‘I think it’s getting rather late to be playing detectives,’ he remarked. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you home.’
‘Promise me you won’t say anything to my mother,’ Dorian pleaded.
‘Only if you promise not to wander around the forest on your own again at night; not until we know what happened to Hannah . . .’
They looked at each other.
‘It’s a deal.’
Lazarus shook Dorian’s hand like a good businessman. Then, smiling enigmatically, the toymaker walked over to a cupboard and pulled out a wooden box. He handed it to Dorian.
‘What is it?’ asked the boy, intrigued.
‘A surprise. Open it.’
Dorian opened the box. In the lamplight he saw a silvery figure the size of his hand. Dorian looked at Lazarus in astonishment.
‘Let me show you how it works.’
Lazarus took the figure and placed it on the table. He pressed it lightly with his fingers and the figure unfolded, revealing its shape. An angel, identical to the one Dorian had seen earlier.
‘You won’t be frightened of it if it’s that size, will you?’
Dorian shook his head enthusiastically.
‘Then this will be your guardian angel. To protect you from the shadows . . .’
Lazarus escorted Dorian through the forest, talking to him along the way about the mysteries surrounding the making of automata and other mechanical marvels. To Dorian, the ingenuity of their construction seemed akin to magic. Lazarus appeared to know everything and he had an answer for even the most obscure and difficult questions. By the time they reached the edge of the forest, Dorian was fascinated by his new friend, and proud of him.
‘You’ll remember our agreement, won’t you?’ Lazarus whispered. ‘No more nocturnal wanderings.’
Dorian shook his head and walked off towards the house. The toymaker didn’t leave until the boy was safely back in his bedroom, waving at him from the window. Lazarus waved back and turned towards the dark forest.
Lying on his bed, Dorian still had a smile on his face. All his anxieties seemed to have evaporated. He opened the box and pulled out the mechanical angel Lazarus had given him. It was perfect, eerily beautiful. The mechanism was highly intricate, the product of some arcane and enigmatic science. Dorian set the figure on the floor, at the foot of his bed, and turned off the light. Lazarus was a genius. That was the word. Dorian couldn’t get over how many times he’d heard the word being misused, when this time it fitted perfectly. At last he’d met a real genius.
Enthusiasm gave way to drowsiness. Finally Dorian surrendered to exhaustion and allowed his mind to take him on an adventure in which he, the heir to Lazarus’s knowledge, invented a machine that trapped shadows, thereby freeing the world from the clutches of an evil organisation.
Dorian was asleep when, all of a sudden, the figure slowly began to spread its wings. The angel tilted its head and raised an arm. Its black eyes, like two obsidian tears, shone in the dark.
8
THE UNKNOWN
Three days went by and still Irene hadn’t heard from Ismael. There was no sign of him in the village and his sailing boat wasn’t moored in the dock. A storm front was sweeping the coast of Normandy, with heavy clouds hanging over the bay in what looked like a blanket of ash.
In the drizzle, the village streets seemed devoid of life on the morning when Hannah made her final journey to the small hilltop graveyard north-east of Blue Bay. The procession followed her coffin to the gates of the enclosure, then, at the express wish of the family, the burial took place in private. The villagers wandered back home in silence, lost in memories of the dead girl.
As the congregation dispersed, Lazarus offered to drive Simone and her children back to Seaview. It was then that Irene sighted the lonely figure of Ismael, sitting on a tall crag above the cliffs that surrounded the graveyard, gazing out to sea. She exchanged a quick glance with her mother, who nodded and let her go. Lazarus’s car set off along the Saint Roland’s Chapel road while Irene walked up the path leading to the cliffs.
A storm was raging over the sea, igniting cauldrons of lightning on the horizon. Irene found Ismael sitting on a rock, his eyes fixed on the ocean.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he said.
She smiled and placed her fingers on his lips.
‘I’ve missed you too,’ she whispered.
On their way back to the village, Ismael told Irene where he’d been for the last three days. The moment he’d heard the news, he had sailed off in the Kyaneos trying to drown at sea the rage and sorrow that were consuming him. Eventually he moored his boat at the lighthouse island, seeking solitude. As the minutes turned into hours, a single thought invaded his mind: revenge. He would unmask whoever was responsible for the tragedy and make them pay. Dearly. The thirst for retribution seemed to be the only antidote that could lessen his pain.
None of the explanations given by the police satisfied him. He found the secrecy with which the local authorities had conducted the inquest suspicious, to say the least. The following day, just before sunrise, Ismael had decided to start his own investigation. Whatever the cost. That very night, Ismael forced entry and slipped unnoticed into Doctor Giraud’s forensic laboratory.
Listening with amazement – and a certain amount of disbelief – Irene heard how, after waiting for Giraud to leave, Ismael had entered the cold half-light of the room and, fighting against the thick stench of formalin, had rifled through the doctor’s filing cabinet, searching for the folder relating to Hannah.
For company he had two corpses he’d discovered there, both covered with sheets. They belonged to a couple of divers who’d had the misfortune to be caught by an underwater current in the strait of La Rochelle the previous evening, when they were trying to recover the cargo of a ship that had become stranded on the reef.
Pale as a porcelain doll, Irene listened to Ismael’s tale from beginning to end. Once the story moved outdoors, she gave a sigh of relief. Ismael had taken the folder to his boat and had spent two hours trying to wade his way through the jungle of Giraud’s jargon.
‘How did she die, then?’ Irene murmured.
Ismael looked straight into her eyes. His own shone strangely.
‘They don’t know how, but they do know why. According to the report, the official verdict is heart failure. But in his final analysis Giraud pointed out that, in his opinion, Hannah saw something in the forest that triggered a panic attack.’
Panic. The word echoed through Irene’s brain.
‘She was found on Sunday, wasn’t she?’ said Irene. ‘Something must have happened that day . . .’
Ismael nodded his head slowly. ‘Or the night before, maybe even the night before that . . .’
Irene looked puzzled.
‘Hannah spent Friday night at Cravenmoore. The following day, there was no sign of her either. No one saw her until they found her dead body in the woods,’ he added.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I went to the woods. There are marks. Broken branches. There seems to have been a fight. I think someone followed Hannah from the house.’
‘From Cravenmoore?’
Again, Ismael nodded.
‘We need to find out what happened the day before her disappearance. That might explain who or what might have followed her through the forest.’
‘And how can we do that? I mean the police . . .’ said Irene.
‘I can think of only one way.’
Irene held his gaze.
‘Tonight . . .’
As dusk fell, gaps opened in the bank of storm clouds moving in from the horizon. The shadows lengthened across the bay and the sky grew dark, revealing the almost perfect circle of the waxing moon. Its glow cast a pattern of shadows across Irene’s bedroom. For a moment she looked up from Alma Maltisse’s diary and gazed at the silvery sphere in the clouds. Soon the circle would be complete and a full moon would shine over Blue Bay, marking the night of the annual masked ball that Hann
ah had been looking forward to so much. Now, she would never attend it.
In a few minutes’ time Irene would go to her secret meeting with Ismael at the entrance to the forest. The idea of crossing the dark woodland and entering the hidden recesses of Cravenmoore seemed rash to her now. Crazy, in fact. On the other hand, she knew there was no way she could let Ismael down, just as she’d found it impossible not to back him up that afternoon when he’d announced his decision to go to Lazarus Jann’s house in search of answers regarding Hannah’s death. With her mind in a whirl, Irene returned to Alma Maltisse’s diary and took shelter in its pages.
I haven’t heard from him in two days. He left suddenly at midnight, convinced that, if he went away from me, the shadow would follow him. He wouldn’t tell me where he was going, but I suspect he has taken refuge on the island. He always used to go there in search of peace, and I have a feeling that this time he has returned there, like a terrified child, to confront his nightmare. But his absence has made me question everything I believed until now. The shadow hasn’t come back while he’s been gone. I’ve remained locked up in my room for three days, surrounded by lights, candles and oil lamps. There’s not a single dark corner anywhere and I’ve barely been able to sleep.
As I write these words, in the middle of the night, I can see the island and the lighthouse from my window. I can also see a light shining among the rocks. I know it’s him, alone, locked in the prison to which he has condemned himself. I can’t stay here another hour. If we must face this nightmare, I want us to do so together. And if we are to perish in the attempt, let’s do so as one.
I no longer care whether I live another day assailed by this madness. I’m convinced that the shadow will give us no respite. And I can’t bear the thought of another week like this one. My conscience is clear and my soul is at peace. The fear of the first days has turned into exhaustion and despair.
Tomorrow, while the villagers celebrate the masked ball in the main square, I’ll take a boat from the port and go in search of him. I don’t care what the consequences might be. I’m ready to accept them. I’ll be content just being by his side, ready to help him until the end.
Something inside me tells me that perhaps we still stand a small chance of regaining a normal, happy life. I would not ask for anything more . . .
The sound of a tiny pebble hitting the windowpane interrupted her reading. Irene closed the book and peered outside. Ismael was waiting for her. As she put on a thick cardigan, the moon slid behind the clouds.
Irene looked at her mother from the top of the stairs. Once again, Simone had fallen asleep in her favourite armchair, facing the French windows that overlooked the bay. A book lay in her lap and her reading glasses had slipped down until they were poised on the end of her nose. From a wooden radio in the corner of the room came the alarming strains of a detective drama. Irene tiptoed past the sleeping Simone, slipped into the kitchen and out into the backyard. The entire operation took only fifteen seconds.
Ismael was waiting for her outside, wearing a short leather jacket, his work trousers and a pair of boots that looked as if they’d been all the way to war and back. The night breeze brought a chill up from the bay and sent ripples through the swaying shadows of the forest.
Irene buttoned up her cardigan and nodded in response to Ismael’s silent query. Without saying a word, the two set off along the path that cut through the trees. The rustling of the leaves in the wind muffled the distant murmur of the waves breaking against the cliffs. Irene followed Ismael through the scrub. The face of the moon could only be seen in glimpses through the tangle of clouds riding high over the bay. Halfway there, Irene clutched Ismael’s hand and didn’t let go of it until the profile of Cravenmoore rose in front of them.
At a sign from him, they stopped and hid behind a large tree that had been mortally wounded by a bolt of lightning. For a few seconds, the moon broke through the curtain of clouds, its light sweeping across the façade of Cravenmoore. The fleeting vision sank into darkness again, and a rectangle of golden light appeared on the ground floor of the mansion. The silhouette of Lazarus Jann could be seen standing on the threshold of the main doorway. The toymaker closed the door behind him, then walked down the steps towards the path that ran along the edge of the woodland.
‘It’s Lazarus. Every night he goes for a walk in the forest,’ whispered Irene.
Ismael nodded, his eyes glued to the figure of the toymaker, who was walking towards the wood, and towards them. Irene gave Ismael a panicked look. The boy let out a sigh and looked anxiously around him. They could hear the sound of Lazarus’s footsteps approaching. Ismael grabbed Irene’s arm and pushed her inside the dead tree trunk.
‘Quickly!’ he whispered.
Inside, the trunk smelled strongly of damp and rot. Irene felt an unpleasant tingling in her stomach. Two metres above them, she noticed a line of tiny luminous points. Eyes. She was about to scream when Ismael clamped his hand over her mouth and held it firmly shut.
‘They’re only bats, for heaven’s sake! Don’t move!’ he hissed as Lazarus passed by.
Ismael wisely kept his gag in place until the footsteps of Cravenmoore’s master had faded away inside the forest. The invisible wings of the bats flapped in the dark. Irene felt the air wafting against her face and smelled the sour stench of the animals.
‘I thought you weren’t afraid of bats,’ said Ismael. ‘Come on.’
Irene followed him through the garden, heading towards the rear of the house. With every step she took, she kept telling herself that there was nobody inside and that the sensation of being watched was just a figment of her imagination.
They reached the wing connected to Lazarus’s old toy factory and stopped in front of the door of what looked like a workshop. Ismael took out a penknife and flicked open the blade. He then inserted the tip of the knife in the lock and carefully touched the mechanism inside.
‘Move to one side. I need more light.’
Irene stepped back and peered into the darkness that reigned inside the toy factory. The windowpanes were dulled from years of neglect and it was practically impossible to make out anything inside the building.
‘Come on, come on,’ Ismael whispered to himself as he continued to work on the lock.
Irene watched him and tried not to listen to the voice inside her warning that it was not a good idea to break into someone else’s property. Finally, the mechanism yielded with an almost inaudible click. A smile lit up Ismael’s face as the door opened a couple of centimetres.
‘Piece of cake,’ he said.
‘Hurry,’ said Irene. ‘Lazarus won’t be away for long.’
Ismael stepped inside. Taking a deep breath, Irene followed him. The atmosphere was thick with dust, which floated in the moonlight. The smell of various chemicals permeated the air. Ismael closed the door behind them and they both turned to face what remained of Lazarus Jann’s toy factory.
‘I can’t see a thing,’ mumbled Irene, repressing the urge to leave the place as soon as possible.
‘We have to wait for our eyes to get used to the dark. It won’t take long,’ Ismael replied without much conviction.
The seconds went by, yet the darkness cloaking Lazarus’s factory didn’t fade. Irene was trying to work out which direction to go in when she noticed a figure rising a few metres away.
A spasm of terror gripped her stomach.
‘Ismael, there’s someone here . . .’ she said, clutching his arm.
Ismael scanned the darkness and held his breath. A figure was suspended in the air, its arms outstretched. It was swinging slightly, like a pendulum, and its long hair snaked over its shoulders. With shaking hands, Ismael felt around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a box of matches. He lit one and for a second they were blinded by the flame. Irene held on to him tightly.
Seconds later, the vision that unfolded sent a wave of intense cold through Irene. Before her, swinging in the flickering light of the match, was her mother’s body, han
ging from the ceiling, her arms reaching out. Irene thought her knees would give away. Ismael held her.
‘Oh God . . .’
The figure slowly turned, revealing the other side of its features. Cables and cogs caught the faint light; the face was divided into two halves and only one of them was finished.
‘It’s a machine, only a machine,’ said Ismael, trying to calm Irene down.
Irene stared at the macabre replica of Simone. Her features. The colour of her eyes, her hair. Every mark on her skin, every line on her face had been reproduced on this expressionless, spine-chilling mask.
‘What’s going on here?’ she murmured.
Ismael pointed to what looked like a door leading into the main house at the other end of the workshop.
‘This way,’ he said, dragging Irene away from that place and the figure dangling in mid-air.
She followed him, still dazed by the apparition. A moment later, the match Ismael was holding went out and once again they were enveloped in darkness.
As soon as they reached the door leading into Cravenmoore, the carpet of shadow that had spread beneath their feet slowly unfurled behind them, becoming thicker and sliding along the walls like a liquid black shroud. The shadow slithered towards the workshop table and crawled over the white veil covering the mechanical angel Lazarus had shown Dorian. Slowly, the shadow slipped under the sheet and its vaporous mass penetrated the joints of the metal structure.
The shadow’s outline disappeared completely inside the metal body. A layer of frost spread over the mechanical creature, covering it with an icy cobweb. Then, slowly, the angel’s eyes opened in the dark, two burning coals glowing underneath the veil.
Little by little, the colossal figure rose and spread its wings. Then it placed both feet on the floor. Its claws gripped the wooden surface, leaving scratches as it went. A curl of smoke from the burnt-out match Ismael had thrown away spiralled into the bluish air. The angel walked through it and was soon lost in the darkness, following Ismael and Irene’s steps.