The fog thickened as they approached the foundry on foot. It hung in the air like a living thing. Smoke from the vast brick chimneys added to the coagulating sky.
‘Hecklington owns many such facilities,’ Strax said. ‘They could all be adapted for the production of armaments with minimal disruption. How do we know that this is where he has taken the boy?’
‘It’s the largest,’ Jenny said.
‘And more to the point,’ Vastra commented, ‘Miss Felicity Gregson’s house backs onto it. Whatever she was bringing to show me, whatever story she had to tell, it originated here.’
They made their wary way to a side door set in a shadowy area close to the back of the foundry.
Vastra’s sword was slung over her shoulder in a scabbard especially designed for the purpose. Jenny held a robust wooden pole, favoured by the oriental masters of various martial disciplines. Strax had brought no weapon but himself, which was by any measure weapon enough.
‘There may not be time,’ Strax said, ‘to conduct a full surveillance regime according to prescribed regulations in order to formulate a coherent strategy of the best method to effect entry.’
‘That is true,’ Madame Vastra agreed. ‘So I suggest you simply break down this door.’
Strax flexed his hands, cracking all six sets of knuckles. ‘My pleasure.’ He adjusted his necktie.
Then, head down, he ran straight at the heavy wooden door. With a singularly unchromatic crunch, the apex of Strax’s cranium connected with the door. The wood splintered, but did not break. Strax withdrew his head, and inspected the damage he had inflicted.
‘Apologies,’ he said. ‘I shall need a longer run-up.’
Under the second onslaught, the door exploded inwards in a blizzard of splinters and shards, Strax in the very midst of the maelstrom. Close on his heels came Jenny and Madame Vastra herself. Each of the women had their weapons held ready.
The foundry was vast, not being delimited by internal walls or partitions. Smoke-darkened brick chimneys rose from huge furnaces to disappear into the shadowy limits of the roof space and thence up and out into the London air. Wrought iron gantries and walkways criss-crossed the area in a web of metal.
Central to the space was an enormous vat, shaped like a witch’s cauldron but immensely bigger. Smoke poured over the top of it like fog, falling towards the ground. It hugged the flagstoned floor, curling into every nook and cranny of the foundry. Jenny felt it catching at the back of her throat. Strax batted it away with the back of his tri-digital hand as one might an irksome f1y.
Madame Vastra took in the scene at a glance. Through reptilian eyes well adjusted for seeing into darkness and shadow, she saw the metal cage above the roiling cauldron. She recognised the writhing form of the boy Harry as he was lowered, inch by inch, towards the smoking receptacle.
And above, watching and laughing, she saw the dark figure of Able Hecklington, who, at the same moment, turned slightly and saw Vastra and her compatriots.
Hecklington did not call out or gesture. But somehow, evidently, an order was given. In a moment, half a dozen men of the roughest and most uncouth variety appeared from the shadows around the cauldron, materialising as it were out of the drifting smoke. They were armed with cudgels and knives.
Vastra recognised two of the thugs as those self-same ruffians who had accosted Harry earlier. One of the two carried a revolver, which he raised to take aim at Strax.
This was something of a mistake. Despite his bulk, Strax could move quickly when the need arose. Arise it did, as the business end of the weapon pointed towards him. With a chilling, if unimaginative, Sontaran battle cry, he charged at his unfortunate opponent.
Again, the crown of Strax’s head became a blunt instrument to be reckoned with. This time, the impact was immediately succeeded by a swift blow from the right arm. Kept straight and rigid, this was every bit as effective. The gun fell to the floor and its erstwhile owner was propelled at speed across the foundry.
The second of the returning ruffians backed away from Strax. But he lacked the velocity necessary to escape a similar blow that sent him stumbling to join his unconscious compatriot in a similar state of oblivion.
The other attackers should have fared no better against their apparently less brutal adversaries. Jenny and her mistress parried every blow from cudgel and every thrust from blade with pole and sword in a swirling blur of practised motion.
Had their attackers been made of more substantial stuff, they would have been felled in an instant.
But to the women’s surprise and horror, their weapons cut right through the ruffians. It was as if the men were as insubstantial as the London smog. Where Vastra cut, a line of misty haze was all there was to show for even the most palpable hit. When Jenny thrust, what poured from the inflicted wound was not blood, but smoke!
‘Strax!’ Vastra shouted as she and Jenny fought back to back.
The two more substantial ruffians had regained some semblance of sense and were closing in on Strax, albeit rather cautiously. Strax paused in mid blow. ‘Ma’am.’ He turned, elbowing aside the nearest assailant in the same abrupt movement.
Vastra held the sword in one hand as she pointed to the cage descending from above. ‘See to the boy!’
Where there had been two slowly recovering ruffians in front of Strax, suddenly there were none. Skittled away like ninepins, they rolled and stumbled aside as Strax hurried towards the huge cauldron. As he went, he scooped up the fallen revolver. His stubby fingers were too large to fit through the trigger guard, so with a grunt of irritation, he snapped it off.
The metal cage was attached by chains to a large cogwheel set in the wall of the foundry. With each movement of the wheel, the cage jerked down – another link of chain for every notch of the wheel. It was close enough in design to an ancient Sontaran instrument of torture that Strax understood the mechanism in a moment.
Another thing he understood with that inherent instinct bred into all Sontarans even before they are hatched, was weaponry – no matter how primitive by his own standards. He raised and fired the revolver as he was moving.
The bullet shattered through one of the chains holding the cage. Harry gave a startled cry as the cage swung violently. A second shot made short work of another chain, and Harry cried out again as the cage up-ended.
But still it was lowering slowly towards the smoking cauldron. Strax thrust the revolver into the inside pocket of his jacket for possible – or rather, probable – future use. He barrelled across the foundry towards the cauldron. The two chains that Strax had shot apart hung down from the cage, swinging back and forth. One of them dipped into the foggy cauldron.
The other swung wide of the lip. Strax took a running jump and caught hold of it. As he landed again, he dragged the chain. Harry stared down at him, eyes wide with fear as the cage fell another notch closer to the cauldron. The smoke curled up, clawing at him, stinging his eyes.
Below, Strax dragged the chain – and with it the cage above – away from the cauldron’s edge. The cage clanged against the edge of the cauldron, but settled finally on the floor beside Strax.
Smoke was now pouring more abundantly from the cauldron, and Strax lost no time in breaking open the catches on the cage and the chains that held Harry’s wrists and ankles. He heaved the grateful boy over his shoulder and marched off back through the smoke.
Vastra and Jenny were fighting a fierce rearguard action against the ruffians. They had no hope or way of winning against opponents who could withstand the most serious wounds. As soon as the sword cut through them, or the pole jabbed into them, the men healed and re-joined the fray.
But with Strax’s appearance, marching out of the swirling misty smoke towards them, Vastra and Jenny redoubled their efforts. Pausing only to hurl aside several of the attackers, Strax strode to the shattered doorway, and then out into the foggy night. Vastra and Jenny each made a final thrust, then turned and ran after Strax.
From his vantage point on the gantry above, Able Hecklington watched angrily as the intruders made good their escape.
‘Boy!’ he hissed.
Cowering behind him, Jim hardly dared to answer.
‘We needed his form to infiltrate our enemies’ lair. Instead they have found us. But perhaps all is not lost. You – boy – come here!’ Hecklington roared.
Hesitantly, fearing the worst, Jim stumbled over to join Hecklington at the edge of the gantry. The man was leaning heavily on the side rail, looking down into the cauldron of boiling smoke below. He gestured for Jim to look also.
Jim leaned out, peering down. The smoke curled and swam like a living thing. It seemed thicker and darker by the moment.
‘You see that?’ Hecklington said. His voice was calmer now, quieter, almost like a father pointing out some interesting architectural feature to an eager son. ‘You see the way the smoke beckons, how it coalesces and congeals?’
Jim nodded. ‘Yes, sir,’ he murmured.
Hecklington nodded. He clapped his hand appreciatively to Jim’s back. ‘Then take a closer look.’ His voice was a sudden snarl as he grabbed the back of Jim’s jacket, lifted him bodily, and flung him over the rail.
The boy crashed down into the smoke below. As he fell, his last thoughts were that the patches of darkness in the smoke made it look like a face, the mouth gaping wide to welcome him. And that the sound of the air whistling past him was like the laughter of the most fiendish devil in hell.