"You’ll have to pardon our cloak and dagger games. Unfortunately, the threat from our enemies is very real. Over the course of the last three years, they have managed to identify and assassinate several of our key leaders."
"Did the Fraternis Maltae burn your headquarters building?" inquired Hobbs.
"That? No, they are fairly new to the game. The enemy employs a variety of weapons; that one was the work of an Irish Republican bomb." His tone softened to barely a whisper. "Cost us dearly."
"I wonder if any of our old chums are still around," Hurley murmured as they passed through the door and into a hallway that was similarly wrought of coarse and decaying masonry.
Baylor ignored the doors that branched off to either side and advanced instead to the blank wall at the end. Molly wasn't surprised at all when a section of bricks moved smoothly out of their setting and slid away to reveal a secret passageway and beyond it, a cramped stairway descending into the depths of the earth. Their guide took an electric torch from a shelf on the wall and directed its beam into to darkness.
"After the attack on our headquarters, we had to take our operation underground — literally, as you see." Baylor’s voice sounded funereal in the tight enclosure and as she took her turn in the line, Molly had the sensation of stepping into a crypt. The claustrophobic descent seemed to take longer than it really did, but when their guide opened the ordinary looking door at the distant end, the feeling of being in a tomb quickly evaporated; the subterranean lair of the Trevayne Society was more a palace than a dungeon.
Every square inch of the spacious antechamber into which they passed had been richly appointed to resemble a gentleman’s club. The walls were adorned with green velvet wallpaper and oak crown molding, the floors were covered by an enormous and elaborate Persian rug and the room was furnished with oak tables and plush leather chairs, a few of which were occupied by well-dressed men who sat reading newspapers and engaging in muted conversations over snifters of brandy. A couple of the men inclined their heads toward Baylor by way of a greeting, but no one approached the group as they continued through the sitting room and passed through one of the many doors leading out of the salon. Molly watched as her father scrutinized the faces, but if he recognized anyone, he gave no indication.
The adjoining room was nearly as large as the first, but its walls were lined with bookshelves and a roaring fire crackled in the hearth of an enormous fireplace on the wall opposite the entrance. "If you’ll just wait here," Baylor directed, gesturing to the semi-circle of chairs arranged around the fire, "I’ll fetch Sir Reginald. He’s our resident ghost chaser."
Molly hastened to one of the overstuffed chairs. She felt exhausted from the whirlwind journey that had begun with their abduction from the scene of the old Trevayne building and ended here deep beneath the city. The fireside setting was a welcome relief even if she did not entirely trust their savior. Hurley settled in beside her and calmly lit one of his fragrant hand-rolled cheroots, while her father began inspecting the contents of the bookshelves.
The wait was brief. Baylor returned within minutes, unaccompanied and beckoned them to follow. "Sir Reginald has requested you join him at the dig site," he explained as they returned to the main salon and then passed through a different door into and found themselves once more in the rough-hewn subterranean world.
The question was on everyone’s lips, but Molly spoke first. "Dig site?"
"One of our many projects. I’m not really qualified to explain it, but you’ll see presently."
The passage transitioned through a ragged hole into a dark open area that Molly quickly recognized as a subway station. A single trolley car waited empty at the platform. Baylor continued his monologue. "This is a decommissioned tube train stop. We use it to get around the city in discreet fashion."
Unlike the train station, which although finished showed obvious signs of decay, the lone trolley was as richly appointed as the salon had been; the members of the Trevayne Society evidently liked to travel in style. After the small group boarded, Baylor shut the doors and invited them to help themselves to refreshments at the liquor cabinet, then went forward to operate the controls. The car pulled smoothly away and was swallowed up by darkness.
At some point, they joined with the main line of what Londoner’s colloquially called "the Tube," and passed through a number of working stations. Molly could not discern if the locals were surprised to see the elegant private trolley rolling past; the train raced through those stations so quickly that the expressions of commuters standing on the platform were a blur.
A squeal of brakes heralded the end of the journey, not at a station, but rather in the endless night of the tunnel. Baylor secured the controls and then joined his passengers. "We have to walk from here."
In the glow of their guide’s electric torch, they saw that the smooth cylindrical tunnel continued on well past the place where the parallel rails abruptly ended. "This dig site you’re taking us to," Molly said, putting two and two together, "is here underground, isn’t it?"
Baylor’s shadow bobbed against the tunnel wall as he nodded. "The tunnel boring machine uncovered it and eventually the Society was contacted. We arranged for all work on the new line to be postponed until we finish excavating the area for other relics. Not much further now."
True enough, a light appeared at the end of the tunnel. At first it was only a dim gleam, like a distant candle, but after another hundred yards, they saw that the dig site was in fact brightly lit by generator-powered electric lights. Unlike the smooth curved walls of the subway tunnel, a large haphazard cavern had been created as diggers had probed outward in every direction. One wall was damp and a pool of seepage had accumulated at its base, where a sump pump drew the water off and piped it back down the tunnel. Several men were working with hand trowels and other small digging implements in various other locations throughout the chamber, but only one of these — an older gentleman who would have looked distinguished but for his soiled and rumpled coveralls — left off his labors in order to greet the new arrivals.
"Bless my soul, if it isn’t Hurricane Hurley and the Padre. And where is Captain Falcon? Ah, but where are my manners?" He extended a grubby hand, then thought better of the offer and withdrew it. "Reg Christy."
Hobbs scrutinized the other man. "I’m afraid I don’t remember working with you, Sir Reginald."
"Oh you didn’t. I joined the Society long after the Dunwich incident. I doubt you’d recognize anyone here nowadays. The events of the last few years have created something of a void at the top."
"But you recognized us," Hurley protested.
"Ah, that." Christy blushed guiltily. "Truth be told, I’m something of a fan of your exploits. Never miss an episode of The Adventures of Captain Falcon—"
He curtailed his comments immediately when he saw a pained glance pass between the three visitors.
Hobbs finally broke the uncomfortable silence. "Sir Reginald, let me come straight to the point. We are looking for information regarding the Child of Skulls prophecy."
Christy nodded slowly as if in the grip of a dawning revelation.
"You don’t seem too surprised by that," Molly observed.
"Lately, nothing surprises me." He beckoned them to follow. "Let me show you something."
Ignoring Hobbs’ pensive expression, Christy strode to the edge of a large pit, easily twelve feet deep, which occupied the center of the cavern and pointed to the object around which it had been dug. Molly was the first of her group to join him and as such the first to see the artifact.