The Greenstone Grail (35 page)

Annie felt her face whiten and knew she had betrayed herself. It was all she could do not to run. But her voice,
when she found it, was steady enough. ‘I was looking for Michael. I’ve come across a book I think would interest him, a history of Victorian London. Is he in?’

‘No,’ said the thing, baldly. Perhaps it didn’t comprehend the significance of her pale cheeks; perhaps, even after the chase, it thought she could be deceived. ‘I’ll tell him you called.’

And then, in an altered tone: ‘How is your son?’

There was no threat in the question, rather a suppressed fever, a kind of greed. Annie felt an unexpected surge of anger, scattering her fears – the ancient, primitive rage of a mother protecting her child. She remembered Bartlemy’s gesture of dismissal when the spirit had appeared in the circle, the single word of Command. She forgot that she had no Gift, no power. She flung out her hand, cried: ‘
Envarré
!’ The thing that was Rianna Sardou seemed to flinch. It wavered, its substance changing, dissolving into a form of roiling water which reached out to seize her. She tried to resist, but her throat was held in a grip as strong as the currents of the sea, and fluid fingers streamed into nose and mouth, and water rushed into her lungs …

She came to, choking, vomiting a fountain onto the planks of the jetty. She was lying by the river, soaking wet and shivering, and Michael was bending over her with an expression of relief on his face, having evidently applied artificial respiration. ‘What happened?’ he said, giving her no time to answer. ‘I found you here – in the river. I heard a cry, and then I found you – I thought you were dead – I thought you were dead …’ His concern was so evident a warmth flooded through her that almost stopped the shivers. ‘Thank God I came back.’

‘Why –’

‘I’d forgotten a load of essays. No point in going without them. Thank all the gods …’

He carried her up to the house, saw that she could undress
herself, provided her with bathrobe, blanket and hot sweet tea. ‘I don’t know where Rianna’s gone,’ he said. ‘I thought she was around this afternoon. What were you doing here? What
happened
?’

Annie faltered. She couldn’t lie any more – he was in danger – but he would never believe the truth. She would have to compromise. ‘I c-came to see Rianna,’ she stammered. ‘I wanted to ask her – about that time in London. I was so sure it was her. I thought if I asked her – if I saw how she reacted – I would know for certain. She opened the door – her manner was very strange. Then everything went black. I don’t even remember being near the river. She lunged at me – and everything went black …’ She hated deceiving him, even by omission, but she could think of nothing else to say. As it was, he looked at her in absolute bewilderment.

‘Rianna – are you saying –
Rianna
attacked you? But – she can’t have done. Not
Rianna
. She doesn’t care about me, not like that. We’ve slept in separate beds for years. Even if she
was
jealous, she’d be dramatic, she’d make scenes, but she’s not
violent
. She couldn’t … What did she say?’

Annie answered without thinking: ‘
How is your son
?’

‘What?’

‘She said:
How is your son
? Michael … this wasn’t – this isn’t about you. I can’t say – I don’t know any more. But it’s not about you.’

Michael stared at her, shock and concern slowly evaporating from his face, to be replaced by the contemplative expression of a scholar scanning some inscrutable antique text. When he spoke, his voice had acquired a new edge. ‘So what is it about?’

She didn’t tell him, she couldn’t, not without evidence to convince him of the impossible. He didn’t press her. She had
nearly died – she was obviously shaken – so he took her home, saw she was all right and insisted on informing her doctor. If there was a shade of withdrawal in his attitude, only the most sensitive antennae would have picked it up – but Annie’s were very sensitive. He knew she hadn’t told him everything, he couldn’t believe ill of Rianna: all that was clear enough. Her only consolation was that Nathan didn’t come in till later, so she didn’t have to go through any complicated explanations with him. She would tell Bartlemy … when an opportunity offered itself. That evening, she cooked supper, and Nathan went to the video shop to hire a film, returning with a dark sci fi thriller which did nothing to cheer her up. She slept badly and woke late, to find a note on the kitchen table from her son saying he had already breakfasted and gone out. Panic struck: he could be near the river, pursued by the watery succubus with eyes that opened on the abyss. She phoned Bartlemy, pouring out her fears, but he seemed to think there was no immediate threat to Nathan, and told her sternly in future she was not to go looking for trouble. ‘Good thing Michael was there. Nice timing, coming back like that.’

‘He knows I’m lying to him,’ Annie said awkwardly.

‘Never mind. Women always lie to men: it’s part of the fun.’

Annie knew he only meant to lighten her worries, but she didn’t think it was fun at all.

Bartlemy returned to the preparation of a midday meal which would have induced conviviality between members of Hamas and Mossad, had they ever been persuaded to share it – though he was slightly less confident about the claimants to the Grimthorn Grail. Alex Birnbaum arrived shortly before noon, followed by Rowena and Eric. They assumed Dieter Von Humboldt was travelling with his property.

It had been decided in the end that the cup would come down from London by car, since a secure van would draw too much attention to it. The car in question was Julian Epstein’s BMW, driven by Julian himself, with a guard in the front seat and another in the back, handcuffed to a strong-box containing the Grail. Nathan would have been gratified to learn that both were armed. It drew up outside Thornyhill around one, reversing up the grassy track where Bartlemy parked his Jowett Javelin. The guards were invited inside, but Julian insisted that one remained by the front door. In the drawing room, Bartlemy served a choice of sherry, whisky, gin and tonic.

‘Where’s the Graf?’ Mrs Thorn demanded without preamble, as the newcomers entered.

‘We thought he was with you,’ said Epstein.

‘Well, he isn’t.
We
thought he’d be with
you
.’

‘Perhaps he’s delayed,’ Bartlemy murmured, though he considered it unlikely.

Hoover was sniffing the guard unenthusiastically, fixing his concealed holster with a whiskery stare. ‘He any good as a watchdog?’ the man inquired.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Bartlemy. ‘I’ve never asked him.’

Hoover gave a short, somehow pointed bark, ‘almost as if he understood,’ the guard told his wife later. He sat down, clutching the strong-box, and man and dog eyed each other in mutual suspicion.

‘Let’s get on with it then,’ Rowena said briskly. For all her business-like manner, Bartlemy could feel the knuckles of her determination underneath.

‘Not till the owner gets here,’ Epstein responded. ‘Who is this man?’

‘Sorry. Remiss of me. Eric Rhindon – Julian Epstein. Eric works for me. Think he might be able to help us learn more about the cup. Bit of an authority on these things.’

Epstein glanced from Eric to Bartlemy. ‘Everyone you know seems to be an authority,’ he murmured.

‘Hardly surprising, in my line of work,’ Rowena breezed. ‘Come on, Julian. Von Humboldt’s fault if he’s late. No point in holding things up. The cup’s here: we may as well take a look at it. Then we can start talking.’

But Epstein was adamant. ‘I cannot open the box without Von Humboldt’s express permission.’

‘Surely he has already given it,’ Bartlemy said, pouring a soothing sherry. ‘He would hardly have organized this meeting and arranged for the cup to be brought here if he hadn’t intended it to be seen.’

Rowena opened her mouth to agree and shut it again when Bartlemy, moving across the room, paused to give her shoulder a meaningful squeeze. Julian declined the sherry – ‘I’m driving’ – and then accepted when his host suggested one of the guards should drive back. The guard drank fruit juice, manfully. Eric, in pursuit of new experiences, graduated from sherry to whisky. The alcoholic drinks of his world were clearly as limited as the food, though fortunately his capacity appeared to be up to the challenge.

By two o’clock, when Von Humboldt still hadn’t arrived, Bartlemy proposed starting lunch. Epstein tried Von Humboldt’s mobile without success, and reluctantly agreed. Everyone retired to the dining room, including the guard, who ate with the strong-box in his lap. It was a day of clammy heat and lowering cloud, when the air seemed to be squashed between earth and sky, and the old house offered a welcome haven of cool. Exquisite food and chilled wine did much to relax the ill-assorted party: the guard, mellowed by the atmosphere if not the wine, became indiscreet about former clients, Epstein teetered on the verge of admitting his dislike of the Graf and revived his old friendship with Rowena, and
Eric struck up a new friendship with Birnbaum. Bartlemy took a picnic outside to the guard on the door, and kindly stayed to chat, admiring photos of a leather-clad boyfriend and three whippets before returning to the group indoors. It was only when silence fell that they were conscious of tension, not between each other, not any more, but beyond, creeping in from the woods, prickling at the walls of the house. In the sudden quiet Hoover padded to the window and put his forepaws on the sill, gazing out with ears cocked. ‘What is it, boy?’ Bartlemy asked.

The dog turned to him with an expression so intelligent that even Epstein was startled. ‘Perhaps we should return to the drawing room for coffee,’ Bartlemy said, and though it sounded like a suggestion, they knew it wasn’t. Everybody moved at once, with neither comment nor protest.

‘Where on earth is Von Humboldt?’ Epstein said, after trying his mobile again. ‘Could he have had an accident?’

‘Whatever’s happened,’ said Bartlemy, ‘it seems plain he isn’t coming. Now you have to decide what to do.’

All eyes were on the representative of Sotheby’s. ‘I should like to see it,’ Alex averred. ‘My mother said it was accursed, and now – there’s something in the air-I could almost believe her.’

‘It was our burden,’ said Rowena, ‘and our luck. Ill-luck to all others who lay hand on it.’

‘Is a great treasure, a sacred thing,’ Eric supplied. ‘If is here, is here in trust.’

Epstein nodded to the guard. ‘We’ll open it,’ he said.

The clouds were darkening as Nathan and Hazel approached the path, not piling up but hanging down, great swags of cumulus bellying low over the woods. It was still very hot, and the air around the house seemed to tingle, as if it had
pins and needles. There was a soft growl of thunder far off. ‘They’re here,’ Nathan said as a familiar shiver of movement passed over the ground, cutting them off from Thornyhill. His gaze followed the ripple, and he fancied the gnomons were paying no attention to them; instead, they appeared to be circling the house, keeping their distance, restrained by some other power, by the proximity of iron or silphium. The children held out their numbers – ‘Our lucky numbers,’ Hazel said – and broke through, easily eluding the eye of the guard, then made their way round the back, avoiding the windows, and took shelter in the herb garden. Nathan reconnoitred the kitchen door.

‘Can we get in?’ Hazel whispered when he returned.

‘Not yet. Uncle Barty keeps going in and out, getting food or something. We’ll have to wait.’

‘I think it’s going to rain.’

It was an understatement. Two or three fat drops struck their heads, and then the clouds started to liquefy, streaming earthwards with all the blinding vigour of a monsoon. Thunder blotted out Nathan’s next remark, but he grabbed Hazel’s arm and tugged her into the lee of the wall, where the broad eaves offered a little cover. Lightning ripped across the sky, so that for an instant both garden and wood were spotlit, and they could see branches sagging under the onslaught of the rain, stems broken, leaves pummelled into the ground. More thunder rattled their ear-drums, and the lightning followed immediately – Hazel saw a flickering lance earth itself only yards away, blackening the grass with a hiss audible even beneath the roar of the storm. She wondered if the gnomons would endure it or scatter; under these conditions, the subtle indicators of their presence were impossible to make out. Already, the two children were wet to the skin. Hazel’s hair, always in her eyes, was plastered in rats’ tails
across her face. ‘We’re doing no good here!’ she yelled in Nathan’s ear. ‘We should go.’ But they didn’t leave the protection of the eaves until the rain eased. Another lightning-flash must have struck an electric cable as the lights went out in the adjacent kitchen window. Although it was day the afternoon was suddenly very dark. There was a movement behind the bean-plants, not the gnomons, something bigger, more substantial. Even as they froze a small figure shot past them into the house.

Inside, four people were brooding over the cup when the storm started, their intent faces so focused on the object before them that they barely registered the deepening gloom or the first thunder-roll. For a second, in the poor light, each face seemed to wear the same expression of hunger, and the same fanatic gleam danced from eye to eye. Then Alex drew back, perhaps disappointed that the result of his search wasn’t gaudier or more glamorous. Epstein recovered his professional detachment, and the illusion was broken. Only Rowena and Eric remained poring over the cup. ‘Is the one,’ Eric said. ‘The treasure of treasures.’ His normally resonant voice was hushed; Rowena thought she saw tears on his cheek.