Reincarnated Cthulhu
Chapter 38: Kings Cross Station, Arrival of the Train

London possesses a certain hue that reveals itself only in winter.

It is the world’s most dismal morning sunlight. The thick smoke from furnaces burning through the night in London homes lingers in the upper air, and by morning, it mingles with the mist to form a murky atmospheric current. This is the very substance that creates that thin film on windows—a membrane that refuses to vanish no matter how diligently one cleans.

From early morning, housekeepers busily scrub windows with cloths, waging their daily battle against the dreary glass. Yet by noon, the windows inevitably turn hazy again. To live in London was to accept this perpetual visual hindrance as part of life.

Still, the sunlight perseveres. Through fog so dense one cannot see a hand before one’s face, it determinedly traverses 150 million kilometers to bestow life even upon the humble weeds growing between London’s pavements.

Such a peculiar light cannot be witnessed anywhere else in the world but London. It is for this very reason that I fell in love with this city. My love, my pride, my second homeland—London.

It was a day in the new year when people were still more accustomed to writing 1895 than 1896.

In my hand rested two letters. Their senders were inscribed thus: “Royal Bethlem Hospital” and “Alice Pleasance Liddell”

By curious coincidence, correspondence regarding two young people I had encountered during last month’s university investigation had arrived on the same day. I opened the first letter, which contained the following:

───────────── January 20, 1896 To Baron Philemon Herbert, benefactor of J.D. We hereby inform you: We remain ever grateful for your generous support of our hospital. The patient under our care has deteriorated as of yesterday and has been transferred to the brain surgery ward for intensive treatment. No additional charges shall be incurred, though visitation is prohibited during the treatment period. May a sound mind dwell within Her Majesty’s loyal subject. Royal Bethlem Hospital ─────────────

J.D. was the alias given to that unfortunate young man who had gouged out his own eyes and tongue in an act of self-mutilation. I had resolved to take responsibility for this nameless youth’s life until the end and had committed him to the mental hospital.

The Royal Bethlem Hospital is a royal institution for former soldiers. Several of my fellow combatants had sought treatment there for seizures, making it the most trustworthy facility of its kind.

I folded the letter back into its envelope and placed it meticulously into my correspondence box.

Then, upon seeing the next letter, an involuntary sigh escaped my lips. “Alice Pleasance Liddell”

Her name was written in a precise, orderly hand upon the envelope, and it seemed as though her spirited voice, somehow infused into the ink itself, might leap forth and pierce my ears. To torment one’s auditory senses with mere lettering—truly, she possessed a remarkable talent.

I set the letter down.

Mornings ought to be quieter affairs. Especially in London, a city that awakens with the sluggishness of low blood pressure.

With this thought, as I organized the bundle of letters she had sent, I suddenly realized something startling. The collection of letters she had sent in just one month was thicker than the three-month bundle I had organized last year.

Alice Pleasance Liddell.

Strictly speaking, she was not “Pleasance” at all. Curiously, her legal name was recorded simply as Alice Liddell, and no one save herself ever mentioned a middle name.

Yet she stubbornly introduced herself as Pleasance. Considering the story behind that middle name, her insistence wasn’t entirely surprising. It had, after all, been bestowed upon her by Charles Lutwidge Dodgson—a gentleman better known to the world as Lewis Carroll.

I have nothing further to add regarding the power struggles between Mr. Liddell and his daughter. What remains indisputable is that she is the world’s most famous Alice. At least, she was in my previous life.

However, concerning my relationship with her, there was much to be said.

She had absolutely no reason to write me letters. This isn’t meant unkindly—it was simply fact! I appeared at the university at least twice weekly, and she continued to reside in the university dormitory.

We conversed for a precise 30 minutes every Tuesday and Friday, and even when she had nothing of substance to say, she would maintain a determined silence until exactly 30 minutes had elapsed before departing. (She genuinely carried a pocket watch and timed these meetings. What peculiar behavior…?)

Thus, she had no need to expend money on postage. She could simply speak to me directly.

In retrospect, my loose tongue was to blame. To prepare for any unforeseen dangers, I had casually cautioned Alice with these ill-considered words:

“If you have something to tell me or Arthur, don’t commit it to paper—come find us in person. The General Post Office monitors all correspondence to and from Frank Mansion, and I may well be under surveillance myself.”

After that remark, she began writing letters with fervent dedication!

It seems I had inadvertently uttered the perfect sentence to captivate her childlike fascination with mysterious worlds. She sent me letters brimming with ciphers, metaphors, and neologisms of her own invention… which, naturally, I couldn’t begin to decipher.

Consequently, I found myself engaged in the absurd ritual of bringing one or two of her letters whenever I went to the university, only to inquire about their meaning.

Apart from my acquaintance with Alice, university life remained remarkably unchanged.

It was as if Professor Kalas had been swallowed by the earth—no one acknowledged his absence. I continued teaching classes and performing my duties as Acting Dean, including the search for a new professor.

The only notable change was that following his death, the flesh-consuming clock had ceased its ghastly function.

Students were no longer dragged away under the pretext of graduation. The graduates still haunted the corridors, but they merely stood motionless facing the walls, posing no threat whatsoever.

With this immediate danger extinguished, my investigation became less urgent. I spent my time discreetly seeking ways to establish contact with other colleges.

─────Knock knock.

As I organized the letters and picked up a newspaper, Marie rapped gently on my door.

“I’ll prepare tea for you.”

“Yes, thank you.”

She had become quite talkative since the day I was brought home unconscious.

Marie entered the room, placed a tray upon the desk, and arranged a teacup, teapot, scones, and jam. Throughout this domestic ritual, she cast persistent glances at the newspaper in my hands.

“Master, I see you’ve purchased a newspaper from that cunning little urchin again.”

I feigned obliviousness and unfolded the newspaper.

Every morning at first light, the newspaper boy would approach our window and knock. I would surreptitiously open the window, careful not to alert Marie, and reward the industrious lad’s early-morning diligence with a modest coin.

I felt a peculiar loyalty to this new arrangement with the newspaper boy and had no desire to endure Marie’s reproach over the matter. Initially, I had welcomed her newfound loquaciousness as a positive development, but I now realized how mistaken I’d been.

Who could have foreseen the return of her insufferable admonishments? Her voice alone was nerve-racking enough, but paired with such vexatious content, it was simply beyond endurance.

I leafed past the advertisements and rapidly scanned the first article.

“Colonel Scott’s First Antarctic Expedition Ends in Failure! Who Is to Blame?”

The newspaper contained unexpected tidings of Colonel Scott’s recent endeavors.

After his hasty retreat at the mere sight of Marie, he had never made contact, despite his assurances to the contrary. Evidently, this thoughtless companion had departed for Antarctica without so much as a word of farewell. Though I would have worried for him regardless, his indifference was rather wounding.

Yet as is invariably the case with London newspapers, one ought never to judge by headlines alone.

This voyage scarcely qualified as an expedition. He had merely surveyed the Antarctic coastline alongside the Royal Geographical Society, scouting potential landing sites for a future journey to the South Pole.

“When I set foot upon this ice sheet, it shall be only to march toward the South Pole.”

He had apparently made this declaration before returning to London without even setting foot upon Antarctic ice. While I couldn’t ascertain the complete truth, it seemed entirely plausible. He had always possessed a penchant for grandiose pronouncements—this was thoroughly in keeping with his character.

I was hardly surprised by the newspaper’s unseemly conduct. They consistently demonstrated their vulgar tactics every few days merely to increase circulation.

“Is there an interesting article?”

At Marie’s inquiry, I hastily turned the page. I had no wish to show her the article about Scott.

Fortuitously, the next article contained even more startling news.

“SMR Acquires LNWR, Ushering in an Era of Direct London-Oxford Service!”

The Southern & Midland Railway (SMR), the colossal company monopolizing southern and central British railways, had finally consumed the last independent central railway, the London & North Western Railway (LNWR). Now all direct rail lines connected to London had fallen under their dominion.

The LNWR held considerable significance in my personal history, particularly due to the Varsity Line connecting Oxford and Cambridge. During my university days, the train to which I had committed my trembling form, clutching the letter bearing news of my father’s death, had been an LNWR service.

I could still vividly recall the foul miasma of the third-class carriage, where passengers were herded like common cattle.

“Less interesting than it is preposterous.”

“How so?”

At my grumbling, Marie stretched her neck forward inquisitively. As she leaned closer, I startled and recoiled, which in turn appeared to surprise her, causing her to draw back. I simply turned the newspaper toward her.

“SMR… LNWR…” she murmured in a subdued voice.

“I don’t quite understand. It seems like an ordinary article to me.”

I shook my head with evident displeasure.

“The Varsity Line is LNWR’s signature route, is it not? By both distance and importance, the terminus should be Cambridge, not Oxford. I should like to see the face of the fellow who penned this article. Undoubtedly someone who has never darkened the door of a university in their life.”

“But Oxford is famous too, isn’t it?”

I fixed Marie with a steady gaze. She avoided my eyes, shifting her attention toward the newspaper. Though she typically struggled with reading quickly, in moments like this she always managed to swiftly discover a convenient diversion.

“The new train takes less than two hours to reach Oxford, it says.”

At Marie’s remark, I turned the newspaper back to verify. Then I exclaimed with unmistakable incredulity:

“That’s utterly preposterous! It has always taken at least 2 hours and 45 minutes to reach Oxford!”

The distance from London to Oxford spans 81 miles, nearly 130 kilometers—a considerable journey indeed. How could it possibly arrive in under two hours?

…For a moment, I felt a distinct disenchantment with the technological limitations of our nineteenth century.

The article continued. Following the route integration, a high-speed train called the ‘SMR Welles’ would commence its inaugural journey this Saturday. Though I harbored reservations about entrusting myself to an unproven locomotive, the timing was rather fortuitous.

“I understand it’s quite fashionable these days to take a train for a weekend excursion to the countryside.”

“I beg your pardon? Yes, sir.”

Marie responded while arranging the tray.

“Prepare for an outing this Saturday. I intend to be away for approximately two days.”

At this, she became suddenly rigid. Like a clockwork figure that had wound down, she remained perfectly still for a conspicuous interval.

Kings Cross Station.

Established in 1852 in the Camden Borough, this magnificent terminus had ever been the pulsing heart of metropolitan transportation. The railway lines that stretched forth confidently from the north of England bowed their heads in humble deference as they approached the capital. Thus their arrangement formed an intricate spiderweb with London as its central hub.

The platforms, too, were constructed with deliberate aesthetic sensibility.

The innovative design, featuring grand arched entrances flanking a central clock tower, and the exotic roof reminiscent of Moscow’s architectural splendor, enhanced the station’s air of mystery and romance. Yet no one here paused to contemplate its artistic merits.

Those who styled themselves gentlemen and ladies while promenading through the city invariably shed their dignity upon entering this domain, scurrying about with unseemly haste. Such was the curious enchantment that trains and stations cast upon even the most refined souls.

“What shall we do?”

Marie uttered the same words for what appeared the tenth time that morning.

“There are too many people.”

She whispered, leaning her head close to mine, as though someone overhearing her voice might immediately apprehend her and drag her to the pyre.

“What precisely is the difficulty? Your face is thoroughly concealed.”

Marie continued to wring her hands nervously.

“But, won’t I appear peculiar?”

Her concern was not without merit. With her face wrapped in gauze and shrouded beneath two layers of black veil, she did present a rather extraordinary visage. Yet, remarkably, not a soul on the platform spared her a second glance.

Not merely on the platform, but throughout London, everyone conducted themselves as though they were the busiest person in the empire, displaying scant interest in their fellow travelers.

“Carry yourself with conviction, and no one shall take notice. What consequence is it if you appear somewhat unconventional?”

At my counsel, Marie thrust her chest forward in an awkward attempt at confidence, resulting in an even more eccentric gait. Now she truly did appear suspicious. At that precise moment, a gentleman approached us.

“Is this the lady’s first railway journey, perchance?”

He was a middle-aged gentleman with a notably prominent forehead. Attired in a tuxedo and fox fur coat as though bound for some prestigious engagement, his ensemble might be considered positively audacious in London, where white garments invariably succumbed to sooty blackness within a week.

This signified either a recent arrival from the provinces or a man of extraordinary wealth—I unhesitatingly concluded the latter. His aristocratic British accent was simply too impeccable to suggest otherwise.

“Miss?”

Marie raised her gaze toward me. Even with her face thoroughly concealed, she managed to convey an expression of silent supplication.

“She has resided in London her entire life but is venturing beyond its confines for the first time,” I answered on her behalf. Whether this statement bore any resemblance to truth, I hadn’t the faintest notion.

“Ah, splendid! Then today shall provide the perfect inaugural experience. The express train SMR Welles represents the most significant advancement in locomotion since Stephenson’s Rocket, and stands as the pinnacle of modern railway engineering. It never halts, permits no deviation, and conveys passengers to their destination in perfect safety and unparalleled comfort.”

He declared this with a voice resonant with pride. His fervor for mechanical innovation was so conspicuous that I found myself involuntarily inquiring:

“If I might be so bold, are you affiliated with the Southern & Midland Railway?”

“Oh dear, how frightfully remiss of me to expound without proper introduction. I am George Hudson Junior.”

I briefly clasped his proffered hand.

“Baron Philemon Herbert. This is my attendant, Shirley Marie. Kindly excuse her silence—she harbors a profound aversion to speaking in the presence of strangers.”

“Ah, I comprehend entirely.”

He blinked, evidently taken aback. Marie’s attire rendered the claim that she was a mere servant difficult to credit, even as a polite fiction. He nodded sagely, as though suddenly grasping some hidden truth—perhaps constructing an improper domestic scenario in his imagination. I permitted him his misconception.

“The name George Hudson brings to mind another individual of my acquaintance.”

I casually introduced the subject. At this, the man’s already lustrous complexion seemed to acquire an additional patina of satisfaction.

“The Railway King.”

“My esteemed father was indeed known by that sobriquet.”

He responded with the air of one who had anticipated this recognition.

“And having assumed the mantle of my father’s enterprise, I too bear the title of Railway King. A dynastic succession, if you will. I am the architect and mastermind behind the SMR Welles that embarks upon its maiden journey today.”

Indeed, as I had surmised, he was a man of colossal wealth. If his assertion held truth, he was not merely an SMR associate but undoubtedly a principal director. And it appeared that his inheritance from the Railway King extended beyond mere financial abundance.

He expounded with the imperious voice characteristic of one possessed of both exceptional talent and unbridled passion:

“Are you cognizant, sir, that trains are religious artifacts—works of divine artistry?”

“That is certainly a novel perspective.”

“Naturally so. It is a thesis I have only recently begun to propound. I stand as the equal not only of Michelangelo or Galileo, but as a singular artistic genius in my own right. Just as they adorned and shaped the great cathedrals, I design the sanctuaries of our modern epoch. Do you apprehend my meaning? Contemporary society flocks to railway stations rather than cathedrals on the Sabbath. They escape the tumultuous metropolis in the mere blink of an eye, arriving in pastoral tranquility to achieve spiritual repose. Those black, majestic steam engines have become the veritable cathedrals of modern humanity.”

Whatever his pride in his artistic philosophy, it was abundantly clear that his cultural erudition left something to be desired. For one matter, Galileo had never, to my knowledge, applied brush to cathedral wall.

“Might I inquire as to your destination?”

“Oxford.”

“In which class do you intend to travel?”

“Is that of any consequence? The carriages all move in unison, do they not?”

Hudson drew back his chin with evident surprise. As there seemed little purpose in dissembling, I readily divulged the information.

“Second class.”

“Ah, then it shall require precisely 1 hour and 36 minutes. In bygone days, such a journey might have consumed the better part of a week, but now—less than two hours! Is that not utterly magnificent?”

He pronounced this with such mathematical certainty, as though the laws of time and space themselves had been consulted and bound to his schedule.

“How can you possibly make such a precise guarantee?”

I spoke with undisguised skepticism. Hudson, seemingly delighted by my doubt—as though it offered him the perfect opportunity for pronouncement—declared in his booming, authoritative voice:

“As I have already stated, Baron Herbert, the SMR Welles is never—not ever—late. It shall not halt under any circumstances whatsoever. Absolutely none!”

At that moment, from the far end of the platform, a locomotive glided into view and emitted a piercing whistle. The thought struck me, with peculiar clarity, that the metallic blast bore an uncanny resemblance to Hudson’s imperious voice—both mechanical and human united in a single, relentless proclamation of their own importance.