Jonathan Barnes - The Somnambulist

A little over an hour after the death of Ned Love, two advertisements appeared in the personal columns of the Echo , the Gazette , the Times and the London Chronicle (evening editions only).

The first read:

INFORMATION WANTED

Anyone who works or has worked

in the Underground tunnels

in the areas of

Eastcheap and the Monument.

SUBSTANTIAL REWARD

Apply in person to Mr. M.

There then followed the address of a celebrated city hotel which, for obvious reasons, I have elected to censor.

The second, far shorter and enigmatic entry ready simply:

LUD

Come at once. Much at stake.

E

Regrettably, the man for whom this last, cryptic message was intended never had an opportunity to read it. At the time of its publication he was being detained against his will in a manner he had entirely failed to predict.

Cribb had been walking alone, his head full of a jumble of ill-considered thoughts and half-digested philosophies, when he was surprised to see a carriage pull up beside him and its driver beckon him across. Cribb played his part, walked over to the vehicle and listened as its occupant asked him for directions to the Tottenham Court Road. Needless to say, Cribb was quite unable to resist such an invitation, or the temptation to add a number of interesting historical tidbits. He was still speaking, and in the midst of a droll anecdote about the medieval witch of Kentish Town, when the stranger invited him into the carriage, the better (he said) to consult a map in his possession. Cribb did as he was asked, but given his talent for prognostication ought perhaps to have recognized the insignia stenciled discreetly on the carriage door — a black five-petaled flower.

Two men sat inside — thuggish, burly types, the kind who break people’s arms for a living, professional maimers. As Cribb entered the carriage, one of them plumped a fist meaningfully into his outstretched palm and smiled greedily.

“I was expecting you, of course,” the ugly man noted. “I’ve seen the future, you see. I know the plot.”

At this, one of the men shoved him against the back of his seat and began what many of us have long harbored aspirations of doing. He pummeled Cribb repeatedly in the head until at long last (and still stammering something about time flowing in a different direction for him) the ugly man fell unconscious.

Mrs. Grossmith, meanwhile, felt happy. Wonderfully, improbably, deliriously happy.

She all but skipped into her employer’s bedroom, not even bothering to knock before she entered.

“Mr. Moon!” she trilled in a girlish falsetto. “Mr. Moon!”

But as she came into the room she felt chastened and ashamed, like a wedding guest who gatecrashes a funeral by mistake. Transparently irritated by the interruption, three men glared back at her — Mr. Moon, the Somnambulist and a loutish-looking stranger.

“What do you want?”

In the decade or more that she had spent in his employ, Mrs. Grossmith had become accustomed to Moon’s testiness and abrasive manner, and she took this latest snappish remark, delivered like a prosecuting counsel hurling questions at a defense witness, as she had all the many other slights and dismissals over the years — by pretending not to notice, by giving him her biggest smile and carrying on regardless.

“Sorry to disturb you. I wonder if I might have a word?”

“Not a good time.”

Mrs. Grossmith persisted. “I’ve news. It can’t wait.”

“Mister?” the stranger interrupted. He nodded toward Grossmith. “’Scuse me, but this is important.”

He was a grimy, lean, leathery man, engaged in unfolding a series of maps on the table in the center of the room. The Somnambulist, apparently fascinated by all this cartographic paraphernalia, peered, enthralled, over his shoulder.

Moon waved vaguely toward him. “This is Mr. Clemence. He answered my advertisement.”

“Call me Roger,” the stranger said and offered Grossmith a lascivious wink.

“Mr. Clemence,” Moon said, “what was it you were about to tell me?”

Clemence gesticulated at one of the maps. “See here. Here’s where it happened.”

Mrs. Grossmith began to protest but the conjuror cut her short. “Please. This is of the utmost importance.” As he strode across to examine the map, Mrs. Grossmith could only sniffle forlornly, her earlier ebullience quite gone.

Moon relented slightly. “This gentleman was formerly employed by the city railway. Love have their headquarters underground. We’re trying to find a way down.”

The housekeeper sighed. “Very interesting, I’m sure.”

Clemence pointed to a section of the map. “See there. Under the Monument. All that’s abandoned track. They’d planned an extension to King William Street Station. It would have been directly beneath Love’s offices. Never happened, of course.”

The Somnambulist, eager to be a part of the conversation, nodded in sober agreement.

Clemence leant across the table, rustling the maps. “If you’re serious about going down there, you’ve a right to know the truth.”

Mrs. Grossmith cleared her throat. “I really need to tell you something.”

“Not now,” Moon growled. “Wait.”

Clemence lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I knew some of the men who worked on the King William Street extension. All trustworthy, believe me. Oh, one or two of them might have liked a drink from time to time, but they can’t all have been wrong. They saw something down there. No question.”

“Tell me. Tell me what they saw.”

“Tunnels — tunnels that weren’t never on any plans, tunnels that ain’t been built for no railway. Great, fantastic warrens of them, like giant rat holes leading into the dark. Some sort of jade door, set into the ground itself. And something lived down there — that’s what they said. Two of the men went missing — just vanished, never seen again, like. After that, the rest of them got nervous, superstitious, started saying they didn’t want to work there no more.”

“What happened?”

“The work got abandoned in the main. A few of ’em wanted to stay on, of course. The brave ones, or the stupid. Still, maybe not so stupid. Most of ’em are rich now — far richer than any railwayman has any right to be. Those that didn’t end up in the nuthouse, that is.”

“Nuthouse?”

“Something happened. One of the men had to be committed. Poor beggar started seeing things and babbling like an idiot. Course it might just have been that place. Down there, underground, in the dank and the dark… Your mind plays tricks on you.”

“Some vanished, some became rich. And some went mad.” Moon sounded as though he was thinking aloud. “Thank you, Mr. Clemence. This has been invaluable.”

“Pleasure.”

The conjuror proffered a handful of coins, but as Clemence reached forward to grab them, Moon closed tight his fist. “Can you take me there?”

The railwayman looked uncertain. Moon glanced meaningfully down at his clenched hand.

“I’ll take you to the entrance of the tunnel,” the man said doubtfully. “No further. What I’ve heard… I wouldn’t go down there for anything.”

“You won’t have to. The Somnambulist will be with me. Can we do it tonight?”

Clemence thought for a moment. “Shall we say midnight, at the Monument?”

“Excellent,” said Moon, shepherding him to the door. “I’ll see you then.”

Clemence nodded politely again, then sloped away, incongruous against the spotless beige of the hotel corridors. On his way, he passed a beaming Arthur Barge, bustling toward Moon’s rooms.