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B
etween them, Mr. Kilgraw, Mr. Helliwell and Miss Pedicure had given him all the clues he could have asked for. David played back what they had said.

Well, David had just seen the biggest needle of all—a stone pillar that had made him think of Cleopatra’s Needle on the Thames River. And what direction had that come from? Egypt!

And then Miss Pedicure:
It was taken from my mummy . . .

She wasn’t talking about her mother, of course. The statuette had been buried with her, part of an Egyptian mummy.

That was where he was going now. The head of a giant ram watched him without interest as he plunged into the Egyptian rooms of the museum. The statuette would be somewhere here—he was certain. How could he have wasted so much time? If only he’d stopped and thought first . . .

The first room he entered was filled with more sarcophagi—the stone coffins that contained the mummies. There were about a dozen of them on display, brightly colored and strangely cheerful. It was as if the Ancient Egyptians had chosen to gift wrap their dead. Some of the cases were open, and glancing inside, David saw hunched, shriveled-up figures in dirty gray bandages. Strange to think that Miss Pedicure had once looked like that—although when it was raining and she was in a bad mood, she sometimes still did.

David hurried into the next room. What he was looking for would be displayed separately, in one of the side cases. How much time did he have left? There were still hundreds of objects on display all around him. His eyes raced past dolls, toys, mummified cats and snakes, jugs, cups, jewelry . . . and then he found it! It was right in front of him, a blue figure about the size of his hand, lying on its back as if sunbathing. David rested his hand on the glass and stared at the little doll, at its black hair, thin face and tapered waist. He recognized Miss Pedicure at once. The statue was labeled:

It was incredible. The English and history teacher had hardly changed in three thousand years. She was even carrying the same handbag.

Somebody coughed at the end of the gallery and David froze. But it was only another guard, making for a side room and an early-twenty-first-century cup of tea. He tilted his watch. It was just after eleven. He had more time than he thought. He lifted the cover of the glass case and took out the statuette.

The Unholy Grail was his.

 

 

At half past eleven, David climbed the escalator at the Baker Street subway station and emerged into the street. He had preferred to take the train back to Regent’s Park, losing himself in the crowds underground. It was only a ten-minute walk back to the telephone booth. The statuette was safely in his pocket. He had plenty of time.

It was a cool evening with a touch of drizzle in the breeze. David wondered where Vincent might be now. The other boy was probably still in the British Museum, desperately searching for the statue. Even if he did work out the puzzle and find the display case, he was too late. It was too bad. But the best man had won.

A motorcyclist accelerated through a puddle, sending the water in a spray that just missed David. On the other side of the road, a bus without passengers rumbled through a yellow light and turned toward the West End. David continued on past Madame Tussauds. His father had taken him to the famous waxworks museum once, but it hadn’t been a successful trip. “Not enough bankers!” Mr. Eliot had exclaimed, and had left without even visiting the Chamber of Horrors. The long, windowless building was silent. The pavement outside, crowded with tourists and ice-cream vendors by day, was empty, glistening under the streetlights.

David felt a gust of cold air tug at the collar of his shirt. Behind him he heard the sound of splintering wood. He thought nothing of it. But unconsciously he quickened his pace.

The road continued up to a set of traffic lights. This was where Regent’s Park began—David could see it in the distance, a seemingly endless black space. He glanced behind him. Although the pavement had been empty before, there was now a single figure, staggering about as if drunk. It was a man, wearing some sort of uniform and boots. He was weaving small circles on the pavement, his arms outstretched, his feet jerking into the air. It was as if he had never walked before, as if he were trying to get his balance.

David turned the corner, leaving the drunk—if that was what he was—behind. He was beginning to feel uneasy but he still didn’t know why.

The path he was following crossed a main road and then continued over a humpback bridge. Suddenly he was out of the hubbub of London. The darkness and emptiness of Regent’s Park was all around him, enclosing him in its ancient arms. Somewhere a dog barked in the night.

“Just slow down . . .”

He muttered the words to himself, somehow relieved to hear the sound of his own voice. Once again he looked at his watch. A quarter to twelve. Plenty of time. How had he allowed one crazy drunk to spook him like this? Smiling, he looked back over his shoulder.

The smile died on his lips.

The man had followed him into the park. He was standing on the bridge now, lit by a lamp directly above him. In the last few minutes he had learned how to walk properly and he was standing at attention, his eyes glittering in the light. He was much closer and David could see him clearly—the brown boots, the belt, the strap running across his chest. He wasn’t wearing a uniform but a sort of brown suit, the pants ballooning out at the thighs. David recognized him instantly. He would have known even without the black swastika on the red-and-white armband on the man’s right arm. How could he fail to recognize the thin black hair sweeping down over the pale face and, of course, the famous mustache?

Adolf Hitler!

Or at least, Adolf Hitler’s waxwork.

David remembered the gust of cold air he had felt. There was always a touch of coldness in the air when black magic was being performed and the blacker the spell the more intense the coldness. He had felt it but he had ignored it. And the splintering sound! The creature must have broken the door to get out. Who could have animated it? Vincent? David stared at the Hitler waxwork, feeling sick. And even as he backed away, a horrible thought occurred to him. Hitler had been first out of Madame Tussauds. But was he alone?

The question was answered a second later. The Hitler waxwork jerked forward, his legs jackknifing in the air. Behind him, two more figures appeared, rising like zombies over the top of the humpback bridge. David didn’t wait to see who they might be. Three words were echoing in his mind.

He tried to remember who was exhibited in that part of Madame Tussauds. He had a nasty feeling he might be meeting them at any moment.

David turned and ran. But it was only now that he saw how carefully the trap had been laid. Three more waxworks had made their way into the park and were approaching him from the other direction. One was dressed only in a dirty white nightgown and black clogs. It was carrying something in its hands. David stared. It was a victim of the French Revolution. It was carrying its head! Behind it came two short men in prison uniforms. David didn’t recognize either of them—but they had recognized him. Their eyes seemed to light up as they shuffled forward, arms outstretched. David saw a gate in the fence, half open. He ran through it and into the inner heart of the park.

He found himself on a patch of lawn with a set of tennis courts to one side and an unpleasant, stagnant pool on the other. The field was dotted with trees and he made for the nearest one, grateful at least that it was a dark night. But even as he ran, the clouds parted and a huge moon broke through like a searchlight. Was that part of the magic too? Was Vincent even controlling the weather?

In the white, ghostly light, the whole park had changed. It was like something out of a bad dream. Everything was black, white and gray. The Hitler waxwork had already reached the gate and passed through with the two prisoners. The French Revolution victim had been left behind. This waxwork had tripped over a tree root and lost its head, and although the head was shouting “Over here!” the rest of the body hadn’t found it yet.

But that was the only good news.

Another half-dozen waxworks had somehow found their way to the park and were spreading out, searching through the trees. There was a man dressed entirely in black with a doctor’s bag in one hand and a huge, curving knife in the other. Jack the Ripper! And right behind him came a lady in Victorian dress, horribly stabbed, blood (wax blood, David had to remind himself) pouring out of a gaping wound in her chest. She had to be one of the women he had killed. Behind him, David heard a dreadful gurgling sound and turned just in time to see a third, white-faced waxwork rising through the scummy surface of the pool. The models were everywhere. David crouched behind a tree, trying to lose himself in it. He was surrounded and knew that it was only a matter of time before he was found.

“There he is, Adolf!” somebody shouted.

A short, dark-haired man in a double-breasted suit had climbed out of a ditch, an ugly scar twisting down his wax cheek. It was a face that David recognized from old black-and-white films: the American gangster Al Capone. He walked quickly across the grass, then brought his hands up in front of his chest. There was a metallic click. Capone was holding a machine gun. He had just loaded it.

With his breath rasping in his throat, David left the cover of the tree and broke into a run. The wax models were all around him, some like sleepwalkers, others more like clockwork toys as they scuttled forward. He felt horribly exposed out in the moonlight but he had no choice. He had to find the telephone booth, but where was it? He made a quick calculation and started forward, then dived to the ground as a spray of machine-gun bullets sliced through the air, barely an inch above his head. Al Capone had fired at him. And somehow David knew that the bullets were the one thing there that weren’t made of wax.

Someone stepped out in front of him, blocking his way. It was a small man in an old-fashioned wing-collar shirt and a stylish gray suit. He had wispy, ginger hair and a small mustache. His eyes twinkled behind round, wire-framed glasses. The man held up the palms of his hands. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m a doctor.”

“A doctor?” David panted.

“Yes. Dr. Crippen!”

The man had pulled out a vicious-looking hypodermic syringe. David yelled and lashed out with his fist, catching the little man straight on the nose. He felt his fist sink into the soft wax, and when he jerked it back, he had left a round imprint inside the figure’s head. David ran. Behind him he could hear Hitler shouting out orders in manic German. Jack the Ripper was lumbering up behind him with the hideous knife raised above his head.

Meanwhile, another man, this one in gleaming silver armor, had just come in through the open gate. He had long black hair, tied behind his neck, and two of the cruelest eyes David had ever seen. Swords and daggers, at least a dozen of them, protruded from him in every direction. It was Attila the Hun, one of the most blood-thirsty warriors in history, and David had no doubt whose blood he was thirsting for now.

The grass curved around behind the tennis courts, bordered on the edge by a thicket of trees and shrubs. David plunged into the shadows, glad to be out of the glare of the moon. The darkness seemed to confuse the waxworks because they hung back, one or two of them bumping into each other, almost as if they were afraid to cross the line from light into dark. There was an iron fence straight ahead of him. David ran over to it, grabbing it with both hands.

His heart was thudding madly in his chest and he stopped to catch his breath and give himself time to think. They hadn’t gotten him yet! There was still time to reach the telephone booth and make his way back to Groosham Grange. David jerked one hand down to his pants pocket. The statuette was still there.

Vincent! He breathed the name through clenched teeth. This had to be Vincent’s work. He must somehow have followed David from the museum and conjured up the spell as he walked past Madame Tussauds. Of course, he had cheated. Vincent had broken the single rule of the contest—not to use magic—and the worst of it was that there was nothing David could do. What spell could he use to destroy the waxworks? And if he used magic, wouldn’t he be disqualifying himself?

David was gripping the fence so hard that the metal bit into his hands. He looked over the top, into the next enclosure, and for the first time since he had reached the park, he felt a surge of hope. The telephone booth was in sight—and it was unguarded. It was only ten to twelve. All he had to do was climb the fence and he would be home free!

He took one last look back. With Hitler at the head of them, just about all the waxworks were congregating on the fence, a semicircle that had already begun to close in. Only two of the waxworks had stayed behind: the drowned man and the Victorian woman. They had found the Frenchman’s lost head and, despite his protests, were playing tennis with it on one of the courts. Jack the Ripper was edging forward with a diabolical smile, his wax lips parted to reveal two jagged lines of wax teeth. Dr. Crippen had two more syringes and a surgical knife. Al Capone was behind him, trying to elbow his way past. David wasn’t sure if their glass eyes could make him out in the shadows. But slowly they were heading toward him.

It was time to go. He swung around, preparing to heave himself over the fence. Too late. He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. Something hit him full in the face and he was thrown back, off his feet. For a moment the world spun and then his shoulders hit the earth and all his breath was punched out of him.

“It’s all right, everyone! I’ve got him! Hurry! Come quickly!”