The Black Museum

Prologue-2

The break in the rhythm of his spell casting allowed him to go over what he had already written – patience had never been one of his virtues – but this was, without doubt, the most crucial act he had ever undertaken. Because he knew exactly how much blood, to the drop, that the disgusting thing, lying before him had spilt, and how many lives it had ruined, he agonised over every breath and mark he had made. Finally, he was content.

He walked around the body seven times, occasionally stopping to turn and face the wall, and then opened the door that led out onto the platform and let the night in to be his witness.

“Get up, you miserable wretch; you are not completely dead – yet!”

His voice was powerful and robust. He was not a man to be trifled with under any circumstances. When the reply came from underneath the shroud, it was full of spite and anger.

“I am the Captain of the Night! Release me, or you will answer for that!”

The Blind Beak just laughed.

“I will call you wretch, cur, begotten whoreson, bastard and butcher, and any other title I deem fit for one such as you, get up you murderous black beast, get on board! You are departing for a place where time does not exist and where you will fall forever, and you will know such pain and suffering; it will be unlike anything you could ever dream of. Rise now, Captain of nothing.”

Captain of nothingInvisible hands lifted the body on the table, and ripped away the shroud covering it. The Captain’s eyes opened, and he saw, at last, his tormentor.

“The Blind Beak of Bow Street! How I wish that our paths had crossed sooner. You are the champion of these magical infidels; they are all scum and black-hearted scoundrels. Invaders and parasites are what they are, and you, you weak-minded fool, are a traitor to your own race. Your desire to live in harmony with them will be the undoing of our kind. You are the black poison of fake liberty!”

His was a handsome yet cruel face. A broad brow sat atop a sharp nose, and his cheekbones were high. His hair was jet-black and shoulder-length, and his eyes were cold. There was no white in them, and his eyelids never flickered or moved. The Blind Beak shook his head sadly, and then he answered.

“These magical infidels, as you call them, were here long before us, you fool; they knew this land when it was still raw and unspoilt, and their old magic will be the platform from which we will build tomorrow’s science. Your ignorance is astounding but not unexpected. It’s just a damned shame that you killed so many innocents before fate finally caught up with you. I hear your words, Captain of the Night, and I despair, for they are worthless and hollow. I grow tired of you now, and it is time for you to go into the void, now move!”

magical infidelsCaptain of the NightThe spell that the Blind Beak cast was mighty. The invisible hands grabbed the Captain by the scruff of the neck and threw him across the room; he landed on the floor, a few feet from the open door. The shroud was gone, and the Blind Beak saw that he was much wounded, but he was not still – or quiet like all evil and desperate creatures.

“How can you live cheek by jowl with these things, Beak? Can you not see that they are all evil, always watching and waiting? They call themselves the Under Folk; does that not tell you where they have come from? They are from the Pit! Devils and demons, all of them, corrupting everything they touch, consuming our knowledge and then using it against us. Faeries, ghouls, water-sprites, earth spirits, witches, giants, enchanted beasts and goblins and gnomes – rats and worms more like! A pestilence and a foul blight on the good works of your fellow man, Beak! I shall escape from whatever place you imprison me in, and I shall return, and when I do, I shall burn every magical being to black ash and cast their remains into the deepest well I can find!”

Under FolkThe Blind Beak shook his head again, tapped his ferrule on the ground once more and then casually flicked the shroud into the fire with his cane. Fires are always hungry, but this one almost spat the foul rag out again. The sudden flare of light from the fire illuminated the Captain’s handsome and yet hideous face, but the Blind Beak of Bow Street was not swayed or remotely concerned with his prophesising.

“The Captain of the Night! Hah! Scourge of the Under Folk and champion of man! I shall tell you now of your true nature, and the understanding of it will be the eternal fire that burns you from within, forever. Have you ever wondered where your formidable strength comes from? Did you ever think about how you are so fleet of foot and how pain never comes to call on you? The darkness is daylight to you, isn’t it, Captain? You can also hear and understand languages, long since gone from this world.”

A potent and powerful seed of doubt was growing inside the Captain’s mind. A thought had taken root there, and its unpalatable truth was spreading fast. The Blind Beak saw the uncertainty that was spreading across the scarred face in front of him, and he decided that now was the time to hammer in his final nail. The Blind Beak took one step towards the Captain; he could smell him now, canals full of dirty water, decay and the flotsam and jetsam of the dying were wrapped up in the stench of the dirtiest abattoir. All his foul deeds were concentrated in that stink, and the Blind Beak felt the slow, cold creep of guilt; he wished then and there that he had acted more quickly and saved more than he had. When this was all over, he would look deeper into the eyes of his reflection and pass judgement on himself.

The Blind Beak moved even closer, and he allowed his lips to brush the Captain’s cheek. Then, he began to whisper into the Captain’s ear, and the words crept inside, and they began to do their vicious work. The fire in the hearth watched on, but it had grown tired, and it pulled in its feathers of flames and settled down to sleep. The lamps on the wall followed suit and doused themselves, and then the room turned to silver, illuminated only by the intense rays of the Moon.

The Blind Beak finished speaking and moved away to the other side of the room. He watched his enemy, and he knew that his words had done their work.

The Captain of the Night began to tremble on the floor. Spasms that came in ripples across his cold white flesh made his muscles twitch uncontrollably, and then a sound from deep down inside that scarred body seeped out and crawled across the floor towards the feet of the Blind Beak. It was a sob at first; then it became a low moaning thing, and then finally, the notes of despair sounded loud and long inside that darkened room and became words.

“Never! That cannot be true; you speak falsely, Beak; there is not a shred of truth in anything that you say. You may stand above me now, but I will return, and I will butcher you, your champions and all of my enemies!”

The Blind Beak had rubbed his salt into the Captain’s many wounds, and he would have liked to have made the foul creature pay for his crimes some more, but he had had enough of this conversation, and he wished to be somewhere far away, somewhere clean. He had destroyed this creature now, so he just waved the Captain from the room with a flick of his wrist. The body obeyed, and it floated across the platform, followed closely by the Blind Beak.

The Captain’s wailing continued as he was secured inside a worm-raddled coffin and locked up inside the freight carriage. More wards and binding spells were drawn on the coffin lid in what was left of the white chalk by the Blind Beak, and then he stepped inside compartment number one and made himself comfortable. The chime of his pocket watch sounded 9, and then, with a jolt, the engine of the London Necropolis grunted twice and pulled itself away from Platform number 1 and made its way to the London Burial Ground.

Management and the station controller had given Frank strict orders to complete the run as quickly and as safely as was humanely possible. Then, after the Blind Beak had finished his business inside the Burial Ground, he was to be taken back to the London Necropolis terminus and from there to Bow Street by horse-drawn carriage.

“Do not talk to him, ask him the time of day or offer him a brew from your flask, Frank. Just stay inside your cabin and use your common sense if anything unusual happens,” said the station controller.

Forty-nine minutes later, the train approached the last stop on the line. On any other day, 49 minutes would have beaten all records and would be celebrated, but this journey would not be recorded in any journal or ledger, this trip had never taken place, and Frank was to forget that it had ever happened. The five-guinea sweetener they had popped in his pocket before he left for the yard would help to secure the delayed bout of amnesia. Regardless, Frank was relieved when his engine finally came to a halt. Nothing untoward had happened on the way. The train and its driver had performed their duties well, and the honour of the London Necropolis Line had been upheld. This was the last stop – for everyone. This was the London Burial Ground.

The safety lanterns that marked the end of the tracks had been lit and hung on the emergency barriers, and there was also a welcome glow from inside the station’s waiting room, but sadly, there was no human welcome to accompany it. The station was empty. The train hissed once, loudly, and then produced a massive cloud of steam that rolled across the platform and hid the people’s faces on the advertising posters from sight. The smoke then drifted away into the night and the children holding their warm cups of cocoa, and the doctors, with their catch-all cures for hair loss and housemaid’s knee, returned. At the head of the train and from the relative safety and toasty warmth of his cabin, Frank watched the Blind Beak alight, go into the freight carriage and then emerge minutes later with a small trolley. The Captain’s coffin was secured to it, and for a second or two, Frank thought that he heard something howling. He removed his cap and wiped his face with it, not realising how hot he had become. By the time he had placed his hat back on his head, the Beak had disappeared into the darkness.

Hell’s Plot was at the very back of the burial ground. The removal of the remains of the dregs of society from the graveyards in the city had forced the estate managers to rethink the layout of the burial ground entirely. Their plans to create another crescent of crypts and the addition of a bandstand so that the mourners might be entertained, modestly and respectfully, of course, had all been put on hold. The land that had been earmarked for these improvements had been made available instead to the Secret Burial Committee and the special advisors from the Church and the Police. It was hard, rocky land, damp in places and prone to flooding and erosion, and in other areas, it was shot through with strata of granite and shale. It was terrible land, perfect for bad people.