The deep, gurgling voice is full of mockery. She does her best to put up mental barriers against the dark energy that emanates from her pursuer. Yet the mind of the foul creature is as powerful as it is inhuman. The too-familiar reek is growing stronger as well.
Surely, it is too big to move swiftly in this cramped space? I have the advantage, yes!
But she can hear the sound of the creature's lumbering progress getting louder as it gains in on her. She whimpers in fear for the first time in many years and then her hand strikes something. She snatches back her hand in pain. It is a fragment of brick, sharp-edged. She picks it up, turns, and resolves to fight.
The glowing, yellow snake-eyes are enormous, and she can make out the bulk of the creature behind them almost filling the tunnel. The being stops and the eyes tilt to one side, then speaks in flawless Spanish.
“You've changed your mind, my luscious one? That is most satisfactory. A willing partner varies the monotony, somewhat. So many mortals resist me, I grow weary of crushing them.”
Maria holds up the sharp fragment and the eyes widen for a moment. Then there's a burst of deep, derisive laughter.
“A fiery damsel indeed, one with a temper as hot as the climate of her native Andalusia! So much more satisfying when the prey turns to fight. These English peasants are often so busy soiling themselves to put up any resistance at all.”
The shadowy shape moves forward, and the sickening stench grows almost overpowering in the confined space. Heart pounding, Maria jabs at the eyes with her shard of brick but a huge hand slaps her makeshift weapon away.
“Enough dancing, my voluptuous one! This is a moment for embracing!”
Maria throws herself backwards and tries to kick the creature in the face, but it catches her by one ankle and, seemingly without effort, draws her to it. She feels her strength give way and cries out in pain. Then the monster pins her down and clamps its huge, flabby paws to the sides of her head, and the true horror begins.
***
Outside, the blizzard shows no signs of easing off. The four make their way to the taxi which is now totally hidden by snow. After a struggle, Archie succeeds in opening the driver's door and retrieves his souvenir pistol from under the seat.
“Let's get back inside,” shouts Rachel, struggling to be heard over the storm. She looks up at the whirling blizzard, half-hoping to see another glimpse of the vortex of ghosts. But there's nothing but the night and the storm.
“There he is!” shouts Charlotte, and runs off down the driveway.
“Come back!” yells Tony, but she's already lost to view.
“We can't go running around in this weather,” Tony goes on. “If it's Bill, she'll bring him back inside. If not, well ...”
If not, we've lost her, too, thinks Rachel. Picking us off, one by one.
They make their way back into the hall but decide to leave the door open.
“Is that them?” asks Rachel, pointing to what may be two figures.
“Hard to make out,” says Tony, “but they're both the right build.”
The two men take position facing the door.
“Okay, it's probably them, but we can't be too careful,” says Tony, checking the shotgun before holding it upright. “Careful, Archie, don't point that old pistol at them unless I tell you.”
It is them, thinks Rachel, as two figures emerge from the maelstrom of snowflakes. Yet she's not entirely sure because the taller of the two men seem to be dragging something. A body? Oh God, no!
“Don't shoot!” says Bill, holding up one hand as he drags his snow-covered burden across the threshold. Charlotte follows and slams the door behind her.
“Okay, safety catches back on,” replies Tony, and Archie follows his order.
“Who were you expecting?” asks Bill as Charlotte helps him take off his hat and coat.
“The Haunter,” says Rachel before Tony can reply.
Let's see his reaction, she thinks.
Bill's puzzlement seems genuine.
“You mean a ghost?” he asks, clapping his hands together and stamping his feet. “Not much point in shooting one, I would think. Already dead, and so forth. And can we discuss this in front of a fire, please?”
“Apparently, it's not a ghost we have to worry about, or at least not at the moment,” replies Rachel as they head towards the library. “According to Archie, there's something even worse haunting Furniss Manor.”
“I'm intrigued,” says Bill. “We'll have to compare notes.”
Yes, we certainly will, thinks Rachel. She asks, “Did you see any sign of Madam Castanos?”
“Well, I found those furs,” says Bill, gesturing back at the heap on the tiled floor. As the snow on them has started to melt, they can see that he's dragged a fur coat and hat inside.
“She'd taken her furs off?” asks Rachel.
“Or had them torn off by someone, or something,” replies Bill.
“Let's get warmed up first,” says Tony, producing a flask from his coat. “I've got brandy for anyone who needs it. And I think I might have an idea about how these disappearances are arranged.”
***
“Well, what can I do for you, Colonel?” asks Bert Croft as the cadaverous stranger settles into the seat opposite.
“It's more of what I can do for you, Inspector,” replies Bryce, with a grim smile. “I understand you're having some difficulties with an unusual case.”
“Too bloody right, I am,” says Croft, bitterly. “And I suppose you've come all the way from London to take over? That's usually the way of these things.”
Bryce holds up a placatory hand.
“Not take over; merely offer assistance in a strictly unofficial capacity.”
“Unofficial?” asks Croft, frowning. He picks up Bryce's card again. “Does a lot of unofficial business happen in Military Intelligence, Colonel? War winding down, so you need to find new outlets for your talents?”
Again Bryce gives his humorless smile.
“Let's just say that certain problems have arisen at a high level in the government, and it's been necessary for me to serve my country on a freelance basis for a few months.”
Bloody hell, thinks Croft. Is he a nutcase? A rogue agent? What do I do?
“If I were you, Inspector,” Bryce goes on, “I'd cooperate with me and definitely not contact your immediate superiors. Or the Home Office. If you do, events at Furniss Manor could spiral out of control, with terrible consequences for all of us.”
Croft heaves a sigh of resignation.
“All right, I suppose it figures that a weird case like this would just get progressively weirder. So what's the score, Colonel? What's really going on up there?”
The thin man unbuttons his black overcoat and reaches inside, takes out a silver cigarette case. Croft pushes a desk-lighter over to him. After he's taken a drag on his cigarette, Bryce leans back and begins.
“What do you know about the occult, Inspector?”
Croft thinks back to his first unusual visitor of the day and replies, “More than you might think, actually.”
He describes his encounter with Madam Castanos.
“I've heard of her,” says Bryce, thoughtfully. “Do you know where she is at this moment?”
“I assume she's in her room at the Royal Station Hotel, but I can check easily enough,” replies Croft, picking up the phone.
***
She knows she is one of the components in the sorcerer's death machine.
Maria lies half-frozen in the foul tunnel beneath the garden of Furniss, her body paralyzed. She feels her life-essence ebbing away, drained by the spider-web of dark energy that sucks spiritual power towards its center. Along with her soul's energy go her memories; the things that make her who she is. Fragments of her childhood in Spain, her months spent as a fugitive from the fascist regime, her career as a fashionable medium in Paris, then in London. The memories all break off like ice floes from the pack and are whirled towards the black hole at the heart of
the occult vortex.
No, I will not yield! she screams defiance in her mind, even as her battered and bruised body gives up its vitality. She reaches out with her special talent, using what remains of it to seek another seer, someone with whom she can perhaps communicate a warning.
I know your anger, demon! I know the sorcerer's fear! Knowledge is power!
She wonders if this knowledge is enough. And if can she convey it to the one who needs it the most.
Maria lies weeping in pain and frustration as her questioning mind finds nothing but blackness above and below the earth. The paranormal power that dominates Furniss Manor damps down all others, stifling even her gifts. But she must try.
I will die here, but not before I strike a blow, she tells herself, even as her sense of self falls apart, all that remains is the will for revenge.
Chapter 10: The Garden of the Cosmos
Tony holds up the leather-bound journal, balancing it by the spine on his palm. It falls open at a page towards the end.
“And you're doing this because …?” asks Bill.
“Because books tend to fall open at the places where they have been opened most often in the past. So here we find–”
He puts the book down on the library table and they study the pages. The one on the left has the usual mixture of obscure symbols and numbers, but the other is covered by a diagram. It consists of concentric circles with lines radiating from a central point. Each line links the reddish-brown dot in the middle with a point on a given circle. There are lots of annotations in faded ink.
“So, it's a pattern. Quite a pretty one, but how does that help?”
“Doesn't it remind you of anything?” he asks.
He picks up the Beaumont family history that Rachel was reading earlier and starts to flip through until he finds a double-page illustration. It shows the layout of Furniss Manor's ornamental garden.
“See?” he says, laying it next to the notebook.
“Yes! It's the same layout as the diagram!” says Charlotte.
Rachel sees it too. The diagram in the notebook shows the position of the statues and the chapel. The Tower is the central dot, and the statues in the garden lie on the concentric circles. And each dot has a symbol next to it. Rachel recognizes signs for male and female, plus a crescent moon.
“These represent the planets, I think,” says Tony. He points to one symbol like a distorted number four. “I'm pretty sure that's the symbol for Jupiter, while male and female also mean Mars and Venus. And the crescent is the Moon, of course.”
“That statue is Diana, the moon goddess,” puts in Rachel. “Nearest to the house, just as the Moon is the nearest heavenly body to the Earth.”
“Renaissance astrology isn't my strong subject,” Tony goes on, “but I know they put the earth at the center of the universe and had the Sun go round it, making it one of the planets, albeit a special one. So I'm guessing that the chapel is the sun.”
“Yes,” says Bill, “and the size of the chapel compared to the statues reflects its importance in the astrological thought. The Sun is the giver of light and life.”
“But what corresponds to the Earth, in the middle?” asks Charlotte.
“Isn't it obvious?” replies Rachel. “The Tower of the Sorcerer. If Tony's right, and I'm sure he is, then that's the focus of everything that's been happening here.”
There's another silence, then Rachel asks, “Darling, you said you'd guessed how the disappearances are arranged. Is this what you meant, this astrological stuff?”
“Not exactly,” replied her husband. “Look at the way the symbols are all linked.”
“So what?” asks Bill.
“I think these lines radiating out from the center represent something as real as the statues and the chapel,” says Tony, pointing to the diagram. “I'll wager they're tunnels leading out from the Tower under the garden. That way you could easily abduct someone anywhere on the premises then drag them underground, making them vanish instantly.”
“Of course!” says Charlotte. “Most of these old country houses had hidey-holes and escape tunnels. Especially here on the Scottish border, where raids and sieges were common. Furniss could be riddled with secret passages, inside and outside the Manor.”
“That's how the stinking thing vanished from your bedroom,” says Rachel. “Clever. Makes sense.”
“So let's go and explore,” says Charlotte. “We've got two guns, now, and we can get some axes . . . or perhaps knives would be more useful in confined spaces. Let's find Isaac Braid, or whoever it is, and blow his bloody head off!”
“That might not be a good idea, Charlie,” replies Bill. “It's not that simple, I'm afraid.”
They all turn to look at him as he stands gazing into the fire, face pensive in the light of the flames.
“All right, it's about time we sorted this out, Bill,” says Tony, getting up from the desk. Rachel moves to stand by him, noting that the shotgun and pistol are both within reach of Tony, Archie, and herself.
I hope this isn't a showdown, she thinks. If we turn on each other, we could all end up as victims one way or another.
“What's this about?” asks Charlotte. She's clearly puzzled, as is Archie.
“Yes, Tony, you're right, it's time to put all our cards on the table,” says Bill, turning to face his girlfriend. “And I'm truly sorry, Charlie, that I haven't been entirely open with you. Or with your friends, who I can see are good people. You see, none of this happened by chance. I always intended to come to Furniss Manor, one way or another. I had no choice. None of us did.”
***
Croft and Bryce, dressed for blizzard conditions, follow Armstrong through the streets of Newcastle in the whirling snowstorm.
“I hope this place isn't much further,” shouts Croft, voice muffled by a thick wool scarf.
“No sir!” Armstrong shouts over his shoulder. “Just in this next street.”
“I appreciate your fast response, Inspector,” says Bryce. “A lot of men would have hesitated, put their pension first.”
“You're not the only one who puts his duty first, Colonel,” replies the detective.
I must be mad, Croft thinks. I'm going off on a wild goose chase with a possible lunatic who's probably escaped from the funny farm after going crackers hunting German spies.
And yet something about Bryce's tale of Duncaster and the ghostly Sentinels, the strange powers wielded by the young American woman, rings true for Croft. A life dedicated to catching killers, abusers, criminals – organized or otherwise – has left Croft aware of the forces of evil. The arrival of Madam Castanos demonstrated that some have strange powers, and that the dead may not simply be gone. It's a hope that Croft clings to out of love and loneliness, and this – as much as Bryce's warnings of occult conspiracies in high places – has driven him out into the snow-covered streets of the coal-blackened city after dark. For a fleeting moment, he thinks of the Chief Constable, the Mayor, and the Local Chamber of Commerce.
Well, I didn't really want to join their bloody golf club anyway. To hell with the lot of 'em.
“This is it, sir,” says Armstrong, gesturing at a big building with windowless double doors.
A small door is set into one of the large ones and Armstrong begins to hammer on it with his gloved fist. After a few moments, there's the sound of bolts being shot back and the door opens an inch or two, spilling yellow light onto the road. The door is still on the chain.
A face appears, one eye visible, squinting in suspicion. It is just level with Armstrong's chest.
“We're closed!” says an old, crabby voice.
“Jimmy, it's me, man, let us in!” replies Armstrong.
“George? You soft bugger, what are you doing here at this time of night? And who are those two comedians?”
“I'm freezing, Jimmy, let us in, we need the snowplow!”
“Get lost!” replies Jimmy, succinctly.
“Perhaps this will change your mind?” says Bryce, step
ping forward and holding out a rectangle of white paper. For a moment, the little man hesitates, then a wrinkled hand shoots out and grabs at the five pound note, but Bryce moves it just out of reach.
“Let us in, Jimmy, he's a rich bloke from London!” says Armstrong.
The door slams, then they heard the sound of the chain being undone.
Inside the garage, a few low-powered bulbs illuminate tools, benches, oil drums, and a table with a kettle and tea mugs. But most of the space is dominated by a huge truck with a snowplow blade. Having relieved Bryce of his five pound note, Jimmy clambers into the high cab like a monkey and starts the diesel engine.
“Don't you want to know where we're going?” asks Croft, climbing in after.
“Don't care. Tell us on the way,” replies the little man. Then, as Bryce appears, Jimmy nods at him and says, “If he's got another five, I'll take the whole lot of you to Edinburgh.” He shouts out of the window to Armstrong. “Hoy, George, open the bloody shed doors, we haven't got all night, you big layabout!”
“Never been in one of these things before,” remarks Croft as Armstrong opens the doors.
“Me neither,” replies Bryce, “but as well as being a useful vehicle in these conditions, the fact that it's a huge lump of iron might be an asset in itself.”
Jimmy stares at his passenger for a moment, but then Armstrong signals him to drive out, and the snowplow trundles onto the snowbound street.
***
“So, what's the story?” asks Tony, standing with his back to the window, arm around Rachel's shoulder. Archie stands next to them, looking confused and worried.
Bill Rolt, his back to the fire, replies, “I'm a member of a secret society – founded hundreds of years ago – that's dedicated to combating spiritual evil.”
He pauses for a moment, scans his audience before going on. Charlotte disengages herself from his arm and goes to stand by Rachel and Tony, eyes downcast.
“Well, at least I didn't get a laugh. I take it that means you're willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, at least?”
The Haunter (The Sentinels Series Book 2) Page 11
