The Aylesford Skull (52 page)

THE GHOST’S REVENGE

A
light shone ahead of them as Jack and Tubby moved toward what was apparently an outrage already in progress. They had proceeded for some distance in darkness, downhill again, before seeing the glow of a headlamp on the front of a barrow and the silhouettes of three men at work. One of them depressed a great bellows over and over, pumping coal dust into whatever building they had decided to destroy. Finn had told Jack of the flaming syllabub, and it seemed to him now that it was one thing to face a pistol, another to face a flood of burning vitriol.

They stood watching for a moment, taking stock. Tubby might try his luck with de Groot’s pistol, but from this distance hitting one of them would be luck indeed, and would certainly announce their arrival. Would a bold stroke prevail? Success – survival, perhaps – would depend on the man with the syllabub nozzle being wary of the burning liquid, and of his not wanting to destroy his companions out of mere recklessness.

The Fleet River lay ahead of them, a bridge arching the flood. They must be very near the outfall into the Thames. It would be on the bridge that they were exposed at the edge of the barrow light, still twenty feet away. It seemed madness to Jack, and he began to insist that Tubby remain sensible to the danger, but Tubby winked at him, uttered, “Death or glory, Jacky,” hefted his blackthorn, and set out in a crouched run. Jack followed, the bridge dead ahead, the light growing around them, twinkling on the dark water.

Jack saw the man who worked the bellows step away, saw one of his companions pumping at a canister, no doubt pressurizing it. The third manipulated a lever on a hose that snaked away out of sight. Jack and Tubby leapt onto the bridge, now, their luck still with them. There was suddenly a heavy concussion, the wall of brick in front of the three men blowing outward, slamming them into the wall behind in a vast rush of flame and debris. In the sudden darkness Jack was flung into filthy water, deafened by the concussion and having no idea what had happened to Tubby. He struggled to keep his head above the current, paddling to steady himself and milling his feet in a search for the bottom, swept away down the subterranean river into utter darkness.

* * *

The ball plunged through a great square pane at the top of the cathedral wall, the roof tilting away above, shards of glass falling. St. Ives pulled steadily back on the tiller, and the gondola began to lift through the roof, which tilted away above them. They surged forward, shattering glass panels and tearing apart the thin, cast-iron framework of the roof.

The increasing wind, however, was far more powerful than Keeble’s ingenious engine or St. Ives’s mental encouragement, and it pressed the balloon and gondola downward. Abruptly the ship no longer answered the tiller, but scraped and shuddered another couple of yards before running aground, having caught fast. The gondola listed over and settled, the outer wall of the great balloon now visible out the starboard side, the fabric billowing. The wind fell off and there was a momentary quiet. St. Ives tried once again to lift the ship off, but there was no response at all, and he realized that he couldn’t hear the hum of the engine.

He stood up, hearing now an odd whistling noise, which quickly gave way to a massive whooshing, like wind through a tunnel – the hydrogen gas escaping the balloon in a rush. He saw bamboo ribs tear through the fabric of the balloon, and realized that the airbag was breaking to pieces. The wind heightened again, tearing at the balloon’s skin, opening great rents, pieces of fabric flying away into the air. Bamboo struts snapped and popped, screws tore free, and sections of bent bamboo rod twanged themselves straight. There was a constant groaning and creaking, the noise increasing by the moment, every sprung joint in the egg-shaped skeleton of the balloon weakening the entire structure.

“The ladder, Finn!” St. Ives yelled, but he saw that the boy had anticipated him, and was already dropping the length of the ladder out through the open door, hanging onto the doorframe with one hand, his hair blowing wildly.

Finn waved at St. Ives and shouted, “Don’t look down, sir! Take a firm grip!” and then went over the side without hesitation, moving like a cat.

The ship listed further to port with Finn’s weight on the ladder. St. Ives pressed himself against the farther wall, thinking to balance things, but the ship rocked ominously with the slightest movement. There was a sudden, vast, rending sound, and he was thrown forward onto his hands and knees. He looked back through the starboard window and saw that more than half the dirigible had flown to pieces and was simply gone, and that the rest, an immense eggshell-shaped kite, its lacework trellis of bamboo visible within, was being raised by the wind and was endeavoring to lift the gondola. He held on, prepared to be swept away into the sky. He heard lines snapping, and then the kite spun and broke free, sailing skyward on an up-rushing current of wind. A bolt of lightning struck it even as he watched, and the entire thing burst into flaming pieces that were beaten downward again by a monumental rain, littering the rooftops of London with the torn and broken remnants of Keeble’s triumph.

* * *

There was a shattering crash, and both Alice and Helen looked up in shocked surprise, seeing the gondola plowing a furrow through the roof of the cathedral. Glass shards and iron bars rained down onto the pews, eighty or a hundred feet away. Helen had a look of utter confusion about her, and she set out toward the falling debris, changed her mind, and ran back toward Alice, looking hard at the altar now and possible safety. As Helen ran past, Alice tripped her, and Helen sprawled forward, the pistol flying from her hand, spinning away toward the altar. Eddie’s hand shot out, grasped the pistol, and snaked back in.

Helen picked herself up, looking frantically around for the pistol. She apparently understood what had happened to it, and she crawled forward toward the altar. Alice grasped her by the ankles, pulling her back, Helen shrieking and struggling. She overturned herself suddenly, crossing her legs and kicking at Alice in a single motion, throwing her off. Alice slipped on the gritty marble and went down. Helen slithered in beneath the altar, Alice following, praying that Eddie wouldn’t try to shoot the pistol, that he would pitch it away, that he would climb out from under the altar and run before Helen got to him.

In the twilight beneath the altar Alice saw Helen grasp Eddie’s foot and yank him forward, snatching the pistol out of his hand and flinging herself back against the low wall. She pointed the pistol at Alice, who flinched away at the sight of it, the explosion immensely loud in the enclosed space.

* * *

Jack was swept along through the wild, rain-swollen torrent of water and sewage. He could see nothing of Tubby, although it seemed to him that Tubby had fallen in before him, and so must be somewhere ahead. He could get no purchase on the wall in order to slow himself down. A dead dog, immensely bloated, rose up out of the water and stared at him. Jack shouted in surprise, seeing Tubby in the dog’s face for a demented instant and then realizing his error when the dog was drawn under again. A circle of light appeared ahead – the outlet into the Thames. It was unbroken by the lines of any sort of grate, and Jack was washed through the outlet into the rainy morning, the roiling flood dragging him helplessly down the embankment behind the dog, the current driving him over backward, so that he somersaulted the last five yards into the calm waters of the Thames, not ten feet from a moored steam yacht. A man in a badly crushed top hat stood on the deck holding a great long hook and smoking a pipe.

Jack saw that Tubby Frobisher was already aboard – they had no doubt been watching for Jack’s issuance – and he sat with his back against the cabin looking half drowned. Jack waved and shouted at him happily, thinking of the bloated dog and whether the story of its appearance might be made more humorous than horrible.

Tubby struggled tiredly to his feet when he saw Jack, who turned to face the shore in order to give the hook some purchase. He was snared under the arms, hauled to the side, and dragged up onto the deck in a reek of tobacco smoke. Over the tops of the Thames-side buildings he could see plumes of smoke rising from the explosions. There was a mass of people and vehicles crossing Blackfriars Bridge, fleeing the terror. Standing high above the street, the gondola of the dirigible sat empty and impossibly alone atop the Cathedral of the Oxford Martyrs like a skeletal bird resting on a nest of twigs.

* * *

Narbondo cast away the rifle in a fit of anger and threw himself bodily down the chute, wondering where he had failed. The fault lay in the bullets, certainly, which meant that it lay within himself, since he had fashioned each and every one. He wasn’t happy with failure unless it was within others. He flew along through the darkness now, sitting up very straight, holding tight to his coat where the wide-bore signal pistol, loaded with a heavy phosphorus charge, was secure in its holster. There would be no failure this time.

He sailed out into the cellar, spinning halfway around on the stone floor, before scrambling to his feet. He jogged into the landing of the underground passage where he grabbed the iron railing and leapt down the stairs, picturing what would come. He would have the element of surprise in his favor – the panel flying open, himself stepping out into the cathedral, his weapon drawn. The very look of the pistol would unnerve whoever thought of contesting with him.

He reached the cool air at the bottom of the tunnel, saw the iron door standing open where Fox and his men would have made their way into the sewers and hence to the street again, where they would help to quell the rout and to ensure that the cathedral remained locked. He could hear the laboring of the steam engine, now, McFee and Sneed earning their keep, and very faintly he heard the playing of the organ, Beaumont performing for no one. The stairs stretched away ahead of him, fifty or sixty feet up, and he forced himself to slow down, to take them one at a time, to hoard his energy and wits like a miser.

* * *

St. Ives slid across the steeply sloping gondola floor, jamming his feet against the doorframe to stop himself from bumping over the sill and hurtling into the void. He turned onto his stomach and let himself out into the open air, compelling himself not to think, but simply to act. The gondola tilted with his weight, and the rain pelted his body. He groped with his foot, wishing he had Finn’s acrobatic skills, or perhaps his youth. Immediately he kicked a rung and discovered it to be strangely solid, as if the rope were being held tightly from below.

He found solid handholds and pushed farther out, the rung of the ladder taking his weight so that he was emboldened to grope with the other foot. In a trice he was firmly clamped to the ladder itself, both feet steady, and despite Finn’s admonition, he chanced a look downward – a startling, breathtaking distance – and saw that Finn held the bottom rung of the ladder, hanging on it, his feet just touching the floor. The gondola shifted above him again, and he uttered a surprised shout as he dropped a heart-stopping two or three inches, and then began his downward climb without further hesitation, rung by slick rung, hanging tenaciously onto the wet rope until he felt Finn’s hand slap his foot.

He descended until he was compelled to let go and drop to the floor, which was filthy with wet coal dust. He slipped, sprawled onto his breech, and stood up again, wiping his hands on his trousers. The cathedral appeared to be empty, filled only with the noise of the organ. Coal dust still gushed from the pipes, but was rising upward now, through the gaping hole in the roof and out into the open air.

Shading his face, he looked up to ascertain where the craft would fall, for fall it no doubt would, sooner or later. It was supported fore and aft by bent iron bars, but it was moving, the whole section of roof was moving, buffeted by the winds. There was a broad open section of the nave below it, with a vast, ornate compass rose inlaid in the marble floor, partly obscured by grit, long lines running out from it in the four points of the compass, the cathedral parallel with the east and west axis. He and Finn moved out of the area, out of the rain that fell through the hole in the roof, but stopped as one when they saw the glowing figure of Mother Laswell’s son Edward hovering over the pews.

Even now, St. Ives’s mind rebelled against the idea of the ghost’s existence, of its being a living ghost in some sense of the phrase, and not an ingenious parlor trick. It spun very slowly, looking around itself with a semblance of consciousness in its eyes, as if it were gaining substance by the moment, perhaps contemplating its surroundings. Although much of the blowing coal dust had been dispersed or damped down by the rain, the ghost was strangely solid, translucent rather than transparent.

St. Ives followed the cone of projected light out through the high wall and saw the lamp itself, the Aylesford Skull, peering back at him through an arched window across the street, its eyes as bright as tiny silver suns. It was from that room – the room that Mother Laswell had seen so clearly in her dream – that Narbondo had fired his incendiary bullets, too hastily and too soon to effect an explosion, and ultimately too late once the dirigible had opened the roof. St. Ives felt a small but increasing satisfaction within him – that his suspicions had proven true, that he and Finn had arrived in time, that running the gondola through the roof of the cathedral hadn’t turned out to be mere lunacy.

The organ abruptly lost its wind and played itself out, but the sudden silence lasted only a few moments before it was broken by the crack of a gunshot. St. Ives could still see no one in the cathedral, although in that moment Finn shouted, “It’s her!” and sprinted toward the long, heavy altar sixty feet away in the raised transept that formed what would be the horizontal member of a cross.

A woman, disheveled, her clothes filthy with coal dust, stood before the altar now, apparently having crawled out from underneath. In her hand she held a heavy pistol, which she aimed haphazardly at Finn when she caught sight of him. St. Ives, several steps behind Finn, shouted a warning, but Finn apparently saw the pistol, for he threw himself forward, rolling up against the edge of the pews and disappearing down a row, confounding her aim. She pointed the weapon at St. Ives, her arms and cheeks bleeding from small wounds, her face twitching, her eyes utterly insane.