Of Life and Death

Of Life and Death

January 1916

  Charles Hammersmith straightened his greying hair, rose uncertainly from his seat and pulled the carriage door open. A cursory glance back revealed that the thin man had forgotten nothing beyond the white feather that had been given to him by that harridan at kings cross.

  Carefully he walked out into the corridor and made his way up the train. He checked all the compartments in the first carriage, glancing discreetly over his round framed spectacles as he walked past, but there was no sign of the man he was looking for.

  He pulled his coat tightly about himself as he crossed the freezing gap over to the second carriage and resumed his search.

  Two soldiers in uniform sat in the first compartment, chatting and joking to themselves. A uniformed officer was sat in the second, quietly reading the newspaper as he swayed with the motion of the train. The third appeared to be empty, except for a travelling bag placed in the luggage rack.

  He had gone only a few steps before a thought struck him and he doubled back for a second look. The bag was placed close to the wall, so close in fact that it seemed to pass partly through it. With a small smile he slid the door open and stepped inside.

  Acting as naturally as he could Charles sat down ear the wall and slowly began to slide along the seat. He was not at all surprised when he passed through it ad found himself in a small extension.

  Sat across from him was the ma he had been searching for: Broderick Griffin. Balding and nervous, the plump little man was sat holding a large leather bound book to his chest.

  “My god Charles, I have never been so happy to see you in all my life,” he breathed heavily.

  “And I you,” he replied, “how are you Broderick?”

  “A little shaken, but not without good reason. And you? What about… what about the curse?”

  “Broken,” Charles said, lying as convincingly as he could, “all the effects are gone.”

  “But how? As long as you possess the stones… you do still possess the stones don’t you?”

  “No,” Charles smiled faintly, “I disposed of them.”

  “How? Where?”

  “I threw them into Loch Morlich,” he smiled faintly at Broderick’s expression, “no one will ever find them again. But tell me: what happened? You where supposed to be met by a representative at the port.”

  “Oh I was,” Broderick spoke in a rushed whisper, “a short man with a moustache. He seemed genuine enough but when he showed me the medallion I spotted that it was a fake!”

  “A fake?” he mused. The medallions issued to member of His Majesties Society for Unnatural Research where unique, and their intricate design known only to its members.

“Indeed a fake. I managed to escape him and get a message to you before boarding this train. Not that I know where I’m going.”

  “Fear not, I shall escort you to the headquarters personally.”

  “But there’s another thing,” Broderick burst out, “this book is the subject of twenty years of research into the realms of death. The King himself aked me to return to England so that he might use it.”

  “Use it?” Charles’ expression changed to one of scepticism, “what would he need it for?”

  “I was told that it would be used to return our war dead to life.”

  Charles raised an eyebrow. He doubted very much that the book would be used for such selfless means, especially as doing so would raise questions about the existence of the Society. And many other things.

  “I see,” he managed, “then I guess we should get off this train at the next stop and return to London as soon as possible.”

  “Theres another thing though Charles,” Broderik seemed panicy again, “about the book. I read the Tarot before, and I believe someone wishes to steal it. It tells me there is a man aboard this train, a foreigner, and I believe he means me harm.”


  The small man with the moustache shifted nervously in his seat and twisted his bowler hat in his hands. His eyes where transfixed on the giant man in front of him, following the swirling, winding tattoos that swirled up his neck and temples before wrapping around his dark, sunken eyes.

  “I did just as you asked,” he said hurriedly, “he knew the medallion was a fake the second he saw it. And then gave me the slip.”

  “And you could not keep up with an unfit fifty-two year old?” A voice asked mockingly. The voice was cold with a clipped Russian accent. It was not the big man who spoke; rather the voice came from near the window; but did not dare turn to face it.

  “I followed him this far,” he replied, “I don’t see what else I could have done.”

  “No I suppose you could have done nothing more.” There was a brief pause. “Remember Igor, I do not tolerate failure.”

  “What!” He cried. He turned to face the voice, catching only briefly what seemed to be a reflection of a sharp featured man. His nose was long and pointed, and the beard that adorned his chin reached down to his chest. There was a faintly amused smile on his face as it slowly faded.

  Before he could move the big man was on his feet, driving a fist into his stomach. Breath exploded from his lungs and pain seemed to envelope his entire body. As he crashed sideways into the door his hand flew to his stomach, dark red blood flowed quickly from the deep wound.

  A scream built in his throat but he could not give it voice. He curled into a tight agonized ball as the other man walked calmly to the window and opened it.

  Cold night air howled into the compartment as the huge man lifted him easily onto his shoulder. He knew what was coming but could not resist as he was thrown roughly out of the window into the night.



  Charles mulled the news over for a few moments. His own experiences with the Tarot had been unpredictable; sometimes unerringly accurate and other times down right false. 

  But Broderick knew what he was talking about, and this supposed impostor was a worrying development.

  “You’re absolutely certain?” He asked.

  “Positive,” Broderick replied, “I read the cards several times and always the same result.”

  Charles shook his head as he racked his brains. It was possible that someone was indeed pursuing Broderick for his book, but it seemed unlikely as hardly anybody knew the book existed. It could be a Society member, but…

  “I don’t like this,” he said finally, “if you feel safe enough here behind your illusion then I’ll leave you to go and speak to the conductor and find out what the next stop will be. The sooner we get you back to safety the better.”

  “I think I’ll be safe here. As long as I move the luggage,” Broderick managed a weak smile.

  “Excellent,” he returned the smile as he slid sideways along the seat and through the illusion again.

  He saw the bag in the luggage rack disappear through the wall as he slid the door open and stepped out into the corridor.  There was nobody to be seen. He glanced briefly into the compartment next to Broderick’s and saw the army officer still reading.

  Charles knocked politely on the door and slid it ajar. The man looked up.

  “Yes?”

  “Excuse me lieutenant, have you seen a conductor recently?”

  “Actually no I haven’t, not since I boarded. Perhaps he is at the other end of the train.”

  “Yes that seems likely. Sorry to disturb you.”

  He slid the door shut again and set off towards the rear of the train. Three carriages later and he had still not found a conductor. As he doubled back he checked each compartment. There where families, men and women travelling alone, but no conductor.

  Eventually he passed Broderick’s again and noted that it appeared completely empty. Walking briskly he moved past the officer and the soldiers again and back into the first carriage, and finally he saw him.

  The blue uniformed conductor was stood facing into the very end compartment, completely unmoving.

  “Excuse me,” Charles called out, “excuse me.”

  There was no response. As he drew nearer he could see that the conductors eyes where wide open, as if in unblinking surprise. He touched the man gently on the shoulder but there was no movement or recognition.

  “Hello,” Charles said quite loudly. Nothing. Carefully he turned the conductor around to face him.

  There was no colour in the conductors face and his features where set like a death mask. Glassy blue eyes stared back at him and his mouth was slightly open. Charles’s eyes moved downwards; a dark green substance was oozing slowly from a small wound in the man’s stomach.

  He reached up to feel for a pulse but there was nothing. The conductor was dead; it was only this curious substance, no doubt poison, that kept him on his feet. 

  A sudden chill washed over him as he feared for his friend.


  Igor smiled in satisfaction, looking out of the window for a minute, even though the body of the impostor would be far behind by now. He reached into his coat and drew out the poison vial he had been given. The dark green substance seemed to glow with an infernal light.

  With great care he drew his knife, the simple double edged weapon was broad and flat, not too long and not too short. He poured the poison slowly over the blade, watching with a child’s wonder as the mysterious substance clung to the weapon: not one drop fell to the floor.

  The door behind him slid open. He knew it would be the conductor, and so he did not turn. An idea had struck him, filling him with delight. 

  “Sir?” Said the voice behind him, “could I see your ticket please sir?”

  Igor spun swiftly, keeping his weapon arm close into his body until the optimum moment. The conductor doubled over a little, his eyes wide and his mouth contorted in pain.

  A wide grin spread across Igor’s face as his victim began to shake, trembling as if he where being electrocuted. And then suddenly he was still and statuesque, his life spent.

  Slowly Igor withdrew the blade, trying to calm his breathing as he did so. The man was so perfect, frozen in the point of death forever. It was perfect.

  Igor laughed to himself and then fought for composure. This was not the only gift he had been given, and he had been given them for a reason. He steadied his heart beat and remembered the trick he had been taught. A chill swept over him as he felt his body begin to disappear.

  Stepping carefully around his victim he set off down the carriage. He spared the occupants only cursory glances as he strode past, and was forced to press himself against the wall as a small middle aged man strode down the corridor towards him.

  He was walking through the second carriage when he saw it. The compartment was empty, but there was a strange haze in the air. Igor reached inside his jacket for the small amulet that hung around his neck. As he rubbed it between his finger and thumb the haze began to clear, until eventually he could see straight through it. Broderick Griffin was sat clutching the book he was to retrieve.

  Igor slid the door open and closed it behind him again.

  “Greetings,” he said without turning around, feeling the chill leave him as his body became visible again. Igor’s struggled to find the words in English, and his thick Russian accent was impossible to disguise.

  “Impossible,” Broderick breathed, “you surely cannot see through the illusion? It’s some of the most powerful magic there is.”

  “It is a mere trifle,” Igor said excitedly, “especially compared to the item you hold in your hands.”

  “How…how do you know about the book?”

  “My master knows many things,” Igor smiled again and his hand strayed to the knife at his belt, “and now…”

  He turned, filled with satisfaction as he saw his victim cowering in the corner of the compartment, clutching the precious tome to his chest. The illusion shattered as he stepped forward, like shards of glass from a broken window before they disappeared.

  “It would be a shame to dirty the pages with your blood,” Igor said softly, feeling his pulse begin to quicken, “why don’t you just hand it over and die quickly?”

  “No, please no…” Broderick pleaded, “please no…no…Charles! Charles!”


  Charles tore across the divide between the carriages in time to see a giant of a man leaving by the opposing door. For a brief second their eyes met and he took in the swirling tattoos. He wondered fleetingly how he had missed him.

  The door to Broderick’s compartment was open, and Broderick himself was laid across the seat thrashing madly. Blood and the same green poison oozed from a ragged slash across his chest

  “Charles,” he gasped, “Charles… the book… this is… the key…” Still thrashing madly Broderick held out a ripped and blood stained piece of paper.

  His blood ran cold as he took the piece of paper from his friend’s hand. He had been here before, far too many times for his liking. Once again he was watching a friend slip away, and was completely powerless to help.

  “I’m sorry old friend,” he whispered. Carefully he concealed the paper inside his jacket and turned away, closing the compartment door behind him. He knew there was nothing he could do, and he could not bear to stand and watch him die. A terrible guilt washed over him for being selfish enough to allow an old friend to die alone, but he could not stand it, and now was not the time.

  Anger boiled in his blood as he gave chase, running through the carriages until he came to the very end of the train. The enormous man stood at the end of the carriage, his hand on the handle of the door. He appeared to be looking out of the window and speaking to himself.

  “You would kill a man for a book?” Charles roared as he marched towards him, “nothing more than words on paper?” The other man turned and looked confused for a moment, until a cruel grin spread across his face. Faces peeked through compartment windows as Charles advanced. 

  The knife was back in the giants hand and he struck like a viper, but Charles was expecting it and knocked it aside easily. Surprise flickered across his face before the return blow snapped his head around violently, slamming him hard against the wall of the carriage.

  Charles snatched his own short knife from his boot and assumed a fighting stance, his fists in front of his face, the knife in a reverse grip. His opponent was back on his feet, clearly stunned by the smaller mans speed and strength.

  Knives flashed as they fought; their audience agape. The bigger man was stronger but Charles was quicker. They locked weapons and Charles found himself pressed against the wall, the Russians face only inches from his own.

  “He begged for his life,” the big man snarled cruelly, “like a miserable dog.”

  Charles drove his knee into the Russians groin and brought his knife down across his chest. Blood gushed from his opponents wound as he fell back towards the door and snatched the book off the floor.
  “Bastard,” he spat, “this isn’t over.”

  “Yes it is,” Charles replied, “you have nowhere to go. And I have no intention of handing you over to the authorities.

  “Not true,” came a different voice. He span around, keeping his guard up. The lights in the carriage dimmed and took on a strange green tinge. Shocked faces appeared frozen as they watched through their windows.

  Finally a reflection in the window caught his eye. It was a hook nosed man with long hair and a beard, and he was watching Charles quite calmly.

  “I am Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin,” he said, as if anticipating Charles’ question, “and Igor will be bringing me that book tonight, and you will not stop him.”

  “So the rumours are true,” Charles spat, “you do practise magic. Is that how you control the Romanovs?”

  “You’ve heard of me, that is excellent,” the man in the window smiled, “and I have heard of you Mr Hammersmith. About your exploits. About the curse you are under...”

  “You know nothing.”

  “I could help you-”

  “Lies!” Charles spat, “you had my friend killed for a book!”

  “Not just any book,” Rasputin snapped as he looked away, “This is the book of life and death. It is priceless and its power is beyond belief. But you could never understand. Igor, it is time.”

  Charles turned back towards Igor, but the big man already had his hand on the door handle. Cold air rushed into the carriage as it swung open, revealing a shimmering portal of swirling darkness. Igor stepped through, slamming the door behind him.

  Still on guard, Charles ran forward and tore the door open. He was buffeted by the cold air once again but there was no portal, only the freezing dark night. Igor was gone. As was the book.

  The lights in the carriage grew bright again and lost their green hue. People flooded out of their carriages, bewildered by what had just happened. Two men whispered to each other and then squared up, ushering the other passengers back inside their compartments.

  “Alright chum,” one of them said soothingly, “why don’t you put the knife down and we can get this all sorted out?”

  But he wasn’t listening. The book had been Broderick’s life’s work and he had allowed it to be stolen, ad  Broderick himself to be killed. Solemnly he closed the door.  There was nothing more he could do here. The society would need to know. An artefact of incredible power was now in the hands of the Russians. And another one of his friends was dead…