by Tom Becker
“It’s not the time to be packing up and going home,” Carnegie growled.
“Don’t you see?” Marianne stretched languidly in the window seat. “This isn’t about Jonathan any more, wolfman – or any of the Starlings, for that matter. This is about my brother and the fate of this borough. This is war.”
“And which side are you fighting on?”
“Ours.”
“We’re going to fight side by side?”
“We did all right in the Bedlam, didn’t we?” said Marianne.
Theresa smiled wanly. “As much as I’d like to help you remove that beast from the throne, I’m not sure either I or Alain would be much use to you right now. Jonathan’s right – our family should get out of Darkside.”
“How are you going to cross back?” asked Raquella. “It’s not easy at the best of times. With this bounty on Jonathan’s head, it’s going to be nearly impossible.”
Vendetta glanced up from his newspaper. “I might be of some assistance there.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Jonathan said, with an incredulous laugh. “You’re going to help us?”
“Starling, if it meant I’d never have to see your wretched family again, I’d carry you out of Darkside on my back. I have a carriage stabled at a secret location, and I can send word to one of my men, Yann. He’ll bring the carriage here and take you back to Lightside.”
“As easy as that?”
Vendetta shrugged. “You can make it more complicated if you wish.”
Jonathan hesitated. The vampire was the last person he trusted, but one glance at his dad left him in no doubt that they were running out time. Reluctantly, he accepted Vendetta’s offer.
Everything moved very quickly after that. Within half an hour, an unmarked carriage appeared outside the townhouse, the driver wrapped up in a thick overcoat and a low brimmed hat that covered his face. The Starlings said their goodbyes swiftly in the hallway, unwilling to draw them out. Vendetta remained upstairs, while Carnegie loitered uncomfortably at the back of the group, only softening when Theresa hugged him farewell. Then Jonathan’s parents hurried out down the steps and into the waiting carriage.
Jonathan paused in the open doorway, suddenly reluctant to leave.
“Will you ever come back?” asked Raquella.
He looked back at the maid, then at his mum and dad inside the carriage.
“No,” he said. “I don’t think I can.” He hugged Raquella quickly. “Good luck with everything. I’m sorry I have to go.”
“Entirely understandable,” Harry cut in, with a grin. “I’m just sorry you’re going to miss out on all the fun.”
“Fun? You’re crazy.” He took a deep breath. “Right. Time to go.”
He was halfway down the steps when a voice called him back.
“Boy?”
Jonathan glanced back at Carnegie.
“Take care of yourself.”
Before he could reply, the wereman walked away up the stairs. With a heavy heart, Jonathan turned his back on Carnegie and went to join his family in the carriage.
Night had fallen over Darkside, swathing Vendetta’s townhouse in shadow. Its master had slipped out again, driven by the need to feed, while downstairs two Rippers and a wereman shared a restless, uncomfortable silence. On the first-floor landing Raquella glided along like a ghost, her flowing skirt rustling as it brushed against the wooden floor. She was long accustomed to darkened hallways: years of service at Vendetta Heights – where the blinds were kept closed and curtains drawn during daylight hours, lest a ray of sunlight fall upon her master’s skin – had seen to that. No longer could phantom creaks on the staircase or the sudden chiming of clocks startle her.
Stopping outside Sam’s bedroom, she gently pushed the door open and slipped inside. A gas lamp was burning dimly on the table by his bedside, casting a flickering orange glow over the boy as he lay curled up in a vulnerable ball in bed. He shifted uneasily in his sleep, mouthing words of distress.
Raquella picked up the gas lamp from the table and held it over Sam’s gaunt face. Engrossed in examining the boy, she didn’t hear the floorboard creak behind her.
“How is he?” a voice whispered into her ear.
Raquella nearly dropped the gas lamp in surprise, only for a hand to reach out and steady her. She whirled round, glaring furiously.
“For Ripper’s sake, Harry!” she hissed. “Don’t creep up on people like that!”
The young journalist looked wounded.
“I wasn’t creeping,” he protested. “I walk quietly, that’s all.”
Realizing that he was still holding her hand, Raquella snatched it away. “That is creeping, Harry.”
“I was worried about waking the lad up,” Harry said quietly, pointing at Sam. “Is he getting any better?”
There was a shadow of concern on his face as he asked. It was typical of Harry – one minute he was mocking her, the next he was trying to be nice. How could one boy be so frustrating?
Raquella glanced down at Sam.
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “Whatever ails him, it attacks his mind as much as his body. I doubt even a doctor could help him.”
“He’s been through something pretty dreadful, that’s for sure.”
“Perhaps the morning will bring an improvement,” Raquella said. “Let’s leave him to sleep.”
They tiptoed back out on to the landing, the light from the gas lamp disappearing as Harry closed the bedroom door behind them. He caught Raquella’s arm as she turned to walk away.
“I really didn’t mean to scare you back there,” he said. “I’m sorry if I did.”
“I was surprised, not scared,” Raquella retorted sharply. “You’re the last person I’m scared of.”
“Really?” There was a note of amusement in Harry’s voice. “Not even a little bit? I am a Ripper, you know. We do have something of a reputation.”
Raquella snorted. “Ripper indeed. You’re nothing more than a conceited smart alec, Harry Pierce, and don’t you ever forget it.”
“With you around, I’m unlikely to,” Harry replied ruefully. “You don’t think very much of me, do you?”
There was a new note in his voice now – all traces of mockery had vanished. Raquella was suddenly aware of the closeness of his silhouette in the darkness.
“You’re not all bad, I suppose,” the maid said grudgingly. “There are moments when I don’t find you completely irritating.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Harry said. Then he leaned forward and kissed Raquella softly on the lips.
She was too shocked to respond. It was only when Harry had pulled away that Raquella realized that her cheeks were burning, and her heart was beating rapidly in her chest. For once in her life, she had no idea what to say – or whether, in fact, she wanted to say anything at all.
The moment was shattered by a piercing scream ringing out from the bedroom.
Raquella ran back into the room to find Sam sitting bolt upright in bed, his face as white as a sheet.
“What is it, Sam? What’s wrong?”
There was a wild look in the boy’s eyes as he fended off the maid’s attempts to comfort him. “It’s the Stone!” he babbled. “I need the Stone back!”
“What stone?”
“The Crimson Stone!” Sam cried. “I took it! I took it and it was mine and then they took it away from me!”
“Who took it away from you, Sam?” came Harry’s voice, from beside Raquella.
“The men in the night . . . the cart on the way to the Bedlam . . . a bird . . . thieving bird . . . Magpie . . . Magpie and Jacobs, their names were.”
“And where are they now?”
“I don’t know!” Sam howled. “They locked me up in the nasty place and took it away!”
The boy’s eyes rolled
up in his head and he slumped back on to the pillows, unconscious. As Raquella wiped his brow, the bedroom door flew open and Carnegie and Marianne burst into the room.
“Heard the scream,” the wereman said gruffly. “Everything all right?”
“In a manner of speaking,” replied Raquella. “I think we may have found out why Sam’s ill. He was the one who took the Crimson Stone.”
“Really?” Marianne leaned forward, her eyes glinting. “That little thing? How enterprising of him. And where is the Stone now?”
“Apparently two men took it from him,” Harry said. “Do the names Magpie and Jacobs mean anything to you?”
“I’ve had the pleasure of their acquaintance,” Carnegie said drily. “If this is true, Ripper knows what those two imbeciles have done with it.”
“Only one way to find out,” Marianne replied, with a dazzling smile.
18
Beneath a police station in Central London, Detective Horace Carmichael’s world was falling apart.
The headquarters of Department D was a cramped underground room kept at arm’s length from the rest of the station – rather like Darkside itself, Carmichael had often thought. At the height of summer, the room was as hot and breathless as a kiln; now, in the depths of winter, ice coated the pipes and dark patches of mould festered on the walls. Water dripped into a bucket jammed between two filing cabinets with maddening regularity.
Carmichael wasn’t sure how many years he had been working down here. It was easy to lose track of time underground. Part of him didn’t mind being out of the way. He knew that the other coppers on the force thought he was weird and didn’t trust him. It wasn’t just his hunchback, though Carmichael knew that it didn’t help. He was just different. Even his superiors found some excuse to avoid eye contact, preferring to look down at their notes or gaze out of the window as they spoke to him.
The detective sat alone at his desk, surrounded by precarious tower blocks of files and paperwork. Behind him, a large map of London was pinned to the wall, its centre covered in a dark swirling stain like an inkblot: Darkside. Carmichael’s eyes were glued to the battered portable television resting on top of one of the cabinets. On the screen, a news programme cut from one part of London to the other, reporters breathlessly gabbling into microphones. Across the rolling bar at the bottom of the screen, the headline ran: CAPITAL CHAOS.
“For any viewers just joining us,” the female newsreader said, “we can report that London has today been witness to a series of inexplicable phenomena. A plague of rats has swept through Borough Market, feasting upon the fresh produce. The city centre is in a state of gridlock following a pile-up between a bus and a horse-drawn carriage on Tower Bridge. Meanwhile, officials at Tate Modern are refusing to comment on stories that an exhibition was disrupted by a large bull-headed creature rampaging through the gallery, goring hundreds of priceless works of art and several bystanders.”
Carmichael glanced across at the telephone, which lay primed on his desk like an unexploded bomb. It was only a matter of time before the superintendent phoned. Any unusual stories – from blood-bank robberies to sightings of wild animals – were considered Department D territory. Although Darkside itself was never mentioned, Carmichael’s responsibilities were clear: to keep any overspill from the rotten borough a secret, and ensure that Lightsiders continued to be blissfully ignorant of the canker on their doorstep. In many ways, he was the perfect man for the job – after all, he was Darkside born and bred himself. Having endured a miserable childhood there, Carmichael had crossed over decades ago in the hope of starting a new life, only to find that there were even fewer opportunities for a hunchback in Lightside than in Darkside. A penniless and desperate Carmichael had drifted into a murky underworld, where criminals from both sides of London brushed shoulders with one another.
He was no natural criminal, and it was only a matter of time before he was caught. After a few months of petty thefts, it turned out that the fence Carmichael was using to pass off his stolen goods was none other than Silas Warriner – the founder of Department D. The undercover detective took pity on Carmichael, and gave him a choice: go to jail, or join his department. It didn’t take the hunchback long to make up his mind.
Despite his unfamiliarity with police work, Carmichael quickly discovered that covering up the incursions from Darkside was relatively easy. Lightsiders accepted prosaic explanations for the most extraordinary of events, preferring to believe them the work of madmen or pranksters rather than face the darker truth.
Today’s events, however, were a different matter. It was clear that an exodus had begun from Darkside, its inhabitants risking the crossing en masse. It was all Lucien’s fault. The ridiculous conspiracy tax was bad enough; by ordering a night-time curfew on top, the Ripper appeared intent on making life in Darkside as unpleasant as possible. At this rate, the cells at Blackchapel were going to run out of room, and the trickle of crossers making for Lightside would become a flood.
Carmichael had already sent a strongly worded message of complaint to Lucien, but the Ripper hadn’t bothered to respond. The detective was completely on his own. To his amazement, he had been told that Charlie Wilson had walked out of Department D, handing in a transfer request without even speaking to Carmichael. The hunchback wasn’t sure how much worse things could get.
Back in the newsroom studio, the newsreader paused, and then said: “Now we can show you some mobile phone footage sent in by one of our viewers, who claims it shows the London Eye brought to a standstill by a giant swarm of bats.”
As the screen was filled with a black, seething cloud, the telephone exploded into life. Sighing, the detective picked up the receiver.
The north-east corner of Hyde Park was quiet. Usually, this area – better known as Speakers’ Corner – rang to the impassioned cries of the men and women who came to make public speeches, haranguing anyone who would listen. But today the sub-zero temperatures and the blanket of snow on the ground had persuaded most would-be orators to leave their placards at home, and their makeshift podiums of crates and stepladders resting in the garage.
However, not everyone had been deterred. In the middle of one of the broad thoroughfares that cut through the park, a small crowd had formed around a stage consisting of several planks bridging two oil drums. Without warning, the bronze braziers flanking the stage crackled into life, cutting through the winter gloom. A murmur of expectation rippled through the crowd.
A heavyset man with a large belly clambered up on to the stage, the planks buckling beneath his weight. He was dressed in a thick woollen overcoat buttoned stiffly up to his chin, while his face was framed by a thick beard and a resplendent top hat. The man came to a halt in the centre of the stage, imperiously surveying the sparse crowd. A snowball whizzed over his left shoulder. Ignoring it, the man held up his hands for silence.
“My name,” he called out, in a voice as loud and clear as a trumpet, “is Jeremiah Thunderer. I stand before you today as a newcomer to your city. As a child, I had heard many tales of this place. As an adult, I dismissed them as fairy stories, bedtime make-believes.” He shook his head sadly. “Only now do I realize that such tales told but a quarter of the truth. This place is indeed a haven for smug do-gooders, a sanctuary for self-righteous hypocrites.”
The nervous titters that had greeted Thunderer’s arrival had died away. He had the audience in the palm of his hand.
“I stand before you today,” he repeated, his voice rising, “not only as newcomer to this city, but also as a messenger from the great Lucien Ripper. Over a hundred years ago now, you turned your backs on your brethren, your fellow city-dwellers, your neighbours and your streetmates, hiding them away in a dark corner like some shameful secret. Now the day of reckoning is upon you, Lightsiders, and my message to you is this: repent. Repent!” Thunderer screamed again, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth. “Or face the wrath of Darkside upon your
souls!”
Back in the headquarters of Department D, Carmichael watched with a growing sense of resignation as the newsreader touched her earpiece, frowning, and then suddenly interrupted one of her guests.
“We’re crossing live to the Tower of London, where our correspondent is standing by with some breaking news.”
The camera cut to a red-faced man standing in front of the imposing castle. In the background, officers scurried back and forth behind a police cordon.
“Extraordinary scenes here,” the reporter panted. “I can exclusively reveal that the Koh-i-Noor diamond – one of the most famous gems in the world, one of the most valuable in the royal collection, for many the crown jewel of the Crown Jewels – has been stolen! Details are only just beginning to filter through, but it is believed that a gang of four thieves somehow broke into the Tower last night, evading the guards, and made off with the diamond.”
“This is astonishing,” the newsreader said. “The security around the Crown Jewels is amongst the tightest in the world. How on earth did the thieves manage to bypass it?”
“A very good question, and one the police are trying to answer as we speak. Their job has been made more difficult by a very confused set of eyewitness reports. Apparently two figures were seen scaling up the side of the Tower with their bare hands – although that would appear to be an almost superhuman feat. There were reports of jets of flames in the night sky; one lady even claimed to me that she saw the thieves escape in a taxicab! At this early stage, the only thing we can say with any certainty is that these were no ordinary thieves.”
The telephone on Carmichael’s desk began ringing again. The detective groaned and put his head in his hands. For a minute he seriously considered not picking it up, but eventually he lifted up the receiver.
“Yes?”
It wasn’t his superior. Carmichael listened carefully, a bemused expression on his face.
“The Crimson Stone? Yes, I know what it is. Who is this?”
