by Jack Dann
Gordon was grinning broadly by the end of the article. He could easily imagine Greathead’s embarrassment at the failure of the train engine. Dear God, what could he have said to the Prince of Wales? He folded the paper and put it back on the table, thinking that if it remained fine, then later this afternoon he would make the brisk walk through the frosted streets to Kemp’s home so they could share a glass of wine and their amusement at Greathead’s discomfiture.
But by noon steady rain had settled in, and Gordon put to one side his plans to visit Kemp.
Christmas came and went. Gordon and Kemp spent some days together, but they did not discuss the City & South London Railway, Greathead, nor their visit to the cavern that was now King William Street Station. Largely they left their London work in London: it was one of the best ways to maintain their serenity.
On a frosty morning in early February Gordon was once again reading his paper at breakfast. His wife had just risen from the table, and he could hear her in the hallway, discussing the evening’s meal with their cook, Matilda. There was little of interest in the paper, and Gordon was skimming it somewhat irritably when the headline to a minor paragraph on one of the inner pages caught his eye.
Third person reported missing at King William Street Station.
Gordon fumbled in his haste to fold the paper that he might the more easily read the article, then cursed under his breath as he upset his cup of tea over the pristine tablecloth. Hastily sopping up the mess with his napkin, he read the rest of the article.
On Tuesday last, Mr Arthur Bowman, of Hill End, alighted from the train at King William Street Station. His companion, Mr Charles Marbrock, alighted with Mr Bowman, but lost sight of him in the crowded tunnel leading to the exit. He was not waiting at the entrance foyer when Mr Marbrock exited the lift. A thorough search by station staff provided no clues. Mr Bowman is the third person to go missing from the exit tunnel of King William Street Station since the New Year.
That was it. Nothing else.
The third person to go missing from the exit tunnel of King William Street Station since the New Year?
Gordon rose suddenly, tossing the newspaper down to the table and further upsetting the now-empty tea cup. He strode into the hall, disturbing his wife and Matilda, and grabbed his heavy coat from the hall stand.
‘I’m going to see Kemp,’ he said to his wife. ‘I doubt I shall return before late afternoon.’ With that he stomped out the front door.
Late afternoon saw both Kemp and Gordon in the train station at Windsor. It had been a cold walk down almost deserted streets, and both men were pale, their faces pinched by the cold.
They stopped at the ticket box. ‘Do you have a map of London Underground?’ Gordon asked the ticket collector, and thanked the man as he handed one over.
Kemp and Gordon retired to the station fire to look at the map. Neither had been back to London in many months but, since they’d read the news this morning, both had a growing fear that they’d need to return very soon.
Gordon traced a gloved finger over the diagram until he came to the City & South London Line. It was drawn in black to differentiate it from all the other Underground lines currently in service, and Gordon ran his finger up the line from Stockwell to King William Street Station.
The line terminated at King William Street Station.
‘It was supposed to go further!’ Kemp said. ‘All the way through to Moorgate!’
‘That cavern was a throughway,’ Gordon hissed. ‘A throughway, not a terminus!’
They walked back to the ticket office, where the ticket collector sat looking bored.
It was freezing weather, and not many people had wanted tickets to London today.
‘Good man,’ said Gordon, ‘do you know why the City & South London line only goes so far as King William Street Station? We were hoping to catch this line through to Moorgate … we thought…’
‘Heard they had troubles with water seepage north of King William Street,’ said the ticket collector. ‘Several buildings collapsed over where they were trying to push through the tunnels.’ He gave a slight shrug. ‘Stopped work north, it did. Line now terminates at King William Street Station. But if you want to get to Moorgate, then you can walk to Mark Lane Station, and from there …’
Gordon and Kemp paid him no mind.
The line terminated at King William Street?
‘Why did we never check?’ Gordon whispered. ‘Why did we never ask?’
‘And where are the missing people going?’ said Kemp.
‘Pardon?’ said the ticket collector.
The next day, just after noon, the two men stood on the pavement outside the entrance to King William Street Station on Arthur Street East. Passengers were coming and going through the great double doors. Nothing appeared untoward.
Gordon and Kemp exchanged a look, then they went inside, purchased their 2d tickets, then walked through the turnstile to the lifts.
They rode down in silence, not meeting any of the other passenger’s eyes. As the last time they had descended this shaft, both men had nerves fluttering in their stomachs. This descent, they knew their nerves would not be easily quelled as previously.
From the lift they took one of two tunnels that led to the station platform. The tunnels were some six feet wide and perhaps eight tall, the white-tiled ceiling curving overhead in an elegant arch.
The platform itself was enclosed in a circular tunnel, again white tiled, and lit with the warm glow of gas lamps. Some fifteen people stood about, waiting for the train from the south to arrive. The tunnel continued a little way north of the platforms, and Gordon and Kemp could see a signal box straddling the track.
Beyond that was a blank brick wall.
The two men turned their attention back to the platform area, trying to orientate themselves with what they remembered of the cavern. They studied the twin tunnels leading to the lifts. Above each tunnel workmen had painted chubby gloved hands, each one with its index finger pointing to the tunnel below.
Between the two chubby gloved hands were the words: This way to the exit.
Gordon shivered, although he could not for the moment understand why.
‘Gordon?’ Kemp said. ‘D’you see?’
‘See what?’
Kemp nodded at the tunnels. ‘These tunnels are in precisely the same spot as was that south leading tunnel we found. You know the one, with the Long Tom lying half buried a few paces in.’
‘My God,’ said Gordon, momentarily forgetting himself in his shocked realisation.
‘The original tunnel likely led to a pathway leading to a ford over the Thames,’ said Kemp, ‘and from there to one of the roads leading to the southeast and the coast.’
‘Is that —’ Gordon began, but broke off as he heard the sound of the train approaching.
It stopped at the platform — a little grey and cream engine pulling green carriages. None of the carriages had any windows — the City & South London Railway Company had refused to pay for glass when there was nothing to see on the entirely underground line.
Gordon thought they looked like green coffins, and was not surprised to see people bundle out of them in a rush.
He’d be keen to alight, as well.
The disembarked passengers all headed for the exit tunnels, and Gordon and Kemp joined them, mingling among the crowd.
They entered the right hand tunnel and were not four or five paces inside it when both men felt a strange tingling. Kemp, a pace or two behind Gordon, lunged forward and grabbed his friend by the elbow. ‘What —’ he began, then stopped in absolute horror as the person in front of them, a young woman in a fashionable tartan bustled skirt and matching hat, simply faded from view.
Both men staggered in shock, then were pressed against the wall as the tide of passengers continued through the tunnel, heading for the exit.
Buffeted and breathless, they were finally left alone in the tunnel, staring about as if they could miraculously find the woman lurk
ing in the shadows.
They paused for a restorative whiskey in a pub on Arthur Street East, then they headed back to the station building which housed the London offices of the City & South London Railway.
There they demanded to see either the chairman of the company, or Mr Greathead, the chief engineer.
As it transpired, both men were in and, after Kemp had shouted a little at the chairman’s secretary, both agreed to meet with Gordon and Kemp.
‘What in God’s name were you thinking,’ Gordon said, not even waiting to be introduced to the chairman, ‘not continuing the line? That cavern was a throughway, a throughway, not… not…’
‘Not a terminus,’ Kemp finished.
‘If I may?’ Greathead said. He waved the men towards a group of chairs by a fire, but neither moved.
Greathead sighed. ‘May I introduce Sir Charles Grey Mott,’ he said, then murmured, ‘Mr Gordon, Mr Kemp,’ as Sir Charles stepped forward to shake the two crypt hunters’ hands.
The chairman was a tall, elegant man whose very manner seemed to calm Gordon and Kemp somewhat.
‘There is a problem?’ Sir Charles said. He sat down in one of the chairs, crossing his legs with such grace that it could only have been bred, not learned, and after a moment both Gordon and Kemp took chairs as well.
Greathead repressed another sigh and joined the others.
‘That cavern was a throughway,’ Gordon said. ‘An ancient crossroads. It would have been safe had the train continued on its journey, but as it is, the train stops, and people have to go somewhere.’
Sir Charles regarded him patiently.
‘People have been going missing,’ said Kemp. ‘We saw another, today. She vanished before our very eyes. Doubtless there will be a report in tomorrow’s Times. If it is of any concern.’
Sir Charles flickered a glance to Greathead but otherwise his expression did not alter.
‘There were problems in continuing the tunnel north,’ said Greathead. ‘Water began to seep in and —’
‘Yes, yes, so we have heard,’ said Gordon. ‘What are you going to do about the station? There are people going missing! On their way to the exit! You must continue the tunnel!’
‘That is impossible,’ said Sir Charles. ‘We simply cannot do it. Instead, in April we shall begin construction on a diversionary tunnel that will run just east of the current line leading into King William Street Station, and bypassing the station entirely. The soil is more stable there, and we should have no problems driving the line north. We anticipate that we can be finished by the end of the year.’
Kemp opened his mouth to speak, but Sir Charles continued on smoothly.
‘You assured Mr Greathead that the space was safe to be used. You said —’
‘That it could only be used if the tunnel continued through!’ Gordon said.
‘I don’t recall you saying that,’ Greathead said. ‘In fact, I am sure that you didn’t —’
Sir Charles raised a hand for peace. ‘What is happening to these people, gentlemen? I can assure you, it is of concern to me.’
‘We don’t know,’ said Kemp. ‘They are travelling somewhere, but not to the exit they desire.’
‘You need to close the station,’ said Gordon.
‘That’s impossible!’ Greathead said. ‘King William Street Station is our one and only station currently north of the Thames. If we close it then our entire purpose of building a line from the southern suburbs under the Thames into London is defeated. We might as well —’
‘Close the entire line,’ said Sir Charles. ‘And if we do that then the company will founder, and thousands shall be left destitute.’
Gordon made an impatient noise. ‘You must close it,’ he said.
‘There is nothing you can do?’ Sir Charles said. ‘This is, after all, your speciality. It is what we paid you for.’
Gordon narrowed his eyes at the tone of Sir Charles’ voice and began to shake his head, but Kemp put a hand on his arm.
‘There might be something,’ Kemp said. ‘The Long Tom.’
‘The … what?’ Sir Charles said.
‘There was an ancient cross in the cavern,’ Greathead said. ‘Gordon and Kemp called it a Long Tom and told me to give it to some local antiquarian society.’
‘It might help,’ Kemp said, ‘if it went back into the station. It might protect the passengers.’
‘Might,’ Gordon muttered.
Neither Greathead nor Sir Charles heard him.
‘Where is it now?’ Sir Charles said. ‘Greathead, do you remember where it went?’
Greathead looked a little embarrassed. ‘Ahem … it currently stands in the grounds of my Devon house.’
‘Good!’ Sir Charles said. ‘It shall be no trouble to restore it, then. Kemp, you are certain this will work? We only need to keep the station open eight or nine months.’
‘I cannot be sure,’ Kemp said, ‘but —’
He stopped. Sir Charles and Greathead were engaged in a conversation about how to transport the Long Tom back to King William Street Station, and from there how to explain its presence to passengers.
Kemp looked at Gordon. Who knew if it would work?
And then …
What exit were the missing people taking?
Mrs Frances Patterson stepped out of the tunnel and stopped dead, her mouth hanging open.
This was not what she had expected to see.
Instead of streets bustling with horse-drawn vehicles and pedestrians, and footpaths strewn with vendors, all she could see for miles and miles was low rolling hills. To her right stretched what she supposed might have been the Thames, save that it was three times too wide, and where there should have been embankments and warehouses, piers and ships, was nothing but waterbirds and rushes.
A movement before her caught her attention.
Three men stood some fifteen paces away. They wore nothing save woven plaid cloaks and trousers. Their faces and naked upper bodies were daubed with blue woad, their long hair was plaited with what looked like bits of copper, and their eyes were narrowed in suspicion. Each of them carried a long spear.
They were not very tall and looked underfed, and Mrs Patterson vaguely wondered if they were prisoners escaped from one of the city prisons. Newgate, perhaps. Or perhaps native Americans, transported to London’s docks by one of the tea clippers.
She cleared her throat. ‘Is this …’ She had to stop and start again. They were so rude to stare at her in such fashion! ‘Is this the way to the exit?’
The three men exchanged glances, making their decision.
One of them leaned his weight on his back foot, and hefted his spear.
Sir Charles Grey Mott sat in his office, looking down at the plan of King William Street Station sitting on his desk.
It had been ten months since he had spoken with Greathead, Gordon and Kemp in this office. In the week following that conversation workmen had restored the ancient pagan cross to the platform, just between the entrances to the two exit tunnels. A little sign attached to the cross had said that it was an artwork on loan from one of the county antiquarian societies.
For two months it appeared to have worked. No one else went missing from the exit tunnels.
Then, very gradually, people started to vanish once again. One every fortnight or so, then the numbers began to increase: one a week, then two a week.
Sir Charles had kept it from the press only because of his extensive contacts, a few bribes, and one rather vicious threat made to the editor of London’s largest newspaper. The City & South London Railway was only a very new company, still with only one line, and Parliament could withdraw its consent for the company’s continued operation at any time.
There could be no hint of what was going wrong.
So Sir Charles and Greathead pushed their work crews as hard as they could to open up the diversionary tunnel. They found, thank God, no further caverns (if they had, Sir Charles thought he may have taken an early retirement to
Panama).
Yesterday the new tunnel through to Moorgate had opened.
Yesterday King William Street Station was finally, thankfully, closed.
Sir Charles would have gone down himself to turn off the gas lamps and smash the damned pagan cross to pieces, save he didn’t want to have to risk using the exit tunnels.
He sent the foreman of one of his work crews instead, and, thankfully, he had come back.
Sir Charles stared a long time at the plans, then he reached for his pen, dipped it into the inkwell, and in large black letters wrote across the plan: Closed due to an engineering blunder.
Then he pushed back his chair, rose, straightened his vest and jacket, and went back to his wife and family awaiting him in Chelsea. He would have a good evening meal, and relax later in his study with a whiskey.
It was all over and done with.
The wind whistled across the marshes surrounding the sacred hills that sat on the bend of the Thames. A small village sat close to the northern bank of the Thames, near a ford, and near to where, one day, London Bridge would stretch across the river. It was only a small village, with eight or nine circular huts, most with smoke drifting from holes in their apex.
Just to the east of the village stood a low hill, one of the sacred hills. The hill had four low arched openings that were centred on each of the cardinal directions.
At least, the hill had once had four openings. Now all but one of them were closed over with rubble and turf. A group of six men moved towards the entrance, their steps slow, their shoulders burdened with a tall stone cross, its head enclosed within a stone circle.
Two shamans walked behind the six men and their burden, their heads bowed, murmuring incantations. They had carved the cross between them over the past cycle of the moon, working into it all the protective magics they could.
