Chapter Nineteen

“The Ghost of Professor Wren”

1.

“You there! In the name of the Queen, stop!” Jasperse cried.

The bomber threw a brief glance over his shoulder, crying out in alarm, but that was all the respite he took before breaking into a mad dash. Jasperse sprinted after him, bellowing at him some formal, yet wildly unintelligible speech about duty before the Crown. There was an oath in it for Queen Victoria, but it, too, could not be deciphered. Spittle flew from the soldier’s lips as he charged past Nathanial.

“Come on!” Nathanial said, grabbing a dumbfounded and winded Provost and pulling him along a side path. With any luck, he thought, the man will get lost in this maze, or his path will cross ours. Then, we shall have him!

The light was terrible, and the steam made negotiating abrupt turns difficult. He was glad for the inexplicable gravity on the station; it made the chase all the more easy on his long legs. Thoughts of the gravity reminded Nathanial remembered of his first day aboard Sovereign, when he had thoughtlessly burned his hand on the boiler. He was careful now, more so than perhaps was necessary, but doing so mostly because he had Provost in tow, as well, and the man seemed so helpless, of a sudden.

“Come now, Provost!” he yelled at the botanist. “Do keep up. We’ve got to have this man, and have him now!”

Their path made a sharp turn left, and Nathanial nearly collided with a piece of pipe jutting outwards. He stopped mere inches before it struck his forehead. If he had not noticed it in time, surely it would have given him a grievous injury.

“Careful of that,” he said to Provost needlessly, as the man was a good head shorter than he, and they were off again.

The way twisted and turned until they ended up with a wall before them. A hallway ran left and right. They chose right, as that would take them in the direction where they had last seen the bomber running. Jasperse’s bellows were far away, but becoming closer.

“There he is!” Provost cried.

Directly ahead, the bomber broke from the maze and dashed down a hallway. He did not even stop to look when the botanist yelled at him. Nathanial wished he had something just then, a knife, a pistol, anything. It was looking to be close quarters with this man if they caught up with him, and Jasperse was the only one who was armed.

2.

They met Jasperse at the junction. Nathanial dodged aside at the last instant, just as the soldier was about to dash him with the pry-bar.

“This way!” Nathanial ordered, and the soldier tore off down the hall.

The hallway was a short one, which ended in another two-way turn. Directly in front of them was a stout metal door, standing slightly ajar.

“The cold storage!” Nathanial cried, realising now where they were. “He’s gone in there, Jasperse.”

“I’ll have him, sir!”

Jasperse came thundering to a stop, tossing the pry-bar into his right hand so his left might grab the cold storage door and pull it open. The room beyond was dark. Nathanial was still twenty paces behind and could see nothing with Jasperse filling the doorway.

A shadow near Jasperse flickered, coming from the hallway to the right.

“Look out!” Provost cried before Nathanial could, but it was too late.

Events slowed to a crawl. The bomber came out in a dash, grabbed Jasperse from the doorway and spun him about. It was then that Nathanial noticed the blade in the bomber’s hand, probably the same one that had done in Loaves. The light was too poor for the blade to flash, but there seemed to Nathanial a quality to it that seemed brighter and shinier than anything else he had ever seen before. But see it he did only for an instant, for, a blink later, the knife was embedded hilt-deep in Jasperse’s chest.

“Villain!” Nathanial cried, and charged.

The bomber peered in their direction and, seeing two men bearing down on him, turned to his right and fled in the opposite direction he had come.

Nathanial reached Jasperse and fell to his knees beside the man. Jasperse was still awake, his face scrunched in agony.

“A beauty of a wound, this,” he grunted.

The blade had entered slightly to the side of him, just above the stomach. It must have passed between the ribs and into the chest, for it now rested somewhere near the heart, so close, in fact, that the handle jumped with each of heartbeat.

“My God, Jasperse. Here let me—ˮ

“No!” Provost cried. “If you pull that blade, Stone, he’s surely a dead man.”

“’S true, lad,” Jasperse whispered. “I’ll be fine here, for a while, anyway. Get that bastard before he gets away. I want a chance to reciprocate his gift.”

Behind them came the far away cacophony of a dozen rifles firing at one time.

“What was that?” Provost asked.

“No time to consider it now,” Nathanial said. He grabbed the pry-bar, handing the hammer to Provost, who took the weapon like he had been given a badger. They raced after the bomber.

3.

They’d taken no more than a few steps before they heard a bloodcurdling scream ahead. The narrow hallway led to a custodial room. Across the way, the pneumatic dumbwaiter sat. Clearly, the bomber had been trying to use it to return to Heaven so he could find a proper hiding place. However, that plan had been cut short. Now, he lay crumpled on the floor, arms and legs akimbo.

Crouched over him, in his ghostly rags, was Professor Wren.

Provost stopped in his tracks, jaw slack. “Professor Wren!” he whispered. “Stone, it’s his ghost!”

The chalk white face turned in their direction. Bloodshot eyes watched them, yellowing teeth smiled like a child playing at a devilish game.

“Wait! I need to speak with you.” Nathanial said.

Wren stood and danced a pirouette in answer. Then a slow, raspy laugh issued from him, and without further ado, he leapt atop a nearby crate and disappeared into the darkness overhead.

“After him, Provost,” Nathanial said, dropping to the bomber’s side.

“Surely you jest,” Provost said. “I’ll live the rest of my days in infamy before I chase after a bloody ghost.”

“It’s not a ghost, you fool,” Nathanial said. “It is the one man who knows how to fix the stabilisers. Le Boeuf!”

Nathanial turned the bomber over. The man was dead. His face was contorted in its final expression, one of both terror and agonising pain. Nathanial searched, yet he could not find a wound. He tugged open the coverall, and there he found it. On the man’s undershirt, between the fourth and fifth rib, was a small blossom of blood. Death had been administered by a thin object, probably a needle. Poison, then. Death had been nearly instantaneous, probably stopping the heart with a paralytic of some kind.

“A fitting end, I should say,” Provost said.

Nathanial agreed. “Let’s see to Jasperse,” he said.