Beneath London (48 page)

St. Ives wondered at the secret panel having been shut. Why hadn’t Klingheimer left it open, given that he would return this same way? He was clearly wary of being followed, and so they must be equally wary. They descended the long stairway, Hasbro going along ahead, his pistol at the ready. They arrived at the landing, the stairs taking a right turning and disappearing downward. On the left-hand side, however, stood a ruined door. It sagged on broken hinges, having been smashed to pieces, the jamb torn free along with the door.

“Was this door here before – when you descended?” St. Ives whispered to Alice, who shook her head.

Hasbro held up a restraining hand, crouched down, and peered past it into the darkness, looking and listening for a long moment. “Nothing,” he said.

“Would they be at all likely to wait for us?” Tubby asked. “Simply in order to waylay us?”

“Perhaps,” St. Ives said. “Klingheimer means to retrieve Clara, however, and he can scarcely be certain that anyone is following him. He’ll suppose that we
might
be, of course, and he’ll murder us if he has the opportunity, but he’ll waste no time on us until he has overtaken Clara.”

“Neither he nor his men will give us any quarter,” Alice said, her statement surprising St. Ives, who was used to her advising restraint. “He’ll be bloody-minded given how things have gone for him today.”

“Then we sail under a black flag,” Tubby said. “We’ll strike first or we’ll be a pack of dead fools.”

“If we’re pressed,” Hasbro said, “stay out of the way of the pistol so that I can have a clear shot at them.”

The went on now, single file, quickly deciding that the lanterns would be beacons, alerting their enemies below. And yet there was no going on in the pitch darkness without a glimmer of light. “Let’s shade the lanterns,” St. Ives said, and they did so, using Mother Laswell’s winter shawl and Hasbro and St. Ives’s coats.

Perhaps they would have the advantage of Klingheimer, St. Ives thought – perhaps they would see Klingheimer’s lanterns before he saw theirs.

THIRTY-EIGHT

M
r. Klingheimer had never been fond of the darkness, and he kept the lamps in the house on Lazarus Walk perpetually lit. Now, in the gloomy lantern light, he was surprised to see that his skin glowed – that he himself was in essence a walking lamp, which had a fine metaphorical ring to it. Since he had begun to harvest the fungus in quantity, he had increased his consumption of the elixir, which no doubt explained it, as well as explaining his renewed vigor, as if age and time had been set in reverse.

It was a savory thought that he was the one man alive who could travel in the underworld without a lantern or a torch to light his way. He would be a tolerably easy mark if the darkness were complete, of course – no hiding from his enemies, although it would not come to that in any event, he being the hunter and not the hunted. There were three armed men with him, however. The boy Jenkins was at his back, carrying the head of Maurice de Salles. He had a ready need for money, his mother being ill and his manifold brothers and sisters as skinny and malnourished as he. Jenkins, however, could have little idea what they were about, and he could not be counted upon absolutely. He might run if there was trouble. Flinders, carrying a rifle, came along behind Jenkins. Shadwell, also armed, strode ahead with a lantern. Except for Mrs. Skink, the rest of the house had been out beating the bushes – a reprehensible crowd of nitwits who had allowed four easily identifiable people to elude them. Perhaps he should have rounded up more men and left Jenkins behind, but in the meantime Clara would have been ever more distant.

He considered his likely enemies as he paced along. The women were of no account. Clara was blind, easily frightened, and now shared his blood. She would yield to him, under compulsion if necessary. The other woman, whoever she was, would not have the pluck to stand up against men carrying rifles. That left the dwarf and the boy. The boy was enterprising: he had hidden from the men searching for him and then had fought his way out of the house. It would be more difficult for him to elude a bullet, however. The dwarf played the fool as if he was born for the stage, but he was no fool, and he knew the underworld well. Quite likely he would vanish into the darkness and never be seen again, for he owed nobody anything and had no notion of loyalty. In that regard he was the most dangerous of the lot.

Who might be coming along in back of them, then? It had been Mother Laswell’s man Kraken capering in the alley behind Peavy’s this evening, obviously unhinged. That meant that the voluminous woman who had stood in the shadows must be Mother Laswell herself, whom Shadwell had allegedly disposed of in Aylesford. Had there been unseen others?

St. Ives had been secured in the decapitator, and Peavy had but to trip the switch to remove his head from his body. Jimmy was armed with a pistol, and Willis Pule was looking after Alice St. Ives, who was a perfect hostage. Surely nothing could have gone awry. And even if it had, it was unlikely that any of these interlopers knew of the tunnel or knew that the others had descended into the underworld.

He stilled the chatter in his mind and compelled himself to seek the mental disposition that allowed him to open the lens of his third eye. He was practiced at the art of it by now, well on his way to becoming an adept. He began now at the beginning: breathing evenly and carefully picturing the hinged lid of a wooden box slowly opening – the very same wooden box that he’d had as a boy, the box in which he stowed the things of his childhood. There was a picture painted upon it of green mountains with a waterfall tumbling down the slope. Birds flew in the blue sky. The painting was something that he had believed in when he was a boy, and he had longed to discover where those mountains stood – somewhere in Wales his father had told him, although even then he knew that it was probably a ready lie. Now he knew that the painting was a shabby bit of sentiment, but picturing the box came naturally and instantaneously to him, quickly focusing his mind.

He compelled himself to gaze upon the box until it lay squarely behind his eyes, which looked inward now. The lid rose silently on its hinges, allowing him to slip into the dark interior like a wraith. Once inside and out of the world, he was able to range forth into what seemed a vast nothingness. Very soon his mind began to ascertain its surroundings and the nothingness took on dimension. He made out mysterious but evident horizons in the far distance, and he observed other questing minds, perceiving them as psychical scents and their thoughts as whispers in the dark vastness.

He was well aware that he was walking – felt the ground beneath his feet, heard the footfalls of his companions – but his essential mind was afloat in the dark, immeasurable night. Incorporeal shapes flitted past like the shadows of birds and insects. Some passed ghostlike through him, and he felt momentary, detached sensations of misery or ecstasy or fear or longing. These emotions, such as they were, passed quickly away, having no connection to Jules Klingheimer.

When Clara’s essence – the perfume-like quality of her mind and memory – passed through him he recognized it instantly.
She
could not simply flee away. Clara and he were one under the flesh. She would be aware that he was near, and she would know that he had come for her.

His reverie was jangled by a sudden recollection of the silver bees that had attacked him when he had communed with her at Peavy’s. That had been a peculiar business indeed. As a child he had dislodged a wasps’ nest from where it hung in a barn, and he hadn’t been able to run fast enough to outdistance them. Perhaps the silver bees had been the playing out of a nightmare that had lain hidden in his mind all these years – nothing but an effaced memory. He considered whether it had been Clara who was responsible for the incident, or, more dangerously, whether it had been the work of Sarah Wright. Either way, he would know it if it came again – or anything of the same sort – and he would be prepared to overcome it by a force of will, just as one compelled oneself to awaken from a nightmare.

THIRTY-NINE

H
ow long they had traveled, Finn couldn’t say. For the last ten minutes they had traversed a downward-sloping field of stones, with occasional monoliths, the upper parts of which were invisible in the darkness overhead. They had left the long stairway and the sound of the river far behind.

“Is he come?” Finn asked Clara.

Clara answered, “Closer,” as she had answered the last time he had asked. “His mind found my own some time back, but I did not engage him. Now that he’s found me, I can find him quite easily, and I hope to keep him at a distance. Will you put these somewhere?” she asked, and she took off her lead-soled shoes and gave them to him. “They’ll do nothing but hinder me if I wear them.” There seemed to be no point in asking why, so Finn silently stowed them in Beaumont’s flour sack.

Some minutes later they came out onto level ground among small fields of toads that were cut with a winding stream. Their path, a dark, meandering ribbon, passed illuminated pools of water and would have been very nearly cheerful if it weren’t for the stink, which was powerful now. Although Beaumont had told them where they were bound, Finn was astonished to see a stone hut standing a short distance away, built against a sheer, black wall. The roof was thatched, and lantern light shone from two small windows. They drew to a halt and Beaumont asked, “Who the devil is this now?”

“A man,” Clara answered. Finn could see only a shadow moving on the wall within, but he had no reason to doubt her.

“Aye,” Beaumont said, “a man who has no business in Beaumont’s hut, the thief, nor hunting pig in my territory. I’ll brace him.”

Beaumont set out forthrightly toward the hut. When he was several paces from the door, however, a round-shaped man stepped out, his head bald but for tufts of hair on either side. He held a lantern at head height and peered into the gloom, the light falling on his face, which looked as if he had been in a bloody battle. “Who goes there?” he asked.

It was Gilbert Frobisher, and the sight of him confounded Finn, just as it did Miss Bracken, who cried, “God in heaven!” and ran forward. “Don’t strike him!” she shouted. “You mustn’t harm that man! It’s Gilbert Frobisher, and a glad day!”