3. Down Below

Thomas threw the window in his small apartment open and took a deep breath. He was close to one of the botanical gardens, and the morning air was even starting to have some warmth. He would be eternally grateful to Finlay. The man had found an agent who sold the hellhole he'd lived in and in turn, the agent had planted the idea where he could go in his head. Here, in his distant part of the world, they were extending their so far meagre railway network. They wanted to do it fast, the agent had told him, he had a friend who had something to do with it, and surely a man like Thomas could find a niche for himself in such an endeavour.

Thomas had jumped on the opportunity like a man in a desert on an oasis. He had arrived with sketches he'd made on the journey. And then it had all come differently. He'd chatted up an orthopaedist and was now making designs of a completely different nature. He was earning money, his own, not stolen from cold, dead hands. He pushed that thought away. With a sigh, he moved from the window to the mirror and checked his reflection. The scar under his left eye was still ugly and disfiguring, but he was glad that it wasn't more than that. After a few days, his face had been so swollen he couldn't see through his left eye. He'd feared for his sight, but once the swelling had receded, his worry had proven unfounded.

Today, he had for himself. He'd take a walk through the city with its many churches of different confessions and styles, taking in the sheer vastness of it all. Everything here was huge and golden and shining. One day he would leave with an armoury of experiences just his own, with no-one to mar them, to scoff at everything he admired.

Unbidden, he thought of Edith. Oh, she would love this place. He knew this. She had loved London too, when they'd spent their honeymoon there. A dull ache in his soul where his wife used to be made him wonder what would have happened if they'd never gone home.

The thought was moot. He'd been chained to his sister all his life. Only her death had been able to liberate him. Over the past weeks, his grief had turned into a profound sense of relief. It was as if something had been squeezing his chest all his life and only now he could breathe in fully, fill his lungs with the fresh air of this marvellous city that seemed to be out of a fairy tale. He was where Lucille's ghost couldn't follow. She was bound to Allerdale Hall in death as she had been in life. If anyone was foolish enough to live there, they would have to deal with that. Probably, they'd tear down the house. It would be for the best.

Thomas walked past one particularly beautiful church down a steep cobbled road. The individual stones were worn smooth by thousands of feet. If it had rained, he might have ended up in a heap on the ground after some undignified flailing. Even so, the way back up would be laborious. Today, the wound near his heart ached. Not enough to worry him, enough to know he wasn't doing himself a favour. As he reached the end of his descent, his eyes fell on a woman with her blonde hair held up by pins and he froze. Shaking himself, he moved on. Surely, it was just something women did. But then she turned enough to see her profile, and something in Thomas's head stopped working.

He bolted and turned left, running through the first door he saw. Someone shouted after him, but he couldn't stop. Darkness swallowed him and the floor fell away under his feet and Thomas tumbled down what must be a narrow flight of worn stairs.

He gasped for air, winded, and tried to gather his wits. What in the world was wrong with him? Surely, Edith couldn't be here. And if she was, why would he run from her? Shouldn't it be the other way round?

Something closed around his arm and whispered to him, the language similar to that of the natives, but strange and so foreign he couldn't tell where one word ended and the next one began. He tried to back away but found himself against a wall. He had never seen a ghost. Well, Lucille, but he'd been ready to dismiss that as the madness that came with being close to death.

A candle approached him, and fear gripped Thomas's heart until he saw that it was being carried by a monk or priest, almost as broad as the corridor, which said more about the passage than about the monk. His expression was angry, but once he bent down to look at Thomas and saw his pitifully frightened face it softened. He said something in gibberish. The language was difficult at the best of times, considering how briefly he had been here, and right now wasn't anywhere near a good time. Thomas shook his head. 'I … I beg your pardon, I didn't understand you, I'm afraid.'

The monk sighed. 'No place for you. Place for dead.' He had a heavy accent, but by the looks of it, he was happy to use what English he had. He wouldn't often have that chance, most likely.

Thomas struggled to his feet. 'Yes. I noticed.' He blinked, trying to see what had touched him. There was nothing. Nothing at all. 'How do I get out?'

The monk pointed. 'Out there. Come.'

Thomas followed meekly, his eyes adjusting to the dark until he saw what made the path so narrow. 'Well, I'll be,' he muttered. 'Is that … are there mummies here?'

'Told you. Place for dead.'

'You did.'

'Dead people sometimes walk around. Don't like strangers that fall on them.'

Thomas was very certain the monk was pulling his leg and would have a good, hearty laugh once he was back out. But even if the corpses did not walk the dark, something had been there. Ghosts were everywhere.


((This is the first location. How you reach it and what it's like may give it away.))