The Man from the Diogenes Club - [Diogenes Club 01]

by By Kim Newman

  The tall, thin hipster was Danny Myles, whom Richard recognised as Magic Fingers Myles, piano player in a modern jazz combo famous for making “I Can’t Get Started With You” last an entire set at Ronnie Scott’s. He wore a green polo-neck and chinos, and had a neatly trimmed goatee. His fingers continually moved as if on an infinite keyboard or reading a racy novel in Braille. Born blind, Myles developed extra senses as a child. Gaining sight in his teens, Myles found himself in a new visual world but retained other sharpnesses. Besides his acute ear, he had “the Touch.” Richard and Annette took the psychic temperature of a room with invisible antennae (Catriona called them “mentacles”), but Myles had to lay hands on something to intuit its history, associations or true nature. The Magic Fingers Touch worked best on inanimate objects.

  “This is Geoffrey’s boy,” explained Edwin. “We expect great things from him.”

  From Magic Fingers, Richard gathered nonverbal information: he understood how everyone related to each other, where the frictions were, whom he could trust to come through, when he’d be on his own. Cutley was like a football manager required to play a board member’s nephew in goal. He hated “spook stuff’ and wanted to haul paraphenomena back to measurable realities. Annette was emotionally off on another plane, but mildly amused. She had vague, “not related by blood” auntie feelings for Richard and a nagging concern about his short-term future that did little for his confidence. Richard thanked Myles with a nod no one else noticed.

  This is what it was like: Richardknew things most people had to guess at. A problem growing up, which he was not quite done with, was that he rarely appreciated few others felt and understood as he did. His first thought was that English people were too polite to mention things which were glaringly obvious to him. That had not gone down well at St. Custard’s. If he hadn’t been able to a chuck a cricket ball with a degree of devious accuracy, he’d likely have been burned at the stake behind the Prefects’ Hut.

  “Now we’re acquainted,” said Edwin, “let’s get to why you’ve been brought together. Who’s heard of the Scotch Streak?”

  “It’s a train, man,” said Myles. “Euston to Edinburgh, overnight.”

  “Yes,” said Edwin. “In point of fact, the service, which leaves London at seven o’clock every other evening, does not terminate in Edinburgh. It continues to Portnacreirann, on Loch Linnhe.”

  “Is this one of those railway mysteries?” asked Annette, squeezing her palms together. “I adore those.”

  Edwin nodded, and passed the conch to Catriona.

  * * * *

  II

  “In 1923, Locomotive Number 3473-S rolled out of foundry sheds in Egham,” began Catriona Kaye, the Club’s collector of ghost stories. “It was an A1 Atlantic Class engine. To the non-trainspotters among us, that means a shiny new chuff-chuff with all the bells and whistles. It was bred for speed, among the first British trains to break the hundred-mile-an-hour barrier. The London, Scotland and Isles Railway Company presented the debutante at the British Empire Exhibition in 1924, and christened ‘the Scotch Streak.’ A bottle of champagne was wasted on the cowcatcher by the odious Lady Lucinda Tregellis-d’Aulney. She mercifully passes out of the narrative. The LSIR got wind of a scheme by a rival to run a nonstop from London to Edinburgh, and added a further leg to their express, across Scotland to Portnacreirann. This sort of one-upmanship happened often before the railways were taken into public ownership. The Streak’s original colours were royal purple and gold. Even in an era of ostentation in highspeed transport, it was considered showoffy.

  “The Scotch Streak was quickly popular with drones who wanted to get sozzled in Piccadilly, have a wee small hours dram in Edinburgh, then walk off the hangover in Glen Wherever while shooting at something feathery or antlered. All very jolly, no doubt. Until the disaster of 1931.

  “There are stories about Inverdeith. In the eighteenth century, fishermen on Loch Gaer often netted human bones. After some decades, this led to the capture of the cannibal crofter famed in song as ‘Graysome Jock McGaer.’ He was torn apart by a mob on his way to the scaffold. During the interregnum, the Scots God-botherer Samuel Druchan, fed up because England’s Matthew Hopkins was hogging the headlines, presided over a mass witch-drowning. As you know, proper witches float when ‘swum,’ so Druchan took the trouble to sew iron weights to his beldames’ skirts. In 1601, a local diarist recorded that a ‘stoon o’ fire spat out frae hell’ plopped into the waters with a mighty hiss. However, the railway bridge disaster really put Inverdeith on the tragedy map.

  “What exactly happened remains a mystery, but ... early one foggy morning in November, the Scotch Streak was crossing Inverdeith Bridge when—through human agency, gremlins, faulty iron or sheer ill-chance— 3473-S was decoupled from the rest of the train. The locomotive pulled away and steamed safely to the far side. The bridge collapsed, taking eight passenger carriages and a mail car with it. The rolling stock sank to the bottom of Loch Gaer with the loss of all hands, except one lucky little girl who floated.

  “A board of inquiry exonerated Donald McRidley, the engine driver, though many thought he’d committed the unforgivable sin of cutting his passengers loose to save his own hide. Only Nicholas Bowler, the fireman, knew for sure. Rather than give testimony, Bowler lay on the tracks and was beheaded by an ordinary suburban service. McRidley was finished as an engineer. Some say that, like T. E. Lawrence reenlisting as Aircraftman Ross, McRidley changed his name and became a navvy, working all weathers on a maintenance gang, looking over his shoulder at dusk, dreading the reproachful tread of the Headless Fireman.

  “Whatever he might or might not have done, McRidley couldn’t be blamed for the ‘In-for-Death Bridge.’ All manner of Scots legal inquiries boiled down to an unlovely squabble between Inverdeith Council and the LSIR. One set of lawyers claimed the sound structure wouldn’t have collapsed were it not for the Scotch Streak rattling over it at speeds in excess of the recommendation. Another pack counter-claimed eighty-nine people wouldn’t be dead if the bridge wasn’t a rickety structure liable to be knocked down by a stiff breeze. This dragged on. A newspaperman dug up a local legend that one of Druchan’s witches cursed her weights as she drowned, swearing no iron would ever safely span the loch. ‘Local legend’ is a Fleet Street synonym for ‘something I’ve just made up.’ The Streak ran only from London to Edinburgh until 1934, when a new bridge was erected and safety-tested. A fuss was made about the amount of steel used in the construction. Witches have nothing against steel, apparently. Then, full service to Portnacreirann resumed.

  “Memories being what they were, folks who didn’t have a financial interest in the venture were reluctant to board the ‘In-for-Death Express.’ Only grimly smiling directors and their perspiring wives and children were aboard for the accident-free re-inaugural run. You can imagine the sighs of relief when Inverdeith Bridge was safely behind them. Controlling interest in the LSIR was held by Douglas Gilclyde of Kilpartinger, who horsewhipped a secretary he thought misreferred to him as ‘Lord Killpassengers.’ It was a point of pride for His Lordship, a parvenu ennobled by Lloyd George, to make the Scotch Streak a roaring success again. He tarted 3473 up with a fresh coat of purple and replaced the gold trim with his own newly minted tartan—which the unkind said made the engine look like a novelty box of oatcakes.

  “Kilpartinger lured back the hunting set by trading speed records for social cachet. From 1934, the Scotch Streak became famously, indeed appallingly, luxurious. Padding on padding, Carrera marble sinks, minions in Gilclyde kilts servicing every whim. The train gained a reputation as a social event on rails. 3473 pulled a ballroom carriage, a bar to rival the Criterion and sleeping cars with compartments like rooms at the Savoy. In addition to tweedy fowl-blasters, the Streak gained a following among the ‘fast’ crowd. Debutantes on the prowl booked up and down services for months on end, in the hope of snaring a suitable fiancé. One or two even got married before they were raped. When his disgusted pater kicked him out of
the family pile, Viscount St. John ‘Buzzy’ Maltrincham took a permanent lease on a compartment and made the Scotch Streak his address—until a pregnant Windmill Girl cut his throat somewhere between the Trossachs and Clianlarich.

  “He wasn’t the only casualty. The Streak’s Incident Book ran to several spine-tingling volumes. People threw themselves under the train, got up on top and were swept off in tunnels, were decapitated when they disregarded ‘do not lean out of the window’ notices, opened doors and flung themselves across the landscape. Naturally, a number of fatalities occurred around Inverdeith. There was a craze for booking the up service on the Streak, naturally not bothering with the return. The procedure was to put a particular record on the wind-up Victrola as the train crossed the bridge, then take a graceful suicide leap as Bing Crosby crooned ‘a golden good-bye.’ Mistime it, and you smashed into a strut and rained down in pieces.

  “Kilpartinger played up the Streak’s glamour by engaging the likes of Noel Coward, Ethel and Doris Waters, Jessie Matthews and Gracie Fields to entertain through the night. A discreet doctor prescribed pick-me-ups to keep the audience, and not a few performers, awake and sparkling. Houdini’s less-famous brother escaped from a locked trunk in the mail van and popped out of the coal tender. The Palladium-on-Rails business soured when a popular ventriloquist was institutionalised after an argument with his dummy. His act started off with the usual banter; then the dummy began making passes at women in the carriage. The vent was besieged. His dummy jeered him as he was beaten up by angry escorts. He snatched a hatchet and chopped at the dummy’s mocking head, taking off three of his own fingers.

  “Of course, there werewhispers. Among railwaymen, the Streak picked up a new nickname, ‘the Ghost Train.’ In 1938, I drafted a pamphlet for inclusion in my series, Haunted High-Ways. I got a look at the Incident Book. I conducted tactful interviews with passengers. They expressed a vague, unformed sense ofwrongness. They saw things, felt things. Anecdotes piled up. The dirty dummy and the throat-cut bounder were the least of it. Several regulars dreaded trips on the Streak, but were unable to resist making them—as if afraid of what 3473 would do if they abandoned it. Real addicts use the serial number, never the name. Lord Kilpartinger issued writs and threats, then invited me to tea at Fortnum & Mason. With some justification, he pointed out that any train that carried as many passengers over as many years must collect horror stories and that I might as well investigate tragedies associated with the five-twelve twelve from Paddington to Swindon. Besides, he had just bought a controlling interest in my publisher and wondered if I wouldn’t rather write books on flower arrangement or how to host a dinner party.

  “As I left, in something approaching high dudgeon, His Lordship tried to reassure me about the train. After all, he said, he’d travelled more miles on the Streak than anyone else with no obvious ill-effects. A month later, for some anniversary run or other, he boarded at Euston, posing cheerfully in his tartan cummerbund for the newspapers, clouds of steam billowing all around. After retiring to his compartment, he disappeared and did not pop out of the coal tender. He didn’t get off at Edinburgh or Portnacreirann. The general consensus was that he had contrived a fabulous exit to avoid the bankruptcy proceedings which, it turned out, were about to bring down the LSIR. Maybe Kilpartinger became another anonymous navvy on his beloved line, swinging a hammer next to the disgraced McRidley. Or perhaps he dissolved into a Scotch mist and seeped into the upholstery. If you run across him, give him my best.

  “With the LSIR in ruins, it seemed likely the Streak had made its last run. It was saved by the war. Luxury took a backseat to pulling together, but the Streak was classified an essential service, supporting the Royal Navy Special Contingencies School at Portnacreirann. The Diogenes Club was busy on other fronts, but spared a young parapsychologist with a plum-bob and an anemometer to make a routine inspection. He ruled the train, the tracks and Inverdeith Bridge were perhapsslightly haunted. Had the Ruling Cabal listened to me rather than that bright lad, we would perhaps not be in this current pickle, but there’s no use squalling about it now.

  “Soon, there was another strange story about. Take the Streak to your Special Contingencies course, and you’d win a medal. I went over the records last week—an enormously tedious job—and can confirm this was, in fact, true. ‘Special Contingencies,’ as you might guess, is a euphemism for ‘Dirty Fighting,’ which goes a long way towards explaining things. Nevertheless, a high proportion of the Streak’s sailors proved aggressive, valiant and effective in battle. A high proportion of that high proportion got their gongs posthumously. The more often a man rode the Scotch Streak, the more extreme his conduct. We don’t publicise the British servicemen tried for war crimes, but out of fewer than a dozen bad apples in the Second World War, five were Streak regulars. Americans rode the Ghost Train too. We don’t have official access to their records, but they have Alexanders and Caligulas too.

  “After the war, the railways were nationalised. In Thomas the Tank Engine, the Fat Director became the Fat Controller. The LSIR was swallowed by British Rail 3473-S steams still, purple faded to the colour of a weak Ribena, tartan trim buried under a coat of dull dun. No Noel, no Gert and Daisy, no Archie Andrews. Providing you don’t mind changing trains at Edinburgh, there are cheaper, faster ways of getting to Loch

  Linnhe. But the Scotch Streak clings to its ‘essential service’ classification. Which saves it from the unsentimental axe taken to unprofitable branch-lines and quaint countryside stations.

  “The haunting never stopped.”

  * * * *

  III

  “We’ve reams of anecdotal evidence for ab-natural activity,” said Edwin, taking over from Catriona. “Apparitions, apports, bilocation, sourceless sound, poltergeist nuisance, echoes from deep time, fits of precognition, possession, spontaneous combustion, disembodied clutching hands, phantoms, phantasms, pixies, nipsies, revelations, revenants, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Few sleep well on the sleeper. A typical toff thinks he’s slightly train-sick and decides to spend his next day out murdering English foxes rather than Scottish grouse. A percentage have much nastier turns. Outcomes range from severe ill-health and mental breakdown to disappearance and, well, death.”

  “What about the staff, Ed?” asked Cutley, who had been taking notes.

  Richard saw Edwin calculate how to keep aces in his hole while seeming to lay his cards on the table. It was habitual in these circles.

  “BR have trouble keeping guards, waiters and porters,” Edwin admitted. “Even then, one see-no-evil conductor who’s been on the Streak for yonks swears the shudder stories are all hogwash. Presumably, he’s the opposite of sensitive.”

  “Why now?” asked Annette, pluming smoke. She drew a question mark in the air with her burning cigarette-end.

  “That’s the thing, Annie,” said Edwin. “With fewer souls riding the Streak, the haunting isn’t as noticeable as when Cat was on the case. But the Americans have expressed a concern. HM Government is under diplomatic pressure to sort things out, and you know where Ministers of the Crown call when ghoulies and ghosties rattle chains without permission.”

  Edwin opened his hands, indicating the whole room.

  Richard had paid close attention to Catriona Kaye’s story. Something in it jogged his mind.

  “We’ve Miss Kaye’s manuscript and the wartime report,” said Harry Cutley, as if giving a tutorial. “Everyone is to read them by Thursday; then we’ll start fresh. Those of you who were with me on the Edgley Vale Puma Cult know how I like things done. Those of you who weren’t will find out soon enough. Annette, visit the newspaper library and go over all the cuttings on the Scotch Streak since the boiler was cast. Magic Fingers, get out in the yards, talk to railwaymen, choo-choo bores ... pick up any more stories for the collection. You ... ah, sorry ... the Jeperson boy ...”

  Cutley knew very well what his name was, but waited for the prompt.

  “Richard.”

  The Most Valued Member flas
hed a joyless smile.

  “Thank you. I will remember. Not Greasy Herbert, but Richard. Richard Jeperson. Dick the Lad. Rickie the Roll-and-Rocker. Fixed in the mind’s file, now. Anyway, Richard, you get your haircut down to Euston, trying not to slash cinema seats or terrorise old ladies en route, and book us on Thursday’s Streak. Get me and Annette First Class sleeping compartments, a berth in Second for Magic Fingers, and the railway equivalent of steerage for you. We have to cover the whole train.”

  “I’ll ride the mail car if you think it’s a good idea.”

  Cutley considered it.

  “The Club can spring for four compartments,” put in Edwin airily. “If you’re all in First Class, no one will mind if you wander. With any other tickets, Richard and Danny wouldn’t be allowed where interesting business might be going on.”