by George Mann
Newbury charged along behind the rogue agent, skipping down a series of tiled steps towards the platform. His face was set with grim determination, but nevertheless, he almost laughed out loud when he saw a faded, sepia-coloured bill pasted on the tunnel wall, advertising the miraculous stage show of "The Mysterious Alfonso". He swept past it, driving inwards.
Newbury burst out onto the platform a moment later, only to see, bewildered, the other man leap down onto the train tracks and dart towards the dark mouth of the Underground tunnel at the end of the platform. Newbury ran to the edge of the platform and threw himself forward, jumping high into the air and coming down hard on Ashford's shoulders. Ashford twisted, stumbling on the steel tracks and tottering over under the weight and momentum of the Crown detective. He banged his head, hard, against the curved tunnel wall, and it rang out with the sound of metal striking stone. There were shouts of alarm from the passengers waiting on the platform edge. Newbury heard a whistle blow. The police were on their way. Far from being concerned, Newbury was relieved. If he could only detain Ashford for long enough, perhaps the bobbies would be able to help him restrain the man.
The metal runners of the track were hard against Newbury's back. He was growing weary now, but Ashford, seemingly indestructible, was already climbing to his feet. Newbury mustered his remaining strength. He jumped to his feet, punching out at the rogue agent. His fist connected with the other man's chin, slamming his head backwards, but the blow was almost enough to incapacitate Newbury, for his hand felt as if he had driven it into a lump of solid iron. He glanced at his knuckles. They were shredded, bleeding and sore.
Unperturbed, Ashford lurched forward, using the flat of his hand to slap Newbury hard in the chest. The blow was enough to immediately knock him from his feet. He called out as he scrabbled on the ground. "Ashford! What's the matter with you, man? Have you lost all sense? Give it up!"
Ashford's voice, when he spoke, was a grating, metallic whine. Every word was like a fragment of song, and Newbury had the sense that, somehow, it was being artificially induced. It sounded as if it were being squeezed from a clutch of miniature organ pipes in his throat, like a chorus of a hundred people all speaking the same words at once. But there was no emotion in it, no sense of the person Ashford had once been. The sound seemed to echo from a wheezing vent in his chest. It was cold and inhuman, just like the man himself. "Cease and desist, Sir Maurice. I don't want to hurt you." He stepped cautiously over the train tracks to loom over the prone Newbury. During the tussle, however, Ashford's long cloak had become tangled in the steel runners. In stepping forward, the cloak tore open, exposing, momentarily, the horrifying figure it harboured underneath.
Newbury gasped in shock. "My God! What did they do to you?" The words seemed to catch in his throat. Newbury knew, now, the origin of that detestable stench. Ashford was less than half the man he had once been; less than half the human being he had once been. His body had been ravaged, reassembled from a shocking assortment of flesh and brass, like a patchwork monster made real, a nightmare marriage of metal and blood. What flesh there still was, clinging to his brass exoskeleton, was rotten, decaying, sloughing away in great hunks. In places, large patches of leather had been stitched indelicately to this remaining flesh in an attempt to give some semblance of skin, but had succeeded only in exacerbating the monstrous appearance of the man. Newbury had no idea whether this was a part of Dr. Fabian's original design, or whether Ashford had attempted to repair himself during his five-year exile in St. Petersburg. It mattered not. The result was grotesque.
The man's torso was perhaps the most disturbing aspect of all. The exposed skin of his chest was puckered and pustulant around a large glass porthole that filled the space where his ribcage had once resided. In the murky depths it revealed, Newbury could see the grey muscle of the man's heart, beating in time with a flickering electrical charge that shocked it repeatedly at intervals, like the precise ticking of a clock. Fluid burbled and bubbled along four clear pipes that sprouted, like giant follicles, from his shoulders, curling around the back of his head and disappearing into the depths of his skull. The brown, murky liquid appeared to be pumped around his brain cavity by a further device buried deep inside his chest. His face was just as alarming. The tiny lenses of his eyes flicked back and forth over Newbury's prone body, the red lights glowing in the darkness. When he opened his mouth, Newbury saw that his teeth had decayed to black stumps. What hair was left was hung in long, straggling clumps, and the flesh of his scalp was torn, revealing the horrific juxtaposition of yellowed bone and metal plating underneath.
Newbury shuddered. So this was the disgusting genius of Dr. Fabian, taken to its extreme. He could hardly believe this had been sanctioned by the Crown. He pitied the man, despite himself. Newbury had no idea how Ashford could go on living like this. It was a form of waking torture, that every minute his intellect should be housed in this wreckage of a frame, this parody of a human body. No wonder the man had been driven insane. Newbury was amazed it had not happened sooner. Indeed, he felt a kind of sickening sympathy for the man, an understanding of the desperation that had led him to this point. Science had betrayed him, and so had the Crown.
His life had been extended beyond the point of death, certainly, but Newbury doubted it was a life worth living; the pain and hardship he must have suffered since his resurrection would have driven any man insane. And now Ashford had turned to the occult, hoping to find a means to restore himself, to reclaim the life that was once his. It was tragic, and Newbury was repulsed, not only by what the man had become, but the means by which he had become it. Nevertheless, regardless of circumstances, Ashford had committed two murders, and whatever happened there in the train tunnel he needed to be brought to justice.
Newbury inched backwards, shuffling along the tracks, trying to put some distance between himself and the strange, mechanical man. Ashford stooped low in response, as if reaching for Newbury's ankle. The detective rolled, using his momentum to spring up onto his hands and knees and then twisting into a standing position. He fired out a blind kick in Ashford's general direction, in an attempt to keep the other man at bay whilst he found his bearings. To his surprise, his foot hit home, although it seemed to have little effect other than to give Newbury some extra leverage to right himself. Again, Ashford attempted to slap at Newbury with the palm of his hand, swatting at him as if he were a buzzing insect, but Newbury was able to skip away, watchful that his feet did not become entangled in the rails. He could not work out what Ashford was trying to achieve with such bizarre tactics. Surely a trained agent, a man who had lived rough in a foreign territory for over five years, would have developed more comprehensive combat manoeuvres? Especially a man with such power. If he were able to plant even one successful blow to Newbury's head or gut, Newbury knew it would be the end of him. He'd fought machines before, but this was an entirely different proposition. No, it was almost as if, with these flat-handed attacks, Ashford was genuinely attempting not to wound him, instead choosing to parry Newbury's ineffective blows and disable him with the least amount of effort. Perhaps he was telling the truth? Perhaps he really didn't want to hurt him?
Confused, Newbury backed away. By now, people were shrieking loudly on the platform, but the combatants paid them no heed. Newbury wiped his sleeve across his brow. "Ashford... you have to come in with me. They'll hunt you down. I’ll hunt you down, unless you stop me. Put an end to this now."
The half-human, half-machine rounded on him. Newbury found it difficult to get a measure of the man's facial expression, all subtlety lost beneath the layers of peeling flesh. His voice chimed in its strange, metallic tones. "I cannot."
Newbury sighed. "Then I fear I must detain you myself."
Launching himself from the tunnel wall with a kick of his foot, Newbury pounced towards Ashford. To his horror, he registered, too late, the nature of the screams from the platform. People were shouting a warning. A train was coming. It was hurtling into the platform,
heading directly for the mouth of the tunnel where Newbury and Ashford were now locked in combat.
Newbury landed on the other man, chopping down at his neck. Ashford, however, was ready for this, and instead of fending off Newbury's attack, he grappled with him, grabbing him firmly around the waist. Newbury fought frantically against his captor, but Ashford was too strong, and held him, pinned, as the train hurtled into the station. There was no way either of them could now escape the roar of the oncoming engine.
Ashford moved like lightning. He lurched to one side, bodily heaving Newbury up and into the air, spinning the Crown investigator up onto the platform, where he landed with a painful thump. It was just in time. The engine's brakes squealed loudly as the driver caught sight of the figure in its path, but it was too late for Ashford. The train slammed into him, lifting him off the ground with a sickening thud. His body was flung around the curved prow of the engine, trapping him between the side of the tank and the tunnel wall. Newbury watched in shock as Ashford's elbows scraped against the dirty tiles, setting a shower of sparks flying as his metal bones were dragged across the hard ceramic. The train screeched to a halt. Ashford, now partially obscured by the shadows of the tunnel, turned to regard Newbury, his red eyes flashing. Then, without saying another word, he eased himself out from between the engine and the tunnel wall, clambered around the front of the train, and dropped to the ground. Now out of sight, Newbury heard his footsteps padding away into the distance, further away into the depths of the Underground.
Newbury collapsed onto his back, breathing heavily.
Ashford had saved his life. There was no doubt. The man had purposefully placed Newbury out of the path of the oncoming train, at great risk to himself. It was only due to Dr. Fabian's enhancements that Ashford had managed to survive the encounter at all. If survive was the right word.
Sighing, exhausted, Newbury took in his situation. The civilians on the platform had formed a large circle around him, their faces gleaming with expressions that ranged from horror to admiration and everything in between. Newbury couldn't help but laugh out loud when, a moment later, a startled-looking Purefoy pushed his way through the press of people, rushing to Newbury's side. The boy looked dishevelled, tired and anxious. "What happened to him? Where is he?"
"He got away."
"What... I..." Purefoy looked devastated. He glanced down at the ruination of his bloody hands, as if refusing to believe that everything he had been through that evening had been in vain, that all of their efforts had led to nothing but failure.
Newbury felt quite the opposite. "I should add at this point, Purefoy, that I'm beginning to think I may have been wrong all along." Newbury glanced in the direction of the tunnel mouth, where Ashford had disappeared into the murky darkness. "He saved my life." He looked up at the quizzical face of the young reporter. "Perhaps Ashford isn't our killer, after all."
—— Chapter Seventeen ——
Veronica stirred to wakefulness.
Her eyelids were heavy and she had the bizarre notion that she was floundering underwater, her senses dimmed, her breathing thick and uncomfortable. She gasped at the air, striking out with her hands, encountering only hard, rough panels in all directions. Her heart was racing in her chest. Probing her lips with her tongue, she found that they were dry and sore. She'd clearly been asleep for some time. She wrinkled her nose. There was a cloying scent in the air, a heady aroma of flowers. The smell seemed somehow familiar, somehow comforting. It made her feel as if she wanted to curl up and go back to sleep, to lose herself in its floral embrace. She fought the urge, knowing, somewhere in the back of her mind, that it would be dangerous to allow herself to slip away again. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, or where she was, now that she had woken. She tried to get her bearings, but her mind was slow and glacial. There was a light breeze brushing against her left cheek and she turned towards it, allowing it to play over her face. The fresh air was cool and sobering.
Slowly, unsure what to expect, Veronica peeled open her eyes. Darkness. Nothing but black, impenetrable darkness. She tried to remember where she was, what had happened to her that she might find herself in this bizarre, uncomfortable place. The memories came to her in stuttering bursts of images and colour. Alfonso. The trapdoor. The box. She scrabbled with a start. She was still trapped in the wooden casket under the stage! Thankfully, she was still alive. But where was the magician? Why had he left her here for so long?
Veronica felt around with her hands. She realised she was no longer standing, but lying on her back; the fibrous, untreated wood rasped against her skin, even through the substantial fabric of her clothes. The casket was resting at an angle. She tried to sit up, but there was not enough room, and she caught her head with a painful knock. Bracing herself, she lifted her arms above her head, pushing at the roughly hewn panel above her head. There was no give. Shuffling a little, she tried instead with her feet, stamping down at the floor beneath the bundled rags. To her surprise, the panel creaked slightly ajar under the pressure. Frantically, she kicked down with her heels, forcing the wooden floor to snap open on stiff metal hinges. The rags spilled out beneath her, and the dim impression of light seeped in. She shuffled out, using her legs and hips to writhe free, her hands pressed against the sides of the casket to stop her from sliding downwards too quickly. The angle was awkward, but soon her feet struck hard, stone tiles, and a moment later she had spilled out of the box. She sprawled on the cold floor and filled her lungs with the clean air, attempting to clear the stench of the chloroform from her nostrils. Her mind was still woozy, her reactions slow. She sat up, and the room swam. Somewhere, during the battle with Alfonso, she had lost her hat. Her long brunette hair had come unpinned, cascading down across her face. She brushed it to one side, tucking it behind her ear.
Veronica glanced around to get a measure of the room. She was deep underground, in a basement or cellar. Flickering gas jets danced in a series of glass bowls mounted at intervals around the walls. The walls themselves were bare, constructed from blocks of ancient grey stone, and the floor was composed of red clay tiles, laid down in a neat herringbone pattern. They were cold and damp beneath her, and she shifted slightly, swaying from side to side as she almost lost her balance. The drug had affected her more than she had initially imagined.
Near to where she was sitting, a long wooden workbench had been laid out, filling much of the room. It was covered in a scattering of papers and other unusual ephemera. Beyond that, against the far wall, was a strange-looking chair, covered in a spidery assortment of brass arms and surgical instruments. She tried to focus on it, but her eyes betrayed her, and she closed them for a moment, almost slipping back to unconsciousness. She snapped them open again with a start. Nervously, she glanced from side to side. She appeared to be alone.
Hauling herself into a more upright position, she turned lick to examine the wooden casket she had tumbled from. This was clearly the room in which the "disappeared" girls were deposited during the show, after Alfonso had triggered the mechanism on the stage, causing them to fall into the box. It was ingenious. The girl was carefully selected from the audience by Alfonso to ensure the correct size and shape, and when her weight was introduced to the casket it was enough to cause the device to begin rolling down an incline beneath the stage, on rails or metal castors. The girl was trapped, of course, but her cries would be muffled by the shouts of the audience, and soon the rags soaked in chloroform would be enough to sedate her, putting her to sleep for — potentially — a number of hours. Until, Veronica supposed, either Alfonso or some secret aide could collect her from the casket and rouse her, or worse. The girls who were set free would be so confused by the drug that they would never be able to accurately recall what had happened to them, and their theatre-going companions would undoubtedly coax them into forgetting the matter, with talk of their bravery and the mysterious nature of their disappearance. The woman would briefly become the talk of her social circle, and for that alone, sh
e would make a point of dismissing any temporary discomfort she may have suffered. After all, she had come to no discernible harm.
That wasn't the case, of course, for all of the girls. Veronica still had no notion of what fate Alfonso had in store for those young women he decided not to set free. Perhaps this room would reveal the truth.
Shakily, Veronica climbed to her feet and approached the workbench, resting her palms upon it whilst she waited for a momentary spell of dizziness to pass. Clearly, because there was no show that evening, there had been no one waiting to receive Veronica upon her impromptu arrival in the room. She wondered what had become of Alfonso. The man had had every opportunity to finish her off whilst she lay there drugged and incapacitated. Perhaps he had lost his nerve, or else he had assumed the chloroform would keep her sedated for longer and was busy elsewhere in the building. Whatever the case, she was grateful to be alive.
She glanced down at the workbench. It was littered with bizarre paraphernalia. Large sheaves of paper, covered in an elaborate scrawl she did not recognise; vials full of a thin brown fluid, stoppered with bulbous corks; medical equipment; scalpels; a pair of tan-coloured, elbow-length leather gloves; pencils, and an assortment of small, Ancient Egyptian artefacts. She gasped in surprise. Ancient Egyptian. She swept up one of a number of little statuettes. It was an effigy of a mummified Pharaoh, made of clay and impressed with three neat rows of hieratic script, of which she had no understanding. It was certainly original, of that much she was sure. She dropped it to the table. Nearby, another, similar statuette had been broken in half. She leaned closer. The two pieces lay side by side, and it was clear that the idol had once been hollow. She supposed that whoever had broken the ancient artefact had removed something from inside.
