by Tom Becker
Just as Harry’s knees were getting sore from navigating the steep slope, the tunnel levelled out. Here the natural rock formations had been wrestled under control, moulded into a low vaulted ceiling and smooth walls. The tunnel curved, and as they rounded the bend, a low railway platform came into view on the right-hand side of the tracks. An old-fashioned street lamp was burning brightly, showing a series of archways leading off into the gloom. At the far end of the platform, a wrought-iron spiral staircase rose into the air.
They walked up the sloped edge of the platform, relieved to leave the tracks. Above each of the archways, a mixture of Darkside and Lightside place names had been daubed in black paint: Whitechapel, the Cain Club, Hampstead Heath, Bleakmoor, the Houses of Parliament.
Harry let out a low whistle. “You can travel all over London from here!”
Raquella began brushing a thick layer of cobwebs away from a large sign screwed into the wall, gradually revealing the word “Jackwalk” in a series of florid letters etched into the metal.
“‘Jackwalk’?” she said, puzzled. “Where on earth are we?”
“I don’t know,” Harry called back. “It looks like some kind of abandoned Underground station. Jonathan says there’s loads of them in Lightside.”
Sam tapped his foot impatiently as his companions explored their surroundings. Harry gave the boy a shrewd look. “You know what this place is, don’t you?”
“It’s Jackwalk,” shrugged Sam, as though it was obvious. “The first Ripper’s private route into Lightside.”
“How do you know?”
For the first time since his rescue from the Bedlam, Sam smiled. “Jack used the Crimson Stone to build it, transforming solid rock into caverns and tunnels. I can still feel the walls trembling. Using this network, Jack could travel to all parts of London and never be seen. It came in handy when he had secret midnight meetings with Lightside criminals or politicians. Or when he wanted to kill.”
The thought of following in a murderer’s footsteps as he hunted for victims made Raquella shiver. “I’m surprised word never got out about this place.”
Sam shook his head. “Jack guarded his secrets jealously. He didn’t even tell his sons about it. The Runners knew, because they were linked to the Stone, but they lay dormant most of the time, and they can’t leave Darkside anyway.”
“So we’re the first people to see this place since Jack himself?” asked Harry.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Raquella replied, pointedly glancing up at the street lamp. “Unless this has been burning for a century, someone’s been down here recently.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sam said blankly. “The Stone is what’s important. It’s very near now. I can feel it.” He pointed up the winding spiral staircase. “We need to go this way.”
They began to climb up the staircase, the dull ring of their footfalls on the iron steps echoing around Jackwalk. Remembering her struggles on the viaduct ladder, Raquella held firmly on to the railing as they spiralled higher and higher into the air. Sam trudged on in the lead, seemingly unaware of anything save the proximity of the Crimson Stone.
The staircase came to an abrupt end at a plain door that swung open when Harry pushed on it. To his amazement, he found himself standing on a narrow walkway overlooking a long, lavish study. Down below them, the marbled floor was dotted with glass display cases, while the ornately carved walls were lined with books and curios. After they had all filed out on to the walkway, Raquella closed the door behind them – it fitted into a wooden façade so seamlessly that it was impossible to see the join, let alone guess what lay on the other side.
Before they could take another step, the sound of voices drifted up from the ground floor. Raquella cast a quizzical glance at Harry, who put his finger to his lips in reply. He peered over the guard rail, his eyes widening with surprise.
A host of figures were walking through the gloomy gallery. There, in the middle of them, was Jonathan Starling.
They had travelled through London in Mrs Elwood’s car: the dwarf bolstered by a cushion on her seat, her specially adapted pedals reaching up towards her feet. Jonathan was wedged in the back seat between Horace Carmichael and Holborn, his hands bound tightly behind his back. The atmosphere was tense, the Abettor’s unexpected appearance at Mrs Elwood’s house apparently surprising Carmichael as much as Jonathan. For his part, Holborn was visibly annoyed by the fact that the Crimson Stone remained in the detective’s lap.
“I am the Abettor,” he had argued. “It should fall to me to pass the Crimson Stone to Lucien. You have no right to keep hold of it.”
“Your bluster won’t work on me,” Carmichael replied calmly. “I work for Lucien, not you: I’ll pass it to him. If you want to try and take the Stone from me, go ahead.”
Holborn had flashed the hunchback a dark look, but let the matter drop.
Still reeling from Mrs Elwood’s betrayal, Jonathan barely felt the ropes biting into his wrists. Throughout Jonathan’s childhood the tiny woman had been the one constant in his life, the only reliable source of care and attention. And now she was sending him to his doom. Jonathan’s mum and dad were in the hospital, and Carnegie, Marianne and the others were back in Darkside – there was no one left to rescue him.
The car’s engine purred like a cat as the vehicle prowled the leafy squares of Bloomsbury in central London. Mrs Elwood turned left on to a narrow street, bringing the car to a halt outside a long railing. Through the gaps in the bars, and past the wide expanse of the courtyard beyond, Jonathan saw a set of stone steps sweeping up towards a giant neoclassical building fronted by a stone colonnade. Bright floodlights lit up the pillars in front of the main entrance.
“The British Museum?” Jonathan said, surprise in his voice. “What are we doing here?”
“Keeping our mouths shut,” Carmichael said threateningly. The hunchback climbed awkwardly out of the car door, weighed down by the Crimson Stone. “If you start shouting for help, you’re going to end up like Magpie – understand?”
Jonathan nodded. There wasn’t any other choice. He allowed Holborn to haul him out of the car, then followed the Abettor through the wide-open gates and across the courtyard. Mrs Elwood trotted along at the back of the group, her short legs struggling to keep pace.
Two bulky figures were standing guard by the doorway to the museum. As he walked up the steps, Jonathan recognized the two fire salamanders from the hospital.
Holborn gave Carmichael a sideways glance. “It would seem we are expected.”
“I called ahead to arrange everything,” the detective replied. “Given our precious cargo, I thought it best that we weren’t bothered by security guards.”
He nodded briskly at the salamanders, who stared unblinkingly back at him, their black scales gleaming in the floodlights. They took up a position on either side of Jonathan, then followed the hunchback through the main door and inside the museum.
“I still don’t get why we’re here,” Jonathan said, bemused.
“There is a crossing point within these walls,” Holborn replied regally. “I used it earlier today with that wretched tramp, Magpie. It holds the distinct advantage of taking us directly back to Blackchapel. There is no time to waste – I guarantee that Lucien is itching to see you. Not only do you owe him for ruining his Night Hunt, but both he – and I – are very interested in the current whereabouts of Marianne.”
“I’m not telling you anything,” retorted Jonathan.
“We’ll see, Starling,” Holborn said ominously.
As they crossed a vast indoor courtyard, priceless exhibits shrouded in darkness, Mrs Elwood scurried over to Carmichael, her eyes shining. “How do you feel holding the Stone?” she whispered. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
“It feels strange,” Carmichael replied uncertainly. “I feel . . . connected to everything . . . the ground and the walls, like
they’re extensions of my arms and legs. I think I could bring down the museum around us if I wanted.”
“Stop that!” snapped Holborn. “The Stone is too powerful to be trifled with. It can raze buildings at a thought.”
“And you’re going to hand it over to Lucien,” Jonathan said to Carmichael, a look of disgust on his face. “Imagine what he’ll do with it.”
The hunchback shrugged in the gloom. “That isn’t really my concern. My job is to keep the equilibrium between Darkside and Lightside. Lucien’s unpopularity is threatening everything – but if he has the Stone, no one can stop him. If he is grateful enough to reward me, then all the better.”
“Naturally,” Holborn replied smoothly. Even in the darkness, Jonathan had noticed that the Abettor couldn’t help hungrily glancing at the Stone.
“Are you OK, Jonathan?”
It was Mrs Elwood speaking, her face creased with concern.
“What do you care?” Jonathan said. “Leave me alone.”
She looked down at her feet. “I don’t expect you to understand,” she said quietly. “You don’t know what it was like for Horace and me growing up. A hunchback and a dwarf: even in Darkside, it made us easy targets. But the more the other children laughed at us, the closer we became. He looked after me like I was his sister. We lost track of one another when we were teenagers, and I didn’t even know Horace was on Lightside until I saw him search your house. But from that moment, my path was clear. I had to help Horace, no matter what the cost.”
“I still don’t understand,” said Jonathan. “When you first met us, you told us that you were friends with my mum. But that wasn’t true, was it? Why did you lie? Why us?”
Mrs Elwood sighed. “When your father was working in the watch shop in Darkside, I lived in the house opposite. I used to watch him through the window as he worked. Back then, Alain seemed so happy and content: I envied him so. When I heard about Theresa’s disappearance, I wondered if there was now room in his life for me. I travelled to Lightside and pretended to be an old friend of your mother’s. He was so desperate for any kind of link to her, he didn’t take much convincing.”
“You lied,” Jonathan said fiercely. “All those years, and it was all lies.”
An odd look crossed the dwarf’s face. “At the beginning, yes. But as the time passed, I came to believe my story as though it was the truth. Eventually I loved you like you were my own child. I never thought for a second that Theresa might still be alive. I tried to persuade Alain to move on, to try not to return to Darkside, but he never gave up. And then you discovered a way over.”
“You would have been advised to stay where you were,” Holborn intoned. “You tried to meddle with affairs that didn’t concern you. And now you’re going to pay the price.” Leaning closer, he said in a low whisper: “Have you seen the Black Phoenix when it flies in for the kill? It is a sight of truly terrifying beauty. You should be honoured, child.”
Jonathan shuddered. He still had nightmares about facing the Black Phoenix, and the feeling of terror as its cloud of fear smothered him.
“Stop tormenting the lad,” Carmichael said sharply. “His fate is dark enough without your gloating.”
An angry look flashed across Holborn’s face, but he said nothing. Having left the indoor courtyard, the group was now threading its way through a narrow gallery. Jonathan was wondering whether he should try to make a run for it when he heard a familiar voice cry out his name.
“Look out!” shouted Raquella.
Glancing up, he saw a silhouette swooping through the air, and then Harry Pierce came crashing down upon them.
23
Harry yelled a war cry as he landed upon the group, the force of his impact scattering them like skittles. As a surprised Holborn collided into him, Jonathan fell to the floor, only just managing to scramble out of the way as one of the fire salamanders tumbled over. Horace Carmichael went staggering to one side, the weight of the Crimson Stone propelling him into one of the glass display cases with a deafening crash. The hunchback slumped down into a bleeding heap, the Stone spilling from his grasp. Mrs Elwood screamed.
With his hands still bound behind his back, it was difficult for Jonathan to get back on to his feet. The nearest salamander stretched out to grab his leg; he wriggled across the floor and out of reach. There was a tug on his shoulder, and then Harry hauled him to his feet.
“Let’s get out of here!” Harry shouted.
Jonathan stumbled away through the gallery, shouts of confusion ringing in his ears.
“After them!” bellowed Holborn.
Risking a glance over his shoulder, Jonathan saw that the fire salamanders had dropped down on to all fours and were scuttling after them, their heads low to the ground, their tongues hungrily tasting the air.
Jonathan and Harry zigzagged frantically through the museum, hurtling up staircases and along hallways, all the while pursued by the ominous patter of reptilian feet. Running past one gloomy exhibit after another, Jonathan felt surrounded by death: Egyptian mummies lay entombed in ornate sarcophagi, preserved for eternity; tribal death masks with empty eyeholes leered down from the walls; the remains of ancient corpses curled up inside glass boxes, shrivelled brown tangles of bone.
As they raced along a narrow corridor hemmed in by backlit display cases, Harry skidded to a halt.
“Wait!”
He smashed the glass of the nearest case with his elbow, reached inside and pulled free an antique dagger. As Harry hacked through the ropes around his wrists, Jonathan saw that his friend’s shirtsleeve was torn, revealing a patch of blotchy, red-raw skin.
“What happened to your arm?”
“It’s nothing,” said Harry. “I touched one of those salamanders when I jumped on top of you. I forgot their skin was poisonous. Keep them at arm’s length if you can.”
“I’ll do my best.” Jonathan grinned. “That was some leap back there.”
Harry looked rueful. “Thanks. I’m not sure it was my cleverest idea, but it was the best I could come up with at the time.” He glanced along the empty corridor, alert for any sign of the enemy. “Now you’re free, we need to get back to the gallery. It looks like we’ve lost the salamanders, and we’ve left Raquella and Sam behind in the same room as Holborn and Carmichael.”
“They’re not safe there.”
“You’re telling me.” Harry chewed on his lip thoughtfully. “You know, we could really do with some more weapons.”
He turned and began to inspect the display cases. As Jonathan rubbed his chafing wrists, there was a gleam of orange in the doorway, and a scaly head nosed its way around the corner. Jonathan slowly tapped his friend on the shoulder.
“Harry? I think the salamanders have found us again.”
At that moment, a woman’s blood-curling scream echoed throughout the museum.
Raquella’s heart was in her mouth as she watched Jonathan and Harry flee from the gallery, the salamanders crawling menacingly after them. As the sounds of commotion disappeared down the hallways, the room went quiet again. Horace Carmichael was sprawled on the ground, blood trickling from a head wound. Mrs Elwood crouched by his side, holding his hand and whispering tenderly into his ear.
There was a movement in the darkness as Holborn slowly rose to his feet and walked over to where the Crimson Stone lay. The Abettor picked up the precious artefact, running his fingers over it with a sharp intake of breath. By Raquella’s side, Sam moaned unhappily – she grabbed hold of his wrist, preventing him from going down after the Stone.
“Ripper be praised!” murmured Holborn. “Such power!”
Carmichael rolled over with a groan. “Forget the boys,” he said to the Abettor weakly. “Get out of here now – take the Stone to Lucien as fast as you can.”
“Oh, you can count on that,” Holborn breathed. “Lucien will discover the might of the Crimson Stone
all too soon.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Mrs Elwood.
Holborn smiled thinly. “Let’s just say that this Ripper’s reign will be as long as his death will be lamented.”
“What?” Carmichael looked up sharply, wincing with pain. “You’re going to set yourself against Lucien?”
“Count on it.”
“But think of all we fought for! We stopped Vendetta raising Lucien’s brother from the dead! We helped Lucien defeat Marianne. Don’t throw it away now!”
“I don’t know what petty reasons governed your choice of sides,” Holborn said, with a sneer. “I was always building towards this moment. Now, with the Stone under my control, Darkside will be mine.”
“Your ambition will be the death of you, Abettor,” said Carmichael. “Mark my words.”
“Perhaps. You needn’t worry about it, though. It is no concern of yours any longer.”
As the Abettor stood over Carmichael and Mrs Elwood, it seemed to the watching Raquella that he was somehow growing in size and stature, his broad shoulders casting a lengthening shadow across the gallery floor. Mrs Elwood whimpered as Holborn lifted the Stone high into the air.
“Do what you must with me,” Carmichael said through clenched teeth. “But leave Lily alone. This is nothing to do with her.”
“What?” Holborn exclaimed mockingly. “And split the two of you up, so soon after you have found each other again? I could never be so cruel.”
As the Abettor muttered something under his breath, the ground beneath Mrs Elwood and Horace Carmichael suddenly caved in, the marbled surface dissolving into a swirling whirlpool. It was as though someone had pulled a plug out from beneath the museum. Raquella watched in horror as Carmichael was sucked underground with a loud gurgling noise; with a piercing scream, Mrs Elwood followed him beneath the earth, her hands clawing vainly for something to cling on to. When they had both vanished from view, the floor closed over their heads, re-forming into a smooth surface that left no trace of either the hunchback or the dwarf.
