Ancient Appetites (The Wildenstern Saga Book 1)

by Oisin McGann

  And then it seemed as if Judgment Day burst over them. The ground erupted with a cracking, deafening boom, muffling everything that followed with a whining silence as a shock wave lifted the people off their feet and cast them aside like leaves in the wind. Daisy found herself sliding across the flagstones of the path, yards from where she had been standing. She couldn’t hear a thing and grit filled her eyes. Soil was falling from the sky.

  She struggled against the confining folds of her unwieldy crinoline dress and staggered to her feet. Tearing off her veil, she rubbed her eyes, blinking rapidly to try and clear them. Bodies lay tossed and tangled all around her.

  A coffin crashed to the ground—and then another, splitting open to spill out broken skeletons wrapped in shreds of cloth. Others fell in pieces. It rained splinters of wood and bone.

  Nathaniel was near the door of the mausoleum, looking stunned and trying to stand up. His mouth was open and he had his hands over his ears. There was a long angel-shaped shadow on the ground around him and as Daisy watched, it moved. She looked up at the roof of the mausoleum. The marble angel above the entrance was teetering forward. Daisy screamed at him but he could not hear her.

  For a second she froze—and then something crashed to the ground behind her and the fright it gave her started her running. She just managed to reach Nate before her foot caught on the hem of her dress and she stumbled, careering forward and shoving him aside. Daisy sprawled on the ground and before she could get up, the towering marble sculpture toppled from the roof and slammed down on top of her. Nathaniel experienced a moment of complete confusion. One second he was standing watching his brother’s coffin being deposited in the mausoleum, the next he was conscious only of being hurled against the mausoleum wall by a huge and sudden force. Then he was falling forward onto the ground, winded and stunned. Reflex had him back on his feet almost immediately, but it had the effect of spinning the world around him in a most unsettling way. He wondered why he couldn’t hear anything … and why the air was filled with dust and debris.

  He was gaping in awe at a sky filled with smoke, earth and flying coffins when a second thrusting force threw him forwards onto his face, knocking what little air was left out of his lungs. His jarred senses gave up their valiant struggle and tipped him into unconsciousness.

  When Nate came round, he was surrounded by a crisscross flicker of running legs. Lifting his head, he coughed up and spat out some crumbs of soil that he had somehow swallowed. His chest hurt, but not as much as his neck, head and shoulders. Getting stiffly to his feet, he looked around.

  The cemetery was in ruins. Downhill and to his left yawned a massive crater of fresh earth. Tilted and broken gravestones formed angular black and white marks in the new carpet of fresh topsoil. Ruptured coffins lay scattered all around them, and in places a macabre snow of shattered bone had fallen with them. People were running everywhere; screaming, panicking, or making frantic efforts to help the injured.

  As his hearing returned, Nate became aware of a voice behind him.

  “… Nate? Nathaniel!”

  He turned and was astounded to find the marble angel from the mausoleum’s roof standing on its head behind him. Its upraised wings were embedded into the ground almost to its shoulders and its square base jutted into the air. Lying trapped beneath it was his sister-in-law.

  “Would you be so kind as to help me?” Daisy hissed through gritted teeth.

  Nathaniel took time to assess the situation properly. It posed a fascinating problem. The statue had landed on its wings in such a way that its head was still clear of the earth; but the wings had nailed the folds of Daisy’s wire-hooped crinoline dress firmly to the ground on either side of her. She must have been thrown forward at the time because the dress was up around her waist and was pinned so tightly that she could not move her body. A quick peek behind the sculpture confirmed that her frilly, white, ankle-length bloomers were clearly visible.

  “Nathaniel!” she screeched. “Have you no decency?! Good God in Heaven, I’m in this position because I just saved your life!”

  “I’m much obliged,” Nate replied, thinking it highly unlikely that she was telling the truth.

  “It’s a decision I’m already beginning to regret. Are you going to help me or not?”

  He regarded the upturned statue with great deliberation as she lay there fuming.

  “I think,” he said at last, “that it’ll take a team of men to draw your new friend from his scabbard. I’ll have to get help.”

  Daisy made a barely audible whimper, but maintained a dignified expression as she looked up at him from between the shoulders of the embedded sculpture.

  “You will be discreet, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” he assured her, taking his coat off and draping it over her exposed undergarments. “You can trust me.”

  “And don’t take too long,” she added.

  “Don’t worry,” he called back to her as he walked away, “you’ll be quite safe. After all … you have an angel watching over you.”

  Francie woke to find himself being carried through the settling cloud of dust. He coughed hoarsely, gagging on the grit in his throat. As his head lolled to one side, a nightmarish shape charged towards him and he heard snorting and panting breath over the rapid stomp of hooves. The drayhorse galloped past him, its eyes wide with panic, its flanks streaked with wounds. The remains of its cart clattered along on broken wheels behind it. In seconds it was lost from sight in the dusty fog.

  Struggling feebly, Francie tried to get his feet under him. The strong arms holding him lowered him gently to the ground. He stood on shaky legs and rubbed his eyes. Shay gripped his shoulders and looked into his face.

  “Are y’all right lad?” he asked.

  Francie nodded slowly, but found he was crying.

  “It’s gone to pot, Francie,” his father told him in a broken voice. “The whole place is blown to hell. The others are gone, d’yeh understand? They’re gone. It’s just us two. In a couple of minutes this place is goin’ to be crawlin’ with navvies so we have to skidaddle, d’yeh get me? Now listen, Francie, ’cos this is the hard bit.” He pulled his son closer. “Yeh have to go back to work.”

  “What?” Francie frowned in bewilderment. “What’re yeh on about?”

  “If we run now, they’ll know it were us.” Shay shook him by the shoulders. “We have to act normal. They’ll come after whoever done this and they’ll be lookin’ for anyone actin’ like they shouldn’t. Yeh have to go back to work … And don’t ever let on you were here.”

  Francie was numb from shock. He couldn’t grasp what his father was saying. The world had exploded around him and he was supposed to pretend it had never happened?

  “Da, I—”

  “Can yeh walk all right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Then I have to leg it. Get back to the stables, son. Quick as yeh can now!”

  With that, Shay was gone, running into the haze of dust that was settling around them. It was only as he was vanishing into the cloud that Francie noticed his father was carrying one of the bright-eyes from the tunnel. Francie didn’t give it much thought. He could hear voices and he suddenly felt fear again. If they caught him here like this, he was finished. Starting off at an unsteady stagger, he quickly found his feet and bolted for the nearest bushes. He only just made it out of sight when the first of the workmen came bounding down the hill.

  XII

  “THE SITUATION IS WELL IN HAND”

  THE CEMETERY WAS thronged with people. A second, smaller explosion punched up through the ground nearby, followed by another two in quick succession. They did no damage but added to the panic. Most of the injured were making their feelings felt: screams and moans carried through the air. But some of those stretched out on the ground lay without moving, and made no sound at all.

  Nathaniel strode through the chaos towards his father. Edgar was standing, leaning on his cane and smoking a cigar. His claw clicked in a ste
ady rhythm. Coated in a layer of dirt, he dominated the scene like a battle-hardened general, barking orders to those around him:

  “Warburton! Enlist the help of any other doctors we have on hand. See to the most seriously wounded only—let the servants deal with the rest. Gideon, you and Roberto take some men and get these crowds back, damn it. It’s like a bloody circus in here! O’Keefe, I want teams for heavy lifting for those who are trapped, and assign some men skilled in explosives to explore every inch of this area and make it safe.

  “Eunice, supervise the women. See that brandy, blankets, smelling salts and bandages are brought out for those who need them and inform the housekeeper to make the West Hall ready for casualties. Where’s the Viceroy? I want troops from the Royal Barracks here to secure the area within the hour. Gerald! Where’s Gerald?”

  “Here, Uncle Edgar.”

  The Patriarch turned to find his nephew standing behind him.

  “Ah,” he grunted. “You will assist Warburton for as long as he needs you, then I’m putting you in charge of the remains that this cataclysm has spewed out all over the cemetery. You will be responsible for uniting each corpse with its respective components and seeing that they are laid to rest once more in the state they enjoyed before they were so suddenly exhumed.”

  “Yes, Uncle Edgar.”

  “Now where the hell is Nath—?”

  “I’m here, Father,” Nate announced as he walked up.

  “You will—”

  “Melancholy is trapped, sir,” Nathaniel cut in, taking some satisfaction in being able to interrupt his father. “I need some men to free her.”

  Edgar stared at his son with his one good eye for a moment and then nodded. Reaching up with his claw, he took the cigar from his mouth.

  “Then take them,” he growled. “Take what men you need and make good use of them.”

  Daisy kept her eyes fixed on the ground, her cheeks blushing a stark crimson.

  “You said you’d be discreet,” she muttered between clenched teeth.

  “I could have kept your situation to myself altogether,” Nathaniel replied. “But some blackguard might have come along and taken advantage of you in your exposed condition.”

  “So you decided to set an example?” she hissed.

  In fairness, he thought, I could have brought the whole crowd. He had called over the eight strongest-looking men he could find to help him lift God’s messenger off his sister-in-law. The navvies were treating the situation as delicately as they could, doing their best to avert their eyes from her misfortune. But Nate knew that Daisy would be the talk of the town before the day was out. He took her hands and nodded to the man nearest him as the navvies gripped the angel’s wings.

  “One … two … three … Heeaave!”

  The marble sculpture slowly came up, the stone sliding from the earth with a soft grating sound—but their strength failed and it slipped back down again with a slushy thud.

  “And again!” Nate urged them. “On three!”

  They all counted off once more and, with a concerted effort, hauled the statue up far enough to free the folds of Daisy’s dress and allow Nate to pull her free. The sculpture toppled down onto its front as he helped her get to her feet. He was all ready with his next jibe when he saw Clancy walking towards them. The footman’s face was as inscrutable as ever, but Nate felt suddenly ashamed of himself. Looking down into Daisy’s face, he saw that it was taking all her strength to keep from bursting into tears. She had been dreadfully humiliated, and instead of trying to ease her distress, he had made fun of her.

  He picked up his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Clancy stopped just short of them, his eyes fixed on Nathaniel. The manservant glanced diffidently at Daisy, nodded towards the navvies and then looked pointedly back at his master. Nate got the message and felt even more embarrassed; as a gentleman, this was his situation to deal with. Clancy should not have to point out his duties. Nate glanced around; it appeared that no one else had noticed Daisy’s plight.

  “Ah, there you are, Clancy,” he said. “Take these men up to the house. Give them five shillings apiece and a stiff drink. Note down their names so that they may be commended to their foreman … and thank them for their discretion.”

  “Thank … thank you very much, sir,” one of the navvies stuttered.

  The others mumbled their thanks, but they had received the warning loud and clear. If word got out about what had happened to Daisy, they would lose their jobs.

  “Yes, sir,” Clancy replied.

  He didn’t move an inch. Nathaniel was at a loss for a moment. Had he forgotten something? Clancy would never speak up in front of the workers, but—Nate could have kicked himself.

  “I will escort Miss Daisy to the house myself,” he added.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Daisy clung onto his arm as the others walked away. Then he led her through the ruined graveyard towards the church.

  “We should tell Roberto,” he said softly to her. “He needs to know.”

  “He didn’t come looking for me, did he?” she whispered back, her throat tense. “Anyway, it’s probably just as well he wasn’t there he’d only have got all melodramatic. You know what he’s like. I’ll tell him when I’m ready.”

  There were tears streaming down her face now. They both fell silent. He gave her his handkerchief, wishing he had done more to ease her embarrassment. His conscience always seemed to rear its head too late. As the two of them walked, their feet sank into the dark brown earth that had been sprayed over the grass by the explosion. The crowd of gawking onlookers stood behind a cordon of footmen, eager to see as much of what had happened as possible. They would be drinking on this for weeks.

  Nathaniel noticed that the ground was covered with hats, caps and bonnets—all knocked off heads by the blast. He had lost his own, he realized. The carriages were gone: the horses and velocycles had obviously bolted. They would have to walk up to the house. It would probably do Daisy good to walk for a bit. His Aunt Eunice was moving to intercept them, some rolls of bandages in her arms.

  “Daisy, my dear,” she called. “This is no time to be a weeping willow. We’ve all had a shock. Chin up! You must compose yourself, young lady.”

  Nathaniel could see flecks of earth caught in his aunt’s dentures. He felt a sudden contempt for this petty, overbearing woman.

  “Wildenstern ladies must set an example, my dear,” Eunice went on. “Stop your crying now. Stop it! You have to be made of stronger stuff than this!”

  “You have soil in your teeth, Aunt Eunice,” Nate said to her, and led Daisy straight past as the elderly woman dropped the bandages and hurriedly took out a compact mirror to examine her mouth.

  “Don’t pay her any mind,” he said quietly to Daisy.

  “No.” Daisy stopped abruptly. “She’s right—I should be helping.”

  She wiped the last of her tears away and took off Nathaniel’s jacket, handing it to him.

  “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

  Roberto, who had been supervising the cordon with Hennessy, spotted Daisy and started to hurry across the lawn towards them, concern written all over his face. Before he reached them, Edgar appeared with his black servants looming behind him.

  “Miss Melancholy.” He bowed his head to her. “I trust your predicament was handled with sufficient propriety?”

  “Yes, Father,” she answered, glancing sidelong at Nathaniel, who swallowed nervously.

  But Daisy had no wish to embarrass him here and now. She fervently wished she could just escape the whole damned lot of them. She would get back at Nate in her own good time.

  Nathaniel surveyed the chaotic scene around them. The damage would take weeks to repair. He shook his head in disbelief, flabbergasted by what had happened. Marcus’s funeral had been bombed. The enormity of the situation was still sinking in. He found his entire body was shaking; his grief for his brother turning into a terrible rage.

  “We have to find whoever di
d this,” he growled through clenched teeth. “We have to find these rebels, these curs and … and … destroy them. There must be hell to pay for this.”

  “The perpetrators will be dealt with,” Edgar told him in a matter-of-fact way. “The situation is well in hand.”

  The Patriarch turned to look round for a moment and Nate followed his gaze. Standing by the corner of the church was a broad-shouldered figure dressed in a suit and bowler hat. It was Slattery, the man Nate had met outside his father’s office a few days before. He gave Nathaniel a friendly grin, showing off his gold teeth, and then disappeared round the corner: “The situation is well in hand,” Edgar said again.

  XIII

  THE BOG BODIES

  FOUR PEOPLE HAD been killed in the funeral explosion. Dr. Warburton said it could have been much worse. The rebels who had perpetrated the attack had set off some explosives in the old treasury. The money and valuables had been cleared out so that the space could be used to store the black powder the engineers used for blasting out the tunnels. The entire stock of powder had exploded. It was pure chance that more people had not been standing on the ground over the store when it was detonated.

  Two days later, Nathaniel was prowling the corridors of Wildenstern Hall, his mind seething with frustrated rage. The rebels had gone too far this time. Over the last few years there had been the odd revolt—raids on food stores or bands of resistance organized against evictions—but they had never attempted anything like this before.

  The nearest comparison anyone could draw was the famous gunpowder plot of 1605, when Guy Fawkes and some English dissidents had tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament. To Nate, killing the King and a gaggle of politicians had some kind of logic to it. At least, if you were of the revolutionary persuasion. But who in their right minds would attack a funeral? A funeral, for God’s sake!

  He kept turning the event over and over in his mind, striding relentlessly down one hallway after another. On top of everything else, he was still no closer to finding Babylon, in spite of numerous inquiries. And even if he did, Marcus’s cryptic message had given him no clue as to how a childhood plaything would help catch his killer.