by James Erith
Archie put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Sorry to drag you away, Daisy, but we could do with a hand out there ... it’s a bit complicated and we’re getting nowhere. Come on, we’ll check up on Mrs. P later, OK?’
Archie first of all gave Mrs. Pye a hug and then Daisy moved over to Mrs. Pye and, looking into her eyes, planted a small kiss on the forehead, on her scar. ‘We’ll come back and make sure you’re alright, OK?’ she said. And then she slipped out of the room behind Archie.
‘SO HERE’S THE PROBLEM,’ Archie said. ‘Look around – when you concentrate the whole place turns into of a nightmare of notes and letters.’
‘I know. Irritating, isn’t it?’
They walked on and met up with Isabella and Old Man Wood in the middle of the courtyard.
‘You know something,’ Daisy said dreamily as she stared at the wall next to the front door, ‘it’s probably a good thing that humans don’t understand any of this. Listen to this classic.’ She moved in and pointed to the windowsill.
‘NEST VACANT,’ she read raising her eyebrows to the others.
‘FAMILY EATEN. NEST WILL ROT IF NOT OCCUPIED. LOOK IN THE HAWTHORN BY THE BUBBLING BROOK. ASK FOR SPRINKLE THE THRUSH.’
Daisy shook her head. ‘And there’s more. Listen to this one.
‘PREDATOR EVASION COURSES: PROTECT YOURSELF AND YOUR FAMILY. BASED ON GROUND BREAKING RESEARCH BY DR. ROB ROBIN, GUARANTEED 35 PERCENT SURVIVAL INCREASE.
‘And then, in smaller writing, it says; Conditions apply.’
Isabella burst out laughing. ‘They’re adverts!’
Archie kicked a loose stone, which flew out of the courtyard towards the path. ‘But it isn’t helping us find Blaster-whatever-it-is-jelly. How long have we been out here? I’m starving. Are you sure we can’t have something?’
‘Certainly not,’ Old Man Wood replied, groaning as he attempted to move some loose stone slabs from the corner of the yard.
Daisy shook her head. ‘What did the willow trees say? Are you sure they meant this courtyard, not the ruin?’
‘Oh yes, this is the right one alright.’
Daisy sat down. ‘Have we checked everywhere?’
‘Twice,’ said Archie, settling beside her. ‘Can’t your eyes find it?’
Daisy looked incredulous. ‘No, Archie, apparently they can’t,’ she said flatly.
Archie’s stomach rumbled. It he wasn’t allowed to eat any food at least he could look at it. He decided to nip inside and sneak a peek inside the fridge.
He stood up, walked across the steps and, just as he opened the front door, he looked down at the metal foot-grate. Bending down, he pushed it out of the way and there, in large letters, were the words ‘BLABISTERBERRY JELLY’.
Archie nearly fell over. ‘Over here! I think I’ve found it!’ he said. In no time four faces were peering over the stone.
‘There’s small writing beneath it,’ Daisy said. ‘Bit worn out – looks like instructions.’
Archie sniffed. ‘Oh come on! Why don’t we just pull up the slab? It’ll be underneath.’
‘I don’t think so—’ she said but already Archie was on his hands and knees trying to squeeze his fingers into the gap on one side. He groaned and pulled and heaved until his face started to sweat.
‘It’s not working, Archie,’ Daisy said, triumphantly. ‘Or have you lost your strength?’
Archie bristled and he made an even greater effort.
Eventually he relented.
Daisy smiled at him. ‘Now, let me read it to you,’ she said, in a very irritating kind of schoolmistress manner. She adjusted her round pink glasses on the bridge of her nose, and cleared her throat.
‘It reads,’ she read, ‘TO OPEN ME,’ and, she shot a look at Archie, ‘KNOCK THREE TIMES AND PRESS ON EDEN’S ... and the final word is scuffed. It goes something like, blank, blank, blank, maybe blank, then a P, blank, blank. I think.’
_ _ _ ? P _ _
They all looked at each other quizzically.
‘Gatepost?’ Isabella said, getting excited. ‘It could be a ... gatepost?
‘We don’t have a gatepost, we have a rock,’ Daisy said.
Archie rubbed a hair spike. ‘The rock does look like a gatepost,’ he said hopefully. ‘But it’s missing a “T”.’
‘No,’ Daisy replied. ‘It looks like a massive grey rock, or obelisk, with “Eden Cottage” etched into it.’ She took off and ran to the top of the yard. There, she concentrated hard on the gate-rock and just as before all sorts of writing started to appear. A fresh one, not yet blurred from the rain read:
“NOPPY LOVES SCROPPY. BUNNY KISSES.”
Further up were watered down names from a deer called Lush, a fox called Sand and a badger called Leaf. Perhaps they lived here too. Then one caught her eye, nestled under the dry overhang of the stone.
“RED TO THE RABBITY FAMILY. SORRY ABOUT FLOPPY BUT I AM A FOX. THE FLOODS HAVE MADE IT VERY DIFFICULT TO EAT ANYWHERE ELSE. DON’T HOLD IT AGAINST ME.”
‘Wow!’ Daisy said under her breath. ‘Incredible.’ And then she just made out a very recent addition beneath it:
“BEWARE. EVIL SURROUNDS THE OLD RUIN FOR ALL.”
Daisy swallowed. ‘There’s nothing here!’ she shouted and ran back.
‘Nothing?’ said Archie. ‘Are you sure? I mean magic eyes or not, were you concentrating hard enough?’ he said sarcastically.
‘Shut up, Arch – what’s got into you?’ Isabella said. ‘You’re getting really nauseating.’
‘If it’s that irritating, zap me with your hands?’
‘I’m very tempted, Archie.’
Archie didn’t react. He stood dead still. A brilliant idea had suddenly leapt into his head.
‘I think I’ve got it!’ he cried. ‘Listen. It’s got nothing to do with the gatepost. It’s carpet – you know: blank, blank, blank, P, blank, blank.’
‘Wow,’ Isabella cried. ‘Archie’s right! The hand-mark on one of the rugs.’ She ran inside and, moments later, returned with the carpet rolled under her arm.
She re-read the riddle: ‘TO OPEN ME, KNOCK THREE TIMES AND PRESS ON EDEN’S CARPET.’ Isabella looked delightedly at her siblings. ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out. Who’s going to press and who’s going to knock?’
‘I’ll press on the hand mark, Archie knocks,’ Daisy said. ‘Are you ready? On the count of three.’
‘One, two, THREE’
Daisy moved her hand in alignment with the smaller outline of the hand on the carpet.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
They held their breath.
Then, ever so slowly, the great old paving slab with ‘Blabisterberry Jelly’ written on it started to fade away and in its place appeared a stone stairway.
The children and Old Man Wood exchanged glances. ‘Blimey. We did it,’ Isabella said nervously.
From the bottom of the steps the sweet perfume of roses wafted up to them. They stared down. Then a lovely, sweet voice came up to them.
‘Hello there!’ it said. ‘Well, now, there’s no time to dally. Come along, come along.’
Isabella cringed, her body filled with trepidation. ‘Oh hells-bells,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve got to go down there, haven’t we?’
ONE HUNDRED FOUR
TROOPS ARRIVE AT EDEN COTTAGE
It hadn’t been easy clambering up the hill. On several occasions, Dickinson led the small group directly into thick bushes and on one occasion, they stumbled into a large hole filled with water.
‘Look, sir, buildings,’ Geddis said, relieved. ‘The fog’s a little thinner up here.’
The stony corner of a building, like a ship, quickly emerged out of the white, creamy soup.
‘OK, quiet. Protective clothing on, please.’ Dickinson said.
Without hesitating, the troops donned the white protective helmets and gloves.
‘Call in on your MICs please.’ The troops responded. ‘Geddis, anything on the sensors?’
Geddis shook his head. ‘Nothing
, here, sir.’
Dickinson waved them forward. ‘Remember, if you see them, do not shoot – is that perfectly clear? Shoot as a very last resort and not to kill. Did you get that, Talbot?’
The four soldiers responded to their commander in the affirmative. At least there were no problems with the microphones and earpieces.
By now the fog had caught them up and, in order not to get swamped by the huge blanket of white cloud, the troops moved silently, hugging the wall, moving in a line of five.
Dickinson stopped near the front door. ‘Geddis, do you read anything?’
‘Negative. Nothing in the courtyard area. And as far as I can tell nothing through these three windows on this side of the house.’
‘Inside,’ Dickinson commanded, tipping his head.
The men moved fast, opened the door and entered the hallway.
‘Looks like someone’s been in here already, sir,’ said Pearce, the tall, wiry commando, as he inspected the mess of frames, canvasses and pictures lying in heaps all over the floor. ‘Someone’s given the place a good going over. I reckon they’ve already been and gone.’
Dickinson sucked in a breath as he inspected the pictures. ‘Maybe they searched the house and took the kids.’ After all, he thought, the helicopter hadn’t reported any sign of life during its reconnaissance mission.
His earpiece crackled. Geddis’ voice came through, breathing hard. ‘Better make your way upstairs, sir. There’s been one hell of a struggle up here. It’s riddled with bullet holes.’
Dickinson instructed Talbot to come with him, leaving Pearce and Mills downstairs to search the remainder of the downstairs.
At the top of the stairs, signs of a battle could be seen on the landing where a burned rug lay on the floor.
Dickinson inspected it. ‘Over a day old, maybe they’ve been gone longer than we thought.’
‘In here, sir.’
Dickinson moved in and looked around. The room, as Geddis said, was a wreck. Small holes littered the wooden panels on the walls; the four-poster bed lay in a heap, the bottom end in bits, splinters scattered over the floor. ‘Jeez, what happened here?’
‘First impressions would be a gunfight. By the look of it, a hell of a lot of rounds. Machine gun, possibly a grenade or two.’
Dickinson ran his hand over the carvings on the bed. ‘Any ideas who was involved?’
The pair searched the room.
‘Have you noticed something?’ Dickinson remarked. ‘It doesn’t really stack up. Masses of bullet holes but no—’
‘Shells.’
‘Precisely.’
Geddis whistled. ‘You’re right. There are no shells, sir, anywhere,’ he said, scouring the floor. ‘And, if I’m not mistaken, looking at the holes, they’ve used one helluva strange gun.’
Dickinson took out a tiny camera and began filming.
The headphones in his helmet crackled. ‘Sir, Pearce here. We’re going across to the other buildings. No sign of life in the main building. A few smashed plates, but the oven is warm. Did you say there was a housekeeper, sir?’
‘Affirmative. Apparently she lives on site, in one of the outbuildings. Call me when you find her.’
Dickinson checked his phone and wondered whether to call Stone. No, perhaps he’d do it when he had a proper feel for what had gone on.
He shook his head. Clearly there had been a terrible struggle, but there had to be a clue – something – that gave them a chance to find out where they may have gone. Surely, they would have left a message somewhere?
‘Commander,’ the radio blared.
‘Dickinson here.’
‘You’d better come over. We’ve found someone. I think it’s the woman you were talking about.’
Dickinson clenched his fist. ‘Excellent. Coming over.’
‘Follow the building. You’ll eventually bump into Mills. Doesn’t look as if she’s got plans to go anywhere,’ Pearce replied.
Dickinson reeled. ‘What do you mean? Is she dead?’
‘Negative, sir. You’ll have to see for yourself. Looks like shock.’
Dickinson left Geddis to check out the other rooms, slipped out of the front door, and was immediately swallowed up by the dense fog. He moved around the courtyard until he saw Mills standing beside a stone flight of stairs.
Pearce met him at the top. ‘I don’t think she knows we’re here,’ he said.
When the commander walked into the bedroom, there, sitting on the bed and staring at the wall, was a large woman dressed in a pink, woollen dressing gown. Her piggy eyes were red from crying, and red hair hung loosely across her face and down her neck. Her forehead bore the deep traces of scarring and her plump, full lips were parted as a strange humming noise emanated from her. She rocked to and fro every so often, her arms across her chest as though protecting herself from cold.
Dickinson stepped in front of her and, when her reaction didn’t alter, he squatted down and moved his palm a couple of inches from her face as though cleaning an invisible window.
‘Hello?’
Not a flicker. He tried again with the same result before rejoining the other commandos outside the room.
‘You’re right. It’s shock,’ he said.
Mills agreed. ‘I’ve seen this type of behaviour before. Might be best, sir, if you take off your protective garments and go in and start talking normally. She doesn’t appear to have any Ebora symptoms.’
Dickinson nodded, removed his gear and re-entered the room. He knelt down before Mrs. Pye.
‘Hello,’ he said, awkwardly. ‘I’m from the national rescue centre which is currently based at Swinton Park, near Masham. Do you know where that is? We’re trying to find the cause of all this misery,’ he said softly. ‘You know, the storm and the rainwater and now there’s been an outbreak of a terrible disease which is spreading. We have a feeling that Archie and Isabella and Daisy might know something that could really help us get to the bottom of it. That’s why we’re here, so please don’t be alarmed.’ He ran a hand through his sandy hair, turned towards Mills and shrugged.
Mills gestured for him to keep going.
‘Can you tell me where they are – the children?’
Mrs. Pye remained staring at the wall.
‘Can you tell me your name?’ he tried. ‘Do you know what happened in the house?’
The woman continued to stare at the wall.
Dickinson waited patiently, before standing up and heading outside. This wasn’t going to be easy. She needed medical help, and it wasn’t going to be forthcoming from them. Perhaps he should call Stone, see if he had any ideas.
Dickinson unclipped his phone.
Stone picked up straight away. ‘Well? Any luck?’
‘It looks like someone’s beaten us to it,’ Dickinson said.
‘Hell!’ Stone swore. ‘Any sign of the children?’
‘Nowhere to be seen, sir. The place is a mess. There’s been some kind of battle upstairs, odd gunfire marks in the wooden panelling, and a couple of fires have started.’
Stone sucked in a breath. ‘Weapons? That’s not good. What kind of shells?’
‘That’s the strange bit. There aren’t any. It’s as if they cleared up after themselves.’
Stone’s silence spoke volumes. ‘Are you quite sure?’ he said at length.
‘Affirmative. I’ve taken footage,’ Dickinson said. ‘And it would appear that someone has rifled through all the pictures—’
‘Pictures?’
‘Yes, sir. Framed pictures, canvasses, oils. They litter the downstairs rooms.’
‘Anything else?’
‘We’ve found the housekeeper, sir.’
Stone’s tone lightened. ‘What did she have to say?’
‘Nothing yet, sir. She’s in shock – scared out of her mind. Mills said he’d seen something like it before, in the Middle East – a girl who’d seen her entire family tortured to death in front of her.’
‘Can you get anything out of her?’
‘We’re trying but it’s negative at the moment. She hums and stares at the wall, shaking.’
‘Try again, Dickinson,’ Stone ordered. ‘Use electricity to jar her or water-board if necessary ... we need answers—’
‘But torture, on a woman?’
‘It’s called interrogation, Dickinson,’ Stone snapped, ‘and I don’t care how you do it. I just need results.’ He slammed down the phone.
Dickinson went back into the room and knelt down in front of Mrs. Pye.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘It’s me again. We really need to know what’s happened and you’re the only person we can find. You see, if we don’t find the answers, the whole area around here will be destroyed by a very big bomb. So in order to prevent this, and the loss of hundreds of thousands of lives, we could do with your help.’
Still the woman rocked and stared at the wall.
Dickinson’s patience began to desert him. ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘Everyone is going die if we don’t get some answers.’
A tiny flicker flashed in Mrs. Pye’s eye and Dickinson wondered if she could hear him after all.
‘All we need are a few simple answers,’ he urged.
The woman resumed her staring and humming.
Dickinson hated this. He didn’t have Stone’s cold-hearted approach to interrogation, the iciness needed to extract answers. Maybe they should take her back with them so Stone could work on her? Then again, perhaps he should try a different approach. If he wasn’t mistaken, she cared for the children. She must have feelings for them.
‘Archie and the girls will die if you don’t help them,’ he began. ‘Do you understand? Your children will be killed by this terrible thing if you don’t help us find them.’
The woman suddenly turned to him. Her eyes moist again and tears ran down her cheeks as her shoulders heaved. ‘Taken,’ she said, her vocal chords straining. ‘From me.’
And then she resumed her rocking and staring at the wall.
ONE HUNDRED FIVE
CAIN’S NEW IDEA
‘Who cares what I did?’ the ghost crowed.
‘I do,’ Kemp said angrily.