Buried Crown

by Ally Sherrick

  ‘This is your last chance.’ Ritter slid his finger on to the trigger.

  George thrust the penknife up and held it out in front of him. ‘No! Don’t!’

  A sudden harsh call sounded above them. He looked up just in time to see a great black bird swoop down and sink its claws into the back of Ritter’s scalp.

  Ritter gave a startled cry and staggered forwards. Tossing the gun and torch to the ground, he batted at the bird with both hands. But it clung on, beating its wings against him. Then, with a loud rasping croak, it stabbed him in the forehead with its razor-sharp beak.

  With another sharp cry of pain, Ritter lurched to the left, lost his footing and toppled backwards into thin air. There was a crump, a groan, then . . .

  Silence.

  Heart pounding, George dropped the knife down to his side and snatched up the torch. He bent forwards and shone it into the blackness below. Ritter lay in a gap between the rocks at the bottom of the pit, arms outstretched, eyes tight shut. George played the beam across him. He was still breathing, but he was out for the count.

  A small furry head butted the back of George’s hand. He drew in a breath and sank to his knees, burying his face against the dog’s warm neck. ‘I thought I’d lost you good and proper this time, boy.’

  A set of footsteps crunched towards him. He sprang back up, torch raised.

  Scroggins shielded his face with his hands. ‘Put that thing down, can’t you? You’re blinding me.’

  George dropped the beam and frowned. ‘What’re you doing here?’

  Scroggins slid his hands down and shot him a guilty look. ‘Following you.’

  George caught his breath. So it was him Kitty had heard back there on the river path. ‘Why?’

  Scroggins ran a hand over the back of his neck. ‘I-I don’t know. I saw the two of you outside Kitty Whatsername’s house earlier. You looked like you were up to something, so I came after you, but then I lost my way and went round in circles until that dog of yours leapt out on me and pinned me down.’ He threw Spud an uneasy look.

  George gave the dog an approving pat. ‘Serves you right.’

  The other boy flushed. ‘Where’s your bird gone?’

  ‘He ain’t my bird.’ George scanned about him, but the raven had disappeared.

  Scroggins slid to the edge of the pit and peered in. ‘Who is he, anyway?’

  George flicked the penknife shut and dropped it back in his pocket. ‘A real Nazi. And there’ll be plenty more of ’em if I don’t get help right now.’ He drew the knapsack tight against him.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Germans are coming. Here. Tonight.’

  Scroggins gaped. ‘Wh-what? But how do you know?’

  ‘I wouldn’t, except for Kitty Regenbogen. And now she’s—’ In spite of himself, George’s bottom lip trembled. ‘She’s their prisoner.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Look, I ain’t got time for this.’ George gave a quick whistle. ‘Come on, boy.’ As he turned to go, the toe of his boot struck something half buried in the leaves. He kicked them aside and directed the torch beam down. Ritter’s pistol. He picked it up and examined it. A Luger: he could see that now. Heavy too, but it was a better defence than a penknife. He shoved it into the waistband of his trousers.

  Scroggins grabbed him by the sleeve. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I told you. To raise the alarm. There’s a house back up there. With any luck, the lady who lives there’ll have a phone.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  George raised his eyebrows. The old cocksure Scroggins had gone. This new one seemed to be doing his best to try and be his friend. He shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ Shining the light ahead of them, he set off through the trees.

  As they reached the edge of the wood, he glanced out across the open ground. If they kept low and skirted wide of the hut, with a bit of luck they wouldn’t be spotted. He pulled Jarvis’s watch from his pocket and ran the torch beam over the scratched face. Twenty to twelve. That left just over an hour to get help and keep his promise to Kitty too.

  But what if, in the meantime, Adler and the others found out she was German, and had understood every word of what they said? That she was Jewish too. They might kill her then, anyway. He clenched his jaw. He mustn’t think like that. He had to stay focused – get up to the big house and raise the alarm; that was the best way to save her; to save everyone.

  He switched off the torch and shoved the watch back in his trouser pocket. Then, signalling to Scroggins to stay close, he sped up the slope, Spud bounding along at his side.

  They kept out of sight of the hut, giving it as wide a berth as possible. As they crested the hill, the shadowy bulk of the house loomed up before them. George powered towards it, boots crunching across the gravel drive. He skidded to a stop when he reached the grand-looking entrance porch and scanned the windows, chest heaving. Was anyone up? He frowned. With the blackouts in place it was impossible to tell.

  Scroggins drew up alongside him gasping for breath. ‘Wh . . . what are we going to do now?’

  ‘Ask to use the telephone and call your dad.’

  ‘Father?’ Scroggins blinked. ‘But . . . but he’ll give me a whipping if he finds out I’m up here with the likes of you.’

  George snorted. ‘He’s got more important things to worry about than that.’

  Scroggins hunched his shoulders. ‘I s’pose. What if they’re all in bed?’

  ‘They won’t be in a second.’ George darted beneath the porch and yanked the bell-handle. A distant jangling echoed somewhere inside. He held his breath and waited.

  Nothing, except the dying tinkle of the bell. He hammered against the door with his fist.

  ‘Hey. Steady on!’ Scroggins tugged on his jersey. ‘We don’t want to go upsetting them. The owner’s a friend of my father, you know.’

  George rounded on him. ‘I don’t care if she knows the King and Queen – we’ve got to get her up and sharpish.’ He stepped back from the porch and peered up at the windows again, but the blackouts stayed firmly in place.

  Scroggins cleared his throat. ‘What if she’s out? Father says she goes away quite a lot.’

  George’s stomach quivered. He hadn’t bargained for that. But it wouldn’t stop him. Not with Kitty and the rest of the country depending on him.

  He took a deep breath and flexed his fingers. ‘We’ll just have to break in then, won’t we?’

  Scroggins eyes widened. ‘What? But you can’t do that. It’s against the law. If Father finds out he’ll have my guts for garters.’

  A ball of anger fizzed up inside George. ‘You’re lucky you’ve still got a dad.’

  Scroggins swallowed. ‘I’m sorry. What happened to your parents anyway?’

  ‘They were killed in an accident.’ George blinked and looked away.

  ‘Oh. I . . . I didn’t realize.’

  ‘No.’ He turned back and fixed him with a hard stare. ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me. And about Kitty too. Calling her a Nazi, when her dad was put in a camp and killed by them. Saying those things about my brother when he’s been up there risking his life to keep us all safe.’ George’s chest cramped as he spoke the words. He gave a small moan.

  Scroggins gripped his arm. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine!’ He jerked away, eyes smarting.

  Scroggins gnawed on his lip. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. Or taken your money either. It’s just that, well, it’s been hard, what with Doug being wounded and everything.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  Scroggins nodded and hung his head.

  George puffed out a breath. He could tell him about Charlie going missing. But what good would that do? He gripped Scroggins by the shoulder. ‘Look, we’re on the same side, ain’t we?’

  Scroggins raised his head sheepishly and met his gaze. ‘Yes. Yes we are.’

  ‘Good. So let’s do what we have to do and get help fast.�
�� Reaching behind his back, he fished out the Luger.

  Scroggins threw the gun a nervous-looking glance. ‘What are you going to do with that?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ George slipped over to the nearest window. Handing Scroggins the torch, he held the gun by the barrel and swung it sideways, smashing it against the pane. A shower of broken glass flew through the air, scattering across the gravel at their feet. George made to reach through the jagged hole.

  ‘Wait!’ Scroggins shrugged off his jacket. Winding it round his arm, he punched out the remaining fragments of glass, undid the window-latch and pulled it open.

  George gave a low whistle. ‘You’re good at this, Raymond. Done it before?’

  Scroggins flushed. ‘No, I—’

  George flashed him a quick grin. ‘I was pulling your leg, stupid.’ Ramming the pistol back in his trousers, he unhooked the bottom of the blackout and climbed inside.

  As he thudded down on the floorboards, a smell of beeswax and soot tickled his nose. He lifted up and poked his head back through the open window.

  ‘Hand me the torch, will you?’

  Scroggins thrust it at him. Flicking it on, George pushed the blackout aside and swung the beam around the room.

  He was in some kind of grand parlour with comfy chairs and thick patterned rugs scattered across a polished wood floor. At the far end stood a stone fireplace. A portrait of a dark-haired woman in a blue dress hung above it. The owner. It must be. George drew closer and ran the light across her face. With those pursed pink lips and that steady brown gaze, she looked like a no-nonsense sort of person – definitely not the type to believe in ghosts.

  A heavy thunk sounded behind him. He spun round. Scroggins crept towards him, boots crunching on bits of broken glass.

  ‘Where’s Spud?’

  ‘Waiting outside.’

  George skimmed the torch beam across the small tables and cabinets dotted about the room. There were plenty of fancy vases, glass bowls and the like, but no sign of a telephone.

  ‘It’ll probably be out in the hall. That’s where we’ve got ours.’ Scroggins slid past him, making for a door on the far side of the room.

  George hurried over to join him. A long tiled hallway stretched away in front of them. Halfway down it stood a small wooden table, a black telephone perched on top of it.

  Scroggins shot George a quick smile. ‘Told you so.’

  ‘D’you know the number?’

  ‘’Course I do!’ Scroggins pushed past him and pounded down the hallway, boots clattering against the floor-tiles. As he reached for the receiver, he glanced back at George and frowned. ‘What shall I say?’

  ‘The truth. That there’s a bunch of Nazis camped up near the ship burial. That they’ve taken Kitty Regenbogen prisoner and that if they don’t hurry up and do something, the whole German army’ll be parachuting down on top of us and marching into town.’ As the words echoed back at him, a wave of panic surged up inside George. He swallowed hard, doing his best to keep it at bay.

  ‘What if he doesn’t believe me?’

  ‘You’ll have to make him then, won’t you?’ He gave Scroggins a quick nod, then turned and slipped back through the parlour door.

  As he stepped into the room, there was a faint rustling sound and a draught of cold air lifted his hair. George shivered and glanced over at the window. It was nothing. A bit of wind sneaking in through the open blackout, that was all. He pulled out the pocket watch and scanned the torch beam across it. Quarter past twelve. His stomach flipped. There was no time to get the crown up to the burial site now. He had to get back to Kitty and fast.

  But as he took a step towards the window, a fresh bolt of pain shot into his back and coursed up his spine. He gave a sharp cry and dropped the torch. It hit the floor with a dull thud. The light flickered and went out.

  The sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway. A few seconds later, Scroggins raced in through the door and skidded to a stop in front of him. ‘What’s wrong?’

  George drew a shuddering breath. ‘It’s all right . . . I-I’m all right.’ But as he straightened up and made to set off again, a second bolt ripped up his spine, clamping his skull between white-hot teeth. He crumpled to his knees with a groan.

  ‘You don’t look it.’ Scroggins bent over him, eyes wide with concern.

  George sucked in another breath and got to his feet. ‘Go and make that call, will you?’

  Scroggins wavered, then darted back into the hall.

  George yanked the knapsack against his back. ‘All right. All right. You win.’ He curled his fingers into fists and took a step forwards. The burning pain didn’t return.

  And finally then he was sure what Kitty had said must be true. The crown was the Kingdom-Keeper and it was down to him, George Penny, to save it.

  Scroggins’s voice echoed back down the hallway. He was talking to the operator. Asking to be put through. Any minute now he’d be speaking to the inspector and then help would come.

  George steeled himself. As for him, he had a promise to keep. He’d let Charlie down when he lost the ring. He wasn’t going to let Kitty down too.

  As George’s boots crunched down on to the gravel, a pair of bright doggy eyes shone up at him.

  ‘Come on, boy. We’ve got some digging to do.’ He gave Spud a quick pat and set off at a run back along the drive and up on to the ridge, following the route he and Kitty had taken that afternoon.

  As he cleared the trees and stepped out in to the mound field, his heart sank. A mist had come down, sinking the mounds beneath a dank, grey tide so only their tops showed above it, like a chain of low, dark islands.

  George shivered. He didn’t rate his chances of finding his way to the tree quickly in this lot. A sudden pulse of heat rippled across his back. He gritted his teeth and fixed the lead to Spud’s collar. He was about to set off again when a loud croak tore through the air. He jerked back his head and watched open-mouthed as a winged shape swept towards them.

  The raven. He frowned. What was it up to now?

  The bird circled above them. Once. Twice. Three times. Then it dipped down and flew off in front of them, cutting a path through the mist with its wings.

  With an excited yip, Spud sprang after it, yanking George behind him.

  It was easy to follow the bird at first. But as they ploughed on, the mist thickened around them, and George began to fear that if it got any worse, he would lose sight of the creature for good. But instead of deserting them, the bird stayed close, calling to them and doubling back when the mist was at its worst.

  And then, as they rounded the side of yet another mound, the raven glided down and landed on the ground in front of them. As George pulled up, wiping beads of moisture from his cheeks and eyelashes, a sudden breeze blew in and the mist cleared to reveal a dark mass of twisted branches and spiky black leaves looming up before them. His heart jolted. The tree. At last! Now all he had to do was dig a quick hole and stick the crown in it, and then he could get back down the hill and save Kitty.

  He squatted down and pulled out his penknife. He was about to slid out the blade and start digging when he felt a sharp tug on his fringe. He gave a start and looked up. The raven sat in front of him, its head cocked to one side.

  ‘Get off me, you bloomin’ thing!’ He shooed it away, but it hopped back again and made another lunge.

  ‘All right. Where then?’

  The bird turned and hopped in beneath the branches of the tree.

  George licked his lips. He didn’t want to go back in there again. What if the ghost-king was waiting for him? His scalp prickled at the memory of the dark figure coming towards him; its voiceless rage and the sudden glint of gold from the ring as it raised its finger and pointed at him.

  The ring! He gave a choked cry. What if it wasn’t the king? What if . . . what if it was—

  ‘Charlie!’ He let go of Spud’s lead and stumbled forwards into the darkness, heart racing, head spinning.

  The furt
her in he went, the thicker the shadows grew. They crowded round him, clutching at his throat, forcing the breath from his lungs, until at last, chest heaving, he dropped to his knees. He stared blindly into the blackness.

  ‘I’m sorry, Charlie. I didn’t mean to lose it. Honest I didn’t.’ He slumped forwards, tears streaming down his cheeks, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  A sudden surge of pain shot through him. Except this time it was coming from deep inside him, gripping his heart, threatening to tear it in two.

  What did it matter about burying the crown? Charlie was dead and nothing was going to change that. Now or ever.

  He lifted his head, sobbing, and ripped the knapsack from his back. He was about to toss it to the ground, when a familiar voice sounded in his ear.

  ‘Keep fighting, George. You’ve got to keep fighting.’

  He blinked the tears away and peered about him, straining to see. ‘Charlie?’

  A low sighing sound filled the air and a soft breeze ruffled his hair. He closed his eyes and for a moment he was back at home, curled up on the sofa next to Charlie, listening wide-eyed to one of his stories about famous fighter pilots from the last war.

  Then the breeze faded and was gone.

  He drew in a breath. Charlie was right. He had to carry on. Do his best to make sure he and Scroggins’s brother and all the others hadn’t fought in vain.

  He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand and looked up. The raven was perched on a root in front of the tree’s gnarled trunk. As George met its gaze, it dipped its head and jabbed its beak into the ground.

  George got to his feet and picked his way over to where it sat. Loosening the strings of the knapsack, he tugged the crown free and set it on the ground. He glanced up at the raven again. It stared back at him, unblinking.

  A dark furry shape nosed alongside him. ‘It’s all right, boy. I’ve got to do this on my own.’ George nudged Spud gently away. Sucking in a breath, he slid out the knife blade and sliced it into the soil.

  Once he’d made the first few cuts, it was easy to scoop the earth out with his hands and it wasn’t long before he’d dug what looked like a crown-sized hole.