“What is it?” Rowe asked.
“A storage container.”
“For what?”
He didn’t reply but pointed to the inked label on the paper. Rowe squinted at the tiny inked letters and gasped.
“Souls!”
“Yes, the question is Constable, where is it? It must be in use- we know Hemlock has harvested souls already but where is he keeping them?”
“Can’t be anywhere here, me and the lads searched every nook and cranny.”
“Let’s have another look around.”
The gas lighting was on this time, the Yard had made sure the lights were accessible since they’d cordoned off the building. It made things a lot easier for them to make their way around. They started in the cellar where Gredge had been held and Mary’s body found. It seemed like the obvious place but their search turned up nothing. Next, they examined each of the four dressing rooms to no avail, only Hemlock’s showed any signs of recent occupation.
“There are two manager’s offices upstairs, they’re on the top floor overlooking the circle. We could try there?” Rowe showed Gunn to the once grand staircase that led to the circle and the upper floors. A semi-circular corridor encompassed the rear of the top floor seating area that overlooked the stage, the heavy, moth-eaten red velvet stage curtains were open and the stage had been prepped for the next performance.
“This way Mr. Gunn. The offices are just to the left through this arch.”
Midnight opened the door marked ‘Manager’ hopeful that one of these room would offer up a clue to either the whereabouts of Arthur and Polly, Hemlock’s plans or the storage device.
“There is nothing here either. Damn!” Midnight slammed his fist on an old desk sending up a cloud of dust. “There has to be something somewhere! He left that poem for me, he wants me to find him, and I know it!”
“We’ve looked everywhere Mr. Gunn. Perhaps we need to concentrate our search elsewhere, St Thomas’ perhaps?”
“This is his stage Rowe, his domain. He’s laid out his props for his audience. He’s just waiting for the rest of the cast members to turn up for the grand finale. I just wish I knew what my lines were.”
“We could check his dressing room again, perhaps we missed something?”
“It’s worth a look I suppose,” Midnight replied, disheartened at the lack of evidence, bar a few maps and diagrams, that the theatre had turned up. He walked back with Rowe through the arch into the corridor that encircled the upper circle, glimpsing the top of the red stage curtain over the top of the balcony, he stopped.
“Mr. Gunn? What is it?” Rowe watched as Gunn walked steadily towards the balcony and rested his hands on the carved wooden railing. There he stood, his back towards the constable, for at least half a minute before he spoke.
“The stage. Constable Rowe, come here and tell me what you see.”
Rowe stood next to Gunn and gazed down upon the large stage. It had been set with the props ready for Hemlocks next opening act.
“I must be missing something. What is it you’ve seen?”
“This is his stage.”
“Yes?”
“Look at it... the boards, see anything?”
Midnight grew impatient as Rowe peered down at the wooden boards from their lofty position.
“Bloody ‘ell! It never occurred to me to look...”
“Nor I. Let’s not beat ourselves up about it now. Let’s get down there and see what lies beneath!”
As they descended the two flights of stairs Midnight grew more and more confident that something important was hidden underneath that stage, he could sense it. He cursed himself for allowing desperation and panic to rule his actions rather than using his senses. But then again, he’d never been this personally involved in a case before. There was a child to consider... his child as Polly now legally was and it was distracting. He needed to think with a clear head, her life was at stake and possibly Arthur’s too.
Within two feet of the stage area he felt it; a pulsing energy washed over him like a gentle wave, teasing, calling him forward. The shadows on the walls twitched but he blocked them out, this energy felt pure. Drawing in a few threads of light from the gas lamps he reached out to the energy source. The moment the two fields collided the mood changed; the latent pulsing became a barrage of anxiety and despair so powerful it almost overwhelmed him. Midnight climbed onto the boards and got to his knees to pull open the trapdoor.
“Careful Sir,” Rowe whispered, as if he could also sense the change in atmosphere. “He might be down there, hiding. Perhaps I should go first?”
Midnight shook his head,
“No, it’s not him... it’s something else. I feel it.” He ran his hand over the trapdoor trying to feel if the energy was benevolent. It was hard to tell for certain. It seemed, in his mind’s eye to be in turmoil. He had a mental image of a broiling whirlpool of emotions so strong now he felt compelled to go to it. It was impossible to resist even if he’d wanted to. Rowe held open the door as Midnight climbed inside the black hole beneath the stage. Drawing in more threads of light he made a small fireball to illuminate his surroundings. It was squat under there; the space, although it stretched the full length of the boards, seemed pokey to him and he had to bend his head to traverse the narrow walkway. There was a thud behind him as Rowe jumped in after him.
“See anything?”
“Nothing yet. It’s this way.” Striding ahead into the gloom, the small fireball floated ahead to light the way. He had taken a mere ten steps when a glint of something golden caught his eye. “Here!” They both hurried forwards as the scene unfolded before them with sickening clarity. In this crypt-like underbelly of The Old Vic stood a device comparable to that of the diagram they had found in the dressing room. The glint had come from the large brass cylinder that held several glass containers full of a slightly opaque-looking, blue-white substance which swirled frantically at their approach.
“Good God... are they?” Rowe gulped unable to finish his question.
“The souls of Spring-Heeled Jack’s victims?” Midnight finished it for him. “I believe they are Constable.” As he stared into the writhing mass of bright mist, individual voices became apparent to him. These were not voices that could be heard; they were inside of him. As one soul after another called out to him, pleading for either release or to be united with the physical body it belonged to. He found he could not hold back his tears. Such sorrow and shame he felt that one human being could inflict such torment on another. He opened himself to their energies and felt the essence of each individual touch him, their identities became clear; Sally-Anne Smithers, Billy Bromley, Laura Carter, Charlie Fenwick, Milly O’Neil. Alice Jane Fairbanks and Emeline Rowbotham. Of those seven victims only two remained alive as far he knew. He hoped beyond hope that after tonight, he would find a way to return their souls to them. He hadn’t saved Sal or Billy when they’d been in his care or any of the others for that matter... but he had saved Polly,
“We must save them Rowe. The ones who are left and Polly and Arthur. We must save them all.”
“Rowe, you must go! We cannot leave these souls to his mercy. What if he should return? I will go to the mission alone, you get a message to M division to send more officers to guard the theatre. You can meet me at the mission house thereafter.”
“What if something should go wrong? Or you’re not at the mission when I come looking?”
“In that case, you look for my note; I will leave a message there telling you where I have gone.”
Rowe considered this, his hand travelled back and forth across his chin and he shook his head.
“I don’t like it. We should stick together. Too many things could go wrong.”
“I don’t like it either but we don’t have time to wait for reinforcements. Time is of the essence. I will go on alone until you can meet me. I’m not willing to negotiate on this constable. The mission is the next place I must go, it’s a short walk from here and closer than St
Thomas’. The victims, aside from Rowbotham, were all poor as church mice and where better to find church mice than at a mission?”
Rowe relented, “Very well but you leave note so I can follow you, is that clear?”
“Crystal.”
They parted ways on the steps of The Old Vic; Rowe running as fast as he could to notify his comrades at M division as Midnight turned right and headed in the direction of the Southwark Mission House. The fog was rolling in, soon it would be too thick to see properly and it was bitterly cold. He walked at some pace to keep out the October chill. Something wet touched his cheek and seconds later it happened again. Looking skywards he saw it had begun to snow. He couldn’t put a finger on why but suddenly he knew his task had become altogether more urgent. He broke into a run and it took him only five minutes to reach his destination.
A soft glow emitted from the windows of the mission house, it would be occupied on this night as always by Southwark’s destitute, who had constant need of the shelter and support it offered. Situated next to the church of St Andrews, potatoes baked in their skins were on offer from breakfast throughout the day until late in the evening. As well as small cups of tea, coffee for the adults and milk for the children who also received bowls of steaming stew as an evening meal. If you had a few pennies you could buy a bed for the night with eggs, sausages and a warm roll for the morning. Prayers were at sunrise, noon and dusk and were compulsory as were the Sunday school teachings for youngsters. The mission was the last ray of hope for some, the final defence between living or dying. The nuns of St. Andrews rarely turned anyone away. If you hadn’t enough pennies for a bed you were offered the floor and the leaning rope for halfpence where, arms hanging over it and arse on the hard stone, you could attempt sleep. Midnight had never visited this mission but most were renowned for being unsanitary, flea-ridden cesspits. The nuns and volunteers tried their best to provide shelter, hot food and somewhere to wash but there were no toilets. If you were lucky enough to have a bed you had your own pot to piss in but the halfpenny sit-ups had a bucket in the corner which everyone shared. In mid-October, even the stench of shit and a rope to rest on was preferable to spending the night on the frozen streets.
It must’ve been nearing 9pm which meant they would be locking their doors in an hour. He rapped on the front entrance and waited until one of the Sisters opened the peephole and asked who it was. When she saw a well-to-do gentleman outside she didn’t hesitate to open for him.
“Good evening to you Sir, what is it I can do for you?”
“Good evening Sister. My name is Mr. Gunn of Meriton house, Berkeley Square. Might I come in and have a word?”
The sister stepped aside and let him inside the small entrance hall. She showed him to a small study, her office most likely, and bade him sit down.
“I confess it is not unheard of for a gentleman or lady such as yourself to offer assistance to us but I’m not usually accustomed to it being at such a late hour. We have already served supper and are bedding down for the evening. I’m afraid there’s not much you can do. Perhaps you would prefer to return in the morning?”
“Apologies Sister. It is not aid I come to offer tonight. It is your assistance I require. A good friend of mine, a police Inspector, is missing and I need your help.” He had used Gredge as bait hoping that she would be more inclined to offer information on Hemlock if the police were involved.
“Police? They’re never short around this area Mr. Gunn. How is it you think I can help?”
“You once had a doctor here, volunteering his expertise I believe? A Doctor Ethan Giling?”
“Doctor Giling? Why yes, what is it you want with him?”
“I... have a few questions I’d like to put to him. Would you perhaps know where I might find him? I have a listed street address but it is old and not in the area.”
“Why, he is here Mr. Gunn. Would you like me to fetch him?”
Midnight, stunned beyond belief at Hemlock’s brazen display of confidence, merely nodded. When the good Sister had shut the door, he flew to his feet enraged! The shadows leaped, ready to be called upon. He could not believe that murdering bastard would leave himself so exposed to capture like this. He’d wrongly assumed that Hemlock would be in hiding by now. If only he and Rowe had come here first! He would snap him in half for what he had done, he would torture him slowly until he begged for mercy, until he screamed for forgiveness. He would...
“Good evening Mr. Gunn,” came the cool, calm voice of a killer. Midnight swung around to face the door, took one step towards Hemlock and prepared to throw everything he had at him. Hemlock held up a hand. “You’ll never find them if you kill me.”
The statement caused Midnight’s step to falter. He clenched his fists tightly trying to get control over the shadows.
“Where are they?” he demanded.
“I will tell you if you come with me.”
“If you have hurt either of them I swear I will rip you apart!”
“Then we better hurry Mr. Gunn. Follow me if you please.”
Hemlock left the room and Midnight stormed after him; forgetting all about Rowe’s promised note. They exited the mission headed across the green to St. Andrews. The snow was falling in gentle flurries now and the church was in darkness. They didn’t go through the main entrance but through a small door to the side of the building. They walked in silence, the atmosphere charged with one-sided anger. Midnight could sense excitement emanating from Hemlock which made him even more furious.
“Well? Where are they?” he spat, as Hemlock led him past the pews and to an area behind the alter.
“Not far now, down here.” He was pointing to a large hole in the floor from which he could see stone steps descending into the dark.
“After you.” If this bastard thought he would step blindly into an underground space with an enemy at his back then he was a fool. Hemlock grinned knowingly and inclined his head in mock bow. As he disappeared into the blackness, Midnight thought how easy it would be to give him a little push.
The shadows pulsed as if they were anticipating a fight, he held them off as best he could but his emotions battled with him to accept them. Deep down he wanted nothing more than to unleash merry hell upon the man who held his friend, committed murder and taken his Polly. Wait, just until they are safe and then you can have him, he told himself, then you can kill him!
Hemlock stopped at the foot of the stairs and struck a match, he lit a candle in the wall sconce, walked a few feet in front and lit another and another until their surroundings were swathed in a warm, flickering glow. Hemlock was now on the opposite side to him; the space was circular and stone plinths lay around the room. The walls had large rectangular holes built into them big enough for coffins, although there were none now. They were in the crypt beneath St. Andrews. Midnight looked around but saw no sign of either Polly or Arthur.
“I shall ask you one last time Doctor Gilling, where are they?”
Instead of answering, Hemlock gave him a sideways smile and retrieved an iron box with intricate silver carvings on it from one of the recesses. He held it out to Midnight.
“Your answer lies in here Mr. Gunn. Come, look.”
Midnight strode forward, sick of this game and sick of wasting time. He reached the middle of the room when he felt his body slam into an invisible wall. It knocked him backwards. Had he hit glass? He stepped forward again with the same result. He tried to go sideways and then in reverse but he could not move in any direction, he was trapped! Laughter reached him and he looked up to see Hemlock clap his hands together in mock applause.
“Well, I must say Mr. Gunn, I find myself quite disappointed that you made it so easy! Perhaps I have over-estimated you?”
“What have you done?” Midnight’s fury was raging inside of him. He could see the shadows dancing and he called on them. He would blast this brigand into a thousand pieces. He readied himself for the familiar pain of acceptance but it didn’t come. He tried again and nothing
happened. He looked at the shadows and realised with horror that the shadows were not dancing for him, it was merely the flickering of candlelight on the walls of the crypt.
“No!” he shouted and flung himself at the invisible barrier. “What is this?” Hemlock did not answer, he looked up towards the ceiling. Midnight followed his gaze and saw a pentagram painted in red, directly overhead, the circumference of which was adorned with various runic symbols and glyphs. He knew enough of the occult to know this was a demon trap of some kind. He was confused; he was not a demon so why would it work on him? But, it must be the trap that was blocking him from using his powers.
“I have one at last!” Hemlock shouted gleefully, “I can finally make my bargain.”
“One what? What bargain?”
“Oh, come now, let’s not pretend anymore. You have something I want and I have payment for it. Why don’t we curtail the niceties and get on with the transaction, hmm?”
“Something you want?”
“Immortality Mr. Gunn! And you, you demon spawn will give it to me or I will allow your little pet and the policeman to die.”
Polly! The candlelight flared briefly but only Midnight noticed. He discretely opened himself to the light and he immediately felt its tender touch. It was only his dark power that this trap affected, he still had the light! Would it work though? His dark powers had always dominated and he used his light only to soothe and heal. Still, it was better than nothing. Now he had to play Hemlock’s game. He must discover where Polly and Arthur were hidden and then he would break free.
“I cannot give you immortality. I am not a god.”
“I know what you are, demon! I have a gift you will not be able to resist. I have the spells to command you and if you don’t do as I ask your little injured bird will die.”
“First you must tell me why?”
“Why?”
“Why you want to be immortal. Why you murdered those innocent people and why you think I can help you. I want to know it all, from the moment you first had the idea to harvest souls, why you murdered Emeline and Mary. Killed Sally and Billy in my house, why you haven’t murdered the child and how you discovered what I am. You tell me everything, including where the girl and the Inspector are, and I will help you.”
The Hollows Page 15
