He swung his torch into the recesses, muttering greedily.
‘Something that is used every day . . . A spit, maybe? A carving knife?’
He searched the kitchen methodically, but found nothing of value.
‘Think!’ said Father O’Hanrahan.
Cuthbertson walked in. He had a large stone Buddha in his arms.
‘Is this worth anything?’ he said.
The old man ignored him. ‘The monk told me he saw it,’ he said. ‘It must have been in the main room, not in here . . . Why am I wasting time in here? Where would you put a sword? Why would he be using one?’
‘It’s not on display,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘We would have seen it. And you’re sure it’s not the gold one?’
‘I showed you pictures, man. It’s a small thing.’
The old man stood still. ‘What do you use a sword for? What is a sword, eh? It’s a stick. A walking stick? A lever – something to lift things with?’
‘A toasting fork?’ said the policeman. ‘What if he toasted things on it, by the fire?’
They moved quickly, back to the main chamber. Gary Cuthbertson joined them at the stove.
‘We’re so close,’ said the old man. ‘I can feel it. It’s getting cold as well, isn’t it? The temperature’s dropping. That’s a good sign!’
‘Why?’ said Cuthbertson. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that wretched old ghost’s around, I reckon. It means he’s not happy – and it means we might be right on top of what we’re looking for.’
He went right up to the stove and opened the door.
‘See if there’s a poker, or something,’ said Gary. ‘That would be used every day, wouldn’t it?’
Cuthbertson felt his heart lurch: there was a poker and it lay discarded on the flagstones. He put his hand on it gingerly and it was warm and heavy.
‘Give that to me,’ said Father O’Hanrahan.
‘It’s small enough, isn’t it?’
‘Give it here.’
Cuthbertson held onto it, weighing it in his hands. ‘I think we’re in business,’ he said. He was grinning again. He took out a penknife, and as he did so, the mirrors above started to move. They knocked gently together, as if shifting in a breeze. The temperature had dropped again and the men found that they were shivering and rubbing their hands.
Cuthbertson handed the poker to his brother, who held it firm. He stroked one of the sides with a blade and started to scrape carefully at the coating of coat dust.
‘Harder,’ whispered O’Hanrahan. ‘Scrape it there, on the . . . Just there!’
The policeman pushed the point in and twisted. Then he levered up and a lump of black came away, like crust. A precious stone winked up at them and – unseen – a wall mirror split with a silent crack, top to bottom. In seconds, throughout the chambers, every mirror shattered. The three men were too intent to notice. They didn’t hear the deep, angry rattling of glassware.
Underneath the crust of carbon, shining like pure, silver fire, lay walnut-sized diamonds.
‘Oh my word . . .’ whispered Father O’Hanrahan. ‘We’re touching it.’ One by one, the policeman exposed them.
‘This is it.’
‘This is it – you’re holding it!’ The old man started to laugh. ‘Find something to wrap it in! Quickly. On the chair – look . . .’
There was a red velvet cloth, draped over a fallen table. The policeman grabbed it and watched as the old man took the sword and wrapped it. He held it to his chest, laughing softly. ‘What did they say? Too beautiful to be looked at, that’s why it’s concealed. Gentlemen, we have what we came for – the sword of St Caspar! The job’s done.’
He stopped and looked up.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Cuthbertson.
‘The ghost.’
‘What about him? Where is he?’
‘Somewhere close. Oh, he doesn’t like us, that’s for sure. Can you hear him? I can . . .’
Father O’Hanrahan looked carefully around him. ‘You can feel him, can’t you?’ he said. ‘He’s wanting that showdown I promised him.’
The policeman took the sword and pushed it firmly into his rucksack. As he was clipping it shut, he saw the old man move into the middle of the room. He was looking up, now, for the shards of glass were dancing again, louder, and the noise they made could not be ignored.
Father O’Hanrahan held up his crucifix. ‘In the name of the Father,’ he said, firmly. ‘In the name of the Son. I command you . . . to leave this place.’
On the far side of the room his bottle of holy water stood on the sideboard, next to the whisky. He moved towards it and, as he did so, it broke apart and the water ran harmlessly over the wood.
Father O’Hanrahan chuckled. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘That’s your game, is it? We’re having a stand-off are we? Well, you won’t get the next one, Vyner, old chap! And you will not resist me, for I am here by the power that no spirit can resist. I am here by the Spirit—’
‘You’re not a priest!’ cried Ruskin, from the floor. He was craning his head to see what was going on, peering through his sellotape and spectacles. ‘You’re just a crook and a fake.’
Father O’Hanrahan’s right hand was moving slowly to his satchel. His left held the crucifix high and he was turning in a circle, knowing the ghost was about to attack. He ignored Ruskin and cried out again in his deepest register: ‘In nomine Domini et in nomine Christus!’
He loved to use Latin.
He remembered the pulpit vividly. He remembered the incense and the choir singing – he remembered the robes. His fall from grace had been swift and total, but the memory of the church was still there. He opened his satchel and reached for the second bottle of holy water. He had three in all.
‘In nomine Christus!’ he cried again. ‘Res mea, occupa – et exit in nomine Deus! I, as a servant of the Lord, command you!’ He took a deep breath for the climax, his confidence at its peak. Exorcism was all about showing strength. Ghosts would fight to distract you. They would try to terrify you. The secret was to be focused and remember that you wielded ultimate power. He grinned in satisfaction as the glasses burst in the cabinet – as an armchair leaped backwards and the chimney wrenched itself free of the stove. Lord Vyner was getting violent and that meant he was scared!
There was a vibration in the ground and he could hear the tinkling of little rock falls. All he had to do now was spray the holy water round the chamber and that would force the old ghost out, once and for all. He would be sealed out – and a homeless ghost could be vanquished in seconds. He felt for the third bottle – it was entangled in some kind of foliage, so he delved deeper, pushing it clear. He shook the satchel and pulled.
‘I say it again!’ he cried. ‘In the name of the Father!” He shook the satchel and pulled, and that was the moment Joe the scorpion decided he’d endured enough. He’d been woken by the cold and was in the foulest of moods. The satchel was flapping open and rocking about – the light had scared him. Then a thumb had pushed him roughly to one side and four fingers seemed to be scrabbling around in his nest. Using all the instincts he possessed, he backed into a corner and arched his tail. Then, as the hand continued to jostle him, he slammed his sting right into the back of it. A spurt of poison followed, jolting into the vein – then Joe stabbed again and, clenching his pincers and closing his eyes, stabbed once more for luck.
Father O’Hanrahan was rigid and silent.
‘Has he gone?’ said Cuthbertson.
The old man couldn’t speak.
‘Have you won, Father? Why the silence?’
Father O’Hanrahan staggered, swallowing. He pulled his hand out of his satchel and stared at it, unable to believe that pain could be so intense. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound would come. The worst thing was that the pain was increasing, as if some fuse had been lit and was igniting pain cells up his arm, and across his chest. It was as if his heart was pumping not blood but some dreadful acid. He sank to h
is knees and felt his brain boiling. At last, he managed a whimper. Then a cry. Then at last, as the steam of the poison built its intolerable pressure, he screamed. He screamed and screamed, and when the policeman and Gary ran to him and tried to hoist him back to his feet, he was violently sick and the screams turned into a terrible gurgling.
The sting of a North African Death-stalker scorpion, they say, is one of the most painful in the world.
Chapter Forty-three
Meanwhile, Caspar Vyner was making his escape from the south tower.
His grandmother had closed her eyes at last. The mouth was open and there was drool – but she had been known to fake all that in the past, so he was rigid with tension. A glass of booze had been upended over her knees and her breathing was turning into a noisy snoring – these were encouraging signs. With a trembling hand, he squeezed her nostrils together and waited for the startled grunt. It came and she didn’t wake up. That meant she really was unconscious.
He let himself out of the front door and ran briskly down the staircase, pulling on his blazer. He had so enjoyed his fortnight as a true Ribblestrop pupil! Home, now, was a prison – he had never wanted to return to it. He remembered Doonan’s kindness; he remembered Imagio in the Tower of Science, sharing his rat on the dissecting bench. He had learned so much! He had done so much. He was soon at ground level and his excitement was rising. He would not miss the party!
Lady Vyner kept the tower door locked, but he knew the window was loose and it was a small drop. He let himself out over the sill and did a neat paratrooper’s roll – Sanjay had taught him that. Sanjay had taught him to ride a bicycle too, though he hadn’t dared tell his gran. As he came across the courtyard, the noise from the orphans’ tower was still blaring. The drumming had stopped and they were singing. Caspar hurried round the corner and gasped in shock. He stopped dead and found himself staring into the eyes of a lion.
All he could do was gape.
‘Caspar?’ said a voice.
Caspar didn’t move. Nor did the lion. The creature was so big! Dimly, through his terror, he remembered a much-loved storybook with a talking lion. It had been kind and comforting – wise, even. This one looked senile and the voice had sounded rather reedy and tired.
‘Caspar! Is that you?’
The boy stared harder, wondering whether he should bolt, or move away slowly. Then he saw that there was something in the creature’s mouth, dangling between the monstrous forepaws. It was a mess of grey and black and . . . Caspar found a tiny fragment of courage and went slowly down on his haunches to get a better view. It was a boy and the boy was Sam Tack.
‘Sam,’ said Caspar.
The lion growled and Caspar whimpered. He took a few steps back and found himself pressed to a wall.
‘Caspar, don’t be scared!’ squeaked Sam. ‘It’s Sushamila – she won’t hurt you. Look: you’ve got to help me.’ His voice sounded tearful. ‘We’re in a mess, Caspar. You’re the only one who can help us. Raise the alarm!’
‘What alarm?’ said Caspar.
‘I can’t do it myself. She usually lets me go after about twenty minutes, but it might be different tonight. Look, Caspar – I’ll do anything you want – you can have my . . . digger. But this is the most urgent thing I’ve ever asked you. Can you find Sanchez?’
‘That’s where I was going,’ said Caspar. ‘Imagio’s party!’
‘Find him immediately. Tell him . . .’ Sam struggled. ‘Sorry, it’s hard to talk in this position. Tell him that Ruskin and Oli are prisoners. OK?’
‘Ruskin and Oli are prisoners.’
‘That’s right. Tomaz’s house is being burgled. I saw a man and it was that referee – the policeman’s brother. There might be more. And there’s a boy by the Neptune statue, but I think he’s probably dead.’
‘OK,’ said Caspar. ‘Tomaz’s house is being burgled.’
‘And they’ve got Ruskin.’ The enormity of the situation suddenly hit Sam again and he started to cry. ‘I’m not joking, Caspar, this is the most serious thing ever. They’ve got my friends and they were hurting them – Ruskin and Oli. Please help us!’
‘But . . . what about you?’
‘Don’t worry about me! Run, Caspar. Run!’
Chapter Forty-four
The expression on the child’s face killed the singing dead. A silence fell, worse than deafness. Even the hissing of the cooker died and every eye bored into Caspar Vyner.
Sanchez was upside down, dangling from a trapeze. The rest of the children were on the ground, looking up. He swung himself upright and dropped. Imagio steadied him and everyone’s eyes were fixed on Caspar.
‘Ruskin and Oli are prisoners,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘There’s a man down there: the referee called Cuthbertson, but Sam thinks there may be more. He thinks one of them died, but he’s not sure. Tomaz’s home is being burgled and Sam was very upset because his friends are being hurt. That’s the message.’
‘Where’s Sam?’ said Millie.
‘He’s been taken by a lion. He hopes to be free in about twenty minutes.’
Sanchez looked at Asilah. Asilah looked at Millie. Tomaz looked at the ground.
‘This is it,’ said Anjoli. ‘What are we waiting for?’
Sanchez said, ‘Caspar, are you absolutely sure—’
‘Of course he’s sure,’ shouted Millie. ‘He wouldn’t lie about it, would he? Sanchez, where are the plans? Get the plans . . .’
Vijay dived to one of the wardrobes and came back with an armful of papers. The older children huddled around them.
‘Plan E,’ said Asilah. ‘If they’ve taken hostages, it’s Plan E – no other option.’
‘I agree,’ said Millie.
‘Plan E’s major,’ said Anjoli. ‘We wrote that one after three bottles: we better be sure, because that is . . . ultimate. Ultimate force.’
Everyone now looked at Sanchez.
‘Ultimate force,’ he said. ‘If they’ve touched Ruskin or Oli . . . God help them.’
He turned to Brother Doonan.
‘Brother Doonan,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry about this, but I don’t think we have any options right now, so please don’t take what we’re going to do personally.’
Brother Doonan laughed. ‘I’m afraid that most of this is going over my head,’ he said. ‘Is this one of those pranks you boys like so much?’
‘It’s the first part of Strategy E,’ said Asilah. ‘We have to be independent now.’
‘Yeah,’ said Sanjay. ‘We like you a lot. That story, man, about the mirror – I still can’t sleep . . .’
Doonan was confused. All the children were moving towards him and their expressions seemed so tender. He realised something was wrong, but he hadn’t quite digested the substance of Caspar’s message.
He smiled happily. ‘Boys,’ he said, taking charge, ‘I think it’s time for bed. If Imagio’s off tomorrow, it’ll be an early breakfast!’
Suddenly, he found that he was being lifted. There were hands holding his arms and legs, and supporting his back, and he was being moved swiftly towards a cupboard. He cried out, ‘No, boys!’ but it did no good. He’d been the victim of practical jokes all too often over the last few weeks. He’d had his socks sewn up; he’d had chilli powder mixed into his toothpaste. Nikko had hidden in his pillowcase one night and frightened the life out of him as he dozed off – but imprisonment seemed unusual. And it was odd to see Asilah and Sanchez joining in.
He decided to be firm. ‘I’m going to count to three, children,’ he said. He was now inside the cupboard. They were sitting him on a chair. ‘One.’ He was wrapped in a blanket. ‘Two – I want you to think very hard about this . . .’
There was a rum truffle on his lap and a candle between his feet. The door closed and he heard the key turn. ‘Three,’ he said, quietly.
Then he listened hard and heard a multitude of feet padding out of the dormitory.
The children formed into groups, dragging on blazers and stamping in
to shoes.
There were to be three detachments and each had a commander and a radio-man. Henry was designated a ‘special weapon’ and could be called upon by all three companies. To start, he’d be with the Sanchez contingent, which would attack through Neptune as the advance party. Asilah led the tools and hardware group, whose brief was flight prevention. They were down the stairs in seconds and on their bicycles. Within minutes they’d skidded up to the circus tent. Flavio and Routon had left, so they set to work at once.
Eric moved to the cages and dealt with the animal chains. The tigers sensed the excitement and it was all Podma could do to control them. He led them out onto the mud and Ivan sniffed the air hungrily. Prince strained at the leash, pulling the boy forward so that Eric had to run ahead and seize him by the collar.
Meanwhile, Asilah supervised the truck-loading.
He found the explosives and took three coils of wire. The concrete pipe required block and tackle, but that was one of Kenji’s specialities. It was swung onto the truck and Nikko secured it. Israel revved the cab unit and reversed it to the trailer. It took two minutes to check the coupling and another one to manoeuvre the thing back through the cages, to the track. At last the truck was on its way to the lakeside, its giant wheels hammering over the mud.
‘We’re rolling,’ cried Asilah to the radio. ‘Come in, Sanchez! Unit two reporting, over.’
‘Unit one receiving,’ said Sanchez. He confirmed his position. ‘We’ll be by Neptune in two minutes, over.’
‘Tigers on their way. Truck to lakeside reconnaissance, over.’
‘Unit three’s on its way to the pump-room, Millie’s leading. Have you seen Miles? He’s the one person missing. Over.’
‘No. Over.’
‘Was he at the party? Did you see him at the party?’ Asilah asked the boys in the cab.
‘No one’s seen him. Israel thinks he’s run away. And another thing – your gun. Over.’
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