Death Day (22 page)

    'June and Michelle Mackenzie were cremated. Ridley died of a heart attack. He wasn't actually killed by the living dead. It's only those who are murdered by them that return.'

    'Like vampires,' said Debbie, flatly. 'Their victims always become like them.'

    Lambert shook his head. 'This is different. There's a pattern, a reason for it. It's almost as if there's a force behind it. Something more powerful than the creatures themselves. Something… something that's guiding them.' He rubbed his chin. 'There's a key somewhere, Debbie, a key that will give us the answer. It's just a matter of finding it. I hope to God I can find it in time.'

    The phone rang. Debbie got up but Lambert waved her back.

    'I'll get it,' he said.

    He walked wearily into the living room and picked up the receiver.

    'Hello.'

    The line was crackly, thick with static and he repeated himself.

    'Inspector?' he heard through the hissing. 'It's Trefoile.'

    Lambert perked up. 'What have you got?'

    'It might be easier if you come to the shop,' said the antique dealer, shouting to make himself heard above the roar of static. 'I was right about…'

    The phone went dead.

    'Trefoile!' Lambert flicked at the cradle. There was no sound. Nothing. The Inspector repeated the antique dealer's name.

    He held the silent receiver in his hand for a second then gently replaced it on the cradle. His forehead was heavily creased.

    'Who was it?' asked Debbie.

    'Trefoile,' he told her, then he added, more urgently, 'Come on, let's go.'

    She looked bewildered. He explained that they were to visit the antique shop immediately and, from the force with which he gripped her hand, she knew it must be important. Grabbing their coats, they hurried out to the car, and in minutes were speeding towards the shop. Lambert could feel his heart thumping faster as he drove and he pressed down just that little bit harder on the accelerator.

    
'A key.'
His own words echoed in his mind.

    Was the medallion the key?

    He thought of the phone going dead and shuddered. Perhaps his imagination was running away with him, but, as he swung the car into the main street of Medworth, he prayed that Trefoile would be the only one waiting for them in the antique shop.

    

    

    Lambert stopped the car and the two of them sat for a moment, watching the sign above the door which was swinging back and forth in the wind. The shop was in darkness, not a light to be seen anywhere. Lambert scanned the other shops along the street. Many had residential flats above and, in most of these, lights were burning. Trefoile's shop, though, was a stark contrast and the Inspector felt an involuntary shudder run through him as he opened the car door. Debbie moved too, but he put a hand on her arm and shook his head.

    'Stay here,' he said, softly, reaching for the flashlight on the parcel shelf. He flicked it on, testing the beam, and then stepped out onto the pavement. Debbie leant across and locked the door behind him, watching as he walked briskly to the front door of the shop. Lambert's anxiety was beginning to reach her and she anxiously scanned the street from end to end. Not a living soul to be seen. The light from the dull yellow of the streetlamps reflected back from the wet pavement like pools of liquid gold. The rain bounced hard against the car roof, beating out a tattoo.

    Lambert knocked twice on the front door and, when he received no answer, tried the handle.

    It opened.

    He held up a hand to Debbie to signal that he was going in. She watched as he closed the door behind him.

    He flicked on the flashlight and swung it back and forth across the room, aware of the musty smell of the place.

    Two gleaming eyes shone at him from a corner and he gasped, suddenly angry with himself as he saw that they belonged to the head of a stuffed fox. He walked behind the counter towards the back room which served as a dining room, workshop, and kitchen.

    'Trefoile,' he called.

    No answer.

    Lambert reached for the light switch to his right and flicked it down. Nothing happened. He tried again. The darkness remained. His beam picked out a plate of unfinished mince lying on the table. Beside it was a large book which, upon closer inspection, was revealed as a ledger of some sort. He walked to the back door and tugged at the handle. It was firm, the door securely locked and bolted. The Inspector swung the light around once more and found that there was a door which led out of the room. It was ajar. He crossed to it and cautiously peered round, shining the beam inside. It illuminated a narrow flight of steps which led up into even more impenetrable darkness.

    'Trefoile,' Lambert called again, suddenly, and for no discernable reason, wishing he was armed.

    Again he received no answer and, slowly, he began to ascend the staircase, finally reaching a small landing which had two doors leading off from it. He shone the flashlight onto each one in turn then made for the nearest one. He opened it quickly and found himself looking into a cramped toilet and bathroom. He closed the door and walked towards the second room.

    Something moved above him.

    Lambert froze, the breath trapped in his lungs. He shone the beam upwards and saw a trapdoor which he assumed led up into the attic.

    Another movement. Heavy footsteps from above. He edged back towards the head of the stairs, beam pointed at the trapdoor as if it were a weapon. He wished it were a gun he was holding.

    The trapdoor opened and Lambert stepped down one stair. Copper he might be, hero he wasn't. If there was something in that bloody attic he didn't intend tackling it alone.

    A face appeared in the opening.

    It was Trefoile. He smiled affably. Lambert exhaled deeply and almost laughed.

    'Bloody fuse blew,' the antique dealer explained. 'I don't know why the hell they had to put the box up here. Won't be a moment.' With that, he disappeared back into the attack and, a second later, the place was bathed in welcoming light.

    The antique dealer jumped expertly from the attic and brushed himself down. He smiled at Lambert and said, 'The phone call, it was about the medallion.'

    'I thought it might be,' said the Inspector. He explained that Debbie was waiting in the car.

    'Bring her in,' said Trefoile. 'We'll have a cup of tea. I think she'll be interested in what I've found too.'

    

    

    The three of them sat in Trefoile's back room with cups of tea before them. Lying on the table were two huge, leather-bound books. Their pages were yellowed and crusty with age, and one had gold leaf words upon its cover, written in Latin.

    Between them lay the medallion.

    'As I said to you before, Inspector, this is a most remarkable piece of work,' said Trefoile, prodding the circlet with the end of his pen. 'I sent it to a friend of mine who works in a museum and he verified the fact that it was sixteenth century. He couldn't pinpoint the exact time though.'

    'That doesn't matter,' said Lambert, reaching to his coat pocket for his cigarettes.

    'You may remember me telling you,' began Trefoile but he broke off as he saw Lambert fighting up the cigarette. 'Would you mind not smoking, please, Inspector? My father never did like it in the house. You understand.'

    Lambert shrugged and looked for somewhere to stub out the freshly lit cigarette. Trefoile took it from him and dropped it into the sink where it hissed.

    'Sorry,' said the antique dealer, returning to the table.

    Debbie suppressed a grin.

    Trefoile continued. 'As I was saying, I did mention to you when you first showed me the medallion that I recalled seeing it somewhere before.'

    Lambert nodded, watching as Trefoile flipped open the first of the mammoth volumes. He found what he wanted and turned the book so that Lambert and Debbie could see the picture he was indicating. It was an early woodcut of the medallion. Beneath it was a caption in Latin which Lambert pointed to.

    'What does it mean?' he asked.

    'It doesn't mean anything,' Trefoile said, enigmatically. 'It's a name.'

    Lambert read it again, the letters standing out darkly against the yellowing paper.

    
Mathias.

    'I still don't get it,' said the policeman, a slight edge to his voice.

    'Mathias was the owner of the medallion. That very medallion which came into your possession.' He paused, watching their reaction carefully to his next words. 'Mathias was a Black Magician. Said, at the time, to be the most powerful ever known.'

    Lambert snorted. 'So you're telling me that this,' he poked the medallion, 'belonged to a witch?'

    'A Black Magician,' repeated Trefoile, 'a High Priest if you like, a Druid. Does it matter what the name is? It all amounts to the same thing.'

    There was a moment's silence then the Inspector said, 'What about the inscriptions? Could you decipher them?'

    Trefoile sighed. 'The one across the centre of the medallion was pretty simple. It means
Deathday.
'

    Lambert shrugged. 'The other one?'

    'That was trickier, much trickier. You see, it's not like the central one. The inscription around the outside of the medallion is written in reverse.'

    'A sort of code?' asked Lambert.

    The antique dealer nodded. 'When the letters are transposed, that's when it begins to make a bit of sense.' He pushed the gold circlet towards Lambert, pointing out the letters with the tip of his pen. 'These two words,' he wrote them down on a pad, 'as they are, make no sense. Transposed, they read REX NOCTU.' He paused. 'It means,
King of the Night
.'

    'What about the other words?' Lambert demanded.

    Trefoile swallowed hard. 'Inspector, don't think me a fool, a coward even, but, if I were you, I'd get rid of this thing now.'

    'Why, for Christ's sake?'

    'Because it's evil.'

    Lambert half smiled. 'Evil.'

    'Take these books,' said Trefoile, 'you'll find your answers in there. I want no part of this.' The Inspector's expression changed when he saw how pale the antique dealer had become. The older man's hands were shaking visibly as he wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead.

    'Trefoile,' he said, 'what the hell is it with this bloody medallion? It's important. People could have died because of this.'

    'Does it have anything to do with what's happening here at the moment?' The question hung in the air.

    'What makes you think that?' demanded Lambert.

    'As I said, it's evil. I can't help you anymore, Inspector.' Trefoile's voice had dropped to a low whisper. 'Just take the books and go. Please.' There was a hint of pleading in that last word.

    Lambert looked stunned. He looked at Debbie and shook his head before gathering up the two books and the medallion. He thanked the antique dealer for his help and told him that they would find their own way out. He nodded abstractedly, gazing into the murky depths of his cup, aware only of their departure by the soft tinkling of the bell over the door, lingering like some unwanted nightmare.

    

    

    Lambert and Debbie hurried to the car and climbed in, placing the two huge volumes and the medallion on the back seat. The Inspector started the engine immediately and drove off.

    'Tom, he was really frightened,' said Debbie, softly.

    'Drive me to the library,' she told him.

    'Now?'

    'We'll need a dictionary to translate the Latin; there's two or three in our reference section.'

    Lambert nodded and swung a right at the next junction. As he drove he noted how few people were on the streets. A couple of lads in leather jackets smoking, standing in a shop doorway. One or two in the fish and chip shop but, apart from that, they hadn't seen above five people since leaving the house two hours earlier.

    He brought the car to a halt outside the library and both of them got out. Debbie was first up the stairs, fumbling in her jacket pocket for the master key. Cursing the cold weather, she finally found it and there was a loud click as the heavy lock opened. They stepped in, Debbie slapping the panel of switches near the door. The powerful banks of fluorescents blazed and the library was filled with cold white light. Lambert shivered as he followed her through the maze of shelves towards the reference section.

    'Don't you have any bloody heating in here?' he said. He passed a radiator and pressed his hand to it, withdrawing it quickly as it singed him.

    'Shit,' he grunted. The radiator was red hot. Yet still he could feel that penetrating cold, an almost palpable chill which encircled him with icy fingers.

    Debbie found the dictionaries and hurried out again, turning off lights as she went. Once outside, she locked the door and the two of them hurried back to the car.

    Lambert put his foot down and they were home in under twenty minutes. He put the car in the garage while Debbie carried the heavy volumes indoors where she laid them on the coffee table. Once inside, Lambert locked and bolted every door and window in the house then retreated to the comforting warmth of the living room. Debbie already had the books spread open, a notepad by her side.

    It was going to be a long job and, as he looked at the first page, Lambert wondered what they were going to find.

    The entire book would have to be translated, word for word. They would find one word and, immediately, be forced to look it up in the dictionary. The meaning clear, it would then be transcribed onto a fresh piece of paper.