Blood of Angels (Curse of Weyrmouth Series Book 2)

by David Longhorn

  You're scaring me now, thought Louise. Just a little.

  “Yes,” she said, “cool is precisely the word I'd have used.”

  Erin gave her a playful punch on the arm.

  “Hey, don't worry, boss,” she said. “I'm not after your job!”

  Louise managed to laugh. She drove Erin home. Then Louise went back to her own apartment, tried to sleep, and failed.

  ***

  Fortescue lay, curled in a fetal position with his hands tight over his eyes, for what seemed an eternity. Eventually, he realized that the only sound he could hear was his own blood pumping in his ears. All he could feel was the cold stone leaching warmth from his flesh through his clothes.

  The priest uncovered his face, uncurled a little, and looked around. He was alone. Fortescue stood up, brushed a little dust off his clerical garments, and tried to compose himself.

  Get on with the job, he told himself, finish up, and go home.

  The priest hurried down the aisle to lock up the main doors, then went round the other, smaller entrances. When all was secure, he checked the small kitchen. He had left nothing switched on. A thought struck him, then. Along the corridor past the kitchen was a small room from which the cathedral's electrical systems were controlled. Fortescue unlocked the door, went inside, and checked the security cameras. They were in theory being monitored by a security firm based several miles away.

  Did they see anything? he wondered. Perhaps I could find out. If I can remember what that annoying young technician told me when he installed this stuff.

  Fortescue sat down at the desk and logged onto the system. He was blessed with a good memory and soon recalled how to bring up digital recordings. He found the camera covering the area under the tower and rewound the footage back to the moment when he encountered the two women. He watched as Louise Tarrant and the American walked into shot, then the latter bent down and put her hands on the floor.

  Most undignified – so unfeminine. Ah, here I am!

  The priest watched himself appear, and begin remonstrating with the interlopers. He was about to wind forward, knowing what would happen next, when a flicker of shadow caught his eye. Fortescue froze the image, leaned forward to study the screen. A gray blur, an object in rapid motion, was between the American and Ms. Tarrant. He moved the film one frame at a time, watching other blurred images appear and then vanish, all swirling around the tall woman crouching on the stones.

  “That must be them,” he whispered.

  Fortescue stopped the recording again, tried to count the ghostly images. At first, he thought there were only six, then he realized that a seventh was just barely visible, right at the bottom of the screen.

  Odd, he thought. It seems to be getting bigger.

  A vague, rounded shape grew, moving perceptibly despite the film being paused. As it got bigger, the shape became more substantial, and developed features – eyes, a mouth. Fortescue recoiled as the face pushed out of the flickering screen and grinned at him. He held up his crucifix.

  “Be gone!” he shouted. “I abjure the Devil and all his works.”

  “So did we,” whispered a voice in his ear. “But sad to say, it is not just the Devil who does bad things.”

  Fortescue looked around in wild panic at the six small forms surrounding him as the seventh crawled from the screen and put its arms around his neck. A gust of reeking air filled his nostrils, made him gag.

  “Best not interfere, old man,” said the ghost, settling into his lap. Its rotted features were inches away from his face. “The less you know, the better.”

  “Yes,” came a second boy's voice. “We'll be watching you.”

  “All the time,” said a third.

  “And if you get in her way …” said the first. It did not complete its warning, just ran a leathery tongue along what remained of its teeth.

  Then the ghosts were gone, leaving Fortescue alone, and weeping with terror. The stench of foul breath and decayed flesh lingered for a while. When the priest got home, he felt sure the smell was still on his clothes. After a few moments thought, he threw them in the trash, because he could not think of a practical way to burn them.

  ***

  As midnight approached, Ron the janitor went on his final rounds of Weyrmouth Museum. He toyed with not checking the top floor, and half convinced himself that it was not necessary. But his conscience would not let him leave a job undone.

  He used the stairs since the elevators were turned off overnight, like the main room lights. As soon as Ron pushed open the fire door, he saw the flickering blue light from the diorama. He had given a lot of thought to the mystery during the day. He had lived in Weyrmouth most of his life. He did not have any trouble believing in strange phenomena.

  So it's ghosts, he thought, summoning up his courage. No reason to assume they're unfriendly. If anything, they probably want help. Hence, the SOS signal.

  As he walked towards the weak light, Ron frowned. It seemed slightly different, now. He got closer. The light seemed to pulse in no particular order, now.

  No, Ron realized. It's sending different letters. Wish I knew Morse.

  He leaned over the glass case. The top was just above waist height, so he could get to within a foot of the flashing light. The diorama was, he realized, wonderfully detailed. As well as the stubby lighthouse, the miniature cliff top featured a group of men in old-fashioned bad-weather clothing. They were frozen in the act of launching a tiny rocket attached to a line. The line – a piece of pale thread – was in turn attached to a heavier line, which was in turn fastened to a rope. The idea was clear enough. The sea was too rough for a lifeboat, but if a rope could be fired over the foundering ship, it might allow some men to get ashore.

  Ron looked over at the rocket's target. The steamship Charlotte Clore was on the rocks, leaning at a perilous angle, her sleek black hull almost covered in foam. Tiny figures were visible aboard her. Some clung to the rigging, others struggled vainly to launch a small lifeboat. A second lifeboat was being dashed to pieces on the rocks as men tumbled into the raging foam. Ron looked more closely. There was something odd about the small ship.

  As he stared at it, the diorama seemed to come to life and he began to hear the crash of waves, the plaintive cries of frightened men. Sails and a tattered flag began to flap frantically in the gale. The ship was real and Ron was drifting above it, like a seabird, looking down as the vessel's hull cracked open on the rocks. Cries of terrified men grew louder, but then quickly faded. All that was left was the roar of the wild waves breaking on the rocks.

  Far too realistic, he thought, jerking his head back. And too weird. Mind playing tricks.

  Once again, the steamship was just a model in a dusty case. Ron flicked a cloth over the glass, and hurried away. As he walked back to the stairs, the lighthouse cast a flickering shadow ahead of him.

  ***

  Martin Roker returned home well after midnight to find his wife dozing in front of a reality show. She awoke as he entered the living room, glanced round, smiled.

  “Wow,” Jackie yawned. “Marathon session this time, love?”

  When Roker did not reply, she looked at him closely. He was standing with his ceremonial robe carelessly folded in his hands, gazing blankly at the screen.

  “It's rubbish,” said Jackie, referring to the show. “They're all put into this country house and have to pretend it's the Cold War. One of them is a Russian assassin, you see, and–”

  She paused.

  He's not been like this for a while, she thought. Not since that horrible business at the cathedral. Not since Park died.

  “And then they all take their clothes off and perform Lady Gaga hits while Prince Charles accompanies them on a xylophone,” she went on.

  Her husband gave a grunt in response.

  “What is it, darling?” asked Jackie, standing up and walking over to him. She took the robe out of his hands, frowned. There was a faint smell of burning.

  “Hey, did you leave thi
s near a fire or something?” she asked.

  Her husband looked down, focused on her for the first time since his return.

  “No,” he said faintly. “He was just – angry, I think.”

  Jackie took the robe, shook it out. There were faint scorch marks on the white cloth.

  “Who was angry?” she asked. “What the hell is this about, Martin? Where have you been all this time?”

  Roker shook his head, went over to the sideboard, and poured himself a whisky.

  “Why yes, I'll have one, thanks for asking,” said Jackie, throwing the robe across the sofa. She went up behind her husband and hugged him around the waist.

  “All this secret bullshit,” she said quietly. “It's too much. You've got to give it up. We're okay for money. Why do you have to take part? After what happened last year?”

  Martin was silent for a moment, then poured out a second glass of Scotch. He turned, breaking her grip, and handed her a drink.

  “Nobody resigns from the Shadow Council,” he said. “We're all in it for life.”

  Jackie gasped.

  He's never named it before, she said. After all these years. It must be bad.

  “I always knew that was it,” she admitted. “All the rumors, how could I avoid knowing? But is it really that bad?”

  Roker took a gulp of whiskey.

  “Depends what you mean by bad,” he said. “Suppose someone ordered you to do – something very bad?”

  “Then don't do it,” replied Jackie quickly. “Don't put everything we have in danger.”

  “I told you, I can't just–” began Roker, but then stopped as they heard the front door open again, then slam shut.

  “Hiya!” said their teenage daughter, passing the living room door on her way to the stairs. “Sorry I'm a bit late, I couldn't get a taxi. I was waiting for absolutely ages! It's freezing out there.”

  “That's all right, Amy,” shouted Roker. “You get to bed, now. See you in the morning.”

  They waited until they heard Amy's bedroom door slam, then continued their discussion in low, intense voices.

  ***

  Amy Roker slammed her bedroom door from the outside and took up her usual position at the top of the stairs. She could always tell if her parents had been arguing or discussing something they wanted to keep from her. At first, she struggled to hear what they were saying, but as they forgot about her, their voices tended to rise. And tonight was no exception.

  Not money, she thought. Not me, either. At least they haven't mentioned me, which is a good sign.

  She crept down a few stairs until she was within sight of the open living room door. She saw her parents from the waist down, pacing back and forth as they talked. Snatches of conversation became apparent, but the overall thrust of the discussion proved elusive.

  “I have no choice!” Amy's dad exclaimed at one point.

  “There's always a choice, Martin!” shouted her mother.

  Then they lowered their voices again for a while. Amy felt herself becoming sleepy, the combined effects of booze, and the lateness of the hour defeating her curiosity. Then a phrase made her sit up, mouth open in horror.

  “We must sacrifice her,” said Roker. “We have no choice.”

  For a moment, Amy tried to tell herself that the term was being used figuratively, that no actual killing was being proposed.

  Who do they mean? Who is going to be sacrificed?

  Amy descended another stair, desperate now to hear as much as she could. It was a risk, but she had to take it.

  Chapter 5: Information Overload

  “Different signals?” asked Erin, looking at the diorama. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  It was first thing in the morning, ten minutes before Weyrmouth Museum was due to open to the public. Erin had taken the elevator to the top floor after Ron had suggested she check out the miniature lighthouse.

  “The flickering looks more erratic now,” said the caretaker. “But it's still dots and dashes.”

  “But we don't know what it says?” asked Erin.

  “Never was a Boy Scout, I'm afraid,” said Ron. “For all we know it could be, what's it called? Time critical?”

  “Well,” said Erin, taking out her phone, “I'm willing to bet there's an app out there that can help. In the meantime, I can film the signals.”

  “Ah, never thought of that,” admitted Ron. “I'll leave you to it.”

  For the next five minutes, Erin videoed the diorama. After the janitor left, she became acutely aware of the silence in the large upper room. The illumination from the strip lights did not seem to reach the deeper shadows.

  “If you're here, kids, now is the time to make yourself known,” she said. “Is it you doing this? The Seven?”

  There was no response, no sign that Erin's words had been heard by anyone other than herself. But then, just as she stopped filming, she thought she heard a voice. Not that of a boy, but a man's voice, very distant.

  “Museum lady.”

  The simple phrase jogged her memory, but not quite enough.

  Where'd I hear that? Who said it to me?

  Erin checked the video recording. It seemed fine, except for some slight interference on the screen. Erin paused the video and enlarged it, peering at small blurred forms on the deck of the ship. She restarted the film. The grayish blurs were moving, not with the random jerkiness of interference. They seemed purposeful.

  “Ghosts on board,” she whispered. “It's the crew.”

  Erin looked at the diorama, wondering if the men who had died when the Charlotte Clore ran aground could really be trapped in the model ship. But the words she had heard did not quite fit with that idea. Would the ghost of a Victorian sailor call me 'museum lady'? The voice definitely seemed familiar.

  Erin did not know many people in Weyrmouth.

  Abdul, the taxi driver. He called me that.

  Erin recalled the cheerful cabby who had taken her from her hotel to the museum for her job interview. He had been one of those killed by the Nick-being in the cathedral to feed the hungry stones.

  The Seven are imprisoned in the cathedral tower, she thought. Abdul and those others are trapped in it too. It makes some kind of sense, souls absorbed into the tower's stonework to preserve it. Blood sacrifice.

  Erin shook her head, hobbled over to the elevator. As the doors closed on the top floor, she thought she saw shadows swirling around the alcove where the shipwreck diorama stood.

  Why the shipwreck, though? Why use that as a conduit to send messages? What was so special about the wreck of the Charlotte Clore?

  ***

  “I put young Amy on the job you were doing before Christmas,” said Louise during their lunch-break in the museum cafeteria. “She's very eager.”

  “This job,” said Erin. “You mean rooting through all that junk in the basement?”

  “Junk?” said Louise, with mock outrage. “You are talking about some prized exhibits that have been sadly neglected.”

  “Yeah, most of 'em junk,” rejoined Erin. “Is this place usually so dead midweek?”

  She looked around at an almost empty room.

  “Winter is a bad time for us,” said Louise. “No tourists, just the odd businessman at a conference who might wander in.”

  “What about the locals?” asked Erin. “Don't they take pride in their history?”

  Louise shook her head.

  “You should know better by now,” she said. “Officially the authorities are proud of Weyrmouth's accomplishments – industrial heritage, shipbuilding, all that stuff. But in practice ordinary people try not to think about the past.”

  “Too many ghosts,” grunted Erin.

  Louise nodded.

  “But it's our job to root around in the past and try to make sense of it,” the director continued. “Hence, Amy getting covered in dust in the basement. She's found a few interesting things. Maybe you could try your psychometric trick?”

  Erin frowned.

  �
�I wouldn't call it a trick,” she said. “If I touch the right object – or the wrong one – I get a blast of someone else's memories. It's not a high, believe me.”

  “Sorry,” said Louise. “It's just that Amy discovered something with an American connection. Several things, in fact. Quite remarkable.”

  Erin's interest was piqued.

  “Does Weyrmouth have any close ties with the US?” she asked.

  Louise shifted in her seat.

  “Well, kind of. Unfortunately for tourism, they're almost all bad. This town built slave ships. Hundreds of them, from the early eighteenth century until the trade was abolished in 1807. To make things worse, local industry mass-produced iron chains, manacles and so forth to outfit the ships, and of course for the West Indian plantations. The Clore family became immensely rich as a result.”

  “I didn't see any exhibits about that in here,” Erin pointed out. “Or anything about the Clores, come to think of it.”

  “No,” said Louise, staring past Erin towards the museum's foyer. “The committee felt that we would get even fewer visitors if we dredged up what they called 'unfortunate historical associations'. And the Clores died out years ago.”

  “So you think Amy found something connected to slavery?” asked Erin. “A dirty secret?”

  Louise seemed about to say something, then gave a faint smile.

  “No, I won't influence you,” she said. “See what you make of it.”

  ***

  Melody Lee looked from one detective to the other. The last time John Carr and Jen Deighton had been to her home she had been almost killed by spectral intruders. Now they were sitting in her kitchen, asking her to venture into the shadowy world of the paranormal again.

  “Last time I got involved in this kind of thing,” she began, then stopped.

  “We know,” said Carr. “But you're the best.”

  “And,” added Jen, “as you're officially on leave, you can do this discreetly.”