Heathen/Nemesis Page 19
‘Swallow it,’ Dashwood demanded.
Farrell did as he was told and retched violently, falling away from Dashwood, feeling his stomach churn, eager to be rid of the disgusting matter inside it. He bent double and vomited, falling to his knees in the puddle of his own regurgitated stomach contents. The bitter stench mingled with the odour of putrescent flesh and he almost retched again but found that there was nothing left to bring up. His muscles contracted but could force nothing else out.
He sucked in deep, racking breaths and looked up at the two men.
Could the word be accurately applied to these two apparitions?
‘Where is the woman now?’ Parsons wanted to know.
‘She hasn’t been back to her house,’ Farrell said. ‘Someone picked her up at King’s Cross. Another woman.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘They could be anywhere.’
Dashwood took a menacing step towards him.
‘My guess is they’ve gone to the other house,’ he said quickly. ‘The one Connelly mentioned before he died. If they have, we’ll find them. And the book.’
‘If you don’t, it will mean your death as well as ours,’ Dashwood told him. ‘Now go.’
The stench of death hung in the air like an odorous, invisible cloud.
Sixty-Two
The cottage stood about two hundred yards back from the road, accessible only by a narrow drive flanked on both sides by stone walls. The walls extended round not only the front garden but the entire property, stark grey against the white walls of the cottage. The slate roof was mildewed in places and the guttering shaky, but otherwise the place was in a good state of repair.
Ward had bought it four years earlier with part of the advance on one of his books. He and Donna used it during the summer, making frequent weekend trips; Ward himself had written at least two books there. The cottage had no phone, something he had insisted on to prevent interruption when he was working. The nearest neighbour, a farmer well into his seventies, was more than five miles and a range of low hills away.
Donna guessed that it was more than two months since she had been to the cottage.
She wondered if he had ever brought Suzanne Regan here and found it more than usually difficult to wipe the thought from her mind. Even the stress of the past few hours had not removed the memories of his betrayal.
She stood in the small sitting-room and ran her finger along the top of a sideboard, drawing a line in the dust that had accumulated. The room was about twelve feet square, furnished with old, antique oak merchandise they’d bought from a shop in Chichester during their first visit to the place. It had few ornaments: a vase or two, an ashtray and a couple of ceramic figures. The windows were leaded.
The ground floor consisted of just the sitting-room and a large kitchen. The entrance hall seemed disproportionately large. There was a trap-door in the centre of the kitchen floor, which led down to a deep cellar. Ward kept old manuscripts down there. He also kept a substantial store of wine in the subterranean room. He had never been a great wine drinker, but on every visit to the Mayfair Hotel in London (which he used often) he was presented with a complimentary bottle of wine. He never drank them but always brought them home with him to add to the array in the cellar.
The floor of the lower ground room was of earth. Donna rarely ventured down the wooden ladder into it; it was not well lit and, despite Ward’s attempts to convince her otherwise, she was certain that the entire cellar was seething with spiders, creatures she was frightened of.
A bare wood staircase led up to the first floor, which comprised a bathroom and two bedrooms. In the first bedroom a door opened onto a short flight of rickety steps that led to an attic. Ward had often threatened to have it converted into a work room but, as is the case with most attics, it remained nothing more than a storehouse for junk that wasn’t wanted elsewhere in the cottage.
The obvious thing seemed to be to retire to bed; both women felt crushing exhaustion. But they seemed to have reached that point where they could not sleep despite their tiredness. Donna took a hurried bath, Julie made them some tea and, as the hands on the clock above the open fireplace crawled round to 3.56, they both sat down, one on either side of the table in the centre of the room.
In the centre of the table were two aluminium boxes resembling metal attaché cases.
Donna flipped the first one open and lifted the lid.
In the half-light cast by the lamps the metal of the Smith and Wesson .38 and the Beretta 92s gleamed.
Donna took each weapon from the case in turn, checked it and replaced it. She then opened the second case and performed a similar ritual with the .357 and the Charter Arms .22.
She flipped the cylinders from the revolvers and checked the firing actions, listening to the metallic click of the hammers on empty chambers. She worked the slide of the Beretta, then took fifteen rounds from the box of 9mm ammunition. She thumbed them into the magazine before placing it carefully back in the box with the weapon.
She loaded the revolvers, too, leaving the chamber beneath the hammer empty. Those two she replaced, then carried upstairs.
‘I hope to God you know what you’re doing,’ said Julie when her sister returned.
‘This is life and death, Julie,’ she said solemnly.
‘Then why don’t you just call the police?’ the younger woman said, agitated.
Donna didn’t answer; she merely sipped her tea.
‘I think you want it to come to this, don’t you?’ Julie snapped. ‘You don’t care if you kill them.’
‘They tried to kill me.’
‘And if you do kill anyone, you’ll be the one who’ll go to prison.’
‘I’ll take that chance.’
‘Let’s just hope it doesn’t go that far.’
‘It already has.’
They regarded each other for long moments, then Julie reached into her handbag for the envelope. She handed it to Donna, who turned it over in her hands, seeing Ward’s handwriting on the front. She smiled thinly and ran her index finger over the Biro scribble.
I miss you.
‘It can wait until morning,’ she said quietly. ‘We should get some sleep.’
Julie agreed.
Donna took the envelope upstairs with her and laid it on the bedside table. Before she got into bed she touched it once, running her fingertips over the smooth manilla package. Then, naked, she slipped between the sheets.
Her last waking thought was of her dead husband. As she drifted off to sleep, a single tear rolled from her eye.
I miss you.
Sixty-Three
The book is called Domus Vitae, which is translated as ‘The House of Life’. It was written by a man called Edward Chardell in 1753. Only one hundred copies were printed. The copy I discovered is, as far as I know, the only one in existence. It is vital to the members of The Sons of Midnight. Vital to their survival and also to their protection.
Every member of the club, from its formation back in 1721 right up until the present day, is forced to write his name in the book. I have those names. I know those names. That is why I stole the book and that is why they want me dead and why they need the book back. If its contents were released then they would be destroyed; but also the repercussions would be enormous.
The actual content of the book itself consists of a series of spells and invocations designed to be used at meetings of the club, just as similar books were used at meetings of The Hell Fire Club all over Britain and Ireland. Each club had one of these books which they called Grimoires, and the loss or destruction of these Grimoires has accounted for the disappearance of other branches of The Hell Fire Club over the years. The Sons of Midnight are the only remaining group I know of, still linked to the original Hell Fire Club. I have researched everything about them, their customs, their members and their motives. They trusted me enough to allow me into their ranks, but when I saw what they were planning I knew that the only answer was to destroy them, expose them.
Destroy the book. Destroy that and you destroy them. Especially Dashwood and Parsons. They need the book to live. Its very existence guarantees them life. Without it they are dead.
But don’t look to anyone for help. They have members everywhere. No one can be trusted. Fight them alone. I tried and I would have succeeded. I hid the book from them, I covered my tracks as well as I could.
The location of the book I felt was too important to put down in this note. The key you will find enclosed fits a safety deposit box in the Chichester Branch of Lloyds Bank. Take the key and remove the contents of the box then find the book. Directions and instructions and also a description of the Grimoire itself are contained in there. The bank manager, Maurice Langton, is under orders not to allow anyone to open the door except you, Donna. Take this letter with you when you go there.
I pray that it is you reading this, my darling. If not then nothing I have written before matters. If it is you, then do this for me.
I love you. I will always love you, more than I thought it was possible to love anyone.
Christopher Ward.
Sixty-Four
Donna put down the note and ran her hands over the paper, as if trying to smooth out the creases. She was shaking slightly. Julie could see the tears in her eyes as she re-read the sheet of paper, touching her dead husband’s name with her fingers as she read.
‘Oh, Chris,’ she murmured quietly, wiping one eye with the back of her hand.
He loved you. Then why did he have an affair?
Jesus, even now it plagued her. She lowered her head.
‘Donna, are you all right?’ Julie asked, slipping one arm around her sister’s shoulders.
Donna nodded.
‘We have to go,’ she said, sucking in a deep breath, folding the note again. She looked at the small key on the table, then dropped that into the envelope with the note.
‘No one can be trusted,’ Julie said, echoing the words on the paper. ‘You were right not to call the police.’
‘Is my paranoia catching?’ Donna laughed humourlessly. ‘I’ve said it to you before, but I’ll say it again. If you want to leave I’ll understand, but you’re the only one I can trust now.’
Julie touched a hand to her cheek.
‘We’ll do it together,’ she said softly, holding Donna’s gaze. The older woman stood up and the two of them embraced, holding each other tightly, neither wanting to let go, united in their grief and also in their determination.
‘Come on,’ said Donna finally. ‘Let’s get to that bank.’
In the daylight Julie could see the holes in the road which, the previous night, she’d only been able to feel. The surface was badly pockmarked and the car bumped and bounced over the uneven thoroughfare, its journey only becoming smoother as they reached the main road that would lead them into Chichester itself.
Along the way they passed through one or two collections of houses masquerading as villages. The sun managed to escape the shackles of dark cloud every now and then; when it did, glorious golden light fell across the countryside. But for the most part the land remained in shadow.
As they drew close to the outskirts of Chichester itself rain clouds were gathering. As Julie finally found a parking space close to the bank the first droplets of rain were striking the windscreen of the car, like oversized tears.
The two women hurried across to the main doors of the bank. It was quiet inside. At the ‘Enquiries’ desk a young man with a strange, flattened haircut looked up from behind the counter. He smiled, ran swift appraising eyes over both women and coloured immediately.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
‘I want to see the manager, please,’ Donna told him.
‘Can I ask what it concerns?’
‘Could you just fetch him, please? It is important. Tell him my name is Donna Ward. My husband was Christopher Ward.’
The young man nodded and scuttled off, returning a moment later with a much older man in tow. The older man regarded the two women expressionlessly for a moment, then stepped forward. Donna made quick introductions. The man told her in a broad Scots accent that he was Maurice Langton, the manager. Then he invited them both through into his office.
‘I was very sorry to hear about your husband, Mrs Ward,’ Langton said, closing the door of his office and ushering them towards two chairs.
‘My husband kept a safety deposit box here, didn’t he?’ Donna said. She reached into her handbag and took out the key. ‘I need to see the contents.’
‘There are one or two forms to be signed first ...’ Langton began but Donna cut him short.
‘That’s all right,’ she said briskly. ‘It’s important.’
Langton looked at her for a moment, then reached into his desk. He produced the necessary documents and handed them to her, pointing out where she should sign. She did so and handed them back to him, her irritation scarcely hidden.
Langton realized her impatience and ushered them out of the office towards another door, which he opened with a heavy key he took from his pocket. Beyond it fell a flight of stone steps which led down to the bank’s vault. The walls on either side of the stairwell were dazzling in their brightness. Led by the bank manager, the two women descended to a corridor and more antiseptically white walls that seemed to crowd in on them like banks of snow. Langton led them through two more doors, finally coming to a small room with a desk and two chairs. To the right was another door; beside this one stood a uniformed man in what looked like a Securicor outfit. He looked impassively at the trio of visitors as they approached.
Julie waited outside while Donna and Langton passed through the last door into the vault itself. She saw hundreds of drawer facings, row upon row of safety deposit boxes. Langton led her to the one she sought.
‘Your key, Mrs Ward,’ he said.
Donna just stared at the box.
‘I need your key,’ he said, almost apologetically.
She nodded, handed it to him and watched as he put her key into one of the locks and the duplicate he carried into the other, turning both simultaneously. He pulled the drawer free and carried it outside for her, setting it on the desk.
‘Just call me when you’ve finished,’ he said and stepped back.
Donna sat looking at the box for long moments. Then, finally, hands quivering slightly, she reached for the contents.
All it contained were two envelopes.
Two flat, white envelopes.
‘What the hell is this?’ said Julie. ‘This is the big secret?’
Donna slipped the envelopes into her bag and called Langton back over.
‘Did you know what was inside the box?’ she asked him.
The manager looked aggrieved at the suggestion he might be privy to the contents of one of the high-security lockers.
‘You knew there were just two envelopes in there?’ she continued.
‘I had no idea what was in there,’ he said.
‘Was my husband alone when he brought them in?’ Donna wanted to know. Or did he have another woman with him?
‘Most certainly,’ Langton told her. ‘Is there something wrong, Mrs Ward?’
She shook her head, thanked him for his co-operation and then headed for the way out. Julie followed closely behind. They passed back the way they had come, past the gleaming white walls and up the stairs. Donna thanked Langton again and the two women left the bank.
Inside the car, Donna glanced at the two envelopes then slipped them into her handbag.
‘Get us home,’ she said, ‘as quick as you can.’
Sixty-Five
> By the time Julie parked the Fiesta outside the cottage the sky was a mass of dark cloud. Rain was falling fast now, drenching the countryside, turning the road that led to the cottage to mud, puddling in the ruts.
The two women jumped out and sprinted for the front door of the cottage, Donna struggling with the key. She finally pushed the door open and they both tumbled gratefully inside. Donna hurried through into the kitchen and sat down at the wooden table, pulling the envelopes from her handbag. For long moments she stared at them, as if reluctant to open them. She knew for sure that one contained the means to finding the Grimoire. The contents of the other was a mystery.
‘Open them, Donna,’ said Julie, her impatience getting the better of her.
Donna looked at her sister reproachfully.
‘Give me time,’ she said quietly.
A part of her didn’t want to; in some strange way it meant severing her links with Chris. As long as there had been secrets, she had felt close to him but now, with the opening of these two slim packages, the last of those secrets would be gone. Just like he was gone. Her hands were shaking as she reached for the first of the envelopes.
It looked relatively new. The paper was untainted by age. She wondered how long they had lain in the safety deposit box.
There was a single sheet of paper in the first one.
It bore a name and an address.
‘George Paxton,’ she read aloud. ‘Wax Museum.’ And then an address in Portsmouth.
‘That must be where he hid the book,’ said Donna. ‘He wrote a novel about a waxworks a few years ago. Chris said he’d become friendly with the owner; that must be who this Paxton character is.’
‘Why hide it there?’ Julie wondered.
Donna could only shrug.
‘We don’t even know what the bloody thing looks like,’ Julie added. ‘It could be anywhere there. Paxton might even have it himself. How the hell are we going to find it?’
There was more writing at the bottom of the sheet.
‘The Crest on the Grimoire is a hawk, family crest of its author,’ she read. She looked at Julie, her eyes alight. ‘A hawk?’ Donna reached into her handbag and pulled out the photo of Ward and the five other men. She looked carefully at the picture, studying the rings on the index fingers of the two shadowy figures.