Chapter Twenty-two

I t was a ten-minute walk from Blackfriars Station to the public library on Charles Street, and they were there within half an hour of leaving the museum.

Snatching off his cap, Josef pushed open the door and stepped inside. A familiar hush and the scent of books enveloped him, although today he didn’t feel the customary swell of ease that he usually associated with this place. All he felt today was fear breathing down his neck.

Alex was on his heels, looking about curiously. No doubt this was nothing compared with the private or university libraries he must be used to, but Josef would bet ten shillings that none of those places had what they needed. Public libraries were for the interests and needs of the working man, not for toffs buried in their Latin and Greek.

In the middle of the morning, the library was quiet. Probably especially so, given the air raid last night. People tended to stay at home when they were frightened.

Behind the long wooden counter opposite the doorway stood Mr Peters, and Josef’s spirits rose. Peters was an excellent librarian, keeper of an astounding volume of trivia and exactly the man for the job in hand. He was a fastidious man, rotund and balding, sporting an old-fashioned Imperial moustache meticulously groomed until its pointy tips aimed skyward.

“Mr Peters,” Josef said in his hushed library voice. “Good morning.”

Peters looked up from his work and smiled. He had a small mouth and small, neat teeth. “Mr Shepel, how do you do?” His curious gaze darted to Alex, who looked entirely too well dressed for the occasion.

“I’m very well,” Josef said. “This is my colleague, um—”

“Mr Beaumont,” Alex supplied. “How do you do?”

“We’re on a bit of a tight deadline,” Josef cut in. “You know how it is.”

“That I do,” Peters agreed. “How can I help you?”

Josef outlined what they were after—a map showing all the Underground lines, even the parts used for maintenance or anything else. Peters looked thoughtful, nodding, as Josef explained. Then he disappeared into the back room, returning a few minutes later with a stack of small books.

“As you know,” he said, setting the map books on the counter, “each railway company produced its own maps in the last century. It was only in ‘08 that they were brought together into a single map.”

Josef knew no such thing. “Each of these maps relates to different lines, do they?”

“That’s right.” Peters frowned. “I don’t know how much detail they go into, but I should think this is a jolly good place to start.”

Thanking him, they took the maps into the reading room and started examining them. They were old, some of them going back to the late ‘90s, but unfortunately, they weren't any bloody use. All they showed were station stops, no sidings or storage areas. Nothing helpful. Fuck, this had been a mistake. They were wasting time—time Alex didn’t have.

“There’s nothing,” Josef said crossly, shoving his maps aside. “This is useless.”

That earned him a disapproving rustle of the newspaper from the man sitting opposite them on the large reading-room table. Josef didn’t care.

Alex still had his head down, though, studying an old City and South London Railway map.

“I’m going to see if Peters has any other ideas,” Josef said. “If not, I think we should go. You were right. The sewer—”

“Wait.” Alex grabbed his wrist, still staring at the map. “Look at this.” His finger was on a station just north of London Bridge. “This. King William Street Station.”

“That’s—” Josef frowned. “I don't know it.”

“Me neither.”

They looked at each other. “It must have closed.”

From across the table came an irritated, “ Do you mind? There’s no talking in the reading room.”

“Come on,” Josef said, grabbing the maps and heading back to the desk.

Peters watched their approach expectantly. “Any luck?”

“Perhaps,” Josef said, spreading out the old C&SLR map on the desk. “Have you ever heard of King William Street station?”

After a moment’s thought, Peters’ moustache twitched as he smiled. “Oh, yes. Goodness me, that’s been closed for a long time now. Must be nearly twenty years. I know my father was still alive because I remember he thought it a terrible waste of money to build a station and close it ten years later. Mind you, he had no time for electric railways.” He smiled fondly. “Truth be told, he’d only grudgingly accepted locomotives.”

“My pa was the same,” Josef said, smiling. “Do you know what happened to the station after it closed?”

Peters blinked. “To the station? Nothing as far as I know. The building’s still there, on King William Street. It used to be the terminus, you see, but when they opened the new line to Monument, it bypassed the line entirely.”

“Wait,” Alex said sharply. “Are you saying the station is in a disused tunnel?”

“I suppose it must be, sir, yes. Now I think about it, I remember something in the papers about the LCC using the tunnels for storage.” His eyes lit up. “I could search our newspaper archive if you—”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Alex said quickly. “You’ve been extremely helpful already. Thank you.”

Hurriedly refolding the map, Josef said, “Yes, thank you, Mr Peters. You’ve proved to my friend here that you can find out anything in a public library.”

Peters puffed up a little at that. “I’m gratified to have been of service, Mr Shepel.” He cast another curious glance at Alex, who looked far too well-dressed to be a member of a public library. “Mr Beaumont.”

Replacing his homburg, Alex touched the brim in salute, and then they were off, back out into the cold morning.

“What do you think?” Josef said as they hurried across Blackfriars Bridge.

“I think, if I were a ghoul...” Alex stopped abruptly. Clearing his throat, he said, “I think a disused Underground tunnel is exactly the sort of place that would suit them.”

Josef nodded. “Then the next question is—how the bloody hell do we get down there?”

“Why not start with the most obvious? Through the old station.” He smiled at whatever he saw in Josef’s face. “You’re not averse to a little breaking and entry, are you?”

“In broad daylight?”

“That’s the best time.”

When they finally found the corner of King William Street and Monument Street, Josef was astonished to find a rather ordinary building. If you looked hard, at the very top of its curved frontage, you could see where old letters had once spelled out King William St Station, and lower down City and South London Railway. But the building now appeared to be occupied by W.R. Renshaw Ltd, Boilermakers.

“I’d assumed it would be empty,” Josef confessed as they stopped on the opposite corner. Given the station had closed nearly two decades ago, that had been a silly assumption. Nothing stayed unused for long in London. “I’ll bet you can’t get down to the station anymore.”

Alex gave a distracted shake of his head and pulled out a silver card holder from his breast pocket. Opening it, he shuffled through the contents, and Josef realised that he kept several different cards in there, with several different names. Well, of course he did.

“Your man, Peters, said the tunnels have been used for storage. In which case there’s probably still access from the premises above, don’t you think?”

Which, yes, did make sense.

Considering two different cards, Alex muttered, “It’s a pity I’m not in uniform.” Then, selecting one, he slipped it into his coat pocket and turned to Josef. “Follow my lead.”

“And who, exactly, am I following? Captain Winchester?”

“Colonel Piers Montague.” Alex lowered his hat, giving Josef a steely look from beneath its brim. “Secret Service Bureau. We’re looking into suspicious activity in the area.”

“I suppose that much is true.”

“Come along,” Alex said, heading across the road. “Let’s get this done.”

Josef didn’t hold out a great deal of hope that the ruse would work when Alex stepped into the offices of W.R. Renshaw. Two clerks were working at their desks and looked up as the door opened. One was stout and middle-aged, the other younger. Josef wondered why he wasn’t at the front, and then kicked himself for wondering. What business was it of his? Good for him if he’d saved himself from the meatgrinder.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Alex said in the crisp tones of an officer. “My name is Montague, SSB. Colonel.” From his pocket he produced his card and set it on the desk of the youngest. “Who is in charge of this establishment?”

The two clerks looked at each other, and the olderone said, “Mr Martin Renshaw, but he ain’t here today. Only Mr Brooke, upstairs. The manager.”

“Brooke will do nicely,” Alex said. “Please be so kind as to fetch him. It’s a matter of national security.”

After exchanging another glance, the younger man rose. “I’ll go,” he said, and as he came out from behind the desk Josef saw that he walked with a pronounced limp, his left foot clumping heavily on the wooden floor as he left the room.

That explained why he wasn’t in uniform, and some part of Josef felt relieved for him. As if losing his foot or his leg was getting off lightly. It was, though, Josef knew that all too well. Ghouls aside, there were other wounds that could destroy a man’s life forever. And not just wounds to the body.

While Josef ruminated, Alex wasn’t wasting time. “You’re aware of the tunnels beneath this property? The old electric railway line.”

The older clerk nodded. “I am, sir, yes.” He lowered his voice. “They’ve blocked the tunnels now and taken up the tracks. In case of infiltration by the Hun.”

Josef nodded seriously, although he found it difficult to imagine the Germans skulking around the Underground. Mind you, until a couple of weeks ago, he’d have found it even harder to imagine an army of ghouls doing the same. Nothing was impossible.

“That’s right,” Alex said. “Nevertheless, we need to get down there, now.”

A clumping on the stairs above heralded the arrival of Mr Brooke, a wiry man of middle years with round glasses perched on the end of his nose, and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow.

“What’s all this?” he said as he entered the room, the younger clerk following and then sliding hurriedly back behind his desk. Mr Brooke, it seemed, was not pleased. “Who are you?”

“Ah, the man in charge,” Alex said, shoulders going back and his accent, if possible, sounding even more aristocratic. “My name is Montague. Colonel Montague, Secret Service Bureau. I need your assistance.”

Brooke’s eyes widened. “ My assistance?”

“On a security matter of utmost urgency.”

Alex knew exactly what he was about because Brooke inflated like an officious little balloon. “At your service, sir.” He glanced at his two clerks, both with their eyes down and ears pricked. “We can talk in the—er, in my office upstairs, if that’s more convenient?”

“Thank you, but time is of the essence,” Alex said. “We need access to the disused tunnels beneath this building. I understand it once served as a station.”

“That’s right,” Brooke said. “This was part of the ticket hall, back in the day. Over there,” he gestured towards the far end of the room where the wall appeared to be poorly patched, “used to be the hydraulic lift shaft. They took it out years ago, though. Before the war.”

“That can’t have been the only way down,” Alex said tensely. “There must have been stairs in case the electricity failed…”

“Oh, aye, there’s stairs. But we ain’t opened them since war broke out. War Office orders.”

Alex nodded gravely. “Your diligence is noted, sir. Unfortunately, we must enter the tunnels immediately, and I urge you to lock the door after us.”

That sounded like a terrible idea to Josef. “Lock it?” he said aloud. “Won’t we need to…?”

Escape?

Alex gave him a quick, quelling look. “Civilian security is paramount, Sergeant.”

It took Josef a moment to register the false rank, and another to remember that he was meant to be under Alex’s command. He answered only with a nod as Alex said, “Quick as you like, Mr Brooke.”

Brooke all but clicked his heels in his eagerness to obey.

He led them out of the clerk’s office into a larger room filled with machine parts that Josef assumed related to boiler making. Picking their way through them, they made their way towards a stout door of heavy, dark wood that lurked in the far corner of the echoing space. Two new bolts had been installed, top and bottom, and they gleamed in the daylight streaming in through the windows.

With obvious trepidation, and not a little excitement, Brooke slid back the top lock and then crouched to undo the one at the bottom of the door. It proved stiffer, and he ended up kicking it open with his foot. Then, from his pocket, he produced a set of keys and unlocked the brass lock at the centre of the door. The key turned with a portentous clunk, and Josef’s pulse jumped over a beat or two.

They were really doing this.

“You have your electric torch?” Alex asked quietly, his gaze fixed on the heavy door as Brooke hauled it open.

Josef nodded, reaching into his coat pocket. “I hope the batteries last.”

“Indeed.”

Flicking on the light, Josef stepped forward, shining the beam through the door and over an iron staircase that spiralled down into the dark. On the walls, his torchlight flashed over decorative tiles of the kind used in Underground stations. Hairs rose on the back of his neck, alongside a powerful urge not to enter that dark stairwell.

But Alex crowded in at his shoulder, and what choice did they have? They had hours, perhaps less, to find what they needed to save Alex from a fate that was quite literally worse than death. And the thought of what Josef might be forced to do if they failed was enough to propel him forward. He’d do anything— anything —rather than that.

“Follow me,” he said, stepping through the doorway into the narrow stairwell. “And watch your footing.”

Behind him, Alex said, “Thank you for your help, Mr Brooke. Lock the door after us please, and don’t open it again for anyone but Seargent Lake, here.”

Brooke frowned at Josef, as if the order was somehow his fault. “But what about you, sir?”

“Nobody but Lake,” Alex repeated severely. “And now the door, if you please?”

With a nod and an aborted hand gesture that may have wanted to be a salute, Brooke closed the door. Josef watched the disappearing sliver of daylight until it was gone, and the door shut with an ominous thud, plunging them into deeper darkness. The only light came from Josef’s torch.

“What was all that about?” he said, glancing over at Alex. In the unblinking light of the electric torch, he looked quite different, his features casting shadows across his face and his dark blue eyes black as night. “Why only me?”

“You know why,” Alex said, rolling his left shoulder. Josef’s gaze fixed on it, and on the way that Alex was flexing his left hand.

“What is it?” he whispered. “Do you feel… worse?”

Alex responded by hefting his stick like a cudgel. “Let’s go down. Quietly .”

And what else could they do?

Despite his best efforts at stealth, Josef’s boots clanged on the iron staircase, the light of his torch bobbing ahead of them. Not too far ahead, mind, just enough to reveal the next couple of steps. As they descended, the air grew dank with the scent of musty disuse.

Strange, how the old C&SLR tiles lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. Strange that this station was still here, buried beneath the city as the world above moved on. Not even the war had touched it.

Behind him, Alex suddenly stopped with a swift indrawn breath.

Josef turned, looking back at him. It was too dark to see his face now. “What?” Josef whispered.

A long pause followed before Alex whispered, “I can…sense them.”

Shit . Josef’s heart punched against his ribs as he sniffed the air. Nothing. And that wasn’t a stink you could miss. “Are you sure? I can’t smell them.”

“Very sure,” Alex said, stiffly. “They’re down there. Not near, but we’re on their trail.”

Through a dry throat, Josef said, “Good. That’s good.” His words came out papery thin, though, because what did it mean that Alex could sense their presence so easily?

As if he needed to ask.

“I’ll go first, now,” Alex said, passing Josef on the narrow stairs. Close enough that he could smell the herbal aroma of Alex’s poultice, and beneath that…

He almost choked on the faint sickly stench.

Unmistakable, though. The putrid rot he’d seen on Sykes and all the other victims was eating its way, even now, into Alex’s body. And if Josef knew it, Alex bloody well knew it too.

At last, they reached the bottom of the spiral staircase, the air growing colder and damper with every turn of the stairs. A closed door greeted them. For a horrible moment, Josef feared—hoped?—it would be locked, but no. When Alex slowly turned the handle, the door moved with a grinding complaint that echoed, Josef was certain, through the whole bloody Underground network. They could probably hear it in Kentish Town.

Alex grimaced but kept pushing on the door until there was enough space to squeeze through. “Torch,” he demanded, holding one hand back towards Josef.

Muttering a curse about overbearing aristocrats, Josef handed him his torch. Suddenly plunged into darkness, he hurried through the door after Alex. This was not a place to fall behind.

On the other side, he found himself standing in a cavern. At least, that’s what it felt like, a large, cold, and echoing space that smelled like damp and decay. All he could see, though, were slashes of tiled walls and ceiling as Alex criss-crossed the torch beam around the huge space.

After a few moments, the fragmented images started to come together, and he realised they were standing in a station tunnel. Three dark passageways disappeared ahead of them, and Josef could just make out words saying Way Out . They must have led to the hydraulic lifts. To their right, the station platform opened.

“Come on,” Alex whispered, heading towards the platform.

With a wary glance back at the dark and silent passageways behind them, Josef followed. As they walked, Alex skimmed the torch across the walls, finding an old advertising board full of peeling advertisements for mortgages and property sales, and down to the rubble-strewn space where railway lines would once have run. Gone now, like the clerk had told them.

At the far end of the long platform, the tunnel divided, twin black maws leading off into deeper darkness. This had been a terminus, Josef remembered, so the tunnels only went in one direction—south, beneath the Thames. Somewhere in the darkness, water dripped, conjuring unhappy thoughts of leaking tunnels and a rush of filthy river water.

“There,” Alex whispered, stilling the roving torchlight on a crumpled pile of rags down in the track bed.

Josef stared in horror, chest tightening as his brain tried to make out a human form amid the rags. Was that a body? “What is it?” he rasped.

“Nest,” Alex said curtly. “At least one of them has been sleeping here.”

Josef’s skin prickled, and he looked around nervously. The torch cast just enough ambient light that he could make out a few details: King William St. tiled into the wall opposite, the rusty turnstiles that, once, would have admitted thousands of travellers each day, the empty signal box near the mouth of the tunnel. All abandoned, left to rot.

“If it sleeps here,” he whispered, “where is it now?”

The torchlight moved, shining towards the twin tunnel entrances. “You choose,” Alex said. “Left, or right?”