The Burning Altar

by Sarah Rayne

  As they went forward to where the sacred peaks reared up against the impossibly beautiful dawn sky, behind them was a dull roar, and then a louder one. Thick clouds of dust belched out of the cave and there was the ominous crackle of fire.

  Raffael paused, and looking back, said softly, ‘“And the cities of the plain were totally destroyed by fire and brimstone” . . .’

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  ‘We discovered afterwards,’ said Raffael, facing Cardinal Fleury in the Bloomsbury house, ‘that Lewis had been right: we really had found the original city entrance. It had long since fallen into ruins, of course; the city walls had crumbled and they were almost completely buried, and the entrance was barely more than a tunnel going into the ground. But thank God it was still there.’

  ‘And it was lama monks who picked you up?’

  ‘Yes. They were amazingly kind. A couple of them had a few words of English and a couple more had a little Italian and we communicated surprisingly well. They smothered Lewis’s wounds in something – I never found out what – and fed the rest of us rice wine and made up beds as if it were part of an ordinary day’s work. It’s an astonishing religion, Buddhism.’

  Fleury regarded Raffael for a moment, and then said, in an expressionless voice, ‘And I believe that the Tibetan monasteries do not list celibacy among their requirements.’

  Raffael grinned. ‘I’m not about to renounce the world a second time, Eminence,’ he said. ‘There are too many sins I still haven’t committed.’

  ‘Ah. Miss Craven? I should say,’ said His Eminence, a stickler for accuracy, ‘the younger Miss Craven.’

  ‘Returned to university,’ said Raffael shortly, and Fleury said, ‘I see.’

  It was still possible to feel the pang of loss for Ginevra. She had cursed at returning to Durham, but she had gone philosophically enough. It was only when they were standing on King’s Cross Station that she said, ‘Do I come back, Raffael?’

  ‘You mean, do you come back to me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stared at her, and after a moment, said, ‘I don’t know. There are so many years between us.’ And stopped, and thought: and even if those years could be bridged, there are other gulfs which are uncrossable, my love. Too many wrong decisions; too much cynicism . . .

  And then he remembered that Ginevra was not uncynical herself under all the romantic idealism. She was an enthusiast and a bit rebellious, but she was nobody’s fool. The realisation that the romantic idealist might one day turn into a cool-headed pragmatist brought an abrupt clear-cut pleasure.

  He bent to help her lift her case into the carriage, and as he hauled it up on to the rack, Ginevra said abruptly, ‘I’m going back to get a double first.’ She eyed him. ‘And when I’ve got it, will you celebrate it with me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Raffael, after a moment, and had the satisfaction of seeing the mischievous grin light her face. ‘Yes, I’ll celebrate it with you.’

  There was another pause. All around them commuters scrambled on and off trains, and British Rail blared its tannoy announcements.

  Then Ginevra said, softly, ‘It’s all right, isn’t it? I mean – we don’t need to say any more because we both know it’s all right.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ He held her against him for a brief minute. ‘And now get you gone, wench. The train’s about to start and if I’m not careful I shall end up travelling all the way to Durham.’

  ‘Or you’ll have to jump off while it’s moving, which is dangerous because you might land anywhere.’

  ‘But,’ said Raffael, ‘not knowing where you might land is the best part.’

  It was not possible to say any of this to Fleury and probably none of it needed to be said anyway.

  His Eminence merely remarked, ‘An unusual girl, Ginevra Craven,’ and Raffael replied, ‘Extremely,’ and Fleury, with his customary good manners, switched subjects, asking courteously after Lewis Chance.

  ‘He’s recovering, but it’s a long process. And he’ll almost certainly be disabled for life.’

  ‘At least he still has his life. I shall pray for him, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Fleury fixed Raffael with a hard, shrewd look, and Raffael thought: here it comes.

  ‘And now,’ said His Eminence, ‘what about the Decalogue, Raffael?’

  Raffael sat back and spread his hands. ‘I truly don’t know,’ he said. ‘None of us knows. But the destruction of the tunnels was so complete – they simply crumbled and folded in.’

  ‘Burying Grendel and the Tashkarans?’

  ‘Yes. And parts would certainly have burned,’ said Raffael, remembering how the torchflames had licked greedily at the ancient stones. ‘We couldn’t possibly have gone back in. Even if we had been strong enough it would have been beyond us.’ He frowned. ‘I truly think we can regard the Tashkara Decalogue as buried beyond recall, Eminence. I don’t think the Church needs to be concerned any more.’

  There was a brief silence; then Fleury said thoughtfully, ‘I have often wondered how much credence Patrick Chance gave the prophecy. He was scrupulous about reporting it, but I do wonder if he believed it.’

  Raffael said, ‘In that monastery there were several geshes – that’s a very high level of knowledge and deep contemplation – but there were also two monks regarded as reincarnates – the Buddhist word is tulkus. These tulkus seemed to have some knowledge – inherited or acquired, I wouldn’t know which – not just of the original Bubasti tribe, but also of Patrick.’ He paused and then said, ‘It was probably nothing more than a snippet of their sparse history being handed down, but nevertheless—’

  ‘Nevertheless, memories are long in that part of the world, and one must accept the existence of Great Mysteries in all religions,’ said Fleury.

  ‘Yes. In the monastery they had tales of how Patrick and a travelling companion – a young man – had spent a few nights at their monastery on their way into Tashkara and then again on the return journey,’ said Raffael. ‘But they said that if they had not recognised the features, they would not have taken it for the same man. They believed that something had happened to the two of them inside Tashkara, but they didn’t know what and Patrick never told them.’

  ‘Something connected with the Decalogue?’ hazarded Fleury. ‘Even something to do with the prophecy?’

  ‘No,’ said Raffael. ‘I don’t think it was the prophecy at all. I don’t know what it was, and I don’t think anyone ever will know.’

  ‘Does Sir Lewis know?’

  ‘Lewis Chance doesn’t know any more than we do,’ said Raffael. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘And so Patrick’s secret died with him,’ said Fleury softly.

  ‘Yes.’ Raffael frowned. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it, that even with that brief notoriety, no one ever knew where or when Patrick Chance died.’

  Patrick Chance’s Diary: Closing Entries

  Cheyne Walk, August 1891

  It feels odd to be back in London. It feels very odd indeed to be in Cheyne Walk again with absolutely nothing changed. Not even Father. Especially not Father.

  It’s not going to work, of course, this idea of falling back into ordinary family life. Father’s started off by saying things like, Good to have you back, my boy. (I give that sentiment two weeks at the outside.)

  There’s also been, Glad to see you’ve settled down at last, not before time, of course . . . Expect you’ll come into the Bank now, and marry and continue the name . . .

  No, it assuredly won’t work.

  I wonder what house prices are like in London these days?

  September 1891

  I think I’ve managed to put up a fair smokescreen to conceal what happened to me in that accursed palace, and I’m absolutely determined that no one, save Theodore and Fenris and Sridevi, will ever know the truth. Cardinal Gregory may have suspected, of course, and those lynx-eyed monks on Tashkara’s outskirts probably came close as well. Shrewd creatures, men of God – any god.<
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  But I’m hanging on to Sridevi’s words about sliding the nightmares back across the silent black waters, and ushering in the light. And I’m spinning an illusion, although I have to say it’s excruciatingly difficult to take matters to seduction point with a female and find a reason to stop short of actual penetration. Sorry, my dear, I feel faint/sick/overcome by scruples/undermined by drink . . . I’ve taken a vow of celibacy . . . I’m suffering from pox . . . You’re going to exhaust the possibilities very quickly, Patrick, you might as well face it.

  Later. A letter arrived by the afternoon post from Theodore. I fell on it avidly; it’s astonishingly good to hear from the old chap. He writes rather entertainingly as well – what an irony if he took to writing in earnest – articles or short stories, or even novels – as a result of what happened to him in Tashkara. It wouldn’t hurt to just nudge him in that direction, because he’d never think of it for himself.

  It occurs to me that if I did move out of the family mausoleum I could do worse than share a place with Theo.

  But wherever I live, will I ever grow accustomed to this half-life? Sridevi, I’m still waiting for the light to filter across the black waters of despair . . .

  September 1891 continued

  Am finding London oddly enervating, and am suffering vague aches and occasional feverish fits. I grazed my hand last week and it won’t heal. Father says it is a lingering debility from travelling and why don’t I come along to the House of Chance, because it is a long time since I set foot in the place. I will see to it that it is longer still, because if I am to find a way of getting through life, I don’t think I shall do it in the prim ambience of a banking house.

  I read an article in the Morning Post yesterday about the number of music halls that are falling into disuse and ruin all over London. The piece was written in a rather florid style, but the burden of the song was clear: how sad to see so many fragments of theatrical history vanishing. Among others, St Stephen’s Road was listed, and there was a coy hint of a scandal involving Certain Illustrious Personages a couple of years back.

  It’s a rather uncomfortable notion that I might have had something to do with the place being abandoned. I might take a look at it one day, for old times’ sake and curiosity.

  October 1891

  Theodore writes that the St Stephen’s Road property is indeed available for purchase, but adds, caustically, that if I continue to employ cloak-and-dagger tactics to obtain information he will wash his hands of the entire affair, and if I must needs buy a house at all, why can’t I go about it openly and honestly instead of skulking behind ridiculous incognito.

  It’s good to know that he still reads the same kind of bravura literature, that Theo.

  Hand still not healing which is a nuisance, in fact original small graze seems to be spreading. Have consulted doctor who plastered it with evil-smelling salve and charged 3 gns.

  Have made up my mind to buy St Stephen’s Road property. This has received mixed reactions, ranging from Father, who stormed cholerically about Cheyne Walk demanding to know if family home not good enough – all right for my father and his father before him, dammit! – to Theodore, who disapproves on various grounds and also on principle. This last no more than I expected, however.

  Father adds that St Stephen’s Road is disgraceful address for gentlemen, no better than a slum, and: I suppose you’ll be getting up to mischief out there, bringing shame and disgrace on the name all over again – if only I could! – to say nothing of: Well, I’m just glad your poor dear mother didn’t live to see this day.

  ‘Don’t expect me to tow you out of the River Tick when that place gobbles up all your money!’ he shouted, before storming off to the bank, there to strike terror into the hearts of most of his employees. ‘And don’t come crawling to me to rescue you from social ruin, either!’

  I shan’t.

  Theo now adopting attitude of determined practicality, and listing all reasons against buying St Stephen’s Road – or any property at all, come to that. He argues that (a) it’s been empty for nearly two years and will therefore be squalid ruin, (b) it will take several fortunes to adapt it from former risqué use to gentleman’s private residence, (c) area is a slum and I can’t possibly live in a slum, and (d) he doesn’t believe I can afford it.

  Will worry about (a) and (b) later, and will use Mamma’s legacy and godmother’s for (d) which will have the two-fold result of getting me what I want and infuriating Father, who never forgave either of these ladies (both far from impoverished) for cutting him out of their wills. He still regards the Married Women’s Property Act as a piece of monstrous mismanagement and insufferable impertinence, and considers Government going downhill. Mark his words, they’ll be giving women the vote next and then where shall we be?

  As for (c), I don’t give a damn whether I live in a slum or a mansion.

  January 1892

  So the thing is done and I am the owner of St Stephen’s House.

  It’s a peculiar feeling. When I walk through the rooms, my footsteps echo in the emptiness, and I have the feeling that other footsteps walk with me, just out of sight and just beyond hearing.

  (Echoing across the surface of that eternal black silent ocean . . .?)

  I watch the fog rolling in from the Thames and there are ghosts there as well, only I’m not sure if they’re ghosts from the past or from the present.

  On rereading this last sentence, think I may have caught the habit of contemplation from the lama monks.

  Hand still troublesome.

  February 1892

  Battles royal with Theodore over his coming to live here.

  He scribbled impatiently about ‘charity’ and ‘patronage’, and I tore the paper up, and went off to get drunk, and he stormed out and so we went on. But I will wear him down, because I know that under it all he is strongly attracted by the idea.

  And I cannot let him endure any kind of hardship because of what happened to him in Tashkara!

  Composed rather good piece for diary today (the public version, that is), set in one of the private upstairs rooms of the Café Royal (they have several of these, as a number of surprisingly august people could testify), and where the touch of a button on a velvet-covered sofa caused the panelling to part and reveal an immense silk-draped double bed.

  Had great fun describing an outrageously lascivious supper at which I and my imaginary companion fed one another portions of duckling a la Montmorency, and how afterwards I poured tiny portions of champagne into her navel and licked it up. On consideration, however, think I will change this to claret, since champagne apt to turn acid if brought up to body temperature and does not really go with duck anyway.

  Nota bene: would it be amusing to give these mythical bed-partners provocative initials, ostensibly to preserve discretion but in reality to titillate people’s interest? Or would anyone actually believe I slept with Lillie Langtry and Daisy Brooke . . . Or those blazingly beautiful creatures who sit for the Pre-Raphaelites . . . or Mrs Patrick Campbell, or the Duchess of Manchester . . .?

  I defy anyone to prove I didn’t, though!

  Elinor had rationed herself to two visits a week to the nursing home just off Cavendish Street where Lewis was, and had been scrupulous about discussing business and nothing else. It was not very likely that Lewis, enduring grisly operations to repair torn flesh and leg muscles, would want a female dripping with sentimental reminiscences and it was even less likely that he would want any embarrassing reminders of that moment when he had held her against him.

  And so Elinor, after muttering an awkward sentence about Grendel’s death and a careful enquiry about medical progress, plunged into the affairs of Chance House, and tried not to wish she could be plunging into a very different kind of affair.

  The Lifeline Service had been granted three more phone lines, which was good news. And there had been an encouraging letter from one of the Duchess of Kent’s private secretaries, tentatively indicating that Her Grace might no
t be averse to her name being used as patron of the CCT. The boiler for the midday dinner had blown up and everyone had been spattered with oxtail soup . . . It was good to see Lewis give the thin painful smile at this last.

  ‘But best of all, the National Lottery Charities Board have confirmed that we can bid for a share of the loot,’ said Elinor. ‘That’s good, isn’t it? I saved that bit of news until last.’

  ‘Very good indeed. Elinor, you’re doing well.’

  Elinor coloured, and said, ‘Yes, but I don’t think it’ll be much of a share because we’re competing with a lot of bigger organisations.’ And thought: damn! Why do I have to always belittle what I’ve done?

  Lewis said, ‘Anything would be a bonus.’

  ‘Well, yes. The bids have to be in by the end of December, so I’ve drafted an initial proposal using their guidelines. It reads a bit dry, I think. It needs your touch.’ There you go again, denigrating yourself!

  And all the time, beneath the ordinary businesslike exchanges that anyone might have listened to, she was aching to reach out and touch him, and to smooth away the lines of pain.

  ‘Ginevra’s gone back to Durham,’ she said. ‘In a tearing temper, because she wanted to stay and discuss the adventure exhaustively with everyone for at least a month.’

  Lewis grinned. ‘I can hear her saying it. And Raffael?’

  ‘He did leave an address,’ said Elinor. ‘It’s somewhere in Hampstead. But I don’t know what he’s doing.’

  ‘He’s a maverick,’ said Lewis, lying back on the pillows, his eyes shadowy with pain. ‘A rara avis.’

  ‘A loner.’

  ‘Yes, but also a survivor. He’ll come back, Elinor. He’ll come back for Ginevra. Just as I shall come back to Chance House.’

  He smiled again, but his face was so thin that the bone structure showed too sharply and Elinor wanted to wrap him in her arms, and keep out every scrap of pain, and feed him rich good meals that would drive away the haunted thinness. If he was going to smile like this and tear her heart out by the roots every ten minutes it was going to be difficult to remain at Chance House at all.