The Haunting of H. G. Wells

by Robert Masello

  But in the crypts of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

  Which was, itself, the single most potent symbol of Great Britain.

  Could that be right? Had Wells just intuited—no, deduced—his enemy’s plan of attack? Or had his imagination run away with him, as it so often did? Was he being too clever by half?

  Sliding the shoe back onto Rebecca’s foot as gently as he could—she winced, nonetheless—and lacing it, he stood up and said, “I am going to put you in a cab to Guy’s Hospital. Go and see Nurse Chasubel the moment you get there, she will know what to do, while I chase down a”—he paused, not even knowing what to call it—“a premonition.”

  “Of what? Where?”

  “Of Graf. Launching his assault.” The cathedral would be filled with worshippers for the Ash Wednesday evensong. Wells’s intuition seemed more likely by the second.

  “Then I am going with you.”

  “You most definitely are not. If I’m right, there is no time to lose, and even less to argue about it.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Rebecca, I can’t put you at any more risk.”

  “And how, may I ask, do you plan to stop him on your own? You don’t even know what Graf looks like.”

  To his chagrin, she was, of course, right.

  “But I do know,” she declared, getting to her feet and putting an end to the debate. “If you’re so sure of where we’re going, H. G., and an attack is imminent, then hadn’t we hurry?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The night sky was clear, and the moon was full—all but inviting an aerial attack. The deadly airships could soar across the Channel and follow the shining silver thread of the Thames all the way to their target. The dome of the cathedral, sitting high atop Ludgate Hill, would gleam like an ivory bull’s-eye in the bombardier’s sights.

  Graf’s only fear was that a zeppelin might eclipse or undo his own achievement. All the more reason to work fast.

  “I do not like heights,” Schell said, sitting beside him in the back seat of the cab.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” Graf muttered, training a watchful eye on the driver.

  “I won’t go up. That is all I am saying.”

  “You will do whatever I tell you to do,” Graf snarled under his breath. “Now shut up.”

  Graf hadn’t liked the way the driver had looked at them when they got in and told him their destination. His curiosity wasn’t so surprising, since they did make an odd pair—a bespectacled type, cradling a viola case, and a hulking brute with a shock of blond hair, expensively attired in a felt brown hat and a long, fur-collared overcoat. He had stolen them from the pile left by the guests on the night of the Eleusinian rites.

  The cab hit a pothole, and Graf instinctively hunched over the viola case, holding it close to his chest.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” the cabbie said. “Bomb crater.”

  “Watch out for them. This is a very delicate instrument I’m carrying.”

  “Not easy, with the blackout and all. You play the violin?”

  “Viola. Yes.”

  “You playing at the cathedral?” he said, turning around. Only now did Graf notice the soot marking his forehead for Ash Wednesday.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh,” he said, nodding and visibly relaxing his shoulders. “Then don’t you worry. I’ll get you there in one piece.”

  When they arrived, Graf paid the fare and, just to ensure that the man would have only good feelings and no nagging suspicions about his passengers, gave him a generous tip. Stepping out in front of the church, he saw a stream of parishioners already passing under the plane trees, whose spindly branches were bereft of leaves, and climbing the stairs surmounted by the twelve mighty columns. It was an impressive edifice, Graf had to grant, comparable to the cathedrals of Paris or Cologne. Built by Sir Christopher Wren—now entombed there along with this country’s other great heroes, Nelson and Wellington—it had reigned over this spot, where four previous churches had stood, since the end of the seventeenth century. Graf had visited it several times already, and even taken a guided tour overseen by the deacon’s office, making careful mental notes all along the way. He knew all there was to know about the history and the construction of the church—erected after the Great Fire of 1666, dedicated to the patron saint of London—but more to the point he knew all of its vulnerabilities. He knew the way to the popular Whispering Gallery, a hundred feet above the floor of the nave, and from there the winding staircase that would take him even higher up into the dome if need be. He knew the spot from which he would be able to look straight down onto the very pulpit itself, onto the bowed heads of the worshippers and the upraised faces of the choristers in the choir stalls . . . and strike the hammer blow that would resound forever after.

  “You see that?” Schell said, nudging him in the ribs as they passed through the massive doors, standing open. A dozen members of the St. Paul’s Watch, in helmets and brown uniforms, were stationed on either side, with buckets of water and hoses, lanterns and sandbags, ready to deploy should a zeppelin score a hit.

  “Just follow me,” Graf said, skirting a priest dispensing ashes, and turning toward the south aisle leading to the Chapel of St. Michael and St. George, and just past that the Holman Hunt portrait entitled The Light of the World; in the picture, Christ knocked at a closed door, inviting any man to open it and let him in. In Graf’s view, few, if any, ever did admit him, and those that did received precious little for their trouble. Religion was a swindle; it was only science, in his book, that could be relied upon. Although jostled by the other people, and clutching the viola case close to his chest, Graf controlled himself lest he betray any of his eagerness or anxiety. Those around him were in solemn, but good, spirits, greeting friends and wishing each other well.

  “Hope Jerry stays home tonight,” said one.

  “Well, if your number’s up, your number’s up,” his friend joshed, “and no better place than this to get the news.”

  These English displayed a remarkable, though disturbing, pluck, Graf reflected.

  The crowds moved slowly, many craning their necks simply to marvel anew at the eight exquisite grisaille panels, picked with gold, in the vaulted ceiling, depicting scenes from the life of St. Paul, from his conversion on the road to Damascus to the punishment of the sorcerer Elymas. Graf could tell that Heinrich, raised Lutheran and respectfully holding his hat in his hands, was cowed by his surroundings.

  For that matter, the enormity of what they were about to do weighed heavy even on Graf’s shoulders. He was going to wage war as no one else had ever done it, in the center of the enemy’s capital, in their most consecrated space, and using science not brute force. Any moral qualms he might have felt, and in truth he felt barely any, could be assuaged by the prediction that H. G. Wells had often propounded—that this would be the war to end all wars.

  Seen in that light, he was only advancing the cause—making war a thing of the past—and, in his own way, doing God’s work.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Please God, no, Wells thought, not now.

  Rebecca said, “What’s wrong?”

  Wells pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, and squeezed the skin tight. He bent over in his seat, the other passengers on the Underground train taking note, and one of them asking Rebecca if her father needed some help.

  “No, we’ll be all right,” she replied.

  But Wells had heard it, and might have been amused if the pain between his eyes was not so sharp.

  “What can I do?” she asked.

  “Pray,” he said. But the symptoms were familiar enough now that he knew what was coming—the smell of the trenches, the visions. He hardly dared sit up and look around.

  Leaving Trafalgar Square, they had been unable to flag down a taxi and rather than risk any delay, they’d hurried down into the tube station at Charing Cross. The train was full with people heading home for work, or, as this was Ash Wednesday, to an evensong service at their
church. It was only a short trip, less than a couple of miles to the cathedral station, but each time the train jolted or made a stop or swerved on the tracks, he felt another stab of the knife between his eyes. Bad at any time; right now an attack would spell disaster. He would need his wits about him for whatever challenge was to present itself when they got there.

  “You can lean on me,” Rebecca said, but he was not about to do that—especially as Rebecca herself was hobbled by the injury to her foot. A fine pair, they made, to thwart Anton Graf and his henchman Heinrich Schell, whom Rebecca had intimated would most assuredly be accompanying his boss. When the train screeched to a halt at the St. Paul’s station, Wells took a deep breath and got to his feet, swaying slightly, and the other riders made way for them to step out onto the busy platform . . . which is when he was brought up short and stopped in his tracks.

  The British soldier—who had never shared his true name with Wells—the ghoul he had simply known as Tommy, was leaning against a rusted column, his face black with dirt, the front of his khaki tunic torn to pieces and splotched with blood. Was this how Captain Lillyfield and the sappers had left him, deep in the secret labyrinth? Other people bustled all around, paying no attention, and when Wells looked to Rebecca, she, too, seemed oblivious.

  “Over there, by the column,” he said, “what do you see?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you see someone standing there—a soldier?” He did not add the word “dead.”

  “No.” And then, “But you do?”

  Like the ghost of Corporal Norridge, Tommy seemed to be saying something—was it simply “St. Paul’s”?—but his words were swallowed by the station noise and his image was obscured by the other travelers in the station.

  “Let’s go on,” Wells said, trying to brush the intrusion aside and leading Rebecca toward the stairs. He cast one look back, and Tommy, though remaining in place, was following his progress with doleful eyes, and nodding encouragement.

  When they came up out of the station, Great Paul, the largest bell in England, was ringing in the tower of the church, and worshippers were streaming past the statue of Queen Anne that stood before the west entrance—the grim spot where in 1606 Father Garnet had been taken to be hanged, drawn, and quartered for his role in the Gunpowder Plot. Under the portico lights, which were dim and hooded, members of the fire brigade were perched on the steps, their round helmets tilted back, searching the darkening sky.

  “What do we do now?” Rebecca asked. “Did your ghostly visitor offer any clue?”

  “No,” Wells said, “we’re on our own,” though the pain between his eyes was lessening. “We simply have to spot them before they spot us.” Beyond that, even he was unsure. Assuming his hunch was correct and they were there, what would their plan of attack be? He looked back again, to see if the apparition was anywhere in evidence, but all he saw were parishioners, most of whom had presumably fasted that day, hurrying to attend the services and then get home to a hearty meal. But the mere fact that Tommy had appeared at this particular place, and time, offered him some confirmation that he might be on the right trail, after all.

  Just inside the narthex, a priest in his purple and white vestments was ministering to the faithful, reciting, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” as he daubed the forehead of each one with ashes made from the burnt fronds from the previous year’s Palm Sunday observance. Wells and Rebecca dutifully submitted, but as they moved past him, Wells felt her grip on his arm growing more forceful. It struck him that it was less for his benefit than her own. She was limping badly, and in the light of the candles and lanterns, all of which were ready to be extinguished at a moment’s warning, he saw the gleam of perspiration on her brow. He raised the back of his hand to her face, and the skin was warm. Too warm.

  “You’re not well,” he said, and rather than deny it, she declared, “I’m not about to quit now. I’ll go to hospital later.”

  He was torn between love and duty, but he also knew her well enough not to argue the point. He still needed her to identify the culprits; the cathedral was full, and the low hum of the multitude of voices and the shuffling of their feet reverberated off the walls and false-coffered ceiling so high above. There were two ways to go now—to his left, the north aisle of the nave, with its chapel of St. Dunstan and Lord Mayor’s Vestry, or the south aisle, with its famed geometrical staircase and, beyond that, the entrance to the crypt where, along with the cathedral’s builder Sir Christopher Wren, the Duke of Wellington and Lord Nelson were entombed. He turned in that direction. Would whatever destruction Graf and Schell planned to unleash be hatched in that underground chamber?

  Passing the chapel of St. Michael and St. George, he was reminded of the role the latter saint had played in Machen’s story, marshaling the ghostly bowmen on the battlefield at Mons, and the importance of that account to English morale. By now the tale had become as integral a part of British mythology as any ancient legend had to the classical Greeks. Several people were kneeling inside the enclave, heads bowed in silent prayer.

  He felt Rebecca’s fingers clench his arm like an eagle’s talons, and when he looked at her to find out why—was she about to faint?—he saw her gazing toward the pulpit and mumbling, “Straight ahead. Look!”

  There was a sea of faces and hats, coats and canes, and even a wheelchair or two, with legless soldiers being pushed down the aisle, but he could not tell what she was looking at.

  “The big man in the beaver hat.”

  The crowd parted for a moment, and he glimpsed a thatch of blond hair spilling over a fur collar.

  “And the man with the viola case.”

  Beside him, a smaller man in wire-rim glasses was holding the instrument against his chest rather than by its handle, as a musician would normally do.

  Then, as if he had felt their attention, the smaller man turned. His eyes flicked to Rebecca, then back to Wells, with a shock of recognition, and in the next instant he bolted toward the nearest interior door. Schell, taken off guard by his master’s flight, looked all around, then barreled after him. In seconds, they were gone.

  “Where are they going?” Rebecca said, already trying to give chase and pulling Wells in their direction.

  A door slammed after them—the door, Wells knew, that led to only one place. “The crypt. They’ve gone into the crypt.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  If there was one thing that Graf had learned from his many years of study in bacteriology, it was that you had to control for all the variables in any experiment. But this intrusion was not one that he had anticipated; Rebecca’s appearance he might have foreseen—she had a knack for getting in his way—but H. G. Wells? That was something he could not have even remotely contemplated.

  Nor had he planned to be descending this narrow stone stair, with Schell lumbering after him, into the cathedral’s subterranean chambers. All he knew was that he had to get them off his trail, whatever that took. At the bottom, he crashed into a watchman in a metal helmet, and nearly lost hold of the viola case.

  “This area’s closed,” the watchman said sternly, waving a lighted electric torch. “No exceptions. Out you go.”

  “Heinrich,” Graf said, nimbly stepping to one side, as Schell smashed a fist into the man’s unsuspecting face. He went down like a plank, but to make sure he was out cold, Schell crouched down, and lifting his head by his collar, punched him again and again, until his head lolled on his neck like a broken stalk.

  Looking around, Graf took in the gloomy vault, the feeble glow of the gaslights illuminating plaques mounted on the walls, and the two immense sarcophagi holding the nation’s greatest admiral and general. Before concealing himself behind one or the other—Wellington’s topped with red granite, Nelson’s a black slab—he stopped to listen, and heard the sound of footfalls on the stairs.

  Damn, he thought, Wells and that pestilential young woman were going to be an impediment, after all . . . though not one he would h
ave to tolerate for long.

  “Get rid of them,” he said to Schell. “Do whatever you have to, but be quick and quiet about it.”

  Schell, wiping his bloody fist on his pants, grabbed the watchman by his feet and dragged him out of sight, his helmet and truncheon, electric torch and loose change, rolling about on the blood-spattered floor, as Graf scurried to hide.

  Wells paused a few steps from the bottom, seeing the watchman’s things littering the stone slabs. He put out a hand to stop Rebecca, who was following close behind, clinging to the handrail. With no weapon, he knew that in a confrontation he would be no match for his quarry. “Go back up,” he urged her, “get help!”

  “I’m not leaving you here.”

  “You must!”

  He’d been foolish to go in hot pursuit, but it was too late to turn back now. The truncheon was only a few yards away—he would have to make a grab for it.

  Keeping low, as if going over the top and into no man’s land, he ducked out of the doorway and swooped down, picking up the truncheon in one hand and the torch in the other, then pivoting in place to search for the Germans. A trail of blood drops led to a dark alcove, its archway strung with cobwebs—cobwebs that were still swaying as if caught in a breeze. Wells trained the light on the enclosure as he approached, announcing out loud that there was no escape, the guards were on their way, and surrender was the only option.

  The beam of light shone on a brass plaque depicting “The Lady with the Lamp,” Florence Nightingale, before her silhouette was suddenly eclipsed by a blinding rush of motion. His head down like a bull, Schell charged out of the recess, bowling Wells over and sending the torch and iron baton flying. Knocked flat on his back, Wells put up his hands to deflect the flurry of blows raining down on him, but the man had his knees on his abdomen and he could barely breathe. He tried to hit back but he had no purchase or angle, and when he felt the meaty fingers grappling at his throat, he feared he had only seconds left before blacking out.