“Thank God,” the old woman said, and the last dregs of life seemed to go out of her. It was as if, in breaking the professor’s resistance to my will, I’d given her permission to die.
“Archie,” I said, “get the others upstairs! Find a room you can secure and stay with them.”
“Won’t you be needing me down here?”
“I think I’ve got a better chance alone. If you hear an explosion, you’d better come looking for me on the beach.”
Archie didn’t like it, but did as he was told. He carried the old woman, while the professor took his daughter. They were joined in the hall by Colonel Buzby. “There are a couple of blokes skulking in the bushes out back.”
“Come with us, Colonel,” Archie said. “Fairchild has some heroics to attend to.”
The colonel gave me his revolver. “I’d stay with you, but I’m getting a bit old for this sort of thing.”
“Never mind, Buzby,” Trevor-Finch said. He paused on the stairs and tried to find something fitting to say to me. Nothing appropriate occurred to either of us.
As soon as they were upstairs, I turned off the lights in the library and went to the French doors. There was moonlight on the lawn and glinting along the sea’s horizon. Around each tree and shrub lay a pool of blackness. I knew they were out there, waiting to see what I would do, hoping I’d lead them to the manuscript. They wouldn’t kill me until they had it, and that gave me a chance to use the canisters. What I had to gamble on was that I could lead them all to the beach—that none would stay behind to watch the house. If I made a run for it, created some sort of confusion, they’d be more likely to come after me without waiting for instructions.
I grabbed some books from the floor and tore out pages by the handful. These I stuffed into the metal wastepaper basket and ignited with my lighter. As soon as the flames licked over the rim, I kicked open the French doors and threw the blazing basket across the terrace. It sailed out into the yard like a small comet, struck the lawn and rolled, scraps of burning paper spilling in its wake. At once I heard a kind of communal shriek from the darkness. Human shapes leapt from the shadows and converged on the burning basket. Feet stamped the burning leaves, and one man plunged his hands into the basket to extract the flaming bundle. I came through the door, firing the revolver.
The large gun jumped and lurched in my hands. The noise was terrible. I sprayed bullets across the lawn and at the treetops until the gun clicked empty. I tossed it aside, vaulted the hedge and ran across the lawn. There were confused shouts as the cult regrouped behind me, and over the other voices I heard the sharp command of Simon Regis: “It’s a trick! Don’t let him get away!”
I raced toward the heavy shadows of the trees and the path to the beach. I flew by instinct, shards of moonlight only a barrier to vision. Behind me men crashed into the underbrush as they lost the path, got in one another’s way with shouts and curses, blundered through the darkness with the single purpose of running me down. By the time I reached the cliff, they were getting very close. The easiest route to the professor’s antenna was the most circuitous—down to the beach and up again. The trail was steep and treacherous, but I didn’t break stride until my ankle buckled and sent me sprawling another ten feet down the hillside. From there I rolled to the bottom. I staggered out across the sand with raw knees and an ankle that felt badly sprained. I still had a quarter mile of bright white beach to cover, with my pursuers coming down the path behind me.
The next several minutes took on the slow motion of nightmare. The best I could manage was a cripple’s lop-sided lope that frequently spilled me onto the sand. By the second fall, I realized the cult was no longer trying to overtake me. They had guessed that I was leading them to the manuscript and they were content to follow me along the beach like a pack of sullen, wary dogs. I saw their silhouettes appear for a moment at the crest of a dune, near a shrub or a clump of rocks. I spit sand from my mouth and slowed my pace, saving strength for the run back up the cliffs. There was a gentle surf on an outgoing tide and the moon’s white fire was on the water. I could smell the ancient rot and regeneration of the sea—the sea which had strewn its wastes, its death, its ladles of cellular soup upon this shore long before the Normans, the Danes, the Saxons, the Romans and all the other would-be conquerors had driven their boats upon the sand and come ashore to tangle with the dark gods who ruled these isles. I felt myself awash upon the tide of history—another missionary rousted by the savages, another emissary put to flight.
I paused in the shadow of the tower and looked back up the beach, where I made out Simon Regis’s tall, sleek outline, the stooped figure of old Giles, the brutish bulk of Jamie. I counted thirteen figures in all—a full coven. Regis motioned several of them to move around behind me.
“Dr. Fairchild,” he called. “You have disappointed us, but there’s still time to be reasonable. Give us the manu-script and we shall not harm you.”
I measured the distance to the base of the cliff, sucked in a breath of ripe, salty air, and made a break for it.
Even as I took my leap for a first hold on the steep clay side, I could see that one of the dark figures was much too close. He was a big man and an awkward runner, but he got his start up the cliff just a few strides behind me. I dug my toes and fingers into loose, crumbling clay, heard it slithering down on my pursuer. I lost my grip and slid down on my belly, twisted onto my back and kicked the man away—but not before I had recognized Jamie’s furiously determined face. I made another ten feet before his hand closed around my throbbing ankle. I clawed futilely at the clay as he hauled me in. Then a portion of the cliff gave way beneath us and I scrambled free, found a gully where the rocky bottom gave me a bit of traction, and made it up the last ten feet. I pulled myself over the outjutting rim and looked down to see some of the cult clinging to the cliff, the others fanned out around its base, with Jamie just an arm’s length from the top.
The concrete footing of the professor’s antenna was right behind me. I crawled along it, searching for the hole. Jamie’s huge shadow fell across the rocks I’d left as a marker. I pushed them away, reached in and extracted the first briefcase as one of his big hands took me by the neck. “Here!” I shouted, holding up the briefcase so he could see it before he crushed several vertebrae. “Here it is, Jamie. You can have it!”
He released me to grab for the briefcase with both hands. I still had the handle and Jamie began dragging me toward the cliff edge. I was afraid the thing would go off in my hands, but I hung on until we had reached the very edge. Jamie set his feet and reared back with all his strength. I let go and his own momentum sent him hurtling backward off the cliff.
For a moment I had a glimpse of his body dropping lazily through the moonlight, the briefcase clutched to his breast, as foreshortened bodies scurried out from under. I threw myself back from the edge, sprawled face down and hid my head in my arms.
There was a flash like the blossoming of a star, a noise like the collision of comets. The earth shook and the professor’s antenna hummed like a tuning fork. By the time the echo had come rolling back along the beach, it was raining sand.
When the shower subsided, I crawled back to the cliff edge and looked down. The moon shone serenely on the water. There was a great deal of smoke and the crumbling cliff and raining sand had already partially filled in the small crater. The chemicals had left a peculiar odor, in which I detected the reek of charred flesh. I could see a few dark objects scattered around the hole which, moments ago, might have been human. But there was no sign of life. Not even a twitch.
I went back to the concrete slab and dug out the second briefcase. The manuscript was still there, and I added my own index cards as a last tribute. I took the briefcase down to the beach, going wide around the mess I’d made, and set about gathering driftwood for a fire. It would have to be a very big fire—big enough to burn both the briefcase and its contents, since I didn’t want to lose any pages to the wind. Not one word must survive. Not one precious,
damning word.
There wasn’t much wood to be had. I tried closer to the tower and then noticed several fuel tanks—oil to heat the professor’s laboratory—at the tower’s base. I carried the briefcase over to the tanks and set it down beneath a valve. It suddenly struck me that I was about to destroy a work of art, a testament to human genius, faith, suffering. My career was in that briefcase—everything I’d hoped to accomplish, everything I’d come to believe in and revere. I was tempted to open the briefcase and look through the poem again to confirm my belief in its greatness. But I removed only one of the leaves and crumpled it to a ball.
I needed a wrench to remove the pipe beneath the valve so that the oil could drain upon the briefcase. The threads were rusted fast and my hands so badly scraped I couldn’t get a grip. I took a rock and banged at the pipe and valve. When they were loosened, I used a discarded length of pipe to pry them away from one another. I grabbed the valve with both hands and forced it to turn one inch, then two . . . A trickle of oil began to fall upon the briefcase. Then there was a gush and its thick odor rose up from the sand. I stepped back to let the oil accumulate around the briefcase. I’d already taken out my lighter, when I realized I was not alone.
“Sorry to sneak up on you,” Archie said. “I came looking for you when we heard the explosion. What happened to the cult?”
“They’re over by the cliff, Archie—what’s left of them. How’s everything back at the house?”
“Good enough. I slipped out the back as the police were arriving. The old woman seems to have had an attack of some sort, but the others are holding together. So the bomb worked, did it?” He took a few steps toward the cliff, then turned suddenly back. I could see him grimace in the moonlight. “My God, it’s ugly, isn’t it? Did you have to?”
“It seemed like it at the time,” I said.
“And how do you propose to explain those charred corpses to the bobbies?”
“I’ll tell them the truth, Archie. At least, most of it. We shouldn’t have too much difficulty, once we’ve shown them the woodcutter’s cottage. The parson’s tapes might be recovered now, as well. It ought to make quite a story.”
“If anyone believes it—or if the professor and the College don’t manage to hush it up. Say, is that my good briefcase getting soaked with oil? I’d appreciate it if you’d get it out, Fairchild.”
I’d noticed that he was carrying the colonel’s shotgun. “Sorry, Archie—the briefcase goes too. I’ll buy you another.”
“Yes, but it’s not just the briefcase. I’ve no wish to threaten you, mind, but this gun is loaded and I do think you owe it to yourself—and to me, for that matter—to reconsider. We’ve gone to a bloody lot of trouble for Trevor-Finch and his kin, and a fine lot of thanks we’re going to get for it. He hates you with a passion, and so does his daughter, and I’m not convinced we won’t be prosecuted for our part in this little fiasco. We’ve got something here that’s worth a bit of money, if we play our cards correctly.”
“You’re not suggesting we sell the manuscript back to the cult?”
“It’s a thought. Better yet, we might find a collector somewhere who would meet their price. Or get in touch with some enterprising publisher—bring out a modern translation and facsimile text? You can always burn the original later, if it would make you feel better.”
“Then you still don’t believe . . . ?”
“Fairchild, be reasonable. I can’t be expected to believe in ghosts, for heaven’s sake. You’ve been carried away by your own ingenuity. Years from now you’ll regret having burned that manuscript on which you worked so hard; I’m merely trying to spare you that bitter awakening.”
“No, Archie. I think I’ve gotten what I really wanted.”
‘‘Yes, I know how this whole business has restored your faith in the human spirit and all that. But faith won’t pay the rent, and it won’t save me from Yorkshire. Now before the bobbies get down here and start treating us like thieves and murderers, let’s get that manuscript out of that dirty oil and—oh, my God!”
I followed the direction of his bulging eyes to a dark jumble of rocks beyond the tower, where a shadowy figure had taken shape. It glided toward us—tall, gaunt and hooded—through the strip of moonlight that lay between the tower and the rocks.
“Dear sweet Jesus,” Archie breathed, and raised the shotgun. He seemed, however, unable to fire, and after a moment lowered the gun. The black, nebulous figure had entered the shadow of the tower and was drawing near the oil tanks. “Do something, Fairchild! Light your bloody fire!”
I bent down quickly and ignited the crumpled paper, then dropped it into the pool of oil. The fire leapt up with a roar, and in its sudden brilliance we saw the darkly fluid shape hurl itself at the flames. Was it simply the heat of the burning oil, or did I feel his demonic fury as he swept past me? The intense heat drove us back; the oil tank burst and then the other tanks ignited. We could see nothing at the base of the tower but a blinding core of light, as if the fiery furnace of the sun itself had come to nest at the foot of the professor’s laboratory.
“Fairchild,” Archie said sadly, “I feel like such a damned ass. Seeing isn’t believing, you know—not unless you believe in what you see.”
“You believed for a moment,” I said. “Sometimes that’s as much as one ever gets.”
Great clouds of black smoke rose up from the burning oil and blew across the beach. The stars were obscured by its reeking billows, but the cold, quiet moon rode safely out to sea and put its ghostly kiss upon the water.
“Cheer up, pal,” I said, slapping Archie on the shoulder. “There’s still that beautiful, loving, warm-hearted female Yorkshirite.”
Archie smiled ruefully in the light of the settling flames. “And that’s another fairy tale I can’t believe in,” he said, and turned back up the beach.
The bells of Saint Catherine’s were chiming the hour as I returned from my farewell stroll and crossed the busy street before the College. Colin Douglas was just locking his bicycle in the little bike yard and joined me on the sidewalk.
“Your last evening, is it? I’m glad you’ve decided to put in a final appearance at High Table.”
“Actually,” I said, “I’m dining in the Master’s lodge this evening.”
“So the old boy came across with an invitation in time for you to take him up on it. You’ll carry that honor home with you, at any rate . . . By the way, I’ve got the address you wanted, though I don’t really advise that you take up with that little baggage again.”
I took the slip of paper he handed me and put it in my shirt pocket. “Yvetta and I have some unfinished business. Besides, I’ve always wanted to visit Vienna and she’ll be the perfect guide.”
“Yes, well—the opera, the wine cellars, the coffeehouses—it’s a splendid city. But be careful, David. This time she might not let you get away.”
I looked up at the long, plain façade of the College, rather like a prison from the outside. One had to penetrate the interior to experience its charm, just as one had to live the life it offered in order to understand its appeal. Colin Douglas belonged inside those walls. They suited and sustained his personality, nourished his conviction that he already knew everything about life that was of any importance.
“This time,” I told Colin, “I might not let her get away. I think I’ve gotten the best of what Cambridge had to give me. I’m ready for the next step.”
Colin obviously thought it a step in the wrong direction, but he said, “Just so you see your way as you go, old man. A few of us are getting together for drinks at my place after Hall. There’ll be a few birds up from London. Care to join us?”
“I may stop by,” I said, with no intention of doing so. It spared us the necessity of saying goodbye.
We entered beneath the thirteenth-century gate. Colin went off to the buttery for his pint and I stopped at the porter’s lodge for my mail. There was one slender envelope, addressed in a feminine hand and postmarked Saint-Tr
opez. I stepped out into the evening shadows of the court, opened the letter and read:
Dearest David,
It is still difficult to write to you after all that’s happened, but I want to be sure you hear from us before you leave Dukes. We have rented a charming little villa with a view of the sea and Daddy is beginning to seem more like himself . . . or perhaps even better than himself, since he’s taken quite an interest in the very respectable widow who has the villa next to ours. They spend a great deal of time together on the beach and this evening he has taken her into town for—of all things!—an “intimate dinner.”
We were both greatly saddened by Grandmother’s abrupt passing, but have come to realize that the ties which bound us to the past are finally broken and that our lives are now our own. Daddy wants to sell Abbotswold, but I’m not sure he will find a buyer (some rich American, perhaps?). He was quite scandalized when I suggested that we might make enough money to keep the place by opening it to the public for tours and possibly even overnight stays. Don’t you think the American tourists would leap at the chance to spend a night in a “haunted manor”? Daddy won’t hear of it, but well see.
He says to tell you that he has written to the Master and taken full responsibility for the loss of the manuscript. Since the police bought our story that it was destroyed by the cult (and so it was, in a way), there is no reason why the College should not. In any case, you should have no worries on that score. Of course, Daddy adds, rather adamantly, I fear, that he wishes never to see you again and he insists that you leave Duke’s before we return to England. He does thank you for all you’ve done for us, but knowing Daddy, you can be sure it was said with great reluctance and many “harumphs” and “ahems.”
As for myself, I deeply appreciate the way in which you risked your life for us and all that you gave up in order to help us—if it really was us you went to so much trouble for, on which point I’ll never be entirely sure. In any case, I know you were our champion and savior and l can never thank you enough for your noble and heroic service. That needs to be said first, before I tell you that I’ve found it impossible to forget all that was said on that dreadful night, and that I can take no pleasure in the prospect of seeing you again and of being reminded of how much you know about me—us—the whole wretched family.
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