Kim Newman - Professor Moriarty The Hound of the D'Urbervilles

‘What’s through that tunnel?’ Lucas asked.

‘Tin mines,’ explained the Stationmaster. ‘In the daytime, ore trains run to and from Tarleton. The metals are cold at night.’

‘The so-called worm, it abide in its mine by day, and emerge by night?’ Sabin asked. ‘This is your suggestion?’

‘More than a suggestion,’ Young James said. ‘You can set your watch by it.’

Everyone turned towards the tunnel. All I could see was night and fog.

In a music hall, when the magician wants you to watch the pretty lady in tights or pay attention to his waving wand… that’s the time to look everywhere else, to see how the trick’s being pulled off. I let the ghost-finding brigade peer into the hole, and scanned the station and environs. The fake Carnacki was hiding somewhere. I’d not forgotten the lady conductor with the throwing-knife either. With all this mist, there were many places nearby where a person could lie low.

‘Can you hear that?’ Lucas asked, hand up to his ear.

From inside the tunnel, there was a sound. A shushing, wailing, rattling. Worms, as a rule, are quieter. Even giant ones. The gunpowdery smell was stronger.

‘There are spirits…’ the parson began.

‘Shush, Hugo,’ cut in Madame Valladon. ‘You can stop play-acting.’

Doone shut up, crestfallen.

The noise grew louder.

‘Something runs on the rails?’ Sabin said. ‘A train, hein ?’

It sounded like no train I’d ever heard.

‘Look…’ Lucas pointed.

There was firelight in the fog. It barrelled towards us faster than something without legs or wheels ought to be able to.

I had my rifle up. Whatever came out of that tunnel would get one between its eyes, if eyes it had.

Stationmaster Moriarty was still brandishing his watch, grinning. He seemed to be enjoying the spell cast over his guests. The Professor hung back, tutting impatiently.

A cold, sharp point pricked under my chin. The rifle was firmly twisted out of my hands. A female person pressed close to my back, arm about my chest. The Greek lady, of course. I stood stock still.

Then, in a rush, the worm was out of its hole…

…and rushing through the station past us, leaving only a swirling wake. The disturbed fog reformed over the rails.

The worm wasn’t white and fires burned in its belly. A foul smell lingered behind: it was a mechanical thing.

Down the line a way, bright flame blossomed. For an instant, the countryside lit up as if it were daytime. I blinked away fire patterns burned into my eyes and watched as a burning wave swept across a field that inclined towards the rail bed. An old shed was instantly obliterated. Flaming sheep scurried, screaming, for the horizon. A butt of water exploded into fragments.

In the firelight, the worm was visible — it had soundlessly halted on the tracks. Liquid fire dribbled from hose-like cannons protruding from its sides. It was armoured, shield-like plates bolted together in a limber, flexible carapace — a big, bulletproof version of the May Day Festival worm costume.

The worm was a war train! A land dreadnought.

The bogus ghost finders chattered to each other, in several languages. I had an idea now of their true profession.

‘England alone must not have this thing,’ Sabin said. ‘It would mean catastrophe for the civilised world.’

‘So we hear from France,’ Stationmaster Moriarty said. ‘Can I take it that a bid is made?’

Sabin nodded.

‘Thank you, Monsieur de la Meux. What of Imperial Germany? Fraulein von Hoffmannsthal, can you and Herr Oberstein make an offer?’

Madame Valladon — whose real name turned out to be Ilse von Hoffmannsthal — conferred with the parson — the notorious spy Hugo Oberstein — and gave a nod. They had abandoned their pretence of not knowing each other, let alone their fraying cover identities. I was relieved not to have to listen to any more prattle about spirits from the Reverend Doone.

‘Mr Lucas. You are a free agent. Do you act, in this instance, for the Tsar of all the Russias?’ Young James addressed the dandy.

‘A little to the East, old top. A more humane mikado ne’er did in Japan exist, you know… and they have the railways too, very modern.’

This was a nest of damn foreign spies! I’ve played the Great Game myself, on several sides. Nothing crawls like as a patriot lying and sneaking for his country.

‘So “Carnacki” represents the Tsar?’ the Stationmaster asked.

‘That one acts for himself, James,’ the Professor said. ‘If you troubled to use your brain, you should have seen that first thing. He is the imposter among imposters. The real fake Carnacki is trussed in a trunk in the left-luggage department at Paddington.’

‘Come, come, James. Nothing is amiss.’

‘No? Then why is Miss Kratides holding a knife to my man’s throat?’

Now, everyone looked at us. I raised the paw not pinned by the lady’s grip in an attempt at a cheery wave.

‘Don’t mind me,’ I said. ‘Play on. Though, apropos of nothing, Oberstein: when you’re introduced to people, you start to click your boot heels then remember not to. Few English parsons have that habit. If you’re to continue your, ah, theatrical career, you might try to get that seen to.’

Oberstein spat on the platform. That wasn’t like a clergyman, either.

Ilse von Hoffmannsthal took out her revolver, as she had been dying to do all evening, and pointed it at people who didn’t notice or care.

The fire down the way wasn’t dying down. The worm wasn’t moving. It had no funnel and wasn’t expelling steam. I wondered in an academic sort of way why it was so bloody fast. I had more immediate concerns, though. Blood was dribbling into my collar.

Young James was off his stride.

‘Sophy,’ he said. ‘Is that you?’

The lady pushed me away. I stumbled, but got my balance and clapped a hand to my throat. For a moment, I was worried this Sophy Kratides person had slit my throat. They say you don’t feel it if the knife is sharp enough, though who ‘they’ might be who’ve lived to pass on this intelligence, I couldn’t say. Everyone whose throat I’ve cut has only managed a minute or so of inarticulate gurgling before shutting up permanently. I let my wound go and saw only spots of blood on my fingers. She’d just administered an attention-getting scratch.

Turning, I saw Miss Kratides peel off her mask of sticking-plaster, taking off the moustache and eyebrows with it. Sophy had a handsome, if severe face, and held a knife like someone practiced in its use. She slid it between her fingers, wiping off my blood. The top three buttons of her uniform jacket were undone. A smaller knife was holstered in the front of her corset, handle nestled between prize plums. How many other blades had she concealed in out-of-the-way portions of her anatomy? It might be diverting, if dangerous, to discover the answer. Her flashing eyes and sharp edges reminded me of other exciting ladies of my acquaintance… Mattie Ball of Wessex, Malilella of the Stiletto, Lady Yuki Kashima, Mad Margaret Trelawny. Yes, I never learn. I like the dangerous ones.

‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ the Stationmaster said to her. ‘You’re supposed to be on the Kallinikos. Keeping an eye on Lampros.’

‘Miss Kratides is where I want her to be, James,’ said a voice from the other side of the platform. ‘Keeping an eye on you.’

‘James?’ sputtered Stationmaster Moriarty.

I looked at the Professor, who raised his shoulders in a ‘not me’ shrug.

‘Yes, James,’ said the voice.

Out of the fog stalked Colonel James Moriarty.

We had the full set.

VI

So this is what the Colonel meant by ‘supplies’. Secret weapons. I should have known no Moriarty would spend his life on bully and boots. I still took him for a sickly desk-rider, but he could do damage enough while sitting on his arse.