A Night in Highgate

  A Jasper Wychwood Short

  Jack Curran

  Contents

  1. Chapter 1

  2. Chapter 2

  3. Chapter 3

  4. Chapter 4

  5. Chapter 5

  6. Chapter 6

  7. Chapter 7

  8. Chapter 8

  9. Chapter 9

  10. Chapter 10

  11. Chapter 11

  12. Chapter 12

  Jasper's adventures continue...

  1

  Whitehall, central London. 6pm.

  Jasper Wychwood strode towards the staff entrance of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office with a spring in his step. The vast Victorian building, made of pale grey stone, had intimidated him in the past, but not today. Today, his dream—his lifelong ambition—was about to come true, and he could hardly contain his excitement.

  It was a warm summer evening, with just enough of a breeze to prevent it from feeling stuffy and oppressive. Jasper dodged between knots of tourists and showed his ID card to a bald security guard. It didn’t look like normal ID. Instead, it was a single piece of brushed metal with strange symbols scratched into it. The guard snatched up the card and frowned at the symbols. He seemed about to ask some sharp questions, but then his eyes glazed over and he rubbed his forehead as if afflicted by a sudden headache. Jasper grabbed his card back and swept into the building.

  The Foreign Office was known as the jewel of Whitehall, and with good reason. There were murals depicting scenes from antiquity on the walls, statues on stone plinths, tall windows flanked by classical pillars. A grand staircase with marble bannisters and a lush red carpet led to the upper floors.

  Sadly, Jasper had never climbed that imposing staircase. His business lay elsewhere, in the bowels of the building.

  A couple of minutes later, he entered a large rectangular courtyard with a mosaic floor and offices overlooking it on all sides. Eight free-standing candelabra stood around the edges of the courtyard, each about ten feet tall and holding dozens of electric light bulbs. Jasper made a beeline for one of the candelabra which had a single bulb that gave off pale blue, rather than yellow, light. He put his hand on the candelabra stem, feeling for a groove in the metal. Seconds later, a circle of the mosaic floor nearby slid downwards and to the side, revealing a shaft containing metal stairs spiralling downwards.

  Jasper took a last look around. His view of the bustling courtyard was blurred by a glamour that had sprung up around the candelabra the moment his fingers touched the groove. Anyone who looked in his direction would see nothing out of place.

  He descended the metal staircase, coming out in a corridor with a curved ceiling lit by werelight sconces fixed to the wall. After the lavish rooms of the Foreign Office, it felt claustrophobic. The air was chilly and damp, with a faint metallic smell. A sign saying ‘Paranormal Office—Staff Entrance’ hung from an iron bracket on the wall.

  Jasper nodded to several officials on his way through the warren-like corridors, but avoided getting into any conversations. Rasmus’s office door was ajar when he arrived. Jasper knocked once, then entered without waiting for an answer. His mentor was smoking a cigar and had a desk fan running, which only served to push smoke around the airless room. There was a window behind the desk, but it was obviously fake. It currently showed a beautiful stretch of sand and placid sea, as if the office was just a stone’s throw from an idyllic beach, rather than buried in the earth underneath Whitehall.

  Rasmus waved him inside and Jasper sat down opposite him, suppressing the urge to cough as he inhaled lungfuls of bitter cigar smoke. The pokey office was a mess. Every inch of Rasmus’s desk was crowded with papers, books, inkwells, and objects with less obvious utility, such as a snowglobe, a gnome wearing a tweed dressing gown and slippers, and a model of the London Eye, rotating slowly.

  Rasmus had a large beard flecked with grey and was wearing a felt fedora. There was a bootlace tie around his neck which threaded through a broach containing a large emerald. Jasper had an identical bootlace tie around his own neck, but his lacked any jewel or adornment.

  ‘Ah, yes. Jasper. Good to see you, lad.’ Rasmus cracked his knuckles and moved papers around on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Is this a bad time? You said to come at the end of the working day.’

  Rasmus stared down at the desk, avoiding Jasper’s eye. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.’

  Jasper’s heart sank. He’d done everything asked of him—jumped through every hoop—so what was the problem?

  ‘The trouble is, you’re still missing a signature. You need approval from all your trainers before you can finish your probation. Ah! Here it is.’

  Rasmus brandished a pink slip of paper which Jasper recognised as his report card.

  ‘Whose signature am I missing?’

  Rasmus frowned at the report card with his tongue poking out between his teeth. ‘Whitlock’s.’

  Jasper groaned. Whitlock had a reputation for strictness, but he hadn’t expected him to torpedo his probation review. Without Whitlock’s signature, his career would come to a juddering halt. Becoming a seeker—an elite paranormal investigator—was one of the most demanding jobs in the magical world, but it had been Jasper’s goal since he was a teenager.

  Today should have been the day all his hard work paid off. What if it turned into the day his hopes crumbled to dust?

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Jasper said, gripping the arms of his chair, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘What did I do wrong?’

  ‘It says here you “lack initiative“.’

  Jasper bit back an explosive response.

  There’s no point in getting angry, he told himself. I’ve just got to figure out how to appease that old fool Whitlock.

  ‘Whitlock didn’t take me on patrol or assign me to any investigations,’ Jasper said. ‘He just handed me a stack of paperwork and told me to get on with it. Which I did.’

  The ghost of a smile curved Rasmus’s lips. ‘That may have been a little test. He probably expected you to insist on patrolling with him.’

  This time Jasper swore out loud, albeit under his breath.

  Rasmus looked amused. ‘Robert Whitlock is a tricky customer, no doubt about it. He’s a fine wizard, but he has a fierce temper and exacting standards. I knew him years ago, when he was a young firecracker who wanted to tear down the Paranormal Office in the name of equality and freedom. He’s mellowed a lot since then, of course.’

  ‘I just assumed he couldn’t be bothered to get involved in my training. How can I convince him to sign me off?’

  Rasmus leaned forward in his chair, his blue eyes glittering. ‘I’ve had an idea about that. Whitlock has been patrolling Highgate Cemetery for the last few nights. Many witches and wizards are buried there, alongside all the famous Victorians, which makes the place a hotbed of paranormal activity.’

  ‘You think I should help him patrol?’

  Rasmus nodded. ‘Whitlock has reported disturbances in the cemetery—vandals attacking some of the high-profile graves, writing slogans on the headstones. His reports are rather vague, but he clearly suspects supernatural involvement. If you can help him figure out what’s going on...’

  Jasper let out a long breath. This was all deeply frustrating, but at least Rasmus was on his side.

  After two years on probation, he was ready to earn his jewel and become a seeker. Whitlock was the last obstacle in his way.

  He stood up. ‘I guess I’ll be spending the night in Highgate, then.’

  Rasmus leaned back in his chair and beamed. ‘Excellent. But don’t tell Whitlock I suggested any of this. You’re trying to show initiative, after all.’

  ‘Got it. I’ll pretend it was my idea.’

  Jasper turned on his heel and left Rasmus alone in his ramshackle office.

  His cheerful mood of earlier had evaporated, replaced by steely determination. He had one last chance to impress an obstructive old wizard and leave his probation behind. One chance to fulfil his ambition of becoming a seeker.

  It was going to be a long night.

  2

  Highgate, north London. 9.30pm.

  The usual bustle of cars and pedestrians swarmed the streets of north London, but as Jasper made his way from Archway tube station towards Highgate Cemetery, the streets grew quieter, as if out of respect for the dead.

  Jasper tried not to feel resentful at this unexpected, all-night mission. At least it was June, so he probably wouldn’t freeze to death. Nevertheless, he’d put on a warm, woolly fleece over his shirt before getting on the tube.

  A faulty street lamp blinked in front of a giant poster for a new spy film—an adaptation of John le Carré’s Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. Jasper tried to ignore the fact that the eyes of the actors on the poster seemed to follow him down the street.

  Near the poster was a family-run Italian restaurant that Jasper had visited a couple of times before. He popped inside and emerged five minutes later with a double espresso in a paper cup. He’d been tempted to order an Irish coffee, or something even stronger, but he needed to keep his wits about him to deal with whoever or whatever might be lurking in Highgate in the dead of night. Finishing the espresso in two burning gulps, he crushed the paper cup in his fist and tossed it into a rubbish bin.

  Highgate Cemetery was well sign-posted, and Jasper soon found that it was divided into two halves, East and West, bisected by a narrow road. He didn’t know which side Whitlock would be in, assuming he had started patrolling already. There were spells he could use to summon the older wizard, but he didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself. At random, he decided to start his search in the East Cemetery.

  Jasper was wearing a ring with a small ruby in it on his left hand, which he now pressed gently against the heavy padlock chained to the gate. The ruby glowed for a moment, then the padlock opened with a satisfying click. The ring was a trainee’s ring, and as such, the ruby was far smaller and less useful for channelling magic than a seeker’s jewel would be. Still, it was a lot better than nothing.

  Jasper unwound the chain, opened the gate, and crossed the threshold. As he did so, he felt a faint pressure on his face, as if he’d walked through a cobweb. He stepped back outside, then passed through the gate again. Again, he felt resistance. He studied the gate and noticed that the surrounding air sparkled with what looked like motes of silver dust.

  Someone—probably Whitlock—had set a ward around the boundary of the cemetery. But it was weak and unfinished, otherwise Jasper would not have been able to pass through it so easily.

  Was the ward there to keep intruders out? Or to keep something inside the graveyard from escaping? He’d have to ask Whitlock when he found him.

  The main path through the East Cemetery was quite wide and covered with gravel, but there were narrower muddy tracks that branched away into darker areas covered by trees and carpeted thickly with vines. Headstones of all shapes and sizes, old and new, jostled for space along the edges of path. There were stone crosses, statues of angels, obelisks, and modernist monuments. Many of the graves were well tended, but others were cracked and covered with creepers.

  The further he went, the darker it became. Jasper conjured a globe of werelight over his left hand and proceeded slowly, scanning the darkness for any hint of movement. It dawned on him that finding Whitlock might not be as easy to find as he’d assumed. The East Cemetery was big enough on its own, without worrying about the West Cemetery. No wonder Whitlock’s ward was weak and unfinished—it could easily take hours to cover such a large area.

  Just as he was thinking this, Jasper noticed a man up ahead, shuffling forward at the edge of the gravel path.

  ‘Hello? Excuse me?’

  The man turned slowly to face him. He looked to be in his sixties or early seventies, with a bushy white beard and a thick moustache. He was wearing a formal black suit with a waistcoat and a pocket watch on a long silver chain around his neck. Jasper wondered if he’d attended a funeral earlier in the day.

  To Jasper’s surprise, the man beamed at him. ‘Good evening! Have you come to take a turn around the graveyard?’

  ‘Not exactly, no. I’m here on patrol.’

  ‘Patrolling, eh? Are you with the police?’

  Jasper hesitated. Although there were many witches and wizards in London, most of the mundane population knew nothing about them. Most thought magic was a myth, and the Paranormal Office worked hard to keep it that way.

  ‘I’m not a policeman,’ Jasper said carefully. ‘The owners of the cemetery hired me to keep an eye on things overnight. Vandals have been breaking in recently and damaging some of the graves.’

  ‘So they have!’ the man said, sounding positively cheerful. ‘Terrible business. I passed one of the vandalised graves earlier. Would you like me to take you to look at it?’

  That wasn’t a bad idea. He could see for himself what the vandals had been up to, check the scene for any hints of supernatural interference, before he met Whitlock. Show some initiative.

  ‘That would be very helpful, thank you.’

  The man led the way. He seemed in no hurry, chatting amiably as they walked, pointing out noteworthy graves along the path. Jasper half-listened, keeping his eyes and ears peeled for signs of anyone skulking in the shadows.

  During a break in the bearded man’s monologue, Jasper said, ‘Do you normally walk around the cemetery so late at night? It seems a bit…’ Jasper was about to say it was a bit odd, or eccentric, but stopped himself. ‘It’s risky, don’t you think?’

  ‘Risky? No, not at all. I appreciate your concern, but I’m perfectly safe. I know these tombstones like the back of my hand! Now this one, for example...’

  Jasper had been working up to ask the man more about himself—his name for a start—but interrupting his droning voice was too much of an effort. It seemed far-fetched that an elderly man like this—however eccentric—could be responsible for the vandalism that Whitlock had reported. On the contrary, he seemed to have a sincere affection for Highgate Cemetery and the people buried here.

  They soon came to the largest tomb Jasper had ever seen. It comprised a massive marble plinth topped with a bronze bust of a man with a bushy beard and heavy eyebrows. Near the top of the plinth were the words ‘WORKERS OF ALL LANDS UNITE’ in gold letters. Jasper realised at once that this must be the grave of Karl Marx, the famous philosopher and revolutionary who had spent much of his life in London.

  Below the gold letters, Marx’s name had been obscured by a single word daubed in red paint: MURDERER. The ground in front of the tomb was littered with fractured chunks of grey stone and piles of newly dug earth. It looked like someone had taken a jackhammer to Marx’s grave and then started digging the ground underneath. Someone had obviously been trying to reach Marx’s remains... but had they succeeded?

  Looking up at the bronze bust, Jasper realised that the heavyset features and bushy beard looked very familiar, and not just from grainy photos in history books.

  Jasper swivelled around, but the old man with the white beard and old-fashioned suit had vanished.

  3

  10pm.

  After assuring himself that the old man had really left the vicinity, Jasper knelt down and examined Marx’s grave more closely. Whoever was responsible for the damage had splintered stone and burrowed deep into the earth.

  Not whoever, he realised. Whatever. There were claws marks on the sides of the hole, suggesting it had been dug by an animal or creature of some kind.

  Jasper straightened up and circled around the tomb, checking for any further damage. Except for the word ‘MURDERER’ on the marble plinth, the monument itself looked undamaged.

  He tried to consider the evidence calmly, rationally. This clearly wasn’t the work of vandals. Something far more dangerous was stalking Highgate Cemetery.

  ‘Don’t move,’ said a voice behind him. ‘Stay where you are.’

  Jasper turned around to see a tall man in a burgundy overcoat striding towards him. He was middle aged, with black hair swept to one side, and had an angular face with high cheekbones and no facial hair. He was wearing black leather gloves and had a bootlace tie around his neck, but, unusually, there was no seeker’s jewel threaded through it. Then Jasper noticed there was a glowing white jewel in a socket at the base of the metal wand the man was carrying . He was currently pointing the wand at Jasper’s throat.

  Jasper lifted his hands, showing that they were empty. ‘Sir, it’s me. Jasper Wychwood. One of your trainees.’

  Whitlock came to a halt a few feet away and studied Jasper through narrowed eyes. Jasper remembered that he’d dribbled a bit of espresso down his fleece earlier. He hoped it wouldn’t be visible in the gloom.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Whitlock said, still pointing his wand at Jasper’s throat.

  Jasper swallowed, acutely aware that one of the most powerful wizards in London had discovered him at a crime scene. ‘I heard you were out here dealing with vandals that are targeting Highgate Cemetery. I thought I’d come and help.’

  It sounded like a lie, or a half-truth. But Rasmus had asked for his name to be kept out of it, so Jasper had to pretend this was all his idea.

  Whitlock stared at him for an uncomfortably long time.

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’re not giving me the full story. What are you trying to hide?’

  Jasper licked his lips. ‘Well, to be honest, I was hoping to convince you to sign off my probation review. Show some initiative and all that.’

 

1 2 3 4 5