The Parliament of Blood (20 page)

Sir William's back was to the wall. The fingers of a skeletal hand clamped on his throat, the other pushing his head back to expose his neck.

‘I offer you a last chance to redeem yourself, Ruthven,' the Coachman rasped. ‘To put right what you have done, before our Master hears of it.'

The room was shimmering and swaying as Sir William struggled to breathe. The skull stared back at him – an
image of his own mortality. Then it was replaced by another image – by the pale, frightened face of Lord Ruthven.

‘I'm sorry,' Ruthven said quietly. ‘Truly sorry.' He leaned forward.

The pressure on Sir William's neck was released. But immediately replaced by the sharp pain of something hard slicing into his flesh. He could feel the warm blood pumping out and running down. The world was a misty red as Sir William sank to the ground.

The last thing he heard was the Coachman's brittle voice. ‘Welcome to Damnation.'

The pale, nervous man who got into the carriage before they left the British Museum looked familiar, but it took Eddie a while to recall where he had seen him. It was at the Mummy Unwrapping. The gaunt, grey-haired man with a white moustache had been there. Eddie kept his expression blank and hoped the man wouldn't remember him.

Eddie could see snatches of the journey through the fog. The streets were lined by warehouses and storage buildings rather than houses now. He could hear the clanking of machinery and the sound of steam engines.

A train was passing them, dragging a long line of trucks. Behind it Eddie could make out the dark shapes of engine sheds and huge piles of coal. They were approaching one of the sheds. The double doors were open ready, and the carriage clattered inside without slowing at all.

Eddie braced himself, afraid they were going to crash. But instead the whole carriage tilted downwards and he almost fell forward off the seat. The carriage charged on into the sloping darkness – far further than was possible
inside an engine shed. A gas lamp sped past the window, then another. They were in a tunnel, Eddie realised, racing down into the earth.

It was a struggle for Eddie to keep his face blank and betray no feeling as the coach clattered through dimly lit tunnels for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, it slowed to a halt.

‘You know what you must do, Lord Ruthven,' the Coachman said as soon as the grey-haired man had climbed out.

‘Of course.' He turned and beckoned for Eddie to follow him.

The carriage had stopped in the middle of a great cavern. It was like an enormous cave, but the roof and walls were held together by intricate stonework. The place was lit with sputtering lamps that made the walls glow a dull, moist red.

The vaulted roof sloped down at one end of the cavern. There was then a huge area where the roof was much lower and flat. The carriage had arrived under this flat area, the top of the Coachman's hood almost touching the roof as he sat on the driver's bench.

Lord Ruthven led Eddie a short distance away. ‘We will watch from here,' he said quietly, without looking at Eddie.

More people were arriving in the cavern, from the various passageways and tunnels leading off. They walked with a formal, measured gait, dressed in black and red. Men and women, even a few children. Pale, emaciated
figures that grouped themselves round the carriage. Dozens, perhaps even hundreds of them.

Despite the gathering crowd, Eddie still had a clear view of the carriage. When it seemed that everyone was present, the Coachman reached down beside the bench seat. Then he straightened up abruptly, raising a sword above his head so that its point was touching the roof. The blade was stained bronze, flashing as it caught the sputtering light.

‘The age-old ceremony,' Lord Ruthven said quietly. He glanced at Eddie, and smiled. ‘Not that you know or care.'

Eddie kept looking straight ahead, though he dearly wanted to see Ruthven's expression. Dearly wanted to ask him what was going on.

But it seemed Ruthven was going to tell him anyway. ‘The cemetery is so close above us that I sometimes wonder if the gravediggers might excavate too deep and discover us.' There was a tremor in the man's voice. Was he nervous? Afraid? ‘But of course, they are well paid to put the right bodies in the right places.'

As his eyes grew accustomed to the flickering light, Eddie could see something else. The stones that lined the flat ceiling – some of them were engraved. He had thought it was just the natural texture, but Ruthven's talk of grave digging made Eddie realise that they looked almost like tombstones.

The Coachman was dragging the sword along the edge of one of the large, engraved roof slabs. It bit deep into the ground above, dark, damp earth showering down and rattling on the roof of the carriage.

When he had cut all round the large slab, the Coachman lowered the sword and the coach moved forward a few yards. The horses were so pale they almost glowed. They were so thin that it seemed as if their ribs were standing proud of the sides of their bodies. There were black plumes attached to their skull-like heads, like those on undertakers' horses.

The Coachman held the sword in both hands for a moment, then swung it suddenly upwards like a club.

The sword smashed into the slab above, shattering it into fragments. Lumps of stone fell and bounced off the carriage roof. There was a tearing, wrenching, groaning that seemed to come from the ground above Eddie's head. Then something crashed down through the hole where the stone slab had been. A long wooden casket thumped on to the roof of the carriage.

A coffin.

The carriage was moving again now, heading for one of the wider tunnels leading from the cavern. The figures in their red and black finery followed it. Ruthven and Eddie joined the back of the procession as they walked slowly, stiffly, formally through the crimson gloom. Like a funeral procession.

The red mist was clearing, but Sir William could feel the fire burning in his neck where Lord Ruthven had bitten. He clutched at the arm of his chair and dragged himself to his feet.

At the side of the desk was a carafe of water. He grabbed at it, and with a shaking hand poured some into the glass. Then he splashed it over his neck, hoping to ease the pain. It had no effect.

The room was spinning and his vision was blurring again. He did not have much time. But how to counteract the bite? He struggled to lift the carafe. Held it in front of his face and tried to focus. With his free hand he described the sign of the cross. How did you make holy water?

‘Our Father,' he murmured, ‘Which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name …'

He hurried through the prayer, then emptied the carafe over the burning pain at his neck.

The water turned to steam as it touched his broken skin. Scalded, he cried out in pain and collapsed to his knees. His hand scrabbled at the drawers of the desk.

In the middle drawer was a simple letter opener – a long, thin strip of shaped silver. It took all Sir William's remaining strength to bend it back and forth. He jammed it in the drawer and worked it until the metal gave and snapped in half. It would have to do. He was fading, he could feel it – even with the wound cleaned, he needed to cauterise it. To burn out the remaining infection.

He pressed the two strips of silver together in the rough shape of a cross, and clamped them to his neck.

The angry hiss of burning flesh.

A scream of violent agony.

A body falling.

As soon as George and Sir Harrison Judd were inside the Damnation Club, Judd excused himself.

‘I have certain things to prepare,' he told George. ‘Clarissa will look after you.'

‘This way, Mr Archer.' Her voice was as soft and silky as ever. She was standing in a doorway, wrapped in her scarlet cloak. ‘Bring your coat,' she told him. ‘You will find it cold. For a while.'

Clarissa led him along a dimly lit oak-panelled passageway. It ended with a flight of wooden steps, the middle of each tread worn down by the passage of feet over the years.

The stairs led down into darkness. They seemed to descend for ever. But eventually George found himself in a small panelled room. There was no furniture, no windows – and he guessed they must be well below ground level. A single gas lamp sputtered unevenly on the wall.

‘Where are we?' George asked nervously.

‘Oh my poor George.' Clarissa stroked an ice-white gloved hand down his cheek. ‘Do you want to know a secret?'

She did not wait for his reply, but pressed at the edge of one of the wooden panels in the wall. It sprang open with well-oiled ease.

‘A hidden door,' George said.

‘I told you it was a secret.' Clarissa beckoned for him to follow and stepped through.

It was like stepping into another world. George was indeed glad of his coat as the chill air clung to him. He was
at the end of a long passageway. More than that, he realised – it was a tunnel. The ceiling was vaulted stone, supported by interwoven arches. Clarissa's cloak rippled in the breeze that George guessed was caused by whatever ventilation there was. Hot air escaping and drawing through cold air.

‘We must be right under the building. Is this the cellar?' He looked around in astonishment and admiration. There were oil lamps burning at intervals along the wall, throwing pools of light, illuminating puddles of dark water on the tunnel floor and sending coils of smoke towards the roof.

‘It is more than just a cellar,' Clarissa said.

‘But it must be ancient. The design – the architecture …' George shook his head. ‘Centuries old, at least.'

‘At least,' she agreed. ‘Come – this way.'

They walked slowly along the tunnel, George's feet splashing in a shallow puddle. The whole place looked and smelled damp, but even so it was a remarkable feat of engineering.

And that was before the tunnel was joined by two more, even larger tunnels.

‘It's
massive
,' George realised. ‘What is this place? It must extend under several streets.'

Clarissa smiled. ‘It's a little bigger than that. I knew that as an engineer you would appreciate it.'

‘You know of my training?'

‘Kingsley,' she said simply.

George felt suddenly embarrassed and ashamed that he
had forgotten the man – the reason he was here at all. ‘Of course,' he said quietly.

‘And it is for your engineering ability that we sought you out.'

‘What? But I thought Kingsley …'

‘Recommended you. He has great admiration for your expertise, as we have for his. And our enterprise has grown so big that Kingsley can no longer manage alone.' She walked on slowly. ‘You know that several lines of the underground railway were diverted, the plans changed, so that they would not interfere with our caverns and chambers.'

‘You mean – people know about them?'

‘No. No one knows. No one outside the Damnation Club.'

‘Then, how …?'

‘Our influence is extensive.' She was striding more quickly ahead now. ‘I am glad you are impressed. It will make things easier.'