“Lie-” Trounce grunted, putting his full strength into a fourth blow “-down!”
The Rake tottered, swayed, and fell.
There was a loud smack and fragments of flesh, bone, and hair showered over the Scotland Yard man. He looked back in time to see a headless body fall. Constable Lampwick stood beyond it, bloodied truncheon in his hand.
“Sorry, sir,” he said. “It was about to jump on you.”
“Much obliged. I'll send you the laundry bill in the morning.”
The constable smiled, grimaced, clutched his head, raised his weapon, and yelled: “Not guilty! Tichborne has been cheated, you bastard!”
He swung his club at Trounce's head. The detective yelled, dodged backward, fell over the corpse he'd just downed, rolled, jumped to his feet, and threw his truncheon. It hit Lampwick square between the eyes and the man collapsed, unconscious.
“I'm sorry, son.”
Honesty, meanwhile, had scooped up a second weapon, and, with a truncheon in each hand, was ducking under clutching hands, swiping at kneecaps, and crippling his opponents. Five of his men, staying close to him, were then finishing the job by flattening heads.
It became a routine, almost rhythmic: dodge-duck- Smack! Smack! -pulverise. Dodge-duck- Smack! Smack! -pulverise.
“Winter jasmine,” Honesty declared. “Very cheerful.”
Dodge-duck- Smack! Smack! -pulverise.
“And maybe wisteria. A good climber for the back fence.”
Charles Altamont Doyle's astral body drifted through the fog and mingled with Commander Krishnamurthy's men. Some took a swing at him, which didn't affect him at all, while others seemed to hear the voice that reverberated through what little essence he possessed. “Rebel!” it urged them. “Turn against your oppressors!” They put their hands to their heads, winced, and assaulted their fellows. Fights broke out.
The other part of Doyle was at the junction of the Strand, Aldwych, and Lancaster Place, at the end of Waterloo Bridge. Despite having a dent in his cheek where a truncheon had caught him, he still moved and he still hungered. He could not resist his appetite; others had life, and he wanted it!
A policeman charged at him and slashed at his forehead. Doyle shifted and the weapon thudded down onto his shoulder. He felt nothing, though he heard his collarbone crack. He clutched his attacker's wrist and slammed his other hand into the man's elbow, which snapped with a nasty crunch. The policeman let loose a scream. Doyle released the arm and wrapped his fingers around the man's neck. He started to squeeze. The scream gurgled into silence.
“Give me your life!” Doyle moaned. “Please!”
At the edge of Trafalgar Square, Commander Krishnamurthy listened to the growing sounds of battle and made a decision. He ordered his men to advance.
From the north and south sides of the Strand, smaller police teams also responded to the intensifying conflict and moved into the fog.
Tock!
Krishnamurthy's truncheon bounced from the back of a constable's skull. It was the fifth of his men he'd had to personally render unconscious.
There were wraiths everywhere, and the Flying Squad man could feel them digging into his mind, trying to wheedle their way inside to take control. His headache was almost overpowering.
“Do your duty, old son!” he advised himself. “Don't give in to these bloody spooks.”
Despite the steady loss of men, he still had a reasonably sized force at his command, and he was leading them at a steady pace toward the end of Lancaster Place.
Now Rakes, as well as wraiths, began to appear out of the miasma, and combat became rather more deadly. Five men went down before the Flying Squad commander realized that not a single pistol was functioning. The only way to beat the walking corpses was to obliterate their heads. He yelled the order, and a few moments later gore was spraying everywhere.
Krishnamurthy forgot his headache as he started to exact vengeance for Milligan's death.
Amid the carnage, as his team penetrated deeper into the battle zone, he caught sight of Trounce, who was laying about himself like a wild man, and Honesty, who was industriously crippling the shambling monstrosities.
Krishnamurthy realised that the three main groups of policemen had made it to the rendezvous point as planned. However, unlike Honesty and Trounce, he didn't know that the signal whistle had been sounded by mistake or that the advance had been made some considerable time ahead of schedule. Now, as the police teams merged, it dawned on him that something had gone badly wrong.
Swinburne was supposed to be here. The opposition should be on its back foot by now. The police were meant to be in control of the situation.
They weren't.
“Hold fast,” he breathed. “Just hope the poet shows up.” He lashed out at a Rake and muttered: “A poet, by crikey! A blessed poet!”
Detective Inspector Honesty strode past, brandishing his weapons.
Krishnamurthy clearly heard his superior bark: “Petunias.”
“Did you say Tichborne, sir?” he asked.
“No, Commander. Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give them hell.”
Krishnamurthy nodded and winced. His head was filled with pain.
“Excuse me,” said a refined voice. He turned. A Rake stood beside him. “How does it work, old bean?”
The commander stepped back. “What?”
The Rake, not long deceased by the look of him, said: “The thing of it is, you have life. Unfortunately, I don't. Regrettably, that means I have to take yours. What I can't bally well work out is where to look for it after I've run you through.” He showed Krishnamurthy his rapier. “Can you advise?”
The Flying Squad man eyed the sword point, which was poised about three inches from his face.
“Um-”
The Rake's head flew apart, the rapier dropped, and the body folded.
“This isn't a bloody debating society, Commander!” Trounce growled, standing over the prone corpse. He wheeled and stalked off into the mist, shouting orders and encouragement to his men.
Krishnamurthy watched him go. “Snooty bastard,” he muttered.
Dodge-duck- Smack! Smack! -nothing.
Honesty straightened and looked around. His five-strong team of head-pulverisers had been set upon by a large group of Rakes. The constables were fighting for their lives.
“Not very sporting!” exclaimed the corpse at his feet. “Hitting me in the knees like that. How am I supposed to toddle about?”
Honesty ignored the question and took a step toward his men. The fallen Rake grabbed his ankle and unbalanced him. He hit the ground face-first.
“I demand an apology!” said the Rake.
The detective sat up, twisted around, and thumped a truncheon onto the cadaver's head.
“Ouch! Good grief, man! What sort of an apology is that?”
The weapon descended again, harder.
“You should go,” said the Rake, in a slurred voice. “I'll just lie here for a bit.”
His head caved in under the third blow and he lay still.
“Purple flowering laburnum,” said Honesty. “Very hardy. Grows anywhere.”
He got to his feet.
An arm wrapped around his neck and yanked him backward. One of his truncheons was wrenched from his hand and thrown into the fog. He felt teeth sink into his left shoulder and tried to yell in pain but his throat was too constricted. He struggled, his vision blurring. Bells began to chime insistently in his ears.
He pitched sideways and hit the ground. His assailant's grip broke and Honesty rolled free, lay on his back, and gulped at the dirty air.
A foot slammed down onto his hand. He cried out as his fingers broke around the grip of his remaining truncheon. A body thumped onto his chest, its knees on his shoulders. Hands seized his neck and tightened around it like a band of metal.