Elizabeth Archer was expecting them, waiting at her desk in the middle of the maze of shelves and storage. She had already prepared a collection of volumes and manuscripts that were worth checking for any reference to the axes and the associated legends, or for the symbols carved into the artefact. It helped that Jane knew something about the axe already.
‘So far, we haven’t made an awful lot of progress,’ Elizabeth confessed. ‘I can’t even tell you what sort of stone the thing is made from. In fact, I’m beginning to think it might not be cut from stone at all, but manufactured.’
‘Really?’ Miss Manners said. ‘You think it might have been cast rather than carved?’
‘It’s possible. The material seems more like a durable ceramic in some ways. And it is so remarkably well preserved.’
‘May I see it?’ Jane asked.
‘Of course,’ Elizabeth told her. ‘I’ll get it later, I have to put some of these notes and drawings away in the same section when I’ve finished with them.’
They worked steadily and quietly through the morning. Jane took meticulous notes on any reference she felt might be relevant and added them to the notes that Miss Manners and Elizabeth Archer were compiling. It was almost noon when they were joined by Sergeant Green.
‘I’ve just come from the meeting,’ he told Miss Manners. ‘Alban’s on his way too. He took notes which the colonel wants typed up – a copy for us and one for Alban and MI5. I’m afraid I volunteered your services as everyone else is rather under the gun.’
‘That’s all right,’ she told him. ‘I could do with a break. I have a few things to finish here, but I’ll come up with you and see Alban. You can tell me anything important on the way.’
She excused herself from Elizabeth and assured Jane she would be back soon. ‘Perhaps we can find lunch somewhere before I go back to the office.’
‘I’d like that,’ Jane agreed.
As soon as Miss Manners and the sergeant were gone, Jane went over to Elizabeth.
‘How are you getting on?’ the older woman asked. ‘What I’ve looked at so far is very precise, very useful.’
‘It would be a help if I could see the axe-head now,’ Jane said. ‘It might focus my thinking, so I can decide what’s actually relevant.’
Elizabeth put down the manuscript she had been examining. ‘Of course. I’m sorry, I meant to fetch it ages ago. Time rather runs away with you down here, especially when you’re busy. I get lost in my own little world, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ Jane said, following Elizabeth down a narrow passageway between two sets of bookcases. ‘I understand.’
The axe was in a wooden box on a shelf, anonymous amongst other boxes. Elizabeth lifted it down, setting it on the top of a nearby packing case. She opened the lid, to reveal the stone – or possibly ceramic – axe-head nesting inside on a bed of straw.
She turned to say something to Jane, but froze. The change in the woman was startling as she stared fixedly at the box. Her eyes were wide and dark and all colour and expression seemed to have gone from her face.
‘Are you all right?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Do you want to get some air? It can get quite stuffy down here.’
Jane did not reply. Instead she shoved Elizabeth roughly aside and reached into the box for the axe-head.
‘Careful!’ Elizabeth caught hold of a bookcase to keep her balance. ‘What are you doing? I think you’d better put that back.’
‘Keep out of my way,’ Jane said, voice level and devoid of intonation. She lifted the axe-head, examining it carefully. ‘I don’t want to kill you. But I will if you try to stop me.’
‘Put it back,’ Elizabeth said firmly. ‘Now!’
In response, Jane grabbed the front of Elizabeth’s blouse, dragging the old woman onto the tips of her toes. Elizabeth clutched at the young woman’s arm, trying desperately to break free. Her hand closed on something hard around Jane’s upper arm. Even through the material of blouse and jacket, Elizabeth knew at once what it was. Then the younger woman hurled her aside. She crashed into the bookcase, and slumped dazed to the floor.
The next thing she knew, Miss Manners was helping her to her feet, face etched with concern.
‘What happened? Did you fall?’
‘Jane…’ Elizabeth gasped. Her mouth was dry and her head throbbing.
‘I passed her just now. She said you told her to get some air.’
Elizabeth shook her head, her vision blurring with the effort. ‘No – she took the axe.’
‘What? Jane?’
‘I think she’s possessed. Or worse.’ Elizabeth pushed Miss Manners’ supporting hand gently away, standing on her own. ‘She’s wearing a bracelet.’
‘Oh no,’ Miss Manners breathed. ‘What have they done to her? What did she do to you?’
‘I’ll be fine – just get after her. Get that axe-head back. Go on!’
* * *
By the time she reached the top of the stairs again, Miss Manners was out of breath. She forced herself to keep going. There was no sign of Jane as she hurried down the main corridor to the museum entrance, then out and down the steps into the courtyard outside.
At last she caught sight of her friend, just turning out onto the quiet street. And parked close by was Alban’s car. She thought he’d have gone, but Sergeant Green was talking to him through the open window.
‘Green!’ she shouted. ‘Green – stop her!’
The sergeant straightened up, looking round to see who was calling him.
‘Stop Jane – she’s got the axe.’ She pointed at the figure a few yards away from the car.
At once Green was on the move, running after the woman. For his burly figure, he was fast. Miss Manners reached the car just as Green reached Jane.
‘What’s going on?’ Alban asked.
‘I wish I knew.’ She bent over, hands on her knees as she struggled to get her breath back. ‘Jane took the axe-head. She must be controlled by the Vril.’
‘Good God.’
In the street ahead of them, Green had grabbed Jane by the shoulder and turned her round to face him. She lashed out, her hand holding the heavy axe-head. It crashed into the side of Green’s head, knocking him sideways. But he kept hold of her shoulder, grabbing her wrist with his other hand to stop her striking him again.
It was an unequal struggle. She shrugged off his grip, wrenching her arm free. With her other hand she grabbed the front of Green’s uniform jacket, hoisting him off the ground like he weighed no more than a child’s doll. Then she hurled him away from her. Green hit the ground hard, cartwheeling across the pavement.
Jane turned and walked quickly away. She did not look back.
Alban swore. ‘More than just controlled,’ he said. ‘Converted. Mind out.’
Miss Manners stepped away from the car as Alban slammed it into gear. The engine roared as he accelerated down the road. Jane was just stepping onto the pavement when she seemed to hear the car, and turned to look back.
A split second later the bonnet hammered into her, knocking her through the air. She hit the front of a building on the other side of the pavement, and slid down the wall to land in a crumpled heap on the ground. Her head lolled sideways across her shoulder. The axe-head slid from her hand.
Alban tore open the car door, running to where she had fallen. The few other people on the pavement stared in shock and horror. But before Alban reached her, Jane’s body jerked back into life. Her head straightened. She reached for the axe-head, grasping it tightly, then got to her feet as if nothing had happened.
Before Alban could get to her, she turned and ducked into a narrow alleyway between two buildings.
‘Come on!’ Miss Manners urged, catching up with Alban. ‘We’ll have to follow her on foot.’
Alban glanced back at his car – half on and half off the pavement. Behind it, Sergeant Green was staggering uncertainly to his feet.
‘Green – look after my car!’ Alban yelled. He didn’t wait
for a reply, but raced after Miss Manners down the alley.
‘I am so glad I wore sensible shoes today,’ she told him as they ran.
The alleyway came out on New Oxford Street. It was busier here, and it took them a few moments to spot Jane amongst the other pedestrians. She was cutting across the road, heading towards Shaftesbury Avenue.
‘Have you any idea what we’ll do when we catch up with her?’ Alban asked.
‘None. But I’m open to suggestions.’
Jane had quickened her pace. Either she knew they were following, or there was some urgency to her journey.
‘Where the hell can she be going?’ Alban wondered. They had to run now just to keep her in sight.
‘Trafalgar Square?’
‘Or Charing Cross. Maybe she’s catching a train.’
‘Not very likely.’
Alban forced a short laugh. ‘None of this is very likely.’
They almost lost her at Charing Cross. Miss Manners wondered if she really had gone into the station, but then they spotted her heading down a narrow street to the side. St Martin’s Lane.
‘The river?’ Alban suggested.
‘We’ll soon know.’
They found themselves at Embankment tube station, caught in a tide of passengers spilling out onto the street. They managed to force their way through, and emerged on the Victoria Embankment beside the river.
There was no sign of Jane Roylston.
‘Damn!’ Alban thumped his fist down on the stone wall running along the side of the river. ‘Where did she go?’
The Embankment was busy, but they should be able to see her among the other people.
‘What do you think?’ Alban said ‘You go one way and I’ll go the other? Maybe one of us will spot her. Or I can head back up to the station and find a telephone. We could get a search team here in half an hour maybe.’
‘I don’t think there’s any need for that,’ Miss Manners told him. Her voice was quiet, but strained. ‘She’s down there, look.’
Alban turned to see where she was pointing. Further along there was a landing stage. There was no boat, but steps led up to the stage, and then down the other side, into the water.
Jane Roylston was walking slowly, calmly, deliberately down the steps on the other side of the wall. As they watched, she reached the river. Her feet disappeared below the surface. And she kept walking, kept descending.
‘Jane!’ Miss Manners yelled.
Jane glanced up. Maybe she smiled – it was too far away to tell. But she didn’t hesitate. The water was up to her waist. Then her chest.
Finally, the murky waters of the Thames closed over Jane Roylston’s head, as if she had never been there.
CHAPTER 36
The day passed slowly. Sarah tried to catch up on her sleep, and dozed for most of the afternoon. But her mind kept coming back to the meeting with Larisa planned for this evening.
Could it be a trap? She had no way of knowing if the letter was actually from Vasilov. But surely, she reasoned, if the Russians for some reason wanted to trap her, then they would have sent someone who spoke English, who could persuade her. She didn’t want to have to explain to Tustrum what she was doing, except in the vaguest terms. But it seemed prudent to let him know she was meeting Larisa.
Predictably, Tustrum advised caution. ‘It could be genuine,’ he agreed as they sat in the Embassy dining room making the best of a thin soup and rather dry bread. ‘In fact, it most likely is. This all seems too ad hoc and amateur for an official set-up.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Sarah said.
‘And the Russians want to keep us sweet,’ Tustrum went on. ‘If they don’t want to help you, then the easiest thing for them would be to ignore your letter to this Vasilov. Do nothing. But even so, I’d take care.’ He considered for a moment. ‘Are you armed?’
Sarah shook her head. That wasn’t an option that had occurred to her.
‘I’ll get you a gun,’ Tustrum said. ‘Something small you can keep hidden. I assume…?’ He let the question hang.
‘Oh, I can shoot,’ Sarah assured him. ‘I’ve done the SOE training too, so I can look after myself.’
‘Let’s hope so. And good luck. Let me know when you’re back safe and sound, won’t you?’
* * *
She could feel the reassuring weight of the small pistol Tustrum had provided in the small of her back where she had it tucked into the waistband of her trousers. Her grey coat covered it. The evening was cold, so Sarah wore a sweater as well. She hoped it would cover the bulge of the gun if she took the coat off.
The street outside the Embassy was deserted as she crossed the road. There was a hint of rain in the air. Like London, the city was in near-darkness. There was only one street off the main road that Vasilov could have meant. It was little more than an alleyway between two high brick-built structures. Sarah peered into the narrow opening, but it was impossible to see anything in the darkness. She should have asked Tustrum for a flashlight.
The ground was uneven, and she couldn’t see more than a yard or two ahead. Should she wait, or continue down the alley? Was it safe to call out?
She decided to risk it. ‘Larisa?’
Silence.
Sarah turned back towards the main road, wondering how long she should wait before she gave up and went back to the Embassy. A dark shape moved across the entrance to the alley, barely more than a shadow. Something brushed against Sarah’s arm, and she stifled a cry.
‘Sarah,’ a voice breathed, close to her ear. Then a gloved hand took hers.
She recognised the woman’s voice and, relieved, allowed herself to be led down the alley. In fact, it wasn’t far before they emerged into another street. There was enough light now to see Larisa’s reassuring smile.
‘Where are we going?’ Sarah asked. But she got no reply.
They passed few other people, and Sarah wondered if there was a curfew. Tustrum hadn’t mentioned it. Their destination became apparent long before they arrived. Its towers and turrets stark against the night sky, the Kremlin was far larger than Sarah had imagined. How many people, she wondered, had admired the sight of it as they approached and then never left? Would she be one of them?
Larisa led the way to a side entrance. They passed through a small entrance hall where a guard sat behind a desk. He glanced up at them, and nodded – obviously recognising Larisa. They exchanged some brief words in Russian, and the guard nodded for them to go on. Sarah wondered what the woman had told him, who the guard thought she was.
The part of the Kremlin they were in was like a cross between a castle and a country house. The corridors were bare, the rooms they passed sparsely furnished. But the floor was polished marble and the ceilings were adorned with ornate plasterwork.
Finally, Larisa opened a heavy wooden door and gestured for Sarah to go inside. She found herself in a large room lined with books. A huge chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a glow across the centre of the room. A cluster of several small armchairs was grouped round a table beneath the chandelier. The only other light came from a lamp on a small desk in the corner of the room – the man sitting behind it almost lost in the huge space. He rose to his feet as Sarah entered, Larisa closing the door behind them.
‘So, you are Sarah,’ he said, his voice thick with the Russian accent.
‘That’s right.’
A few wisps of white hair clung to the man’s head. He was shorter than Sarah, and seemed shorter still because he stooped, his shoulders hunched. As he approached, Sarah could see that he was ancient, his face lined with experience and his movements dulled with age. But his eyes were bright and alert.
He reached out to shake Sarah’s hand. ‘I am Feyodor Vasilov.’
Larisa said something in Russian, and Vasilov nodded and replied.
‘Larisa is my granddaughter,’ he explained to Sarah. ‘I am afraid she has never learned to speak English. But please, take a seat. We have much to discuss, I am sure. Take a se
at,’ he repeated, gesturing to one of the armchairs. ‘And then I have things to show you.’
As soon as they were all seated, the old man asked, ‘How much has Elizabeth told you about me?’
‘Not very much,’ Sarah admitted. ‘She didn’t know if you would still be here.’
Vasilov shrugged. ‘Life goes on.’ He leaned forward, glancing at Larisa before asking: ‘And how is George?’
Sarah had wondered how best to reply to this. She had decided that it was probably best to be truthful. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea who George is.’
The old man nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. ‘But you know Elizabeth, yes?’
‘Of course. She said that you have a similar role to hers. I assume you are some sort of curator?’ Elizabeth had told her as much, but she wanted to keep the conversation going.
‘Our own archive here in the Kremlin is rather smaller than Elizabeth’s, or so I believe from how she described it to me.’
When did you meet her?’
‘Oh, many years ago now. Many many years. So much has changed. And yet, some things remain the same.’ He stood up, apparently invigorated by their brief conversation. ‘But Elizabeth asks, in her letter, that I give you any information I can about what she calls the Vril.’
‘They live underground,’ Sarah explained, not knowing how much the letter had told him. ‘Creatures of darkness—’
He waved her to silence. ‘Then underground and into darkness is where we must go.’
He turned to speak rapidly to Larisa, who nodded. She went over to the desk where her grandfather had been working, and opened a drawer. She returned with three torches, handing one to Vasilov and another to Sarah.
‘If anyone speaks to you, let one of us reply,’ Vasilov warned as they left the room. He closed and locked the door behind them.
‘Where are we going?’ Sarah asked.
‘First, to the Arsenal Tower, and then you will see.’
* * *
There were as few people inside the Kremlin as out on the streets. Or at least, there were in the secluded, barely lit passageways that Vasilov led them along. They descended a stone staircase, and continued along a narrow passageway with whitewashed walls. It wasn’t long before Sarah was hopelessly lost, with no idea how she might ever find her way out again on her own if she had to.
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