Steamoon Episode 6

CHAPTER SIX

The Whitechapel Horror

Rufus eased himself out of the pilot’s seat and climbed the steps to join Walter and the others on deck. It was a grey November day in London, drizzle fell relentlessly from the slate-grey sky. As the walkway was lowered into position they saw two men holding umbrellas waiting to meet them on the airdock. Mr Clay and his son Harry raised their hats as the travellers approached.

“Good of you to greet us, Gentlemen.” Walter said brightly.

“Welcome back, sirs.” Said Clay senior. “We wanted to see you straight away.”

“What has happened?” Asked Thaddeus.

“There is good news, and there is bad news.” Harry Clay blurted.

“The good news?” Asked Tolly.

“Sales have been enormous. Profits reached 150,000 pounds last week and our order books are fuller than ever.”

“Better give us the bad news.” Said Rufus.

“There was a break-in at the plant last week. They may have photographed the shop floor, but we are pretty certain they didn’t find the technical drawings and they missed the special coatings room entirely.”

The five walked through the archway of the airdock building onto the street where the Clays had a hackney carriage waiting. A newspaper boy stood on the corner bawling at the hurrying passers-by.

“Nuvver grisly murder! Jack ve Ripper strikes again! Read all about it!”

Rufus flipped the lad a penny and took one of his news-sheets.

‘GHASTLY MURDER IN THE EAST-END. DREADFUL MUTILATION OF A WOMAN.’ He read. ‘Capture: Leather Apron.’ Ran the text. ‘Another murder of a character even more diabolical than that perpetrated in Back’s Row, on Friday week, was discovered in the same neighbourhood, on Saturday morning.’

Rufus frowned as he read and shook his head in disgust. The five took the seats in the hackney alongside Mr Clay senior, and Harry swung himself up beside the coachman. There was a whip-crack and they clattered away towards the Isle of Dogs.

“We could now pay a ourselves handsome dividend as shareholders…” Mr Clay was saying. “But I think it better we expand the factory to meet demand.”

“Personally, I would favour expansion.” Said Walter. “What about you Thaddeus?”

“Indeed. Demand will be enormous.” There were nods all round.

“Have you somewhere in mind?” Asked Walter.

“Yes.” Clay replied, producing a map. “Just up river from us is the Thames Iron Ship Building Company. They have three times the space that we do, and all the facilities we need. I think they may be prepared to sell up.”

“Excellent.” Said Thaddeus, peering at the map. “What about this small plot between us and them?”

“They’re chain-makers. I suppose they might sell-up too.”

“I’m sure they could be persuaded.” Growled Rufus.

Clay gave him a strange look before continuing.

“We hope Thames Iron Ship will sell for about 100,000. That would leave us plenty of capital for refitting.”

“We like it, Mister Clay.” Said Walter. “Let’s go ahead with your plan.”

 \* \* \* \* \*

It was still drizzling by the time Tolly approached 48A Aspidistra Crescent. The hackney had dropped him and the others at the corner. They crossed the street, passing a bedraggled Chinese shoe-shine boy, to knock on the green front-door. After a long pause a middle-aged woman in a maid’s costume opened and peered out.

“Mrs Jenkins?” Tolly raised his hat. “Is my aunt at home?”

After half an hour of talking, Aunt Agatha eventually showed them the stairs to the coal cellar, whilst keeping up a continuous account of her recent trials and tribulations.

“… I begin to think, Toliver, that I never really knew your uncle. He was such a difficult man.”

“Quite, Aunt Agatha.” Tolly said solicitously. “Well. We will see to the chest. You had best stay here.”

They found the steel trunk still half buried in coal. It was large enough to fit a body, Rufus thought, and the two locks were sturdy Simpson & Collis pin tumbler jobs. No wonder the local locksmith had got no-where. He unrolled his picks and knelt next to Gong who had already started work on the other lock.

With nearly simultaneous snaps the locks sprang open and Tolly gingerly opened the lid. Inside lay neatly stacked papers, journals, rolled blueprints and an assortment of bizarre-looking machine parts. Thaddeus flipped open a notebook eagerly.

“Henry Carnehan’s notes, Walter. Here are his early material formulas.”

“And here’s the blueprint for the micro-boiler, Thaddeus.” Said Walter.

But Tolly was staring at something at the bottom of the box. Reaching in he drew out a gleaming object the size of a suitcase.

“Look gentlemen. Another jetpack.”

“Good Lord!” said Walter, unrolling another paper. “These are the plans for it.”

“Why plans so special?” Asked Gong.

“We could never discover the secret of the jetpack’s operation without taking the risk that we break it.” Said Walter. “But - look Thaddeus! That gravity component is shown here…”

“It says… Yellow diamond. 42 carats min. Good Lord.” Muttered Thaddeus. “No wonder he ruined his family...” He shot Tolly a look. “That is, had to invest everything he had…” He added sheepishly.

Tolly cautiously removed the casing from the prototype and peered at the plans in Walter’s hands.

“Would that diamond fit here, by any chance?” He pointed to a nest of wiring.

“By Jove, yes. He must have taken it with him to use in the second prototype.” Said Walter. A look of guilt crossed his face.

“We shall find another such diamond, Tolly.” Walter declared. “So that you may fly your Uncle’s jetpack !”

“That would be much appreciated.” Tolly gave him a sidelong glance.

“Better late than never.” He added.

They turned to see Thaddeus studying a letter. He was holding a small plate of metal in his hand.

“Listen to this…” He began to read.

98 Haaren Strasse
Oldenburg
Lower Saxony
Empire of Germany
Mr Henry Carnehan
48A Aspidistra Crescent
London

My Dear Friend Henry,

I write because you are both a dear friend and the only one who really understands my work.

Since those wonderful months in Manchester in 79 when we speculated about techniques for microsynthetic composite engineering, I have made great advances in the metallurgical bonding of alloys, using magnetic alignment techniques and microkinetic thermodynamics. I have concentrated on high strength relative to density and enclose a sample of my latest alloy. I have named it Carnium in recognition of your theory of microsynthetics, without which none of this would have been possible.

As you will see, Carnium has a tensile strength several times that of steel.

That brings me to the reason that I write to you now. This morning I have received a telegramme from the Ministry of War in Berlin. I am ordered to appear before the Armaments Committee, and can guess the reason. They will make my work a national secret, Henry, and I will no longer be able to make any communications about it. I suppose they will want to use my alloys to make armour (you will see why when you test Carnium) and perhaps gun barrels or some such stupid things. Our government seems to be full of generals and madmen these last years.

So I do not know when I will be able to write to you again about our work, but must take this last opportunity to thank you and wish your own research well.

Till we meet again in happier times!

Your Friend

Carl von Ossietzky
12th June 1885

“No wonder the Germans tried to steal Uncle Henry’s work.” Said Tolly.

“It’s a pity we cannot rescue this Carl von Ossietzky.” Remarked Walter.

“But Walter. Think what might be possible with atomium power and super-strong materials like this!” Said Thaddeus.

“Earth-cutting machinery!” Exclaimed Walter.

“Or even – an underground conveyance…” Said Thaddeus.

“We could call it ‘The Mole’!” Declared Walter.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Rufus was looking through the lace curtains at the shoe-shine across the street. Gong stood beside him.

“Pretty quiet street to choose.” He muttered.

“Yes. And long way from Chinatown.” Said Gong.

As they watched a gentleman in a grey overcoat and matching hat approached and placed a foot on the boot box. The Chinaman set to work brushing and polishing.

“Strange.” Said Gong. “Why clean boots when puddles make them muddy again?”

“Yeah.” Said Rufus. “I think Bullseye and I should give him a tail…”

“And I will have a word with that boot-brack.”

 \* \* \* \* \*

Wen Lu was replacing his brushes into their box when the door of the target house opened and two men and a dog stepped out. He glanced at the time on the watch in his toolbox and made a mental note of the appearance of both. One was oriental, athletic-looking, with the loose clothing and deportment of a martial artist. He crossed the street and then turned to walk past him.

“Shoe-shine; get-shoe-shine-here.” Lu sang out in a practiced monotone.

He was somewhat startled when the man turned and placed his foot on the box in front of him. Looking down he saw the shoe in front of him was made of Chinese cotton cloth.

“Your not here to shine shoes.” Came the voice from above, in Cantonese. “What are you really here for?”

Lu made a grab for the knife hidden in his tool-box, but before he could even touch it there was a blur of motion and the man’s hand shot out, striking him on the neck, knocking him back. Lu tried again. But the hand flashed out again and darkness descended.

```
		*		*		*		*		*

```

When he came to, Lu found himself tied to a chair. The room was dark but for a lantern placed on a table in front of him, shining into his face. Two shadowy figures stood before him. One, he recognised as the martial artist.

“This gweilo wants to torture the truth out of you. But I asked him to let me talk to you first.” He said in Cantonese.
Wen Lu tried to find his voice. But no words came out.

“If you tell me the truth I give you my word you will be released unharmed. Otherwise…” The martial artist shrugged.

The other figure raised his fist. There was a click and a wicked-looking blade glittered in his hand.

“Caution ‘im that we know all about his friend, Grey Overcoat.” Growled the gweilo. “So don’t try pulling the wool.” He spun the knife in his hand.

“You are Wo Hop To.” Said the martial artist, pointing to the Tong mark on Lu’s wrist. “What was your mission?”

“Are you from Heaven and Earth Society?” Lu managed to ask.

“White Lotus.” Came the reply.

That made a lot of sense. No wonder he moved so fast. Wen Lu felt a surge of hope. If half of what he had heard was true, a White Lotus would keep his word. And it was one of the Three Foundational Societies, which meant he might not be technically breaking his oath of loyalty to Wo Hop To if he talked.

“Your word of honour?”

“Yes.”

“OK. I had to watch number 48 and note everyone coming and going; what they wore, what they carried. Once a day I reported to the gweilo you saw. That’s all I did. I swear it.”

“What did you know about the gweilo?”

“Nothing. He used a password until I recognized him. But don’t think he was English, from the way he spoke.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Is that the truth?”

“Yes! I swear it.”

There was a long pause. Lu could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart.

“Alright. You will wake up near the river.”

His hand shot out again, and all was darkness.
 \* \* \* \* \*

The Five were seated in front of the fireplace in the newly refurbished Manager’s Office of Appleby Industries.

“So the triad was watching Aunt Agatha’s house for who… the Germans?” Tolly asked.

“Looks that way.” Gritted Rufus. “Bulls-eye an’ I trailed Grey Overcoat all rahnd town… to the German Embassy.”

“The Germans must be hoping to find out more about your uncle’s work.” Thaddeus remarked. “And they have the traids for allies.”

“I ‘ate to think of the bleeding Germans getting the jetpack.” Said Rufus.

“Would it be possible to make a version of Uncle Henry’s plan that would look convincing, but would send them in completely wrong direction?” Tolly asked.

“It would be theoretically possible, I suppose.” Said Thaddeus.

There was a knock on the door. Harry Clay entered.

“There is an American gentleman to see you, sirs. He was most insistent.”

“Why then; show him in.” Said Walter.

A moment later the doorway was filled by the expensively-dressed bulk of a florid, smiling man sporting a goatee beard and a gold-topped cane. He thumped across the floor towards them with hand extended.

“Joshua P. Schikleburger of the Vandenberg Engineering Company, Illinois, at your service!” He boomed. “This is your lucky day, gentlemen, for I am here to offer you a very considerable sum of money for your business – ver-ry considerable indeed!” He boomed.

“No need to say any more, Mr Schikleburger.” Said Walter. “Appleby Industries is not for sale at any price.”

“I see, I see.” Schikleburger mused, frowning momentarily. “Well in that case I am authorized to propose to you a merger of our two companies on most ad-vantageous terms, suh. Most advantageous!”

“Why would we want a partner?” Asked Thaddeus.

“Well it seems to me, suhs, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, that you are boxed in here with an inefficient penny-packet operation, making a few hundred boilers at best. But in Illinois we have the space, the capital, and the know-how to establish facilities worthy of your extraordinary invention, gentlemen. We could produce a thousand units a week! The sky is the limit for the Vandenberg Engineering Company.”

“And your terms?” Thaddeus was curious.

“We replicate your process in Illinois, build the new factory. And you, gentlemen, enjoy a fifty-fifty division of the profits!”

“But that means us giving you the secret of manufacture.” Growled Rufus.

“As partners. Of course.”

“I am sorry, but that is something we will never do.” Walter gave a slight bow. “I am sorry that you have had a wasted journey, Mr Schikleburger.

The big man looked bewildered for a moment, and then annoyed.

“Well. Name your price then.” He drawled.

“Mister Clay. I would be obliged if you would show Mr Schikleburger the door.” Said Walter.

Schikleburger scowled. In the doorway he turned angrily.

“Think about my offer. You’ll regret turning it down!” The door slammed shut.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Rufus knocked on the door and it opened a crack. After a moment for inspection the door opened fully and Lenny The Jew grinned at him.

“Rufus. Good to see you. How’s business?”

“Good, Lenny. Good.” Rufus slipped inside and made himself at home on a rickety chair.

“Tell me, Lenny. Do you ever come across any yellow diamonds?”

A look of surprise crossed the porn-broker’s face.

“What is this, Rufus?”

“Nothing to worry about Lenny. I’m in the market for a large yellow one. That’s all. I’ll pay good money.”

Lenny eyed him for a moment.

“Well, as it happens, I know a certain body with one for sale. Very unusual. Really big. Forty carats or more.”

“How much.”

“Its worth a fortune – hundred thou’ or so.”

“But maybe the seller is looking for a quick sale with no questions asked?”

“Just as you say, Rufus.”

“I’ll give ‘im five.”

“At least ten, Rufus. ‘Ave a heart.”

“Seven, final offer.”

“Eight thou.”

“Done.”

“I’ll see if I can persuade him Rufus. He’ll be sore disappointed.”

“I’ll pay cash. And I’ll pay the same for any more of the same size.”

Lenny brightened. He rubbed his hands together.

“Alright Rufus. I’ll tell him.”

 \* \* \* \* \*

Walter and Thaddeus stood at the end of a large table covered with plans. Around them stood five of Appleby Industries’ best engineers.

“Gentlemen, the task in hand is Project Mole; the construction of an underground tunnelling machine.” Thaddeus declared.

“To make this possible we have identified eight technical challenges.” Explained Walter. “The first and most indispensable of these is the production of a material with a tensile strength many times that of steel. This has already been achieved. The material is called Carnium and we have a sample here.” He pointed to the rectangle of metal on the table.

“We hope to be able to recruit the inventor of this remarkable material or, failing that, to replicate his methods.” Said Thaddeus. “But in the meantime we are to proceed with the other technical challenges so that The Mole could be built when we can make Carnium.”

“Each of us will start work on one of the remaining technical challenges.” Said Walter.

“So that, soon, we will be able to make something extraordinary!” He added with a grin.

 \* \* \* \* \*

It was a bright morning. The rain had cleared and, for once, the November sky was free of cloud. Rufus stood on the pavement and looked up at the imposing façade of the building in front of him. The Yorkshire Square Palace Music Hall the peeling red lettering announced. Rufus straightened his hat and, stepping forwards, began to knock on the main doors.

Eventually, a cleaner admitted him and showed him to the office of the manager, a Mr Herbert Denison.

“I understand that business could be better at The Palace.” Rufus remarked.

Denison sorted the papers on his desk unhappily.

“Well, I won’t claim otherwise. We struggle to book the big acts now and The Pavilion has taken a lot of our business since it opened last year. The point is, sir, that we lack capital. With the right investment we could beat the competition hands down.”

“I am myself considering investment in the music hall business.” Rufus declared.
“If, as an investor, I were to buy-out the existing owners, what sort of capital would you need to turn this place around?”

Denison brightened.

“Two thousand, I would say, for refitting and new lighting.” He said. “And if we had working capital of about a thousand to book the bigger acts, I assure you we could fill The Palace every night of the week! You would see returns, sir, handsome returns over the next several years.”

“Very well, Mr Denison.” Said Rufus putting his hat on. “I have seen Messrs Hardy and Willis about acquiring ownership of The Palace and agreed a price of ten thousand pounds. I shall also set aside three thousand pounds for your investments.”

The manager was astonished.

“That is wonderful news sir!” He exclaimed. “Wonderful!”

 \* \* \* \* \*

Gong stepped up to the front door of the small terrace house and knocked. The door opened and an elderly but very upright man looked out.

“Master Li?”

“Indeed. And who do I have the honour of addressing?”

“I am Gong Ho of the White Lotus Society.”

“Please come in and take tea with me.”

Seated cross-legged in Master Li’s small front room, Gong explained that he was looking to establish a martial arts school in the neighbourhood and had heard that Master Li, who ran the Balance and Harmony Combat Club, was considering retirement. The old man thought for a while. He would be honoured, he said at last, to pass on the school to an Adept of the White Lotus. But the costs of the school had risen in recent years, the Wo Hop To tong was now demanding £50 a month protection money and Master Li wondered whether Gong would be able to cover these costs from the modest subscription payments of its three-dozen members.

Gong assured him that he could. It was agreed that Gong would purchase the club and it’s building, a converted workshop on Stainsby Road, for £2,500. Regular classes for the club’s members would be run by Master Li’s protégé Wang Long, with Gong giving the occasional master class when time allowed.

“It was an honour to meet you.” Gong rose smoothly to his feet and bowed slightly.

“It is I who have been honoured.” Replied the old man formally. “May your endeavour prosper.” He added.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Bulls-eye was barking. Rufus sat up in his darkened bedroom.

“Mister Rufus!” Came a shout. Rufus stuck his head out of the window. It was foggy but he made out the face of young Biggins looking up at him in the gaslight.

“What is it ?”

“I fink someone’s trying to get into the factory.”

“Hang on.”

Rufus ran down the stairs, snatching up his jacket at the door.

“What’s up?’ He asked, following the boy along through the streets to the plant.

“Chinese geezer ‘anging rhand the corner. Looks like a look-aht to me.”

“Good lad.” Rufus quickened his pace to a run.

He had been expecting something like this, Rufus thought. Walter and the rest were sleeping at the factory, he remembered, too tired to make their way back to their various homes. A few minutes later he was thumping on the main gates; after a minute Old Hoskins, the night watchman, opened up.

“Mister Rufus!” he exclaimed in surprise.

“Heard anything?”

“Not a thing, sir. All quiet ‘ere.” He wheezed, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

Rufus paused and looked down at Bulls-eye. The dog gave a soft growl. Rufus slipped past Hoskins and headed for the main building.

“Biggins; wait ‘ere.”

“Yessir.”

Rufus moved quietly upstairs in near-darkness. As he approached the sleeping quarters a voice spoke from the gloom ahead.

“What you doing here Lufus?” Gong was standing motionless by the door.

“Think there might be intruders”.

Quickly rousing the others, Rufus and Gong slipped downstairs and out into the courtyard. The fog swirled thickly in the gas-light, but there was no other sign of movement. Rufus made his way across the yard towards the river; Gong following noiselessly. Some yards ahead they saw a bundle on the ground. It was Harris, the other night watchman.

“Bolt through the heart.” Whispered Gong.

“Silent kill.” Murmured Rufus.

They began to move back towards the buildings. Rufus saw a flicker of movement. Looking up he saw a figure crouched on the roof of the low warehouse on his left. The figure turned away and threw something that left a trail of sparks towards the main building. Rufus pulled the sawn-off shotgun from his jacket, but the man on the roof had already ducked down out of sight.

There was a sudden blaze of light and a dull boom. A ball of fire enveloped the brick corner of the main building and rolled upwards into the night.

Something made Gong glance behind him. With a shock he saw a masked figure standing a few feet away, illuminated in the light of the flames. The man sprung forward instantly, bringing a sword whistling down towards Gong’s head.

The martial artist swayed six inches to the right; letting the blade graze past his shoulder. A heartbeat later Gong’s foot shot out, smashing into the swordsman’s jaw like a sledgehammer.

Rufus wheeled. In the light of the flame he saw, a few yards away, an oriental clad in black, aiming a bolt-gun. He levelled the sawn-off and fired. The buckshot struck the intruder across the chest and shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The light from the fireball faded suddenly, plunging the courtyard back into darkness.

Gong stooped over the inert swordsman. His clothes were soaking wet.

“Lufus!” He hissed. “They’ve come from the river.”

“Which means… they’ve got a boat.”

Even as he spoke a series of flashes blinked out in the darkness of the river ahead of them with a crackle of gunfire. Bullets whistled around them, ricocheting off the cobbles and smacking into the brickwork of the building behind. Gong and Rufus dashed to the cover of a warehouse doorway.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Tolly was on the flat roof of the main works building scanning the darkness. The Eye of Tara showed him the courtyard clearly. Two men were crouched on the roof of the long warehouse beneath him, another lurked by the far corner. Directly below was a pool of yellow flames, the remains of the fire-bomb still burning at the base of the brickwork.

Shots rang out. The flashes were coming from a low boat in the river, some fifty yards from the works dockside. He could make out several gunmen; at least two had rifles, he thought.

Tolly buckled on his uncle’s jet-pack. Since Walter and Thaddeus had installed the huge diamond Rufus had acquired, he had managed to make it fly just three times; somehow avoiding serious injury on each occasion. But faint heart never won fair Lady Luck, he reflected. Time to try it out for real.

There was a blaze of light and boom. Another cloud of flame ballooned up from below, this time by the side door. As the light blazed, Tolly saw clearly the figure on the warehouse roof, fiddling with something that must surely be another fire-bomb. Cramming his head into the aerodynamic helmet, he stepped forward and threw himself off the roof.

For a moment it seemed that he must plunge to the cobbles below, but the next instant the jet cut in and Tolly roared out over the courtyard to turn tightly to his right and sweep over the warehouse towards the intruder crouched on the roof. Steadying the jetpack controls with one hand, Tolly drew his Adams revolver coolly from his inside pocket and, as he flashed past the astonished Chinaman, blasted a bullet squarely through his chest, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.

Looking up, Tolly realised he was about to smash into the wall of the main building. Pulling wildly back on the steering he shot upwards, just missing the top of the structure, to career madly away into the night sky.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Walter, too, had buckled on his jet-pack. Now he ran lightly to the open window by Thaddeus and sprung onto the sill.

“That boat has our chaps rather pinned down.” Thaddeus remarked.

“Those fire-bombs. Dynamite and petroleum, do you think Thaddeus?”

“I would say so, Walter.”

“Jolly good.” Said Walter, and leapt into space.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Tolly had managed to get his jet-pack under control, and was now hovering precariously, descending slowly towards the roof below him. The controls, he found, were so delicate that the slightest adjustment risked disaster. Looking down he saw Walter fly out from the building and land on the roof by the body of the intruder that he had shot. A moment later Walter blasted off again, soaring out over the river to hover for a moment, directly over the gangster’s boat, before jetting away. There was a flash and, a moment later, a dull boom. The boat dissolved into a great cloud of fire that scattered burning fragments onto the water all around.

“Game over.” Murmured Tolly.

But he was wrong. The sound of breaking glass came to him from the building below and a moment later flames shot out of one of the ground-floor windows with a roar. Looking down Tolly saw the fire-bomber sprinting away towards the front gate. Kicking back his legs he pushed his jet-pack into a dive and swept down in pursuit. As he closed the distance on the running man he levelled his revolver and fired. But the shot went wide, just missing the intruder’s shoulder.

But Tolly did not pull-up. Instead he put on speed and rocketed towards the fleeing man. An instant later he smashed into him like a human canon ball. The sickening impact knocked the wind from his body; he tumbled jarringly across the cobbles for a moment; a brick wall rushed towards him and the world went black.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Inside the main lab of Appleby Industries Thaddeus was hurriedly hunting through the chemicals stock-list in the light of a lantern. The room was already filling was smoke. The first fire-bomb had done little damage, but the second had set the timbers of the western stair-well alight and the fire was beginning to spread.

“Ah. At last. Sodium bicarbonate, 25 lb. bags. Bin 12.”

Thaddeus found the storage box and pulled out a large bag before striding towards the barrel of malt vinegar he had placed by the stairwell. Smoke was now streaming through the doorway and he could begin to feel the heat of the fire below. Holding his breath, he pulled up the lid of the barrel, dumped in the bag of powder, and slammed the top back on. With a heave, Thaddeus upended the barrel, pointing it down the stairs.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the lid burst from the barrel like a champaign cork and a column of white froth shot into the flames below. There was a deafening hissing sound and Thaddeus fell back as the doorway filled with steamy vapour. Pressing a handkerchief over his mouth he waited until the air cleared before peering cautiously through the doorway. The smoking, blackened timbers below were awash with white foam and steaming. But there were no flames.

Thaddeus straightened his back with a sigh.

“Ahh. Game over.”

There was the tinkle of breaking glass from the darkness below, and then the boom of an explosion. The dull red flickering light of reflected flames filled the room.

“Drat!” Muttered Thaddeus. “Where was that other barrel?”

 \* \* \* \* \*

Tolly found himself lying against the corner of an outbuilding in a tangle of limbs. As he extracted himself he saw that the Chinaman beneath him lay inert, his neck twisted at a grotesque angle.

He looked up to see Rufus and Gong approaching, the one re-loading his sawn-off shotgun, the other cleaning a throwing knife.

“Alright?” Asked Rufus gruffly.

“Fine, thank you.” Returned Tolly, dusting himself off.

“You one more lucky gweilo.” Said Gong.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Rufus was standing with Thaddeus beneath a large banner that read Ferry Road Fountain and Soup Kitchen. The room was filled with expensively-dressed couples invited to the charity gala. Walter climbed onto the low stage and turned to address the audience. Rufus seized a glass and tapped a spoon on it for silence.

“Thank you all – so much – for coming, and supporting the Ferry Road Soup Kitchen and Clean Water Drinking Fountain! All of your donations will be matched by Appleby Industries. We hope that between us we can make hunger and water-born illness a thing of the past. We need to start somewhere… so let us start in Ferry Street!”

There was a subdued cheer.

Rufus had been pleased by the turnout. Walter and Thaddeus had made use of their address books to good effect and the assorted nobs and drones had come up with two thousand pounds in donations, which nearly matched the £2,500 the Five had spent buying a Grocer’s shop to convert into the soup kitchen.

“Now let me introduce the instigator of this enterprise, the Chairman of the soup kitchen committee – Mister Rufus Ward.” Said Walter.

Rufus climbed reluctantly onto the stage.

“I’d like to thank you all again.” He said, a trifle gruffly. “With your help we will be open within a week, and the first of many poor souls will get a decent meal at last.” He stepped down.

“Well said.” Thaddeus told him. “At last someone is doing something to help the poor.”

“If the Ripper doesn’t get ‘em first.” Rufus replied.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Tolly stepped out of the hansom cab and approached the imposing entrance of the German embassy.

“Tolly Carnehan. To see Heinrich Schliemann.” He said.

He was quickly ushered upstairs and into a large office where the German archaeologist sat hunched over his desk, peering at some papers. He got up when Tolly entered, hurriedly pushing something into a drawer and closing it.

“Mister Carnehan. How nice. Have you considered my proposal?”

“Doctor Schliemann. I have considered it, and I have decided to agree to it.”

“Oh, but zis is excellent news.” Schliemann exclaimed.

“I also feel that, after the unfortunate deaths of your four agents and my uncle, a peace offering is called for, to assure your government of the sincerity of my intensions.”

“Yes?” Schliemann raised his eyebrows.

“I came across these plans among my Uncle’s personal effects.” Tolly said, taking a set of plans from his briefcase and unfolding them on the desk.

“It appears to be the plans of the flying device he was working on.”

Schliemann studied the plans for a moment and then jumped to his feet.

“Zank you, Herr Carneham! Please wait for a moment.” He hurried from the room.

The door closed and Tolly walked quickly around the desk and opened the drawer that he had seen Schliemann closing so hastily. Inside, among a clutter of pen-nibs and paperclips he found a sheet of paper. He rapidly scanned the typed German words.

OP. LYSANDER OVERVIEW
L DAY SET 25 DEC

OP. LYS. HEX
M.2 FAILED ON MARS
M.1 ACTIVE IN LONDON
KAF. EXPED. PENDING
PROGNOSIS GOOD

OP. LYS. PERSIA
PHASE 1-3 COMPLETE
PHASE 4 DELAYED LOSS S-BOAT
REPLACEMENT SENT FMFM
PROGNOSIS GOOD

OP. LYS. AEGOSPOTAMI
16 U-SHIP READY
24 ON SCHEDULE
44 S-BOAT READY
68 ON SCHEDULE
PROGNOSIS EXCELLENT

OP. LYS. HELOT
T1 DELAYED
T2 FAILED
T3 PENDING
T4 UNCLEAR
PROGNOSIS POOR

OP. LYS. DECAP / 400
FMFM CONFIDENT
PROGNOSIS GOOD

Frowning, Tolly set about reading through the list again, committing it to memory, when he heard the sound of a steps approaching. Stuffing the paper back into the drawer, he had just returned to his seat when the door opened.

Schliemann strode in, smiling, accompanied by a man in military uniform who he introduced as Colonel Stumm and a small bespectacled man that Tolly took for a technician. All three studied the plans for a while, exchanging muttered comments in German.

At last the technician nodded. Stumm raised his head and gave Tolly a tight smile.

“Very goot!” He declared. “Zis is most helpful, Mister Carnehan, and His Imperial Majesty’s Government is grateful. Welcome!”

He stuck out a hand and gave Tolly’s a single firm shake.

“If you come zis way, Mister Carnehan,” Schliemann said, “there are some gentlemen I would like you to meet.”

They went out along the corridor and down the grand staircase to a large stateroom on the ground floor. Inside he saw two men in cheap suits, helping themselves from a well-provisioned drinks cabinet. Seeing Tolly enter with Stumm and Schliemann, the shorter of the men straightened and stepped forward, smoothing his oily air.

“Do I have the honour of addressing the renowned Toliver Carnehan?” He asked and then went on without waiting for a reply.

“H-allow me to h-introduce myself. Reginald Arthur Gutterson, sir, h-at your service; Chief h-Executive of the h-Order of the Calm Bark and Great Cod.”

He produced a large and gaudy card.

“Our h-Order is an h-association of military gentlemen of fortune, sir. Free spirits of proven soldiering backgrounds, providing the finest in private military service to discerning clients h-around the world, sir.”

The taller man stepped forward, plucking nervously at his moustache.

“H-allow me to h-introduce my h-associate, h-Executive Manager Mister Jonathan Snipe.” Gutterson went on. “Formally Corporal Snipe of the 4th Essex Rifles.”

Tolly was puzzled.

“Aren’t the 4th serving in the Sudan?”

“H-indeed sah, as we ourselves were until a little more than a year ago.” Gutterson replied. “Served in C company we did.”

“Under Captain Harrison.” Interjected his taller colleague.

“Yes h-indeed, Captain h-Arthur Harrison; a finer man you could not ‘ope to meet.” Said Gutterson.

“Not a very good commander though.” Snipe muttered.

“No h-indeed. That he was not. Couldn’t read a map. But – to be fair – we owe the foundation of our h-Order to Captain Harrison. Hence the name, sir. The Calm Bark and Great Cod.”

“Um, I’m not sure I follow…” Said Tolly.

“No sir, you wouldn’t. You ‘ad to there to understand and you most definitely were… not, sir.”

“No. We’d ‘ave remembered if you was there.” Added Snipe.

“You see sir, it was what the Captain shouted out to us, at the top of his lungs sir, that gave us the h-inspiration for the name of our little company.”

“We was advancing up a waddi.” Explained Snipe.

“Until we found h-altogether too many Baggara was also in that waddi.” Said Gutterson. “So we decided to withdraw directly…”

“Very directly.” Added Snipe.

“And for a while we could hear Captain Harrison shouting…”

“Calm Bark you bastards! Calm Bark!” Said Snipe.

“Till the Baggara got hold of him, and then presently he started shouting…”

“It was more like screamin’ really…” Interjected Snipe.

“Screaming… Great Cod! Oh My Great Cod!”

“Till we was out of earshot. Marvellous loud voice he had.”

“So we decided to leave Her Majesty’s service and seek h-other h-employees; as private contractors, you might say.”

“The Kaiser of Germany, at present.” Said Snipe.

With a faint sense of shock Tolly heard Danny Dravott’s voice in his head.

“Great Scott Tolly! These men are deserters!”

He turned away in disgust; seeing the drinks cabinet he stepped to it and poured a brandy to cover his reaction. When he turned back both men were grinning mirthlessly at him. It struck him that there was something bitter and self-mocking about their gallows humour.

“How many of you are there?” Tolly asked.

“Sixty-six survivors – that is - Founding h-Executive Members, there was. Since then we have h-attracted many more military gentlemen of private fortune, from the Foreign Legion an’ the like. Now our h-Order has more than two hundred members in the temporary h-employ of His Majesty Keiser Wilhelm.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Tolly lied.

“Likewise, Your Honour. ” Said Gutterson.

“Let us drink a toast to our endeavour.” Schliemann announced, raising his glass.

“The King of Kafiristan will reclaim his throne! Now we can begin to make preparations. To Success!” Schliemann drained his glass.

“We have much to do.” The German went on. “Let us meet again here in exactly one week’s time to discuss progress. And of course,” he added, “our plans must remain completely secret.”

“Agreed, gentlemen.” Tolly replied. “I look forward to working with you.”

 \* \* \* \* \*

The Five sat in armchairs around the fireplace of Mycroft Holmes’s room at the Diogenese Club. A bright fire had warmed the room against the November chill. Mycroft leant against the mantelpiece holding his pipe.

“I am grateful to you for coming here, Gentlemen. There is a matter in which Her Majesty’s Government would be most grateful for your help.”

“Go on.” Said Walter.

“This Jack the Ripper. It is a most serious crisis. There is widespread unrest among the lower classes in London, and foreign agitators are using it to foment rebellion.”

“But how can we help?” Asked Tolly.

“The police are confounded. Their approach is conventional. We need investigators familiar with the unconventional.”

“You think the case involves ectoplasmic creatures?” Asked Thaddeus.

“I don’t know. But we should entertain the possibility of the supernatural.”

“Alright. Where do we start?” Asked Walter.

Mycroft looked relieved.

“Inspector Fred Abberline at Scotland Yard is in charge of the investigation. I will send him a note to brief you fully.”

They stood and Mycroft shook each of their hands in turn.

“Thank you gentlemen. And be careful.” He added. “I have a feeling something… strange is behind this.”

“Strange?” Asked Gong.

“Something… truly sinister.”

 \* \* \* \* \*

“It’s the Devil. He’s come to London. And he’s come back for his brides.”

Rufus was standing facing the four Whitechapel streetwalkers that had answered his request, via Biggins, for information on The Ripper. It was the youngest, Jennet Martin, who had spoken.

“His brides?”

“That’s what they’re sayin’.” Harriet Townsend explained. “Them girls ‘ad all been wiv ‘im before.”

“What did he look like?” Asked Rufus.

“A posh gent in a top ‘at and opera cape. Very smart.” Said Harriet. “But no-one’s seen his face.”

“Came in a carriage.” Added Jane Scott. “Josh Meadows says he saw it once. It had the…” she hesitated, “the royal crest.”

“What, Albert’s?” Rufus was incredulous.

“Naw, the son – Albert Victor. Duke o’ Clarence.”

“Henry Bosworth says he took him in his cab. Swears it was the Devil himself.” Jennet cut in.

“When was this?” Asked Rufus.

“Tuesday, after they found poor Mary Kelly.”

“Get word to Henry that I’d like to see him.” Said Rufus, passing a half-crown to each woman.

“Thank you girls. Stay safe.” He added.

“You too Mister Ward.” Jennet gave him a saucy wink. They began to leave.

“Don’t go after him.” Harriet turned and looked at him earnestly.

“Why not?” Asked Rufus

“No man can contend with Satan, Mister Ward.” She said.

Turning, she followed the others down the stairs.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Inspector Fred Abberline was evidently a man with a difficult job. He sat in his well-ordered office at Scotland Yard and regarded them with tired eyes.

“Suspects? Yes we had plenty. But each has come to nothing.”

“How about the Duke of Clarence?” Asked Rufus.

Abberline gave a deep sigh.

“No, it’s not him, despite the witness statements after the first killings. When Annie Chapman was murdered he had what you might call an alibi. He was at Balmoral with the Queen. And on Tuesday night, when Mary Kelly was killed, he was entertaining the Austrian ambassador at Sandringham.”

```
“And the other suspects?” Asked Thaddeus.

```

“They’ve all been eliminated, Professor. Dr Neill Cream seemed very likely until the Beth Stride murder. His medical instruments fitted the bill and he had the personality of a killer. But it turns out he’s just a backstreet abortionist. Then, I thought we’d got him when I found Robert Stephenson the journalist. Obsessed with the occult, used to butcher goats to summon the devil or some such. Shifty too. But we had him in the cells when Catherine Eddowes’s body was found. Had to let him go.”

“Which suspect was your best bet?” Asked Tolly.

“Until Wednesday I was quite sure it was Montague Druitt. A young dilettante, highly strung you might say. Unhinged I’d call it. All but confessed to me when I brought him in. Went off his rocker in the cells. But then Mary Kelly was found and it turns out he was playing cricket in Dorset at the time of the first killing. Had to let him go.”

Thaddeus, Tolly and Gong exchanged glances.

“Maybe we should start with him.” Said Walter. “Do you know where he is now?”

“Knightsbridge. 31B St Margaret Street.” Abberline replied. “Housekeeper by the name of Brooklands.”

 \* \* \* \* \*

There was a knock at the door. Rufus opened it to find a middle-aged man in a bowler hat and a heavy scarf that all but covered his face.

“Henry Bosworth?” The man nodded in reply.

“Come in.” Rufus shut out the night air and led the visitor to a chair by the fire.

“I understand you had The Ripper in your cab?”

Bosworth seemed to shiver.

“Yes. On Tuesday night. Just after midnight.”

“Where was this?”

“Royal Pavilion Opera House. I was just passing the stage door when I saw ‘em and the hailed me.”

“Them? There was more than one?”

“Two. A man in a top hat and opera cape, and a woman in a posh black coat and hat. Never saw their faces. Only the man got in my cab. Carrying a bag he was. He just sits there for a bit. Then the horse takes fright, and I had this feelin’ that something terrible was sitting there behind me.”

“Then what?”

“Don’t look round.” He says. Uncanny deep voice he had too. And puts a guinea on the seat next to me. “Whitechapel High Street.” He says. So I went.”

“Where you drop him?”

“Wentworth crossroad. Couldn’t wait for him to be out of my cab. When I dare to look back I see him going into Thrawl Street.”

“What made you think it was the Ripper?”

“The Devil, more like. I felt the terror. It was cold night but me and the horse was both sweating with fear. And in the morning they found Mary Kelly, what was left of her.”

“You picked him up at the stage entrance of the opera house?”

“Yes. Completely dark it was. Over an hour after the end of the show.”

“Do you remember what was on?”

“Dunno. Something by Oscar Wilde.”

“Thank you Henry. Something for your time.”

Rufus passed him five crowns. He had been going to give him a gold guinea, but somehow that didn’t seem right.

“Goodnight.” The door closed. Bosworth was gone.

 \* \* \* \* \*

31 St Margaret Street turned out to be a rather fine Georgian town house with a smartly painted green door. Walter’s rapping on the brass knocker soon brought a middle-aged woman in a housekeeper’s dress to the door. She looked tired and somewhat anxious. Thaddeus raised his hat.

“Mrs Brooklands? We have come to see Mister Montague Druitt.”

The woman face froze, her expression unreadable.

“Why?”

“We’re friends of his. We heard he was… unwell.” Said Walter smoothly. “We’ve brought a doctor.” Thaddeus raised his hat.

The woman seemed almost overcome with relief.

“Thank goodness! I’m worried sick with him. But he won’t let me send for his family or anyone! Come upstairs sirs.”

She led them up to a landing and knocked on a door.

“Mister Druitt! Your friends are here with a doctor.” She called.

There was a muffled cry from within. Then something that sounded like a low moan of terror. Mrs Brooklands persisted.

“Please open up sir.”

“Monty old man!” Walter called as jauntily as he could manage. “We’ve all come to see you. Don’t keep us on the doorstep.”

“No no no!” Druitt began to shoat. “Go away! Go away I tell you!”

“We’re here to help you one way or another man.” Thaddeus called more firmly. “Don’t make us break the door down!”

The shouting rose to a bellow, the words barely comprehensible.

“Go away! I have a gun!”

Gong had been silently fiddling with the lock. There was a soft click and he gently pushed the door open.

The flat inside looked as if as a whirlwind had passed through it. Furniture lay tumbled amid scattered books and papers, the mirror over the ornate fireplace had been smashed to smithereens.

Someone was crouching behind an upturned sofa. He was wearing something brass-coloured on his head and pointing a revolver at the doorway.

“I’ll shoot!” Came a shriek.

Gong stood to the side and Tolly bustled Mrs Brooklands downstairs.

Rufus and Gong exchanged glances.

“Window?” Gong whispered.

“Just what I was thinking.” Rufus muttered. They went downstairs.

“We just want t help.” Walter called gently.

“Don’t come in… I’ll shoot myself!” Came the yell.

“If you tell us the problem, maybe we can help.” Called Thaddeus.
“Help? Help!” The voice became hysterical. “There is no help! No help for me!”

 \* \* \* \* \*

Gong had scaled the drainpipe at the front of the house and now crouched on one side of the window-sill. Rufus clung on the other side with one hand. With the other he worked his knife-blade under the sash window and flicked back the latch with a practiced motion. He glanced up at Gong.

“Ready?” He mouthed.

Gong gave a tiny nod.

 \* \* \* \* \*

“Whoever you are afraid of, we are not them.” Walter was saying.

“We just want to talk to you.” Added Thaddeus.

“I mean it! I’ll blow my brains out!” The gun disappeared behind the sofa.

Suddenly the window on the far wall flew open as Rufus flung it upwards, and Gong sprang into the room. His hand shot out and they saw the body of a young man flop unconscious onto the ottoman rug.

“Nice work gentlemen.” Said Tolly.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Druitt was seated in the armchair when he came round, facing the now-restored sofa on which Walter, Thaddeus and Tolly sat facing him. Gong leaned quietly against a nearby desk and Rufus stood by the door.

Druitt looked around and an expression of slowly dawning horror spread across his face. His eyes darted wildly around the room and fastened on the brass chamber pot he had been wearing. He grabbed it and crammed it onto his head.

“Why the chamber pot?” Tolly found himself asking.

“They’re listening.” Druitt whispered. “Listening to my thoughts. This helps.”

“Who are listening?” Asked Thaddeus.

“Them. The, the… on a little dishy...” Druitt gave a hysterical little laugh.

“Fish?” Asked Tolly, trying not to sound mocking.

“Them…” Druitt’s voice sank to a whisper. “In the Deep.”

“Deep Ones. You can hear their thoughts and they can hear yours?” Thaddeus asked.

Druitt nodded.

“We know ‘bout them.” Said Gong. He held up his Elder Sign. “We have fought them, and we have defeated them.”

Druitt stared at the Sign, blinking.

“Look.” Said Rufus. “I got one too. It’ll protect you, see?”

“From them?” Druitt’s gaze seemed to clear. He looked down at his hands.

“But I’m dammed.” He mumbled.

There was a knock on the door. Druitt started in terror.

“Mister Druitt? A telegram’s come for you.” Mrs Brooklands called.

Tolly swiftly opened the door half-way, smiling reassuringly.

“Thank you so much Mrs Brooklands. We’ll pass it on.”

The woman looked around the door until she saw Druitt.

“Oh – he looks much quieter! Thank goodness.”

“Yes he’s in good hands now.” Tolly shut the door and looked down at the message in his hands. It read.

‘Come tonight or never stop’

The postmark showed it was sent from the central telegram office. He passed it to Druitt.

“Does this mean anything to you?”

Druitt stared, transfixed, at the slip of paper. The colour drained from is face and for a moment Tolly thought he was going to have a heart attack.

“They’re coming for me tonight.” He gasped. Then he moaned and wrapped his arms around his knees.

“But I can’t go. Can’t do… the terrible things he’ll make me do.”

“Who?” Asked Thaddeus. “Who will make you?”

“Can’t say. If I talk about him - he’ll know.”

“Who will know?”

“The…. Golden one.” Druitt’s voice sank to a whisper.

“Don’t worry. If they come for you we’ll stop ‘em.” Said Rufus. But Druitt was becoming feverish. He began hunting for something under his armchair.

“No. No-one can. They’ll take my brain. I must kill myself now while I still can.”

“Listen!” Said Tolly. “We can get you off the planet. They’ll never find you.”

Druitt stared at him in wonder for a moment.

“Off the planet?” He paused.

“Yes. I have a spaceship.” Said Walter. “Here in London.”

“You’ll take me?” He asked.

“Yes. But you have to tell us how to find the ones who did this to you. Where are they?”

Druitt gnawed at his knuckles for a while. “I can’t tell you…” He mumbled. “But…”

“But what man?” Thaddeus asked.

Druitt curled himself more tightly into a ball, rocking back and forth. He began to sing in a low, cracked voice.

There is a house in London Town
They call the Rising Sun
And it’s been the ruin of many a poor soul
And Lord I know, I’m one

“What does it mean?” Asked Tolly. “What’s the Rising Sun?”

“Oscar knows.” Druitt whispered. “Clever Mister Wilde knows about the house.”

Try as they might they could get no more sense from him. There was a chime from the clock in the hall. Five o clock. Tolly stood up.

“We’d better move him. It’s getting dark.”

“Dark?” A look of panic crossed Druitt’s face.

“Yes, we must leave.” Thaddeus said. “No time to waste!”

“Leave here? No! Not in the dark!” Druitt’s fever returned. He began searching frantically among the cushions. “I must end it before it’s too late - for Christ’s sake…” He looked around wildly, “Give me my gun!”

Gong had moved silently to Druitt’s side. He looked at the others and raised one eyebrow. Walter nodded and the martial artist’s hand shot out, seeming to touch Druitt lightly on the neck so that he slumped unconscious once more.

“Ret’s get him out of here.” He said.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Rufus stepped out of the hackney carriage feeling slightly awkward in a top-hat and opera cape. He looked up at the imposing entrance with its illuminated lettering.

ROYAL PAVILION OPERA HOUSE
Now showing:
The Duchess of Padua
By Oscar Wilde

They had left Druitt locked securely in a bedroom on the SS Appleby, sleeping off a hefty sleeping draught, convinced that he was en route to Mars. Now the five had arrived, suitably attired, for a night at the opera. Walter trotted up the steps, followed by the others.

Inside they bought tickets for the most expensive box seats and made their way to the Upper Circle. They quickly spotted Wilde amongst a party of youngish men in the box opposite. Walter took out his opera glasses and scanned the faces.

“That’s Charlie Beauville. That’ll make things easier.” He murmured.

The lights went down and the show began. Gong could make-out rather little of it, half the actors looked the same, and the strangely repetitive ‘music’ grated on his nerves. Eventually, however, it finished and the crowd began to leave. Walter made a beeline for Wilde’s box. He approached the cluster of men and tapped a tall man on the elbow.

“Hello there Charlie. Had a good season?”

“Good lord – if it isn’t Walter Appleby. What are you doing here?” Beauville turned to shake hands.

“Taking in the opera. I say…” Walter’s voice took on a note of awe, “do you know Mister Wilde?”

“You mean Oscar?” Beauville’s importance increased slightly. “Oh yes. We dine together all the time.”

“Charlie.” Came a voice. “Aren't you going to introduce me?”

The crowd parted and Oscar Wilde stood before them. Tall and rather corpulent he gave Walter a satisfied smile.

“Allow me.” Said Walter. “Walter Appleby. And may I congratulate you on your excellent opera.”

“You may,” Came the reply, “if I can congratulate you on your excellent taste.” There were some laughs from Wilde’s entourage.

Gong studied the faces as the gweilos made small-talk. There were none he recognised.

“Call me Oscar,” Wilde was saying, “hardly anybody does.”

“Well then, Oscar.” Walter replied, “How about the House of the Rising Sun?”

Wilde gave a smirk, but contrived to make it look mysterious.

“Aha. There is something I can do for you after all.”

“My friends and I would be most obliged…” Walter smiled.

“Very good then!” Declared a suddenly ebullient Wilde. “Let us find the pastures green!” He swept out of the box and down the stairs, followed by a knot of his admirers and the five friends.

But when he reached the ground floor Wilde did not head for the exit. Instead he followed the stairwell down into some sort of basement level. They emerged in a expensively carpeted corridor that led to a large green door that had the look of metal covered with baize. It was flanked on each side by two heavy looking men dressed in dinner jackets but with the battered faces of prize-fighters. They eyed Walter and his friends with a hint of suspicion.

“These are my very newest old friends.” Said Wilde. “Don’t deny them a glimpse of paradise.”

“Alright Mister Wilde. If you’ll vouch for ‘em.” Said the older of the two, pushing open the door.

They walked into a brilliantly illuminated space the size of a ballroom, filled with vivid colour and movement. A crowd of expensively dressed people stood around a dozen or more tables or sauntered to and from the bar at the far end of the room and the comfortable chairs at the other. At each table a different sort of game was being played: vingt-et-un, roulette, poker, bridge and games Walter did not recognise. The room bubbled with laughter and light-hearted chatter.

“Welcome to the House of the Rising Sun! Let us laugh and play till dawn.” Wilde said, steering Walter towards the roulette wheel. “My advice is to choose a number neither bigger nor smaller than the one the ball lands on.”

Tolly turned to collect a glass of champaign from a waiter and bumped gently into someone next to him. He turned to see a strikingly pretty blonde woman in a pearl necklace and earings.

“Oh I am sorry.” Tolly said, adding with a grin “I wasn’t going where I was looking.”

The blonde burst into laughter, showing perfect white teeth. Tolly laughed too.

“And I was just going, and not looking at all!” She raised her glass, eyes sparkling, and clinked her glass against his.

Thaddeus cheerfully scooped up a whisky from a passing waiter and slipped into an easy chair. Something about the scene made him feel somewhat young again.

“You know Rufus,” He said smiling, “I worked out a mathematical system for playing bridge once. Made some money with it in my student days.”

Rufus looked at him strangely for a moment.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a betting man Professor.” Something about the image suddenly made him laugh. “But you’d make one hell of a bookie!”

Gong studied the room. Besides the steel door behind him there were double doors on the right. A couple came though and he caught a glimpse of corridor beyond, no doubt to toilets. There was also a door behind the bar. Probably connecting to the corridor, he thought. Something about the prattling around him was making it hard to concentrate. It was the way the gweilo women giggled. He found himself smiling at the thought. Why? What was so funny about silly giggling women? With feathers on their heads like enormous chickens? Why was that funny? Despite himself, he gave a little snort of amusement.

Tolly stepped away from the enchanting blonde and set his glass down. Something was not right here. They had work to do, but the others had started chatting and smiling like the rest of the crowd. At least that made them look vacuous enough to fit in, he thought, with a little laugh.

Rufus approached him.

“Let’s get on with it.” He said. “Whatever ‘it’ is.” He added with a snort.

“Good idea.” Said Tolly, smirking. “I’ll get the Chinaman and the… boffin.” He couldn’t help laughing at that one. What a shower!

Rufus suppressed a chuckle.

“I’ll get His Nibs then.”

 \* \* \* \* \*

Walter was leaning over the roulette wheel when Rufus appeared at his elbow.

“A hundred on Red.” Walter was laughing.

“Lovely red.” Said Wilde, “the colour of my mother’s eyes.”

Rufus steered Walter away from the table.

“Can I have a word with you, Walter…”

“Depends what the word is.” Replied Walter. “Now if the word is ‘drink’ then I’d be happy to have that word with you Rufus…”

They walked through the double doors and into the corridor where the others were waiting.

“But if it was an impolite word like, um, ‘brawl’ or rude word like…” Walter looked around, laughing.

Four serious faces stared back.

It was quieter here and the air fresher. Some of the giddy atmosphere of the main hall seemed to slip away.

“What’s up chaps?” He asked, a little sheepishly.

“You getting silly. Ret’s get on with mission.” Gong said.

The martial artist led the way down the corridor to a locked steel door at the end. There was no-one about and Rufus quickly picked the lock. They slipped through to find themselves in a narrow corridor lit by electric lights. Some ten yards ahead was a door to the right. Drawing his Adams revolver, Tolly stepped forward and gently pushed it open.

The room was empty, but along one wall stood a row of shining cylinders. These were connected to a series of brass pipes that disappeared into the brickwork above them.

Thaddeus inspected the nearest cylinder.

“Nitrous Oxide. I thought so. Laughing gas.”

“Look.” Said Walter. “These pressure dials have numbers written by them. I’ll bet they control the rate of discharge by the various tables.”

“Very clever.” Said Tolly. “They crossed a gambling den with a laughing gas party and got the House of the Rising Sun.”

“And a lot of high society types with secret gambling habits.” Said Rufus. “Pretty useful.”

Gong slipped silently back into the corridor and along to the next door, followed by Rufus and the others. He pushed it open.

This room was panelled in oak, set with lockers and clothes hooks. On one wall were a dozen or more dinner jackets, scarves, handbags and stoles. The hooks on the other wall were mostly empty, but on three of them hung long purple robes.

“Cult changing room, Walter?”

“Looks like it Thaddeus.”

“Let’s get those spare robes on and get down there.” Gritted Rufus.

“Down where?” Asked Walter.

“Them stairs.”

In one corner was a small opening with uneven stone steps leading downwards into darkness.

“Steps.” Groaned Thaddeus. “Last time I went down steps like that I lost my mind.”

“Precisely!” Said Walter, slapping him on the back. “What are the odds of that happening again?”

 \* \* \* \* \*

As they descended, the stonework of the spiral stairwell took on an increasingly ancient look. The last few steps were so worn down that they almost formed a ramp. They were lit by the flickering yellow glow of firelight from the chamber ahead. They could hear chanting voices. The tone was eerily harsh; the words incomprehensible. Gong moved silently forward at a crouch.

Tolly saw the room ahead was a large many-pillared chamber, lit with burning braziers. Four pairs of henge-stones stood in a rough circle around a rock plinth set within a circular pool of water. Between the stones and the pool stood a dozen or more swaying, chanting figures dressed in hooded purple robes. He could see that they were facing something that stood on the plinth, but his view of it was blocked. On the far wall, facing the doorway, was a large bronze-coloured gong. Next to this stood one of the cultists holding a burning torch.

On his right, Gong slipped unnoticed into the chamber and disappeared among the shadows. Tolly squared his shoulders and walked quietly forward in a way that he hoped was both unobtrusive and assured. Like Walter and Thaddeus who were following him, Tolly was dressed in a purple cult robe that covered his clothing entirely. The deep hood made his face all but invisible.

No-one turned and he walked around the chanting figures. He found a poorly-lit spot by one of the standing stones and turned so that he could at last see the object in the centre of the circle.

He was looking at a translucent ovoid that stood nearly as tall as a man, shaped like some great semi-liquid egg. The lights of the many flames were reflected in its glass-like surface, which pulsated slightly in time with the chanting. Inside it, beneath the glistening membrane, floated five pale sacks, each holding something that looked like a human embryo. Even at this distance, however, Tolly had the impression that there was something deformed or mutated about the forms; the skull of the largest of them, which was big enough to be an infant child, seemed oddly elongated.

The sight was repellent and yet somehow, magnetic. He could almost hear, in fact he realised that he could hear, strange unshaped thoughts coming from the creatures inside the ovoid. “Sing to us.” They seemed to be saying. “Bring to us that which we need… bring to us our little brother.”

There was a crash and a yell from the doorway. The chanting stopped abruptly. Turning, Tolly saw Rufus, sawn-off shotgun in one hand and knife in the other, had charged into the chamber, sending a cultist sprawling headlong on the stone-flagged floor. He let out a yell.

“Come on you bastards!”

No words were spoken, but a pang of outraged hate seemed to wash over the room like a wave. There was a rush of robe-clad bodies towards the doorway; moving with murderous energy towards the intruder.

But Rufus had already turned and leapt back towards the stairwell. As the cultists sprang after him, Thaddeus took a step towards the nearest and deftly slipped his sword-stick between his moving legs. Tripped, and propelled by his own frenzied haste, the cultist fell headlong, smashing his head against a stone pillar with a sickening thud.

But not all the cultists had been drawn after Rufus. Glancing behind him, Tolly saw that the hooded figure by the gong had cast down his torch and picked up a mallet. Stepping up to the gong he drew the hammer back to sound it.

Tolly had no idea what the gong might do, but he had no intention of finding out. He took two long strides towards the cult leader, levelling his trusty Adams revolver at him as he did so. Just before the mallet swung down Tolly blasted off a shot. It struck the cultist in the chest, spinning him around to slump against the wall and slide down it.

Large though it was, the chamber was confined enough for the sound of the shot to seem deafeningly load. The cultists who were not already in the stairwell turned now towards Tolly. The note of hate emanating from the ovoid rose to fever pitch.

Crouched by one of the henge-stones Walter had been fiddling with one of his gadgets. Now he lent forward and flung it at the ovoid. The stick of dynamite, set in a clockwork fusing device, penetrated the gleaming skin of the weird pod and sank into its centre. A moment later it detonated.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Rufus took the steps two at a time. Behind him he could hear the scrambling mob of cultists on his heels. How many he had drawn off he was not sure, but there must be half a dozen at least behind him he thought, panting with hatred. There came the sound of a shot from below and just before Rufus reached the top of the stair he spun around, smashing his foot into the chest of the nearest cultist, sending him sprawling back onto those behind him. But one of his pursuers slipped past the floundering knot of bodies, drawing a sinister-looking blade from his robes. Rufus levelled the sawn-off shotgun in his right hand and, with a deafening roar, let him have the first barrel in the face.

 \* \* \* \* \*

Gong had slipped unnoticed into the shadow of one of the henge-stones. When Tolly shot the celebrant by the gong he stepped forward and floored a heavy-looking cultist with a lightening side-kick.

He had just regained his stance when Walter’s bomb struck the ovoid and exploded. The blast knocked him to the floor. Gobbets of slime and uncanny flesh spattered in all directions. But he hardly noticed any of this. For as they died, the five psychic voices of the creatures floating in the weird womb-thing, were combined in a single mind-shattering howl that smashed through his mind’s defences, bursting it open to the freezing mental darkness all around.

But the Martian Elder Sign seemed to pulse warm in his hand. Even as the psychic blast seemed to skin his mind raw, the Sign pressed back the darkness with a steady glow. Gong shook his head, stood-up and looked around.

Everyone in the chamber lay on the floor, as if felled by a giant’s hand. Some lay stunned, but most writhed in evident torment holding their heads or covering their faces.

Of the others, Thaddeus was closest to him. Sitting up, the professor turned a blank and horrified face towards him. There was no trace of recognition is the eyes that stared past him as if fixed on some titanic terror in the distance. The mouth gaped with mute and meaningless words. Walter, he saw, was in little better condition. He was on his knees, staring straight upwards, his hands pressed to the sides of his head. By the wall he saw Tolly staggering to his feet as if drugged, gesturing vaguely with his revolver as he stared at the ground.

Then he felt His presence. The god was coming towards the room.

The door at the far end of the hall was flung open and Nyarlothotep surveyed the scene.

Gong felt the god’s wrath like the heat of great furnace. His children, sired in person; painstakingly collected and placed in the holy womb, had been butchered in an instant. Here, in his very hallows.

And there, facing him, stood one of the desecrators. A mortal bearing the Sign of the Enemy. Very well. Let him feel the vengeance of a god!

 \* \* \* \* \*

Tolly was falling, over and over, into the chasm. Not a rocky gorge but a freezing, lightless abyss, filled with the shrieking of the spawn-things. His head was like an echo-chamber; beneath the shrieking was the indescribably horrible bubbling note of The Dread One, dreaming his deathless sleep in R’lyeh. Thenhe realised, with a horrible shock, that that was where he was falling to. Down, into the depths, to be with Cthulhu… to be absorbed into him and be one with him, forever.

“Tolly! Get a grip on yourself man!” It was Danny’s voice.

“Get up man! Open your eyes! There’s a big bastard over there with a mask on – I’ll bet he’s the great panjandrum!”

Tolly struggled to his feet, blinking madly. The scene stretched and contracted sickeningly before his eyes; he could hardly think for the shrieking in his head. But then he saw Him. The robed figure with the Face Of The God.

It was golden. Just like, in fact, the mask they had seen on Mars. But now, Tolly knew, the god was fully present in the living host before him. He seemed to wax huge, somehow, twice the size of a man.

With his last reserves of determination, Tolly raised his revolver in a shaking hand and fired. But he might as well have shot at the ocean. The figure didn’t seem to notice and the black walls fell on Tolly and flung him back to the abyss once more.

The golden-faced figure strode forward purposefully. But Gong did not retreat. Instead he stepped forward. The god held out his hand and the world shook. A titanic force swept from the golden figure towards the mortal before him, striking like a psychic thunderbolt…

But it seemed to Gong that at that moment the Elder Sign flashed out like a tiny sun; softer but no less strong. For a moment the two forces wrestled, filling the air with writhing shapes of energy and leaving Gong, for an instant, in a calm space in the centre.

In that instant Gong leapt, as if jumping across a chasm, directly for the golden-faced figure of the god. His foot flashed out and struck the tip of the golden chin like a pile-driver.

Gong landed on the floor. The storm of mental energy was gone. A purple-robed figure was flying backwards, flopping head-over-heels in the air before him like a rag-doll, and something gleaming was spinning above him like a flipped coin. He held out a hand. The golden mask of Akhenaton dropped into it.

Rufus stepped into the chamber. Gong was standing there motionless, staring at the mask as if he could not quite believe he was holding it.

“Whose a lucky bastard now then?” He said.

* + - * + -

The further adventures of Tolly, Rufus, Thaddeus, Walter and Gong will continue in Chapter Seven The Road to Kafiristan.