The Revenant Express - (Newbury and Hobbes 5) Read online

  The passages in the basement were functional and stark, and felt almost abandoned compared to the hustle and bustle of the upper floors where Bainbridge’s office was located. Down here, amongst the winding corridors, it would be a simple matter to lose oneself without happening upon another soul for days on end. Veronica considered this as she hurriedly followed Bainbridge, intent on remaining close to him as he navigated through the warren. Every corridor looked the same: vast stretches of glazed brown tiles covering the walls and ceiling, punctuated only by the occasional locked door or dimly glowing lamp fitting. Underfoot, terra-cotta tiles caused every step to ring out like a gunshot. She was amazed that Bainbridge could tell where he was going, but he was like a sniffer dog, following a trail.

  “Finnegan’s laboratory is just around this next bend,” he huffed, a little out of breath. His voice seemed amplified by the echoing tunnels. “He likes the solitude down here, hiding amongst the storerooms and archives. Hopefully he’ll be able to shed some further—” He stopped abruptly, peering at something on the ground a few feet ahead of him.

  “What is it?” asked Veronica, as she was forced to lurch awkwardly to one side to avoid a collision. She leaned against the wall to steady herself. The tiles were cool and smooth beneath her palm.

  “Over there,” he said, pointing with his cane.

  At first she couldn’t discern what it was that had caught his attention, but then a small section of the wall seemed to move, and with a start she realised it was Finnegan’s ferret, Barnabas, slinking along against the tiles, almost hidden in the shadows. Bainbridge tapped his cane on the ground, three times in quick succession, and the creature jumped skittishly, gambolling off along the passageway in the opposite direction. Its little claws scratched at the terra-cotta as it ran.

  “You startled the poor thing!” said Veronica, admonishingly. “Now Dr. Finnegan will have his work cut out finding it again in these dreadful tunnels.”

  “Hmmm,” mumbled Bainbridge. He looked thoughtful.

  “You’re worried,” said Veronica, reading his expression.

  “It’s just…” He paused, finding his words. “Well, Finnegan never lets that thing out of his sight. I’ve never known him to let it run loose around the basement before.”

  “Perhaps he’s so engrossed in his work that he hasn’t noticed,” suggested Veronica.

  Bainbridge nodded, but didn’t look convinced. “Come on,” he said. “The laboratory is just down here.” He indicated the way with a wave of his hand. Veronica glanced after the ferret, but it had disappeared from view, probably holing up in some dusty crevice, waiting for them to leave. With a feeling of mounting trepidation, she followed on.

  A hundred yards further along the passage, the door to the laboratory was ajar. It was identical to the many others they had passed as they’d traversed the fusty passages—a dark, mahogany frame with two tall glass insets—only this one also bore a small brass nameplate reading: DR. OWEN FINNEGAN.

  The overbearing stench emanating from inside was acidic and chemical, burning the back of Veronica’s throat, but beneath it she detected the rich, pungent odour of rotting flesh. She wrinkled her nose and gave an involuntary cough, cupping her hands around her mouth.

  “Finnegan?” boomed Bainbridge, pushing the door aside with his cane. He strode in, full of bluster. “Where are you, man?”

  There was no reply. Veronica followed Bainbridge through the door, peering around at the gloomy laboratory. The far wall was decorated with rows of mahogany shelves, each lined with dusty specimen jars, their grisly contents suspended in pretty, colourful liquids. Nearby, a metal trolley bore ceramic pots filled with scalpels and other, ferocious-looking medical tools. Some of them were grimy with old blood.

  The corpse of the revenant was spread out upon a wooden table to her left, and it was clear that Finnegan had been busily conducting an autopsy upon it. The chest had been cracked open and prised apart with a brass clamp, revealing what remained of the victim’s heart and lungs, now dry and shrivelled like desiccated fruit. The organs were misshapen with yet more of the pink, fungus-like growths.

  The vines that spilled haphazardly from the ruptured throat and belly had grown since the previous day, pouring over the edge of the table and cascading to the floor, where they fanned out across the tiles, glistening as if still damp from the rain. Veronica shuddered and took a step back from the trailing growths.

  To her right, Finnegan stood with his back to them, his shoulders hunched as he peered at something under his microscope. He was still wearing his heavy coat from the day before.

  “Ah, there you are,” said Bainbridge. “Stop ignoring me and get over here. I need you to tell me what the devil’s going on.”

  Once again, there was no response from Finnegan. If he was even aware of their presence, he didn’t acknowledge it.

  Veronica glanced at Bainbridge, and she caught a glimpse of uncertainty in his eyes. An eerie silence settled over the two of them, a mutual understanding that something was awry.

  “Dr. Finnegan?” said Veronica, tentatively. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Why wouldn’t he turn around and greet them?

  Nothing.

  “Answer her, man!” said Bainbridge, feigning annoyance, but Veronica could hear the tremor in his voice.

  Slowly, she crossed the room, circling around the end of Finnegan’s workbench. Bainbridge watched her, concern wrinkling his brow, as if in premonition of what she might discover.

  “Dr. Finnega—” She broke off, startled. “Oh, no…” She stumbled back, upsetting another trolley and sending implements clattering noisily to the floor.

  “What?” said Bainbridge, rushing to her side. “What is it?”

  She raised her hand, pointing her finger shakily at what remained of Dr. Owen Finnegan. Bainbridge turned his head to follow her gaze, and seemed to freeze on the spot, his hand gripping her upper arm.

  Finnegan’s face was frozen in shock. His eyes were glazed and staring, boring directly into Veronica, accusatory and afraid. His mouth was open in a silent, nightmarish scream. His lips had blackened and cracked, and dark blood had spilled over his chin, dripping onto the microscope below. Strange growths erupted from deep inside his throat, as if he was in the process of vomiting up a thick bundle of vines and had somehow been frozen in the act, caught in a moment of time. The vines were identical to those growing out of the revenant corpse.

  Finnegan’s hands rested on the workbench, turned palm up in a pleading or placatory fashion. More of the vines had burst from the soft flesh of his wrists, writhing out across the smooth wooden surface. Some of them appeared to have burrowed down into the pitted oak, taking root.

  New green shoots were just beginning to worm their way out through the man’s distended belly, poking out through the flesh and clothes as if searching for sunlight and sustenance.

  “Good God!” bellowed Bainbridge, swinging her around behind him protectively. “Quickly, cover your face,” he said, burying his own mouth and nose in the crook of his arm. Veronica fished in her pocket for her handkerchief and did as he said, holding it firmly over her lower face. It did little to quell the insistent urge to vomit. “Right, out of here, now,” he went on, his voice muffled by his jacket. “Get out of here, and don’t stop until we’ve cleared the basement.”

  “You’ll have to show me the way,” countered Veronica, unable to recall the circuitous route that had led them here.

  Bainbridge nodded and released his grip on her arm. He pushed past her and made for the door, pausing only to ensure she was following.

  Breathlessly, Veronica charged after him, keeping the handkerchief pressed firmly over her face. By the time they’d reached the top of the second flight of stairs, she felt dizzy from the sudden burst of energy and the hot, stifling press of the cotton over her mouth. She removed it, bunching it up and dabbing at her forehead with it instead.

  She paused on the stairwell, looking up at Bainbridge who, red-faced wi
th exertion, had come to rest on the small landing. He was leaning on the handrail, his face glossy with sweat. Behind him, double doors led back into the office and the main reception area.

  “What is that thing?” he said, between panting breaths. The question was obviously rhetorical.

  “The speed of it,” said Veronica, horrified. “It’s utterly consumed him.”

  “It’s spread, infected him. It must have happened when he cut into one of the growths.” Bainbridge frowned.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Veronica.

  “Destroy them,” replied Bainbridge, decisively. “Isolate the basement. Get masked men down there to remove the bodies, and then burn whatever they find.”

  “But what about the evidence?”

  “Damn the evidence!” snapped Bainbridge. “Lives are at stake, Miss Hobbes. I cannot risk any more people succumbing to that … that … whatever it is!”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Of course, you’re right.” She climbed the last few steps, placed a hand on Bainbridge’s shoulder. “Go on, see to it. Do it now. I can find my own way out.”

  Bainbridge nodded, duty clearly taking precedence over social propriety. “I’ll call on you later, Miss Hobbes, with any news.”

  “Very well.” She stepped to one side and held open the door, and, with a grim smile, he walked through, striding off directly to gather his men.

  For a moment Veronica watched him go, and then she allowed the door to swing shut behind her, heading out towards the Embankment and the inclement afternoon. She couldn’t help turning over in her mind, however, the disturbing thought that, if the disease could spread that quickly, how many more people out there in London might be unwittingly walking about infected—herself and Bainbridge included?

  CHAPTER

  6

  Amelia tucked her feet up beneath her and sunk back into the warm embrace of the armchair. The gentle rocking of the carriage, the fire in the grate, and the flickering glow of the candlelight were having a soporific effect upon her; she felt her head nodding and her eyelids trying to close, despite the early hour.

  She was sitting in the room she shared with Newbury, which conjoined their two cabins. She could barely believe they were hurtling across the wilds of France—for all practical purposes she might well have been back in Malbury Cross, curled up before the fire. Her surroundings felt safe and familiar—boringly so.

  Opposite her, Newbury was slouched in another armchair. His face was drawn and pale, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. Around him lay the assorted paraphernalia of the healing ritual, which he had performed upon her just a short while earlier. Consequently, she was still feeling a little light-headed, and she had a gritty, metallic aftertaste in her mouth. Newbury, on the other hand, looked decidedly unwell, as if the enacting of the ritual had sapped all of his strength, and now there was nothing to do but sleep and recover.

  On the floor before the hearth he’d laid out a fine linen sheet, upon which he’d painstakingly transcribed the familiar concentric circles and arcane markings. Back at home, he would have scratched these out in chalk upon the bare floorboards, having rolled back the rug, but here on the train that was both impractical and dangerous; a porter happening across such evidence of occult practises might well raise an alarm and bring unwelcome questions. Amelia wasn’t so naïve that she didn’t understand what Newbury was doing for her, the risks he was taking. This way, the necessary components of the ritual could be folded away quickly and hidden from sight.

  She supposed she was going to have to tidy them away soon. Newbury didn’t appear to be in any fit state to do it. She felt a pang of guilt at the thought. He’d assured her, time and again, that the after-effects of the ritual were only temporary, but nevertheless, it pained her to know that she was responsible for his present condition, however fleeting. And she was beginning to think that it might not be as temporary as he would have her believe.

  Incense still burned in a little wooden tray on the mantelpiece, pungent and floral, and the bowl that had held the vile-tasting concoction she had consumed was resting upon the coffee table. The book, bound in brown leather calfskin, lay open on the hearth, its contents as indecipherable to her today as the first time she had seen it. In it were contained all the instructions for the procedure that Newbury was performing, the ritual that was allowing her to be well again.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Sir Maurice?” she said quietly.

  There was no response. Not even the flutter of an eyelid to acknowledge that she had spoken.

  “Perhaps if I tidy these things away?”

  This time, her question did elicit a response. He held up his right hand, palm forward, as if to say: no need, leave it, I’d rather do it myself.

  Amelia sighed, unsure what else to say. She hated feeling useless. It was times like this that she longed for Veronica. Her sister would know just the right thing to do, to say.

  She wondered whether it was best to stay with him until he recovered. That might take hours, and there was clearly very little she could do to assist him. He obviously needed sleep and rest.

  She decided there was only one thing for it. She couldn’t just sit there. There was so much outside of the cabin that she wanted to see. So much experience she’d missed. She would retreat to her room to freshen up, and then take a short walk to the observation lounge, just for half an hour. Then she would return and see if Newbury needed anything.

  Quietly she got to her feet and slipped away. He would barely notice she was gone and, despite his instructions to the contrary, she was confident there was very little harm in stretching her legs and getting a proper measure of the rest of the carriage.

  * * *

  After leaving their sitting room—by way of stumbling in a rather undignified fashion into Newbury’s cabin and out through the door—Amelia traversed the corridor back to the entrance lobby, rocking gently from side to side with the steady motion of the train.

  A few people had clearly had a similar idea, and the lobby was sparsely populated with people milling about, smiling politely to one another and passing the time of day.

  “Jolly impressive, what?” she heard a bewhiskered fellow say to a younger man who was leaning against the wrought iron window rail and peering out at the flitting landscape beyond. The younger man nodded in agreement without turning his head from the view.

  “… and that’s just the sort of business I was hoping to avoid,” said a woman in a shrill voice, walking arm in arm with her coconspirator. The two women were coming directly toward Amelia, an oncoming whirlwind of blue silk and lace, and she ducked out of the way to let them pass, catching only a glimpse of their haughty expressions as they moved on down the passageway past Amelia and Newbury’s own cabins.

  Amelia drank it all in, reveling in the opportunity to witness such mundane but fascinating interactions. It had been so long—so many years—since she’d had the opportunity to watch people bustling about their normal lives. It seemed to her like another world, as if, for all of those long years spent holed up in institutions, surrounded by doctors and nurses, she’d simply been dreaming her way through life, unable to imagine the bright colours and sounds of the real world.

  She really couldn’t thank Newbury enough for bringing her here, away from the hospitals, from Malbury Cross. She knew that everything he and Veronica had done—faking her death, rescuing her from the Grayling Institute, hiding her away in that little village—had been for her own good, a form of liberation.But really she knew that the cottage, as sweet as it was, was still just another form of prison. Here, though, with Newbury, she had a chance to see the world beyond the windowpanes. Moreover—this was the world beyond London, beyond England and the Empire. This was a journey into the unknown.

  Grinning, and filled with a burgeoning sense of adventure, Amelia crossed to the foot of the spiral staircase in the centre of the lobby. A small white plaque at the foot of the stairs suggested they led to the observat
ion saloon on the upper floor, and she decided to try her luck.

  She felt the carriage shudder as she mounted the first step and was forced to snatch at the iron railing to steady herself. She paused for a moment, waiting for the return of the familiar rocking motion, and then took the rest of the steps quickly, finding herself a trifle out of breath at the top.

  The saloon was larger than she’d expected, and for a moment she remained at the top of the staircase, taking it all in. It was a huge, open gallery, as large as the carriage itself. The ceiling was polished steel, designed to give the appearance of a vaulted roof, and the walls were made from thick plated glass, lending the room an even airier, open feel. Mahogany armchairs, their seats covered in matching maroon velvet, were placed alongside the windows, and a number of them were occupied by other passengers, some sitting alone, others huddled in little cadres.

  Beyond the train, Amelia could see the world flitting by as they roared through the countryside, past fields and tumbledown chateaus, lakes and scudding blue clouds. It was perfect.

  She left her perch at the top of the stairs and crossed to one of the windows, searching out a seat.

  The armchairs, she saw, were faded, the burgundy fabric wearing thin and pale in large, irregular patches. To Amelia, it seemed as if the many passengers who had come before her had each left something of themselves behind, tiny slivers of light that had brushed off on the fabric as they’d stood to leave. Over time, these patches had grown brighter and more evident as increasingly more people had each shed a little of themselves, so that now the seats appeared to shine with their own inner glow. Each chair told a story, cherishing that which had been unconsciously abandoned.

  She knew it was nonsense, of course—in reality, it was simply that the fabric was worn where so many people had brushed against it—but the notion appealed to her, the thought that every soul who had travelled on the train before her had somehow enriched it by gifting a little fragment of themselves.