My morning plans for research of ancient Middle Eastern cultures were disrupted by a visit from a young friend, Elizabeth Winters. Lizzy, as she rather informally insisted on being addressed, fancied herself as a righter of wrongs and fearless seeker out of wickedness. I first encountered her at a meeting of the Bristol & Clifton branch of the National Society for Women’s Suffrage in Colston Hall.
Miss Winters spent much time investigating stories of merchants who continued to deal in slaves despite the abolition of their cruel trade. She also did much good work amongst the poor of the city, and could frequently be found distributing alms in places such as the immigrant community in St. Pauls.
“Thank you so much for making time for me, Miss Edwards. I fear that I have uncovered something quite terrible, and I need someone to talk to.”
Miss Winters was always uncovering something terrible, but I had rarely seen her in such a state. I encouraged her to explain.
“It is the Barrage Project, Miss Edwards, I fear that they are using child labour.”
“That seems highly unlikely. Their work is heavy engineering and construction, requiring great strength. Nothing that I have heard of would require people able to work their way into small spaces.”
“Nevertheless, they have been purchasing children from local orphanages.”
“What, Mr. Guppy?” I was shocked.
“No ma’am, his Chief of Works, Mr. Cartwright.”
“And you have proof of this?”
“I do ma’am. Mrs. Osborne from the Muller Homes will swear to it.”
“Well Lizzy, Mr. Guppy came to me yesterday for help with another matter. He may be unaware of what Mr. Cartwright has done. Leave it with me, and I will find out what I can.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Edwards. I’m so relieved. I shudder to think what might happen to those poor children.”
So do I, I thought, as I saw her out. The use of child labour on the Barrage Project seemed unlikely to me, but the words of the long-dead pharaoh echoed in my brain. “They give their children to him in the hope that he will look away from their enterprises.”
I spent the rest of the day studying the stone and its inscription, comparing it to others in my collection. I could not confirm Taharqa’s assertion that the language upon the stone was Philistine, for almost no record of that race exists beyond The Bible. However, I soon became convinced that the inscription was of modern origin. The marks on the stone were simply too sharp, too well formed even. For all that Mr. Guppy claimed to have dredged it up from the waters, time had not worked its way upon the stone. Besides, while the material did appear to be limestone, it looked more like what I could find locally in the Mendips than the rock I was used to seeing in Egypt.
The next day I sent a letter by mail to a friend in London. Being involved in Egyptology naturally brings one to the attention of people with a passion for ancient magic, the sort of people who, if they knew of Taharqa, would seek to use him to gain power and riches. I did my best to keep what I knew away from such people, but equally I kept an eye on their doings. Four days later, immediately after the bank holiday weekend, an answer arrived. The improvement that the railways have made to the mail service during my lifetime has been quite extraordinary. According to my informant, Mr. Cartwright of the Barrage Project was a known associate of Mr. Kenneth Mackenzie and others involved in the Rosicrucian Society.
On Wednesday I visited Mr. Guppy at the site of the Barrage Project. As chance would have it, I found him engaged in an altercation with some of the workers. Mr. Guppy, being still unwell, was not managing to impress his authority on his staff. However, a younger gentleman, dressed somewhat expensively, spoke severely to them and made it clear that they would receive no pay at all for the month should they refuse to go back to work. Even so, a handful of men walked off, swearing that they would have no more to do with such an infernal enterprise.
“It is pointless reasoning with these fellows “Mr. Guppy confided in me when the mob had dispersed. “They receive little schooling beyond religious instruction, and their parents teach them naught but what they need to help out on a farm. The government really should pay more attention to country-folk, for the Empire needs every good Englishman that we can breed.”
“What those men need,” said the younger man, “is a damn good thrashing.”
“If they are willing to walk away without pay, Cartwright, I fail to see how a thrashing would help. What they need is some superstitious mumbo jumbo that is more encouraging to them than the daft stories they have told each other of an evening in camp. And speaking of which, I should introduce you to Miss Edwards, who I am relying on to provide help with this matter.”
“Anyone who relies on a woman in matters of engineering deserves to have his project fail,” said Cartwright disdainfully, apparently oblivious of the insult he had delivered to Mr. Guppy’s late mother. “However, I am taking matters in hand, and by next week there will be no more talk of creatures in the waters, you will see.”
Mr. Cartwright stalked off, leaving Mr. Guppy somewhat embarrassed.
“I do apologise, Miss Edwards. Cartwright was employed by the Board before I was confirmed on this project. I had not met him before, and we do not always see eye to eye in management matters. He is very ambitious.”
I felt it best to change the subject.
“I have been studying your stone, Mr. Guppy, and I am afraid there will be no great historical discovery arising from it.”
“But can you calm my workers, Miss Edwards? As you have seen, they are convinced that something has cursed the project and that evil lurks in the waters. Loathe as I am to have anything to do with mumbo jumbo, we very much need a convincing story for them, and given their simple natures a tale out of legend would go down well. The stone, you see…”
“Yes, that. My expert opinion, Mr. Guppy, is that it is of relatively recent manufacture. That is, the inscriptions are recently made. The marks do not correspond to any well-known ancient language, and they do not show the same signs of wear that one would expect if they were of great antiquity. Also it appears to be made from local Mendip stone.”
“Then what the devil, excuse my language ma’am, was it doing in the water near my excavations?”
“That I cannot say, sir. However, I have received reliable intelligence that your Mr. Cartwright is a member of an organization known as the Rosicrucian Society which claims to be in possession of secret knowledge gleaned from ancient German mystics. Such people often cling to superstitious beliefs that the process of business can be influenced by occult rites. Perhaps Mr. Cartwright caused the stone to be made in an attempt to bring good luck to the project.”
“Well we are using local stone as ballast, so there is plenty of it about. It is completely unsuitable for facing the construction, being too vulnerable to erosion by the water, but it is fine for filling the interior. I suppose I should have noticed the similarity. Goodness knows what Cartwright thinks he’s doing. Waste of time and effort, if you ask me. No wonder he’s been so touchy about it.”
Mr. Guppy slumped in a dejected manner. His illness seemed to have left him with little stomach for conflict.
“But what can I tell the workers? It is bad enough that they be afflicted with such nonsense, let alone my management indulging in it too. I’d fire the fellow if I had any evidence, but I can’t see how I could explain such an action to the Board without it.”
“Well sir, a habit of occultists is that they perform rites under a full moon. One is due this Sunday night. I am interested that Mr. Cartwright has promised you that all will be well by next week. Perhaps we can catch him in the act. Would you indulge me in a little night-time observation?”
“If it will put an end to this nonsense, Miss Edwards, then certainly. I am in your hands.”
I had not been entirely forthcoming with Mr. Guppy. The intelligence regarding Cartwright’s promise of a solution by next week was very useful, but Miss Winters had informed me that five chil
dren were due to be delivered to the Barrage Project on Sunday afternoon, a very oddly timed request unless some sort of mischief were planned.
On Sunday evening, as is often the case, a great fog had rolled up the Severn Estuary. The full moon gave the mist an unearthly radiance. It was, however, very useful to our cause, for it allowed us to observe goings on at the Barrage Project with some degree of stealth. Mr. Guppy had enlisted the aid of Inspector Bartram from the Bristol Constabulary, apparently an old friend. He in turn had brought with him two burly constables, just in case things took a turn for the awkward. One of them had been on outlook duty.
“Oi reckon we’ve got our man, sir,” he reported. “Fellow looking like Cartwright but done up in robes like ‘e was a wizard or summat went out onto th’ Barrage a short while back. Right nutty ‘e looked, if you don’t mind me saying so. ‘Ad five kids in tow. Looks like they might ‘ave been tied up an’ gagged.”
“Good work, Palmer,” said the Inspector. “Let us go and confront the bounder. You and Rimes lead the way with Mr. Guppy. Miss Edwards and Miss Winters, please stay behind me. I don’t want to take any chances.”
Privately I felt that any of us would have stood more chance in a fight than poor Mr. Guppy, who was tightly swaddled in a scarf, thick overcoat and hat against the cold. Nevertheless, rank has its duties and he was obliged to go forward. For myself, I had brought Jenkins with me, just in case.
The foundations of the barrage only stretched a few hundred yards out into the estuary, and it did not take us long to work our way along them to where Cartwright and the children could eventually be seen, stood near the end. There was no sound from the waves, as the same atmospheric conditions that allowed the fog to develop meant there was no wind to speak of.
As we walked, a strange, unearthly drumming sounded out in the fog. I have found, living near the estuary, that noises can travel great distances over water. Nevertheless I was at a loss to understand what this sound was. Furthermore, had you asked me, I would have sworn that it came, not from over the water, but from under it. I noticed Miss Winters shivering, though she had dressed warmly enough.
“Cartwright, what the devil do you think you are doing?”
Mr. Guppy and the constables were now quite close to where Cartwright and the children stood. Through the thickening gloom I could just make out images of sea creatures, like those carved on the mystery stone, on the robes that Cartwright wore. Some trick of the light made it seem like the images were writhing as if alive.
“Making a success of your project, you fool! Get those people out of here. You have no idea what forces lurk in these waters. I said I’d solve your problems and I’m doing so. Leave me to get on with it, if you value your lives.”
“For goodness sake, man, you are an engineer. You can’t solve problems by resorting to mystical mumbo jumbo!”
“How little you know of the universe, old man. Did you not know that Newton was an alchemist first and a physicist second? I have made it my task to divine the truth about our world. Soon fools like you will quail before me!”
Mr. Guppy’s efforts at managerial pomp continued to be undermined by his manifest ill health. While the men were disputing matters of status, Miss Winters and I had other things on our minds.
“We must get those poor mites away from that lunatic, Miss Edwards,” Miss Winters whispered, clearly terrified.
“We should indeed, Lizzy, but how are we to achieve that? The wall on which we stand is not wide. They are at the far end, and there is deep water on either side.”
“I know, I know. I do so wish the men would get on and finish their shouting. Then we…”
Miss Winters grabbed my arm and shrieked.
“Miss Edwards, there’s something climbing out of the water!”
At the end of the barrage, where construction was still underway, it was possible to clamber up from the deep. It was difficult to see exactly what sort of creatures were emerging slowly from the waves. From a distance they looked like men, but they wore no clothing, and their heads were larger than normal, with wide mouths and large, protruding eyes. I could have sworn that their hands were webbed. Quite likely their feet too, though for modesty’s sake I tried not to look at the lower halves of their bodies. Their mouths hung open, showing traces of a mass of small teeth, like those of the vicious predators of the Amazon.
Alerted by Miss Winters’s shriek, the creatures abandoned their stealthy approach and clambered towards us with unexpected speed. It was clear that direct action was needed. There was only one thing to do.
“Jenkins, secure the children, if you please!”
“Yes ma’am.”
Brave man that he was, he set off for the end of the Barrage. Meanwhile Cartwright had wheeled to face the newcomers. He shouted something to them in a guttural tongue I did not recognise. They responded in kind, clearly unhappy with him. An argument ensued.
The terrified children were trying to escape but, as Constable Palmer had said, they were bound together to stop them from running. In a matter of moments the creatures had surrounded them and flung them into the water, where more of their kind waited. Being gagged, the children uttered no sound as they fell.
The two constables were initially rooted to the spot, unable to believe what they saw. When Jenkins began grappling with one of the creatures, they ran forward to assist, and probably saved his life.
“Stout fellow, your man Jenkins. He’d make a fine constable.”
“Thank you, Inspector. I shall be sure to pass on your praise to him. Unfortunately his services are of great value to me, so I would be grateful if you would refrain from attempting to lure him away.”
“Of course, madam.”
As we talked, the altercation at the end of the Barrage continued. Jenkins and the constables managed to extricate themselves from the melee, but nothing could be done for Cartwright. He was surrounded and flung, screaming, into the water. Their mission complete, the creatures on the Barrage turned and dived back into their watery home.
It was all over in a matter of minutes. The surface of the water was dark and smooth once more. The fog continued to thicken. Only the drumming sound remained.
Miss Winters had fainted clean away at the sight of the creatures. Jenkins had to carry her back to our carriage. When she finally awoke she could remember nothing of those terrible moments, which was a blessing in many ways. The two constables refused to speak of the events afterwards, and have gone off to join the army together, presumably thinking that they are safer fighting the Boers and Zulus than keeping the peace in Bristol. Between us, Mr. Guppy, Inspector Bartram and I agreed not to tell of what we had seen. I did not even tell Mrs. Brayshaw. We concocted a story of how Cartwright had killed the children as part of a Satanic ritual, and made sure that story went no further than Miss Winters and the Board of the Great Western Railway. Thankfully no one else cared much about the fate of orphan children. As Miss Winters said to me, the poor mites were doubtless far better off safe in the bosom of Christ than they would be alive. I only hope that is indeed where they have found themselves.
Mr. Guppy also concocted a story about how the bedrock under the estuary had proved far more unstable than had been suggested by the initial surveys, and that construction of the Barrage would therefore be far more expensive than anticipated. As many of the Board were already nervous about the investment, it was not hard to persuade them to abandon the Barrage Project. Mr. Guppy proved an excellent advocate for the idea, both because of what we had seen, and because he was desperate to return to the warmer climes of Naples.
Those parts of the Barrage already built were demolished with haste. Altogether more dynamite than might have seemed necessary was used. Mr. Guppy even went as far as to obtain some of the newly invented blasting gelatine from Mr. Nobel in Sweden. A considerable number of fish were killed by the explosions, but no unusual corpses were washed up.
I reported the events of the evening to Taharqa who was unsurprised by the
appearance of the creatures, and approved wholeheartedly of our intention to destroy them.
“There is one thing I am still unsure about, great king. If Cartwright made that stone, why was it found in the estuary? Surely he would not have been so careless with it.”
“He did not make it, woman. That is clear from the inscription.”
Damn him! He rarely gave me a full answer.
“Then who did?”
“That I cannot say, but the inscription is of the form of a summoning. It praises the god, Dagon, and calls his children to your shores with promises of plentiful food. The inscription speaks of having encountered them in the river you call Niger.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Foolish woman. Thousands upon thousands of Africans have been taken on ships through your port of Bristol to their deaths in your colonies west over the ocean. Did you not think that one or two amongst them might have the means to extract revenge?”
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