The Parliament of Blood (31 page)

A bat tangled in George's hair, scratching and biting in a fury. A hand gripped his leg and dragged him over. He fell headlong, the floor bucking under him like a wave crashing on the beach. More hands clutched, dragging him down, and George's world went black.

‘Into the garden!' Eddie yelled. It was so overgrown he hoped the carriage would not be able to follow. Liz needed no extra encouragement. She and Eddie ran for the gap in the broken fence. The carriage thundered after them.

Above the sound of the carriage, the snarls of the Coachman, and the snorting of the horses, there was another noise. It was coming from inside the house. A high-pitched shrieking mixed with a rumble like thunder. The sky above Eddie had turned black, a mass of dark creatures squeezing out between the boards that covered the upper windows and rising from the broken roof. Bats – reinforcements for the Coachman, Eddie realised – they were doomed now, surely.

The carriage skidded to a halt as the horses drew up. One of them reared on its hind legs before crashing down again, its hoofs slamming into the cobbles with a noise like gunshots.

The Coachman was standing, whip in hand, shouting at the horses: ‘They have woken too soon!' The deep pits of
his eyes locked on Eddie for a moment, but he sensed that they were seeing something quite different. ‘Belamis!' the Coachman roared in anguish. ‘You will be avenged!' Then the whip cracked down on the horses.

The carriage turned in a tight circle. Above Eddie, the bats were diving once more, surging through the open front door like a black ribbon.

‘We have to get them out of there,' Liz shouted. ‘The bats are protecting whatever's in there.'

Eddie grabbed her hand and they ran for the door, their free arms in front of their faces to ward off the dark creatures.

Sir William was almost at the door. His face was scratched and his clothes torn. He looked flustered and exhausted. ‘I've lost George,' he shouted above the shriek of the bats.

Eddie dived in, keeping low in an attempt to avoid the flying danger. But if anything there were more of the creatures lower down. He got a confused view of arms thrusting up through the floor, the dark shapes of the bats, and – at last – George. He was swatting at the bats for all he was worth.

A hand had hold of George's leg, and Eddie managed to prise it away. He pulled his friend to his feet and together they stumbled back towards the door. They tumbled down the broken steps and rolled painfully through a patch of grass and nettles.

‘Thank you,' George gasped. ‘I thought I'd had it.'

‘I thought we both had,' Eddie said. ‘The Coachman was here. He saw it all.'

George leaped to his feet, looking round urgently. ‘Where is he now?'

‘Oh he hoofed it. Drove off. He was shouting about how it was too soon or something.'

‘Interesting,' Sir William said. He helped Eddie up. ‘Perhaps he feared your father's traps,' he told Liz.

‘For all the good they did,' George said bitterly. ‘We nearly died in there.'

‘The unfortunate Mr Bradby did die,' Sir William pointed out.

It was quiet again, and Eddie turned in a full circle trying to work out why it was suddenly so quiet. ‘Where did the bats go?'

‘And why aren't the vampires coming after us?' George added. ‘The sun's gone down now. There were hundreds of them in there. Thousands if those bats turned back into …' He shuddered and left the thought unfinished.

‘I wonder,' Sir William said thoughtfully. He clicked his tongue as he considered, then decided: ‘I think I'll just nip back inside and see what's going on.'

‘Rather you than me,' George muttered.

‘It's all right, George,' Liz told him. ‘You can stay out here with Eddie.'

‘No way,' Eddie retorted. ‘I'm coming inside this time. Just try and stop me.'

George sighed and turned towards the house. ‘All right. But be ready to run.'

They did not have to go very far to see what had happened. The boards had been ripped off several of the
downstairs windows and the evening light spilled into the dusty house.

A figure was stretched out across a window sill at the back of the hall, as if trying to escape. Other figures lay silent and still on the floor. Some were halfway out of the walls, others were frozen as they clawed their way through the floor.

Eddie stood looking round in astonishment. Sir William hurried to the door under the stairs. He returned a few moments later, ashen-faced.

‘It's the same down there. Exactly the same.'

‘What's happened to them?' George said.

Sir William was examining a woman – she looked young but pale and emaciated. From the waist down she was walled up in the hallway, but her upper body had thrust through as she tried to escape. Now she hung limp and lifeless, long dark hair falling from her lowered head. Sir William pushed the hair aside, feeling for a pulse in her neck. Where his fingers reached, Eddie could see the raised, reddened pin-prick marks in the skin. As he watched, the skin was cracking and flaking as if ageing before his eyes, turning to dust …

‘They're dead. Quite dead,' Sir William said. ‘All of them. Even the bats have gone, crumbled to dust.'

‘Father's trap worked,' Liz said in awe.

‘So it would seem.'

‘But what
was
this trap?' Eddie demanded. ‘
How
did it work?'

Sir William shook his head, sending dust and bits of
plaster flying from his mass of white hair. ‘I don't know. I really don't know. All I can tell you is that these bloodless creatures are dead. Every last one of them.'

It was a relatively short walk back to Liz's house. George wondered if Oldfield had deliberately stayed close to the house so as to keep an eye on it. He kept expecting the Coachman to return, but there was no sign of the ghostly carriage. Whatever traps Oldfield had laid all those years ago had certainly been effective.

Liz was soon due for a rehearsal at the Parthenon Theatre and insisted she was going. ‘I can't let them down, not with Marie so ill.'

‘Can't let Henry Malvern down, you mean,' George muttered. More loudly he said: ‘But it isn't safe. We need to stick together.'

‘Oh, I think it may be all right,' Sir William said. ‘Eddie tells us that down in the catacombs the Coachman was of the opinion that Liz was no threat. They seem to assume you are too stricken with grief for your father,' he said to Liz, ‘and possibly keeping busy with the theatre to take your mind off things.'

‘But we don't know that for sure,' George protested.

‘We know very little for sure. Which is why I am keen to examine these journals for any further clues.' Sir William brandished the metal box that Eddie had mistaken for a biscuit tin. ‘And the best place for that is back at the Museum. Where I would welcome your help, and young Eddie's.'

‘Righty-o, guv,' Eddie agreed enthusiastically.

George was still unhappy as the cab drew up close to the British Museum.

‘I still say we should have insisted on Liz staying with us,' George grumbled.

The fog was thickening, swirling round them like smoke as they approached the main gates.

‘Oh George, George, George,' Sir William said. ‘I thought you understood.'

‘Understood what?'

‘We are all of us, including Miss Oldfield, in the most terrible danger. That man Bradby told us, remember, that whatever is going to happen will happen tonight. Either because that is their plan, or because we have galvanised them into action.'

‘Then why did you send Liz to the theatre?'

Sir William sighed. ‘Tell him, Eddie.'

‘Cos the vampires know that Sir William and you are the greatest threat. They think I'm dead or missing, and Liz is grieving or whatever. If she sticks with us she's in
more
danger. At the theatre, she's well out of it and as safe as she can be. Right?' he checked with Sir William.

‘Right.'

‘Oh,' George said, feeling a little embarrassed. ‘Right. I see. Sorry.'

Sir William put his hand on George's shoulder. ‘That's quite all right. It's only natural that you should be worried about her. After all …'

‘After all? After all – what?'

‘Nothing,' Sir William said hurriedly. ‘Just something else that Eddie and I have worked out and which you'll come to all in good time.'

George had no idea what he was talking about, and was not at all reassured by the smirk plastered across Eddie's face. But there was no opportunity to pursue the matter as Sir William suddenly turned, and led them on past the Museum gates.

‘What is it?' George asked.

‘Peelers,' Eddie hissed. ‘Waiting at the Museum door.'

‘But that's good. Isn't it?'

Sir William shook his head. ‘Ordinarily, yes. But let us consider why they are here, and who they might be waiting for.'

George felt suddenly cold. ‘You think they're looking for us?'

‘I do.'

‘But – even Sir Harrison Judd can't just have us locked up, can he?'

‘Bet he could,' Eddie said. ‘Throw away the key too.'

‘But Sir William – you're well known. There would be a scandal, an inquiry.'

‘Perhaps. But it would all take time. And from what we know, he only has to keep us out of the way for tonight. By the morning, it may no longer matter.'

‘So what do we do?'

‘Somehow we find out if they really are after us, or whether their presence is merely a coincidence.'

Sir William and George both turned slowly to look at Eddie.

‘Oh no. Why me?'

The two uniformed policemen standing outside the door seemed hardly to notice Eddie as he approached. He got right to the door without being challenged. Which was no help at all – he needed to know why they were there.

‘Let me through, please,' Eddie announced loudly. ‘Important message for Sir William Protheroe.'

The policeman did not react, and Eddie was beginning to think they were just pausing on their regular beat. He put his shoulder to the door.

‘Hang on there, son.'

Or maybe not. ‘What is it?' Eddie demanded, still leaning on the door. ‘This is urgent.'

‘I think you'd better give us this message,' the second policeman said. ‘We'll see it gets passed on.'

‘Oh, no – can't do that. It's personal and confidential for Sir William. From a Mr George Archer. I've come all the way from Shoreditch on a promise of tuppence if I deliver it straight away and in person.'

A heavy hand turned Eddie round and he found himself staring into the faces of the two policemen as they leaned towards him.

‘Listen, sonny, Sir William Protheroe isn't here. We know because we're waiting for him.'

‘And Mr George Archer,' the second policeman said, ‘is
another gentleman we'd like to talk to. So you'd better tell us where he is.'

‘He was in Shoreditch,' Eddie confessed. ‘But that was half an hour ago or more. What d'you want him for?'