The Feaster From The Stars (Blackwood and Harrington) (3 page)

‘Not at all,’ Blackwood replied with a smile. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’

‘Ah, then Lady Sophia has told you about the case upon which I’m presently engaged.’

Blackwood nodded, and the two men regarded each other in silence for a few moments, both vaguely aware of a subtle alteration in the atmosphere – brought on, perhaps, by mention of the young lady’s name.

The spell was broken by Mrs Butters’s return with the coffee cup, which she placed on the tray next to the pot.

‘Thank you, Mrs Butters,’ said Blackwood. ‘I’ll pour.’

‘As you wish, sir.’ The housekeeper left once again, bound for more pressing domestic duties.

Blackwood poured coffee and handed the cup to de Chardin. ‘Well now, Detective,’ he said, ‘why don’t you tell me about this case of yours? Strange disturbances on the Underground, isn’t it? Something of a supernatural nature, I believe.’

‘Indeed. And I don’t mind telling you that I’ve never heard the likes of it before.’

‘Really? In any event, I’d have thought that this type of thing was a little outside your purview; surely it’s something that the SPR should be investigating, rather than the Metropolitan Templar Police.’

‘Ordinarily, you would be quite correct – and in fact, the Society for Psychical Research
has
begun its own investigation. But the fact is that we’re not dealing with some restless spook rattling his chains. This is far more serious than that.’

Blackwood leaned forward, intrigued. ‘Please explain.’

‘During the past few weeks, there have been a number of reports of strange events and encounters in the Underground system, mainly by maintenance workers, plate-layers and the like. These reports range from vague feelings of unease to outright sightings and encounters with things which can only be described as supernatural in origin.’

Blackwood nodded. ‘I’m bound to say I’m not all that surprised.’

De Chardin frowned at him. ‘How so?’

‘We must remember that London is an ancient city, with a history that is often violent and tragic, and the men who have been engaged for the last forty years on the construction of the subterranean railroad have by no means been reluctant to disturb the ground in which they’re building their tunnels and stations. Indeed, they have no choice.’

‘You’re speaking of the deep-level Tube lines,’ said de Chardin.

‘Precisely. Delving into the earth is like opening a book of history, and it is not always wise to do so, for there are things down there which should remain undisturbed.’

‘What kind of things?’

Blackwood shrugged. ‘It is a fact well known by some, for instance, that at least one plague pit has been discovered during the construction of the network. Between 1665 and 1666, the Great Plague ravaged London, killing a hundred thousand people – a fifth of the city’s population. The cemeteries quickly became overwhelmed with the numbers of dead, and so enormous pits were dug to accommodate the unfortunate victims – so many, in fact, that to this day no one knows their precise number or their exact locations.’

‘There was certainly one on the site of Aldgate Station,’ said de Chardin.

‘Indeed. That particular pit is mentioned by Daniel Defoe in his
Journal of a Plague Year
; he notes that a thousand bodies were buried there during a mere two weeks. It is an unwritten law of the universe that the dead should be left in peace; no good can ever come of disturbing them – especially a thousand at a time! But tell me, Detective, why do you mention Aldgate in particular? Has something happened there?’

‘A couple of incidents, actually,’ de Chardin nodded. ‘Several line workers have witnessed disturbances in the ballast around the metals… as if someone were walking there, but of course no one was.’

‘Of course not.’

‘And a few days ago, a maintenance crew saw the apparition of an old woman walking along the northbound tunnel. They said they had the impression that she was looking for something…’

‘Or someone,’ Blackwood mused. ‘Perhaps a loved one who had fallen victim to the Plague. Powerful emotions possess their own life, and live on long after the ones who experienced them have departed.’

De Chardin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘That’s not the worst of it, though. Just last night, a train driver encountered something near Kennington Station which seems to have completely unhinged his mind.’

Blackwood hesitated, then stood up and moved to the drinks cabinet next to his desk. Opening the cabinet and taking out a decanter of brandy and a couple of balloon glasses, he said, ‘Before you continue, I think we could both make good use of something a little stronger than coffee – in spite of the early hour.’

De Chardin gave a grim chuckle and replied, ‘I won’t decline
that
offer.’

Blackwood handed him a glass, took a fortifying sip and said, ‘Do go on… about Kennington.’

‘Have you heard of the Kennington Loop?’

‘It’s the means by which trains turn around at the terminus of the Central and South London, isn’t it?’

‘Quite correct. A driver named Alfie Morgan took his train into the Loop at around ten o’clock last night. There was a delay while the Charing Cross platform was cleared of another train, during which Morgan was obliged to remain within the Loop. When the signal changed and Morgan failed to emerge, a track-walker was despatched to investigate. He came upon the stationary train three quarters of the way around the Loop and climbed into the driver’s cab, where he found Morgan… laughing, gibbering and, apparently, quite insane.’

‘Good Lord,’ Blackwood muttered. ‘Where is this Morgan fellow now?’

‘He was taken to Bethlem Hospital, where his condition is at present being closely observed.’

‘I see. And what is the name of the man who found him – the track-walker?’

‘His name is Oliver Clarke.’

‘And did he see anything unusual – more unusual, that is, than an insane train driver?’

De Chardin shook his head. ‘Unfortunately not – or perhaps fortunately, for Clarke at least.’

‘I daresay,’ Blackwood smiled. ‘A most intriguing case, but I must say that I fail to see what it has to do with Her Majesty’s Bureau of Clandestine Affairs.’

De Chardin returned his smile as he replied, ‘As we have already noted, ordinarily it would be left to the SPR to investigate, but there are several factors here that place it very squarely in your lap. For one thing, the Underground is, as you know, being refitted with a new atmospheric railway – a monumental project which hasn’t come cheap. The directors and shareholders of the various railroad companies are getting very jittery indeed over this affair, and the drivers and maintenance crews are even more jittery, since they’re the ones who have to work in the tunnels, and many are talking openly about refusing to carry on with their work until something is done about it.’

‘An attitude which will only become more entrenched once word of Mr Morgan’s condition gets around.’

‘Oh, you may rest assured that it has
already
got around. In fact, they’re talking about little else down there!’

Blackwood pondered this for a few moments. ‘I suppose you’re right: this situation
could
have serious implications for the Underground…’

‘That’s putting it mildly,’ de Chardin muttered. ‘It could threaten the very future of the network, and Her Majesty is not best pleased at the notion. The London Underground was the world’s first subterranean urban railway: we were first with the idea, and the first to put it into practice – and the Queen is of the opinion that it cannot be allowed to fail, for any reason.’

Blackwood drained his glass. ‘There’s certainly been an awful lot of money poured in over the years.’ He smiled. ‘“Trains in drains”, they called it in the early days; now it is seen, quite rightly, as one of the greatest achievements of the Empire.’

‘Quite so,’ agreed de Chardin. ‘We have an awful lot to lose if this situation is allowed to continue unchecked. The investment made thus far in the new atmospheric railway is nothing short of staggering, but it will all count for nothing if we have no one to drive the trains or maintain the system. And there is another question to consider,’ he added.

Blackwood arched an eyebrow. ‘Which is?’

‘Why now?’ said de Chardin. ‘Engineers and architects have been disturbing the ground beneath London for very nearly forty years, yet only in the last few weeks have serious incidents of this nature been reported. What has happened recently to give rise to them?’

Blackwood chuckled. ‘I think, Detective, that we now come to the real reason for my involvement.’

‘You guess correctly, sir; for Her Majesty wonders whether there is some greater and more sinister agency at work here. Perhaps it is supernatural… or perhaps it is all too human. In any event, she wishes the Bureau to join forces once again with the Society for Psychical Research and the Metropolitan Templar Police to investigate the matter.’

‘Human or supernatural,’ Blackwood mused. ‘An intriguing question. And with the combined talents of the Bureau, the SPR and New Scotland Temple, I’m quite sure it is one to which we shall ultimately find the answer!’

The building was vast, grey and foreboding beneath the overcast sky. Above the tall, copper-covered dome which dominated the facade, a bank of livid, smoke-like clouds hung in the damp air of mid-afternoon, as though a great fire were burning somewhere in the heavens.

To Lady Sophia Harrington, the image which had suddenly struck her was an appropriate one, for were not the fires of insanity burning in the minds of so many poor men and women in that place? She glanced at Thomas Blackwood, who was sitting beside her in the hansom as it clattered along the great, sweeping drive towards the hospital’s main entrance. His finely-drawn features were immobile; his eyes, the colour of the angry clouds above, were fixed straight ahead, and Sophia had the impression that he was just as reluctant as she to enter that place of misery and madness.

Blackwood had called for her at her Kensington apartments, and together they had gone to the Bureau’s headquarters in Whitehall, where Grandfather had briefed them on their assignment. Sophia had been surprised at Grandfather’s manner: during the affair of the Martian Ambassador, he had been his usual self – gruff and business-like, with a hint of exasperated impatience – but during their meeting he had displayed none of those characteristics. Instead, there was a look of bafflement and even fear in his eyes, which she had never seen before, and which had unsettled her even more than the situation that had occasioned their presence.

Whatever was happening on the Underground clearly had Grandfather completely flummoxed, and it was equally obvious that he didn’t care for the experience. Sophia supposed that this was natural: Grandfather was still a military man through and through and was used to dealing with situations which could be evaluated and responded to with cold, hard rationality and well-planned logistics. However, Sophia knew from personal experience that supernatural events rarely followed such rules: they obeyed laws of which humanity knew little or nothing, and when they impinged upon the human world, they did so on their own terms. That was what made them so dangerous.

The cab drew up alongside the massive portico with its six Doric columns, and without a word, Blackwood descended and turned to offer Sophia his hand. She took it and stepped down into the clammy air, shivering slightly as she did so.

This elicited a brief smile from the Special Investigator, who said, ‘Appropriate weather, don’t you think?’

Sophia didn’t answer; instead, she looked left and right at the long, four-storied wings which extended in each direction out from the central block. Massive, monolithic and silent, they contained the patient galleries – the male patients on the right and the female on the left. The central block, before which she and Blackwood now stood, contained the administrative offices and the chapel. She shivered again, although this time it was not from the cold, dank air.

‘Are you all right, Sophia?’ asked Blackwood with a frown of concern.

She gave him a brief smile. ‘Yes, Thomas.’

They climbed the wide steps leading up to the main entrance, which led in to a large foyer, panelled in grim, dark oak. The clerk at the reception desk, a man of middle years, dressed in a neat black suit, looked up and said, ‘Good afternoon, sir, madam. How may I assist you?’

‘Good afternoon,’ Blackwood replied, showing the man his identification. ‘My name is Thomas Blackwood, and this is Lady Sophia Harrington. We are here to see Dr Graham Davenport concerning a recently admitted patient.’

‘Ah, yes. The doctor informed me that you would be coming. Would you please sign the visitors’ register?’ He indicated a large book that lay open on the desk.

While Blackwood and Sophia did so, the clerk hailed a passing orderly. ‘Conrad, will you please escort this lady and gentleman to Dr Davenport’s office?’

The orderly, a tall, burly man dressed in a white coat and trousers, nodded and came over. ‘This way, if you please.’

Blackwood and Sophia followed him along a short corridor to the doctors’ rooms, where he left them at the door to Dr Davenport’s office.

Blackwood knocked, and a voice drifted out to them. ‘Come!’

They entered a chamber which was every bit as dull and dreary as the foyer, although it was neat and clean and was dominated by a large rolltop desk, before which sat a young, prematurely balding man with a thin beard and an inquisitive expression. The man turned his penetrating blue eyes upon them and said, ‘Can I help you?’

Blackwood introduced himself and Sophia.

‘Oh, of course! Do forgive me,’ said Dr Davenport, rising from the desk and offering them his hand. ‘I’d quite forgotten our appointment. You’re here to discuss Mr Morgan’s case, aren’t you?’

‘Correct, sir,’ said Blackwood with a smile. He took in the man’s slightly flustered demeanour. ‘It looks as if you have a great many matters to attend to, if you’ll pardon me for saying so. I promise we shan’t keep you long.’

‘Not at all, Mr Blackwood – although you are quite correct, and I’m bound to say it’s always the case.’ Davenport gave a brief laugh of embarrassment as he brought the only other chair besides his own from a corner of the office and placed it before Sophia. ‘Please, madam, do take a seat. I, er, I’ll see if I can rustle up another chair from somewhere.’

Blackwood held up a hand. ‘Please don’t trouble yourself, Doctor. I am more than happy to stand.’

‘Oh, well, if you’re quite sure…’

‘Quite sure, thank you.’

Davenport took his own seat. ‘May I offer you some refreshment?’

His visitors shook their heads.

‘Well then. Mr Morgan.’

‘Mr Morgan.’

‘Yes, he was brought to us in the small hours of this morning and admitted straight away. I conducted the preliminary examination.’

‘What were your observations?’ asked Blackwood.

‘His symptoms are quite striking, especially in view of the fact that he has apparently never suffered a mental episode of any kind before. Yes… very striking indeed. A complete breakdown of all the higher brain functions. I must admit I’ve never seen anything quite like it.’

‘What do you think caused it, Doctor?’ asked Sophia.

Davenport hesitated before replying, ‘I’m tempted to speculate, your Ladyship, that it was caused by shock.’

‘Shock?’

‘Indeed. An experience so extreme, so utterly terrifying, that it has caused his conscious mind to retreat within itself: a defensive measure, if you will.’

‘Then you believe that his mind is still intact,’ said Blackwood.

Dr Davenport sighed. ‘It’s difficult to tell at this stage, without further examination and evaluation.’ He glanced from Blackwood to Sophia. ‘But may I ask what interest the Crown has in this case?’

‘Mr Morgan’s experience, while apparently the most severe, is not the first to occur on the London Underground in recent weeks,’ Blackwood replied. ‘In view of the circumstances, a Crown investigation is warranted.’

Davenport raised his eyebrows. ‘I see. I’ve read about the disturbances in the papers, of course – who hasn’t? – but I hadn’t realised the situation was as serious as that.’

Blackwood gave him a brief, grim smile. ‘I assure you, it is.’

‘May we see the patient?’ asked Sophia.

Davenport shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m really not sure what good it would do, your Ladyship. Mr Morgan is quite uncommunicative.’

‘I understand, Doctor,’ she replied. ‘Nevertheless, Mr Blackwood and I would be remiss in our duties were we to leave without at least attempting to speak with him.’

Davenport considered this for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Of course. You have my assurance that I will cooperate fully with your investigation.’

Sophia smiled at him. ‘We appreciate it, sir.’

Davenport rose from his desk. ‘Well then, if you’d like to follow me…’

‘If you’ll pardon the observation,’ said Sophia as they walked along the wide gallery which ran along the entire length of the male wing, ‘I’m surprised at how comfortable your institution appears to be.’

The gallery was indeed most elegantly furnished with leather sofas and chairs, cheerful paintings, numerous pots of brightly-coloured flowers and birds in large, ornate cages. The carpet was richly patterned and of good quality, and the air was comfortably warm. One side of the gallery was lined with doors leading directly to the patients’ rooms, while the other contained windows which looked out upon one of the two large airing grounds, where the more manageable patients were taken for fresh air and a little exercise.

‘Thank you, Lady Sophia,’ Dr Davenport replied. ‘We are very proud of Bethlem Hospital, and the treatment it provides to the unfortunate people who find themselves our guests. I’ll grant that it wasn’t always like this, but progress in the treatment of mental infirmity is swift and ongoing. About ten years ago, for instance, the heating system was updated, and now all of the bedrooms are served by hot water pipes, which keep them pleasantly warm.’

‘Most civilised, Doctor,’ said Blackwood approvingly.

‘Indeed. Although you can’t see it from here, we also have an extensive garden. We find that it is most important to occupy our patients’ time with wholesome and interesting activities, thus preventing them from brooding on their condition. Many male patients lend a hand with the upkeep of the garden, while the female patients help with the laundry and in the kitchen. We find it helps to maintain their connection with the outside world and to prepare them for their return.’

‘Their return,’ Blackwood echoed. ‘May I ask what your success rate is in the treatment of mental disorders?’

‘It’s approximately thirty percent – not particularly high, I grant you, but as I mentioned, progress is ongoing. Ah! Here we are.’

Davenport stopped at a door which, like the others, contained a large spy hole. He slid aside the brass plate, looked into the room, murmured in evident satisfaction and inserted a key in the lock. He glanced at the two orderlies who were accompanying them and told them to wait outside the room. The men nodded.

The door swung open soundlessly, and Davenport beckoned to his guests to follow him inside.

The room was sparsely furnished but was clean, bright and comfortable. Upon the bed lay Alfie Morgan. He was awake and staring straight up at the ceiling, his eyes blinking perhaps twice a minute. Blackwood noted that his breathing was shallow but regular. In fact, there was no outward sign that anything untoward had happened to the man, apart from the fact that his shoes and belt were nowhere to be seen.

Dr Davenport stepped forward. ‘Mr Morgan,’ he said. ‘Alfie, you have visitors; this lady and gentleman have come to see you. Won’t you say hello?’

There was no response: Morgan simply lay there, staring up at the ceiling, his face completely blank and impassive.

Sophia took a couple of paces towards the bed. Blackwood followed her, ready to pull her away should the man perform any violent or threatening movement. ‘Mr Morgan… my name is Sophia Harrington. I’m very pleased to meet you. May we speak with you for a few moments?’

The shallow breathing halted for a second or two and then resumed.

‘Interesting,’ whispered Davenport. ‘A reaction – minute, but a reaction nevertheless. Keep trying, your Ladyship.’

Sophia nodded and took another step towards the bed. ‘We are here to help you… but before we can do so, we need you to help us. We need you to talk to us about what happened… about what happened last night in the Kennington Loop.’

Morgan began to blink more rapidly. Davenport clutched Blackwood’s arm and whispered to him, ‘I don’t know how, but it’s working. Perhaps the sound of her Ladyship’s voice…’ He glanced over his shoulder at the spy hole in the door, and saw the eyes of one of the orderlies looking intently in at them.

‘Alfie,’ said Sophia, ‘what happened to you last night?’

Morgan’s mouth began to move strangely, as if he were trying to say something, but had forgotten how to speak.

‘What is it, Alfie? What do you wish to say?’

‘Train,’ he said in a thin, ragged whisper.

‘Yes,’ said Sophia in an encouraging tone. ‘You were driving your train… through the Loop. You had to stop…’

‘The signal,’ Morgan said, his breath quickening.

‘That’s right. The signal was on red; you had to stop.’

‘Stop… in the dark… in the silence.’

‘Excellent,’ said Davenport quietly into Blackwood’s ear.

‘Red… in the darkness… why won’t it change? I want it to change. The sounds…’

‘Sounds?’ Sophia leaned closer, and Blackwood felt his muscles tense.

‘Noises in the dark.’

‘What noises?’

‘Doors opening… closing… coming closer.’

‘Someone was on the train?’

Morgan shut his eyes and emitted a thin, high-pitched moan. The sound made Sophia’s blood run cold.

‘Alfie,’ she said. ‘Who was on the train?’

‘Who was on the train?’ he echoed. ‘Who was on the train?’

Sophia leaned closer still. ‘Please try to tell us.’

‘Sophia,’ said Blackwood, stepping forward.

Suddenly, Morgan opened his eyes and looked at her, and his face became contorted in such an expression of feral horror that she gasped and took an involuntary step back. In an instant, Blackwood was at her side, his hands on her shoulders.