Candleman (5 page)

‘Excellent,’ said Dr Saint. ‘I’m picturing a burger bar and two cake shops. After all, an honest policeman like Inspector Finley deserves nothing less. Work-related stress is a terrible thing, and I think this act of compassion will shorten his, err …
sufferings
considerably.’ Dr Saint smiled as he received a ripple of applause.

‘And certainly his life!’ giggled Lord Dove.

‘That is what I meant,’ said Dr Saint testily. ‘Now we must all be prepared. Our master plan, the Great Liberation, will go ahead as scheduled. Soon we will control dark forces beyond the imagining of ordinary men.’

‘It is what we have always dreamed of,’ rumbled Baron Patience. ‘When the sleeping army awakes, none will be able to stand in the way of our Good Works!’

Dr Saint gazed kindly upon his fellow board members.

‘We will see a happier world then,’ he simpered, almost shedding a tear. ‘A world where only the chosen few will suffer the anxieties of power and the burden of riches. A world where the ordinary man will enjoy the virtues of poverty and the bliss of slavery. And, under our guidance, this nation will command a vast, docile Empire, as it once did!’

‘Glorious,’ rumbled Baron Patience, thumping on the table and rattling everyone’s china teacups. ‘Summon our disgusting allies then. Just give me time to get home and lock the door first.’

Dr Saint smiled, convinced he had carried the day. ‘With them on the case,’ he assured the gathering, ‘I am convinced that Theo will soon be back in our hands!’

Six enormous men flanked Dr Saint as he strode through the ‘No Entry’ signs at the gateway to the abandoned sewage pumping station. The men, powerful brutes swamped in dark blue overalls, were known within the Society simply as the Foundlings – men with no family to miss them or ask questions if anything should happen to them.

‘Who is that lump?’ asked Dr Saint, pointing at the dead body of a fat man in an orange Day-glo coat, sprawled out on the floor.

‘Maintenance man, sir,’ said one of the Foundlings. ‘Fence repair man or something. He spotted us breaking in. I had to, erm … relieve him of his earthly worries.’

Dr Saint frowned. ‘Well, make it look like he dropped his own mallet on his head,’ he said. ‘And get Lord Dove to find out tomorrow’s lottery numbers.’

‘Lottery numbers, sir?’ The Foundling looked baffled.

‘We can slip a winning ticket into the pocket of our dead friend here,’ Dr Saint said with relish. ‘Then when they discover his body, his family will be too busy spending the lottery money to care about what really happened to him.’ The Foundling nodded and hurried away.

Mr Nicely appeared, carrying a pair of brand-new Wellington boots. He appeared gloomy and distracted.

‘Bearing up, Mr Nicely?’ asked Dr Saint suddenly.

Mr Nicely sighed. ‘I just had a funny feeling that I left something important behind,’ the butler said rather glumly. ‘Then I realised what it was – Master Theo.’

Dr Saint glared at him. ‘Pull yourself together,’ he snapped. ‘Because if things ever start getting too much for you, just let me know and I shall see to it you get a nice long rest!’

Mr Nicely made a note to himself not to sigh any more.

A huge iron door confronted them. It took two of the Foundlings, using all their might, to turn the wheel that opened it. Dr Saint wrinkled his nose as foul air poured out of the doorway. He sat on a control panel while the butler took off his employer’s shoes and replaced them with the shining new Wellingtons.

‘What on earth do you have in your nostrils, Mr Nicely?’ Dr Saint asked.

The butler smiled sheepishly. ‘Lord Dove said it would be pretty niffy at the sewage station, sir,’ Mr Nicely said. ‘The operations department issued me with these nose filters.’

His employer chuckled. ‘I hardly think an old soldier like you will need such a thing, Mr Nicely,’ Dr Saint said. ‘Pass them here.’ The butler handed them over in silence. Dr Saint smartly put the filters in his own nostrils.

‘I, however, am a more delicate flower.’ He smiled. ‘Now let us enter the network.’

The party trooped into the stinking tunnel.

‘Pardon my asking,’ whispered Mr Nicely. ‘But what are we doing here, sir?’

‘Setting up that meeting with the old acquaintances of the Society,’ Dr Saint said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘Not the class of person I would like to see a nice chap like you mixing with, Mr Nicely.’ Mr Nicely glowed. The old friendship was back.

‘In that case, hardly a suitable company for a saintly gentleman like yourself, Dr Saint.’

‘Hardly,’ whispered Dr Saint. ‘But back in the Victorian age, when the Philanthropist set up the Society of Good Works, he realised that there are two Londons. The glorious city of human endeavour we all know, and a second city, its shadow, as it were, existing alongside – darker, more dangerous. In order to achieve anything in the bright lights, one must also have influence in the darkness.’

The soft wallowing of their wading echoed around them as they ventured deeper into the tunnel.

‘Do you know where we are now, Mr Nicely?’ asked Dr Saint.

‘In the Monarch Fields Sewage Pumping Station,’ said Mr Nicely confidently. ‘I may be slow on the uptake, but I did manage to read the old notice on the gate.’

‘That is the sign we want the world to read.’ Dr Saint smiled. They rounded a corner and were faced with a metal cage in a shaft, poised over a black pit.

Two of the Foundlings stayed in the access tunnel, while everyone else descended in the cage. It creaked and rocked as it plummeted downwards. Mr Nicely flinched as ice-cold drips ran down his neck.

‘Invigorating!’ he declared with false gusto.

‘Back in the early days of our Society,’ explained Dr Saint, ‘the Philanthropist persuaded the government to let him set up a waste-disposal system down here, as a charitable gesture towards improving living conditions for the city.’

‘How typical of our revered founder,’ said the butler.

‘It enabled the Society of Good Works to explore, develop and exploit opportunities down here, in what we call the network. It provided us with unique resources …’

The cage had reached its destination. They stepped out and softly glowing globes illuminated their way. Mr Nicely had never see these before, and peered inside to see luminous, living fungus inside the globes providing the light. Dr Saint led the party to a chamber, where banks of control panels rose up in the darkness.

‘Our founder understood the subtle things in life,’ said Dr Saint. ‘He knew that excess kindness can kill as surely as excess cruelty. He was also a master of alchemy. He knew that certain mixtures, when combined, could achieve quite magical effects.’

Mr Nicely smiled as all around, controls, lanterns and bulbs lit up in a ghoulish mixture of greens.

‘I am used to being in the company of genius,’ Mr Nicely said. ‘So I shall strive not to be overawed by these latest marvels, sir.’

‘We are going to perform a marvel, then depart at a swift pace,’ said Dr Saint. He signalled to two of the Foundlings to step forwards.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘It is time to release the vapours!’

T
heo had never seen a real skeleton before. Until very recently he had only ever really met three people. Now he had encountered several – one of whom he had turned into slime and now this new one who was well and truly dead.

Perhaps death goes on everywhere, all of the time,
Theo thought.
I just didn’t notice it, being stuck in my room.

Old Magnus had been very much moved. He stood next to the skeleton and spoke softly to it, as if it were still alive.

‘You were a good man, Herbert,’ he croaked. ‘Vigilant till the end! You never abandoned your post, as you –’ here he paused to gasp a bit as if his lungs were caving in, ‘– as you vowed!’ he finished with explosive emphasis. The old man straightened himself up with pride, and stood like a soldier on parade next to his old comrade.

Sam suddenly slumped down on to his knees and buried his face in his hands.

‘This is it! It’s all over! Tell me it’s not all over!’

‘What do you mean, Sam?’ Theo asked. Then he remembered they were not strictly on first-name terms according to
Acquaintances and their Associated Problems, Volume 3.
‘Do you mind if I call you Sam?’ he added awkwardly.

‘What does it matter? What does anything matter?’ Sam wailed from the floor. ‘It’s over! Mr Norrowmore was our only contact with the rest of our secret Society! Now that he’s dead we’re cut off! We’ve got no way of summoning the Council!’

Theo looked disapprovingly at Sam. Yesterday he had been all victorious, singing songs and flicking jelly beans up in the air. Suddenly today he was plunged into wretched misery.
Poor Sam,
thought Theo. Someone should have told him that merriment was a very dangerous thing to be messing with.

‘Say something, Grandad – say there’s a back-up plan!’ Sam begged. The old man had now slumped into another of the radio station chairs.

‘Back-up plans?’ He smiled and tilted his mottled old head upwards as if seeking inspiration from the light filtering through cracks in the ceiling. ‘Plenty of those. Mr Norrowmore knows them all!’

Sam buried his face in his hands again.

‘Bang-bang, you’re dead,’ a cheerful voice rang out across the room. A figure swamped in a huge grey greatcoat, with a black cap pulled down almost over its eyes, strode towards them through the banks of dusty monitors.

As the shape drew closer, Theo stared in amazement. It was Clarice.

‘What – what are you doing here?’ gurgled Magnus, his colourless eyes bulging with surprise. He clutched at Mr Norrowmore for support, and the skeleton’s arm fell off and clattered to the floor.

‘Norrowmore ordered me to come. “The day after the mission is done, go to the Watch Tower,” he told me. He said that weeks ago,’ she added, glancing down at the remains of their leader.

Theo was still staring at her in open-mouthed surprise. ‘Clarice! You can hear!’ he blurted out.

‘Of course I can hear,’ the girl replied. ‘But my name’s not Clarice. I think we’d better get out of here,’ she added with a hint of nervousness.

‘You
are
Clarice!’ Theo protested.

The girl shook her head. ‘No time to explain now,’ she said, looking all around the chamber.

‘Why,’ began Sam anxiously, eyeing not-Clarice with suspicion, ‘why did you just say, “bang-bang, you’re dead”?’

The girl smiled. ‘Well, your tradecraft is rubbish,’ she said. ‘A Society member is found dead in a restricted-access room, surrounded by our secret files. You didn’t even look to see if he was murdered. You stood right in the open, where any intruder could see you all – and pick you off if necessary. Pretty unforgivable, especially since you’re with – you-know-who.’ She nodded at Theo.

Sam grew angry. ‘I can’t believe you’re having a go at us, with Mr Norrowmore standing here, dead!’ he said.

‘Well, it’s lucky we’ve got a cemetery keeper and a gravedigger on hand then, isn’t it?’ she remarked. Sam looked hurt.

Theo looked at the floor. He wasn’t used to arguments. At Empire Hall people weren’t generally allowed to have feelings about things.

‘Listen, Sam,’ not-Clarice said. ‘We’re at war now. We’ve taken Theo away from that hideous Society and they will do anything to get him back. There is no room for –’ She stopped speaking suddenly and put a finger to her lips.

‘They’re coming!’ she whispered.

‘Who’s coming?’ Theo asked. ‘Friends?’

‘We haven’t got any friends,’ said not-Clarice.

Sam grimaced with dismay. ‘What are we going to do?’ he wailed.

‘Get out of here! Run,’ ordered the girl. ‘Both of you – to the safest place you know!’

A fire-escape door was forced open on the far side of the chamber. An enormous figure in dark blue overalls crashed into the room, scattering a massive pile of old reel-to-reel tapes across the floor.

‘They’re here!’ the intruder roared.

‘Foundlings!’ cried not-Clarice. She shoved over a tall bookcase, causing a chain-reaction that sent shelves, piles of folders and several decades of carefully stacked envelopes cascading across the floor.

‘What are you doing?’ gasped Sam.

Not-Clarice pushed over an old paraffin lamp, which smashed, spilling its contents on to the pile of papers. Then with great calm she stooped to ignite the pile with a tiny hand-lighter.
Woof!
A terrifying blaze spread.

‘Mr Norrowmore!’ wailed Magnus, seeing the skeleton engulfed in flames.

Not-Clarice propelled him and Sam to the door through which they had entered. ‘Go, now – run and don’t look back!’ she shouted.

‘But the archive!’ howled the old man, tears in his eyes. ‘All the Society records!’

‘That’s the past. It’s all about the future now,’ not-Clarice said. ‘Go!’

‘What about Theo?’ cried Sam.

‘He’s coming with me!’ the girl replied, and kicked the door shut on Sam.

There was an ominous roar as the fire reached the archive. Row upon row of neatly filed papers went up like tinder. A giant man-shape blundered about, squealing, wreathed in flame. Two other figures appeared, lumbering through the smoke.

‘This way!’

Theo was dragged by the arm towards a Victorian-style air-powered tube-messaging system. There was one tube for messages and a larger one for packages. Not-Clarice bundled Theo into the package chute, and jumped in behind him. Theo plummeted into darkness.

‘Where are we?’ Theo’s words echoed all around him as he followed the girl along a dark passage, somewhere far below the Watch Tower.

‘The network,’ she whispered, gesturing impatiently for him to keep his voice down.

‘Are we safe?’ Theo asked. ‘Are they coming?’

‘How should I know?’ snapped the girl, suddenly showing signs of strain. ‘You can use your ears, can’t you?’

They trod the subterranean passage in silence. Occasionally a rat would scurry away from them. At intervals, glass globes of phosphorescent fungus provided a useful light.

‘In the bad old days the War for London was fought largely underground. The enemy had their ratruns and we had ours. These tunnels are part of a vast system that’s gradually falling into neglect. But I don’t think those blundering idiots will have any way of guessing how we disappeared in the blaze,’ she added with a hint of pride.