The Feaster From The Stars (Blackwood and Harrington)
Page 2
With the wind screaming around him and the icy rain stinging his face, Blackwood creeps towards one of the windows in the nearest hut and looks through. What he sees makes him want to cry out. His stomach churns, threatening to void itself of his last meal, and he averts his gaze quickly.
The memory of the scene burns in his mind like a white-hot brand. Blood… dismemberment… the scattered fragments of what had once been men, cleaved and divided in strange ways… and there, amongst the human wreckage… there…
In the darkness of his bedroom, Thomas Blackwood’s eyes flashed open. He gasped and sat up suddenly, as if to do so might banish the memory of the nightmare, but the horrible images drifting through his newly-wakened mind would not be denied so easily. He gasped again, and a low moan escaped his grimacing mouth.
Alone in the darkness, amid the rumpled chaos of his bed sheets, he buried his head in his hands. ‘Oh God,’ he whispered. ‘Oh good God!’
Slowly, he got out of bed and walked to the bathroom, where he looked at his face in the mirror, at features which were normally finely chiselled and pleasing to the eye, but which were now twisted by anguish and stark with the memory of what he had seen in that remote Scottish research facility five years ago.
What the scientists had done to each other in their violent insanity was bad enough, but what had caused that insanity had still been there, glowing and pulsating in the laboratory. There had been more than a dozen of them, placed at various points throughout the room… no, not placed, laid, by the thing that had seeped through the fissure in time and space connecting the sane universe with the realm containing the Vril energy: the extradimensional abnormality known as a Sha’halloth.
The thing had sensed the fissure at the very instant it opened, had deposited its eggs and then withdrawn back to its own realm. The eggs were shapeless globs of glistening jelly, glowing with colours never seen in this or any other world of the ordered cosmos. They were covered with writhing tendrils which seemed to fade in and out of visibility, and as Blackwood had entered the laboratory and stood gazing at them in horror and revulsion, he had felt something probing his mind: a mental molestation more devastating than anything that could have befallen his physical body.
Before the glowing tendrils had a chance to take root fully in his mind and drive away his sanity, Blackwood had unslung the carbine from his shoulder and sprayed them with bullets. So revolting was the way in which they burst, and so awful were their contents, that Blackwood collapsed to the floor and vomited before turning the gun on the three remaining scientists who had entered the laboratory and thrown themselves at him, screaming, their minds no longer remotely human.
Five years is a long time, but Thomas Blackwood remembered the events of that day as if they had happened only five minutes prior.
When the Prime Minister read his report, he had ordered an immediate and indefinite moratorium on Vril energy research. The secret of the Martian cylinders’ propulsion would have to remain with them for the foreseeable future, and Blackwood was far from sorry.
He regarded himself in the bathroom mirror, then undid the buttons of his pyjamas and sighed as he looked at his chest and the large silver circle which was embedded in the skin. Its irregular pentacle with the wide, staring eye at the centre had originally been carved into an amulet given to him by the Comte de Saint Germain, who headed Station X, the Bureau’s occult research and development branch at Bletchley Park. The amulet had been a detector and a ward against various forms of Magick, but thanks to Blackwood’s recent entry into the Realm of Faerie during the affair of the Martian Ambassador, the amulet had become fused with his skin, and he no longer had the option of taking it off: it was now a part of him, and would remain so for the rest of his life, like a tattoo etched in silver upon his chest.
Blackwood washed and dressed, went through to his study, filled his favourite Peterson pipe with cherry tobacco, struck a match and watched in contentment as the bowl began to glow a luxuriant shade of orange. Drawing in the fragrant smoke, he went to the mantelpiece and leafed through the morning’s mail which his housekeeper, Mrs Butters, had placed there for him.
Only one item sparked his interest: an envelope which bore a Masonic seal. He tore it open and took out a card embossed with the same design and bearing the following message:
The Society of Spiritualistic Freemasons is delighted to offer an invitation to
MR THOMAS BLACKWOOD,
to attend a lecture to be given at half-past eight on the
Seventeenth of November, 1899 by
DR SIMON CASTAIGNE
at the Society’s Hall in Mayfair.
The subject of the lecture is
‘The Plurality of Life on Other Worlds’.
RSVP
‘Hmm,’ Blackwood murmured, puffing on his pipe. The Society of Spiritualistic Freemasons was an offshoot of his own Lodge, and he was a little surprised to receive such an invitation. He guessed that it was because of his work with the Bureau, which was known to a select few high-ranking members. He briefly considered accepting the invitation, but then reflected that in recent weeks he had had his fill of ‘the plurality of life on other worlds’.
Dropping the invitation onto his desk, he sauntered over to one of the tall bookcases lining his study and selected one of his favourite volumes, a treatise on the mythology of the Dogon Tribe of West Africa. He then sat himself down in the large, comfortable armchair that stood in one corner of the room, and poured a brimming, steaming cup from the pot of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee which Mrs Butters had prepared for him. The rich aroma of the coffee filled the room and, combined with the scent of the tobacco, produced an atmosphere which seemed to Blackwood, who was still out of sorts from the nightmare, to be eminently conducive to the passing of a pleasant morning of intellectual recreation.
Outside, the streets of Chelsea thronged with people going about their business in the cold dampness of the morning air, and Blackwood, for his part, was quite happy to let them get on with it. He had earned a rest, had paid for the last week of relaxation with a shattered left forearm, several broken ribs and a concussion. The recently-concluded affair of the Martian Ambassador had left him in a rum state, and it was only thanks to the administration of Martian medicine that he was not still confined to a hospital bed.
The Martians had taken charge of his medical treatment as an expression of thanks for his work in averting war between the Red Planet and Earth – not that he had acted alone, of course: he had been ably assisted by Lady Sophia Harrington, Secretary of the Society for Psychical Research, whose own research into the mystery of Spring-Heeled Jack had first brought them together.
The doctors who had been overseeing his convalescence were astonished at the rapidity of his recovery following the application of the Martian medical treatments, as was Blackwood himself. Within a matter of days, his broken bones had almost completely healed, and he was well on the way to feeling his old self once again.
He knew that very soon he would be required to return to work and recalled with a smile the look on Grandfather’s face when he had paid Blackwood a visit just prior to the latter’s departure from hospital. He suspected that the Bureau’s Director was more satisfied at the thought that he would soon have one of his best agents back in the field than at any emotion which might have been inspired by altruism or fellow-feeling. Grandfather, after all, had lost both his legs during the Second Afghan War, and now had to make do with a pair of steam-powered artificial ones; a few broken bones and a bang on the head were of little consequence to him.
Sophia was another matter: she had hardly left his bedside, once he had returned to consciousness following his final battle with Spring-Heeled Jack, who had been revealed to be a Venusian agent provocateur named Indrid Cold, and more than once she had succumbed to tears as she surveyed his injuries. She really was a most remarkable young woman – brave, resourceful and decent – and Blackwood, who normally preferred to work alone and to pursue a solitar
y life in his infrequent leisure time, found himself missing her company.
No matter, for he was quite certain that they would be seeing each other again soon, and as he heard a faint knock on the apartment building’s front door below, he placed a little wager with himself that the reason for their imminent reunion had just arrived.
A few moments later, there came another knock, this time on his study door.
‘Enter,’ he said, having resigned himself to the likelihood that a pleasant day’s reading was about to be curtailed.
Mrs Butters opened the door a little way and poked her matronly head into the room. ‘Mr Blackwood, sir, you have a visitor.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Blackwood in a loud theatrical voice as he stood and placed the unopened book on his desk. ‘My visitor is none other than Detective Gerhard de Chardin of New Scotland Temple.’
A loud, throaty chuckle from the corridor outside told him he was correct. Mrs Butters showed the detective in and nodded at Blackwood’s request that she bring another coffee cup, before bustling away towards the kitchen.
‘Sounds like you’ve been reading too much Conan Doyle,’ said de Chardin as he stepped into the room and offered his hand, which the Special Investigator shook warmly. ‘How are you, old chap?’
The detective was an inch or so taller than Blackwood’s six feet, although both men were equally trim and well-proportioned. While Blackwood was clean-shaven, de Chardin sported a neatly trimmed goatee, which he was in the habit of stroking contemplatively.
‘Never better, thank you.’ Blackwood indicated the armchair which he had just vacated. ‘Have a seat, sir.’
De Chardin nodded his thanks, while Blackwood pulled out his desk chair and sat down opposite his guest.
‘How did you know it was me?’ asked the detective. ‘I doubt it was anything as simple as looking out of the window.’
‘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.’
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.’