All things considered, he was more than satisfied with the result of his latest, and most demanding, labours. He was ready now, to rest and let nature take its course.
There was a stirring of the drapery, but Charles, fully engrossed in his work, thought nothing of it until he heard a brushing step and the creak of wood on the threshold. Glancing up from his reading, he saw a long, thin shadow on the Persian rug, and raised his eyes as the intruder stepped into the room.
“Douglas!” he gasped. “Good heavens, son, you gave me a start.”
“Sorry, Father,” replied the young man. “It was not my intention to startle you.”
“I daresay.” Charles closed his book and stood. “What are you doing creeping around the garden anyway? Why are you here during term?”
“I’m done with Oxford, Father,” said Douglas. He crossed to the leather wingback chair across from the desk and slouched into it. “Or perhaps, Oxford is done with me.”
“Oh, Douglas.” Charles returned to his chair behind the desk. “Do not tell me you have been sent down!”
The young man made a sour face. “I have not been sent down. I have left the place.”
“We have had this discussion before. You must finish your studies.”
“Must I, Father?” he sneered. “Why must I? You never did.”
“Now, see here!”
“No! You see here.” Douglas leapt to his feet and began pacing in front of the desk. “I have been taking orders from you all my life, and I am heartily sick of it. I’m not going back there. I don’t care what anybody says.”
“Lower your voice, Douglas.”
“All those petty potentates swaggering about their tiny fiefdoms— nothing but stuffed shirts, gasbags, and idiots, the lot of them.”
“That’s unfair—”
“It is a bloody waste of time.”
“Mind your language in this house!” Charles regarded his wayward son, struggling to keep his temper in check. “What have you done this time, boy?”
“Don’t patronise me!” Douglas stalked in front of the desk, restless, bristling with anger. “I won’t have it.”
“You cannot expect to live here as a guest. You must have work. What do you intend to do?”
“I am taking up the quest,” he replied haughtily. “After all, it is the Flinders-Petrie stock in trade.”
“Oh, Douglas,” his father sighed. “We’ve been over this before. We agreed that you would wait until you finished your studies. If you abandon them now, you will be in no way prepared to meet the challenges you will face.”
“I am ready now.”
Charles studied him for a long moment. “You know that is impossible.”
“Why? Because you say it is?”
“Do we have to go into this all again?” Charles said. “You know how I feel.”
The slender young man stood with his hands at his sides, tight as a coiled spring. “I have come for the map.”
“No. It is out of the question.”
“I’m not leaving here without it.”
“It will do you no good. You do not know how to read it.”
“I’ll learn.”
Charles gave a mirthless laugh. “That I heartily doubt,” he scoffed. “It is not like reading a road map, you know. You must know the code.”
“Then tell me.”
“I will—and gladly—on the day you finish your studies.” His father made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Go back to Oxford. Apply yourself. Show me you can finish something for once in your life.”
“I’ll show you,” Douglas said, lurching for the desk. He snatched up the bronze Etruscan mask his father used as a paperweight. “I’ll show you what I can do. The key—”
“Douglas, you may leave now. This conversation is over.”
“Give me the key, old man.” Douglas hefted the heavy artefact dangerously.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The key to the iron chest,” he snarled. “I want the map. You think I don’t know where you keep it?”
“Don’t be hasty, Douglas. Taking the map won’t get you anywhere. Sit down, let us talk this out.”
“All you ever do is talk. I’m through talking. I want the key to the chest.” Douglas, eyes bulging, his long face red with anger, raised his arm to strike.
“Put that down!” shouted Charles.
“I warned you, Father,” snarled Douglas. On his smooth forehead a vein throbbed visibly like a purple spear of forked lightning as he swung his arm in a murderous arc.
“Douglas!” Charles put up his hands to ward off the attack. “No!”
The weighty bronze smashed into the elder man’s skull. Blood spouted from the gash that opened on the side of his head.
“Douglas, no,” Charles moaned. He grabbed his head. “Think . . . think what you’re doing. Don’t be stupid. I can’t—”
But the bronze mask landed a crushing blow to Charles’ left temple. Charles lifted himself from his chair. Hands shaking, he beseeched his son in pitiful tones, begging him to stop.
Again and again the brass weight slammed down. The hard bone of the skull cracked under three savage blows. Charles slumped to his knees, his eyes rolling up into their sockets, showing only white. He gave a little groan and toppled slowly to his side. A tremor passed through him, and he lay still.
“Good-bye, Father,” muttered Douglas, dropping the paperweight to the floor beside the body.
Stepping quickly around to the desk, he opened the wide centre drawer and removed the ring of keys he knew would be there. Then, turning to the bookcase in the corner of the room, he pulled out a row of volumes to reveal an iron strongbox, which, though it seemed to rest on the shelf, was instead secured to the wall. He put the first key into the lock and turned; the key met with resistance, and the second key was much too big, so he moved on to the third. The lock gave at once, and he raised the heavy lid.
Inside the strongbox was a gilt-edged leather folder tied with a green ribbon. Douglas snatched up the folder and moved back to the desk. As his fingers fumbled with the satin binding, he heard a sound in the hallway, and there came a knock on the door.
Douglas glanced at once to the body on the floor, his mind racing. How much could be seen from the doorway? What if he were found with the body? Where could he hide?
The knock came again, followed by a voice: “Mr. Flinders-Petrie, sir? There’s a rag-and-bone man come to call. Do you have anything for him?”
It was Silas Cumberbatch, the caretaker.
“Send him away,” Douglas growled in gruff imitation of his father’s tone. “I’m busy.”
“Very good, sir.”
Douglas waited until he heard the footsteps receding. Then, unwilling to further risk being caught with the murdered corpse of his father, he tucked the gold-edged folder under his coat and moved to the French doors. He stepped outside, cast a swift glance around to make sure he was unobserved, then darted across the lawn to the border hedge and a place he knew behind the holly bush where he used to climb over the garden wall as a lad. Once over the wall, he proceeded down the service alley to the road and hailed a cab to take him to Paddington Station.
He bought a ticket and hurried to the platform where the train was waiting, found an empty compartment in one of the carriages, and let himself in. It was only after the train had left the station and was past Ealing and heading for Slough that Douglas removed the leather folder once more.
Setting it on his knee, he carefully untied the strip of green ribbon and opened the cover. Inside was a single piece of paper with a simple handwritten note. It read:
Forgive me, Douglas. It is for the best.
Your loving Father
The Skin Map was gone.
Epilogue
The three travellers hitched a ride down from Montserrat Abbey in the mail truck that called on the monastery every afternoon. Upon reaching the village of El Bruc at the foot of the mountain, they decide
d it would be prudent to procure a weapon of some description for the onward journey. In the end, the only thing they could find was a sheathed hunting knife from the little general store on the village square.
“If that’s the best we can do, so be it,” concluded Kit. “We’re wasting time.”
Attaching the knife to his belt, Kit led the other two back to the highway and started off along the verge, following the tarmac strip as it wound along the river until, after a mile or two, they came to the place were Kit had been found by the hunters. Happily, there were no gun-toting farmers around this time, so they crossed the little stone bridge and headed up the rising slope towards the cliffs. As they walked, Kit tried to set the scene.
“It is the Stone Age. More primitive than you’ve ever imagined. No buildings, no machines, no metal, glass, or plastic. Skins, not cloth.” He patted his clothes. “It is nature in the raw, and it is man against the elements. That said, it is the middle of winter. At least it was when I left—and that means there are loads of hungry animals around, so we’ll have to make contact with the clan pretty sharpish if we want to avoid getting eaten.”
“Maybe we should have brought more clothes—something warmer?” wondered Wilhelmina.
“Carrying all that extra stuff would only slow us down. Anyway, I think we’ll be okay,” he told her. “Once we’ve rejoined the clan, we can get some skins and furs and whatever else we need if it’s really cold. We don’t need to spend a whole lot of time faffing about. We get to the Bone House and make the jump to the Spirit Well.”
Brother Lazarus said something in German, which Mina translated for Kit. “He is worried that the primitives will be frightened by us—that they might attack us.”
Kit stopped walking and turned to his companions. “Look, I can’t guarantee anything, as I’ve already said. But they never showed a trace of violence in my presence. They accepted me straight away, which is fairly amazing when you think about it. And, even if they are a little skittish, they’ll remember me—I was adopted by the clan, and you’re with me. I don’t anticipate any problems, so everyone just relax and follow my lead, okay?” He looked at each of them in turn. “Okay.”
A few minutes’ hard slog up the hillside brought them to the mouth of a cave.
“This is the place,” Kit announced. He glanced at the sun, which had passed midday. “We may have to wait awhile for the portal to become active.”
They put down their packs, and Wilhelmina consulted her ley lamp. As expected, the blue indicator lights were dark. “Nothing,” she announced. “But it’s early yet. I’ll keep an eye on it. In the meantime, show us this cave of yours.”
Brother Lazarus opened his pack and handed around the flashlights. Kit switched his on and off to check it. “Ready?” asked Kit when they had shouldered their packs once more. “Here we go. Watch your step.”
Moving into the mouth of the cave, he switched on his torch and stepped into the interior. The air was still and tepid with the faintly musty smell of mildew and fungus. Among a heap of rocks near the entrance, Kit retrieved his furry shirt—hidden where he had left it a few days earlier.
“You were wearing that?” asked Wilhelmina with a laugh.
“I’ll have you know this is the height of fashion,” Kit replied. “I made it myself.”
“You’re lucky the hunters didn’t shoot you,” she said.
Kit rolled up the shirt and stuffed it into his pack. “This way,” he said, and led them into the yawning dark. They followed the tunnel deeper into the mountain, their lights playing on the rough surface of the walls. Brother Lazarus took a keen scientific interest in the tunnel shape and rock formation, pausing now and again to examine a particularly interesting feature.
They reached the place where the winding passageway straightened out. Here Kit stopped and flashed his torch along the path he identified as containing the ley line. He had not previously seen it in such clear light, and it appeared different than he remembered. In his mind he had pictured the cave ley as a corridor of straight lines and right angles. But, although the floor of the tunnel was straight and even enough, the walls bulged and wobbled along a length whose end was quickly lost in the darkness beyond.
“Is this the place?” asked Mina, adding her light to his.
“I think so,” replied Kit. “It seems about right.” He produced his ley lamp and held it out. Not so much as a flicker of light emanated from the device. “Does your lamp show anything?”
Wilhelmina brought hers out and waved it around. “Still nothing,” she said. “What do you want to do now?”
“Wait, I guess,” said Kit.
The priest, who had been examining a large crystalline seam in the wall, joined them. “We have to wait a bit,” she told him in German. “The ley isn’t active yet.”
“No?” he asked, gazing at the object in her hand.
Mina glanced down. A faint blue sheen was visible in the tiny openings. Before she could open her mouth to tell Kit, the fickle glint faded and died. She stared at the gizmo, willing it to wake up again. “Come on,” she whispered. “Glow.”
“What are you doing?” asked Kit.
“Shh!” she said. “Watch.”
Even as she spoke, the row of lights flickered to life. Kit dug out his ley lamp and held it up. The device remained dark.
“There is definitely something here,” said Mina. “Keep watching.”
The indigo gleam deepened, strengthening by the second. Kit’s ley lamp, however, remained dead, the carapace a cold lump of metal. Mina’s ley lamp grew brighter.
“How are you doing that?” Kit asked.
“I’m not doing anything,” she said. “It’s just that this new lamp is more powerful than the old one. Upgrades, my friend.”
The priest reached out and moved Kit’s hand until the two devices were side by side. Slowly, the lights in Kit’s ley lamp began to glow— a wavering gleam that gradually took hold and intensified until it matched the brightness of Mina’s device.
“Now, that’s interesting,” said Kit. He glanced at Mina’s face, her features bathed in the cool blue glow.
Brother Lazarus tapped his temple with a forefinger. “Sehr interessant.”
“He says yes, it’s very interesting,” Mina translated.
“I got that,” said Kit. “Thanks.” He flicked his flashlight down the passage. “Well? This is the place. Let’s go.”
Wilhelmina held out her hand to him. “And let’s try to stay together for once, shall we?”
“Good idea.” Kit took her hand, and Brother Lazarus put a hand on her pack and gave Kit a nod.
“Right,” said Kit. “Forward, march.”
He started off with slow, measured strides; when he judged the others were in step, he increased his pace slightly. After a few metres he felt a flutter in the air, a light exhalation of breeze on his skin as from an unseen vent. At the same time he felt the ley lamp in his hand grow warm, and the lights burned with a fierce intensity. He shoved the device into his pocket and readied himself for the jump.
It came a few paces later, and when it did it was so gentle as to be almost imperceptible. The cavern floor shifted under his feet, and the air shivered—as if someone had closed a door in another room. Suddenly he sensed he was standing in a much larger passageway. The jump was complete.
Kit slowed and then stopped to look around, shining his torch over the grey stone walls. The passage opened up a few metres ahead. He stepped through the opening and found himself in a large gallery, the extent of which his flashlight could not illuminate.
“Everyone okay?” he asked.
“Never better,” replied Mina. “You can let go of my hand now.”
“Brother Lazarus? You okay?”
“Molto bene,” came the reply. The priest, lapsing into Italian in his excitement, gazed around the room, shining his torch at a hanging cluster of pale stalactites dripping water like icicles from the roof. “Fantastico!”
“We go on,�
�� said Kit. “There’s a side passage up along here somewhere that leads to another chamber. That’s where the paintings are.”
Kit led his little team into the gallery, staying close to the wall until they came to a gap where the tunnel branched off; the opening was smaller than he remembered. “I think this is the place,” he said. “It’s a tight squeeze, but it opens up a little farther on.”
“After you,” said Wilhelmina.
Kit shrugged through the breach and squeezed along the undulating corridor. As predicted, the channel grew wider by degrees until they could walk without touching either side. They came to a sort of anteroom where Kit paused. “I remember this place. This is where I heard the clinky-clink sound. I thought it was water, but it turned out to be the end of Baby’s chain.”
While Mina explained this to Brother Lazarus, Kit examined the walls with his torchlight. The beam swept the uneven surface of the stone, causing the dips and bulges to leap into sharp relief. “The markings are low down on the wall,” he told them, moving farther into the chamber.
Mina and Brother Lazarus likewise began searching, sweeping the walls with their flashlights. Brother Lazarus moved to the other side, shining his light a few feet off the floor. “Achtung! Sie sind hier!” he called, waving them over.
“He’s found them,” said Mina, hurrying to the place where the priest was kneeling.
Kit joined them and quickly confirmed that, sure enough, there they were—a cluster of enigmatic symbols, just as he had seen them on his first visit to the cave. “Am I right, or am I right?” he asked.
“Let’s check.” Removing her pack, Wilhelmina opened it and brought out a short cardboard tube from which she extracted a roll of paper, which she opened and held up against the nearest symbols. Several seemed to form an identical match, but most, while similar, were entirely different.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “what do you think?”
“I think you may have hit the jackpot here,” declared Wilhelmina. “It certainly seems to be the real thing. I wonder how they got there?”
The Spirit Well Page 31
