Part Four: A Terrible Cry in the Dark

LEINIGEN & THE LAMBETH TREASURE

A Twitter adventure told in portions of 140 characters or less.

Part Four: A Terrible Cry in the Dark

The stairs led down for perhaps a hundred feet. We descended slowly. At the bottom was a stone platform. We were in the Lambeth Labyrinth.

Don’t know if you’ve seen the film with that Welles johnny. You know, ‘The Third Man’. Chasing about in the Vienna sewers. Picture that.

Water dripped from the walls, upon which flickering torches were placed at regular intervals, revealing yellow-brick arches and culverts.

‘Crikey, Leinigen,’ Sam said. ‘This is it.’ ‘Ain’t it just,’ I said, pulling out my compass. Sam, unsure, asked: ‘Will that work down here?’

‘Should do,’ I said. ‘Not sure of the science, but we’re closer to the earth’s core here. All that magnetic business should be a doozy.’

And it was. My trusty red needle flicked and I knew the way. North by north-west would do nicely. Out under the Park, towards the Palace.

We made good time, Sam tottering a little but keeping his pecker up. As we progressed, we began to divine strange markings on the walls.

‘Phraxby minimus,’ I said, ‘you’re the scholar. What d’you say these are?’ Circles, bisected by wavy lines, had been gouged into the brick.

Sam studied the wall closely. ‘I’m not sure. Cabbalistic engravings, maybe. Possibly Pharonic. Couldn’t translate without my primer.’

I snorted and made to continue, but Sam stopped me. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I’m really not sure how these marks were made. By whom or by… what.’  


He fell still. ‘What’s up, Phraxby?’ I asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ Sam stared at the wall, then reached forward a finger.

He scraped something from one of the symbols and held his palm to me. It looked like chalk dust, and I said so. Sam smiled a sickly smile.

‘That’s not chalk,’ he said. ‘It’s bone.’ My silence bade him continue. ‘The symbols weren’t carved with nail or stone. It was… a talon.’

I hazarded a guess. ‘Some form of overgrown, super-intelligent chicken?’ A terrified delight filled Sam’s face. ‘In a way,’ he said, ‘yes’.

I ventured to respond, but I was interrupted. From somewhere down the tunnel came a horribly familiar sound. A low, baleful, rising groan.

‘Leinigen!’ Sam hissed. ‘It’s the Guardian of the Lambeth Treasure!’ Once more I made two and two into a million. ‘This chicken of yours?’

The groan came again, drowning out Sam’s nervous and high-pitched giggle. ‘I wish it was,’ he said. ‘Leinigen, we should get out of here.’ 

‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘The game’s hotting up.’ The groan came again, closer, echoing. And another sound… a sort of dry, scaly scrabbling.

‘Oh God,’ Sam gibbered. ‘Leinigen, we really must leave.’ He made to dart away, back to the stairs to Blake’s study. I took him by the arm.

‘Sorry to be rough,’ I said. Again came the dread groan, louder still. ‘Whatever’s making that infernal racket, we’ll face it and beat it.’ 

‘You don’t understand!’ cried Sam, as the scrabbling grew louder and the groan sounded again, round the next corner now. ‘It’s too late!’ 

The man was raving, so, for the good of both of us, I pulled him into a convenient niche in the brickwork and clamped a hand over his mouth.

‘Sam Phraxby!’ I hissed, as the terrible noise outside went on. ‘What the devil’s got into you? Tell me so I may plan a course of action!’

Sam nodded. I released my grip. The groan came again, terribly close. Sam stuttered three words. ‘Subterranean… paleojurassic… persistence!’

I looked at him. The groan was replaced by a strange, low, regular thrum. Breathing. ‘It’s your lizard?’ I asked. Sam nodded, slowly.

‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that the Guardian of the Lambeth Treasure is a supercrocodile, a prehistoric beast of terrible size and aspect!’ 

I scoffed. ‘Hah! I’ll make a handbag of the blighter!’ Sam was unmoved. As the breathing continued outside our refuge, he listed specifics.

‘Forty-feet long, armoured. One-hundred and thirty-two teeth. It ate dinosaurs.’ ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll make a set of matching luggage.’ 

Sam sagged against the wall, spent and terrified. Useless. I pulled out my revolver and cocked it. The groan came again, shatteringly loud.

‘Righto, you ugly brute,’ I said to our unwanted guest. ‘It’s time to meet your match.’ I took a deep breath, and stepped away from cover...