by Alan K Baker
‘These are the locations of the disturbances,’ Sophia observed.
‘Indeed they are.’
Moving in a clockwise direction, Sir William pointed to each of the stations he had circled.
‘Farringdon Street, where the ghost of a thirteen-year-old girl has been seen and heard screaming. It is widely believed that she is Anne Naylor, who was brutally murdered by her seamstress in 1768.
‘Paddington. Strange noises have been heard in the tunnels here, by fluffers and maintenance workers, apparently coming from behind the walls.
‘Bond Street. Something pale and shapeless has been seen moving along the metals at night. It vanishes when approached.
‘Covent Garden. A tall man in a frock coat has been seen walking along the tunnels. He bears a striking resemblance to William Terriss, the actor, who was stabbed to death near the Adelphi Theatre in the Strand a couple of years ago.’
‘I remember that,’ said Sophia. ‘A terrible, tragic business.’
‘Well, it appears that Mr Terriss has yet to take his final curtain call. But to continue: Bank. This is where Sarah Whitehead, the so-called “Black Nun”, has been seen on several occasions. Sarah’s brother Philip was a cashier and was executed for forgery in 1811. Up until a few weeks ago, she was only seen very rarely, but now workmen encounter her virtually every night, wandering the platforms, apparently searching for her lost brother.
‘Aldgate. The site of one of the largest plague pits ever discovered in London, and now the scene of several disturbances, including something invisible moving the ballast around the metals and an old woman who walks along the tunnels, apparently looking for something or someone.
‘Elephant and Castle. Here we have the testimony of several witnesses who claim to have seen a young woman walking at night through the carriages of trains at the terminus of the Baker Street and Waterloo Railway. When she is pursued – for we know that passengers are not allowed on the network once it closes for the evening – she cannot be found. Her presence has triggered several track searches, but no trace of her can ever be discovered.
‘Kennington. The site of the recent disturbance, to which poor Mr Morgan was a witness. He is still under observation at Bethlem, you say?’
Sophia nodded.
‘And finally, South Kensington, where a ghost train has been seen on several occasions. The train is of the steam-driven type and has been seen pulling into the station, accompanied by an ear-piercing whistle. The driver, in reefer jacket and peaked cap, can be seen leaning out of his cab, before he and his train vanish into the tunnel.’
‘Fascinating,’ Sophia nodded. ‘But why have you drawn these lines connecting the sites of the disturbances?’
‘I was trying to see if I could discover some kind of pattern to the geographical locations…’
‘It looks like you have: the pentagon is quite clearly defined… but what does it mean?’
‘I doubt that the pentagon itself is significant on this occasion – its occult connotations notwithstanding.’ Sir William traced an invisible line with his finger in a south-easterly direction, from Bond Street to Westminster. ‘This is the route of the new deep-level Tube line currently being excavated by the Central and South London Railway. As you can see, it passes directly through the centre of the area enclosed by the five stations I have indicated.’
‘And since the disturbances have recently increased, both in number and intensity,’ said Sophia, ‘you’re wondering whether there is some connection.’
‘Indeed I am – although at this stage I have no evidence.’
‘Do you think that the excavation might have… disturbed something?’
Sir William turned his kindly eyes to her and shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’
Sophia considered this. ‘You may well be right,’ she said presently. ‘Walter sensed something during his contact analysis of the train which went into the Kennington Loop. It seems that nothing like it has ever been seen before.’
‘I know. He gave me his report late yesterday evening.’
‘Thomas was right: I should pay Charles Exeter a visit.’
‘The Chairman of the Central and South London.’
Sophia nodded, suddenly recalling the reason why she had come to see Sir William. ‘I need a letter of introduction from you, so that I may be assured of an interview with him.’
‘I shall provide you with one, of course… although I’m not sure whether it will be entirely necessary.’
Sophia gave him a quizzical glance. ‘What do you mean?’
Sir William smiled. ‘If this business really is the result of their excavation, Mr Exeter may welcome a visit from the SPR.’
Blackwood and de Chardin took a police carriage to Aldgate. During the journey east, the Templar detective glanced at his silent companion several times, aware that the Special Investigator was out of sorts. He guessed that the heated exchange with Lady Sophia was still playing on Blackwood’s mind and was unsure whether to broach the subject. He was certain, from Blackwood’s taciturnity, that he would rather not discuss it… and yet, de Chardin found himself intrigued – and, truth to tell, not a little impressed – by Sophia’s indignation, by the forthright manner in which she had expressed her displeasure at being overruled.
As the carriage turned into Wormwood Street, de Chardin finally gave in to his temptation, and said, ‘A most remarkable young lady.’
‘What’s that?’ said Blackwood distractedly.
‘Lady Sophia. I have seldom met a woman of such intelligence and determination – not to mention courage. Have you known her long?’
‘A fortnight,’ was the laconic reply.
De Chardin nodded. ‘I have known her somewhat longer: we have collaborated on several cases in the past… cases with a supernatural element, you understand.’
‘Indeed,’ said Blackwood, who was still gazing through the window at the heave and bustle outside.
‘However, I have never seen her act like that before; she really was most put out…’
‘Your point, de Chardin?’ said Blackwood, glancing at him.
The detective shrugged. ‘I have none… beyond the observation that you might have allowed her to come. This is, after all, her forte.’
‘Are you so sure?’ the Special Investigator asked quietly.
De Chardin regarded him in silence.
‘We have no idea what’s really down there,’ Blackwood continued, returning his gaze to the street scene beyond the carriage window. ‘All we know is that it has driven one man insane and may have killed another. That it is supernormal, there can be no doubt, but as to its actual origin, whether supernatural or materially scientific… well, I would rather get hold of some more facts before allowing Lady Sophia to face it.’
‘I understand, of course,’ de Chardin nodded and gave a brief smile, which Blackwood did not notice – and probably wouldn’t have liked much if he had.
As the carriage approached Aldgate Station, Blackwood winced and put a hand to his chest.
‘Are you all right?’ asked de Chardin.
‘Yes, I’m fine. It’s nothing.’
In fact, the Special Investigator had felt a strange twinge which seemed to vibrate in his breastbone, as though he were clutching a stringed instrument to his chest and a note had been played upon it, powerful and melancholy.
The source of the curious sensation was the amulet: it was warning him of the presence of powerful supernatural forces. As if to drive the point home, the carriage clattered to a halt outside the entrance to the station.
The two men descended and made their way inside, where they asked to speak with the Stationmaster, who came across the ticket hall immediately, having noted their entrance. He was a tall, thin, slightly cadaverous-looking man with sallow skin and thinning hair. His heels clicked on the tiled floor, disturbing a silence which usually only descended upon the station when it was closed at night.
The Stationmaster introduced himself as William Jones and
asked them their business. Blackwood and de Chardin showed him their credentials. ‘We are here on orders of Her Majesty,’ said Blackwood, ‘with the purpose of investigating the recent events.’
William Jones raised his eyebrows at this, and Blackwood had the impression that he was not a little dismayed at what he evidently perceived to be a new inconvenience in an already complicated day. ‘I see,’ he said, an ungracious tone in his voice. ‘And may I enquire what interest Her Majesty has in this?’
De Chardin glowered at the man. ‘Her interest is the same as yours should be, sir: to get to the bottom of the curious events which have been occurring throughout the Underground network. Now, if you don’t mind, Mr Blackwood and I would like to examine the tunnel in which last night’s occurrence took place.’
Jones’s tone turned to one of defence. ‘I assure you, Detective, that I’m doing everything in my power to resolve the situation – at least, here at Aldgate.’
‘Is there any sign of Seamus Brennan?’ asked Blackwood.
‘Not as yet. I have track-walkers making their way along the lines in both directions out of the station, but so far, there is no sign of him.’
‘I take it you are aware of Barrymore Tench’s claims,’ said de Chardin.
‘I am.’
‘What do you make of them?’
Jones hesitated. ‘If this… incident… had happened in isolation,’ he said, ‘I would have had a very clear theory as to what actually happened. I would have suspected that Tench and Brennan had an argument of some kind while in the tunnel, that Tench killed his friend and hid his body somewhere, and that he concocted this story to get himself off the hook. But after everything else that has been happening on the Tube network over the last few weeks… well, I am not normally given to ghost stories and the like…’ Jones’s voice trailed off, and he gave Blackwood and de Chardin a troubled look. Presently, he continued, ‘I apologise for my earlier impoliteness, gentlemen. The fact is, I’d greatly appreciate any help you might be able to provide.’
‘Apologies are quite unnecessary, Mr Jones,’ said Blackwood, with a smile. ‘We understand that you must be at your wits’ end with this business – after all, shutting down an entire section of the Tube is no trifling matter.’
‘Indeed not,’ Jones sighed. ‘Well, please feel at liberty to look around. I am needed elsewhere, so if you will excuse me…’
‘Of course,’ Blackwood nodded, as William Jones headed off across the ticket hall.
De Chardin watched him leave, then turned to the Special Investigator. ‘Let’s get down to the platform,’ he said.
Sophia’s carriage came to a halt outside the offices of the Central and South London Railway in Piccadilly. She looked up at the facade of the five-storey building, which looked drab and a little grimy in the watery yellow light of early afternoon. The impression was more than a little at odds with what she had learned of the powerhouse of a man whose office lay within.
She had returned to her own office while Sir William wrote her letter of introduction, had switched on her cogitator and connected it to the Æther with the intention of getting hold of some information on Mr Charles Exeter, Chairman of the CSLR, in preparation for their meeting. The machine had scoured the Akashic Records, the semi-material, plastic field of energy which surrounds the Earth and retains an impression of every event, thought and action that has ever occurred, and had displayed the results in the cogitator’s scrying glass.
Exeter, she learned, had been born in Philadelphia in 1837, and his early life was overshadowed by tragedy and ostracism: his mother died of puerperal fever when he was five years old, and his father was expelled from the Society of Friends as a result of his remarriage to a non-Quaker. This did nothing to dampen Exeter’s thirst for power and success, however, and by the time he was twenty-two, he had established a successful brokerage office, which secured for him a large fortune, thanks to his innate shrewdness and ability to read the bond market.
His success was not to last, for the financial panic caused by the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 left him insolvent and unable to repay the $400,000 of public money he had used to fuel his financial speculations. Convicted of embezzlement, Exeter was sentenced to thirty-three months in the notorious Eastern State Penitentiary. However, he was released after only seven months, having secured an official pardon in return for his silence regarding the affairs of two influential Philadelphia politicians.
Exeter then left Philadelphia and moved to Chicago, where he immediately took an interest in the city’s public transportation network. Through a highly complex (and not entirely ethical) financial arrangement of construction companies, operating companies, holding companies and interlocking directorships, he managed to gain control of a large proportion of Chicago’s street tramways.
His dubious business methods, reported on more and more frequently in the American press, eventually damaged his reputation to the extent that Exeter realised he could no longer function profitably in that country, and in 1896 he had sailed to England, where he focussed his attention on London’s public transportation system, and, using the methods familiar to him, set about building a new empire in the ancient city. Once again, his ruthlessness and audacity served him well, and during the last three years he had risen to a position of great power and influence.
Sophia had read all this quickly and with a keen eye, and by the time Sir William had drafted the introductory letter, she felt that she had gained a fair measure of the man.
She stepped down from the carriage and asked her driver to wait for her there, before climbing the steps to the building’s entrance and slipping quickly inside.
She went to the reception desk, introduced herself and briefly explained the reason for her visit. The clerk, a young man who appeared to be in his early twenties, flushed as he took in her beautiful face and elegant bearing, and he asked her to wait while he sent someone up to Mr Exeter’s office with her letter of introduction. Sophia thanked him with a warm smile, which only served to increase the colour in the lad’s cheeks.
As she waited, she took in her surroundings. The large foyer was filled with activity: neatly-suited clerks hurried here and there, clutching papers and whispering excitedly to each other, as though they had just heard of some great, or perhaps calamitous, event. Sophia regarded their faces and decided that their frenetic animation was born more of worry or fear than anything else. She was hardly surprised: if half the things she had read about Charles Exeter were true, he must be climbing the walls of his office at this moment, fulminating against the turn of events which threatened his latest business interests. For a moment, she wondered whether her journey had been wasted. Would he agree to see her, with such weighty concerns on his mind?
The answer came a few minutes later, when the messenger returned to the foyer and asked Sophia to follow him. Mr Exeter, he said, had agreed to spare her a half hour out of his busy schedule. The expression on the messenger’s face told her that this was not a common occurrence.
Sophia followed him up three flights of stairs and along several corridors before arriving at a door bearing Exeter’s name on a polished brass plaque. The messenger knocked, bid Sophia good day and quickly withdrew, as a voice from within barked, ‘Enter!’
She opened the door and stepped into a large and luxuriously appointed office. Exeter, clearly, was a man who liked to display his success. As she crossed the thick-piled carpet towards the vast oak desk behind which the director sat, she took in the valuable antiques displayed atop elegant tables lining the walls, the leather-bound volumes ranked, sentinel-like, within tall, cherry bookcases, and the large conference table, surrounded by beautifully upholstered leather chairs, which dominated one half of the room. To the right of Exeter’s desk was another table, on which stood a highly-detailed model of a curious cylinder-shaped contraption. The air was heavy with the scent of expensive cigars.
Charles Exeter stood up and moved out from behind his desk as Sophia approached. Bal
ding, heavy-set, with neatly-trimmed whiskers and a penetrating gaze, he looked every inch the successful entrepreneur, and Sophia had the profound sense that to get on the wrong side of him would be a very bad mistake indeed.
‘Your Ladyship,’ he said, bowing formally and, Sophia thought, a little ridiculously, ‘welcome.’
Normally, Sophia disliked her title – or rather, she considered it irrelevant to her life and the pursuit of the interests which mattered to her – and frequently asked new acquaintances to dispense with it when addressing her, but with Exeter and people like him, she found herself more than happy for her social status to be acknowledged. In fact, she insisted upon it.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice, sir,’ she replied, taking the chair he proffered.
‘May I offer you some refreshment?’
‘Thank you, no.’
Exeter seemed relieved at this, although at that moment, Sophia couldn’t decide whether it was because he was anxious to get the interview over and done with and be rid of her, or because he wished to avail himself of her help without delay.
She suspected it was the latter and was gratified when he retook his own seat and said, ‘I’m real glad you decided to pay me a visit, your Ladyship.’
Sophia suppressed a smile at the American’s curious mode of expression, at once formal and casual, and replied, ‘It’s my pleasure, Mr Exeter. As you may know, we at the Society for Psychical Research take a keen interest in the kinds of phenomena that have recently been reported on the Underground. Our knowledge and experience in such matters has been sought on many occasions by Her Majesty’s Government, and we have worked closely with various official departments.’
