Professor Moriarty: The Hound Of The D’urbervilles (40 page)

‘Can you hear that?’ Lucas asked, hand up to his ear.

From inside the tunnel, there was a sound. A shushing, wailing, rattling. Worms, as a rule, are quieter. Even giant ones. The gunpowdery smell was stronger.

‘There are spirits...’ the parson began.

‘Shush, Hugo,’ cut in Madame Valladon. ‘You can stop play-acting.’

Doone shut up, crestfallen.

The noise grew louder.

‘Something runs on the rails?’ Sabin said. ‘A train,
hein
?’

It sounded like no train I’d ever heard.

‘Look...’ Lucas pointed.

There was firelight in the fog. It barrelled towards us faster than something without legs or wheels ought to be able to.

I had my rifle up. Whatever came out of that tunnel would get one between its eyes, if eyes it had.

Stationmaster Moriarty was still brandishing his watch, grinning. He seemed to be enjoying the spell cast over his guests. The Professor hung back, tutting impatiently.

A cold, sharp point pricked under my chin. The rifle was firmly twisted out of my hands. A female person pressed close to my back, arm about my chest. The Greek lady, of course. I stood stock still.

Then, in a rush, the worm was out of its hole...

...and rushing through the station past us, leaving only a swirling wake. The disturbed fog reformed over the rails.

The worm wasn’t white and fires burned in its belly. A foul smell lingered behind: it was a mechanical thing.

Down the line a way, bright flame blossomed. For an instant, the countryside lit up as if it were daytime. I blinked away fire patterns burned into my eyes and watched as a burning wave swept across a field that inclined towards the rail bed. An old shed was instantly obliterated. Flaming sheep scurried, screaming, for the horizon. A butt of water exploded into fragments.

In the firelight, the worm was visible – it had soundlessly halted on the tracks. Liquid fire dribbled from hose-like cannons protruding from its sides. It was armoured, shield-like plates bolted together in a limber, flexible carapace – a big, bulletproof version of the May Day Festival worm costume.

The worm was a war train! A land dreadnought.

The bogus ghost finders chattered to each other, in several languages. I had an idea now of their true profession.

‘England alone must not have this thing,’ Sabin said. ‘It would mean catastrophe for the civilised world.’

‘So we hear from France,’ Stationmaster Moriarty said. ‘Can I take it that a bid is made?’

Sabin nodded.

‘Thank you, Monsieur de la Meux. What of Imperial Germany? Fraulein von Hoffmannsthal, can you and Herr Oberstein make an offer?’

Madame Valladon – whose real name turned out to be Ilse von Hoffmannsthal – conferred with the parson – the notorious spy Hugo Oberstein – and gave a nod. They had abandoned their pretence of not knowing each other, let alone their fraying cover identities. I was relieved not to have to listen to any more prattle about spirits from the Reverend Doone.

‘Mr Lucas. You are a free agent. Do you act, in this instance, for the Tsar of all the Russias?’ Young James addressed the dandy.

‘A little to the East, old top. A more humane mikado ne’er did in Japan exist, you know... and they have the railways too, very modern.’

This was a nest of damn foreign spies! I’ve played the Great Game myself, on several sides. Nothing crawls like as a patriot lying and sneaking for his country.

‘So “Carnacki” represents the Tsar?’ the Stationmaster asked.

‘That one acts for himself, James,’ the Professor said. ‘If you troubled to use your brain, you should have seen that first thing. He is the imposter among imposters. The
real
fake Carnacki is trussed in a trunk in the left-luggage department at Paddington.’

‘Come, come, James. Nothing is amiss.’

‘No? Then why is Miss Kratides holding a knife to my man’s throat?’

Now, everyone looked at us. I raised the paw not pinned by the lady’s grip in an attempt at a cheery wave.

‘Don’t mind me,’ I said. ‘Play on. Though, apropos of nothing, Oberstein: when you’re introduced to people, you start to click your boot heels then remember not to. Few English parsons have that habit. If you’re to continue your, ah, theatrical career, you might try to get that seen to.’

Oberstein spat on the platform. That wasn’t like a clergyman, either.

Ilse von Hoffmannsthal took out her revolver, as she had been dying to do all evening, and pointed it at people who didn’t notice or care.

The fire down the way wasn’t dying down. The worm wasn’t moving. It had no funnel and wasn’t expelling steam. I wondered in an academic sort of way why it was so bloody fast. I had more immediate concerns, though. Blood was dribbling into my collar.

Young James was off his stride.

‘Sophy,’ he said. ‘Is that you?’

The lady pushed me away. I stumbled, but got my balance and clapped a hand to my throat. For a moment, I was worried this Sophy Kratides person had slit my throat. They say you don’t feel it if the knife is sharp enough, though who ‘they’ might be who’ve lived to pass on this intelligence, I couldn’t say. Everyone whose throat I’ve cut has only managed a minute or so of inarticulate gurgling before shutting up permanently. I let my wound go and saw only spots of blood on my fingers. She’d just administered an attention-getting scratch.

Turning, I saw Miss Kratides peel off her mask of sticking-plaster, taking off the moustache and eyebrows with it. Sophy had a handsome, if severe face, and held a knife like someone practiced in its use. She slid it between her fingers, wiping off my blood. The top three buttons of her uniform jacket were undone. A smaller knife was holstered in the front of her corset, handle nestled between prize plums. How many other blades had she concealed in out-of-the-way portions of her anatomy? It might be diverting, if dangerous, to discover the answer. Her flashing eyes and sharp edges reminded me of other exciting ladies of my acquaintance... Mattie Ball of Wessex, Malilella of the Stiletto, Lady Yuki Kashima, Mad Margaret Trelawny. Yes, I never learn. I like the dangerous ones.

‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ the Stationmaster said to her. ‘You’re
supposed
to be on the
Kallinikos.
Keeping an eye on Lampros.’

‘Miss Kratides is where I want her to be, James,’ said a voice from the other side of the platform. ‘Keeping an eye on you.’

‘James?’ sputtered Stationmaster Moriarty.

I looked at the Professor, who raised his shoulders in a ‘not me’ shrug.

‘Yes, James,’ said the voice.

Out of the fog stalked Colonel James Moriarty.

We had the full set.

So this is what the Colonel meant by ‘supplies’. Secret weapons. I should have known no Moriarty would spend his life on bully and boots. I still took him for a sickly desk-rider, but he could do damage enough while sitting on his arse.

‘James,’ the Colonel said to the Stationmaster, ‘I gave you this position to perform one duty, and one duty
only.
To revive and disseminate the legend of the Fal Vale Worm. To keep prying eyes away from the
Kallinikos...
’

Just to show I paid
some
attention at Eton... the war train was named for
Kallinikos
of Heliopolis, inventor of ‘Greek fire’, as used by the Byzantine Empire against the infidel circa 672
AD.
The secret of the weapon, a forerunner of arsonists’ accelerants, was supposedly lost. It seemed it had been rediscovered.

‘Not only have you failed in this, James. You have contrived to gather all the prying eyes in one party.’

‘Yes, James,’ responded Stationmaster Moriarty.
‘On my own initiative.
You can round them up. Buy them off. Shoot them. Whatever you do, they won’t be spying on your trials and reporting back to their masters. Isn’t that more useful than leaving them at large?’

‘Not cricket, eh what,’ Lucas said. ‘You’ve got to have
some
standards!’

‘No, Mr Lucas, you do
not,’
Young James responded. ‘Do you not understood your own profession? As a spy, you must have no standards at all!’

M. Sabin – Herbert de la Meux, Victor-Duc de Souspennier – tried to step back into the shadows. My new girlfriend was there behind him, two interesting little knives slipped out of her bracelets. She made symbolic slices in his jacket. He didn’t try to escape again.

We were all going to have to play audience to this family discussion.

‘James,’ the Stationmaster appealed to the Professor, ‘tell James about human nature.’

The Colonel blew his nose. ‘I see you are in this too, James,’ he said. ‘Despite
express
instructions.’

‘Your cover is outmoded, James,’ the Professor told the Colonel, his voice dripping with scorn. ‘Putting the spook story about to scare off the curious might have done for Dr Syn. In those days, a dab of phosphor on an old sack-mask could turn a smuggler into a marsh phantom frightening enough for ignorant folk to shiver under their bedclothes on nights when the ghosts rode. But this is a world of telephone and telegraph.
Entire societies
of busybodies chase ghosts with anemometers and Kodaks.

‘Reviving the worm legend is not a sensible tactic for keeping people
away
from military secrets. Rather, it is an invitation to every crank in the land to crawl over your proving ground. Frankly, it’s a wonder this party consists only of spies. It won’t be long before someone hires the real Thomas Carnacki to poke about with his electric pentacle and plum-bob. If a circulation-chasing newspaper puts a bounty on the worm, you’ll have to deal with Moran’s game-hunting fraternity too.’

The Colonel was on the ropes, his brothers ganged against him.

All three heads oscillated as they stared at each other, like a convocation of cobra. It was hard to look away from, but harder to look at.

The
Kallinikos
was on the move, coming back this way. I glimpsed the Greek invertebrate’s operators through slits in its hide. Like the Cornish worm, the war train had a head at both ends. Two engines. It could move at equal speed in either direction, so long as there were rails to run on.

Metal snail tracks were creeping all over the world. The machine was not made for my sort of war: putting down natives, chasing hill-bandits, looting dusky potentates’ treasure stores. It was built to roll over Europe, pissing fire on uhlans, cathedrals and shopkeepers. The contraption stank of bloody cleverness. The representatives of foreign powers took mental notes. Which wouldn’t do anyone’s empire any good without the plans. It’s always the plans spies are after.

The worm slid into the station.

I didn’t swallow Stationmaster Moriarty’s latest version of events, in which he’d selflessly rounded up the most dangerous spies in Britain. I judged young James had the cold, calculating self-interest of his eldest brother. No atom of patriotism stirred in his breast. He might have planned a double-cross – technically, a
triple-cross –
but, if not for the early arrival of Colonel Moriarty and Miss Kratides, he’d at least have tried to get
paid
for the secrets of the worm before turning his catch over to the mercies of the Department of Supplies.

Lucas considered the
Kallinikos
wistfully. I could imagine the riches the Emperor of Japan would bestow on the man who brought him such a dragon.

I just felt a kind of congealed disgust.

It was like the first time I saw a Maxim gun in action. Oh, for a minute or two, the rat-tat-tat is exciting, and it’s quite amusing to see wave upon wave of spear-chucking, astounded natives jigging like broken marionettes as red chunks of their bodies fly off in all directions. Then, a battle which would once have raged for three days – and seen seven Victoria crosses bestowed (five posthumously) on the brave, foolish lads who defended some flyblown ridge just because a Union Jack fluttered above it – is over and done with inside two minutes. As the operator fusses about his overheated precious gadget, wiping grease off his spectacles and calling for tea and biscuits, it all seems terribly empty.

Anyone who can direct a hosepipe can turn the crank of a wonder-gun and murder more heathens in a single burst than a sharpshooter with clear eye, steady nerve and taste for the kill – which is to say, Basher Moran or the nearest offer – can pot in an entire campaign. I knew how handloom weavers must have felt when factory owners installed the spinning jenny. One thing about Mr Hiram Maxim’s gun, though: a sock full of blasting powder and pebbles, shoved down a fat barrel and packed tight with a swagger-stick, makes for an amusing incident the next time the clerk in charge gives the machinegun a test-fire to impress the staff officers.

Professor Moriarty, who had science instead of a soul, was interested in the
Kallinikos.
He quizzed Colonel Moriarty, who – I saw – was not beyond wanting to impress his older brother.

‘You have George Lampros, then?’

‘This is a Lampros–Partington design,’ the Colonel admitted.

Now, it was the Professor’s turn to lecture. ‘The formula for “Greek Fire” has been preserved since the Byzantine Empire by a family of alchemists and engineers. George Lampros is the last of them. Moran, you will recall I drew your attention to his obituary in
The Times
and listed the seven significant factors that suggested his death had been faked to cover a new, secret employment ...’

I did not recall. Quite often, I didn’t pay attention when the Professor was off on one of his tears. I’d probably been waiting for him to hand over the paper so I could see how much I’d lost at the races the day before.

‘Lampros is a Greek patriot,’ continued the Professor. ‘Why has he shared his secret with Britain?’

The Colonel made a
pfui
gesture. His face was dark red in the light of the still-burning fields. He responded, ‘As a Greek patriot, Lampros envisions a coming war between Christian Europe and the Ottoman Empire, in which our island fortress will be the last redoubt. He is politically naïve, of course. We have a contingency plan for modern crusades against the infidel Turk, but it is but one among many potential conflicts for which we must prepare. The
Kallinikos
is a prototype, the first launch of a land fleet which will take the rails against any threat to the interests of our Empire. One day, soon, half the world will be in flames thanks to the Lampros formula... I intend to make sure Great Britain is in the other half.’