It was about this time that Denise Dempsey reported that Professor Melkins was resurrecting his discredited manuscript in secret. Andrew was set for the short ‘permanent’ solution but Francine had explained that the man could prove very useful. His knowledge of the subject could be the key to success if things came down to the wire.
It had been easy for Denise Dempsey to photo-copy the professor’s work as it progressed. She was fortunate enough not to have any interest in the man’s personal opinions or to her, heretical theories, and was spared his continuous diatribe of complaints while just searching for salient facts.
Her derisory reports shocked the vicar as the information she gave him began to make a strange kind of sense and he was forced to rethink his whole understanding of the problem.
Thinking back, he was appalled at his own lack of insight. The things he had missed, which were now quite obvious. The importance of Jaxson’s daughter, for instance. The arrival of that innocuous little man George, who had turned out to be the ‘Lacey’ half of the foundation, and seemed to have been Dr Barrenborn’s counterpart in the practical world. And now the arrival of Rayn Mgee and her mother, herself an enigma, and very dangerous in his opinion. Her appearance at the flower shop that day had been a revelation when he’d realised just who she was, and the importance of her daughter. It had suddenly linked up many threads in his original prognosis.
Francine’s praise for his ‘brilliance’ was reward enough in itself, and he had added her name to his copious offshore bank accounts.
***
The trouble began when that article appeared in an obscure science magazine. It wasn’t the full story, and most of it was wrong, but it contained enough to perhaps alert the enquiring mind. The author, a Robert Metcalf, son of Dr Mary Metcalf, had discovered his mother’s research papers in his attic. Being a freelance journalist, he had spotted an opportunity and, drawing on his experience, together with an eye for a little profit, had seriously plagiarised her work. Calling it ‘The Pharaoh’s Tree of Life’, he had described the principles of the codex and organic medicine, attributing it to ancient Egypt. He claimed the possibility that Rameses the First, Second and Third were one and the same person, and kept alive by what is now called ‘alternative medicines’. The fact that he hadn’t seen this coming was not what had worried him. It was that he had no plan to cope with this eventuality. There had been no time to prod the dinosaurs of the scientific community into action and a discrediting campaign would also take too long.
His solution was quick and simple. Robert Metcalf became the victim of a fatal accident, but not before he was investigated for that good old standby: drugs.
The good vicar had arranged for the journalistic world to ruin the man’s past reputation by revelations of plagiarism, an over-active imagination, fanciful tosh and outright lies. All his and his mother’s notes were found and destroyed by Galileo’s faithful followers and the crisis was reduced very quickly to a minor annoyance.
He’d then turned his attention to finding Melkin’s original manuscript. Denise having destroyed her copies before their importance was recognised. The man’s death had been unfortunate and unforeseen. The Vicar knew this staunch closet atheist too well, so he’d gone for the gloves-off approach.
As he’d approached the headmaster’s office that Monday morning, having had Miss Dempsey keep a close eye on the whereabouts of Miss Collins, he’d heard footsteps on the outer corridor and slipped into the utility room to hide. Trying to hear through the connecting door was difficult. He could hear the voices – Melkins’ and a pupil – but had been unable to make out the words.
Eventually the pupil had left and he’d made his way through the connecting door and confronted his victim. The look of abject fear on Melkins’ face had given him that delicious feeling of power.
The Headmaster had grabbed a magazine from his desk and waved it at his adversary. It was that damned magazine which contained Robert Metcalf’s article.
“You can’t stop me this time, West,” he’d said, in a hoarse, trembling voice. “Somebody else knows. It’s out in public, you’ve lost.”
The vicar had given his oily smile and replied, coolly. “Oh, that. Don’t worry; the article by Dr Metcalf’s son has already been withdrawn, with an apology from the editor. Currently he’s under investigation for drugs and fraud. Probably some sort of illegal sexual perversions as well. In fact, anything we can think up. There are always plenty of witnesses. Oh, did I mention? The investigation is posthumous.”
The headmaster seemed to shrink into his chair, his face grey with defeat. The expression on his face told the Vicar that this was the outcome he’d been expecting. Andrew gave himself a smug self-satisfying pat on the back
“You can’t do this again. For the love of God, it’s not human,” the professor had pleaded.
“That’s the problem, professor.” The vicar had smiled as he replied. “I am human, and it is for the love of God.”
Melkins had slumped further down in his seat and the Vicar had pressed his advantage. “You’ve been very naughty, re-writing your book after being warned not to.” He’d spoken to him as if he were a disobedient child. “I want it. You had better give it to me.”
“I can’t,” mumbled the broken man. “It’s not here.”
“Then I strongly suggest you retrieve it. I’ll be back to collect it. You know the consequences if you fail me, don’t you?” He had left the question hanging and went back into the utility room. He was back within the hour, after checking his children were practising for his Halloween concert. The scene he had been faced with had actually frightened him. A bottle of vodka lay on the floor; the transparent liquid looked like blood against the red carpet. The Headmaster was raving incoherently, his great fists balled as if to strike out. At sight of the Vicar he’d picked up the heavy table and smashed the stained glass window. Shards of painted glass, lead stripping and plastic flowers fell outwards, as did the Professor. The suicide dive of a man beyond the edge.
Realising he’d pushed too hard he’d cursed himself. Glancing through the window frame he saw the Jaxson girl and her friend and he wondered. When he heard footsteps rushing down the corridor he’d slipped back into the utility room and waited. When the screams of anguish started, he’d slipped in behind them and joined in the melee of disbelief and shock, trying to calm the onlookers with his presence.
The opportunity to link his children with the Jaxson girl had been too good to miss. He was pleased that he had done, because he now knew that Lucy Jaxson’s daughter had the book.
He trusted his own two girls because he had total confidence in his power over them. He still had to keep an eye on Claire, though. He’d not been able to break her spirit as yet, but he would. She was like her mother. His idea to ease the restrictions on their free time had resulted in a subtle change of their private conversations which he took great pains to ‘over hear’.
Cautiously, so as not to tip his hand yet, he’d had the flower shop discreetly searched by experts, who had left no trace of intrusion. However, the search proved fruitless. They’d been unaware of the ‘priest hole’; Amelia’s most secret of places, behind the huge old fireplace in the old tap room.
He’d revised plan B by contacting his Xandai cooperation associates, only to find that everything had been on hold for some time because of the death of old Josh, the ninety-year-old president and main shareholder.
His eldest had taken over and was, to everyone’s horror, an honest man, and was concerned more with the reputation of his father’s company than he was with huge profits.
The Vicar had promised to take care of things in return for acceptance of his plans, and the board had willingly agreed. The eldest son soon became the deceased eldest son, due to a freak skiing accident, and the younger son was installed as president. He, being the type of man more interested in spending money to support his extravagant lifestyle, was encouraged to run riot with company funds without realising it was illega
l.
His plan was to let a subsidiary of Xandai build the industrial estate at Grabsum Moore, to be fed by new reservoirs at the High Lakes valley above Tetherington. The Water Meadows housing estate, another Xandai subsidiary company, would fill in and block off the only run-off for floodwater. Then, after the ‘designer’ dams had been built on the three lakes, the vast body of the combined water in the High Lakes valley would flood the countryside.
The topography indicated the village would be inundated leaving the Hall isolated, where a crack team of search and recovery experts would be free to operate in the confusion, and find the codex.
Xandai had their ‘patsy’ all wrapped and ready for sacrifice, bribes and intimidation were all in place with the authorities, and with everything back on track, the board would be able to carry out their long-awaited coup. Everyone would be happy, and he and Francine would own the world. It all tasted so good.
And there it is, he thought, as he picked up the letter on his desk, the viper at the breast. It was a communiqué from no less than Rome, via Canterbury, demanding – yes, demanding! – a more robust approach to this problem in order to expedite an early resolution. He could hardly believe it. Fifteen years work, and all he needed was another six months. Could someone have possibly deduced his plan to obtain the Jaxson Codex?
He would have to wait for Francine to get home. She would find an answer, he was sure. And maybe work out the significance of this, he thought, as he picked up the golden mask.
“Is that you, Francine?” he called out, hearing a door close.
But of the two women who appeared in the doorway, neither was his wife. Apart from the similarities, such as the continental complexion and the long black hair, Francine had never, to his knowledge, carried a sword.
Chapter Thirty-Five
It didn’t seem to matter which way she turned. The acrid smoke stung her nose and eyes. She could breathe, but it left an acidic taste in her throat. The cries for help echoed in her mind and somehow she knew she had very little time.
The smoke was just hanging in the still air of a calm, moonlit night. Moving out of cover, she ‘felt’ for the voices to determine her directions, and set off. She moved at speed through the giant tree, leaping and swinging with precision and purpose. She knew where she was and that the skills she was using were her own. She had to find that garden. As the thought came to her mind, she found herself running on grass. The hut was dark and empty as she sped past it and stopped at the edge of the abyss.
She glanced down into the darkness and then up. Sending out her now highly developed extra sense, she felt the predator. It was Ryxyl, way above her, waiting.
For a split second she was unsure of what to do. Clearing her watering eyes with the heels of her hands, she wiped her running nose on the back of her wrist. This was her dream, her nightmare, and she resolved to take control. A few steps back and she ran and leapt out into that awful, terrifying blackness. To stop herself screaming with fear, she cried out ‘Zanitor!’, and again she was running on grass, real grass this time. She was awake and running across the village green.
Crossing the road in front of the rectory, she could see that the living room windows had been blown out and the flames were licking greedily up the outside of the building. The fear emanating from inside was so strong it felt as if it were her own.
Clearing the wrought iron front gate with ease and increasing her speed, she hit the front door with her shoulder. It succumbed to her size and strength and collapsed with a satisfying sound of splintering wood.
The fire was just beginning to set its grip on the wide hallway. The living room door-frame was well alight, with flames curling up and heading across the ceiling, drawn by its own heat towards the staircase. The carpet was also burning, the flames having spread rapidly across the room and beginning to consume everything they touched. The noise of glass breaking and furniture collapsing coming from the living room told her that it was too late for anyone should they still be in there and, hearing the screams coming from upstairs, she knew she had to tackle the burning staircase.
Her bare feet were cut and bleeding and her shorts and T-shirt held no protection from the flames. Nevertheless, she ran at the stairs and leapt up to the first landing. The fire, in search of a better quality of air to devour, raced after her. She turned the ninety degrees to continue up, but stopped short. At the top was that now familiar figure in the golden mask, wielding her sword.
Ryxyl was waiting, sword raised, enjoying the delicious thrill of victory. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake as last time and stop for a chat. This time she would make full use of her opportunity.
Amelia turned, with no weapon she didn’t stand a chance, and there wasn’t much of a chance if she’d had one, she realised, and looked for a way out. But, to her shock and horror, at the bottom of the stairs stood a carbon copy of what was waiting for her above. The same mask, clothes and sword; she was trapped. Ryxyl had enlisted some help, and this unwelcome doppelgänger had Francine West in an arm-lock, using her as a shield against the flames. But which was which? And did it make any difference?
Paralysed by indecision, she could only watch as she weighed up her limited options. Amelia was trapped. Above her, a deranged killer about to strike, and below her a fire breathing dragon and it’s screaming victim. The heat was intolerable and she could feel the skin on her bare legs start to blister.
The screaming abruptly stopped as Francine West was slammed against the wall. The perpetrator took up the ancient cry with a shriek of surprise and pain as she was brought down by Rayn’s clumsy, but effective, rugby tackle. The mask came off and the unfamiliar face Amelia could see told her Ryxyl was above her. As Francine staggered screaming to the kitchen door clutching her face Rayn squared up to her adversary and they moved in to close quarter fighting.
The unknown woman had lost her sword with Rayn’s timely attack; it was below her at the bottom of the stairs. With the screams of Carrieanne and Claire piercing her mind, she knew she had no choice and, with one leap she snatched it up and charged back up the stairs.
Ryxyl, unaware of the events on the ground floor, was surprised at Amelia’s tactics. Charging upwards was a very amateurish action, even with a sword. She knew she couldn’t kill this girl, but it would now be very difficult to take her alive. But what set her back was the ferocity of the attack.
Amelia, unfamiliar with the great broad sword, felt as if she were wielding an iron bar, but after readjusting her grip on the long hilt, found the point of balance. Her manipulation of the clumsy weapon improved considerably as her weeks of practice began to pay off and she knew exactly what she was doing. The strength was in the shoulder as she parried and slashed with competence, if not accuracy.
“You killed my father!” she screamed to give herself impetus, but it was to no avail, Ryxyl was just too good. It was only Amelia’s advanced and highly tuned reflexes that prevented a disaster as Ryxyl forced her down to the central landing.
Gasping in pain as her thigh came into contact with a Chinese-style ornamental table; she glanced down and saw that the delicate fretwork with its painted dragons was well alight. Scooping it up, she hurled it at Ryxyl. As she let it go, she felt the melting lacquer tearing the flesh from her fingers.
Ryxyl slashed sideways to knock it aside but, fortunately, the stand had other ideas. It disintegrated into several million pieces and a cloud of sparks and burning embers coated with searing hot lacquer adhered itself to her clothing. Ryxyl staggered back. Her mask had protected her face, but her attempts to brush herself clear resulted in the lacquer merely sticking to her hand and continuing to burn her skin as her clothes smouldered. She didn’t scream or cry out, instead she just turned and fled. She ran down the corridor and through the open French windows, which were beckoning the flames to their ultimate freedom out onto a small balcony. With one foot on the safety rail, she launched herself into the darkness.
Amelia gave chase, but stopped on th
e balcony. For the moment she had a higher priority, and grabbing a lungful of clean air she turned back into the fire. At the top of the stairs, through stinging, watery eyes, she saw Rayn against a backdrop of burning fury eager to overwhelm her in its quest. She was slapping at the flames that had latched themselves onto her anorak sleeve.
“Claire’s in here!” Rayn shouted, with panic in her voice, “but the door’s locked.” Amelia threw herself at it but with no room to manoeuvre the door ignored her. She gathered herself for another try, but Rayn shouted to her.
“Wait!” She crouched down, putting her hands on the lock. There was a click and the door opened. “Good old Sesame,” she said. “I’ll get Caz.”
Amelia dived into the room, flames already licking the top of the doorframe in its bid to join up with its all-consuming friends coming up the stairs. Thick smoke invaded every available space as she looked for Claire
Amazingly, the light was still working and she found Claire on the floor. She was choking and crying and trying to scream at the same time. With no time for niceties, Amelia grabbed a handful of her hair and a combination of nightdress and knickers and threw her over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Claire weighed so little she slammed down onto Amelia’s shoulder with such force that Amelia felt warm vomit running down the backs of her legs.
Escape through the window was out of the question. There was nowhere to land between the gravestones. Deciding to follow Ryxyl out to the trees, she dived through the now burning doorway into the corridor, which was rapidly filling with flames.
Turning to her right she was making a dash for the French windows when her heart froze. The floor shook so violently she was thrown against the wall and before she heard the almighty crash that followed she knew what had happened. Carrieanne’s bedroom was immediately above the living room. The floor had collapsed, and anyone in there would have gone with it.
The Chrysalid Conspiracy Page 50