by Danny Weston
He turned back to the massive oak doors and pulled the cord that rang a bell somewhere deep in the bowels of the building. After a short wait, the door swung silently open and there stood Quinn’s elderly manservant, Ainsworth, a thin, ravaged-looking fellow with a hawklike nose and tiny, red-rimmed eyes. ‘Good morning, Mr Wilkins,’ he said, bowing his balding head.
‘Morning, Ainsworth. Mr Quinn at home?’
‘Indeed he is, sir. He’s down in the vaults, working on the Collection.’
Where else? thought Wilkins. Ainsworth went to lead the way but Wilkins dismissed him, knowing it would take much longer if he allowed the decrepit old man to lead the way. ‘I know where it is,’ he said.
‘Very well, sir.’ Ainsworth bowed again and turned back to secure the door. Wilkins walked along the central hallway with its ancient oil paintings, tapestries, heraldic shields and suits of armour. As always at such times, he noticed one prominently placed portrait at the top of the staircase, which depicted a man dressed in a suit of silvery armour. He was holding a flag in one hand, which displayed the image of a two-headed eagle and in the other, a broadsword with a similar design etched into the blade. The face of the warrior that stared proudly down at Wilkins across the centuries looked remarkably like Quinn. An ancestor? Almost certainly. And did it also have anything to do with the little badge that Quinn wore on his lapel, the one featuring two armoured knights on horseback?
Wilkins made a beeline for a plain wooden door tucked away beneath the overhang of the marble staircase. He pushed it open and headed down the stone steps beyond which led him to what had once been the vaults of the building, but which now housed the Collection – Quinn’s souvenirs of a lifetime devoted to uncovering the secrets of the paranormal.
As Wilkins walked into the main room, his gaze swept this way and that over the random assortment of ancient relics housed in glass cases and beneath transparent domes – the ancient bones of supposed saints, various voodoo dolls and alleged cursed items, assorted weapons, figurines, statues, toys and goodness knew what else, every one of which came with some bizarre story attached. This statue, for instance, was said to have wept tears of blood at various times over the years. That spear was said to have been the instrument that wounded Jesus of Nazareth when he hung on the cross and, over there in the corner was an allegedly cursed piano that on certain summer evenings was said to be capable of playing a tune all by itself.
Wilkins took a pretty dim view of all of it and he could hardly credit that a grown man would devote so much time and energy to such nonsense, but Quinn had kept him in gainful employment over the past two years while they had hunted Charlie Sparks, so Wilkins made sure to stay silent about such opinions. And besides, the ventriloquist’s dummy was something else, something that Wilkins, despite a lifetime’s disbelief in all things supernatural, could not readily explain. There was something there that simply defied all understanding.
He turned a corner at the top end of the vault and saw Quinn, dressed in a white lab coat, standing in front of a wooden bench, studying something intently. As Wilkins drew closer he could see more clearly what it was. On the bench stood a large glass tank filled with water, the top covered. In the water, a sleek white creature was twisting and turning, thrashing its legs wildly as it struggled to stay alive. A rat. Wilkins noticed a heavy lead weight attached to its tail that prevented it from rising to the surface. Quinn was watching the creature impassively, a stopwatch held in one gloved hand.
‘Well?’ Quinn said. He hadn’t looked up and for a moment, Wilkins didn’t realise that the remark was addressed to him. He sighed. ‘Are you going to stand there like a great silent fool or do you have something to say to me?’ he asked.
‘Oh, sorry.’ Wilkins felt flustered in his employer’s presence. He always did. ‘Er … how did you know it was me?’ he wondered.
‘The smell,’ said Quinn, matter-of-factly. ‘A mingling of stale cigar smoke, brandy and sweat with just the faintest hint of cheap cologne.’
The rat stopped twisting around in the water. Its back legs gave a final convulsion and then it was still. Quinn punched the stopwatch to stop the hands and set it down on the bench. He noted the time in an exercise book, writing in small neat letters. He removed the lid of the tank, picked up a pair of tongs and fished the dead rat out, then dropped it onto a heap of other bedraggled shapes lying in an open container to his left. Over to his right, more rats waited in an open-topped cage, each of them with a heavy lead weight attached to its tail. It was probably Wilkins’ imagination, but he thought the creatures all looked distinctly apprehensive.
‘Er … right.’ Wilkins watched as Quinn reached into the cage, selected another victim and lifted it out. He dropped it into the tank of water, replaced the lid and hit the button on the stopwatch.
‘Well?’ he repeated, making no attempt to mask his irritation.
‘Oh … er … I just received a telegram from one of my informants,’ said Wilkins. ‘One of my best lads. He’s based in Portsmouth.’
‘Lucky old him,’ sneered Quinn, but he never took his eyes off the twisting, thrashing shape in the water. ‘And how are things in … Portsmouth?’
‘Umm … interesting, actually. At least, I think you’ll be interested. My contact said that a boy matching young Owen’s description was seen on the docks a couple of nights ago. Carrying a suitcase.’
‘Was he now?’ Quinn was moved enough to turn and glance at Wilkins. ‘But why Portsmouth, of all places?’
‘Well, the boy was spotted getting aboard a boat. Late last night. A fishing boat belonging to a certain Lemuel Nail, a trawlerman. My contact told me that this Nail is a bit of a rum fellow. Always got something going on the side, if you know what I mean. I thought I should come straight over and tell you the news.’
‘Good.’ Quinn’s thin lips twisted into the ghost of a smile. ‘Well, for once Wilkins, you’ve done the right thing.’ He seemed to think for a moment. Then he set down the stopwatch and began to unbutton his lab coat. ‘We’d better get straight down there,’ he said.
‘To Portsmouth?’ muttered Wilkins.
Quinn directed a scalding look at him. ‘No, to Felixstowe, the cockles are nicer there!’
‘Felixstowe? But—’
Quinn grimaced. ‘Of course to Portsmouth! We’ll have ourselves a little chat with this Mr Nail, I think. Find out what he knows.’ He glanced at Wilkins. ‘I trust you’re all packed and ready to go?’
Wilkins nodded. ‘Always,’ he said. ‘But er …’ He waved at the tank, the wriggling, writhing creature in the water. ‘Don’t you … don’t you want to finish the experiment first?’
‘Experiment?’ Quinn glanced at the tank and then draped his lab coat over the back of a chair. ‘What experiment? I was bored. I was just passing the time.’ He thought for a moment, then sniggered. ‘Experiment,’ he muttered. ‘That’s a good one.’ He turned and led the way towards the exit. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Time and tide wait for no man.’
Wilkins hesitated for a moment and studied the poor, pathetic creature that was still struggling in the deadly embrace of the water. For a moment, he thought about rescuing it and returning it to his companions in the cage, but he didn’t want to risk incurring Quinn’s wrath. He leaned a little closer to the tank.
‘I know how you feel,’ he muttered. He reached out a hand and stilled the stopwatch. Then he followed his employer out of the room.
2
THE BROCÉLIANDE
14
Arrival and Departure
The horse and carriage moved slowly along the remote country road, the elderly driver hunched and silent at the reins. Owen rode beside him on the hard wooden seat, his suitcase balanced across his knees. For the time being at least, Mr Sparks was keeping quiet. Owen got the impression that he might be sleeping. He’d been doing a lot of that today.
The two of them had picked up the ride at an auberge back in a place Owen didn’t even know the name of. He and Mr S
parks had been dropped off there by a lorry driver who had brought them all the way down from a bustling little town called Lamballe and the old man had been sitting alone in the country inn, enjoying a quiet glass of anise, when Owen had arrived, tired and hungry. Mr Sparks, peeping out from his hiding place had seen the old man and had urged Owen to get him out of the case, so he could go to work.
Owen was past caring. Since arriving at the inn in Erquy, the last couple of days had been like this, arriving somewhere and sitting like a great dumb idiot, with Mr Sparks perched on his knee, chattering away in fluent French, eliciting laughs, comments and even occasional coins from those he encountered. Owen had no idea what he was saying … making fun of his stupid operator, no doubt. In the auberge, it had been an audience of only one. What the old man thought of Mr Sparks’ act, he didn’t say, but he must have been impressed when Owen managed to devour a huge cheese sandwich and drink a cup of coffee, while Mr Sparks prattled on regardless. As it happened, things turned out well. The old man was taking the road to Paimpont and said that he would be able to drop them at the top of a track where Owen could easily walk into the forêt de Brocéliande. Now Owen and his wooden companion were finally drawing close to their destination.
And sure enough, there was the forest, looming on the horizon away to their left, but it was not as Owen had visualised it in his dreams. There it had been cloaked in tones of deep green, but in reality it featured all the vibrant shades of autumn – rich russets, burnished copper and dazzling gold. The trees swayed and quivered restlessly in the wind and from the branches rained a seemingly endless cascade of leaves that caught the sunlight as they drifted slowly down. As the carriage drew steadily closer, it was evident that this was an ancient place, something that had remained untouched by mankind for thousands of years. The old man saw Owen staring at it and chuckled.
‘C’est bon, n’est-ce pas?’ he murmured. He reminded Owen a little of Mr Schilling, tall and thin with a shock of white hair, though his lined face suggested that he’d had a much harder life.
‘Er … I only speak English … or Welsh,’ Owen told him and the old man gave him a puzzled look. He must have been wondering exactly who had done all the talking back at the auberge. But he shrugged his narrow shoulders and rephrased his comment in halting anglais. ‘Er … it is … nice, the forêt, oui?’
Owen nodded. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Very nice. Have you … er … lived here a long time?’
‘All my life,’ said the old man. ‘When I was … er … how you say, petit? A … leettle boy? I used to play in there with my …’ He waved a hand. ‘Mes amis?’
‘Your friends? Yes, I understand.’ Owen found himself thinking of the story that Mr Sparks had told him, about the lake where boys used to swim. He found himself wondering if it was still there, if boys still dived from the high rock into the dangerous water, but it would have been far too complicated a question to ask the old man, so he just smiled, nodded and returned his attention to the forest which, as they continued on their way, seemed to be drawing closer and closer to the road. Soon, there was only a narrow verge between the two. Owen gazed dreamily into the shaded depths of the trees, the thick trunks rearing up as far as he could see. He was close enough now to hear the foliage rustling in the wind and to notice birds flitting in and out of the lower branches. There was something otherworldly about this place. Somehow, it was easier to believe that Mr Sparks could have originated here, in a world that seemed to defy all notions of time and logic.
After what seemed like hours of travelling, they came to a place where a narrow dirt track veered off from the road and cut through the very heart of the forest. It was here that the old man pulled on the reins and drew the skinny black horse to a halt. ‘Voilà,’ he said. He pointed along the track and continued speaking in French, but then seemed to check himself and started again. ‘You er … must … walk that way,’ he said, pointing along the road. ‘You will … find the place you seek. Down there.’
Owen nodded. He lifted the case and swung himself down from the seat, noting as he did so that he had ‘pins and needles’ in his backside. He smiled up at the old man. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Au revoir,’ said the old man. ‘I hope you find … what you are looking for.’ He lifted a hand briefly then snapped the reins against the horse’s back. The carriage moved slowly onwards and Owen stood and watched until it had dwindled into distance. Then he looked down at the case. ‘Mr Sparks?’ he said. ‘We’re nearly there. Mr Sparks?’
There was no answer. Owen set the case down on the grass verge, unlatched the clasps and lifted the lid. Mr Sparks lay on his back amidst layers of crumpled clothing. His eyes were closed, his teeth bared. Owen noticed with a twinge of worry that there were big fat drops of sweat on his forehead and he was breathing loudly, raggedly. The grey stain on the bandage was bigger than before. Owen reached out and prodded the still figure on the shoulder. ‘Mr Sparks!’ he said, urgently. ‘Wake up.’
The eyes flickered open with that dry, rasping sound. ‘Wh … what? What’s happening?’ He stared at Owen for a long moment, as though not recognising him. ‘Did we … did we get across the carpet?’
‘The … carpet?’ Owen stared at him. ‘I don’t …’
‘I don’t mean the carpet. I mean the treacle … the custard … the sea!’
Owen frowned. ‘Oh yes, three days ago,’ he said. ‘Don’t you remember? Mr Nail brought us. We’ve been travelling ever since.’
‘Travelling. Travelling. My memory’s unravelling. What’s the point of going places, seeing all those twisted faces? Oops! I forgot to tie my laces!’
‘Mr Sparks? We’re there. You know, the forest of Brossy-wotsit.’
Mr Sparks head moved from side to side. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘Why would you do that? Why would you lie to me? We can’t be there, because we only just crossed the custard …’
‘No, really. The old man brought us. He only just left. He says I can walk from here.’
‘Help me up,’ gasped Mr Sparks. ‘I need to see.’
Owen placed a hand under the dummy’s back and lifted him so that he could look out of the case. There was a brief silence, then: ‘It’s true!’ gasped Mr Sparks. ‘We really are here.’ He made a strange croaking sound and his shoulders began to move up and down. Owen was astonished to see tears welling in his glass eyes and trickling down his pale face. Then he twisted his head to stare up at Owen.
‘Dying,’ he murmured.
‘Oh, that’s just because it’s autumn,’ said Owen.
‘You don’t understand,’ whispered Mr Sparks. ‘I fear we’re too late. I think … I think I’m going …’
‘No,’ Owen assured him. ‘No, you just have to hang on a bit longer. We’re close now, really close.’ He eased Mr Sparks back down into the case. ‘You rest, I’ll get you there.’
‘But you don’t understand, Owie! There’s a … maggot … in my brain … I think … it’s driving me insane … I want to scream, I want to shout! All my thoughts are … leaking out!’
‘Please hang on!’ shouted Owen. He lowered the lid and secured the catches. He stood up, grabbed the handle of the suitcase and stared along the narrow dirt track. There was no sign of life as far as he could see and the track seemed to go on forever. A long low groan came from the suitcase. Owen snatched in a deep breath, knowing that there was not a second to waste. Then he began to run.
Lemuel Nail strolled along the quayside, feeling rather pleased with himself. He’d finished early for the day and why not? He had twenty-five pounds in paper money hidden safely under his mattress and his plans for the evening were to stroll down to the Mermaid Tavern and drink himself insensible, along with his usual bunch of cronies. Perhaps, for a change, he’d even stand them the odd drink. Just to show what a nice fellow he could be when he put his mind to it. But first, he needed to eat a decent meal, the better to soak up all that beer. He had earlier given his mother some money to buy the ingredients for a speci
al dinner and tonight, for a change, it would be meat, not fish. A nice porterhouse steak was what he fancied and he had every reason to believe that this was what his mother would have waiting for him.
He came to the weathered door of her little quayside house and hesitated as he noticed something unusual. A big shiny black automobile was parked on the road outside the house, a Daimler, he thought, though he was no great expert on motorcars. Whatever it was, it must have cost the owner a pretty penny. He paused for a moment to peer in at the driver’s window, telling himself that he’d have to do a lot more illicit trips across the English Channel to earn enough to buy something like that. Still, he shouldn’t grumble, he was doing far better than most of his friends, who were still back at the dockside, gutting fish for a living. He turned away, walked to the door and pushed it open.
Mother never locked her door, preferring to allow her few friends to pop in whenever they felt like it.
Mr Nail had expected to be greeted by the aroma of his mother’s plain but satisfying cooking, but he was disappointed to smell nothing more than the usual faint odours of paraffin and dirt. The house was also unnaturally quiet.
‘Mother?’ he asked. There was no answer. He walked along the narrow hallway and pushed open the door to the tiny sitting room. Mother was there, sitting in her wheelchair in her usual place at the table, but she was not alone. Two men were with her. One sat in a wooden chair beside her, a beefy arm around her shoulders, as though he was an old friend, but he didn’t seem in the least bit friendly. Mother’s face was a frozen mask of pure terror. She was looking at Nail with a pleading expression in her eyes. The other man, a tall thin fellow with long curly hair, sat in an armchair, a short distance away from the others. He was smiling dangerously at Mr Nail, and the fisherman couldn’t help notice that in one gloved hand, he was holding a gun.