Assassin's Creed: Underworld (15 page)

Abberline and Aubrey had pulled themselves from
the floor of the Waughs’ kitchen, made their way back to the station with pounding heads
and their tails tucked firmly between their legs, and then bedded down for the night.

Bedraggled, pained and still exhausted, they
found themselves at the front desk not long after dawn, when the alarm was raised. A woman had
rushed in screaming about a suicide.

‘Where?’

‘House on Bedford Square …’

And they’d looked at one another, a mirror
image of slack-jawed shock, and then both bolted for the door.

Less than half an hour later they were back in
the very same kitchen they’d left in the early hours. On their departure it had been dark,
with wind gusting through the smashed window, the terracotta tiles crunchy with broken glass,
and a dropped rolling pin on the floor.

Now, though, it was light, and everything was
just as it had been the previous night with the exception of one thing: Mrs Waugh had returned.
She was hanging from the ceiling lamp, a noose fashioned from linen tight round her neck, head
lolling, tongue protruding from blue lips and a puddle of urine on the tiles beneath her
dangling boots.

Nobody likes to see a
dead body before their elevenses
, thought Abberline, and he turned on his heel and marched
out.

‘They piss themselves, you know!’

Cavanagh, Marchant, the punishers and The Ghost
were still in the office when Abberline and Aubrey announced their presence with a loud,
not-to-be-denied, we-are-the-peelers knock, clomped inside and started talking about people
pissing themselves.

Aubrey was as red-faced as ever, but anger had
given Abberline an expression to match, and he glowered from man to man, his eyes alighting
finally on The Ghost. ‘You,’ he snapped, ‘where did you get those
cuts?’

‘Mr Singh is a labourer, constable,’
broke in Cavanagh, before The Ghost could answer, ‘and I’m afraid his English
isn’t very good, but he suffered an accident in the trench last night.’

Cavanagh made no effort to be charming or
ingratiating with Abberline. He simply stated facts. At the same time he indicated to Other
Hardy, who turned to leave.

‘Where do you think you’re
going?’ Abberline barked, wheeling on Other Hardy.

‘He’s going where I say he goes, or
where he likes, or maybe even to your own station, should he so desire to speak to a sergeant
there … Unless of course you plan to place him under arrest, in which case I’m sure
we’re all interested to hear on what charge, and what compelling evidence you have to
support it?’

Abberline spluttered, lost for words. He
hadn’t been
sure how this would go, but one thing was for sure, he
didn’t picture it going like this.

‘Now, you were saying … about people
pissing themselves?’ said Cavanagh drily. ‘Which people would this be,
exactly?’

‘Those who find themselves at the end of a
noose,’ spat Abberline.

‘Suicides?’

‘Not just toppers, no, but murders too.
Anywhere you find a poor soul at the end of a noose you find some effluent not far away. The
bowels open, you see.’ He paused for effect. ‘Lucky for Mrs Waugh that she
didn’t need number twos.’

His gaze went around the room: unreadable
Cavanagh, sly Marchant, the three punishers seemingly having the time of their lives, and
… the Indian.

Abberline’s gaze lingered on the Indian the
longest, and he could swear he saw something there, a flicker of emotion, and not an emotion out
of the gutter, either, but a proper one. The kind that Aubrey was always saying he himself could
do with learning.

Abberline removed his eyes slowly from the
Indian, taking them instead to the big guy, the punisher with the gold tooth.

‘You,’ he said. ‘It was you,
wasn’t it? You was at the house.’

The man, ‘Hardy’ if Abberline
remembered correctly, displayed his golden dentistry as well as some other splendid specimens.
‘No, I was here all night, Mr Blue Bottle, as Mr Cavanagh will confirm.’

‘You just blooming
watch yer sauce-box, you …’ said Abberline, pointing at Hardy.

‘Yes, Mr Hardy,’ sighed Cavanagh,
‘perhaps it might be wise
not
to excite our visitor here any more than he is
already excited. And as for you, constable, may I reiterate that Mr Singh, Mr Hardy, Marchant,
Smith and Other Hardy were all with me last night and, ah … Abberline, it appears you have
a visitor.’

‘Abberline,’ the constable heard from
behind him, and cringed at the distinctive sound of his sergeant’s voice. ‘Just what
the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?’

Furious, Abberline stepped out into the noise of
the tunnel works, with Aubrey at his heels, struggling to keep up.

‘Hold up, hold up, where are you
bleedin’ going?’ yelled his red-faced companion over the never-ending din of
machinery.

‘Back to Bedford Square is where I’m
bleeding going!’ Abberline roared back over his shoulder. He reached the wooden gate at
the perimeter of the site, yanked it open and brushed past a sleepy navvy whose job it was to
keep the riff-raff out. ‘This lot are into it right up to their eyeballs. The stink of it,
I’m telling you.’

Outside in the street they weaved their way
through the human detritus that was either attracted by the commercial possibilities of the dig
– traders, hawkers, prostitutes, pickpockets – or genuinely had business in that
part of town, and began the short hike back to the home of the unfortunate Mr and Mrs Waugh.

‘What do you think it is they’re up
to their necks in?’ Aubrey held on to his hat as he tried to keep up with Abberline.

‘I don’t know that, do I? If I knew
that then life would be a lot bloody simpler, wouldn’t it?’ He stopped, turned and
raised a finger like an admonishing schoolmaster. ‘But
I tell you
this, Aubrey Shaw. They’re up to something.’ He shook the self-same finger in the
direction of the fenced-off rail works. ‘And whatever it is they’re up to,
it’s no good. You hear me?’ He returned to his marching. ‘I mean, did you see
them all, stood there, guilty as you like? And that young fella, the Indian bloke. Blood all
over him. Accident in the tunnel, my fat arse. He got all cut up when he came through Mrs
Waugh’s window.’

‘You think that was him?’

‘
Of course
I think it was
him!’ exploded Abberline. ‘I know it was him.
I
know it was him.
They
know it was him. Even
you
know it was him. Proving it is the bloody
problem, but it was him all right. He came through the window, knocked out the light and then
knocked us out.’

Aubrey had drawn level, speaking through gulps as
he tried to catch his breath. ‘Do you realize what you’ve just said, Freddie? I
mean, isn’t that where this theory of yours falls down? Because there ain’t no way
he could have done all that. He’d have to be some kind of acrobat or something.’

By now they were back at Bedford Square, like
they’d never left, and Abberline strode inside while Aubrey stood in the doorway, one hand
on the frame, almost doubled over as he tried to catch his breath.

From the kitchen came the sounds of Abberline
muttering and then an exclamation.

‘What is it?’ said Aubrey, holding
his side as he joined the other peeler in the kitchen.

Abberline stood at the far end of the room
beneath the comprehensively broken window. Triumphantly he indicated the disturbed crockery
table.

‘Here,’ he said,
‘what do you see here?’

Whatever it was he was pointing out looked very
much to Aubrey like a smudge of blood, and he said so.

‘Right, a bloodstain left by whoever it was
who dived through the window, right? You’d expect that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Blood from that Indian geezer we’ve
just seen standing in Cavanagh’s office like butter wouldn’t melt, I would
wager,’ said Abberline.

‘That’s an assumption, Freddie.
Haven’t we always been taught to look for evidence, never assume, look for
evidence.’

‘How about if you formulate theories then
find the evidence to back it up?’ asked Abberline with a glint in his eye.

You had to give it to him, thought Aubrey. When
he was on a roll … ‘Go on …’ he said.

‘See the Indian geezer? He had bare feet,
didn’t he?’

‘I know. Bloody hell, must save a few bob
on boot leather …’

‘Bear that fact in mind, and now take
another look at your smudge of blood.’

Aubrey did as he was told and Abberline watched
as the light slowly dawned on his companion’s face.

‘Christ almighty, you’re right;
it’s a footprint.’

‘That’s right. That’s bloody
right, Aubrey. A footprint. Now look, you and I was standing over here.’ He pulled the
other man over to where they were the previous evening, when they’d been remonstrating
with the permanently indignant Mrs Waugh. ‘Now, you have to imagine the
window is intact. That makes it like a mirror, right? Like a black mirror. Well, I’m
telling you, about half a second before that black mirror smashed and seven years of bad luck
came in at us all at once, I saw a movement in it.’

‘You saw the assailant before he came
smashing through?’

‘Except now we think the Indian geezer was
the assailant, don’t we? But it wasn’t the Indian geezer I saw. Who I saw was much
bigger than that. So now I’m wondering … now I’m wondering if what I saw was a
reflection.’ He pressed a hand to his forehead as though to try to massage a solution out
of his brain. ‘All right, what about this, Aubrey? What if one or maybe even two of those
security geezers from the rail works were standing behind us? What would you say to
that?’

‘I’d say we bolted the door, so how
did they get in?’

‘Here.’ Abberline dragged Aubrey out
of the kitchen and towards the coal-cellar entrance. It was ajar. Nothing suspicious about that.
But inside the cellar the coal had a distinct man-sized groove running through its middle, from
the stone floor of the coal hole, right up to the hatch at street level.

‘Gotcha!’ exclaimed Abberline,
‘Now …’ He returned Aubrey to the kitchen where they resumed their positions.
‘We’re standing here, right? Now, say if we’re right and I saw the reflection
of a bludger stood right behind us, just waiting to cold-cock us. I saw how close he was. And we
had our backs to him, don’t forget. What I’m saying is that he had us, Aubrey. He
had us, Aubrey, like a pair of sitting ducks, fattened up and ready for the slaughter. Could
have
knocked our block off with a truncheon. Could have slit our throats
with a knife … And yet, for some reason, even though his mate was in position, the Indian
fellow comes crashing through the window.’

Abberline looked at Aubrey.

‘Now why would that be, Aubrey? What the
bloody hell was he doing coming in through the window?’

Fifteen-year-old Evie Frye, the daughter of Ethan
and the late Cecily, had developed a new habit. She wasn’t especially proud of it, but
still it had developed anyway, as habits have a habit of doing. What it was, she had taken to
listening at her father’s door during his meetings with George Westhouse.

Well, why not? After all, wasn’t her father
always saying she’d soon be joining ‘the fight’, as he called it? And
wasn’t another of his favoured expressions that there’s no time like the
present?

For years now Evie and her twin brother, Jacob,
had been learning Assassincraft, and the two of them were enthusiastic students. Jacob, the more
athletic of the pair, had taken to combat like a fish to water; he loved it, despite lacking the
natural gift that his sister possessed. At nights the siblings would talk excitedly of the day
when they would be introduced to the fabled hidden blade.

Nevertheless, Evie found her interest wandering.
What came naturally to her didn’t quite engross her the way it did her brother. While
Jacob would spend his days in the yard of their home in Crawley, whirling like a dervish to
practise moves taught by their father that morning, Evie would often creep away, declaring
herself bored of the constant repetition of sword practice, and
make her
way to her father’s study, where he kept his books.

Learning, that was what fired the imagination of
Evie Frye. The writings of Assassin elders, chronicles of legendary Assassins: Altaïr
Ibn-La’Ahad, whose name means ‘the flying eagle’, the handsome and dashing
Ezio Auditore da Firenze, Edward Kenway, Arno Dorian, Adéwalé, Aveline de
Grandpré and, of course, Arbaaz Mir, with whom her father had spent so much time when they
were younger men.

All of them had joined the struggle to hold the
Templar scourge at bay, fighting for freedom in whatever time and territory they plied their
trade; most had at one time or another become involved in helping to locate what were known as
artefacts. No museum pieces, these. The artefacts that preoccupied Assassins and Templars were
materials left by Those Who Came Before. Of them all, the most important were the Pieces of
Eden. The power they harnessed was said to be biblical and the knowledge supposedly coded into
them was said to be the learning of all ages: past, present and future. There were some,
Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad, for example – Evie had pored over a transcription of his
codex – who had expressed doubt about them, wondering if they were mere trinkets. Evie
wasn’t sure, and perhaps that formed part of the appeal. She wanted to see these artefacts
for herself. She wanted to hold them and feel a connection with a society that existed before
her own. She wanted to know the unknowable powers that helped shape mankind.

Thus, when she overheard the word
‘artefacts’ from
inside her father’s study one night, she
had lingered to listen further. And then the next time George Westhouse visited, and then the
time after that.

Sometimes she asked herself if Father knew there
were eavesdroppers present. It would be just like him to say nothing. What mitigated her guilt
was the feeling that he wouldn’t
necessarily
disapprove. After all, she was
merely harvesting early the information she’d be gathering later.

‘He’s a brave one, this man of
yours,’ George Westhouse was saying now.

‘Indeed he is. And essential to any chance
we have of one day taking back our city. The Templars believe us to be reduced, George. Let them
think that. Having an agent in their midst gives us a crucial advantage.’

‘Only if he learns something of use to us.
Has he?’

Evie’s father sighed. ‘Sadly not. We
know that Cavanagh is regularly visited by Crawford, and in particular we know that Lucy Thorne
spends a great deal of time at the dig …’

‘Lucy Thorne’s presence at the site
indicates we’re on the right track.’

‘Indeed. I never doubted it.’

‘But there’s nothing to suggest when
the Templars hope to find what they’re looking for?’

‘Not yet, but when they do, The Ghost is in
place to snatch it for us.’

‘And if they already have?’

‘Then at some point, as he continues to
gain their trust, he will learn that and, again, be in the right place to retrieve the artefact
and put it into our hands.’

From behind Evie came a
whisper. ‘What are you doing there?’

Startled and straightening with a slight cracking
of her legs, Evie turned to find Jacob behind her, grinning, as usual. She put a finger to her
lips then ushered him away from the door and to the stairs so they could retire for bed.

Evie would tell Jacob what she had learnt,
knowing full well that for all he would insist on every little detail he wouldn’t really
bother listening. Assassin history, tactics, policy, the artefacts – these were all
aspects of the Assassin life that Jacob was happy to leave for a later date, when their father
was good and ready to teach them.

Not for Evie, though. Evie was thirsty to
learn.