It was already full dark. The station was lit by three poor lamps.
I nudged Moriarty. He was suddenly alert.
‘None of our fellow passengers are who they say they are,’ he whispered. I’d worked that out for myself, thank you very much. ‘Watch out for the Greek woman in the conductor’s uniform. She has a throwing knife holstered between her shoulder blades.’
That was news. Later, Moriarty would explain how he knew her nationality from the way she buttoned her borrowed trousers or chewed her little fingernail, and I’d pretend to pay attention. It was an impressive parlour trick, but tiresome all the same. The throwing knife gen was useful info, though.
We busied ourselves collecting our belongings. I took care with my gun case, not letting Berkins ‘assist’ me, rather shooing the pest out of the way to try and cadge a tip from someone else. We all descended from carriage to platform.
The mysterious other conductor deigned to step down after us, but slipped into the steam cloud before anyone could try to talk with her. I watched her go, then noticed Madame Valladon also had an eye on her. In silhouette, the conductor’s womanly gait was obvious.
The echt-Belgian zoologist looked away from me, casually. Lucas was still lingering about her, with the air of a near-sighted lion who doesn’t realise the gazelle he’s stalking has a revolver in her handbag. See, I can spot a concealed weapon too.
Sabin collared Berkins and issued instructions for the unloading of heavy trunks which supposedly contained delicate scientific instruments which should not be piled upside down. The conductor could have done with another pair of hands, but his distaff colleague was gone.
The Reverend Doone beamed, and announced, ‘The emanations are strong here. I sense a presence. Discarnate, but welcoming. Can anyone hear me on the astral plane?’
I was more concerned with the earthly plane.
Especially when the Special pulled out of the station, steaming off with a shrill of its whistle. I wondered where the train was going, since this was its only stop — then guessed it had to loop about somewhere before going back to London. Nothing had been said about return travel arrangements.
The engine driver had made haste away from Fal Vale Junction, not lingering even for a pie and a cup of tea. It seemed someone who knew more about this stretch of country than I did was keen not to bide here long. At that, most people with a brain would take fright. I felt a thrill in my water.
In a moment of clarity, I felt every droplet of mist in the night air, heard every tiny sound from the trees. I anticipated danger with a half-sickened, half-excited craving which — I now admit — was close to the hateful love a dope fiend has for the pipe or a drunkard for the bottle. With potential death in the air, I was alive!
Berkins was gone with the Special. As far as I could tell, the woman conductor had not got back on board.
Moriarty strode along the platform, ulster flapping like bat wings, chin thrust out. I wondered if and when he would trouble to take me into his confidence. From experience, I knew he had an idea of what was going on. But frequently it suited him to keep it all to himself, and just tell me when to shoot someone.
Fal Vale Junction was not much of a station. There was a waiting room, with a welcoming open fire and a selection of periodicals on a rack… but it was locked. Out on the platform, without the benefit of the fire, it was freezing. The tearoom was open, in the sense that its door was wedged with a brick… but it was dark and cold. I touched the urn to see if there was still hot water, but it was like ice. Cakes and sandwiches from an earlier decade were on display. Something with teeth and a tail had been in among them and left chew marks and droppings.
‘A warm welcome,’ I commented. ‘I was hoping for one of those famous Cornish clotted cream teas.’
‘Can’t get they yurr,’ Lucas said, guying Berkins.
Outside, the Reverend marched about, sensing things of a spiritual nature. His boots clicked on the flagstones of the platform.
A branch veered off from the line and vanished into a hillside tunnel. A big wheel on the platform worked a set of points which could send trains into this hole. I’d looked up Fal Vale Junction in Bradshaw’s Guide, and not been able to determine where this offshoot ran to. Probably a tin mine, clay pit or unloading dock in Poldhu Cove. Beyond the hill was the coast, which put me in mind of wreckers and smugglers. It wasn’t like Bradshaw to be vague, though. The rails were shiny and well maintained, so the branch was obviously in use.
Moriarty walked nearly to the end of the platform, and peered into the dark as if through a telescope. Could he discern life on some far-distant star? Or was he just fixed on some theoretical point half a mile into the tunnel?
‘I sense a visitor,’ the Reverend said, and stood up straight as if for inspection.
We were all ignoring him now, but he was right. In the dark of the tunnel, a tiny flame burned.
‘It is an apparition of fire,’ Doone announced. ‘We must be calm and receptive. Those who have passed beyond the veil are more frightened of us than we are of them.’
The flame was bigger. No, it was the same size… but coming closer.
Madame Valladon’s hand was in her bag, curled around her revolver, no doubt. She could fire through the seam if she had to.
We watched the light. It bobbed slightly as it advanced.
‘Well met, spirit,’ Doone said, almost singing.
The fake Carnacki touched his fingers to his temples, as if doing a music hall mind-reading act.
‘That is no spirit light,’ Monsieur Sabin declared. ‘It is a railwayman’s dark lantern. There is always, you see, a logical explanation. Have I not proved this? Yes, I have.’
The Frenchman was right.
Now we could see the lantern, swinging from side to side, and make out the man carrying it. He wore a peaked cap, which flashed silver, and a long, black coat.
‘James, is that you?’ the Professor shouted.
‘Yes, James,’ came the answer.
‘Hurry up,’ Moriarty insisted. ‘It’s cold here on the platform.’
‘I’m aware of that. It’s cold here in Cornwall. On winter nights, those tend to be the climactic conditions throughout these isles.’
‘Climatic. “Climactic” refers to a climax or culmination, not the weather,’ the Professor said.
The newcomer shrugged off the correction.
Stationmaster Moriarty trudged along the gravel rail bed and up the incline to the platform, where the Professor waited impatiently. The brothers exchanged beak nods. They walked together towards the rest of us. They shared a stalking gait.
Young James was a Moriarty all right, with piercing eyes behind thin-rimmed spectacles and the beginnings of the family stoop. His face had not yet sunk to the vulture leanness shared by the Colonel and the Professor, but that would come in a few years if nobody hanged him. Walking up to our group, he set down his lantern and took off his cap. He had a fuller, darker head of hair than either of his brothers. He ran his fingers through his locks, probably a sly dig.
‘James, you’re not looking well,’ he said, mildly. ‘The country does not agree with you. You are a city bird.’
‘I say, do you two know each other?’ Lucas asked. ‘I only just realised, same name and all that. Stationmaster Moriarty. Professor Moriarty. You must be father and son?’
At this suggestion, the Jameses made faces as if they’d bitten something sour.
‘They are brothers,’ Sabin said. ‘I am surprised you failed to find that out when you researched our summons here.’
‘Research? Oh I never bother with that. Prejudices the mind. Prods you to premature conclusions.’