Pastworld (20 page)

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Chapter 38

The Fantom made his way quickly down the dark brick tunnel. The low light did not bother him; he could see perfectly in any light and his feet found their way automatically beside the rail tracks. A rat scuttled towards him, not a real one, which he would have expected, but a straying mech. It stopped in front of him barring the way. It looked up at him, its eyes seemed to glow red. It lifted its head and opened its mouth and showed two rows of even, sharp teeth set in a fixed grimace, and then the rat said menacingly, ‘No entry. Restricted area. Restricted.’ The Fantom looked down at the rat, at its spiky, greasy fur standing on end. ‘Hello, brother rat,’ he said, and there was even a trace of sympathy in his voice. He lifted his foot high in its shiny black boot, and brought it down hard on the little creature’s back. He felt the sad and detailed crunch of its destruction through the sole of his boot. He moved his foot away and knelt down and looked at the rat, peering with curiosity into its shattered little eyes as the red light dimmed and faded out.
That would have alerted them
, he thought,
but it’s too deep – too far underground for a signal
.

The Fantom’s cloak swished out behind him as he turned the last curve. At this point the tunnel went straight for the last few hundred yards and the old disused station soon swam into view. Oil lamps were hung on wires above the platform and their light showed disembodied fragments from the old advertising posters pasted over the curved walls. Smiling faces showed off their once whiter than white teeth, or proudly brandished their toothpaste tubes, or their swirls and spirals of oiled hair, as they loomed out of the darkness and grinned down on to the silent tracks.

A ragged man sat guard on the edge of the platform with a rifle across his knees. He leaped up when the Fantom appeared out of the mouth of the tunnel.

‘Asleep again then, Mr James?’ the Fantom asked.

‘No, sir,’ said the ragged man, standing as much to attention as he could. ‘Are the others with you?’

‘No. They have been out rattling punters somewhere. They’ll be here soon enough.’ The Fantom hopped up on to the platform and made his way quickly into the staircase hall. More oil lamps were strung on wires above the escalator steps. The metal treads were rusted and thick with dust. He heard a noise behind him: the sound of echoing laughter and little whoops from his gang of ragged men some way away down a tunnel.

The Fantom went through a door into the old ticket hall. The light was stronger here from a concentration of oil lamps. A couple of armed men sat on a battered chaise longue against the wall while Lucius Brown sat upright, tied with rope to a hard chair in the middle of the space. A tray of food and scattered cutlery lay at his feet.

Lucius watched the Fantom as he crossed the floor into the circle of lights. The Fantom doffed his hat and threw it at one of the ragged men, who caught it clumsily. The Fantom peeled away the black face mask and took off his silvered glasses. His features were pale, his skin smooth and his eyes a bright sea-blue.

‘I understand that one of my teams put paid to an example of your handiwork tonight,’ the Fantom said.

Lucius stiffened visibly in the chair. He tugged at the ropes.

‘Relax, Lucius, it wasn’t what or who you think. It was just one of your ghost-effect machines, the projection of a spectral little girl, a cheap seance apparition. One of your own illusions, I am told. They got a good haul from the rich Gawkers and suckers who all fell for it too.’

‘You must be very proud of yourself,’ Lucius replied in a measured voice.

‘Surely it is you who should be proud,’ the Fantom replied. ‘Imagine making such a thing and seeing it work. It’s just like magic really, but then you are something of a magician, aren’t you? Well, it apparently fooled them well enough until my men went in and burst their bubble.’ The Fantom smiled a rare smile. His face was pleasant enough when he smiled, except perhaps for his very white wolfish teeth.

‘You must be tired,’ he said to Lucius. ‘I see that they have offered to feed you and yet you have not eaten. Was it not to your taste? Sadly, I know so little about you. What do you normally eat? Do you have a favourite dish?’

‘I was not hungry. A man in my position does not think of food. Where is my son?’

‘Now that is quite a question, and an ironic one too, given our circumstances. I have no idea where that boy is, but I wish I did, for I have every intention of meeting him. You and your son would have been here together if my minions had not bungled things so badly. I have so long wanted to meet you both. And of course there is just that one other.’

‘What about Jack?’

The Fantom spread his hands and shrugged. ‘Another crime statistic, I am afraid. I examined him, you know, after death. I took the opportunity and looked right inside him. Poor old Dr Jack, he was not long for this world in any case. He had a weak heart.’

Lucius looked at the vicious young man standing opposite him with his arms folded proudly across his chest. ‘You will please leave my son alone,’ he said, ‘should you find him. He at least is innocent in all of this.’

‘No one is an innocent, not to me. Look at all those hordes of people who come crowding in here paying their pathetic shillings to Mr Buckland and co. They eat the cheap food. Smoke the cheap cigars. “Ooh let’s watch a hanging”, “Oh a terrible accident”, “Oh look, George, the brutal arrest of a tiny child felon”, “Ooh a real amputation and with such a dirty-looking authentic old rusty-toothed saw too.” Then there are the other ones, aren’t there? The ones who come here just to see my special work.’ The Fantom’s face was fixed on Lucius and his eyes seemed even brighter as he delivered his mounting outburst.

‘Is that all you see here?’ Lucius said quietly. ‘No achievements, other than base criminality, squalor and profit?’

The Fantom changed tack, and a different kind of light came into his eyes. ‘She ran away from your old friend Dr Jack, her keeper, didn’t she? He sent you a letter after she broke cover and took off out into the world, that brave, beautiful girl. She’s out there now somewhere, you know, trailing round with some travelling acrobats. All very authentic, I am sure, but hardly what she was meant for, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I personally couldn’t say anything about what she was meant for. That was not my idea.’

‘No, I doubt you would. I doubt you have much to say about either of us. It’s quite something, you know, for me to actually have you here, sitting in front of me, powerless and tied with a real authentic rope, to a real authentic chair. I wonder if you have ever feared this moment. If you have ever woken from your blameless sleep out there, wherever it is you live. Shelley Avenue, is it not? Have you lain in a cold sweat in Shelley Avenue, in quaint old Poet’s Corner, remembering me and my face, and what I might be up to while you listen to the sound of the sweetly twittering mech birds or whatever they are in your clean and tidy garden, and have you feared this very moment?’

‘No, I haven’t. You’re not that important to me.’

‘I wish I could believe that of you. I think I am
very
important. I am sure that they are all out there looking for me right now. Trailing me the best they can, which is not very well. On the Outside they would find me in an instant, but not in here. I think that they never want to find me at all. I am a major attraction in this benighted city of yours, am I not? If what was supposed to happen actually happened as it was meant to, I would be the biggest attraction in this place, and I am sure your Mr Buckland would just love it.’

A group of ragged men had gradually assembled at the back of the ticket hall. They watched the exchange between the Fantom and his mysterious prisoner for a minute or so, and then one of their number stepped forward into the brighter light. The Fantom turned and looked the man up and down.

‘Are you standing so near me for a bet? Well, I am afraid you have lost. I’m busy.’

‘No, sir, I’ve something to tell you.’

‘It had better be worth the risk you’re taking,’ the Fantom replied, moving closer to the shivering man.

‘I’ve found out where Jago’s Pandemonium Show caravans are parked up.’ His sudden smile showed his crooked yellow teeth.

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Chapter 39

Inspector Lestrade arrived at the lodging house and asked for Sgt Catchpole. The landlady showed him into the cosy drawing room, where Catchpole was reading. He looked up.

‘Good evening, Inspector,’ Catchpole said. ‘What brings you here at this hour?’

‘Good evening, Sergeant Catchpole,’ Lestrade said. ‘Mr Buckland himself asked me to bring this over to you at once.’ He handed over the envelope. ‘It seems a local station picked up a particular felon, the very youth that you are looking for as part of your investigation. The youth was signed out on a corrupt surety bond. All the details and the address and so on are in there.’

‘You bring this now at this hour?’

‘Yes, I am sorry for the lateness. In this case I am simply the messenger,’ said Lestrade.

‘Does Buckland have police records delivered to him regularly?’ Catchpole said, puzzled.

‘Buckland has a whole roster of tame policemen. Did you read the files?’

‘Of course,’ Catchpole said. ‘Is there any more you want to tell me?’

‘I wish I could take you into my confidence, but I report only to Abel Buckland. I cannot divulge more. You will eventually find out everything, I have no doubt. I will say only that I have been given permission at last to move against the ragged men. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a cab waiting. Good night.’

‘Good night, Inspector.’

After he had gone Catchpole opened the envelope. Inside was a bleak little arrest photograph of a frightened-looking youth with a shock of dark hair. An arrest record number was chalked on a slate around his neck:
19248
.

The arrest card’s scant details were all filled in in neat copperplate. Caleb Brown. It was him all right; the running boy. There was a release sheet giving an address of a Mr William Leighton at 31 Fournier Street, signed for by Japhet McCreddie of the same address.

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Chapter 40

The next morning Catchpole was out early. He walked through the crowds and made his way over to Fournier Street. He banged on the door of Number 31. A woman in an apron answered.

‘Sergeant Catchpole of Scotland Yard,’ Catchpole said with a smile. ‘I have come to see Mr Leighton.’

There was no returning smile from Mrs Boulter. ‘Just wait in here if you would, sir.’

Catchpole was shown into a lavishly furnished drawing room. Mr Leighton was plainly either a wealthy man who enjoyed all the tax privileges that residency allowed, or some sort of master thief. The table in the centre of the room was piled with guns and holsters and ammunition belts. He picked up one of the guns, an authentic service revolver. He was turning it in his hands when William Leighton swept into the room, his white shirt billowing.

‘We are expecting trouble, officer. I suppose one of those damn fools from last night has reported our little robbery problem.’

Catchpole inclined his head, while Leighton stuck out his elegant hand to be shaken. ‘William Leighton,’ he said with a firm grip.

Catchpole decided to play along with the confusion. ‘So, sir, about last night then?’

‘I was giving a scientific demonstration when we were invaded and attacked, inside this very house, and robbed, all of us.’

‘They seem to have left quite a lot behind, sir?’ said Catchpole, indicating the precious-looking contents of the room.

‘They were in and out very quickly. They took the small stuff, cash, and jewellery, straight from the pockets and from round the necks of my guests. There was nothing I could do despite having arms in the house, and before you say anything about that, they are all strictly under licence.’

‘I don’t doubt it, sir, but why didn’t you raise the alarm yourself?’ Catchpole asked.

‘I would have reported it but I reasoned, what would be the point? I know who did this. I intend to protect myself and my future clients in my own way. I shall not be relying on the incompetence and corruption of your Scotland Yard, no offence.’

‘None taken, sir,’ said Catchpole with a friendly smile. ‘Who was in the house at the time, sir? Apart from your guests, that is?’

My housekeeper, Mrs Boulter, who admitted you, my assistant, Mr McCreddie, and my houseboy, nobody else.

‘Could I speak to them?’

‘Mr McCreddie and the houseboy are out at present. They will only confirm what I just told you.’

‘Even so, I think I will come back later and speak to them.’

‘That is your choice, sergeant. Look, all I can tell you is that there were three or four of them, the Fantom’s stooges, the ragged men, as they are known. They were armed and dangerous. One of them had a heavy revolver pointed between my eyes. I hardly saw the others. They robbed me and my guests and left quickly using a hansom cab.’

‘Nothing else?’ said Catchpole.

‘There was the woman who left early,’ said Leighton dismissively, ‘a woman who got upset, a typical Gawker. She left my scientific meeting just before the raid. My houseboy showed her to the door, but that was all. I am a very busy man and I am in a hurry. I really can’t add anything to what I have already said.’

‘So do you think this guest, the woman who left early, was working for the ragged men?’

‘I have no reason to suppose that. It is odd that the ragged men knew exactly when our meeting was to take place, admittedly. The meetings are very private and very discreetly arranged only for the best clients, but I have my own theory as to how they knew.’

‘Do you want to add anything else?’

Leighton said nothing. He just shook his head, then he rang a hand bell and the housekeeper appeared. ‘This gentleman is leaving now, Mrs Boulter. Be so good as to show him out.’

‘As you wish, sir,’ she said, and so Catchpole took his leave and allowed himself to be shown out of the house.

It had not been possible to see the boy Caleb yet. He had at least been mentioned indirectly. Catchpole decided he would watch the house and wait for the boy and any other developments. The ragged men had moved against Leighton, robbed him, and just last night. Catchpole was getting a sense of a bigger picture. Perhaps something was happening. Were any of these things linked to the boy and Brown?

After a while he saw the housekeeper leave carrying a provisions basket on the crook of her arm. A ragged man stopped her and they had a conversation which went on for a while. Eventually, he saw the ragged man put a package, something wrapped in sacking, in her shopping basket very discreetly. Then the ragged man moved off. Catchpole decided to follow him.

He walked fast and purposefully. He stuck mostly to the main streets, the ones most loaded with visitors and Gawkers. Yet he didn’t bother any of them for money. He slipped between them, so fast that Catchpole had a job to keep up with him.

They were heading towards the river, south of the cathedral, when Catchpole turned a corner and the ragged man was suddenly gone, vanished. The street was empty. It was just a road, with no cuts or alleys or other ways out. Catchpole walked slowly up and down the street looking at all the buildings and entrances carefully. One of them had the markings of an old twentieth-century Underground station exit sign still just visible on the stonework. These ghostly echoes of the old system had mostly been thoroughly removed, but sometimes traces remained. Had the beggar gone underground? Catchpole walked up to the entrance way, which was all boarded over. The boards themselves were densely covered with a variety of posters, mostly advertising the ‘Grand Demolition’ only a few days away now. Catchpole didn’t want to test the boards covering the entrance way, didn’t want to draw attention to himself, but he noted the possibility. He walked to the end of the street and then turned to go back and wait for Caleb.