When asked who was calling, I told the servant it was a distant cousin, and was then taken through to the library where I found my brother, now seventy-five years old, sitting in front of the fire with a book resting on his lap. I was invited to sit, drinks were poured, we were left alone.
He smiled at me, in some confusion, and said, “Phillip Wyndham, Peckham said, so you must be a cousin through the line of my father’s younger brothers, but I thought …”
I could have wept for he was still quite recognisably my brother, the brother who’d always been so much stronger than I, so much bigger too for most of our shared history, yet he was so frail now, an old man in decline. Only his eyes retained their youthful vigour but that only made it all the more upsetting.
“Tom, it’s me, Phillip. I am not your cousin, I am your brother.”
He smiled and said, “You look very much like him. You’re his son?”
“No, I am your brother, returned from my travels at last.”
“But you haven’t changed at all.” He was hopeful for a moment, then suspicious as he said, “You’re a charlatan, sir, if you say that. You cannot be my brother – he would be a man of sixty-six now. You look less than forty.”
“My journey wasn’t in vain, Tom. I have learned things I never dreamt of learning, and not least amongst them was this, the ability to hold back time.” I could see that he still struggled to believe me, so I said, “You have a scar on the outside of your left forearm where one of our dogs bit you – a pointer. I was six, you were fifteen. Our father wanted to beat the dog, but you said it was you who should be beaten for you’d antagonised the poor animal. He laughed and said then let that be a lesson in itself. Why do I remember this when I was so young? Because it was I who antagonised the dog that day, because you incurred the bite in trying to separate us. Our father was a kind man, I don’t think he ever beat either of us, but you took the blame for me all the same.”
My brother’s eyes glistened with tears as he said, “But how can this be?”
I explained the events of the last half-century as best I could and then we reminisced for a little while, and he told me of the deaths of our parents. And as darkness was falling, he said, “Is it too late for me, to learn what you know?”
“It is, Tom,” I said.
“I know it, yet I would give you my title and all I possess in exchange for your knowledge.”
I believed him, but even if it had been within my power to share what I knew, it takes a certain type of person to make the sacrifices required of this existence.
I visited him again many times over the remaining five years of his life, but I insisted on never meeting Lady Bowcastle, and after his death, I never returned there again, even though I have passed the estate many times and know my brother’s descendants to live there still.
The property in which my mother had grown up now belonged to me and I considered moving in there, thinking it might provide a link to the demon, but I knew it would not be appropriate for my very specific needs. Instead I bought a large mansion house set in its own parkland a little outside the city and it is there that I’ve remained ever since.
Of course, living anywhere in this country has become increasingly difficult in a world of bureaucracy, of forms and regulations. The Breakstorm Trust and others like it have enabled me to live below the radar, but it has not always been easy. At least in those early days my life was reasonably unhindered by such things.
Over the following years I sifted the city’s records, studied the daily papers for unusual murders across the country, and visited every corner of these islands little by little. I encountered vampires, killed them where I could, learned about them. The records offered hints of the vampire activity I knew to expect in this city, but there had been nothing recent, and nothing to suggest the presence of the demon I sought – at this stage I still didn’t even know his name, only that my mother had called him Will-o’-the-wisp.
The first real sign came in the winter of 1812. A woman was murdered near the cathedral, torn at the neck as if by some wild animal, the blood drained from her. She was a common prostitute and the authorities made little effort to find the killer, but when I investigated, I found news that was both promising and disappointing.
It was soon clear that this wasn’t the work of the demon I was looking for, but from the wounds inflicted on the body, I knew a vampire to be responsible. Eyewitnesses described an enormous man dressed in ancient clothes, wearing his hair long, suggesting in his appearance something of a Viking warrior. Not my demon then, but I had to believe there was some connection between the two.
In the following year, another death occurred that aroused my attention. A boy of fourteen had been found dead in the stable of a coaching inn. In an attempt, perhaps, to protect his reputation and allow him a proper burial, it was speculated that he had torn his arm on a nail protruding from an upright timber next to where the body was found, that he’d fainted and bled to death.
There was indeed blood on the nail, but the nature of the wound to the boy’s arm might have led the more determined observer to conclude that it couldn’t have been inflicted by accident, that the boy had intended to kill himself, a crime at the time, one that would have brought shame on his family and seen him buried in unconsecrated ground.
One of my servants alerted me to the news very quickly and I arrived at the stable whilst the body was still in situ. It was a pitiful sight. He was a slim, dark-haired boy, small for his age, the makings of a handsome face. He’d been a stable boy, but had – imagine my horror at hearing it – ridden two winners for Lord Bowcastle (my nephew) at the recent horse races.
One of his shirt sleeves was rolled up above the site of the wound, but I knew instantly that this was neither an accident nor suicide. The cut was too clean to have been inflicted by the nail, though the blood on the nail suggested someone had been keen for it to be seen that way. More importantly, though he had died through loss of blood, there was hardly any on the straw upon which he lay.
The boy had been murdered, and though I couldn’t be sure, my instinct told me that the demon had emerged once more into the city, that this was his work. It appeared he had chosen to use a knife rather than the animal savagery I’d witnessed so many times before, but that in itself spoke of the evil intelligence that had so unsettled my mother.
George Cuthbertson. Perhaps it matters not at all to William of Mercia, but that was the name of the fourteen-year-old boy he murdered that night, whose future he snuffed out with as little thought as one might blow out a candle.
Think about George Cuthbertson for a moment, about the life he might have led, the sweetheart he might have married, the children and grandchildren, the descendants living to this day who would have traced their family tree and found him, a talented horseman, winner of racing trophies. That life and all those other lives were stolen because William of Mercia believed he was more deserving of George Cuthbertson’s life force than the boy himself.
I visited George’s family afterwards, his widowed mother, his three younger brothers and two younger sisters, all reliant to some extent on George’s financial contribution. Their devastation was heart-rending.
I did what I could, helping them financially, paying for an education for the children. And it brings some comfort that all three brothers made decent careers, one becoming an engineer, another a teacher, that the two sisters both married well. All long dead now of course, and they never knew the biggest part of what I did for them because I preferred to hide my kindness behind one of the many trusts I’d established.
More importantly, for the first time ever, George Cuthbertson’s death helped me fully understand that this was not just a personal crusade. I had a public duty to rid the world of such an evil as the demon I would one day learn to call William of Mercia. At that point in time I thought him only another vampire, but as wicked as all those other demons were, I was yet to appreciate that his evil was of another dimension entirely.
>
22
Will was about to leave the house, unsure whether Eloise would want to see him, when he saw her walking across the lawns towards him. It had started to snow at last and large heavy flakes fell around her, settling on her coat and in her hair.
He waited with the door open, like someone inviting her into his own home. She slowed as she saw him and offered a subdued smile that might have been an apology or at least a peace offering. She gave him a brief hug, but it felt like a formality rather than the tentative intimacies he’d become familiar with.
“I’m glad you came,” said Will.
“You’re not angry with me?”
“Why would I be angry? Something very disturbing happened to you.”
“I know, but it wasn’t you, it was Wyndham, and I’m angry with myself that he made me suspect you or look at you differently.”
It was ridiculous, but Will felt himself hurt by her admission. He’d thought as much this last day or so, but for her to say it aloud, that her faith in him had been shaken, wounded him deeply.
He said only, “We’ll both face similar tests before this is over.” Then, as an afterthought, he said, “And if you ever decide you want no further part in this, I would think no less of you.”
Eloise looked alarmed. “No, absolutely not – I am part of this, whether I like it or not.”
“Then we’ll say no more about it.”
He turned to close the door, but looked out through the falling snow, wondering if she’d been followed from the school. He couldn’t see anyone, but then he doubted she would need to be followed closely – there were only so many places she might be heading on foot.
Eloise followed his gaze, but misunderstood its purpose and said, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I love the snow.”
Will smiled. He’d always loved it too, because after a heavy snowfall, the city looked little different from the city he’d known as a boy. Deep snow had that gift for him, not only of stopping time, but of erasing it. Sometimes it was easy to believe that the thaw would reveal the place just as he’d once known it.
He closed the door and said, “Where should we go?”
“The library,” she said, as if it was obvious.
It had become their most regular room because it had no large windows, which meant it was safer having a lamp on in there. Will thought she might have wanted to avoid it now, given its proximity to the tunnels, but Eloise had sounded determined.
He led her through as he had so many times before and turned on two of the lamps. Eloise turned one of them back off and sat on one of the deep leather sofas. Will sat on the sofa opposite, a large table between them which might once have been laden with books.
“So, what’s the plan?”
Her tone was businesslike, but Will said, “I have little idea. I’ve tried to find out where Wyndham lives, but with no success so far. I don’t even know why I’m trying to find that out – perhaps only because I have so little notion of what I should do next.”
“The gateway, it’s gone?”
“Presumably it’s still there, but it’s impossible to get anywhere close to it using the tunnels. There could be another way in, but I don’t know how we’d even begin to find it.”
Eloise looked around the room at the books and said, “If there’s another way in, Henry would have known about it, so his library might contain a clue.”
Will smiled. “But this isn’t Henry’s library – that’s in the city and as you know, I’m familiar with most of the works there.” Even as he said it, he realised that he’d never read the section in Henry’s Doomsday Book that related to Marland. But he didn’t have the chance to share that thought.
Eloise suddenly said, “Oh my God! I was just thinking how well you looked now, and then I realised. You’ve fed!” Her tone was disturbingly accusatory. “That’s why you stayed in the city, why you came back late last night.”
Oddly, Will had a sudden memory of the adult Arabella Harriman stepping down from her carriage all those years ago, the casual stare, the recollection of his face, the horror, the light fading in her eyes as she faltered. It was how all his relationships with the living had to end.
“I stayed in the city because … I could tell you were uncomfortable being around me and I did not want to see you so. I had no thought of feeding, and as it happens, I came back here early yesterday evening and accidentally interrupted a burglary.”
“A burglary? One person or …”
“One.”
“So you killed him.”
“I fed. And yes, I killed him.” She was falling away from him again, but it was Will who felt amazed now, saying, “You have known what I am since the beginning. I have repeatedly told you what you know to be true, that I am a monster, that I was once a good person, but that my very existence is wicked. And you saw what has been happening to me these last days – did you think I could continue without blood indefinitely?”
“Of course I didn’t!” Eloise jumped up and paced up and down in front of the sofa. “But you can’t expect me just to accept it! You murdered someone. You’ve murdered a lot of people.”
“Does a hawk murder a sparrow? I kill out of necessity, not for amusement. And I accept that it’s difficult for you – in the early days it was difficult for me.”
Those words calmed her a little, as if they gave him back a touch of humanity. She sat down again.
“But yes, I did kill yesterday, and you need to know that I will kill again unless I am killed first or unless my destiny allows me to escape the shackles of my sickness.” He saw a flicker of uneasiness pass over her eyes and added quickly, “And what you saw was not my destiny, only what Wyndham would wish you to believe.”
“I know.” She thought for a second and said, “What did you do with the body?”
“I laid it to rest in the tunnels. I couldn’t bury it, but I wrapped it in a shroud and made a coffin of sorts.” She looked intrigued, as if she’d learned something new about him, but he intercepted her question, saying, “No, it isn’t what I usually do. I buried someone some seven hundred years ago, but … she was different. I interred the boy last night and I’m not sure why, except that seeing the spirits of my past victims affected me in some way.”
Eloise didn’t respond directly, but hit upon one word and said, “Boy? He was young?”
“Perhaps your age or a little older.” Will decided against mentioning the advantage of that, the amount of life force that had been in his blood.
“What did he look like?”
The question was simply put, but her tone suggested she wanted to know for a specific reason.
“A little taller than me, reddish-brown hair, brown eyes. Pale but with a freckly complexion.”
Eloise started to shake her head as he spoke, then said, “This can’t be happening. Are you sure he was a burglar?”
“He was in the process of helping himself to various items from the shop, and had broken into the cash register. I’m certain he was a burglar. Why do you ask?”
“Because a sixth-former called Alex Shawcross has disappeared from the school. Everyone’s mystified because he doesn’t seem to have taken anything with him and he’s a star pupil – academic, sporty. You just described him.”
“Is he wealthy?”
She nodded. “That’s one of the reasons it’s caused such a fuss – his family owns a big chunk of Scotland and his dad’s the chairman of some huge multinational conglomerate.”
“But personally?”
“Oh, he’s got plenty of cash, one of those guys who’s always got all the latest gadgets, you know the type.” Will smiled a little because she’d forgotten for a moment that he didn’t know that or any other type. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I doubt it can be the same person, despite the similarity. The person you describe doesn’t need money, and doesn’t sound like the kind of person who would break into a house and its gift shop for the thrill of it alone.”
He was tro
ubled though by the memory of not finding a bike. His victim had come on foot which suggested that he had not come far.
Eloise said quite abruptly, “There’s only one way to be sure – show me.”
“What difference will it make? Either way a boy will be missing and we will know he’s dead. Either way he is unlikely to be traced here.”
“True, but it would give me peace of mind.”
“It will give you peace of mind to know that the boy I killed is poor rather than one of your privileged schoolfellows? I find that odd indeed, because I can assure you the poverty of my victims gives me no great peace of mind.”
She looked wrong-footed by his comment and said, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just need to know.”
Will stood and said, “As you wish. It will mean going back into the labyrinth.”
Eloise stood too, by way of an answer, though Will thought he detected a slight apprehension creeping into her eyes. He led the way and when they reached the top of the steps, he looked at her.
“Wyndham appears to constantly move from one type of attack to another, so I doubt he’ll set about us again down there, but I want you to know, I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“You did last time.” Even before he could respond, she looked mortified and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I know you got me out of there.”
He laughed it off and said, “So I’m only human after all.”
She smiled too, but he couldn’t help but feel the underlying tension that had caused her to speak like that. The last time they’d stood on these steps together he had kissed her, the briefest moment of pleasure, and now it felt as far away from him as those sunny afternoons he dreamt of.
They walked the first part in silence, but once they entered the tunnels proper, Eloise started to talk, all nervous energy as she said, “It’s a shame that all of this is hidden, and ruined now I suppose, the way it’s all been moved around. It’d be like a World Heritage Site or something if they did find it. Overrun with tourists – can you imagine?”
Alchemy, Book Two of the Mercian Trilogy Page 14
