Ghosts in the Making
They ought to have expected the storm, or so they thought. Even the weather-glass can fail if a front gives way on a continent twelve days' sail from their small island. Even the telegraph can falter if that storm spends much of its life in open water, in a civilised age where man still sensibly prefers to pilot his crafts close to shore instead of the circling centre of the Gulf Stream. Even the hardest of gentleman can rely on their broken bone-barometers no better than most of the time.
... ... ... ... ...
"Might have known..." Inspector Gregson groaned as the train shuddered to a crushing halt. Rain blew into the passenger-car through cracks and crevices that he was certain hadn't been there that morning. His teeth would have clacked together from the force of the brakes, had not they been shielded by his excellent Spanish cigar—a cigar nearly bitten in twain. He gulped in horror and reached out, rescuing what was the best smoking of the last thirty days. Wouldn't it be just a perfect thing, he thought bitterly, that the PC's were off having their own smoke outside the car.
Gregson had wanted to save his cigar for later, and not risk breathing in a flying cinder. On the other hand, getting crushed by the weight of four Bobbies in full uniform was an ugly way to meet one's Maker. Gregson had no plans for that meeting—ugly or pretty—just yet.
The floor of the train pitched. It yawed like a fishing boat on the wrong side of a whirlpool. Gregson's big body rocked, barely impressed at the fuss about him. He was big, which was a disadvantage. He was squarish—which was pure advantage. About him people were crying alarms through the cramped hall and in their own compartments. Gregson planted his toes firmly into the boards at his feet and held on, waiting for the waves to cease before he did something.
The floor went to a 45-degree slant, with the window-side tilting down. That was not good. It was at this precise moment the bolted-in bench loosed its moorings—Gregson had time to note the appalling quality of the wood (rotted, veneered over, sending a report to the Rail Police posthaste)-before the whole thing slid, with a screech not unlike iron finger-nails upon a wooden slate—pinning him by his thigh against the sloping wall. His weight added to that of the bench's and pressed into the cheap wallpaper. Gregson held his breath, an instinctive urge to lighten his mass, and hoped the wall was not built on the same strength as the rotting floor.
Gregson had a philosophical view to accidents—accidents happened all the time. It was getting stabbed that roused his cold-blooded ire. Still, he assessed as the train continued to settle, things were not rosy. His leg was growing numb, quickly (blood cut off, now that's not good at all). His other leg was impossible to place for leverage so he could free himself. And even his considerable strength was not up to fighting gravity with a bench that, alas, was made to Rail standards of quality. The wood looked like heavy oak, and the iron was solid cast. The broken nails chewed into the soft rot, making most efficient anchors.
The big man held himself still, and waited. He could hear men, women and children yelling at the top of their lungs to his right—that was further up the train, closer to the engine. He was encouraged at that; the police had taken the back cars from their lower price and because there no one cared if a tired out copper flopped on the floor like a dog and took a nap. His ears knew the sound of human panic, and he knew real panic when he heard it. This wasn't quite real panic. That meant people were more angry about getting jostled about than anything else.
Heavy foot-falls rattled the wood, and a metal-like creaking groan slowly echoed through the train. Gregson was a cool one, but his heart skipped just a little as the train settled backwards by another inch. Something outside made a breaking sound. He could hear running water, and—was that-
Lightning cracked, illuminating the compartment for the briefest flash. Gregson caught his breath as Time suspended. With one of those freakish co-incidences that would be hard to believe later, the hissing lamps by his head went out with the flash, leaving Gregson in a watery grey light.
Yes, that was thunder he'd just heard. Suspicion confirmed, bloody lovely.
Bloody tinker's damn it to hell with it. He pulled out his box of matches.
"Gregson!"
The door sagged upon its frame, and a bedraggled (not to mention wild-eyed) Lestrade hung half-in, holding on to the frame to keep from tilting in the rest of the way. He was missing his hat and coat, and his expensive suit sported a tear in his left shoulder and trouser-cuff. Something had sent his dark hair out of its usual brutal taming with hair-cream, and an untidy lock fell across his forehead against a purpling bruise. He was no beauty on the best of days, and less so now, but Gregson decided he would do for sore eyes.
Lestrade might be slow on the up, but he was never slow at catching his rival in mischief.
"That's a NO SMOKING sign you're leaning against, man!"
"Is it?" Gregson drawled. "I was looking for the NO CRASHING sign. They let you smoke by those." He was already tucking his prizes away. The train lurched again, and gravity asserted itself with more aggression. A whiff of dirty water wafted through the now-web-cracked window glazing. Just as Gregson pulled his hand back out of his pocket, the window finished breaking, CRACK. Shards tinkled against something on their way through space.
"Come on, you big clumsy giant." Lestrade kept his grip with one hand; the other he extended. His dark eyes flashed with even darker fire—as if someone had lit sparking lignite within his brain. "Found him!" He shouted over his shoulder. "Murcher! Get over here! Where's your partner?!"
"Careful, Runt. You'll embarrass us-" The train groaned. "both," he finished hastily.
Lestrade leaned as far into the compartment as he could—which was nearly to the wall. Gregson gripped his gloved hand and together they tried to pull him free. Behind him, Murcher unbuckled his heavy leather belt and clipped it around Lestrade's much-slighter waist, using it as a harness. Murcher's partner—Johns-held on to him far back in the hallway.
"Not...going to work," Gregson puffed. His face felt red and hot from the effort.
"Murcher, let go." Lestrade reluctantly released Gregson and pulled back. Gregson's brows went up as the small man began tugging on his necktie. "Gregson, get ready. We're going to lift up the bench, and they'll tip it over."
"What's the tie for?" Gregson asked rudely.
"So we won't have to touch the back."
Gregson looked, and gulped again. In the excitement, he'd missed an important fact: the backing of the bench was a mass of horrid splinters, longer than a hedgehog's prickles, and nothing near as friendly-looking. Anyone trying to grip the most advantageous side of the bench in order to free him would cripple their own hands.
"Don't worry, it's silk." Lestrade said as if that meant something to Gregson's suddenly worried mind.
"Got it on sale, did you?"
"Don't be silly." Lestrade sniffed, out of temper. The Lignite was sparking in his eyes again. "It's silk, you daft ape. Strong as an iron chain."
"Oh." Gregson tried to salvage the situation. "I don't know why you bother with dressing up, Lestrade. You're always getting mud, blood, or filth on whatever it is you're wearing."
"Humph." Lestrade was too rattled for a good retort, or even a satisfying reaction, and that more than anything told Gregson he was in a bad place.
The small man slid on the soles of his shoes to the opposing wall, on the other side of the window from Gregson, and laid down upon his side to wrap a leg of the bench with an end of the tie. Being the fashionable man he was, his tie was many more inches past the minimum required length. He grunted his satisfaction and passed the other end to Murcher, who was also lying down with Johns holding him stable.
"All right, we're going to get this right the first time." Lestrade said grimly. That didn't sound good either.
The PCs worked to pull the bench away from Gregson. Gregson set his back against the wall and tried to push to the left, Lestrade working to tilt the bench over and away from his leg. Wood groaned. Metal nails, squared for gripping, screeched against the wood. And Lestrade pushed with reckless effort to get the bench away from Gregson.
It happened without warning. Gregson felt the agony of blood flooding his numb leg and the bench cracked over to its side, sending sword-like shards of wood straight up.
After that, things happened quickly. Lestrade pushed Gregson's bigger form upward with all his strength, and Murcher caught him like a child. Murcher yanked, sending Gregson half sailing through the air and into the tilting hallway.
Coal smoke mixed with the boiled water of the steam engine, creating a hellish yellow fog that dripped down the walls like thin paint. The soggy smoke curled and drifted into their eyes, not in the least refreshed by the puffs of cold rain blowing in from outside. A scream from in the distance proved to be the train's whistle, slowly dying as it ran out of steam in the boiler. It was a hellish atmosphere, a London Particular gone utterly mad. A London Particular was a fog that only deafened the senses; this was purer, stronger, and he could feel greasy fingers of fog brushing against his hot cheeks, trailing slime over his skin.
"Let's get out of here!" Lestrade heard someone gasp.
"What about the people-"
"The people are all fine—Bradstreet and Hopkins are taking care of 'em—let's run!"
And they did, one foot on the floor, the other foot on the cracking walls as the train-car finished sinking into a diagonal shape. Rain slashed their faces and froze their cheeks but they ran. Gregson could barely see where he was going, but he lacked the shielding helmet of the Bobbies leading the way. Murcher-rough old Murcher-held his precious Bull's-Eye lantern before him like a Magician's Staff, throwing the choking yellow fog aside.
"Get to the country," the big man joked grimly in his thick Cockney. "'There's less o' the fog in the country, Love,' she said."
Gregson guessed he was referring to his sister-Murcher had no time or inclination for a wife-for which all the women of London were grateful. But his hypochondriac sister more than made up for female interaction.
"Oh, that Richard the Third," Murcher blurted, his accent as thick as his sudden Bow Bells' euphemism for bowel movements.
"No cursing the Royals, Murcher." Johns scolded. It was a bloody awful joke, but better than nothing.
Gregson's leg spasmed in sudden agony, and he fell against the crooked wall-nearly on Lestrade, who yelped and struggled to keep them both upright, keep them both going. A moment later the PC's dropped off the planet, and the ugly grey light took their place.
The Yarders understood Murcher's bad language once they could see.
Someone-and wouldn't they love to know who-had unhitched the coupling between their car and the car right after. It put a large gap between themselves and a decent escape. As if taunting its wounded brother's lack of balance, that passenger car stood neatly with all four sides nicely parallel and upon their rails.
No wonder we were tilting...we didn't have any weight to hold us back! Gregson made a note to file charges against whoever did this...even if he had to make something up. He snarled as Lestrade hopped down into a knee-high mist so thick Gregson didn't see how he knew where his own feet were-and held up his arms for Gregson to lean inside.
Gregson accepted the help. The police knew what to do in a hard patch, and they could always take the mick out of each other later. Lestrade was a runt in size, not in actual strength, and he took Gregson's weight calmly-as Gregson had known he would.
The cloud-cover broke up a bit; grey light flooded the world and rail-timbers echoed under Gregson's feet. A soggy-looking riverbank loomed below the gaps in the track, forty feet straight down.
People were milling about, looking large-eyed and frightened. The wet meadow was a poor shelter, but it was better than inside the trains. More of the oily yellow smoke curled about them, stuffing their noses with the tang of metal and sulphur. Gregson flinched as a second roll of thunder growled over the fields; a flicker of blue-white light sparked against the heavy dishwater clouds, and did he imagine the clouds were gaining speed?
Bradstreet and Hopkins were separate from the civilians. The Rail's men were long used to this sort of thing, to go by their patient weariness as they guided the people to a relatively sheltered slope. They let them do their job, knowing some of those Rail-folk would choke on a spike before they asked for a copper's help.
The Yarders gathered in a muddled-up throng with the rest of their PCs—Gregson was relieved to count all six—and two of the uniformed train-men, who were talking to Hopkins rapid-fire. Hopkins answered in the same language, and Gregson left them to it. The wind whipped up again, making the long lea grasses ripple like ocean waves. Bradstreet had Lestrade's coat and hat. He passed them over with a grimace.
Gregson's leg collapsed. He fell without complaint; he didn't know how he'd managed to run with it at all—and Lestrade bent over, breathing hard.
"I admit it, I'm impressed. You're a brave man." Lestrade's face was now very white as he stared at him. "You've got nerves of frozen iron, Gregson. I don't know anyone could have done better."
"What are-" Gregson began to demand Lestrade make sense, but the PCs were staring past his shoulder. Relcutantly, Gregson turned.
All this time, Gregson had thought it was a broken window passing a foul breeze into his back.
It wasn't a window.
The walls of the train had been as solid as the floor after all.
The big man tried to swallow as he took in the large, Gregson-sized hole in the wall...a hole he couldn't have escaped because the bench had him pinnned in. A few more degrees, and that bench would have popped him out like a mallet sending a croquet-ball through the hoop.
"Just a normal day for the Yard, eh?" He tried to smirk, but even to his own ears, his voice sounded faint.
"Day's not done with bein' normal, gents." Bradstreet rumbled. His nose was cherry-bright and his Derby was crushed in the brim, forcing rainwater to pour down his back. He looked miserable. "The town's too small for everyone to shelter, but Hopkins is getting us permission to bed down in an old barn for the night. It's the best we can do until the storm passes and the rails clear."
Gregson was too exhausted to be picky. If the roof was there, he'd be glad for it.