“The Supernatural Crimes, Rescues, Emergencies and Mysteries squad is not your typical police unit,” Charley explained to their visitor.
“You can say that again,” said Sir Gordon Balfour. The underground vault in which they sat was vast and echoing. As well as the tombs of long-dead knights and forgotten saints which Sir Gordon expected to find in the crypt of London’s most famous church, there were also rows of wooden cabinets labelled alphabetically. Sir Gordon read some of the labels: Abominations (various); Apparitions; Banshees; Bloodsuckers; Burrowers; Crawlers; Crypt spirits (clean); Crypt spirits (unclean); Darklings; Demons; Devil’s footprints (sightings). Sir Gordon’s scalp itched and sweat broke out across his face in spite of the chill of the tomb. “Couldn’t we have met in my club instead?”
“I thought you’d be right at home,” chipped in Billy. “What with you being a famous archaeologist.”
Sir Gordon squirmed a little in his seat. “My, er, role was more of a leadership position.”
Charley raised an eyebrow. “Did you go into the mummy’s tomb at all?”
“I was supervising.”
“Sounds like hiding to me,” sniffed Billy.
“I didn’t come here to be made a fool of!” Sir Gordon protested, his podgy hands slamming down on the table.
“Where do you normally go?” asked Billy, all innocent. His grin dropped when Charley’s small hard fist punched his leg under the table.
“Please ignore my partner, Sir Gordon,” purred Charley, her educated voice ringing like fine crystal compared with what poured out of Billy’s bucket mouth. “His whole family are criminals.”
Billy shrugged, then wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “It’s a fair cop, guv,” he said. He gave Charley a wink. She gave him a glare.
“Trust me, Sir Gordon,” Charley continued, unruffled. “We are professional detectives attached to the Metropolitan Police Force. If anyone can help you out of your…difficulties, S.C.R.E.A.M. can.”
Sir Gordon appeared defeated, rather than convinced. He slumped lower in his seat, like a sulky child. There was a soft farting sound, which might have been the leather chair. “I am cursed,” he said, his fleshy cheeks wobbling. “Evil has followed me home from Egypt. My every waking moment is clouded by the shadows of fear. I cannot rest, I cannot eat, I cannot sleep. My stomach churns constantly—”
“I had a curry like that once,” muttered Billy.
“Stop it,” Charley mouthed.
Billy took a breath to say something else but a glance from Charley’s clear blue eyes buttoned his lip tight. For now, anyway.
Billy Flint and Charlotte Steel couldn’t have been more different. He was dark-haired, broad-shouldered, poor, and, if he was honest, common. Charlotte was none of those things, but their partnership worked. Some might describe them as chalk and cheese, but Billy knew better. He and Charley were more like spit and polish. And Charley Steel was definitely the polish.
“We truly appreciate you making the long journey down from Edinburgh to meet with us, Sir Gordon,” said Charley. “But since we are the smallest department in the police force, you will understand that our resources are…modest.”
“Hmmm,” huffed Sir Gordon. “How many men do you have available for my case?”
“We will put our entire department at your disposal,” Charlotte reassured him.
“Ten men? Twenty?”
It was Charlotte’s turn to feel uncomfortable. S.C.R.E.A.M. had only three detectives. Charley Steel herself, Billy Flint and their leader, Luther Sparkwell – who at that precise moment was wearing a tatty dressing gown and was slumped face down at the table, apparently fast asleep.
“What you see is what you get, mate,” said Billy.
“Three?” said Sir Gordon incredulously. “THREE! A peasant, a buffoon and a…a…girl!” It wasn’t clear which he was most offended by.
Quite suddenly Luther Sparkwell lifted his head. His hair was wild and his expression wilder.
“Not just any girl,” said Sparkwell. “A scientific genius with a flair for deductive reasoning and more learning in her little finger than you have in the shrivelled walnut you call a brain.”
Sir Gordon harrumphed, but Sparkwell continued. “I am probably the country’s leading expert on the arcane, the bizarre, all things paranormal and unexplained. And that ‘peasant’, as you so charmingly described him, is the best weapon we have in the fight against the supernatural.”
Sparkwell paused for dramatic effect. “Billy is sensitive—”
“That doesn’t mean I like kittens and cry when I graze my knee,” said Billy quickly. “I’m sensitive to the spirit realm.”
“My young friend has a gift,” Sparkwell continued, his fingers twitching like an angry spider. “Billy can detect forces that are not of this world; he can track these entities back to their source. He can literally sniff out the sort of trouble that fools like you –” he aimed a pointed stare at Sir Gordon – “get yourselves into when you meddle with things that are best left alone.”
Sir Gordon squirmed. “Well, I might have been a bit hasty,” he mumbled.
“You might have been a bit dead!” said Sparkwell. “You have stolen relics which should have remained in their tomb never to be disturbed, you’ve incurred the wrath of ancient powers beyond your imagination, and you’ve released a creature over which you have no control. And we –” Sparkwell threw his arms out wildly – “a peasant, a buffoon and a girl, are your only hope!”
A heavy tear started to roll down Sir Gordon’s plump cheek.
The room fell into an awkward silence, punctuated by the man’s sobs.
“He’s crying for his mummy,” said Billy.
Charley pulled a face and gave Billy the look. Billy shrugged.
“You’re right,” Sir Gordon confessed, pulling himself together with a final trumpet-like blast into his handkerchief. “I need your help.”
“So,” said Charley, taking out a notebook and pencil. “Tell us everything you’ve done, you naughty boy.”
With a great hiss of steam and a scream of protest from the iron wheels, the Special Scotch Express hauled itself out of King’s Cross station. Charley and Billy sat opposite each other in their wood-panelled carriage. “Ten and a half hours, Duchess, and we’ll be there,” said Billy cheerfully.
Charley wasn’t a real duchess, although her family were incredibly rich. Billy called her that affectionately. It annoyed her slightly, which was another good reason to do it. Charley pulled a tartan rug across her knees and gave him a glare, which quickly softened into a smile. She looked every bit the young lady, Billy thought. Crisp white blouse, tweed jacket, a small silver fob watch strung like a pendant around her neck. Genteel, elegant, refined. But more fool anyone who thought that she was just some weak girl who needed looking after. Billy knew that Charley Steel had a tongue that could sting sharper than a wasp. And if that didn’t work, there was always the pistol she had hidden beneath that blanket.
Sir Gordon was somewhere on the same train, they knew. But His Lordship was up the posh end in First Class, travelling with his butler and some other servants no doubt. Luther Sparkwell had stayed behind in London. Sparkwell had promised to join Billy and Charley when the case of the Hammersmith zombie had been solved. Even if Scotland Yard were too cautious to publicly mention the crimes that S.C.R.E.A.M. were involved with, it was a matter of professional pride that they always got their man. Or woman. Or, in some cases, thing.