Second Night (13 page)

‘He really has thrown up!' exclaimed Melanie. ‘Poor Tris!'

‘He would!' said Julia cuttingly.

Jasper squeezed the fragments of the abandoned muffin between his fingers.

‘Now, come along Tris,' he said kindly. ‘You'll feel all the better for a little light refreshment. Loz, hold him down.'

‘Don't do this, Jas!' warned Sara, watching Mary.

Jasper grinned evilly. ‘Fresh and warm from Mary's knickers. Heh, heh, heh.'

The sticky brown lump circled closer and closer to Tristan's injured lip. He struggled frantically, wailing, ‘No, Jas! It makes me chuck up!'

The room went instantly quiet. Hayley giggled.

Julia hissed. ‘I've had enough of us getting banned!'

Mary wiped her hands and came round the side of the counter, her eyes fixed on Jasper. ‘Now what's going on here?' she demanded.

Jasper palmed the incriminating sugar papers and slipped them inside Tristan's jacket, whispering, ‘Sit down, Loz. Everybody stay calm.'

Tristan collapsed on the floor.

Mary glared down at Jasper. ‘What's the matter with that cake?'

He popped it into his mouth. ‘Nothing at all, Mary. It's quite delicious. Same again all round, please.'

‘And who's paying?'

Jasper prodded the prostrate body with a booted foot. ‘Tris is getting this one and he‘ll have currant cake, won't you Tris?'

Lauren whispered to Caz. ‘Does Jas know about democracy?'

‘No.'

‘But what did he mean about a password?'

‘It's for the air band fan site. Strictly members only.'

‘Does that include me now?'

Caz shrugged. ‘You put the sugar in your coffee.'

‘But he didn't tell me what it is.'

‘Yes, he did. It's Titan.'

CHAPTER 20

It was already more than a fortnight since Sir Jonas had telephoned Charles Fordham-Marshall. The month was rapidly passing by and he had yet to speak to Caz about the Guardians and the invitation to join their order. The perfect opportunity appeared to present itself one evening after supper when he found Caz in the library sitting cross-legged on the top of the ladder, with a book from the
Arms and Armour
section in his lap.

‘I thought I heard someone about,' he said, doing his best to appear a great deal more affable than he was feeling. ‘Can I help you with anything, Caspar?'

Caz kept his attention pointedly on what he was reading. ‘It's okay. I'm just checking something.'

‘Are you working in the armoury tonight?'

‘I might.'

‘Well, if there's anything you think I may have in the study, don't hesitate to ask.'

‘Thanks.'

Sir Jonas cleared his throat and coughed, at a loss to know how to engage this intractable potential initiate in the appropriate conversation.

‘Ah, was it my imagination, or was the Lady Sibylla rather more quiet than is usual this afternoon?' he asked, referring to their ride in the forest. ‘I thought she seemed to be handling Rúna perfectly well.' The blue eye peered up at Caz. ‘Has she mentioned anything to you about her little ceremony? I hope she came to no harm. She appeared rather frightened at the end of it. She is all right, isn't she?'

Caz looked down over the top of his book. ‘You've seen the footage.'

‘Have you checked it through for yourself?'

‘Of course.'

‘What have you concluded?'

‘When she's got something to say, she'll say it.'

‘Very well.' Sir Jonas looked around the vast room and tried another approach. ‘We should make a full inventory of all these books. It has never been done. But who could be trusted to do the work? Your mother has the required skills but she has more than enough to do, and I know of no other that I could bear to have in such close proximity to the study on a regular basis.'

‘What about Sara?'

‘Sara?' Sir Jonas frowned, doing his best to add a face to the name. ‘I'm dreadfully sorry, my boy, but I really cannot recall who it is that Sara might be.'

‘Jasper's girlfriend.'

‘Ah yes, the rather attractive young lady who accompanied Mister Jasper to the party last year. She has particularly colourful hair, if I remember correctly, and the most extraordinary green eyes. But does she have a talent for this sort of thing?'

‘She wants to be a librarian after university.'

‘Does she indeed!' He paced the room, giving the idea some thought before he came to a halt once more beside the ladder, clearing his throat hesitantly. ‘Caspar, I wonder if I could ask a rather personal but, in this case, pertinent question?'

‘What about?'

The blue eye blinked nervously. ‘I wonder, that is to say, is Miss Sara to be reliably considered as a firm candidate for the sharing of Mister Jasper's future plans?'

Caz grinned. ‘Do you mean are they going to stay together?'

Sir Jonas nodded. ‘You see, it might be rather difficult if she were to be working here and doing well, and then they were rather violently to disagree. I'm sure you follow my meaning.'

‘I don't think they have ever violently disagreed, as you put it.' Caz made no attempt to conceal his amusement at the old man's obvious discomfiture. ‘And to answer your question, I believe that Sara has always been the only candidate in Jas's future plans.'

‘Good heavens! And are such laudable sentiments equally reciprocated?'

‘I believe so.'

‘Really?' Sir Jonas was astonished. ‘But she is such a pretty girl!' He adjusted the eyepatch and took another turn around the room. ‘But would such work be suitably stimulating as to encourage her to stay? It would be dreadfully distressing to have her leave just when we have all become used to having her around.'

‘It will be all down to what you are prepared to pay her. She's stacking shelves in a supermarket right now to save for university.'

The old man's face brightened considerably. ‘So it may only be a question of cash, is that what you're saying?'

‘Probably.'

‘Well, in that case I am sure we can come to an agreement whereby she will feel suitably reimbursed and what's more, even appreciated.'

Caz closed the book and selected another.

Sir Jonas had no alternative but to take the hint. ‘I must not interrupt you further, my dear boy. I will write a little note to Sara asking her to visit me if you would be so kind as to undertake to deliver it a.s.a.p. Perhaps we could arrange to have tea together one afternoon next week.'

All was not lost, however. Years of study had accredited the Master of the Guardians with a sound measure of the acknowledged guile of his God, which he was adept at putting into practice whenever the situation demanded.

He crept back to the study and locked the door. He took the small key on its gold chain out of his waistcoat pocket and fitted it into the keyhole under the knot in the third panel on the right-hand side of the fireplace. The concealed door swung open. He tiptoed down the stairs to the vault at the foot of the tower and removed another, larger key from its hiding place. When he returned he left the door ajar and blew out all the candles except one. Then he sat down in the green club chair beside the fire, sipping at a glass of well-matured whisky and praying that the candidate would take the bait.

CHAPTER 21

It was Sir Jonas's great-great-grandfather, Sir Julius Pring, who had installed the original, much smaller vault at the base of the tower when he was preparing for the construction of the observatory. In turn, his grandson, Sir Saxon Pring, had greatly expanded the area following the inauguration of the Guardians' secret brotherhood. Under his auspices, the vault was extended into a whole complex of rooms tunnelled under the length and breadth of the house until they connected to the wine cellars that were situated primarily on the north side.

In their initial flush of confidence after the first of the great runes was won, the present-day Guardians had persuaded Sir Jonas not only to update the security arrangements, but also to include a much-needed heating and air-conditioning system that would serve the whole underground area. At first the old man had baulked at the enormous cost of the highly sophisticated equipment. But as he gradually allowed himself to acknowledge that his priceless collection of artefacts was finally secured, he began to enjoy the greatly improved atmosphere that kept the complex at the recommended museum temperature and humidity levels. Alan explained this in detail to Caz when he first showed him around the rooms that the Guardians had agreed the rune-winner should be allowed to access.

Entrance to the vault was achieved primarily through a small room in one of the wine cellars, which was always kept locked, and then by a big security door designed to respond only to individual code numbers and passkeys. It opened directly into the armoury and from there, by way of a fireproof door that could be completely sealed, into an arched central hallway.

The second entrance led down the staircase from the secret door in the study. Only the holders of the two keys were permitted to use it. Sir Jonas had one, Caz the other – although he rarely availed himself of the privilege, preferring to keep his activities as separate as possible from the old man's prying blue eye.

The armoury was closed off from the rest of the complex by heavily reinforced concrete walls, floor and ceiling. The overall temperature was kept fractionally higher to allow for working comfort levels and a complicated extraction system took care of fumes and dust. Another security door closed off the gunroom where the Pring family collection of rifles, shotguns and handguns was stored.

Caz had adopted the second of the two workbenches and made the most of every minute to learn from a master craftsman whenever Alan was working there at the same time. Sometimes they spent whole nights labouring at the forge in the wood yard, but everything that emerged from the fire was transferred to the armoury to be honed and polished and brought to perfection. No expense had been spared on the purchase of the fine tools for working silver and gold and precious gems. The bench-mounted grindstones and polishing mops, and the acid baths for etching complicated designs into metal, were the best that money could buy, as was the collection of punches and knives for leatherwork that was set up on a smaller bench next to a large floor-standing, industrial-sized sewing machine.

The antique treadle whetstone had become Caz's favourite tool. He loved the simplicity and the efficiency of the thing as he sat on the worn leather-covered seat, working the treadle to spin the stone set over the water bath that kept it constantly wet and cool.

Alan had explained: ‘The treadle turns the stone more slowly than the modern electric-powered type, so you've got more control over what you're doing. There's nothing better for putting a fine edge on swords and axes and spearheads.'

Working tirelessly to improve his skills, Caz asked John to give him all the garden tools to sharpen and Daisy made him responsible for keeping the kitchen knives in precision order. The spear was the only weapon that never needed any kind of maintenance. Whatever hand had forged it, and of what grade and type of metal, it defied analysis and spent the daylight hours locked in its case in the exhibition room.

Unaware that once more he was about to be irrevocably manoeuvred by what he deplored as Sir Jonas's most devious scheming, Caz let himself into the armoury through the room in the wine cellars. He left the heavy door to swing slowly shut behind him and threw the big power switch. The security light went out and all the main lights flooded on. An increase in the quiet background hum told him that the ventilation system was working. He checked the temperature and humidity levels. There were no changes, no problems, nothing to report. He looked at the clock on the wall. Lauren expected him sometime after eleven. There was still plenty of time to work on the chainmail before he had to leave.

Alan's bench looked as though he only just left it, called away perhaps by something he had seen on one of the security monitors. A double-headed axe without a shaft was clamped into one of the vices. An angle-grinder hung on a hook beside it. The lights on the music system were flickering. Caz pressed the button and laughed when he realised what Alan had been listening to.

‘Hey! He's playing my stuff at last! No more howling cowboys!'

By contrast, Jasper would never be impressed by his brother's choice of music. He told everybody, ‘Bro's a melancholy specialist rather than a seriously rocking man. He only plays stuff by dead people, or someone who sounds like they're just about to snuff it.'

The mail tunic hung on a dummy by the workbench. Caz ran his hands over the finely knitted, interlocking rings, loving how they moulded together and shone, but he would have to prepare a good many more before he could finish the sleeves. He had already coiled a long piece of steel wire around the length of the mandrel set in the jig on the bench. Selecting a hacksaw and a small hammer from the rack on the wall, he sat down and began sawing carefully through the individual coils. The rings were cut and the ends of the first one flattened, ready to punch the holes for the rivets, when he noticed that the door into the hallway had been left slightly open.

Someone's overridden the locking device,
he thought.
That's weird.

He laid down the tools and went to the hall to check the other doors. The archive room was locked, kept apart and out of bounds, as always. Alan never explained why. The door to the exhibition room was closed. He collected the spear from its case before he went to the security room to inspect the screens. The colt was looking out over his door in the stable yard. Alan's old army Jeep was gone from its usual parking place beside the wood shed at the back of the stable block. The section overseeing the labyrinth was shut down but there was nothing unusual about that.