Disturbing the Devil: An Underwood and Flinch Stand-Alone Short Story (The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles) Read online

  The Underwood and Flinch Chronicles

  Disturbing the Devil

  By Mike Bennett

  Copyright Mike Bennett 2015

  All rights reserved by the author.

  Cover design by M.J. Hahn.

  “The forthcoming end of the world will be hastened by the construction of underground railways burrowing into the infernal regions and thereby disturbing the devil.”

  ~ Reverend John Cumming

  Disturbing the Devil

  Ben Flinch felt decidedly uncomfortable travelling on the Metropolitan Railway. Disturbing the devil – that’s what Cumming had called it, and there were many who shared his view. The underground railway even smelled like Hell, or at least what Hell was supposed to smell like: acrid, sulphurous, the very essence of fire and brimstone. Now, as he and Lord Underwood descended the stairs to Baker Street station, Ben wrinkled his nose at the breeze that drifted up from the platform below. The Metropolitan, the world’s first subterranean railway, had been built to take pressure off the traffic-constricted streets of London. An incredible achievement of Victorian engineering, it ran for almost four miles under London from Paddington to Farringdon Street. However, heaving as the streets were with horses, carts, hansom cabs and omnibuses – not to mention all manner of roiling, toiling, boiling humanity – Ben would have opted for the over ground fray any day, for that was where the living were supposed to be; there was plenty of time to be under ground when you were dead.

  It was February 1863, the Metropolitan had only been open for barely a month and was still very much the talk of the town. On a freezing night like this, its hell-warmed catacombs were all the more inviting to people trying to traverse the city in reasonably timely fashion, and one of them was Ben’s master, the vampire Lord Underwood. He was a few steps further down the stairs than Ben, his top hat dusted with freshly-fallen snow. Underwood knew Ben’s feelings about the Metropolitan only too well, and now he turned back and grinned at him, his amusement not obscured by his mutton chop whiskers. ‘Come along, Flinch, don’t tarry. We’ve a train to catch.’

  ‘They come along pretty frequent, don’t they, Milord? There’s no need to hurry.’

  ‘On the contrary, my lad, there’s every need to hurry. We’re meeting Madam Sayonovich, and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

  ‘Oh, well, we wouldn’t want to upset the great medium, now would we, Milord? It might put a wobble in her aura.’ Ben, a 21-year old Londoner, had a tendency to plain speech that was unbefitting of his position due to a lack of proper training; he hadn’t been expected to take on the position of guardian to Underwood quite so soon – if ever. However, since his two older brothers had both had their careers as guardian brought to a premature end – one in the Crimea, the other in the American Civil War – Ben, suitably trained or not, had been the next in line.

  Underwood had returned from the American war in a weary and jaded condition; while the vampire had an appetite for adventure, and generally enjoyed the smokescreen that war provided for his murderous activities, the Civil War had been too traumatic even for him, and the loss of Ben’s brother, Joseph, had been the last straw. Underwood had come home looking for a prolonged period of peace and recreation, and he had no desire to see another Flinch boy cut down in his prime. It was perhaps for this reason that, rather than chiding Ben for his inappropriate observations, he secretly enjoyed them.

  With his back still to Ben, he smiled. ‘Now, now, Flinch, don’t be cynical. She has a rare gift. And anyway, Daventry and West are going to be there, and we’re all going out for drinks afterwards. They say they have news about the East London Railway, the one that’s to go under the Thames.’

  ‘What, they’re gonna start running trains under the river? That’s blooming madness!’

  ‘Nonsense! We’ve been under the river for years now, thanks to Mr Brunel. It’s his tunnels they’re planning to use.’

  ‘You mean that horrible pedestrian tunnel that no one dares set foot in?’

  ‘That’s the one. The Eighth Wonder of the World they called it in its day. Do you know, I attended a dinner down there before it opened, way back in the 1820s? It was for shareholders and other V.I.P.s. Very posh, despite the cloying chill.’

  ‘What, you’ve got shares in that thing?’

  ‘I had shares in that thing, yes.’ Underwood corrected. ‘I sold them years ago. Which was a mistake as it turns out because, as I say, the East London Railway are now planning to convert it into a railway tunnel. But it all evens out because I now have shares in the East London Railway.’ He laughed as they came out onto the platform.

  ‘Swings and roundabouts, eh, Milord?’ Ben fanned his hand in front of his nose, ineffectually trying to waft away the acrid smell of burnt coke. A train had recently departed, leaving a dissipating swirl of white cloud trailing into the westbound tunnel.

  ‘Yes, you win some, you lose some, but the Metropolitan Railway is most definitely a winner.’ Underwood took a luxuriant breath in through his nose and sighed. ‘Ah, smell that, Flinch: the heady fragrance of raw capital.’

  ‘Yeah, they need more ventilation shafts down here, don’t they. People can’t breathe for the smell of raw capital.’

  ‘Oh don’t talk rot, didn’t you read that article in the newspaper recently that said asthmatics are coming down here solely to enjoy the invigorating atmosphere? Apparently it’s like a health elixir.’

  ‘That weren’t no proper article, Milord, more likely a made-up story paid for by the Metropolitan Company. I’ve a friend who works on the railway, and he said the workers call your health elixir “choke damp”.’

  ‘“Choke damp”,’ Underwood chuckled. ‘Charming.’

  Ben pushed his hands in his pockets and looked around the crowded platform. At night, the station was lit by lines of suspended gaslight spheres that glowed through the smoke that was now slowly snaking into the ventilation shafts. His eyes followed the vaulted roof over to the platform opposite, which was already starting to fill with passengers awaiting the next train. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘there’s no denying its popularity.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Underwood. ‘Good old Daventry and West did me proud on this one.’

  Ben nodded. ‘Don’t they always, Milord?’

  ‘Pretty much, yes, they have an eye for a sound investment. It’s part of what I employ them for – what I’ve always employed them for.’

  Daventry and West: the brass plate on the wall beside the front door of their offices said “solicitors”, but that was just for appearances, for their business – exclusively devoted to Underwood’s interests – was so much more. Solicitors, administrators of the Sect and, perhaps most importantly to Underwood, financial advisors. It was they – or rather their great, great grandfathers – who had advised Underwood on how to invest his treasure upon his return from the New World. Daventry had been a solicitor, and West a financial advisor. In keeping with the prevailing wisdom of the time, West had advised Underwood to invest his money in the South Sea Company, but Underwood – fortuitously, as things turned out – declined the advice due to the company’s connection with the slave trade. West had therefore suggested something far more durable; something which, at the time, had suited Underwood’s needs far better: land. Underwood bought various properties in London, but more significantly, he had also bought land in the then villages of Knights Bridge, Chelsea and Pimlico to name a few. As London had expanded ever outwards, consuming surroun
ding villages into itself, Underwood’s fortune had grown beyond the dreams of avarice.

  ‘How long’s it been then, sir?’ asked Ben.

  Underwood looked up from inspecting the rail tracks. ‘What?’

  ‘You and Daventry and West.’

  ‘Oh, golly. Over a hundred and fifty years, now. Though obviously not the same chaps.’

  ‘Yeah. It must be weird, the way you see them change from generation to generation.’

  ‘No more weird than it is to see your family change from generation to generation, Flinch.’

  ‘Well, yeah. That must be the weirdest of all.’

  Underwood leaned out over the edge of the platform and peered expectantly into the black hole of the tunnel. ‘One gets used to it. It’s all part of being immortal.’

  ‘I dunno if I could, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get used to it.’

  ‘Oh? You prefer the thought of death, do you?’

  ‘No, not especially, I just don’t think I could get used to seeing my friends growing old and dying all around me all the time, you know what I mean?’

  Underwood straightened, put his hands behind his back, and gave a dismissive sniff.

  ‘It’d be depressing, you know?’

  Underwood gave no further sign of interest in the topic and as if to illustrate as much, he took out his pocket watch and thumbed it open. With only a cursory glance at the inscription on the inside cover, he checked the time and muttered, ‘Come along, train. Don’t keep us waiting.’

  ‘Maybe they’re running late, sir.’

  ‘Late? Unthinkable, Flinch!’ Then Underwood gave a mysterious sigh of contentment. ‘Ah.’

  Ben saw the curled and stiffly waxed ends of his master’s copious moustache rise on the corners of his smile. He knew that this was because Underwood’s ears could hear before everyone else the sound of an approaching engine. A full ten seconds or so passed before Ben was also make out the distant rumble. He looked into the tunnel and saw a growing point of light. ‘’Ere she comes, Milord.’

  ‘Yes, and right on time, I’ll wager.’ He was about to make a comment about the company’s efficiency when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He was being watched: not casually observed or admired from afar; this was a warning signal of ill intent directed specifically at him.

  Nonchalantly, he turned, as if looking round for an absent friend. The platform was crowded with many faces, all of them preoccupied with their own thoughts; except for two men, who were looking straight at him. As his eyes met theirs they both looked away immediately, feigning the same indifference as everyone around them. Underwood took advantage of their sudden coyness to scrutinize their appearance. There was nothing remarkable about them, they looked much the same as most of other men on the platform: mustachioed, behatted, wearing simple suits as might befit a hundred city professions. But in the fraction of a second that he’d seen it, Underwood had spotted something about one of the men that sent a ripple of disquiet through him. The man had been wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, and on his finger, Underwood had spotted a silver ring. It bore the sign of what looked like a black cross. It unsettled him; he’d seen such a ring somewhere else recently, but where? As the roar of the train began to reverberate through the station, he turned to face forwards again, his expression troubled.

  McKinley and Harris had been on the eastbound platform since nightfall. They each had train tickets in their pockets, but neither had any intention of travelling. They were here following two separate sightings of a man who, if their information was to be believed, was the master of a network of Satanic covens that spread throughout the British Isles. This network was known to them only as the Sect, and its master as the Lord. This “Lord” was said to be more than just a powerful black magician; he was venerated by the Sect as a fallen angel; a demon who had taken human form, and a devourer of living human blood – a vampire. When Harris and McKinley had been chosen to investigate the sightings, neither had balked, though both prayed there was no truth in them; and tonight, after two hours of watching Londoners come and go through this smoky cavern, both men had been guardedly optimistic that this might be the case. Then, Harris had seen him. He was just as the description had stated. Harris took out the drawing that both he and McKinley had copies of, a hand-drawn sketch copied from an oil painting. Yes, it was him. And there, in his wake, followed the young man, his servant; not a demon, but a human who guarded him.

  Harris watched in frozen dread as the two of them walked past him, close enough almost to touch, before then passing though the milling passengers to wait at the edge of the platform. He turned to look for McKinley and saw him several feet away facing in the opposite direction. He hurried over and took him by the upper arm, moving in close and whispering in his ear, ‘He’s here.’

  McKinley turned, his face afraid. ‘What? Are you sure?’

  ‘As sure as I am of my own face in the mirror.’

  Harris stepped aside, steering McKinley to face where Underwood and Flinch now chatted casually at the edge of the platform. ‘There. See him? The tall one talking to the blond fellow – the guardian.’

  McKinley took out his copy of the sketch and compared it to the man Harris had indicated as he now turned in the direction of the tunnel. There was a resemblance, but nothing striking. ‘We have to be sure.’

  ‘I am sure! He passed not four feet in front of me. Come on, this is our chance.’

  ‘Chance? Chance for what?’

  ‘We can get behind him and push him in front of the train.’

  ‘Are you insane? We can’t just kill a man just because he looks like someone in a drawing. Our orders are simply to follow and observe.’

  ‘I tell you, it’s him, McKinley! The Lord. The vampire.’

  ‘Well if he is a vampire, pushing him in front of a train won’t do any good, will it.’

  ‘It’d decapitate him. That’d do for him, same as it would for anyone else.’

  ‘Yes, and it’d do for us too; we’d be hanged for common murderers. You might be ready to swing on the basis of a hand-drawn likeness, but I’m not. No – we do as Christie said. We follow him, observe, and we report back, that’s all.’

  Harris sighed through gritted teeth. ‘All right. But if he attacks anyone … ’ he patted his chest, reassured by the shape of the revolver beneath his coat, ‘I won’t hesitate.’

  ‘And neither will I. Come on. Let’s get closer. Try and get a better look at him.’

  They edged their way through the crowd, stopping when they were standing a short distance behind their quarry, and just in time to hear Ben Flinch say, ‘Here it comes, Milord.’

  McKinley turned to Harris, who nodded and mouthed the word “milord” back at him. The rumble of the approaching train grew louder. From the tunnel, the glow of its lantern shone like the eye of an oncoming monster. McKinley dabbed at his brow with his handkerchief. He turned back – only to see the Lord looking straight back at him over his shoulder. Quickly, he averted his eyes.

  Then, wreathed in a cloak of billowing steam and smoke, the gleaming green engine burst from the tunnel. The novelty of the new railway hadn’t yet worn off on Londoners, and some passengers greeted it with a cheer. The engine driver and his fireman, their faces shiny with sweat and soot, returned the smiles and salutations as they rolled past. McKinley chanced a glance back in the direction of the Lord to see that like everyone else, his attention was now on the train. He felt a wave of relief and closed his hand tightly around the crucifix in his pocket.

  The train eased to a halt and Underwood led the way along the platform to the First Class carriage. Without turning, he said to Ben, ‘I say, Flinch. Don’t look now, but I think we may have company.’

  ‘Company, Milord?’

  ‘Yes. Couple of chaps, very interested in the back of my head. As I say, don’t look now. If my guess is right, you’ll be able to get a good look at them soon enough.’

  At the
first class carriage, Underwood removed his hat and held open the door to allow a lady to exit before getting aboard. Ben followed him inside. The carriage was about eight feet wide and plushly furnished. Two long, red cushioned seats faced each other about three feet apart; the walls and the inside of the door were similarly cushioned. Underwood and Flinch sat down facing each other next to the windows on the far side of the carriage. Ben was about to speak but Underwood gave him a look and a minute shake of his head. From the platform, Harris and McKinley followed them into the compartment and closed the door. They avoided any eye contact. Even when Underwood greeted them with a casual ‘Good evening,’ they mumbled the same in reply, while seating themselves next to the windows at the opposite side of the carriage.

  Ben raised a questioning eyebrow to Underwood, whose moustache rose indicating a bewhiskered smile. From outside, the station master’s whistle sounded, and Ben glanced over at the newcomers as the train began to move. They were both looking pointedly out of the window, and neither of them looked in any way threatening. He looked back to Underwood, doubtful. With his hands in his lap, Underwood tapped his ring finger, and as the train moved into the tunnel, Ben glanced over again and saw that both men wore a ring. By the light from the single gas jet on the ceiling, Ben was able to make out the cross or t-shape on the ring of the man nearest him. His eyes widened: he recognised it immediately. He turned back to Underwood, who then announced cheerfully to the others, ‘Frightful evening, what?’

  The men continued to gaze silently at the blackness that slid past the windows.

  ‘I say,’ said Underwood, a little louder in case he hadn’t been heard above the roar of the engine echoing in the tunnel. ‘It’s a frightful evening, isn’t it, what with the snow and all that. They say it’s in till the end of the week.’

  Still the men made no reply, but Ben saw them exchange a nervous glance.

  ‘Parlez vous anglais?’ asked Underwood. ‘Sprechen Sie Englisch?’

  When his words met with no response, Underwood sat back and raised his eyebrows at Ben, who shrugged. They sat in silence as the train rumbled on through the darkness until they emerged into the bright lights of Portland Road station, where Underwood said, ‘Well, maybe we’ll get some more sociable companions here, eh, Flinch?’