Deliver us from Evil (8 page)

Captain Foxe narrowed his eyes. 'Because the King's men may be returning, and you are afraid for your post? As
I
remember, sir, you used not to be so scared of Cavaliers.'

The blood had at once left Colonel Sexton's face. He clenched his fists; then, very slowly, unclenched them again.
'
I
would not have taken that,' he whispered, 'from any other man.'

'Of course not, sir.' Captain Foxe bowed his head. 'So
I
have your permission then, do
I
, to enter the house?'

A smile, very faint, flickered on Colonel Sexton's lips. 'You always did ride your luck, Captain.'

'Yes, sir.'

'But it is not luck altogether,
I
think. The Spirit of the Lord watches over you.'

'He watches over us all, sir.'

Colonel Sexton smiled faintly again. 'And if you find nothing?' he asked at length. 'If Wolverton Hall is empty - what then?'

Captain Foxe glanced at Mr Aubrey. 'We shall still not be wholly lost,' he said, 'God willing.' He turned back to face his superior.
'It
may be, sir,' he explained, 'there will be a further trail we can follow. That is why
I
asked that we should have our meeting here, and have free discussion before Mr Aubrey so that he may learn what we know about the author of the crimes, and be equal with us in our pursuit of the fiend, whose evil otherwise may overwhelm us all.'

'Otherwise, Captain?' asked Colonel Sexton,
'otherwise?
So Mr Aubrey's presence is truly that important?
I
agreed to your request that he be in attendance with us, but without understanding why, for
I
was content to trust to your good sense, and thought the reason for it would soon become clear. It has not, though.' Turning to study Mr Aubrey, who sat sulking in his chair, the Colonel frowned. '
I
still do not see how he can help us,' he murmured. He turned back to Captain Foxe. 'And yet you tell me he will lead us to Wolverton?'

'He may, should we require him to.'

'How?'

'He is a chronicler of Wiltshire's mon
uments.' 'Why should that be of
any concern to us?'

'
I
told you before, Colonel. We are hunting evil - and there is evil waiting in the monuments hereabouts. Is that not so, Mr Aubrey?'

Mr Aubrey shrugged, and twisted, and scratched at his head. 'It is possible,' he stammered, 'in a sense,
I
suppose. There is much uncertainty on the matter.
I
really couldn't say.' But he began to nod to himself; and at once it was as though the motion of his head was shaking up his ideas, so that when he spoke again, he seemed barely able to keep pace with his thoughts. 'The antiquities are so very ancient,' he explained, 'and so few records of them survive, that it really is very difficult to say.. . and yet
I
think - yes,
I
really do - that if one surveys them on the spot, and interprets what legends and old stories say - and allows one's speculations free wing - then
...
yes . . . one could argue -
please
don't smile - that they were used by the priests of terrible gods -by the Druids, perhaps - as places of sacrifice - in dark groves, or beneath the shadow of stones - to spill out their victims' living blood.'

Colonel Sexton frowned. 'As the blood of victims is being spilled out now?'

Captain Foxe shrugged. 'We know that Wolverton was a sorcerer, and worshipper of evil spirits.'

'But the girl - the tiny baby - she was left in the Cathedral itself.'

'In the Lady Chapel,
I
believe?' Mr Aubrey turned to Captain Foxe for confirmation; received it; then continued. 'The Lady Chapel was the first part of the Cathedral to be built,' he explained. 'Why was it started there? We know - from the old records - how churches were often built on ancient pagan sites. It is a theory
I
offer - with humble submission to better judgements - that the Cathedral itself was built on just such a site.'

The Colonel considered this point. 'So what are you suggesting?' he asked. 'That there is significance not only in the dates of the murders, but in the locations as well?'

Captain Foxe nodded. 'Does that not seem possible? In the architecture of our world, is there not a pattern of evil, as there is a pattern of good? Might not this pattern - by a follower of the Accursed One -be discerned and traced, and then marked out, as it was in ancient times, with innocent blood?'

'You are certain, then, there will be another killing?'

I
am certain of that, whether there is a pattern or not.'

And if the pattern does exist - what shape does it take?'

Captain Foxe gestured towards Mr Aubrey. 'You understand now, sir, the need for an antiquarian's presence at our conference. For Mr Aubrey, it seems to me, is best placed of all the men in England to divine when - and where - the next killing will take place.'

'Then, sir - you have a heavy charge.' Colonel Sexton stared at Mr Aubrey; he rose and laid a hand upon his shoulder. 'May God's light guide you in your studies. May He bring you to a truth that may serve us all.'

'And may He render your studies unnecessary,' added Captain Foxe. 'May He permit us to capture and confound the man we seek.' 'Amen.' Colonel Sexton bowed his head. 'Amen, indeed.'

'Let none admire That riches grow in Hell;

that soil may best Deserve the precious bane.'

John Milton,
Paradise lost

E

mily Vaughan sat crouched behind the wall, peering through a gap in the masonry. She could make out two covered wagons, stationed in front of Wolverton Hall. A horseman was next to them. His skin seemed to gleam; the pallor of his face set off the curling thick blackness of his beard. Emily shivered. Something in his presence chilled her. She was not sure what; but she had felt it at once when she had first seen him, riding down the village road. As she shrank closer against the wall, she began to wish that she had never followed the man.

A couple of figures came shambling out from the main doorway of the Hall. They were as pale as the man with the beard, but otherwise quite unlike him. Indeed, so malformed they appeared, so dead-eyed and numb-faced, that they scarcely seemed to be human at all. The bearded man glanced at them. He did not speak or even nod; but at once, it was as though he had issued orders to the men. They shuffled across to one of the wagons. As they lifted the awning, Emily caught a glimpse of wooden boxes stacked in neat rows. The two strange figures eased one of them out. The box was about six feet long, made from rough, unpainted planks. It seemed heavy, but the two creatures bore it as though it were no weight at all. They carried it up the steps and into the Hall.

The horseman watched them, absolutely motionless; then he felt in his pockets and pulled out what appeared to be a couple of heavy purses. He tossed one of them up and down in his palm; even from where she was hiding, Emily could hear the clinking of coins. The drivers of the two carts must ha
ve heard the sound as well. Emil
y watched them as they clambered down from their seats, and came hurrying across to where the horseman sat. He laughed. He tossed one of the purses into the mud, then a second; then, reaching again into his pockets, a third and fourth. The drivers scrabbled after them; the horseman waited, then threw out a fifth purse, and lolled in his saddle as the drivers began to fight. At length, growing bored, he rode across and separated the brawlers with his riding crop. He gestured them away. The two drivers picked themselves up, and turned to withdraw. As they did so,
Emily
saw their faces for the first time. She recognised them at once. They were labourers from Woodton, Jonas Brockman and Elijah, his son. She had often seen them in her father's fields.

Emily pressed her face closer to the crack in the wall. As she did so, the horseman turned and sniffed the air. The two servants, reappearing from the Hall, also paused and seemed to breathe in. Their eyes, which before had seemed nothing but sockets, now began to gleam like cats' from the dark. They knew she was there
...
they knew where she was. She saw the horseman smile. He was staring
at
her, where she Say hidden behind the wall. Emily was certain he would cross to her - she would be discovered, exposed. But the horseman did nothing. Instead, still smiling, he turned his back on her again. The servants resumed their work. The Brockmans, oblivious to her presence, were counting out their gold.

Emily jumped to her feet. She began to run as fast as she could. No one followed her and she reached the village without being stopped. But even there the terror remained, a scent from the Hall she could not wash away.

That night, they told each other everything. When they had finished, Robert hugged Emily as tightly as he could. Her warmth, and her softness against his skin comforted him. He kissed her as his mother always used to kiss him, when he had been frightened by dreams. It made him feel better. 'It will be all right,' he whispered. And he believed it. For some reason he did not understand, the touch of Emily's lips against his own had dissolved all his fears. 'It
will
be all right,' he repeated. Stroking the blonde curls of Emily's hair, he hugged her tighter. Then he kissed her again.

'Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib'd In one place;

for where we are is Hell.'

Christopher Marlowe,
Doctor Faustus

‘
I

he next morning, Captain Foxe climbed the front steps to Wolverton Hall. Behind him was Sergeant Everard and four militiamen. All six were armed; all carried lanterns. All six, more than fifteen years before, had been part of an investigation which had searched every room of the place.

Captain Foxe paused as he walked inside; then he left the rectangle of light cast by the open door, and entered the dark beyond it. He paused again, and called out loudly. His voice barely echoed, swallowed by the dampness he could feel against his skin. He swung his lantern around. Doorways waited to the left and to the right; behind him rose the stairway which his son had recently climbed. The rooms beyond were as thick with blackness as the air was with the damp.

Captain Foxe allocated his men to search various rooms - two upstairs, two beyond the doorway to the left of the hall. He watched them salute and set off; then he turned to Sergeant Everard. 'And we shall take the right.'

'Yes, sir.' Sergeant Everard paused, and tried to stare beyond the door. 'Is that not where the entrance to the cellars may be found?'

'As
I
recall it,' answered Captain Foxe, walking into the room beyond the hall. He did not meet his Sergeant's eye - but he did not need to. It was Everard who had been beside him fifteen years before. They both knew exactly where the cellars' entrance lay.

They began to make their way through the darkness of the house. Captain Foxe felt dread stirring like a worm in his guts, and he prayed, knowing that he was mortal and ripe to be food for worms of all kinds. Yet there was nothing to be found; no sign of anyone; and
Captain Foxe could not explain his fear, for - picking his way across the rubble, brushing aside the clumps of slimy weeds - it seemed certain he had been wrong, and there was no one there at all. What living thing could endure in such a place? He shuddered, then stumbled forward into a further room where he swung the lantern about him. Still nothing - only the silence, and the darkness, and the cold. The worms in his stomach were breeding faster now. He paused for a moment, almost tempted to turn and head back. And then, from the room ahead, he caught the flickering of a light.

He called out. . .

No answer.

He summoned Everard. They both drew their swords, then crossed into the room. It had once been a library, and books were still lined in shelves along the wall; but mould in silver patches had spread across their spines, and the stench of rotting paper hung dank in the air. A chair, with a table beside it, was stationed at the far end of the room. It was impossible to see who might be sitting in it, for the back was turned so that
it
faced the wall. On the table, a lamp was flickering. Books and parchments were strewn across the floor.

Captain Foxe took a step forward. As he did so, he heard the sound of a page being turned.

At once, he froze. 'Who is there?' he called out. 'Who are you?'

There was silence, then a voice spoke. Its accent was foreign; and yet it was not that which explained the strangeness of its effect, but rather its tone, which was at once enchanting and immeasurably cold, so that it seemed to Captain Foxe like a shard of silver cutting pure through the air, pure and icy, deep into his mind. ' "Divinity, adieu!" ' whispered the voice. ' "These metaphysics of magicians. And necromantic books are heavenly; Lines, circles, scenes, letters, and characters
’