The Revenant Express - (Newbury and Hobbes 5)

by George Mann

  Petunia narrowed her eyes. “Very well, Miss Hobbes. If you’re going to die, I suppose you should at least know why. Let me tell you a little story.…”

  CHAPTER

  24

  Doctor Wren’s house was in Tottenham, a melancholy island in a sea of change. Here, the district was swelling with new modern homes designed to house the workers from the railways, and what had once been a pretty suburban landscape was now built-up and overcrowded.

  The address that Bainbridge had managed to extract from the records at Scotland Yard was a small detached home, built some time during the previous century, with mature, overgrown gardens and strands of hungry ivy clinging to the porous brickwork. Veronica felt apprehensive as they trudged up the gravel pathway and stood before the peeling front door.

  “It doesn’t seem particularly well kept,” she said to Bainbridge, pitching her voice low in case anyone might overhear and interpret her comment as a slight.

  “Indeed not,” said Bainbridge. “This is the home of someone who has had money, and has lost it. I’ve seen the signs too many times before.” He raised his cane and rapped loudly on the door, leaving indentations in the flaking blue paintwork. “Let’s see if he’s at home.”

  Veronica raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment.

  After a moment, she heard a key turn in the lock, and the door swung open to reveal a young maid. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, and she looked decidedly nervous at the sight of the two visitors standing on her doorstep.

  “Hello?” she said, warily.

  “Afternoon,” said Bainbridge. “I am Sir Charles Bainbridge of Scotland Yard, and this is my associate, Miss Veronica Hobbes. We’re here to see Doctor Wren.”

  The girl chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip for a moment, glanced over her shoulder, and then shook her head. It was a short, sharp, decisive gesture. “No,” she said. “That is, I’m afraid not.”

  Bainbridge narrowed his eyes. “No? You mean to say he’s not at home?”

  The maid looked stricken, but didn’t respond.

  “Then when will he be back? We’ll wait.”

  The girl shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “It’s not that, sir,” she said. “It’s just … I’m under strict instructions, you see.”

  “Well, go on,” said Bainbridge, impatiently.

  “Doctor Wren is working in his study, and when he’s working, I’m to permit no visitors. He can’t be disturbed, you see? It’s delicate work.”

  “Delicate work, my foot!” said Bainbridge. “Didn’t you hear me, girl? We’re from Scotland Yard!”

  “Well, yes, sir,” said the maid. She looked as if she were about to burst into tears. “But nevertheless, I’m under orders. I might lose my position. He’ll have me for a hiding if I let you in.”

  “And I’ll have you for a hiding if you don’t!” said Bainbridge, his cheeks reddening in anger.

  “Sir Charles!” admonished Veronica. She put her hand on his arm. “I think perhaps what the young lady means to say is that she might need us to explain to Doctor Wren that she did everything she could to prevent us from disturbing him, but that you were most forthright about an urgent matter.”

  “Hmmm. Yes,” said Bainbridge. “I see what you mean. In that case,” he took a step forward, carefully manoeuvring the maid to one side with his cane. There was no force in the gesture—Veronica knew he would do nothing to harm the girl. Regardless, she moved aside without protest, smiling weakly at Veronica as she followed Bainbridge into the hall.

  “Where is he, then?” said Bainbridge.

  The maid, seemingly regaining her senses, closed the door behind them, and then made a dash for the stairs.

  “Upstairs, is he?” said Bainbridge. “Right then, lead on!”

  “Now, Sir Charles,” said Veronica, as he thundered up the stairs behind the maid. “You’re not going to go in there like a bull in a china shop?”

  “I’ll go in there as I damn well please,” said Bainbridge. “I’ve been given enough of a runaround already. I want answers.”

  Veronica sighed. It was times like this she wished Newbury were with them, to help temper Bainbridge’s somewhat bombastic nature.

  “Doctor Wren? Doctor Wren?” The maid had made it to the first-floor landing ahead of Bainbridge, and was knocking hurriedly on one of the bedroom doors. “Doctor Wren? I’m afraid I really must speak with you. Some visitors have arrived and are quite insistent on seeing you immediately.”

  Veronica rounded the top of the stairs just as the door opened, and a man—whom she took to be Doctor Wren—appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in a shabby black suit that was covered in streaks of a powdery substance, which Veronica took to be chemical stains. He was wearing a white handkerchief tied over his lower face, and his darting blue eyes were looking past the frantic maid and down the landing towards Bainbridge and Veronica. She saw him frown, stiffen, as if he were about to scold the maid for the interruption, but then he appeared to think twice, and instead gave a shrug of resignation.

  “I couldn’t stop them, sir. He says he’s from Scotland Yard. Just pushed his way in, like. Said he needed to speak with you urgently.”

  “It’s all right, Martha,” said Wren. “You go and put the kettle on the stove and leave our visitors to me.”

  Martha gave an almost comical sigh of relief, nodded in understanding, and then hurried back down the landing, past Bainbridge and Veronica and down the stairs two at a time, evidently anxious to get as far away from proceedings as possible.

  “Doctor Julian Wren?” said Bainbridge, marching forward to stand before the man in the open doorway.

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Wren. “Just bear with me a moment, will you, and I’ll be able to give you my full attention.” He took a step backwards, and then disappeared into the bedroom.

  Veronica joined Bainbridge in the doorway. She peered in. It was no ordinary bedroom. The room had been given over to become one of the strangest laboratories she had ever seen. The small space was crammed full of workbenches and bookcases, each of them covered in jars, bottles, and bubbling chemical flasks, but the thing that drew her attention was the fact the room was bristling with vines. They covered the walls and ceiling in a near impenetrable web, quivering green limbs that formed a canopy above their heads. These were, in many ways, identical to the vines she had seen sprouting from the corpses in Stoke Newington, in St Giles, and in the house of ill repute. Only here, they weren’t growing wild, but had been trained, clinging to strips of fine trellis that had been nailed to a series of wooden frames. Ripe, bulbous spore sacs dangled like plump lemons, ready for harvesting, and amongst the thick clumps of vines, she was appalled to see the half-rotten corpses of monkeys, nailed to the frames and partially subsumed by the foul fungal growths. This, she realised, was a hothouse, a farm—the place where Wren was cultivating the mysterious fungus that had caused so many deaths.

  Veronica glanced at Bainbridge and saw that he, too, had drawn the same conclusion. Wren, across the other side of the room, appeared to be ignoring them, and with a small paring knife was carefully removing one of the spore sacs. She watched as he teased it free of the vine, handling it gingerly so as not to break its delicate membrane. Reverently, he placed the sac in an open bell jar on the workbench beside him, laid the paring knife down beside it, and unhooked the handkerchief that had been covering his lower face.

  “There, now,” he said. “I’d like to apologise for Martha. She’s an excitable young woman. If my wife, Petunia, had been here, I’m sure she would have been dismayed to find such prestigious visitors treated in such a fashion.”

  “No matter,” said Bainbridge, his voice level. “We’re here now, and we didn’t come to exchange pleasantries.”

  “No,” said Wren. “Indeed not. So tell me, Inspector—what can I do for you?”

  “We’ve been talking with a Mr. Ernest Pargeter,” said Bainbridge, clearly testing the water.

&n
bsp; Veronica studied Wren’s reaction. He narrowed his eyes, as if considering how to respond. “I’m sorry, I…?” he started.

  “A soldier,” said Bainbridge. “Returned from the Boer conflict having lost the use of one arm. He said you’d carried out some miraculous procedure on him, restored partial feeling in the damaged limb.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Wren, unable to procrastinate any longer. “I recall the case. He was in a rather sorry state when I found him, but we soon got him back on his feet. I’m glad to hear he’s doing well.”

  “Hmmm,” said Bainbridge. “Better than the man we found in Stoke Newington, half eaten by the revenant plague, and half by a strange breed of tropical fungus. Or one of your former nurses, whose body, along with that of her lover, had become infested with the stuff. Or, indeed, all of the dead soldiers in your hospital ward in St. Giles.” Bainbridge took a step forward. “Your experiments don’t always seem to have quite the desired result, do they, Doctor Wren?”

  Veronica saw Wren swallow. His cheeks had flushed, and his lips had grown thin as he tried to maintain his smile. “I … I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about,” he said. “A hospital? Experiments?” He stumbled over his words. He was growing increasingly nervous. “I think you must be mistaken.”

  “So you’re saying you didn’t treat Ernest Pargeter, then?”

  “Well … no … that’s not what I’m saying.”

  “So then he’s mistaken, in the fact that he visited you at the hospital and underwent your treatment programme there?”

  It was excruciating to watch—like a worm caught on a hook, and yet still attempting to escape. “Well, like I say, he wasn’t in a good way when we found him. He must be misremembering,” said Wren.

  “I think we both know, Doctor Wren, that he is not,” said Veronica.

  Wren’s shoulders dropped. His expression altered, taking on a hint of defiance. His eyes flicked from Veronica to Bainbridge. “Listen, I have all the relevant paperwork. Every one of my patients signed their consent. They knew exactly what the risks were. I’m pioneering a radical new treatment here, and it’s had results. You’ve seen what it can do. You’ve seen the impact it had on Pargeter. If only I could re-create that, think of the possibilities, the application. Think how many people I could help.”

  “Think of how many people you’ve already killed,” said Bainbridge. “Think of that.”

  “I told you, they knew the risks.”

  “Really?” said Veronica. “They were fully aware that you were administering doses of the revenant plague to really test the veracity of your miracle cure?”

  Wren glowered at Veronica, as if accusing her for bringing such upset into his home. “I…,” he faltered. He had no answer.

  “It’s over, Wren,” said Bainbridge. “I’ve known people like you before. You think you’re doing good work, think you’re trying to help people, but you’ve lost sight of what’s right and wrong. You’ve wandered so far off the track that you’ve become the villain. Don’t you see that? You’ve become the very thing you’re trying to prevent. A killer.”

  Veronica watched Wren chew on his bottom lip. His hands opened and closed nervously.

  “Your experiments end here,” said Bainbridge. He took another step forward, his hand outstretched, ready to take Wren by the arm. “You’re going to come down to the Yard with us, now.”

  Veronica saw the change in Wren’s eyes too late—the look of sudden panic, the frantic search for an escape route—a look she’d seen a hundred times before. “Charles!” she began, in warning, but Wren had already swept up the paring knife in his hand. He brought his arm down in an arc, burying the blade deep in Bainbridge’s right shoulder.

  Bainbridge howled in shock and pain, staggering back, the knife still buried in the muscle and sinew of his upper arm. Wren twisted, reaching for a glass demijohn, clearly intending to try to finish Bainbridge off with the heavy vessel. He didn’t get the chance.

  With a roar of anger, Veronica charged across the room, slamming into Wren as he raised the demijohn above his head, and causing him to overbalance, stumbling backwards and sending the glass jar smashing to the floor.

  Wren wheeled his arms, but the sudden blow had sent him reeling, and he tumbled back into the nest of vines covering the wall behind him. They seemed to clutch at him like living things, welcoming him into their embrace, just as their many swollen sacs detonated, spilling forth a cloud of deadly spores. It billowed around Wren like a cloud of buzzing flies, and he gasped, choking back as he inhaled the dreaded substance into his lungs.

  “Quickly! Get back, and cover your face,” said Bainbridge, grabbing Veronica by the arm and dragging her towards the door. She did as he said, burying her nose and mouth in the crook of her arm, trying not to breathe until they were both safely out on the landing.

  Inside the room, Wren wasn’t moving. He just hung there amongst the vines; arms splayed wide like a crucifixion. There was a look of abject terror on his pale face.

  The spores had begun to settle over his head, his shoulders—the front of his suit: a fine dusting of certain death.

  Slowly, Wren reached for his throat, and his body jerked as he made a spasmodic, spluttering motion. He hacked, bringing both hands up to his mouth. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, as if he couldn’t bear to take in the reality of his situation. He seemed wracked in sudden pain. He issued another deep, spluttering cough, and then his eyes flickered open in sudden shock, and something spilled from between his lips. At first she thought it was his tongue, but then she saw, with a dawning sense of horror, that it was the end of a vine.

  Wren shuddered, his whole body shaking. His face was beginning to turn purple as the blockage in his throat continued to swell and grow, spilling down his chin like the writhing limbs of a squid. He flung his arms wide again as more vines burst from his chest, burrowing out through his flesh and clothes, smothering him, caressing him, wrapping him in their indecent embrace.

  Veronica heard a clatter of dropped china from behind her, and turned to see Martha at the top of the stairs, teacups, spoons, and hot liquid all in disarray by her feet. She screamed—a shrill, piercing shriek—and made to rush forward into the room, but Veronica interceded, sweeping her up, pinning her by her arms and holding her back as she doubled over, weeping. “Oh God, oh God,” she was saying, over and over again.

  Veronica looked at Bainbridge. He grunted as he yanked the paring knife from his shoulder and tossed it into the room, where Wren’s corpse was still blooming, growths unfurling from within him, slowly turning him inside out.

  “There’s nothing you can do for him now,” said Bainbridge.

  Martha turned to him, her eyes imploring. “What am I going to say?” she said. “What am I going to tell her?” She slumped to the floor, burying her face in her hands.

  Silently, Veronica shut the door to the study and began gathering up the broken china at the top of the stairs, while Bainbridge guided Martha to the drawing room and sent word for assistance.

  It wasn’t until an hour later, when they were clear of the house and halfway across London, that she finally allowed herself to take a deep, relieved breath.

  CHAPTER

  25

  At first the revenant seemed startled by Newbury’s sudden appearance in the passageway. It turned its head back and forth as if conflicted by the choice it had suddenly been presented with—to carry on to the dining car, from where it had evidently caught the scent of roasting meat, or to set upon this fresh delight that had stumbled into its path.

  Its indecision was fleeting; it fixed him with its gimlet stare and bared its teeth in a menacing, mindless, grin. Evidence of its previous gruesome meal was all too apparent, flecked upon its teeth and lower lip. The stench of it made Newbury balk.

  The creature was dressed in the shredded uniform of a train driver; now barely distinguishable due to the sheer amount blood it had spilled down its front during its recent cannibalistic baptism;
Newbury could tell from the rosy pallor of its flesh that the man had not long succumbed to the infection.

  He kept pace with it as it shambled closer; raising its arm for the attack, tongue lolling.

  His foot encountered the wood-panelled wall. He braced himself, raising his fists. He wasn’t carrying a weapon, and here, in the passageway, there was little he could use to improvise. The creature swung at him and he sidestepped, jabbing hard and fast, striking it in the throat. It reeled back for a second, confused, and then lurched forward again, hissing ominously, like an animal backed into a corner.

  Newbury twisted and launched himself forward, throwing all of his weight behind the move. He collided with the revenant, grabbing the side of its head and slamming it hard against the window, trying to daze it. The glass panel shook, but didn’t shatter, and the creature seemed to barely notice the impact. It shoved him aside, tossing him easily across the narrow passage, so that he slammed into the wall of his cabin, the wooden panels breaking with a rending crack.

  He shook his head to clear the grogginess, and then hurriedly twisted out of the way as the revenant’s fist struck the wall where he’d had been standing, further splintering the wood. He kicked up and out, impacting with its chest and forcing it to stagger back, providing himself with a little room to manoeuvre. He wiped blood from his burst lower lip, streaking it across his chin.

  Newbury had been exposed to the revenant virus once before, during his time in India, and it meant he’d developed a certain level of natural resistance to the infection. He could afford to get scratched without fear of becoming one of them.

  Nevertheless, that did nothing to deaden the impact of their talons or arrest their savagery, and he was at just as much risk as anyone else of being disembowelled and eaten. The prospect was not particularly attractive.

  It came at him again, and he ducked out of the way, jabbing at its kidneys with two short, sharp punches, to no visible effect. There was no way he was going to beat it in this confined space, especially just with his fists. He would tire long before the creature, and all it would take was one mistake, one misplaced step, and it would all be over. He had to lead it somewhere he could find a weapon.