Dark Terrors 3 (46 page)

The casket was entrusted to an unlikely recipient, a twenty-seven-year-old woman named Amy Dale who worked at the museum. In usual circumstances such a high-profile find would have been offered for examination to one of the more experienced senior staff, but Amy was having an affair with a hypertense married man named Miles Bernardier who functioned as the present director of the excavation, and Miles was able to take a procedural shortcut that allowed him to assign the find himself. This was not as dishonest as it sounds, for Amy was fast becoming recognized as a luminary in her field, and as her own department head was overseas for two months advising an excavation in Saudi Arabia, the pleasurable task of uncovering the casket’s secrets fell to her.

The night before Amy was due to have the casket X-rayed, a supposedly psychic friend from the Mediterranean ceramics
department seized her hands in the Museum Tavern and warned her that something strange was about to happen in her life. She pushed a hand through her frizzy blonde hair, laughing off his prediction, and ordered up another round of drinks. While they drank and chatted, the mud-encrusted casket, sealed in a large Ziploc bag, sat in a basement vault of the British Museum waiting for its secrets to be exposed to the light.

* * * *

2. The Appearance of the Daemon

The sun was scorching down in a sapphire sky the morning Spanky came back to town. The wind had changed direction, from the faintest breeze drifting down across the south to a fierce fresh blast that stippled the surface of the Thames and brushed against pedestrians in the Strand, ruffling them like hair being combed the wrong way.

Balancing delicately as he placed one patent black Church’s Oxford-toecapped shoe after the other, Spanky walked along the electrified third rail of the London, Chatham & Dover Railway, crossed the bridge over the river into Cannon Street station and carefully sniffed the air. Beneath the fumes of the choked city, behind the oil of machinery and ozone crackle of electricity, beyond the perfumes and deodorants and the smell of warm working flesh, he caught the faintest tang of enamel and oilskin, wolf urine and sea-brine and city soil. It was quite enough to tell him that the object of his search was within a five-mile radius.

On the station platform he almost melted into the crowd, just another devilishly handsome young man arriving in the teeming city with an unrevealed agenda. Spanky’s purpose, though, was single and specific; to locate the casket currently residing in the vault at Amy Dale’s department.

A smile teased those who caught his eye; he permitted himself that. He could afford to be happy, for the battle was already half-won. He had seen the girl on television, speaking nervously into a microphone, pointing back at a great hole in
the ground. The network had even taken the trouble to label her for him, displaying her name and place of employment. It only remained for him to meet with the girl and explain, in calm and rational tones, that he needed her to give back what was rightfully his.

Nah, he thought, I’ll just take the casket and rip her guts into bloody shreds - to teach her a lesson.

Spanky was weary of walking the earth. He loathed gravity. If only he could shed his cloak of skin, free himself of his fleshy shackles and return to the skies. It was not possible yet; he could only operate in corporeal form. And he had been here too long, so long he had almost forgotten his true purpose, shifting from one body to the next, growing careless, even being cheated and forced to flee by an idiot mortal - the shame of it! How the mighty had fallen! He had hidden in two further bodies since that humiliating day. A balding, overweight ambulance attendant had provided him with a temporary home until he found someone more appropriate. This new body had belonged to one Chad Morrison, a none-too-bright twenty-seven-year-old male model with wavy black hair, shocking blue eyes and a jawline as sleek as the contours of a classic coupé. It would certainly last him until he had reclaimed the contents of the casket. After that, he would have no further reason to return to earth and live among these miserable mortals, not when Paradise beckoned . . .

Out in the street, he listened to the sounds that lay hidden beneath the belching traffic and chattering offices. Spanky’s senses were attenuated far beyond mortal range. He had heard the girl speak on television. In the maelstrom of humanity he could find her voice again, as easily as plucking a single yellow flower in a forest of bluebells. Satisfied that his instincts were correct, he set off along the pavement at a brisk clip, a jaunty swagger in his step and a cheery whistle on his lips. This time he would cover his tracks as he went. A trip to the excavation was called for. Then on to the girl and the treasure.

* * * *

From the Thames, the gap between the buildings was like a missing tooth. Square off-white office blocks rose on either side. Thundering drills and a pair of slender yellow cranes picked at the site like dentists’ utensils.

Miles Bernardier stood at the edge of the great earth-encrusted hole and peered down on the vast rusted mesh of iron rods that were about to be buried in concrete. Time had run out. He had requested a larger excavation window, and the request had been denied. Six lousy days, was that too much to ask? The wheels of commerce would not be halted, however. The DTI was worried that a historically significant find would be announced. Building would have to be stopped while the site was evaluated, and the Japanese might get cold feet. But who knew what else lay buried in the clay? The site had been repeatedly built upon for well over a thousand years. The casket had been discovered in a pocket of air created by some broken planks just eleven feet down. Beneath the rotted wood lay a brick lining from what appeared to be a far older building, but now, with the pouring of several thousand tons of concrete, it would remain undiscovered for yet another century.

Ahead of him, a piledriver was rising slowly in the air to drop its weight on one of the upright iron posts marking out the building perimeter. Bernardier adjusted his yellow hard hat against the buffeting wind from the river, and carefully skirted the edge of the pit. He wanted to call Amy, to see if she had started work on the casket, but the noise was too great here. He was walking back to one of the foremen’s cabins when something pushed at the backs of his legs, and he slipped over on to the wet clay soil.

‘Damn!’ He rose awkwardly, inspected the damage, then looked about for someone to blame. There was no one within five hundred yards, and no sound but the rising wind and the dull thud of the piledriver. Bernardier was due to have lunch in the city today, and the knees of his suit were smeared with gobbets of mud. He wondered if there was time to go home and change. For a moment nothing moved on the construc
tion site, save for a few scraps of birds fighting the thermals above the river. Earlier the area had been filled with workmen. Where was everyone now?

The second blow caught him hard in the small of the back, and sent him sprawling on to his face. Frightened now, he pulled himself free of the sucking mire and searched about wildly. Impossibly, the area was deserted. Clouds had momentarily darkened the sun and the site had taken on an eerie dimness, as if history had returned to an earlier time. He tried to rise from his knees, but his shoes would not grip on the slippery clay. An odd smell hung in the air, something ancient and musky. Something bad.

The third blow was to his face, and shattered both the lenses of his glasses. This time he slid straight over the edge of the hole, landing on his back at the bottom, in time to see the downward arc of the piledriver descending over him. It was too late to stop the fall of the massive steel rod, which was powered by an explosion of compressed air. The shaft slammed down, bursting his skull like a rock dropped on an Easter egg. By the time the accident siren sounded, Bernardier’s twitching body had settled so deeply into the sludge that it could have been mistaken for another historical find.

* * * *

‘Very innocent,’ Gillian was saying, ‘but then you always were.’ Amy held the receiver away from her ear and waved a hand at her assistant. ‘The heat’s too high, turn it down, it’ll boil over,’ and into the receiver, ‘Yes, mother, I know.’

‘And now this man you’re seeing, do you really think it’s such a good idea? I mean, he’s not only married, he’s your boss. Is he worth jeopardizing your career for?’

‘I think I have to be the best judge of that, mother.’ In truth Miles’s continual philandering had almost persuaded her to end the affair, but she refused to launch on to this conversational track as it would mean hearing a new triumphant tone in her mother’s voice.

‘But I didn’t call for this, to criticize. Who am I, just a woman who spent eight agonizing hours in labour with you. I
called to say how wonderful you looked on the television. I was so proud.’

Someone had entered the room and was standing before her. Someone from outside - he didn’t smell of chemicals. There was something nice in the air, old-fashioned and comforting, from her childhood. Lavender-water?

‘Mother, I have to go now.’ She lowered the twittering receiver back to its cradle and raised her eyes to the visitor.

‘Can I help you?’

Her pulse stuttered. The man was a living angel. His pupils peered from beneath dark-knitted eyebrows like twin cobalt lasers. He had a jawline you could design a car around. Navy jacket, grey T-shirt, faded blue jeans cut tight around the crotch, brown work-boots. Behind him, two secretaries were peering around the door in unembarrassed awe.

‘Yes, you can,’ said the vision. ‘I’m looking for Amy Dale.’

‘That’s me,’ she laughed, feeling as if she had won a prize. Her assistants melted away, afraid of interrupting something private.

It was here. He could smell it in the air, its history of viscera and madness. He could taste it on the tip of his tongue, the cupreous tang of blood and death and misery. So close, after all this time.

‘Excuse me, I was expecting someone far less attractive.’ He smiled and the heavens opened.

‘Now why would you expect that?’ she asked, flattered.

‘The way Miles Bernardier described you—’ he trailed off. ‘Not like this.’

The bastard, she thought. How typical of him to denigrate her to a stranger, as though he had to frighten off potential rivals.

‘Chad Morrison.’ He proffered his manicured hand and she shook it.

‘So, Mr Morrison,’ she smiled back, puzzled by his relaxed attitude - a rare thing in a world of obsessive academics, ‘what are you here for?’

‘The casket,’ he genially replied.

‘Oh?’ Her brow furrowed. Territories were jealously guarded at the museum. ‘What field are you in?’

‘Forgive me,’ he gave his head a little shake, ‘I thought Mr Bernardier had already spoken to you about this.’

‘No, he’s out at the excavation today.’ She unbuttoned her lab coat and pointed to a glass partitioned office. ‘We can talk in there.’

Seated before her, he explained, ‘I’m not attached to the museum, Miss Dale. I’m mainly an advisor to auction houses in my capacity as an authority on the works of Karl Fabergé. Your director called me in to help you verify the origin of your find.’

Miles had entrusted her with the investigation. Why did he have to interfere by sending her experts? Of course, she would have had to pull in her own independent specialists, which could be a time-consuming process, so perhaps he was trying to make her job easier. The museum staff comprised many brilliant, dedicated professionals, but she was not aware of anyone with expertise in this field. Better to accept the offer. He was awfully pretty.

‘Thank you, Mr Morrison. I’d be interested in your impressions of what you’ve heard so far, sight unseen.’

‘Well.’ He leaned forward a little and the scent he exuded changed. His aftershave was something spicy and musky, not at all what she expected. He looked the citrus type. ‘I can forgive the Russian revolution many things, Miss Dale, but not the destruction of Fabergé. He died in exile, you know, a broken man, his art reviled by men unable to tolerate luxury of any kind. But this find is fascinating. Its placement is correct. Fabergé knew England, and was partly educated here. Such a creation would date from the time he switched from producing jewellery and cigarette boxes to more fantastical items, say the early 1880s, before he began to produce the celebrated eggs.

‘A number of objects we know he personally produced have never been traced. There are catalogue numbers and full descriptions of the missing items, and one of them fits the
casket’s specifications. Fabergé’s sons assisted him, and there was a workshop here in London, facts which would provide circumstantial evidence for the find. Of course, there were also many forgeries produced. I would have to see the piece to be more exact.’