Word of Honour

by Michael Pryor

  When Caroline emerged, all the colour had fled from her face. Her blue eyes blazed with fury. 'Who's responsible for this?'

  'We don't know,' Aubrey said. 'But I know what I'm going to do about it. I'm going to find the rest of Maggie's Crew.'

  Twenty-two

  IT WAS A DILEMMA. AUBREY HAD WEIGHTIER MATTERS at hand, more important concerns than a handful of street urchins. The world was lurching toward war, spies and agents were at work, the economy of the nation was under threat.

  But he didn't hesitate at all. He liked Maggie's pluck, her independence, the way she'd been making a go of things. Her torment angered him in its callousness.

  And this callousness, added to her tortured warning about the darkness, made Aubrey chillingly certain that he could see Dr Tremaine at work.

  Ready to rush out of the clinic to find the rest of her Crew, to right the wrong done to her, he pulled himself up short and struck himself on the forehead.

  He had no destination.

  Planning. He burned to spring into action, to do something to help the poor girl and her friends, but he forced himself to stop, to think.

  The reception desk of the clinic was vacant, the nurse having gone home for her midday meal. Aubrey searched the cupboards, the shelves behind the counter, the desk drawers until he found a map of the city, a new one that had been used to note the addresses and neighbourhoods of patients, the sort of thing that a doctor would need when summoned on a house-call. He unrolled it and George and Jack weighed down the corners with a penholder, a blotter, a small jar of boiled sweets and a steel ruler.

  'Here's the hydraulic station,' Aubrey said. Caroline reached over and circled it with a pencil. 'And the Bank of Albion is there.' Another circle. 'And here's where Maggie was found, near the Society for Moral Uplift. Count Brandt's headquarters.' Circle.

  Aubrey stood back. The patterns of the map swam and moved, starting to fall into place.

  'The Southern Line railway tunnel,' Caroline said before he could. She pointed. 'It connects the Bank of Albion with the hydraulic station, near enough.'

  George shook his head. 'It stops short of both of them.'

  'The part of the tunnel that we know about stops short of both of them,' Aubrey said.

  'But what would make you think that there is anything suspicious about it?' Jack asked.

  'It's a Rokeby-Taylor construction,' Aubrey said. 'That makes me suspicious.'

  Aubrey studied the map. It had the underground lines marked, as well as the above-ground lines of the City Rail Corporation. They extended to the edge of the map and criss-crossed each other, linking in an irregular way that made Aubrey think of a fishing net constructed by a worker who had his mind on other things at the time.

  For a moment, despite the urgency, he lost himself in the intricacies of the map. Roads intersecting and connecting, looping about on themselves, splitting and reuniting. The map also indicated the major electricity supply lines for the city, so people would know which company was providing for their neighbourhood. Aubrey knew that no matter how recent the map was, this aspect must be out of date because of the rate at which these companies were spreading their wires though Trinovant.

  He tried to picture the subterranean layers of the city, the world he'd lately been shown. Water pipes, gas pipes, sewerage pipes ran in all their which-ways, underpinning the world of the surface. Wires for telephones ran under streets, pneumatic tubes connected offices – and mysterious chains and cables ran along Dr Tremaine's tunnels, even though the tunnels were recently made. Why? With Dr Tremaine nothing was insignificant. Could they be some sort of new weapon?

  'What's here?' he asked, pointing to a spot just to the south of Rokeby-Taylor's railway tunnel under the river.

  It was situated halfway between the tunnel end and the hydraulic station, a gap of half a mile or so. And it was very near where Maggie had been found.

  'The Southern Electricity Generating Station, 'Caroline said promptly. 'It's another of Rokeby-Taylor's.'

  'It is?' Aubrey said. 'How on earth do you know that?'

  'Mother was approached to paint a mural inside it. She refused.'

  'Good thing,' Jack said. 'I've seen it. It's a monstrosity.'

  'She was given a commission document that specified certain aspects of the mural. The dominant figure of The Rise of Commerce was to be modelled on Rokeby-Taylor himself. Mother couldn't stomach such strictures, nor such appalling big-headedness.'

  'This is worth investigating,' Aubrey said, chewing his lip.

  'Shadwell Phelps took the commission,' Caroline went on. 'He could never do people. Has trouble with hands.

  And faces. Bodies cause him some difficulty, too. He's quite competent on ankles, though.'

  Aubrey stared at the location of the electricity generating station. The Southern Line passed nearby, obviously, and it wasn't far from the river either.

  'Jack, you know this area. Wasn't there a canal here?'

  'The old Bedford Canal. It was roofed over, years ago. I doubt if it's there now.'

  Aubrey was prepared to believe otherwise.

  'I think I see what you're on about,' George said. He pointed. 'Unless I'm completely wrong, the main sewerage drain on the south side of the river goes right past this electricity station. The pumping station is on the river's edge, directly north of the place.'

  Caroline drew a star on the location of the electricity station. 'It's right on top of a junction of these underground lines.'

  'A nexus,' Aubrey said. 'A place that all roads lead to.'

  'I understand that they're having guided tours,' Caroline said.

  'You know this because your mother was invited?' Aubrey said.

  'She declined. She has no interest in bad art, nor electricity generating stations, and the combination made her feel positively ill.'

  'I have a strong stomach,' Aubrey said.

  'I can take notes without looking suspicious,' George said. 'And who knows? It might turn into a genuine article.'

  Jack Figg wanted to go with them, but Aubrey convinced him to stay with Maggie while she went to St Michael's. Jack agreed, reluctantly, and Aubrey was glad. He had an inkling that Jack might slow them down. Despite his enthusiasm, Jack wasn't the sort who'd be first choice for a commando unit.

  THE SOUTHERN ELECTRICITY GENERATING STATION WAS A hulking brick building that took up an entire block – a block that had been cleared of slums. As they approached it along Tartar Street, Aubrey had the unsettling feeling that the building was crouching below the level of the ground, waiting for them.

  It may have taken up an entire city block, but it was set back enough from the street to allow a circus in front of it.

  A large red-faced man ground away at a barrel organ, entertaining a crowd of youngsters, most of whom were more interested in the candy floss that was being handed out free of charge. A sweating clown in a spangled jacket had his own audience as he put his troupe of trained dogs though their paces. Other entertainers did their best to make the visitors see an electricity generating station as a place to have fun.

  They alighted, and Aubrey paid the cabby. 'Mr Rokeby-Taylor,' Aubrey said as they strolled through the crowds. 'Mr Bread and Circuses.'

  'This sort of display must be expensive,' Caroline said.

  A juggler wandered by, showering a mixture of balls and plates, and smiled at her. 'I wonder where he's getting his money from.'

  'A fine, useful question to which I'd very much like the answer,' Aubrey murmured. 'For someone in financial difficulty, he's remarkably free-spending.'

  George snorted. 'You know what they say. If you owe the bank a thousand pounds, you're in trouble. If you owe the bank a million pounds, the bank is in trouble.'

  Aubrey didn't blame George for his sour outlook on banks, but he wasn't accustomed to seeing his friend so cynical. George's troubles were affecting his usually happy-go-lucky ways, Aubrey was sure, and it pained him to see his friend so. If only he could do something about i
t.

  No, he thought, I gave him my word.

  But the vow hurt.

  Aubrey turned his attention to the task at hand. He patted his pockets and felt the chalk, the handful of brass tacks, and the string that he'd stowed – just in case. The assorted needles stuck in cardboard were a precaution against unknown circumstances. The small bag of glass marbles, on the other hand, was simply insurance, the sort of thing that could be useful in facing powerful forces. With the application of some clever magic.

  Immediately Aubrey saw the mural in the gigantic entrance hall, he knew why Ophelia Hepworth had refused the commission. It was vast, taking up a whole wall the size of a tennis court. But it wasn't the size that would have made Mrs Hepworth unhappy, it was being dictated as to the contents and the style.

  He couldn't imagine an artist inventing this appalling display. They stood, transfixed, while people moved around them, averting their eyes.

  It was the style that Aubrey had become used to on the sides of fruit boxes and packets of soap powder. It was a sort of Commercial–Industrial–Propagandist approach, but with none of the subtlety or humour that that school of art was renowned for.

  Aubrey guessed it was a paean, a tribute to the power of Hard Work or such. Hordes of blocky figures were tilling soil, harvesting crops and digging mines. Quite a bit of mine-digging really, and plenty of hauling mountains of what must be coal, towards something that vaguely represented the Southern Electricity Generating Station, in the same way that the face on a coin resembled the reigning monarch.

  Smiling beneficently down on this scene of activity was a giant figure in a white robe, surrounded by clouds and golden birds who – Aubrey assumed – were singing songs of praise.

  'That's Rokeby-Taylor, isn't it?' George asked.

  'Yes. Give or take several dollops of idealising, but who's that behind him?' Caroline asked. 'Right on the edge of the picture. Side profile, looking towards him.'

  Aubrey moved closer. Lurking on the edge, almost disappearing into the corner, was a figure.

  'Tremaine,' Aubrey said softly and a number of pieces began to lock together. While it may not have stood up in a court of law, it was the first substantial evidence they'd had linking Rokeby-Taylor and their nemesis. 'It's Dr Tremaine.'

  Then Aubrey had a moment of self-doubt. Was he imagining Dr Tremaine again? Was it obsession? And if it was him, would the others see him this time? He hoped that having encountered him in the flesh had interrupted the confusion spell that Dr Tremaine had been using in his guise as Spinetti. 'At least, I think it is.'

  'What do you mean?' Caroline said fiercely. 'Of course it's him.'

  'I wonder who insisted on including him?' George said. 'Rokeby-Taylor?'

  'That's something worth considering,' Aubrey said, relieved that they could see Tremaine too. 'Or is someone else in control? He loves a puppet, does Tremaine. Rokeby-Taylor would be perfect.'

  'This place is Rokeby-Taylor's triumph,' George said, 'but I don't see him around here.'

  'With the battleship bill at a crucial stage, I imagine he's doing what he can to persuade members to pass it.'

  They joined a guided tour, where a bowler-hatted gent who must have been chosen for his loud voice conducted a group through heavy steel doors into the main part of the electricity generating station. The whining of the turbines was like the shrieking of a thousand chained-up demons.

  The guide managed to make every third or fourth word intelligible, but he supplemented this with extravagant gestures at intake pipes, furnace hoppers and the squat, massive turbines themselves. It was an eloquent, if puzzling, dumbshow.

  On one level, Aubrey could appreciate the work that had gone into the place. He was impressed by the technology, bringing light to homes that had, for years, had to battle with difficult, dangerous gaslights – or oil lamps, which caused more than their own share of fires.

  He could sense, too, the magical refinements that had gone into the place. Bearings and turbine blades had been magically protected, while some of the thermal efficiency of the furnaces was monitored magically.

  Overhead, the pillars of the smokestacks thrust up through a roof that was a stark curve. Skylights were set amid the reinforcing struts of the roof, allowing sunlight to illuminate the immense space. Aubrey shaded his eyes and squinted upward. His eyes opened wide. He clutched the railing with enough strength to turn his knuckles white.

  In the heights, running between the beams, was a meshwork of metal wires, spread in all directions. Bright, shiny copper wires that looked just like those that had infested Maggie.

  With a glance and a gesture, Aubrey made sure that Caroline and George lurked at the back of the crowd. When the guide conducted the group along a walkway toward the coal intake area, they passed a staircase that headed downward. Aubrey, Caroline and George dawdled, inspecting walls and dials with the avidity of Wall and Dial Inspectors, then they darted down the stairs after the tour group had left them behind.

  The cellar was huge – a deafening, wet, pillared hell where the bulk of the furnaces had residence. Immediately, Aubrey saw that this was the place where the dirty work went on, while upstairs was the showcase. It was chokingly hot, with rattling conveyor belts feeding the never-ending hunger of the fires. Above, in the generation chambers, was the polite face of the coal-devouring monsters. Down here, it was the sweaty, grinding reality.

  The place smelled of coal, dirty water and the ozone created by electrical activity. Large electric lights in the ceiling lit the space, but despite their size they seemed to struggle with the soupy atmosphere in the cellar.

  They were immediately drenched in the foggy heat. Aubrey found distances hard to judge. Hasty stacks of timber, bricks and metal were flung willy-nilly around the place and he could imagine the panic as opening day had drawn nearer. The cellar was out of sight of the public. Anything that wasn't bright and shiny had been thrown down here, so that even though the facility was only months old, the cellar had the look of an abandoned industrial wilderness.

  'Which way?' Caroline asked. She'd changed into her fighting suit and stowed her dress in a small bag she wore at her waist. This time Aubrey managed to pretend it was a matter-of-fact transformation.

  'Down,' he said with certainty. 'Our answer lies underground.'

  Aubrey's head ached from the noise and the humidity made him feel nauseated but he welcomed these as mere physical sensations, relatively simple to bear. More worrying was the blurring of his vision, something he couldn't blame on perspiration running into his eyes; he was sure it was a symptom of his body and soul disuniting.

  It would need attention. When he had time. Right now, he had enough to worry about with the increasing certainty that they were reaching the domain of Dr Tremaine. Maggie's tortured warning about the depths was becoming more ominous as they edged through the dark and oppressive realm.

  Aubrey's lips were dry with apprehension as he peered through the shadows. He could feel his heart racing, rapping his ribs from the inside. The notion of turning around and heading home suddenly had great appeal. A bath, a good meal, a rest and come back some time when better fortified.

  No. He thought of poor Maggie. I want to find him now.

  They trudged along, trying doors and hatches as they came to them. They climbed around piles of building debris, some of which looked as if it had been merely dropped from above. They worked by the feeble light of the dirty electric globes and a lurid red light that came from the slitted grilles and air intakes of the furnaces.

  'Another door,' George grunted as they slogged through a pool of ankle-deep water. It was warm, and Aubrey could see the eyes of rats swimming in the near distance. He peered through the gloom. At least, I hope they're rats.

  The door was heavy steel, bolted and barred. Aubrey hammered on it, but the door was so solid it didn't make a sound. Thinking hard, he rubbed his fist.

  Caroline wiped her brow with the back of her hand. 'We've been right around the perimeter.
We've found closets, storage rooms, switchboards, nothing useful.'

  'This is the only door that's been secured,' George pointed out. He leaned right next to it. His face was red.

  'Then I think we may have found our way into the underworld,' Aubrey said.

  'What makes you say that?' Caroline asked. She took an unruly strand of hair that was plastered against her temple and, with both hands, fixed it behind her head.

  'When I thumped the door, I felt a magic residue. A familiar one.'

  Caroline narrowed her eyes. 'Concentrated on the area near the lock, I assume?'

  'Dr Tremaine?' George said. He raised his fists, as if he thought Tremaine was going to burst through the door at any minute.

  'Correct, both of you. It's the same security spell he used on the Old Man of Albion, and the tunneller.'

  'So I missed him,' Caroline said flatly. She clenched her fists.

  'Maybe not,' Aubrey said. 'Tremaine is . . . I don't know . . . not like normal people?'

  George rubbed his chin. 'Are you saying like one of those werewolves in the stories? Do we need a silver bullet to finish him off?'

  'No, nothing like that. It's just that things that would stop an ordinary person won't stop him.'

  'I see,' Caroline said and Aubrey knew that she was taking careful note of this information. It wouldn't make her give up her quest for revenge – it would just make her more careful to do it properly next time.

  'He's down there,' Aubrey said, 'so it's time for some ifs.' He counted them on his fingers. 'If it's Tremaine, and if he managed to escape from the Bank of Albion and find somewhere to recover, and if he's still down there, then he'd suspect that his security spell was compromised. He'd change his password.'

  'So we're stuck?' George said.

  'Maybe not. I might have an idea about a replacement password.'

  He spread his left hand on the metal, just above where the bolt slid home. He felt the tingle of magic and had no doubt that it was Dr Tremaine's. 'This has been set recently. Within the last twenty-four hours.'