Siding Star

by Christopher Bryan

  “Oh, Michael,” she said softly, but he shook his head.

  “The truth is, I could have found someone. There were good people in the synagogue who wanted to help. No, I chose to be lost. I felt abandoned and filled with rage and I chose madness. I’m not proud of it. It’s a part of my life I try to forget.”

  “But to come to your problem, yes, I got to know about that. Not enough, thank God, to be enmeshed by it, but enough to see it for what it is.” He sighed. “Of course I don’t know the whole story. Only God knows that. We’re talking of what was always kept secret. And some of it’s vague, and it’s marred by half-truths and buttressed by rumors.

  “Nonetheless, there is a story that emerges, and it’s more or less consistent. It concerns a ritual. Originally, I think, the ritual wasn’t evil. It was beautiful. It was meant to draw on the divine harmony and lead those who used it to find their place in that harmony. But then it was corrupted and its power was used to deny the harmony. There’s a rabbinic tradition that Solomon used it to control the demons so they’d help build the Temple. Even so, the rite turned him to evil.

  “After that the story’s vague. Some say Alexander the Great had a version. Others say some of the Roman emperors. Then others, later. Barbarossa, Napoleon, Hitler. They’ve all been candidates. But as I say, it’s vague, and the theories often contradict each other.

  “I can tell you one thing for certain though, something from my own experience. I was in Marseilles, while I was still in my madness, and I was shown what I was assured on good authority was a fragment of this ritual—the corrupted form, you understand, the attack on divine harmony. That fragment, they said, was a powerful talisman for evil. Because I’d learned some Hebrew I was told to read it though I wasn’t allowed to touch it. And I felt the evil. Anyone who would perform that rite with serious intent would destroy the earth on a whim. Actually, that was when I realized I wanted nothing more to do with it. And that’s why I got out—indeed, it’s why I came back to England. I needed to escape.

  “But as you see, it didn’t entirely work. The rite has found me anyway. After all these years! Cecilia, I recognize it. That book contains it—and I think it’s complete.”

  “And the academy?” She asked the question, knowing what the answer would be. “They were going to do it?”

  “I believe they were. You saw the ribbons?”

  “Yes.”

  “The thing’s a bit like a missal. Certain passages, certain invocations—prescribed for certain days. The one marked by the ribbon was for tonight—Samhain—All Hallows’ Eve. I think was about to be used. Perhaps it was being used.”

  “And you believe that such a ceremony could really do something? Something evil?”

  Michael sighed. “Yes, I hate to say it but I think it might. Of course God can’t ultimately be mocked. But in the short run God does seem willing to put up with our blasphemies.” He paused. “The thing is, words are actions. They change things. Think of saying, ‘I love you,’ or ‘I forgive you.’ That’s something the ancients seem to have understood better than we do. And those”—he looked toward the book—“those are very evil words.”

  “And you’d like me to destroy it?”

  “I wish you would.”

  She hesitated. “Michael, we speak here in absolute confidence?”

  “Of course.”

  “This man Wheatley—you know I think he’s murdered three or four people. But he’s clever. And as I said, this book may be the piece of evidence that’ll enable me to catch him out. Not in much, but at least in a significant lie, which is a start. Lying to a police officer is a serious offence. What’s more, I just sent a photo of it to a detective sergeant in CID. You see my problem.”

  Michael nodded.

  For a moment, both were at a loss.

  She picked the book up, preparatory to putting it back into the evidence bag. As she did so, something fluttered from it to the carpet.

  She picked it up. It was a small, roughly torn triangle of paper, with a line written in Hebrew on it.

  “What’s this?” Holding it by its corner she held it out to Michael, who looked at it, and again his brow furrowed.

  “Cecilia, please, never mind the book for a moment! Would please telephone your parents?”

  “What—you mean now? What’s wrong? What does it say?”

  “It says, roughly: ‘Andrea and Rosina Cavaliere, the whole burnt offering of Henry Wheatley’—and today’s date. It looks to me as if —”

  “My God!”

  Cecilia quickly put the book and the paper back into the evidence bag, and took the telephone Michael was already passing to her. The menace she had long suspected in Henry Wheatley had now become utterly personal. She dialed her parents’ number, then held the handset in the air so Michael could hear the engaged signal.

  “At one in the morning? I don’t think so.”

  She tried again, just to be sure. The line was still busy.

  Her mouth tight, she stabbed in another number.

  “Sergeant Wyatt? Oh, thank God! Look, Sergeant, I can’t get through to my parents on the phone and I’m worried. Is there anyone near who could just check that they’re all right?”

  A pause. Then a response that Michael could not hear.

  “You have? That would be great. Thank you so much! Good. Okay—I’ll wait for you to call back.”

  She put the phone in her lap.

  “There’s a panda car half a mile away. They’re getting it to look in and they’ll call me back. They reckon it’ll be about fif- teen minutes.”

  It was actually only ten minutes before the phone rang.

  “Yes. Yes—here…. What? Yes—it should take me, oh, three hours…. What? No, I don’t think so…. I’ll go straight there…. All right. Thanks.”

  She laid the telephone on the table.

  “Michael, I don’t like this at all. There are lights on in the house upstairs, but they can’t raise Mama or Papa. And something’s on fire. They’re going back to break in. And they’ve sent for the fire service.” She took a deep breath. Then said, “I’m going to go back to the hotel, collect my things, and drive home now. I want to be there.”

  “Of course you do. But may I make a suggestion?”

  She looked at him.

  “You’re tired, and you’re a bit distracted: not a good state for a solo drive. So why don’t I come with you? I could even spell you part of the way if you liked—at least out of London. I’m sure I’m not as good a driver as you, but I dare say I know the roads round here better. Or if you don’t want me to drive, at least I can keep you company. After all, Andrea and Rosina are my friends. I’m concerned about them, too.”

  “That would be wonderfully kind of you—but then, we’d be going in my car, so you’d be stuck in Exeter with no car to get back to London.”

  “Cecilia, I can drive quite well but I love trains. The service from Exeter to Paddington is excellent, and then there are even ways to get from Paddington to Holborn Circus on London Transport.”

  Worried as she was, Cecilia had to smile.

  “Thank you, Michael. I should like that very much.”

  “Good! Now, you go to your hotel and do what you need to do, and then you can come back here and pick me up. There are a couple of things I have to do, but by the time you get back I think I can be ready to go.”

  They decided that Michael would take the first spell as far as Bristol, and Cecilia the second. They fastened their seat belts, Michael checked the rear view mirror, and they set off into the night.

  London’s main roads are scarcely ever completely deserted, but at this time of night they were at least reasonably quiet. In a little under twenty minutes, they were nearing the M4.

  The last time Cecilia had been this way at night she had been with Mama and Papa. They had enjoyed Don Giovanni at Covent Garden with Joyce DiDonato as Donna Elvira—a surprise treat for Cecilia on her birthday. Suddenly she found herself overcome by thoughts of how g
ood they were to her. How much she loved them. And if that pompous little creep —

  “Steady on!” Michael said. “That’s not Wheatley’s neck you’ve got hold of.”

  Cecilia relaxed—just a bit. And stopped mangling the strap to her shoulder bag.

  Forty-three

  S

  ergeant Stillwell conferred with Sergeant Wyatt at the station again on his personal radio, then returned to the front door of the Cavaliere’s house. For a moment he stood listening, peering at the upper windows, two of which were lit.

  He could hear his colleague at the side, still stamping on those smoldering embers they’d found.

  He rang the doorbell one last time and rattled the letterbox fiercely.

  He stepped back from the front door and surveyed it.

  Now he’d have to break in.

  Then, just as he was about to act, the glass panels filled with yellow light.

  For a while, even after consciousness returned, Andrea lay perfectly still, unable to make out why the light was on, why he was on the floor, or what the noise was.

  Then he remembered.

  Good God! What on earth had come over him?

  And where was—? Oh, there! Rosina blinked at him. “You too?” she said.

  “Yes. It was… I’m not sure what it was.”

  He shook his head and got a little unsteadily to his feet. He

  felt exactly as if he’d drunk considerably more wine than he needed—unfair, since at supper, knowing he wanted to read afterwards, he’d limited himself to a single glass. Even through the curtains he could see bright blue lights flashing outside the house. He could hear an approaching siren. What on earth was happening? The six o’clock news had been gloomy about tensions with Iran, but so far as he knew no idiot had actually started another war.

  Then the doorbell gave a prolonged ring and the letterbox rattled violently.

  “I’m coming! I’m coming!” he called out—then realized that whoever it was couldn’t possibly hear him. “It’s obviously the police.”

  Rosina got to her feet.

  “Maybe they know what’s happening,” she said.

  “I’ll go and see.”

  He went out to the landing and switched on the lights. Various dogs appeared from various places. At least two of them looked sheepish.

  He could see a bulky figure silhouetted against the glass panes of the front door, blue lights flashing behind him. He went down to the door and opened it—to cold air, a police uniform, and a broad Devon accent.

  “Sorry to be disturbing you, Mr. Cavaliere, but we was a bit worried, you see. You seem to have had a fire round at the side. And your telephone was off the hook.”

  “Yes. Of course. Sergeant Stillwell, isn’t it? Well, thank you, Sergeant. I’m sorry to have been slow coming to the door. I don’t know what happened. Something seemed to knock us both out, for several minutes. Do you know what’s going on?”

  “No, sir. But as I say, you seem to have had a fire. There’s definitely something been burning at the side of your house. I

  siding stAr 191

  don’t know what it was. You’d better come and have a look. It’s made a bit of a mess of your garden, I’m afraid.”

  Well, at least it wasn’t the start of World War III.

  Forty-Four

  A

  s soon as Wheatley turned into the road where the Cavalieres lived, he saw the flashing lights of the police car and pulled to the side under the shadow of some trees. The house stood back from the road and was fronted by more trees and a high hedge, but he thought he could make out lights at the point where the second story should be.

  After a few minutes, the firefighters arrived amid more flash - ing lights. Lights had gone on in several other houses in the road. None of this surprised him, for the attack was meant to be marked by fire. The question was, how much damage had the fire done? And what had happened to the couple? For the moment, he determined to sit in his car and watch.

  There was still plenty of time. The fire had indeed made “a bit of a mess” of the Cavalieres’ garden. That side of the house was flanked by a high stone wall. The entire area from the wall to the house was shriveled and blackened. A wheelbarrow and a wooden frame had still been burning when the police arrived. The wall of the house itself was scorched, and the frames of the lower windows were

  194

  ChristoPher BryAn charred and smoldering. Fearing that the wall might be on fire inside, the police had summoned the fire service. And while they waited, they’d stamped on the embers and suppressed the flames they could see. Fortunately, the effects of earlier rain had kept the fire from spreading.

  The firefighters were naturally greeted by furious barking from Figaro, Tocco, and Pu, who had by now entirely recovered their spirits.

  Rosina and Andrea soon calmed the dogs, but found the fire - fighters were as much at a loss to explain the fire as they were themselves. The flames seemed to have had no origin.

  “Haven’t you any theory at all?” Rosina asked.

  “Well, no, ma’am,” the senior officer said, “not really. It’s like, well, just as if the ground itself overheated all of a sudden. What we can do though is make sure it’s really out.”

  So they did, examining the wall with particular care: which in effect meant ripping it half apart and in the process making an unholy mess of the study. Still they found nothing. That side of the house, as it happened, did not even contain wiring. They dug down in the garden and inches beneath its scorched surface found normal Devon earth. It was utterly baffling.

  Yet Rosina and Andrea, in the midst of this, were feeling much better. Sergeant Stillwell had told them about Cecilia’s telephone call. Initially, they both thought she was foolish to think she need rush home from London in the middle of the night to rescue them. But then Andrea said, “Never mind! She is a daughter who loves her mama and papa,” and they agreed there was nothing foolish about that.

  The call from Exeter came through on the mobile just after 2:30 a.m. It was Sergeant Wyatt, with good news.

  Cecilia listened, sighed with relief as the tightness in her chest eased, and thanked the sergeant.

  siding stAr 195 “Tell everyone that tonight I think you’re all marvelous.” She added “Grazie a Dio!” as she closed the phone. Michael added a quiet “Amen.” Rosina and Andrea were all right. Everything else could be dealt with in due course.

  Forty-Five

  F

  or over an hour Wheatley waited while the firemen checked and double-checked, fetched equipment from their vehicles and returned for more equipment. As time passed any hope he had that the couple might be dead faded. No one brought out bodies, and when at last the firemen and firewomen left, their manner was cheerful, even a bit raucous.

  A while later the police also returned to their car, turning at the gate to bid someone goodnight.

  There was time enough.

  He unlocked the car’s glove compartment and took from it a revolver. He looked up and down the road to make sure that it was clear. Then he left the car and walked quickly towards the Cavalieres’ gate. He stopped. Perhaps the police had left someone behind? He shrugged and went on. If there were others there, he had the gun and surprise on his side. He’d kill them, too.

  What he could not do was go back. Not now.

  At last they had all gone. Andrea and Rosina went back to the kitchen, which was tidier than they might have hoped. Against that, the study was now uninhabitable.

  198

  ChristoPher BryAn “But that,” Andrea said, “we can think of tomorrow.” For the moment, they would make more coffee, read their books, and wait for Cecilia.

  The dogs had disappeared. Excitement over, they’d gone back to bed—doubtless his and Rosina’s bed. He could not be bothered to do anything about it. Tocco’s parting look at him as she mounted the stairs said it all: our humans have obviously gone completely mad. Best ignore them. And no point in taking any notice of their rules.<
br />
  He sighed.

  Come to think of it, Tocco, when did you take any notice of rules? When did any of them? Our dogs aren’t bred out of the Spartan kind. They’re Italians, every one of them.

  He reached for the macchinetta.

  The surrounding houses had returned to darkness. The road was silent and deserted. Quietly Wheatley opened the gate to the house and slipped through. It was his second surreptitious visit within twentyfour hours, and he knew the terrain. There were now no lights visible from the front. He moved to the left and immediately was aware of a glow from ground-floor windows at the side of the house. Further progress found him crouched behind bushes, at an angle to the lighted windows, which seemed to look into the kitchen. He caught glimpses of two people moving about, first a man and then a woman. Presumably, the policewoman’s parents.

  Suppose they weren’t? He’d have to risk it.

  But he couldn’t do it from here. To have them both in his sights when he fired he needed to get in front of the windows. He began to inch his way forward.

  Cecilia had taken over the driving. As they turned into the road where her parents lived, in the house next to hers, to Michael’s

  siding stAr 199 surprise she suddenly knocked the car into neutral, switched off the lights and the engine, and coasted the last few yards before coming to a silent halt.

  “What’s the matter?” he said.

  She placed a finger to her lips, then pointed.

  “Look—the Lexus!” she whispered. “It was parked outside

  the Academy earlier. It’s Wheatley’s.” She opened the car door, got out, and ran on silent feet to the low garden wall. Scarcely checking her pace, she vaulted over it, and disappeared into the garden.

  Michael got out on the other side and followed her as quietly as he could, but rather less gracefully and via the garden gate.

  Forty-six

  W