The Devil's Piper

by Sarah Rayne

  Moira put the book down reluctantly, wondering if that had been the famous concert at which Jude had played the Devil’s Piper. Kate thought he had only performed it once in public and the dates would fit. It would be interesting to read on and find out, but Moira had promised herself that she would write to Mother and the twins before Kate returned. It would not be an easy letter to write, but it was important to let them know she was all right. She could be reassuring but vague about her whereabouts: the envelope would show the London postal area but that could not be helped, and surely to goodness it was anonymous enough.

  It was odd how the scratching of a pen ran so exactly in time with the scratchings and rustlings of the house. The scratching would be the kitchen noises again, or maybe the plumbing in the little half-room beyond the kitchen which led down to the cellar.

  Unless the sounds were coming from the cellar itself . . .

  Moira laid down her pen, listening. Was it someone outside? Or – this was far worse – someone inside? A prickle of fear brushed the nape of her neck and she sat very still, listening. It was not being fanciful to just listen; in view of what was in the cellar, it was probably quite sensible, in fact. Nobody with the smallest shred of imagination could sit in an empty house with a coffin and not hear a few creepy sounds. There would not be anything to worry about: Kate had been sure that Ahasuerus would only wake again if the music was played, and this seemed logical.

  The trouble was that the sounds could no longer quite be classified as the fridge humming, or the central heating switching itself on or off. There was a faint scraping. Like wood splintering . . .? Like nails being torn out of coffin lids . . .?

  The bolt to the cellar door was quite definitely drawn; Kate had done it and Moira had watched. So there was no need to keep visualising the three steps leading down from the half-room with the wine, and then the whitewashed wall with the deeply set oak door of the cellar itself. Moira could remember the faint scratch of sound the bolt had made.

  Like the faint scratchings she was hearing now . . .?

  This is ridiculous, thought Moira crossly. I’m suffering from did-I-switch-off-the-iron?-syndrome, that’s all. I know the cellar door is bolted. I know the sounds can’t be coming from the cellar. But just as you finally had to check to see had you really switched off the iron, Moira knew that she would have to go and check the bolt. She would do it now and then she would feel safe and she could finish her letter.

  She went through to the kitchen and into the little half-room. And there it was: the thick heavy iron bolt, firmly and unmistakably drawn across. Relief flooded through Moira’s mind, along with annoyance at her stupid nervousness. She placed both hands, palms flat, on the door just to prove how solid and how firmly bolted the door was.

  She had turned to go when she caught, faintly at first, a rasp of sound from the door. Moira turned back. Was it a noise from the cellar? Wasn’t it something outside, or even a mouse scuttering behind the skirting board in the quiet?

  She waited and the sound came again, and fear flooded in, in huge suffocating waves.

  From within the dark cellar came the sound of slow dragging footsteps coming up the stairs.

  Moira jerked back from the door as if it had scalded her and stood staring at it, trembling all over, the breath catching in her throat.

  Ahasuerus had broken out of the coffin! He had broken out and he was on the other side of that door! Only he can’t be! thought Moira, in panic. He needs the music, he can’t wake without it . . .

  Even as the thought formed, the black, old-fashioned latch-handle started to move, in a blind fumbling way at first and then with more assurance. Ahasuerus, unfamiliar with modem-day door fastenings, feeling his way in the dark . . . Lifting the latch of his cellar prison . . . The door shuddered in its frame as if someone was pushing against it from the other side, and Moira shrank against the far wall. The latch clicked up and down again, and the door-frame shivered, the hinges straining outwards.

  Moira tumbled out of the kitchen and stopped abruptly at the doorway into the wide hall. What to do? What was quickest? Police – yes, phone the police and also Kate. And then get out of the house and wait in the safe, friendly street where there were cars and shops and passers-by. But as she made for the hall table with the phone, there was a blur of movement from beyond the front door. Moira’s heart leapt and then started to thud painfully.

  Whoever had renovated the large old house had kept as a feature the Victorian red and blue glass in the upper half of the front door; Moira had rather liked the way the glass cast harlequin patterns across the plain, polished floor of the hall last evening.

  But at four o’clock in the afternoon, there was no gentle dusk to cast diamond-shapes. There was thin, London sunlight filtering through the glass, sparkling on the small panes and showing up every detail clearly.

  Showing up the dark bulk of a man standing outside.

  Someone was standing furtively in the shelter of the porch, looking in. And whoever the someone was, he was whistling, very softly, a sequence of notes over and over again. Moira had never, to her sure knowledge, heard the music, but she knew at once what it was.

  The ancient music, the Black Chant, Jude Weissman’s dark seductive Devil’s Piper.

  Beckoning Ahasuerus back into the world.

  Moira was caught in the most complete terror she had ever known. She dared not go forward because it meant going nearer to the door and the intruder would see her through the glass panels. And she could not go back because of Ahasuerus. She stood very still and dug her nails into the palms of her hands.

  The whistling was still trickling into the house, cold and silvery and insidious. There was a hypnotic quality to it, and Moira felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.

  She looked towards the stair. Could she reach it without being seen? Yes, it was set back from the front door, just about beyond the sight-line. Keeping her back to the wall, Moira began to inch forward. She would have to be slow because the man outside would see any sudden movement. But if she could get upstairs, she could get to the phone in Kate’s bedroom. She inched her way down the hall, and felt with relief the first step of the carpeted stairs. Her heart was thumping so furiously she thought the intruder would hear it, but she crouched low, going up the stairs on all fours, looking behind over her shoulder as she went.

  She stopped on the first landing. This was where the main bedrooms were and the bathroom, and a tiny slip of a room that had once been a dressing room. At the far end was the little secondary stair that wound up to the attic. Moira stopped and looked down into the hall.

  The music was still pouring in and even through her panic, she could feel the sensual pull. Follow me and do what I tell you . . .

  This is what Kate’s husband heard, thought Moira, staring at the motionless figure beyond the glass. This is what all those others heard. Do what I tell you. Shoot out your brains, go home and turn on the gas, swallow a hundred aspirin and wash them down with a bottle of gin . . . Prove I am your master. Is that what this is about? Mastery over people’s minds? And is that Conrad Vogel standing outside, peering in through the glass, calling to Ahasuerus? Vogel . . . It’s a cold name, a shivery name, midway between an ogre and a vulture.

  The man was standing perfectly still in the porch, but the light was behind him so that Moira could only see him as an outline. She thought he could not see her up here and she thought she could get to the phone extension in Kate’s bedroom and ring the police emergency number. What should she say? Come and rescue me. Why, madam? Well, because somebody is standing in the porch outside whistling and there’s this corpse in the cellar that’s come to life . . . Would it really sound as far-fetched as that? She hesitated and as she did so, an articulated lorry rumbled past, shaking the ground as it went. Under cover of the sound, the man outside lifted something small and hard and brought it smashing into the small pane of glass nearest to the lock. As Moira froze into horrified disbelief, he knocked out the s
hards of glass with a black-gloved hand, and reached through to the inside latch.

  The door swung open and he was in the house.

  Moira sank into a frightened little huddle on the carpeted floor of the landing, staring down into the hall. As the man moved forward she saw him quite plainly. Thin-faced, grey hair. If this was Conrad Vogel he was older than she had visualised. He was at least forty and probably nearer fifty and he had the coldest eyes Moira had ever seen.

  He did not look up the stairs. He crossed the hall and Moira was aware of him standing very still, listening. For Ahasuerus? And then he moved again, going purposefully towards the kitchen. He’s located him, thought Moira. Either he knows where Ahasuerus is or he can hear him. He’s going to let him out. Oh God, what do I do? He’s drawing the bolt on the cellar door. There’s the music again.

  Come out into the world, Piper . . .

  Moira began to crawl towards Kate’s bedroom. Into the room, close the door – with luck there might even be a key – and then dial 999. This was a tangible emergency – it was no longer a matter of walking corpses or vague menaces. An intruder had broken in and Moira was hiding upstairs, frightened for her life. But would Vogel hear her? She remembered with horror that if you lifted an extension phone, the other extensions usually pinged. The main phone was in the hall, but there was another extension in the kitchen.

  She paused again, trying to hear sounds from below, trying to gauge where Vogel was and – this was more important – where Ahasuerus was. Vogel was still at the back of the house. Would it be better – would it be safer to run down the stairs and out into the street and yell for help? Would she get that far? Angry bitterness welled up, and she thought: even if I could run properly, he’d hear me. Damn being lame! If I could walk properly I could be out of the house in ten seconds flat!

  As she hesitated, there was a sound from the attic stairs behind her and the sudden terrifying awareness of another human being creeping up behind her.

  A hand came over her mouth and a man’s voice said in a harsh whisper, ‘Don’t make a sound.’

  His hand was like an iron clamp over her mouth. Moira struggled and felt the other arm come out to imprison her. There was a warm press of masculinity and the clean scent of soap or male deodorant. He was holding her so tightly that she could barely breathe.

  And then Vogel appeared in the hall, and behind him, dragging its painful way in his wake, was something dark and sinister; something that wore a dark cloak and whose face was hidden by a deep hood. Moira struggled again and her captor tightened his grip.

  ‘Keep quiet and keep still,’ he said in her ear.

  Vogel was standing in front of the street door, the coloured glass casting a red glow across his face. He was still whistling the music: it trickled through the hall, cold and inhumanly beautiful. It struck at your innermost being and it fastened a vice about your mind so that you could not think. I’m in the grip of an intruder – Vogel’s accomplice? – and I can’t think! cried Moira in silent anguish.

  Ahasuerus was level with Vogel now, his stance one of rather terrible humility. His head was bowed and the deep hood hid his face.

  Vogel reached in his pocket and Ahasuerus flinched as if fearing a blow. There was the glint of a hypodermic and as he crumpled to the floor, Vogel moved towards him.

  The man finally loosened his hold on Moira. Keeping one hand over her mouth, with his free hand he grabbed her wrist and half dragged, half carried her up the attic stairs.

  Once inside, he locked the door and, pocketing the key, crossed the room and stood looking down on the street through a narrow window.

  Moira took a deep rather shaky breath and straightened up, looking about her.

  The attic was a long, sloping-ceilinged room, dimly lit by a small lamp on a low table at the far end. Moira’s scared eyes took in the fact that it was furnished with unexpected comfort, and that there were two or three rooms, apparently stretching out over the garage at the side of the house. Had Kate said something about a flat added on? At the far end, a door was half open, and Moira glimpsed a minuscule kitchen.

  The man was still at the window, his back to her. He was tall but rather slender, and the light from the reading lamp fell across the lower part of his body. He was wearing dark corduroy trousers, a navy sweater and sneakers. Unremarkable. Only he isn’t, thought Moira, the fear scudding across her mind, her heart pounding. I can feel that he isn’t.

  In a completely ordinary voice, without turning round, the man said softly, ‘Listen. And trust me. Please trust me. We haven’t very much time.’

  Moira was standing with her back pressed against the locked door. She thought if she could have been sure of not alerting Vogel or Ahasuerus, she would have smashed the nearest window and yelled for help.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ said the man. He had still not moved. The shape of his head was silhouetted against the pale oblong of the window: a thatch of thick glossy gold. ‘It’s all right, Moira,’ he said. ‘It is Moira, isn’t it? Yes, I thought I’d got it right. Moira, I promise you it’s all right.’

  It was probably illogical, but his use of her name made Moira feel suddenly safer.

  ‘That was Conrad Vogel just now, wasn’t it?’ said the man. ‘He broke in to get the – the creature we saw in the hall.’

  Moira had no idea of what to say or what to do, but she said, ‘Ahasuerus. Yes.’

  ‘Ahasuerus.’

  It came out softly and very thoughtfully, and Moira dredged up her courage and said, ‘Would you mind telling me who you are, please?’

  For a moment she thought he was not going to reply, and then he turned and walked into the circle of light cast by the table lamp, and the soft glow fell across his face.

  Moira heard her own gasp of shock. One hand flew to her mouth, as if to force back a scream.

  Terrible. Terrible. A face so mutilated and so grotesque that you could not believe it was a human face. A night-mare . . .

  The skull beneath the thick corn-coloured hair was lopsided, so that you had the impression of a brain that was lumpish and distorted. The face was ugly beyond belief: spoiled, thought Moira. Spoiled. Where the nose would have been was a thin ridge of bone with two nostrils, and beneath them a flat mouth, pulled back into a shark’s cruel enigmatic smile. The cheek-bones were lopsided, pushing the eyes up, giving a vicious idiot tweak to a face that must once have held intelligence and humour and all the ordinary things.

  ‘Who are you?’ whispered Moira, but even as she said it, she knew who this was.

  The man said gently, ‘My name is Richard Kendal. I’m Kate’s husband.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Richard was still looking through the window. His back was to the light so that Moira was aware only of the glossy thatch of hair. Like this the terrible face was no more than a blurred outline; in fact until you saw it, you would think you were about to see rather an attractive man. He had been firm and strong when he had grabbed her but he had not been ungentle. Had he actually saved her from Vogel and Ahasuerus? Yes, but why? A shudder went through her.

  ‘You didn’t die,’ she said, still speaking in a whisper, but her mind in such turmoil that for a moment she even forgot why they dared not risk being overheard.

  Richard glanced at her, and then said, ‘No. I didn’t die.’ He turned his back again, and said, ‘Although it might have been better for Kate if I had.’

  The bitterness in his voice was so dreadful that Moira could not think of anything to say. And then Richard said, ‘Hold on, Vogel’s coming out again.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ Moria was no longer mindlessly terrified, and although she was scared, she was beginning to focus on the other danger downstairs again.

  ‘Vogel’s unlocking the back of a Range Rover,’ said Richard. ‘It’s parked blatantly in the drive as well, the cheek of the man – There’s a damn great packing case in the back, exactly like a—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Like a c
offin,’ said Richard slowly. And then, as Moira moved forward, ‘Don’t come too near the window,’ he said. ‘Vogel might look up and see movement—No, it’s all right, he’s come back into the house.’ He turned around again, so that his back was against the light. ‘That’s the bastard who did this to me, you know. And Kate’s trying to smoke him out, isn’t she? To get evidence. Yes, I thought I’d got it right. I’ll ring Kate the minute he goes but in the meantime, at least let’s get the registration number of his car. I think I can just see it – yes, I can – would you jot it down, Moira, there’s paper and pen on the desk over there.’

  Moria scribbled the number and then went to stand beside Richard, looking out of the window cautiously. ‘He’s coming out,’ she said. ‘That was the scullery door closing, wasn’t it? And he’s got—’

  ‘He’s got Ahasuerus,’ said Richard, staring down to the street. ‘At least I suppose it’s Ahasuerus. He’s wrapped him in a bolt of old felt or a carpet or something. Clever. Even if anyone sees, there’s nothing very remarkable about loading a rolled-up carpet into a car in broad daylight. Could you keep an eye on him while I phone Kate? Good girl. Don’t let him see you.’

  As he dialled the number, Moira felt him look across at her again. ‘Kate didn’t tell you about me, did she?’ he said. ‘No, I can see she didn’t.’

  ‘She did tell me,’ said Moira carefully. ‘But I might have misunderstood—’

  ‘I keep a pretty low profile,’ said Richard expressionlessly. ‘You’ll understand why.’

  Moira said carefully, ‘I know about the music. The Chant.’

  ‘You’re not one of Serse’s People, are you? No, I can see you’re not, I think I could still spot one of those poor sods at twenty paces, because – hold on a minute – Lauren? It’s Richard. Is Kate there? It’s rather important—’

  Moira, trying to be polite, concentrated on watching what was happening below. Vogel was still leaning into the back of the Range Rover’s interior; he seemed to have loaded his gruesome burden inside the coffin-shaped box, and Moira thought he was arranging some pieces of green baize over it.