The Infernal Express Page 3

  A trill of laughter made him flush. Angry, he nearly rose to his feet. He squashed the feeling with a strength born of experience. Before he could formulate a reply, he heard the sound of someone approaching the cell from the outside. He hunched forward in his chair, every nerve twitching, every sense alert.

  Outside, something moaned. The sound sent a thrill of repulsion through him. Then, he heard a mumbled voice, a sound like wind swirling in a tunnel, and a foul smell filled the air. From behind him, his companion murmured, “I told you so.”

  “Quiet,” he hissed.

  There was a rattle from the door’s lock, and it swung open silently. A man stepped in, illuminated by an ugly glow; he was dressed like a second-story man or a safecracker, in a flat cap and battered duffel coat. Charms and holy symbols dangled in bunches from his neck and pockets, and he held a withered human hand out before him like a lantern. It was from the hand that the glow originated—or, rather, from the burning wicks mounted on each stiffened finger.

  Morris felt ill, as he watched the glow approach. He knew what the hand was; he’d read Barham’s Ingoldsby Legends, and knew a hand of glory when he saw one. The hand of a hanged man, coated in wax to make a tool for a thief. He could feel its power seeping into him, making his limbs as heavy as lead, and dulling his senses. It was said that a hand of glory could open any lock, enable its bearer to pass through doors and walls like a ghost, and inflict a malevolent somnolence on those who saw its light.

  Thus, it was with some relief that Morris watched as the thief snuffed the flames on the fingers of the hand, and then carefully stowed it in the satchel slung over his shoulder. That too Morris understood. A hand of glory was powerful, but untrustworthy. Bad things were said to happen, if the fingers were left alight for too long. More than just the walls of houses grew thin, when that happened. He felt nervous energy flood through him, as the glow faded, and the thief approached the oubliette, pulling a pry-bar out of his satchel.

  “That’s far enough,” Morris said. He pushed himself out of his seat. “Hands up, if you please.” The would-be thief spun on the balls of his feet, moving quicker than Morris had thought possible. He held something inelegant and German in his hand—a Bergmann semi-automatic pistol, Morris thought, even as he tried to raise his own stubby little Webley to meet the threat. Too slow, he knew. Then there was a flash of red cloth and pale flesh, and the man was toppling backwards, both hands pressed to his throat. He hit the floor a moment after the Bergmann, and thrashed for a moment as blood spurted from between his slackening fingers.

  His attacker straightened from her crouched position, and turned, smiling slightly. Her teeth were thin and long. “You see, Morris? I did say,” the pale woman murmured, as she smoothed the folds of her dress. She wasn’t tall, but even so, gave the impression of height. She was the color of milk, with a flapper’s bob that was of similar hue. Besides her dress, and the blood on her fingers, the only spot of color on her was in her eyes, which peered out of her face like rubies set in marble. “When has the Westenra Fund ever been amiss, when it comes to our particular…interest?”

  “Obsession, Miss Harker,” Morris corrected petulantly. He eyed the dead man with distaste. “Did you really have to—to rip his throat out?”

  “No,” Harker said, holding her reddened fingers up to the light. “But I wished to do so. And so I did. You can always have one of your pet necromancers root around in his guts for confirmation of what I’ve told you.”

  Morris made a face. In truth haruspicy, in this case, was not necessary. The cell was a spirit-box as much as anything else, designed to trap most non-corporeal manifestations. The soul of their unfortunate thief would still be here, bewildered and frightened, when the Ministry’s specialists came to collect him. “Yes,” he muttered, dropping his pistol back into his coat pocket. He plucked a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his face and jowls. “Still, dashed unpleasant. There’s blood everywhere.”

  “Not everywhere,” Harker said, gesturing towards the oubliette. “Wouldn’t want any getting on him, now would we?”

  “No?” Morris asked, nastily. “No lingering traces of filial affection, Miss Harker?”

  The woman looked at him steadily, her red eyes shining in the torchlight. Her gaze flickered to the oubliette, for just a moment. “No,” she said after a long moment. She looked at him, fixing him with her eyes. “And you should know better than to ask, Mr. Morris.”

  He shivered and inclined his head. “You are correct, of course. Do forgive me; bad case of mouth, foot and insertion, yes?” He looked down at the body. “It’s troubling that he got so far, given how much effort we’ve put into protecting the whereabouts of the Bloody Baron.”

  “Count, surely,” Harker murmured.

  “Neither, in fact,” Morris sniffed. He took off his spectacles and began to rub them furiously with his handkerchief. “Voivode, perhaps is a better term. Means warlord or some such rot…”

  “I know what it means, Morris,” Harker said. She reached down and grabbed the body by one ankle. She dragged it away from the oubliette with little apparent effort. “As you yourself pointed out, I am intimately familiar with the occupant of that square of stone. He would have referred to himself as ‘king’, I think. That was how he thought of himself, I’m told. A lord among horrors, a king vampire of the undead.”

  “Well…pride goes before a fall, they say,” Morris sniffed. He smiled down at the oubliette. “King or no, he’s now just a pile of slightly singed bones. And I intend to see that he stays that way. But…” He hesitated.

  Harker smiled. “But this is the fourth such attempt to steal his mortal remains in as many weeks,” she said. “And the Ministry is worried about a fifth, and a sixth and so on.”

  Morris stared at her. He licked his lips. “How did you know?”

  “Obsession, Morris,” she said, “Remember?”

  He frowned. “Yes, well, that aside you are right,” he said, turning away. “The Tower is, contrary to popular belief, not impregnable. It is as good as, for our purposes, but sadly, that no longer seems to be the case where our Wallachian guest is concerned.” He flapped a hand at the oubliette. “Perhaps it is time we returned him to those with an abiding, and well-documented interest in seeing to his captivity.”

  Harker looked at him. “Other than us, you mean?”

  Morris gestured dismissively. “There are others with prior claim. And they have not been shy about stating such.” He smiled. “Perhaps, now is the time, eh? A rapprochement, of sorts, an olive branch to our opposite numbers in foreign lands, with whom our relationship might have, of late, grown particularly strained.” He nodded. “Yes…yes, I think that is just what the situation calls for.”

  He laughed. “And I think I know just the chap to see to it.”

  2.

  The Strand, City of Westminster, London

  St. Cyprian handed his coat and hat to the coat-check girl and took in the dining lounge of the Savoy Hotel. As ever, it was full to bursting with bright young things, movers, shakers, and everyone in between. On the stage, the Archibald Griffiths Dance Band was in full swing—trombones, saxophones, violins, the works. It was a raw and lively sound, and the dance floor, newly introduced by the Savoy’s owner, Rupert Carte, was full of the best and brightest of St. Cyprian’s generation not currently under a field in Flanders.

  He caught sight of Morris’ bald, egg-shell scalp amongst the pomade and cloche hats, and wound his way towards the man from the Ministry. Morris almost choked on a mouthful of beef when St. Cyprian slapped him jocularly on the back before sitting down. As the little man coughed and gasped, St. Cyprian shook his head. ‘Morris, I assume you were taught proper table manners at Cambridge. Chew, man, don’t inhale.’

  Morris swallowed and glared at him. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘And you’re gnawing on your food like it were trench rations. The Savoy employs one of the finest chefs this side of the Channel. Slow down and enjoy it.’<
br />
  ‘Needs salt,’ Morris grunted.

  St. Cyprian shook his head ruefully, and signalled a waiter. “The finer things in life are wasted on you, I fear.” He murmured his order to the attentive waiter, who poured him a drink, and turned his attentions to the dance floor. He tapped his fingers in time to the music, until Morris made a disapproving noise. St. Cyprian looked at him. “What?”

  “Must you?”

  “It’s a delightful tune, Morris. Take the broom out,” St. Cyprian said.

  Morris grimaced. “If you’re going to be vulgar, I’m not going to be able to finish my meal,” he said. He pointed his fork at St. Cyprian. “Watch your tone.”

  “Morris, you wouldn’t have invited me, if you weren’t looking to woo me to some effort or other. And I must warn you, right out of the gate, that I am quite simply exhausted. It has been a hell of a few weeks, and frankly, I’m looking forward to some much needed relaxation,” St. Cyprian said, turning his attention back to the dancers.

  “Yes, I’d heard about your little confrontation at a certain auction house. Jolly good show, that, I must admit. The Creeping Man is gone for good, I trust?”

  St. Cyprian shrugged. “Who can say, Morris? He’s come back before.” He took a sip of his drink and said, “Speaking of which…I’m told that—ah—package I turned over to the Ministry has been duly logged and inhumed somewhere safe?”

  “Package?” Morris blinked owlishly. “Ah, yes, our Chinese visitor. Yes, we’ve taken all precautions with that one.” He gestured pointedly with his butter-knife. “It cost quite a bit to craft a sarcophagus entirely from jade, you know. Are you quite certain it’ll hold him?”

  “I believe so,” St. Cyprian said. “Has he acted up at all?”

  Morris frowned. “No, thankfully. I’d like to ship the bloody beast back to China, frankly. Let them deal with him.” He sighed. “Still, probably safer to hold onto him for the time being. Who knows what sort of mischief he could get into, if he got loose.” He cocked his head. “Quite virulent, that sort of thing, I’m given to understand.”

  “Sometimes,” St. Cyprian said. “Werewolfery is hardly a well-trod path of inquiry.”

  Morris made a face. “Still…for all that I find the late, unlamented Miss Fleece’s intentions reprehensible, I can see where such an idea might have seemed strategically sound. Imagine it, a tide of slavering beasts, their numbers increasing exponentially as they grind the enemy under through sheer, berserk attrition.” He sounded almost wistful. “Under the proper circumstances, with the proper oversight, why, they’d be a weapon to put poison gas to shame. A plague, to be unleashed upon the enemies of our empire…”

  “Until they inevitably slipped whatever leash you’d put on them, and became, like the Satan of scripture, as lions seeking whom they might devour,” St. Cyprian said firmly. He frowned. He could practically hear the gears turning in Morris’ devious little brain. Show a bureaucrat like Morris a horror out of space and time, and they immediately began to calculate how it might be put to a more patriotic use. “Which is why I’ll be adding an irregular pilgrimage to wherever you’ve stashed him to my annual itinerary. Just to be sure that the wards and bindings I wove about his desiccated carcass have not been breached.”

  “Your mistrust wounds me, Charles. And after I let your Miss Andraste slip away to New York uncontested,” Morris said primly, pushing at his peas with the tip of his knife. He smiled unpleasantly at St. Cyprian’s expression. “Really now, did you think I wouldn’t see through that little ruse with the bodies?”

  “Regardless of what I might have thought, she’s gone and safely out of your pudgy grip, Morris old thing,” St. Cyprian said, after a moment. He’d known better than to hope that he could keep the wool pulled over Morris’ eyes permanently.

  Aife Andraste’s face swam to the surface of his thoughts, summoned by Morris’ words—dark, and just this side of exotic looking—and he twitched, banishing the images before they had a chance to settle on the surface of his mind. Thinking of her, pleasant as it was, brought with it memories of the Ripper that he was in no hurry to experience again.

  A powerful medium, Andraste had been forced by a group of amateur demonologists calling themselves the Whitechapel Club to make contact with the Outer Void for reasons he was still unclear of. Regardless of their intentions, something wholly malign and monstrous had responded, and used the unfortunate Miss Andraste as a conduit into reality. The Ripper, as it had named itself, had carved a red trail of slaughter across London’s East End before he and Gallowglass had managed to send it fleeing back to where it hailed from, its metaphorical tail between its legs. In the aftermath, Andraste had made for New York, where he hoped she’d stay out of trouble, and out of the clutches of the Ministry.

  To men like Morris, Andraste wasn’t a person. She was a tool, to be employed or disposed of, for the good of the Empire. She deserved better than that, St. Cyprian thought. Morris smirked, as if he were reading St. Cyprian’s thoughts, and the latter coughed and leaned back. “Morris, I would rather not discuss business over dinner. Bad for the digestion, what? So why not cut to the chase? Lovely as it is to see you, and be treated to dinner on the Ministry’s tab, let’s get to the point, shall we?”

  “Weren’t you the one telling me to slow down and enjoy myself a moment ago?” Morris asked, his smile slipping into a sneer. “Impatience is not an indulgence one can afford in our line, Charles. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

  “Yes, but only in regards to myself, obviously.” St. Cyprian smiled. “I’m allowed to be impatient with you. That’s how our arrangement works, old bean.”

  Morris snorted. “Duly noted.” He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and said, “It still needs salt.” He put his fork down and added, “Someone attempted to break into the Tower, last night.”

  St. Cyprian’s smile slipped. “That’s…not good.”

  “No. Quite the opposite, in fact.” Morris looked at him. “You know about the Tower, then? Carnacki told you that much, I assume.”

  “And a bit more besides, but yes. I know about the Tower and all of its nasty little secrets. Tell me, is Swinburne still screaming in his cell?”

  Morris made a face. “No, he stopped that about ten years ago. He’s singing now.”

  “Must make for a nice change. I’m sure the warders appreciate it. The human ones, at any rate,” St. Cyprian said. “It’s been what…four hundred years, give or take? 1598 or thereabouts? Just after the Plague of Beetles.”

  “You’d know more about that than me, I’m sure. Enoch Swinburne was a Royal Occultist, after all,” Morris said.

  “Dee had bad luck with apprentices,” St. Cyprian said.

  “He’s not the only one.”

  “I assure you that, unpleasant as she can be, Ebe Gallowglass is no Enoch Swinburne. Nor is she an Edward Kelley or a Montague Peveril.”

  “No, she is not. They were gentlemen, at least,” Morris said.

  “And murderous fiends, the lot. When they weren’t traitors, rapscallions or alien intelligences posing as gentlemen,” St. Cyprian said firmly. “Given that your life expectancy exceeds mine by a good deal, Morris, chances are you will be working with her at some point, so you’d best just get used to it.”

  Morris flushed. Then, after a moment of obvious hesitation, he said, “I do wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Charles. It gives me indigestion.” He sighed. “As much as I find you to be a persistent annoyance, you are…effective in your position. My life would be made more difficult by your untimely passing.” He shook his head. “Do try not to die any time soon, there’s a good chap.”

  St. Cyprian sat back. “Morris, I’m touched.”

  “Yes. In the head. You wanted to know why I asked you here?” Morris said, brusquely.

  “Yes, do tell,” St. Cyprian said.

  “I’d prefer not to tell you. Not until—ah, here he is now,” Morris said. He rose from his seat and extended his hands towards an older ma
n as he made his way towards them, across the lounge. St. Cyprian rose as well, his psychical senses quivering like the nose of a bloodhound who’s just caught a scent. “Lord Godalming, may I present Charles St. Cyprian, His Majesty’s Royal Occultist? And Charles, may I present to you Lord Godalming, of the Westenra Fund.”

  St. Cyprian cocked his head, as the newcomer shook hands with himself and Morris. “The Westenra Fund,” he said. “Aren’t those the chaps who—?”

  “We kill vampires,” Godalming said. He was an older man, in his late sixties, carrying more weight than he ought, St. Cyprian judged. Nonetheless, he was spry and energetic. Indeed, he fairly hummed with vigour. “St. Cyprian, eh? I knew your predecessor, and his as well. Edwin Drood—now there was a chap to storm Hell with. Him and the old Dutchman were a right pair,” Godalming added. He looked St. Cyprian up and down. “Whatever happened to him, by the by? I heard he vanished into thin air, or spontaneously combusted or some utter twaddle of that sort.”

  St. Cyprian took a drink before answering. “He vanished from a locked garret in Soho,” he said. “Carnacki didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t pry,” he added, referring to his predecessor.

  He’d first met Thomas Carnacki in the crypts below the Guildhall, hunting giant ghosts—that is to say, the ghosts of giants. Carnacki had saved his life that night, and many nights after, until the War. He frowned as the memories of those final hours on the Kemmelberg rose up as strong and as fast as ever. He saw Thomas Carnacki, reaching out to him through the mud of Ypres, his pale face going slack. He’d been plucked out of one world and sent into the next by a sniper’s bullet. An inglorious death for a man who deserved much better. St. Cyprian himself had only caught a few in the leg—two deep and one long—and for the most part, it was only bothersome in the damp.

  “Hmph. Yes, well, probably for the best you didn’t,” Godalming said. “Best never to ask questions you don’t already know the answer to, in my opinion. You were in Constantinople, with Carnacki?”