Moriarty

And then I saw a light flickering about fifty yards away, a candle lit by a match. How could it be? Who had lit it? I staggered to a halt and called out to Jones, a single word. ‘There!’ It was directly in front of us, a tiny beacon surely designed to draw us out of danger. I had no sense of distance, not knowing even where I stood. I was certain that the candle had been placed there deliberately to help us, but even if it had been lit by the devil himself, what choice did we have? Moving faster, hearing the footsteps of our pursuers close behind, we pressed forward. Another gunshot. Again the bullet rebounded off the wall and I felt brick dust stinging my eyes. A shouted profanity. And then something else, still far away, but coming rapidly closer — a huge sound, a heavy panting, the grinding of metal, and I smelled burning. The air around me became warm and moist.

There was an underground steam train heading towards us, making for Snow Hill, the station that Devereux had mentioned. I could not see it but the sound of it was becoming more thunderous with every second that passed. The darkness had become a curtain in front of my eyes and I was desperate to tear it free. I had a sudden terror that I might have strayed onto the railway tracks, that I would set eyes on the locomotive only when it bore me down. But then it turned a corner and although I still could not see it — I was aware only of its immense bulk — a beam of light suddenly engulfed me, illuminating the arches and the vaulted ceiling in such a way as to make them fantastical, not part of a London meat market but some sort of supernatural kingdom inhabited by ghosts and monsters.

Jones stood beside me and we both knew that the train would have revealed us to our pursuers. It was on a track parallel to the passage where we stood, separated by a series of archways, and as it moved forward the light cut in and out, creating a strange effect in which any movement was reduced to a series of still images such as one might see in a Coney Island entertainment machine. At the same time, smoke was belching out of its chimney and steam billowing out of its cylinders, the two swirling together and embracing each other like two phantom lovers. The train itself was a fantastic thing: the closer it came, the more dreadful it seemed and if this were a kingdom then here, surely, was the dragon.

I looked round; I could not help myself. Four men stood behind me and they were very close, having made faster progress than either Jones or I could manage. They were making use of the sudden illumination that had been given to them. The train would pass by in less than half a minute and it was only while its light was pinning us down that they could finish us. I saw them running forward, there one second, invisible the next, in this terrible black and white world with the beam finding its way intermittently through the gaps in the brickwork and the fumes threatening to smother us all.

Jones shouted something at me but I no longer heard the words. Four men suddenly became three. Another had thrown himself forward, impossibly, a fountain of blood erupting from his shoulders. The train was almost upon us. And then a figure stepped out from behind a mouldering brick column. It was the boy Perry, his face lit up in a demonic smile and his eyes ablaze. He ran towards me, lifting a huge butcher’s knife in his right hand. I fell back. But I was not his target. One of Mortlake’s men had crept up on me, had been inches away from me. The boy plunged the blade into his throat, jerked it out and thrust it in again. Blood curtained down, splashing onto his arms. He was close enough for me to hear his high-pitched laughter. His mouth was stretched open, showing bright white teeth. The roar of the locomotive filled my ears and I was no longer breathing air, only carbon and steam. My throat was on fire.

Darkness. The train had rushed by, leaving only the carriages clanking past, one after another.

‘Chase!’ It was Jones calling my name. ‘Where are you?’

‘Here!’

‘We must get out of this charnel house.’

The candle was still flickering. We made for it, unsure what we were leaving in our wake. I thought I heard the soft thud of a bullet finding its target, not a revolver but some sort of airgun. And the boy was there too. I heard a scream followed by a terrible gurgle as his blade cut through flesh. Somehow, Jones and I linked arms and, choking, with tears streaming from our eyes, we ran forward, aware that the ground was indeed sloping upwards, and more steeply with every step. We reached the candle and saw that it had been deliberately placed at a corner. Looking round it, we saw the moonlit sky. A flight of metal stairs led to an opening. With the last of our strength, we staggered forward and climbed into the faint light of dawn.