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“Oh, bugger off, you ridiculous ass,” the detective snarled. Hedodged the Rake's blade and swung his truncheon into the side ofthe man's head.
The dandy staggered and protested: “Rotten show, old man!”
The detective hit him again, sending him to his knees.
“Really! This isn't at all cricket!”
“Shut the hell up,” Trounce hissed, and bashed his attacker'sskull in. The Rake folded onto the cobbles and twitched weakly.
Detective Inspector Honesty emerged from the fog and nodded agreeting. Trounce returned it and warned: “Watch behind you!”
Honesty twisted and ducked under a blade. The Rake holding itwas a badly moldering cadaver, perhaps one of the first to die. Itstank, and when the Scotland Yard man punched it hard on the chin,its head simply fell off and split on the cobbles like an overripemelon. The body toppled after it.
Honesty turned away, his nose wrinkled in disgust.
“Where's Swinburne?” Trounce asked.
“I don't know.”
“Was the signal given early?”
“Yes. One of my men panicked.”
“Blast!”
“My fault.”
“I doubt it. Don't blame yourself. Can we hold them off until hearrives?”
“No choice. Burton's depending on it.”
Trounce grunted his agreement, stepped away from his fellowofficer, gripped the handle of his truncheon with both hands, andswiped it into the ear of an attacking Rake. The corpse stumbledand fell. The detective stepped onto its chest, heaved himselfover, and swung his weapon upward into the chin of another deadman. The head snapped back, came forward, and was met by a crushingblow to the forehead. The Rake grabbed at the detective's arm butmissed, and the truncheon came arcing back and impacted against thecarcass again. Bone shattered.
“Lie-” Trounce grunted, putting his full strength into a fourthblow “-down!”
The Rake tottered, swayed, and fell.
There was a loud smack and fragments of flesh, bone, and hairshowered over the Scotland Yard man. He looked back in time to seea headless body fall. Constable Lampwick stood beyond it, bloodiedtruncheon in his hand.
“Sorry, sir,” he said. “It was about to jump on you.”
“Much obliged. I'll send you the laundry bill in themorning.”
The constable smiled, grimaced, clutched his head, raised hisweapon, and yelled: “Not guilty! Tichborne has been cheated, youbastard!”
He swung his club at Trounce's head. The detective yelled,dodged backward, fell over the corpse he'd just downed, rolled,jumped to his feet, and threw his truncheon. It hit Lampwick squarebetween the eyes and the man collapsed, unconscious.
“I'm sorry, son.”
Honesty, meanwhile, had scooped up a second weapon, and, with atruncheon in each hand, was ducking under clutching hands, swipingat kneecaps, and crippling his opponents. Five of his men, stayingclose to him, were then finishing the job by flattening heads.
It became a routine, almost rhythmic: dodge-duck- Smack! Smack!-pulverise. Dodge-duck- Smack! Smack! -pulverise.
“Winter jasmine,” Honesty declared. “Very cheerful.”
Dodge-duck- Smack! Smack! -pulverise.
“And maybe wisteria. A good climber for the back fence.”
Charles Altamont Doyle's astral body drifted through the fog andmingled with Commander Krishnamurthy's men. Some took a swing athim, which didn't affect him at all, while others seemed to hearthe voice that reverberated through what little essence hepossessed. “Rebel!” it urged them. “Turn against your oppressors!”They put their hands to their heads, winced, and assaulted theirfellows. Fights broke out.
The other part of Doyle was at the junction of the Strand,Aldwych, and Lancaster Place, at the end of Waterloo Bridge.Despite having a dent in his cheek where a truncheon had caughthim, he still moved and he still hungered. He could not resist hisappetite; others had life, and he wanted it!
A policeman charged at him and slashed at his forehead. Doyleshifted and the weapon thudded down onto his shoulder. He feltnothing, though he heard his collarbone crack. He clutched hisattacker's wrist and slammed his other hand into the man's elbow,which snapped with a nasty crunch. The policeman let loose ascream. Doyle released the arm and wrapped his fingers around theman's neck. He started to squeeze. The scream gurgled intosilence.
“Give me your life!” Doyle moaned. “Please!”
At the edge of Trafalgar Square, Commander Krishnamurthylistened to the growing sounds of battle and made a decision. Heordered his men to advance.
From the north and south sides of the Strand, smaller policeteams also responded to the intensifying conflict and moved intothe fog.
Tock!
Krishnamurthy's truncheon bounced from the back of a constable'sskull. It was the fifth of his men he'd had to personally renderunconscious.
There were wraiths everywhere, and the Flying Squad man couldfeel them digging into his mind, trying to wheedle their way insideto take control. His headache was almost overpowering.
“Do your duty, old son!” he advised himself. “Don't give in tothese bloody spooks.”
Despite the steady loss of men, he still had a reasonably sizedforce at his command, and he was leading them at a steady pacetoward the end of Lancaster Place.
Now Rakes, as well as wraiths, began to appear out of themiasma, and combat became rather more deadly. Five men went downbefore the Flying Squad commander realized that not a single pistolwas functioning. The only way to beat the walking corpses was toobliterate their heads. He yelled the order, and a few momentslater gore was spraying everywhere.
Krishnamurthy forgot his headache as he started to exactvengeance for Milligan's death.
Amid the carnage, as his team penetrated deeper into the battlezone, he caught sight of Trounce, who was laying about himself likea wild man, and Honesty, who was industriously crippling theshambling monstrosities.
Krishnamurthy realised that the three main groups of policemenhad made it to the rendezvous point as pla
Swinburne was supposed to be here. The opposition should be onits back foot by now. The police were meant to be in control of thesituation.
They weren't.
“Hold fast,” he breathed. “Just hope the poet shows up.” Helashed out at a Rake and muttered: “A poet, by crikey! A blessedpoet!”
Detective Inspector Honesty strode past, brandishing hisweapons.
Krishnamurthy clearly heard his superior bark: “Petunias.”
“Did you say Tichborne, sir?” he asked.
“No, Commander. Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give them hell.”
Krishnamurthy nodded and winced. His head was filled withpain.
“Excuse me,” said a refined voice. He turned. A Rake stoodbeside him. “How does it work, old bean?”
The commander stepped back. “What?”
The Rake, not long deceased by the look of him, said: “The thingof it is, you have life. Unfortunately, I don't. Regrettably, thatmeans I have to take yours. What I can't bally well work out iswhere to look for it after I've run you through.” He showedKrishnamurthy his rapier. “Can you advise?”
The Flying Squad man eyed the sword point, which was poisedabout three inches from his face.
“Um-”
The Rake's head flew apart, the rapier dropped, and the bodyfolded.
“This isn't a bloody debating society, Commander!” Trouncegrowled, standing over the prone corpse. He wheeled and stalked offinto the mist, shouting orders and encouragement to his men.
Krishnamurthy watched him go. “Snooty bastard,” he muttered.
Dodge-duck- Smack! Smack! -nothing.
Honesty straightened and looked around. His five-strong team ofhead-pulverisers had been set upon by a large group of Rakes. Theconstables were fighting for their lives.