Legion of the Dead

by Paul Stewart

  ‘I think you’ve got some explaining to do,’ said the doctor coolly.

  I rose slowly to my feet, clipping my swordstick to the tail of my waistcoat and raising my hands above my head. The doctor, flanked by the two fearsome Tannhausers, marched me across the courtyard and into the house at the barrel of a gun. Leaving the dogs to roam the courtyard, he closed the heavy front door and proceeded to draw deadbolts across it, top, middle and bottom.

  ‘You’re a tick-tock lad by the look of you,’ the doctor said, his hunting rifle still cocked and his finger on the trigger. ‘How did you come to be skulking beneath the wheels of my Chesney?’

  ‘I was just cobble-grazing, sir,’ I began innocently. ‘I didn’t mean no harm by it, sir, honest.’

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ said the doctor levelly. ‘You’re no Hightown urchin. You were following me. Who are you? Are you mixed up in this graverobbing epidemic? Answer me, boy!’

  ‘No, sir,’ I protested hotly, despite the menace in his eyes and the rifle pointed at my chest. ‘I followed you because a friend of mine told me she’d seen you hanging around the Adelaide Graveyard. I thought you might be a graverobber …’ I took a breath. ‘My name is Barnaby Grimes. I am a tick-tock lad.’ I fished a business card from my waistcoat and handed it to him. ‘Professor Pinkerton-Barnes at the university can vouch for me, sir. He’ll tell you I’m no graverobber …’

  The doctor lowered the hunting rifle and, with a sigh, propped it against a mahogany hall table. Taking off his hat and cape, he gave a rueful smile, before handing my card back to me.

  ‘You know, Mr Grimes,’ he said, ‘I almost hoped that you were part of a graverobbing gang. At least that would be a more plausible explanation than the alternative …’

  ‘The alternative?’ I said.

  ‘Corpses being raised from the dead,’ said the doctor, ‘erupting up out of the grave …’

  ‘That’s what I saw!’ I exclaimed. ‘In Adelaide Graveyard!’

  ‘You witnessed this?’ said the doctor with appalled fascination. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Come, Mr Grimes, there is someone you must meet.’

  The doctor looked genuinely concerned, and there was something about his urgent manner and haunted eyes that made me trust him. He gestured for me to follow him.

  We crossed the broad oak-panelled hall, the floor laid out in a herring-bone pattern of polished wooden blocks that creaked as we walked over them. It was cold, and I could see my breath in the grey light which came down at an angle from the small upper windows. Apart from the mahogany table, where the doctor had laid his cape and hat, and a framed water-colour of the outside of the house on the wall beside it, the hall was bare. Our footsteps echoed up the stairwell and round the ceiling.

  On the far side of the hall, the doctor stopped in front of the middle of three doors and pulled a key from his pocket. He inserted it into the lock and turned it.

  ‘Go on in, Barnaby Grimes,’ the doctor said, as he opened the door and stood to one side to allow me to enter. He gestured towards the plump armchairs and sofas which stood in a cluster around a roaring fire. ‘And take a seat.’

  Compared with the austerity of the hallway, the drawing room was a treasure trove, luxuriously decorated with items that seemed to have come from the East. There were thick pile carpets in sumptuous reds, orange and aquamarine across the floor, while directly before the crackling fire, lay a tiger-skin rug, the creature’s great mouth fixed in a permanent silent roar. Framed silk tapestries depicting jungle scenes hung on the walls, a fluted brass chandelier dangled from a chain at the centre of the ceiling and a hinged four-panelled screen stood beside the mantelpiece which was, itself, crowded with memorabilia; gilt-edged crystal, ivory boxes, silver candlesticks and an ebony incense holder carved in the shape of an elephant, with sweet-smelling smoke coiling from the tasselled howdah on its back.

  A large oil painting in an ornate gold frame hung above the mantelpiece. It was a portrait of a handsome woman in a white dress, holding a lamp as she tended a wounded soldier in a night-time hospital ward. As I sat down on a low leather chaise-longue before the roaring fire, and the doctor took his place in one of the two great wingback chairs, I became aware that there was a third figure in the room.

  Standing with his back to us, staring out through the bars at the high bay windows, was a stooped aged gentleman with a halo of fine white hair that fell in wisps to his shoulders.

  ‘Father,’ said the doctor, in a soft soothing voice. ‘It was just as you suspected. I saw it with my own eyes – a primitive canoe beached on the mudflats and uncovered by the low tide, just down from Riverhythe Docks by the Gatling Sump.’

  The elderly gentleman gave a low groan.

  ‘And there’s more, Father. This is Barnaby Grimes. He’s a tick-tock lad who claims to have seen a resurrection …’

  The old man took a sharp intake of breath. As he raked his fingers through his dishevelled hair I saw that his hands were trembling. Slowly he turned to face me.

  ‘This is my father, Sir Alfred de Vere, Mr Grimes, and I am Dr Lawrence de Vere,’ the young doctor said. ‘Now, perhaps you’ll be so kind as to tell us your story.’

  Sir Alfred shuffled over to the second wingback chair and lowered himself into it, his deep-set eyes boring into mine. I shifted round awkwardly in my chair and began. I described my encounter with Thump McConnell – noting how the young doctor’s face scowled at the mention of a now-familiar name – and I told them how I and my friend Will Farmer had been invited along to the funeral of the Emperor, gang leader Firejaw O’Rourke. When I got to the part of my tale where, on my chance return to the graveyard, I had seen the Emperor emerge from the grave, both father and son were transfixed.

  ‘Saints alive!’ the old man exclaimed. He leaped to his feet, his eyes wild and bony hands a palsy of shaking. ‘Then it is true, Lawrence, my worst nightmare has come true!’

  ‘Calm yourself, Father, please,’ said the young doctor. ‘Think of your heart. Please, take your seat while I fetch your cordial.’

  The doctor hurried from the room while his father slumped back in the wingback chair. His face, even in the golden firelight, looked ashen and grey.

  ‘I have meddled with matters beyond human comprehension,’ he said. ‘Tampered with the very essence of life and death – and now I fear I must pay the consequences …’

  He fell still. I became conscious of the hissing, crackling sound of the coal burning in the grate, and of the ponderous ticking of a clock somewhere behind me. The old man’s face grimaced and twitched as memories came back to him.

  ‘Many years ago, as a young man, I served as a regimental surgeon out East in the Malabar Kush. The de Veres were a noble family, but had fallen on hard times, and it was all my father could manage to buy – a mediocre commission in an unfashionable regiment. But I didn’t mind. I was young, impetuous and full of the arrogance of youth …’

  As he spoke, his voice grew fainter, and I found myself leaning further and further forward on the chaise-longue to hear the words clearly.

  ‘The Fighting 33rd, they called us, though a worse collection of black-hearted rogues and villains you’d be pushed to find this side of the North-West Frontier.’

  My heart missed a beat. The Fighting 33rd? It was the very regiment that Blindside Bailey had told me about …

  ‘The officers were no better,’ Sir Alfred was saying. ‘Too busy living the high life to bother about the men under their charge. The garrison was a disgrace and the hospital barracks even worse. But then Sienna arrived with her angels of mercy …’

  The old man gazed up at the portrait above the mantel, and his eyes misted with tears.

  ‘Together, we transformed the hospital, saved hundreds of lives and … fell in love.’ He sighed, and the faraway look in his eyes became troubled. ‘And then,’ he said, ‘I listened to an old soldier’s tale …’

  Outside, a wind had got up. I could hear it whistling through the trees and stirri
ng the dried leaves that still lay upon the ground. It filled the chimney, howling softly and sending soot pattering down into the flames below. As Sir Alfred continued, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and, despite the fire, an icy shiver ran the length of my spine.

  ‘This private had been present at the death of the worst black-hearted scoundrel in the Fighting 33rd, whose dark deeds had stirred up a rebellion in the mountains and led to six regiments being despatched to wipe out the infamous Kal-Khee sect of assassins and destroy their temple. Colour Sergeant McMurtagh confessed that he and the three corporals of the colour party had stashed away a fortune in a cave in the hills, but died before he could reveal its location, taking the secret to the grave …’

  Sir Alfred paused for a moment as he remembered Blindside Bailey’s tale – the very same one he’d told me so many years later in the Goose and Gullet. Bailey’s had ended with a glass of water, but Sir Alfred’s clearly went on.

  ‘A fortune, Mr Grimes. A fortune,’ the old man rasped, ‘going to waste out there in the bleak wilderness, when one such as I could put it to so much good use. I knew I had to do something, but what?’

  He waved a gnarled hand at the artefacts that furnished the drawing room.

  ‘I’ve always been something of a collector,’

  Sir Alfred continued, ‘even in those distant days, which is how I came by the last surviving sword of the demon goddess, Kal-Ramesh. In revenge for the murders of the colour sergeant and his three corporals, the high command finally acted. They sent the entire regiment to storm the temple stronghold of the Kal-Khees, which they duly did. The golden statue was hit by a cannon shell and blasted to bits. A bombardier picked up the only remaining fragment, a hand clutching a golden sword, and sold it to me for three shillings. Three shillings! It was the greatest investment I’d ever make.

  ‘You see, Mr Grimes, according to the Kal-Khee assassins, the six swords of the demon goddess each had an extraordinary property. Speed, stealth, strength, disguise, prophecy and … life.’

  ‘Life?’ I prompted.

  ‘Life. The sixth sword – the one I was lucky enough to have purchased from that unsuspecting soldier – brought sect members back to life. Or so the stories went. Unbelievable, I know, Mr Grimes. And yet you and I both know such things are indeed possible, do we not?’

  I swallowed hard.

  ‘At the dead of night, I took the sword to the military cemetery outside the small dusty garrison town where we were stationed and stood before the simple headstones of the murdered colour sergeant and his corporals and planted it in the dusty earth of first one, then the next, and the next, and the next, and … nothing happened. At first. Then, as I clutched that demon sword with the golden hand severed at the wrist, I heard it. Scraping and scrabbling. Soft at first, then louder and louder, until … first one, then another and another of the colour party burst from the ground.’

  I shuddered as the memory of Firejaw O’Rourke flooded my thoughts.

  First one, then another of the colour party burst from the ground.

  ‘It was then that I realized, to my horror, that not only had it been four weeks since their hasty burial, but that the causes of their deaths – the axe, the rope, the stake – had not been removed. Now there was no point. Putting aside my revulsion, I instructed them to climb to their feet. They did as they were told, their obedience sending a shiver of excitement down my spine.

  ‘“Take me to your treasure,” I told them.

  ‘Without a word being spoken, they fell into a line, their feet dragging as they lurched forward. With my lantern in my hand, I hurried after them. We walked for more than an hour through the rocky barren landscape of the Malabar Kush, leaving the sleeping garrison behind, the half-moon shining eerily down as we arrived at last at the side of a wedge-shaped hill. Without pausing, they walked halfway up the steep side of the hill, before stopping on a narrow ledge.

  ‘There, in silence, the four of them fell into the roles they must have had when still alive. Thompson cleared away a covering of dead scrub; Lancing and Arnold stepped forward to shift a huge slab of rock, to reveal a narrow entrance to a cave. Colour Sergeant McMurtagh entered first. I followed close behind, holding the lantern up to illuminate the inside of the cave.

  ‘It was a dry, dusty place. The walls were pitted and the floors covered in a soft, reddish sand. A regimental flagpole was propped up at the back of the cave. Beside it, in the shadows, lay four enormous chests. Colour Sergeant McMurtagh crouched down and reached into the dark, shadowy recess. A moment later, to the sound of grinding and scratching, he dragged one of the wooden chests, banded with rusting iron, into the middle of the floor.

  ‘In my excitement, I pulled the sword of Kal-Ramesh from my belt and prized open the lid of the chest. As I gazed as its magnificent contents, I dropped the sword in astonishment and fell to my knees, gasping for breath. Even in the semi-gloom, I could see that the chest was full of treasure beyond my wildest imaginings – there were diamonds, rubies and emeralds sparkling in the half-light, together with more gold than I had ever dreamed of seeing in my lifetime …

  ‘“Take it outside,” I commanded.

  ‘Without hesitation, McMurtagh hefted the chest up onto a shoulder and, lurching from side to side, carried it out of the cave. I followed close behind.

  ‘“Fetch the others!” I told the undead soldiers.

  ‘The colour party stumbled back into the cave and I was about to follow them when there was a strange rumbling sound and the earth beneath me began to shake. I had instinctively seized the treasure chest, and clutching it in a fierce embrace, fell to the ground. Great cracks opened up in the earth as the very hills themselves seemed to shake and shudder with revulsion at what I had done. All I could do was hold on tight and pray that I would survive as rocks slipped, boulders rolled and the air filled with choking clouds of sand …’

  The old doctor shook his head wearily.

  ‘As earthquakes go, it wasn’t, by all accounts, a large one. But on that strange unearthly night, I felt as if hell itself was preparing to swallow me up for my wicked deed. When it stopped and the air had finally cleared, I saw that the entrance to the cave had been sealed up by a massive rock fall. The four undead soldiers of the Fighting 33rd were trapped inside, along with, I only realized later, the sixth sword. But I had no thoughts of that. They could stay there for a thousand years so far as I was concerned. I was alive and rich beyond my wildest dreams!

  ‘I resigned my commission, married my dear Sienna and returned to this great city of ours and my ancestral seat, where I was able to restore the de Vere family fortunes. And that’s not all I did,’ Sir Alfred said proudly. ‘Together with Lady Sienna, I used my wealth to transform St Jude’s Hospital into the model institution it is today. A legacy I shall, one day, pass on to my son …’

  ‘But that is not quite the end of the story, is it, Father?’

  I looked up to see the young doctor standing in the doorway, his face as ashen and grey as the old man’s.

  ‘What one earthquake can bury, another can open up,’ he said. ‘No wonder those reports of seismic seizures in the East last autumn filled you with such dread. Then the sightings down by the docks near the Gatling Sump – and the sudden wave of grave robberies. With each one, you added another lock, another bolt, another chain to the door, until you yourself are as entombed, here in this great house of yours, as completely as those accursed souls were for all those years …’

  ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ the old man cried, tearing at his white hair. ‘I can’t bear to think of it!’ Having seen Firejaw O’Rourke, I knew exactly how he felt.

  ‘The colour party have returned from the East and are here in the city,’ the young doctor said. ‘I know that now. And they have raised an army against us … A legion of the dead!’

  ‘Against us?’ whispered the old man. ‘Oh, no, it’s me they want. They have come back for revenge!’

  Just then, from outside in the c
ourtyard, came the long anguished howl of a pedigree Tannhauser blue.

  Together with Sir Alfred, I leaped to my feet and dashed across the room to the bay windows. It was as black as a collier’s coal cellar outside. Starless. Moonless. In the light spilling from the drawing-room, I could see that as night had fallen so the fog had thickened once more, and was coiling and swirling around the courtyard.

  Then, as we looked out, the flagstone just beside the fountain slowly rose, like a trap door in a hayloft. The howls of the Tannhausers grew louder, as did the sound of their claws desperately scratching at the front door.

  ‘They’re coming for me,’ I heard Sir Alfred whisper.

  A hideous face – like a ghastly Jack-in-a-box – appeared from beneath the flagstone, its lipless skull-like head grinning insanely. Slowly, it hauled itself out of the sewer tunnel that lay below, and was replaced by another apparition, one-eyed and gap-toothed, its hair a wild crow’s nest of black and grey. Then another. And another …

  I staggered back as the first of them raised a skeletal fist and began pounding at the window. The others followed suit and the blows echoed round the room, louder and louder, until the pane of glass abruptly shattered, sending vicious shards of glinting glass flying inside. A rush of cold air poured into the room, along with the stench of sewers and a pestilential odour of rotting and decay.

  With a rattling grunt, the first hideous corpse seized the bars at the window with its bony hands and began shaking them violently.

  Others did the same as more arrived, until every bar was encircled by the cadaverous fingers of the corpses as they rattled them in a ghoulish frenzy.

  Suddenly, there was a bright flash and an ear-splitting bang! sounded in my ear. In front of me, the head of one of the lurching corpses exploded in a mess of teeth, bone and brains. A second shot ran out, and the ribs of a skeleton next to it shattered like the innards of a piano. I spun round to see the young doctor, his eyes wild, standing in the middle of the room with the smoking hunting rifle in his hand, busy reloading. The choking smell of gunpowder hung in the air.