The Black Crow Conspiracy Read online

  “The Lord is my shepherd. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…”

  With a final nod of farewell, Amsel stepped forward, the King and his daughter matching his step as they walked towards the stone wall of the cell. As Monty and the rest of the royal family looked on dumbfounded, Penelope held her breath, knowing all too well the sensations that would now be coursing through their veins. She watched as their shimmering figures melted into stone, disappearing into the darkness until not even their shadows remained. With a choking sob, the Queen buried her face in her handkerchief.

  From the far side of the catacombs, the yellow glow of a lantern hove into view; the dark figures of the Kaiser’s cadets returning to escort them into exile. Penelope glanced across at Monty, the actor now dressed in the King’s uniform. Beneath the peak of his Field Marshal’s cap, Monty’s silvered beard and heavy-lidded gaze carried an eerie echo of the King’s own countenance. Feeling Penny’s gaze upon him, he turned towards her, his eyes wide with fear as the radiant boys drew near.

  “They will find us out for sure,” he hissed.

  “Remember who you are,” she replied in a hurried whisper. “Monty Maples – actor extraordinaire. It is time for you to give a royal command performance like no other. The fate of the British Empire rests on your success.”

  XXIV

  In the shadows outside the Society for the Advancement of Science, Alfie sheltered beneath the recessed porch. He had already tried the door of the tradesmen’s entrance only to discover that it was locked, and from the darkened basement windows it didn’t look as though anyone would answer any knock. From the street above he could hear the sound of hansom cabs drawing up outside the German embassy next door, the chatter of voices filling the night air as the distinguished guests departed from whatever reception had been thrown there.

  Through the gaps in the railings, Alfie could see the swishing hems of evening gowns, well-dressed ladies affording a glimpse of ankle as they were escorted to their waiting carriages. But Alfie’s thoughts were only for Penelope. Since she had been driven away by Inspector Drake earlier that day, he hadn’t heard a word. On his return, Mr Wigram had made frantic calls to New Scotland Yard, demanding to see his ward, but every one of these requests had been rebuffed. For all they knew, Penny was now languishing in a cell next to Monty.

  Before he had left, Inspector Drake had told Alfie that he was under house arrest, warning him not to leave the offices of The Penny Dreadful. But this was one order he refused to follow. With Penny indisposed, it was up to him now to uncover the truth of the radiant boys. It was the only way left to clear Monty’s name and free Penelope. If he failed then it would be the end of The Penny Dreadful and he could not allow himself to imagine that.

  From what Penny had told him, the answer to this mystery lay in Professor Röntgen’s laboratory, hidden in this building somewhere. But how on earth was he going to get inside to find it?

  As if in answer to this unspoken question, a light appeared at one of the basement windows, betraying the fact that someone was still there at this late hour. Alfie shivered, remembering the masked figures of the radiant boys. If they found him skulking here, he dreaded to think what they would do. He cast a nervous glance at the black-painted door he had seen them slip through two nights before. The sign fixed there still proclaimed: “No hawkers or pedlars. All deliveries must be made between the hours of 8.00 a.m. and 6.00 p.m.”

  At the sight of this, an idea sprang into Alfie’s mind. If he had a reason to be here, then perhaps he could wangle his way inside. Glancing around, he grabbed hold of an empty packing crate and, rifling through the dustbins, he began to fill this with an array of discarded scientific equipment: empty bottles and beakers, broken microscopes and cracked test tubes. Fixing a discarded lid to the top of the crate, Alfie hefted this up under his arm and, turning back towards the door, reached up with his free hand to ring the bell.

  In reply, a faint tinkling sound came from within, followed by the sound of footsteps shuffling towards the door. Alfie’s stomach knotted in anticipation as a key rattled in the lock. Then the door was pushed open a crack, the light from inside spilling out into the shadows as a face peered around the frame.

  It was an elderly man, his features disguised by the snow-white beard that consumed half of his face. For a moment, Alfie thought that this was Professor Röntgen himself, remembering Penny’s description of the German scientist’s prodigious beard, but as the man at the door spoke, the soft Scottish burr of his accent told Alfie that this wasn’t the case.

  “What do you want?” the man asked, peering at him suspiciously through the thick lenses of his spectacles.

  “I have a delivery, sir.”

  Seeing the crate in Alfie’s arms, the man shook his head reproachfully.

  “No, no, no,” he replied. “Ach, can’t you read the sign? Strictly no deliveries after six in the evening. The Society is closed – the only reason that I am still here is to attend to my paperwork.”

  Alfie stood his ground. “This is an urgent delivery of scientific equipment for the attention of Professor Röntgen himself. I was instructed to bring it here without delay.”

  For a second, the elderly scientist seemed poised to shake his head again, but then a flicker of unease passed across his face. With a sigh, he pushed the door open, gesturing for Alfie to place the crate inside.

  “What strange contraptions has he ordered now?” he murmured, motioning towards a space just inside the doorway. “Set it down there, lad, and I’ll see that Professor Röntgen gets it first thing in the morning.”

  Keeping a tight grip on the crate, Alfie shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot do that, sir. My guvnor said that Professor Röntgen left strict instructions that this package was to be delivered directly to his laboratory. He says that these are scientific instruments of an extremely delicate nature and I wasn’t just to leave them with any Tom, Dick or Harry. No offence, sir.”

  Bristling at Alfie’s comment, the elderly scientist scratched furiously at his beard.

  “I will have you know, my boy, that I am Dr John Hughlings Jackson and I am well used to handling all manner of laboratory equipment. Professor Röntgen is attending a reception at the German embassy this evening, and will not return before tomorrow.” He looked as though he was ready to slam the door in Alfie’s face, but then paused for a second, a flicker of doubt flashing behind his spectacles as he remembered the disaster that had struck the last time he hadn’t followed Röntgen’s instructions to the letter. With an exasperated shake of his head, he beckoned Alfie inside.

  “Follow me then,” he sighed. “What with my conference papers to write and delivery boys turning up at all hours of the night, it does not seem as though I will get any sleep tonight.”

  The elderly scientist led Alfie along a broad hallway. As he hefted the crate in front of him, Alfie glanced around his surroundings, his heart thumping in his chest. The wide hall was dimly lit by electric bulbs, a low buzzing sound following their footsteps as they reached a gloomy stairwell.

  “This way, this way,” Dr Jackson wheezed as he led the way down a single flight of stairs. Reaching the bottom of the stairwell, another long corridor stretched out in front of them. “I really do not know why Professor Röntgen insists on hiding away down here.”

  Still muttering his complaints about the German scientist’s secrecy, Dr Jackson escorted Alfie to a steel door that stood at the end of the corridor. An electric lantern glowed green next to the door, casting a sickly light on the scene. Reaching down to the loop of keys on his belt, Dr Jackson unlocked the door.

  “This is Professor Röntgen’s laboratory. Now, if you could leave this delivery of yours, I will be able to return to my own pressing work.”

  The scientist flicked a light switch and, as it illuminated the room, Alfie stepped into the laboratory, the butterflies in his stomach taking flight as he stared at his surroundings. The stories he ha
d read had led him to expect a laboratory like Dr Frankenstein’s, filled with bubbling beakers and test tubes, but instead this pristine space was almost empty – just two rows of chairs in the centre of the room set facing a tall lead-lined box. Wires ran between the chairs to the ceiling and, raising his eyes, Alfie gasped as he saw the strange arrangement of glass tubes and coils that were fixed there.

  “What does all this do?” he asked, gazing up in wonder at the array of machinery, more remarkable than anything he had glimpsed in the tales of scientific romance published in the pages of The Penny Dreadful’s competitors.

  Dr Jackson stepped forward into the laboratory, peering up at the scientific equipment with a similar look of enquiry.

  “I must admit that I could not tell you,” he confessed. “Professor Röntgen has consulted with me extensively on my own research into matters of the human brain, but my knowledge of his research is somewhat limited.” He stared intently at the glass tubes thronging the ceiling. “He has only told me that he hopes his invention will bring peace to the world.”

  Before Alfie could ask him about the radiant boys, the sound of a German oath turned their attention to the door.

  “Another spy in our midst!” Professor Röntgen shrieked, the expression on his face as wild as his hair as he stormed into his laboratory. Seizing hold of Alfie’s shoulder, he twisted him round, the wooden crate Alfie was holding clattering to the ground and spilling its contents over the floor. “What are you doing here?”

  Speechless with shock, Alfie stared up at Röntgen’s angry countenance, flecks of spittle speckling the scientist’s beard. Dr Jackson spoke up on his behalf.

  “Please calm yourself, professor. He is just a delivery boy with yet another crate of equipment for your experiments.”

  Loosening his grip, Professor Röntgen stared down at the scientific instruments now scattered across the floor: rusting microscopes, punctured vacuum pumps, broken bottles and beakers. Reaching down, he seized hold of a cracked slide rule, its brass gauge bent beyond all usefulness.

  “What kind of experiment do you think I could conduct with this detritus?” he roared. “The boy is a spy – just like that confounded author – and he must be punished alike.”

  Alfie didn’t have time to react as Röntgen rounded on him, lifting the heavy slide rule like a truncheon and then bringing it down on his head with a crack. The last thing he glimpsed as he slid to the floor unconscious was Dr Jackson, his face frozen in an expression of horror.

  XXV

  “You cannot do this, Professor Röntgen. To experiment on an individual without their express permission goes against every tenet of scientific method. It is barbarous and I will not be party to such an act.”

  “You said you wanted to see the discoveries that I have made, Dr Jackson. Well, here is your chance. And as for the boy, I assure you he will be unharmed.”

  The voices sounded as if they were coming from a tunnel, a distant echo to the words as Alfie’s eyes slowly flickered open. He was slumped in a seated position, a jagged ache throbbing across his temple where Röntgen’s blow had landed. Lifting his head with a grimace, Alfie saw the array of glass tubes and coils suspended above him. The realisation of where he was slowly dawned through the fog of pain. Panicking, Alfie tried to move, but then quickly realised that his arms were strapped to the seat, heavy restraints holding him in place even as he strained against them.

  From behind him in the laboratory, he heard the sound of Professor Röntgen’s Germanic tones.

  “Besides, Dr Jackson,” the professor continued, “your sudden attack of conscience would be admirable if it was not for the fact that your work has helped me to realise the full potential of this invention of mine.”

  “What do you mean?” Dr Jackson asked.

  “Reading your research into how the brain’s electrical impulses control conscious movement led to a breakthrough in my experiments to control these rays that take my name. The power of conscious thought is the secret to their mastery. The Kaiser was most pleased when I recruited you to work for the Society.”

  “The Kaiser? What do you mean?” Dr Jackson sounded dumbfounded. “I thought that our work here was for the common good, free from any national interest.”

  “Who do you think funds the Society for the Advancement of Science?” Röntgen sneered in reply. “Did you think that our location next to the Imperial German Embassy was a happy accident? The Kaiser has paid for every pipette and Bunsen burner in this building and I owe him my absolute loyalty. It was whilst working at the Kaiser’s institute that I made my first discovery, and when I showed the Kaiser the fruits of my research he immediately saw their military potential: a vision of a New Atomic Army transformed by my Röntgen rays.”

  “But you said that your invention would bring peace to the world…”

  “And so it will, Dr Jackson. The Kaiser assures me his New Atomic Army will spread peace across the globe – from the barrel of a gun, if that is what it takes. Now, let me show you the true wonder of my invention.” The professor lowered his voice to a mutter as he turned towards the lead-lined chamber. “I think it is time to increase the voltage again – perhaps this will reveal at last the true limits of the human body’s capacity to endure the rays’ power.”

  His soft words sent a shiver down Alfie’s spine as he sat trapped beneath Röntgen’s strange machine. This must be how the German scientist had created the ghosts they had seen, and now he planned to transform Alfie into one of these radiant boys. He struggled to free himself again, but the leather restraints around his arms held firm.

  “I would advise you to join me inside the control room, Dr Jackson.” Professor Röntgen’s voice rang across the laboratory. “It would not be wise for you to accidentally stray into the path of the rays.”

  Still protesting as he followed his fellow scientist’s advice, Dr Jackson disappeared into the antechamber, its lead-lined door slamming shut behind them both. There was a moment of silence and then Alfie heard the beginning whine of an electrical generator. Twisting his head, he saw the wires running from the lead-lined box, encased in insulating India rubber. These wires cut a route through the centre of the room, skirting the place where Alfie was seated before leading along the wall and ceiling to connect to the strange array of glass tubes suspended above his head. The humming noise grew louder followed by an answering crackle from the copper coils curled inside the tubes. A faint green glow began to radiate from the apparatus, the same light Alfie had seen in the faces of the radiant boys.

  With a mounting sense of terror, Alfie glanced around wildly, desperately looking for a way to free himself. The leather straps holding his arms in place were pulled tight, but the restraints around his legs hung loose. In front of him he could see the rubber-insulated cables running along the floor to the ceiling; the crackle of electricity in the coils above his head told him that he didn’t have much time left. Scattered across the floor were the contents of the crate with which he’d bluffed his way into this place: broken scientific instruments, shattered beakers and cracked test tubes. The nearest of these lay tantalisingly close: a glass vial resting on top of the rubber cables.

  Alfie realised that there was only one way he could stop Röntgen’s machine before it turned him into a living ghost. The only risk was that it would kill him in the process. He glanced up again at the suspended glass tubes slowly glowing with a flickering green light and shuddered. It was worth the risk.

  Stretching out his leg, Alfie tried to reach the test tube, his hobnailed boot nudging the glass vial as green shadows danced across his face and the whine of the machinery reached a crescendo. Grinding his heel, he crushed the test tube beneath his foot, the splintering glass cutting through the insulating rubber to expose the wires beneath. His head spinning with the effort, he stamped his boot down again, the iron nails on his sole meeting the wire with a thunderous crack, sending a shower of sparks into the air.

  The laboratory was plunged into darkness,
the short circuit he’d created cutting the power completely. Alfie shook his head in disbelief. He had done it; the rubber sole on his hobnailed boot saving him from certain electrocution. But his sense of relief curdled as he looked up to see the flames quickly spreading across the laboratory. The heat from the overloaded wire had ignited the insulation, the blaze following the cables to the apparatus above his head. Alfie heard it creak as he struggled against the restraints that still held him. Instead of electrocution, it looked as though he would be burned or crushed to death instead.

  From behind him he heard the sound of the door to the antechamber crash open.

  “What has happened here?” Professor Röntgen roared. “My invention – it must be saved!”

  Alfie felt hands reaching for him in the gloom. In the light cast by the flickering flames, he glimpsed Dr Jackson’s face, the elderly scientist struggling to unfasten the straps that held him prisoner.

  “Quickly, lad,” the scientist hissed. “We must get out of this place. The man has gone mad.”

  As the restraints were loosened, Alfie struggled to his feet. Taking Dr Jackson’s arm in his own he blundered through the shadows in search of the door. Thick black smoke was filling the laboratory, and the two of them spluttered for breath. Alfie scrabbled to find the door handle, swinging the steel door open to bring them some respite. Pushing Dr Jackson out in front of him, Alfie glanced back to see Professor Röntgen desperately trying to smother the flames, but the fire was already consuming his invention, the array of peculiarly-shaped tubes shattering in a shower of glass. Leaving Röntgen behind to his fate, they fled the darkened building, stumbling through the blackness until they reached the street above.

  Looking down through the railings, Alfie could see the basement windows of the Society lit with a pale-orange glow. Dr Jackson turned towards him, the scientist’s face blanched as white as his beard.