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“Fog!” Krishnamurthy spat. “Curse it! That's exactly what wedon't need!”
He heard the chopping of an approaching rotorchair.
“One of your squad, Commander?” Slaughter asked. “He's taking arisk, isn't he?”
“He'll be all right as long as he stays this side of the cordon.We're at the edge of the danger zone. If he flies past us and overthe Strand-” He made a gesture with his hand, indicating somethingplunging downward.
“Hallo! He's landing!” Slaughter cried.
The miasma parted and men ran out of the way as the rotorchairdescended, dropping like a stone and only slowing at the very lastmoment before lightly touching the cobbles and coming to rest. Aman, wearing the Flying Squad uniform and with goggles covering hiseyes, clambered out of the contraption and ran over toKrishnamurthy.
“Hello, sir!” he said, with a salute.
“Hallo, Milligan. What's the news?”
“Not good, I'm afraid. The rioting is most intense to the eastof here, especially around the Bank of England, which is up inflames. As if that's not bad enough, the circle of disorder is fastapproaching the East End.”
“Blast it!” Krishnamurthy whispered. He removed his peaked capand massaged his temples. Once the madness touched the overcrowdedCauldron, all hell would break loose. If the East Enders beganrioting, London would be lost.
“Milligan, gather together the patrols in the north and west andhave them join you in the east. If it becomes necessary, fly lowand use your pistols to fire warning shots at the rioters. Shoot afew men in the leg if you have to! Anything that might hold them atbay for a while.”
“Yes, sir!”
Milligan ran back to his machine, strapped himself in, and, witha roar of the engine, rose on a cone of steam and vanished into thefog. Seconds later, the chopping of the rotorchair's wings suddenlystopped, there was an instant of absolute silence, then the machinedropped straight back down out of the cloud and smashed into theroad.
Krishnamurthy clutched Sergeant Slaughter's arm and looked athim with an expression of shock.
They ran to the wreckage. Constables joined them. The flyingmachine had turned upside down before hitting the ground. Milliganlay beneath it, mangled and dead.
Wordlessly, Krishnamurthy squatted and closed the man'seyes.
“What happened?” Slaughter asked.
“It seems our enemy has expanded the no-flying zone.”
“By the Lord Harry,” the sergeant muttered. “They must realisewe're here.”
Krishnamurthy glanced back toward the Strand. “Damnation!” hesaid under his breath. “Come on, Swinburne! Hurry up!”
Charles Doyle was dead and he knew it.
Only the Russian bitch's force of will was keeping his carcassmoving, his spirit self-aware.
Her words vibrated and throbbed in his mind: “Break free! Castoff your chains! Rise up and overthrow!”
They cut into him, were magnified through him as if he were alens, then radiated outward, receding into the far distance, wherethey touched other astral bodies and were bounced farther on.
If only he could press his hands over his ears, block out thatvoice!
A tiny man with moth wings fluttered in front of his face andsang: “Prepare thyself!”
He tried to bat the fairy away but his hands were either withoutsubstance or too heavy and slow, it wasn't clear to him which.
A part of him coiled and writhed through the atmosphere near theFleet Street end of the Strand, while the other part dragged itselfalong the pavement of Kingsway.
He was overwhelmed by a voracious hunger. It was not for food,nor even for alcohol. No. This rapacious craving was for thefulfillment of life!
For how long had he been tormented by this lack? His entireexistence, it seemed. The opportunities he'd missed or wasted! He'dbeen so cautious, so afraid of making a mistake, that he hadn'tdone anything-instead, he'd escaped into the bottle, and now it wastoo late!
“I had life but I didn't live it!” he wept. “I want it back!Please, don't let me die like this!”
Something registered in his consciousness. There was a figureahead, moving in the thickening fog. He could sense its warmth, itsvitality. There were others beyond it, but this one was close.
A beating heart! Pulsating blood! Life!
He must have it! He must have it!
His corpse lurched forward, the arms reached out, the fingerscurled into claws.
There came a distant shout: “Constable Tamworth! Come back!Don't wander from the group, man!”
Detective Inspector Honesty looked at his pocket watch. It wasten to three in the morning.
He felt weary.
He loved police work, mainly because he was very good at it, butat times like this his mind tended to drift to what he consideredhis true vocation: gardening. In his youth, he'd dreamed ofbecoming a landscape gardener, but his father, one of the originalPeelers, had insisted that his boy follow him into the force andwouldn't hear otherwise. Honesty didn't begrudge the old man'sstubbor
What, though, would his life have been like had he defied hisfather?
He remembered something Sir Richard Francis Burton had told him:that when Edward Oxford, the man they called Spring Heeled Jack,had altered time, original future history had become disco
Did that mean that somewhere, some when, there was a ThomasManfred Honesty, Landscape Gardener?
He hoped so. It was a strangely comforting thought.
It was ten to three.
His watch had stopped.
He shook it and tut-tutted.
Only a couple of minutes had passed, he was sure. The signalwouldn't come for at least another hour.
His men were restless and he was feeling the same way.
In front of the police cordon, Kingsway had faded from sight,obscured by the fog, which was obviously returning to London with avengeance. The shambling figures, visible earlier, were now hidden,which made them seem even more unca
“Dead Rakes,” he muttered, for the umpteenth time. “Damnedpeculiar.”
A constable approached and pointed wordlessly back at the men.Honesty looked and saw three wraiths swirling among them. Thepolicemen were swiping at the ghosts with their truncheons, to noeffect.
“Stop that!” he ordered. “Waste of time! Save yourstrength!”
They desisted, but one of the men looked at him, his facesuddenly contorting with fury, and screamed: “Don't bloody welltell me what to do!”
“Constable Tamworth! At ease!”
“At ease yourself, you little jumped-up poseur! Who are you togive me orders?”
“Your commanding officer!”
“No, mate. I'll follow no one but Tichborne!”
Honesty sighed and turned to another man. “Sergeant Piper,” heordered. “Your truncheon. Back of Tamworth's head. Now!”
Piper nodded and unhooked his truncheon from his belt.
“Not bloody likely!” Tamworth said. He took to his heels andvanished into the fog.
The detective inspector yelled after him: “Constable Tamworth!Don't wander from the group, man!”
A bubbling wail of terror answered him.
Three policemen broke away from the cordon and ran toward thesound.
“No! Menders! Carlyle! Patterson! Come back!”
“He's in trouble, sir!” Carlyle protested before plunging intothe pall.
Honesty turned to the main group and bellowed: “Stay here! Moveand I'll have your guts for garters! Come with me, Piper.”
He gritted his teeth and, with the sergeant, hurried after hismen.