anything like this again, the only way they’d ever be allowed onto the Underground would be as third-class passengers. He had then assigned Brennan and Tench to fluffer duty, clearly to teach them a lesson.

  ‘All right,’ said Tench. ‘Might as well start here.’ He set his lamp down on the stones of the ballast between the rails, took his broom and set to work sweeping up the assorted pieces of debris and dust which had collected there.

  It was amazing how much of this stuff found its way into the tunnels of the Underground over time. The strands of human hair, especially, were tedious and unpleasant to gather up. Above ground, you didn’t even notice this kind of thing – or if you did, you paid it no mind… but down here, it looked like it didn’t belong; it looked… unnatural, somehow. All the little bits and pieces of rubbish, scraps of litter, small items dropped or mislaid, the hairs which fell from people’s heads without their realising – everything found its way from the platforms into the tunnels sooner or later, blown in by the breezes caused by the movement of the trains. It was as if the tunnels were the mouths of some vast and ancient beast, some long-buried scavenging thing that swallowed whatever it could from the human beings who passed obliviously through it.

  Tench shook his head to banish the thought as he swept the lines with his broom. It was a stupid thought – a stupid, horrible thought which had sprung into his mind without warning. Most people using the Underground Railway spent little time in the tunnels, and when they did, they were inside trains… protected… not like this, standing on the lines, exposed, lingering in the darkness and the silence.

  He hated Fraser for giving them this job. Was it their fault that they had seen the girl? Was it their fault that they had had to perform a track search and postpone the testing of the atmospheric train? Tench sighed loudly as he swept the bits and pieces of rubbish and hair into his sack, and he glanced at Brennan, who had moved a little further up the line.

  And then Tench frowned, for something was not right… not right at all. He had looked up at his friend because he had heard the sound of footfalls on the stones of the ballast. In fact, he could still hear them.

  But Seamus was standing still.

  The Irishman stopped what he was doing and looked back at his friend. Tench could see his face in the fitful light of the Tilley lamps; he looked anxious and confused, an uncomprehending frown creasing his brow.

  The footfalls continued… crunch… crunch… on the ballast, echoing strangely in the still air of the tunnel.

  Tench grabbed his lamp and thrust it into the darkness. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded in a quavering voice. ‘Who is it?’

  The crunching ceased.

  ‘Someone’s having a laugh,’ said Brennan.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone’s playin’ a joke on us!’ Brennan picked up his own lamp and spun around on his heals, peering frantically in every direction. ‘Where are you, you bastards? Come out. Come out, and I’ll knock you down!’

  Could that be it? Tench wondered. Could it be one of their workmates, crouching somewhere in the darkness and making noises to frighten them?

  The crunching of the ballast resumed, and as he swung his lamp around, Tench realised that no workman was causing it. He hurried over to Brennan, seized his arm and pointed. Brennan looked and drew in his breath sharply.

  There, beside the line, the stones were moving, as if heavy steps were falling upon them.

  ‘There’s no one there,’ Tench whispered in disbelief.

  ‘Yes there is,’ Brennan replied. ‘But we can’t see them.’ There was a tone of anguished defeat in his voice; he had hoped with every fibre of his being that the soun
d was being made by a colleague with a malicious sense of humour, but that hope was now dashed by the clearly visible movement of the ballast – movement which was being caused by someone or something not visible.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ whispered Brennan. ‘Who is here with us?’

  ‘Let’s get out of here, Seamus,’ said Tench urgently. ‘Let’s get out, right now! Fraser can give us our marching orders – I don’t care. I’m not stayin’ here anymore – here or anywhere else on the Underground. I’ve had enough!’

  ‘Wait,’ said Brennan. ‘What’s that?’ He held out his lamp towards the depths of the tunnel, which wound off into the darkness towards Liverpool Street.

  Something was moving in the darkness – or was it the darkness itself which was moving? Brennan couldn’t tell, but something was there. The workmen felt the tug of a slight breeze, and their ears caught a faint sound, like a distant sigh.

  ‘Come on, Seamus!’ whispered Tench.

  ‘What is that?’ The Irishman’s voice was filled with fear, and yet he could not turn away from the strange movement in the dark distance. It captivated him, snaring him in a terrible curiosity. It was like wind… like wind that you could see – that was the only way he could describe it to himself.

  Brennan moved to the side; his foot caught on one of the rails, and he stumbled. He dropped his lamp, which struck the rail and smashed. Now, the only light in the tunnel came from Tench’s lamp, and the darkness surged around them, like a predator sensing a meal.

  The strange movement-that-was-not-movement drew closer to Brennan, and by the inadequate light from Tench’s lamp, they saw what it was, and Seamus Brennan and Barrymore Tench moaned aloud in horror and disbelief.

  It was hair… human hair, hovering before them in a cloud of writhing filaments.

  Tench began to edge backwards, away from the thing. ‘Come on, Seamus,’ he whispered. ‘Come on!’

  But Brennan remained where he was, horribly entranced by the slowly shifting mass, which seemed to be regarding them, as if possessed of some hideous, unnatural awareness. ‘So much,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Why so much?’

  ‘I don’t know. Please come on.’

  ‘Must have come from everywhere… everywhere on the Underground. Why?’

  ‘I don’t want to know. Come on.’

  Tench edged back further, and as he did so, his foot caught the edge of a sleeper, and he fell backwards with a loud cry.

  Whether it was the movement or the sound of his voice, he didn’t know, but the mass of hair suddenly surged forward, and in an instant had enveloped Brennan, its gossamer strands twining repulsively around his face and neck. He screamed and staggered, his hands clawing at his face, trying to rip the stuff away. But it was no use: there were thousands of hairs – hundreds of thousands, and they were like a great, dark cobweb as they clung to Brennan.

  Tench looked on in abject terror as the writhing hairs entered Brennan’s screaming mouth, while others wrapped themselves around his ankles and tipped him over onto the ground. He lay there, thrashing wildly, his cries choked off as the hair squirmed into his throat.

  If his friend had been set upon by men, Tench would have ploughed in with fists flying to aid him, but he knew that there was nothing he could do here, not against this. If he went to Brennan now, he risked being ensnared by the filthy, unnatural thing. He burned with shame to think of it, but it was clear that his only chance for life was to flee this very minute, to escape the tunnel and re-emerge in the sanity and safety of the outside world.

  If there was any doubt in his mind, any last vestige of courage and desire to help his friend, even at risk to his own life, they were utterly annihilated by the thing which began to smear itself into visibility in the hot, dank air above the frantically struggling Irishman.

  Tench only caught a glimpse of it before he twisted his head away in panic, knowing instinctively that to gaze upon it for any length of time would be the end of him. He whimpered like a terrified dog as he dragged himself over the sleepers, then got to his feet and began to run.

  ‘I’m sorry, Seamus,’ he whispered as he fled back along the tunnel towards Aldgate Station. ‘I’m so sorry!’

  CHAPTER THREE:

  Tench’s Revenge

  ‘Blackwood, Lady Sophia,’ said Detective de Chardin. ‘Good of you to come so quickly.’

  ‘We came as soon as we received your message, Detective,’ Sophia replied, as de Chardin beckoned them into his office at New Scotland Temple.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Blackwood, who had instantly noted the harried expression on the detective’s face.

  De Chardin motioned them to be seated. ‘Another incident on the Underground – this time near Aldgate Station…’

  ‘Aldgate?’

  ‘Yes.’ De Chardin took his own seat at his desk and regarded his visitors with a worried frown. ‘I asked you to come because I would like you to be present when I question the prisoner.’

  Blackwood and Sophia glanced at each other.

  ‘You have someone in custody?’ asked Sophia. ‘Someone who might be responsible for these events?’

  De Chardin smiled grimly and shook his head. ‘If only that were the case, your Ladyship. The man we have is a maintenance worker, accused of inflicting grievous bodily harm upon his foreman. His name is Barrymore Tench, and the foreman is named Harold Fraser. This morning, Tench went to Fraser’s office and gave him a thrashing the likes of which I have rarely seen. Fraser is at present in hospital, with a jaw broken in three places and more broken ribs than sound ones.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Sophia. ‘And why did he commit such a vicious assault?’

  ‘That’s the reason for my asking you to come. According to witnesses, Tench was screaming about something that happened last night, in the tunnel between Aldgate and Liverpool Street. He said that something had attacked his co-worker, a man named Seamus Brennan, and that it was all Fraser’s fault for sending them down there. It took three men to pull him off Fraser, and when the police were called, they could get nothing more from him. We’re holding him now, in the lower cells.’

  ‘What were they doing in the tunnel?’ asked Blackwood.

  ‘They were on fluffer duty.’

  Blackwood raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s not the sort of work maintenance men are usually asked to do.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Sophia. ‘Fluffer duty?’

  ‘Fluffers are people who go through the tunnels at night and clear the lines of detritus, such as litter and hair,’ explained Blackwood.

  ‘Hair?’

  ‘Yes. Everyone sheds a few hairs every day, including the thousands of people who use the Tube Railway. The breezes from the passing trains blow the hair into the tunnels, where it collects on and around the lines. The fluffers go in and sweep it all up. But as I say, maintenance men are not usually assigned to such duty.’

  ‘Correct,’ said de Chardin. ‘We have taken statements from several people, who say that Tench and Brennan were demoted by Fraser to the status of fluffers as punishment for their involvement in another incident the previous evening.

  ‘Another incident?’ said Blackwood. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Tench and Brennan were part of a crew preparing the line between Farringdon Street and Baker Street for a test of the atmospheric railway. Apparently, they encountered the ghost of a young girl on the line. Fraser didn’t believe that she was a ghost and was forced to initiate a lengthy track search, which resulted in the postponement of the test.’

  ‘Do you think this might be a straightforward case of revenge?’ asked Sophia.

  ‘It’s possible,’ de Chardin replied. ‘Tench might have concocted his story about Brennan being attacked as a mitigating circumstance, so that it would go easier for him in court. And yet, that doesn’t quite ring true. Tench could easily have pounced on Fraser in the streets at night, not allowing his victim to see who was attacking him. To walk into his office in broad daylight and have at him�
� well, one is forced to ask why? And there’s something else which lends a certain weight to Tench’s story, and which forces me at least to consider taking his claims at face value.’

  ‘Which is?’ said Blackwood.

  ‘No one has seen or heard from Seamus Brennan since last night. He has a family, to which he is devoted, and his wife says that his disappearance is completely out of character.’

  ‘You think he may still be somewhere on the Underground?’ said Sophia.

  ‘It’s possible, and in fact that section of the network has been closed while a search is made for him.’ De Chardin heaved a great sigh. ‘This business is getting completely out of hand. I’m going down to see Tench now, to try and get some more information out of him, and I’d be grateful if you both would accompany me.’

  Blackwood nodded. ‘Of course, de Chardin. In any event, I think it’s high time we went down into the tunnels ourselves, and had a good look at the locations of these disturbances. Aldgate is as good a place to start as any.’

  ‘Excellent. In that case, if you’ll follow me…’

  ‘Might I ask if you have made any headway in this business?’ asked de Chardin as he led Blackwood and Sophia through the warren of corridors leading to the Temple’s main staircase.

  ‘A little,’ Blackwood replied. ‘But I fear it has revealed more questions than answers.’

  De Chardin chuckled. ‘I do so dislike those cases. But you saw Alfie Morgan…?’

  ‘Indeed. Lady Sophia and I visited him at Bethlem Hospital a couple of days ago.’

  ‘And did you glean anything useful?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  De Chardin glanced over his shoulder at the Special Investigator. ‘Would you care to elaborate?’

  Blackwood hesitated while a pair of constables passed them. The men wore the dark grey uniforms of the Metropolitan Templar Police, with the characteristic cross pattée stitched in crimson silk upon their left breasts. The men nodded to de Chardin. When they had passed, Blackwood replied, ‘I’m not at all sure where this will lead, but Morgan kept repeating an unusual word, “Carcosa”, which I have since established is the name of a distant planet.’