The sheer racket from the panicking guests made Derriman want to block out the noise by putting his hands over his ears, but then a thought reared up in his mind: Lord Edgar! Was he safe?
Despite his lordship’s dire medical condition, the proud old man had always treated Derriman with respect, no matter how much the castle manager nervously stuttered and stammered in his presence.
The VIP delegates had been enjoying pre-supper cocktails in Comraich’s highest, most sumptuous drawing room when the first explosion had occurred. He and Sir Victor had hastened to the explosion’s source and had found a small inferno raging in the chapel.
Sir Victor had sent Derriman back to the seriously startled Inner Court guests to reassure them and to take them down to the ground floor for safety’s sake, while he, Haelstrom went off to tell his lordship of the fire. So Lord Edgar should have had both Haelstrom and Byrone to take care of him.
But then had come other explosions, seemingly from all over the castle, and the VIPs had insisted they leave Comraich immediately, not just because of the danger, but because they did not want to be around when the emergency services or, worse still, the media arrived. If the fire truly took hold, then the blazing castle would be seen for miles around, and although it prided itself on its self-sufficiency, Comraich’s own fire-fighters were hardly equipped to deal with a conflagration such as this.
Derriman and the VIPs had soon become caught up in the chaos, confusion and panic on the lower floors. It seemed every guest and staff member was headed for the main staircase, where their evacuation had soon become a shambles. He could only hope and pray Haelstrom had reached Lord Edgar in time to bring his lordship down by the tower stairway.
The image of that spiral staircase brought another reminder: The Boy would be alone in his rooms at the top of that tower. My God, has anyone thought of him? Leaping to his feet, the tall stooped man ran the palm of his hand across his forehead, and the sticking plaster that was still there. Should he leave The Boy to die in the fire?
Derriman had never considered himself a particularly good man, but he certainly couldn’t let the poor young man die alone in his room. Of course, he might already be dead, but what if Derriman could have saved him but failed to do so? The image made him shudder. He would never forgive himself. It might be stupid and it might be a pointless thing to do, but there was only one right thing to do. He’d done his best to get the Inner Court members out, and now it was time to come to the aid of someone unable to help himself, even if it meant sacrificing his own life.
Derriman turned away from the mayhem, from the ugly, self-serving crowd, and started to run down the long marble hall towards the tower stairway.
88
Delphine let out a small scream as a rat brushed by her foot. Ash turned at the sound, taking care not to blind the others with his powerful torch.
‘Rats,’ he said calmly, ‘deserting the sinking ship. They won’t harm you – unless you block their way.’
There were more of the creatures running and slithering over the steps nearer to the centre stonework.
‘It’ll probably be worse the further down we go. But don’t be afraid – they’re as scared as we are and only want to get out of the burning building without the likes of us getting in the way.’
The smoke was curling up the spiral staircase, becoming thicker the nearer they got to the ground floor.
‘Just try not to slip,’ he warned Delphine and the monk-like figure of Louis. Ash noted with alarm that the black orbs travelling within the smoke were multiplying. Some of them were shimmering, trying to manifest themselves into more human form. He realized now it was the spirits who had ruined his surveillance equipment, not any malicious humans. He’d half suspected that Nurse Krantz had been the culprit. A woman scorned, and all that.
Ash came to a halt once again: he really didn’t like these twisting shapes inside the flowing, curling smoke. He hoped neither Louis nor Delphine could see them yet.
‘Are you all right, Louis?’ he asked patiently.
The hooded head nodded just once and the wet scarf over his mouth muted his reply. ‘I’m okay, but is it much further?’
‘Almost at the ground floor, I think. A couple more turns.’ He almost added ‘your highness’, but stopped himself in time.
They continued their downward journey, with vermin accompanying them all the way. They came to a stop when they finally reached the ground-floor landing, while the rodents continued their journey down into the castle’s deeper regions. Smoke swirled down the long, marble-floored corridor, billowing up to blacken the high, moulded ceiling, while below was all hazy smog. Through the wide entrances to the rooms along the hallway they could see the glow from fires within. Tapestries, timbers, drapery, furniture and the carpet on the broad staircase – all were ablaze. At the far end of the corridor they could make out human figures rushing through the unsettling murk of smoke, while flames shot out from other open doorways.
The investigator grabbed Delphine’s arm and she winced at his urgent strength. ‘Are there any other exits on this floor?’ he shouted above the din. ‘Small access doors, windows, anything we can escape by?’
She shook her head emphatically, one arm pulling the hooded figure of Louis close to her. ‘All the windows are barred. There are side exits, but they’re always kept locked and I don’t have keys!’
Christ, Health and Safety would love this place, thought Ash. ‘Let’s see what lies further down. Those people must be heading somewhere.’
Taking Delphine by the elbow, he let her hold on to Louis, who was shaking, his shoulders hunched. Ash hurried them along, conscious of the fact that within minutes the whole of the entrance lobby would be completely consumed by fire.
Delphine fell and the investigator knelt on the floor to help her up while Louis pulled beneath her shoulder to assist. With a feeling of deep dread, Ash felt the marble under his knee and realized the floor was warm. He laid a flat hand against it and it felt warmer still. God only knew what was happening in the medical unit below.
On their feet once more, all three moved forward as before, dodging flames that spat from doorways on either side as if there were dragons within. Ash kept to the centre so they were out of reach. It seemed foolhardy to be racing towards the conflagration at the far end of the hall instead of away from it, but it seemed to be their only option. He expected another explosion at any moment, but mercifully none came.
Briefly, he wondered who might be responsible for the bombing. Not an official body like the intelligence services or the military, surely? Too many innocent people had died. No, it had to be someone with both insider knowledge and a grudge against the Inner Court. But then, how could someone like that gain entry into a place so heavily and proficiently protected by enough well-armed guards to fight off a small army? Maybe this was the final act of some ongoing vendetta: the discovery and destruction of this prestigious inner sanctum.
He was certain he was overlooking something obvious, but for the time being he was more concerned with how they could escape from the castle than with who was trying to destroy it.
They had passed the larger lift and were nearing the older, destroyed one. Just before it was the wide entrance to the armoury. Ash came to a skidding halt, holding back his companions as he did so.
Nearly tumbling to an untidy heap, but supported by the investigator’s waning strength, they looked questioningly up into Ash’s deep blue eyes, which was all they could see of his face because of the mask he wore. By the look of those eyes, they could see he was perplexed, thinking of something beyond the mayhem before them.
‘Stay behind me,’ he told them, pulling down the now-dry muffler from his mouth to be heard clearly.
‘David, where are you—?’
But he’d left them and cautiously approached the wide entrance ahead.
Ash had felt it just in time – a vibration that he remembered from before when he’d peeked into the armoury while waiting for the
lift. It grew stronger the closer he came to the room. If the display area had felt dangerous before, his instinct was telling him it was even more so now.
He stood to one side of the armoury entrance, using the stone wall as a shield, then gingerly edged his head round to look into the room.
The fine arrangement of weaponry was quivering on the fixtures, the clacking and thrumming rising and growing louder at his presence. A ten-inch Dragoon pistol fell to the floor with a heavy clump. A circular array of short-bladed sabres fairly rattled in their mounts. A long pike with a vicious-looking metal point toppled and bounced against the hard floor. It was as though an immensely powerful magnetic field were ripping them from the walls. From the corner of his eye, he saw an object hurtling towards him and he pulled back just in time as a thick-bladed knife broke free of its mount and whisked past his head to clang against the opposite wall, chipping out a piece of stone before bouncing back to the floor.
Delphine and Louis were now right behind him. He held out an arm to prevent them venturing further and they stared in awe as the archaic weaponry rattled against the walls.
The investigator slowly pushed his companions back, and the thrumming sound grew softer the further the trio backed off.
‘What is it, David?’ Delphine asked. ‘What’s making them vibrate like that?’
‘You might call it poltergeist activity, but I think it’s stronger than that,’ he told her. ‘My guess is that it’s telluric energy – “earth energy” is another name for it. Its tremor comes from a force beneath us, although I do seem to have some weird attraction for it. God knows why: maybe I’m a trigger of some kind. Let’s just say my presence induces paranormal agitation. It’s a bit complicated. I’ll try and explain if . . .’ He realized he’d chosen a bad word. ‘When we get out of here. But there’s no chance of getting past this entrance without being killed. We’ll have to find another way out.’
Suddenly Louis raised a loose-robed arm and pointed towards the entrance lobby. Ash followed his direction and saw someone emerging from the smoke-haze which now filled the whole area.
‘Mr Ash!’ a voice called. ‘Dr Wyatt!’
‘I think it’s Andrew Derriman,’ said Delphine, trying desperately not to choke on the smoke fumes by taking in shallow breaths.
Ash saw that Delphine was right. The general manager of Comraich was rushing towards them – and he was going to pass by the armoury!
‘Derriman, stop!’ Ash shouted as loudly as he could, holding up a hand of warning.
But Derriman was either too overwrought or too confused to heed the investigator’s words.
He was only just past the entrance to the large armoury room when an ancient iron axe tore itself from the wall and flew straight at him as if hurled by a powerful warrior. Its edge, blunted with age but an effective weapon nevertheless, buried itself in the side of his head.
Ash watched horrified as Derriman staggered and turned, yet did not quite fall. He looked directly at Ash with a puzzled, almost comical expression, as if to ask what had just happened. Then the gash in his skull began to bleed, and more antique weaponry flew at him from every part of the room. He only had time to utter a short but sharp shriek before he toppled to the floor, his body a grotesque pin-cushion of blades, swords, spears, double-edged claymores and other death-dealing weapons of old, as brutally effective now as they had been centuries before.
But it was only when an iron mace, its round head embedded with inch-long spikes, smashed into his face that death finally relieved his agony.
89
Aribert Heim, the evil Nazi doctor who had caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands in the abhorrent Austrian concentration camp Mauthausen, left his suite on the castle’s fourth floor. He’d flinched each time another bomb had gone off somewhere in the building, hiding in the rooms which, until so recently, he’d shared with his Nazi colleague Alois Brunner.
Strangely, although pleased to have the place to himself, last night Heim had felt very alone. And afraid.
Heim had decided to stay in bed until the fuss was over, pressing his hands hard against his ears to block out the screams and shouts, the pounding of running feet. He would have been content to lie there all night if necessary, with his bedclothes pulled over his head, hands clamped against his ears, but there was a bigger problem. Even with the door closed and his head beneath the sheets, the acrid smell of smoke reached him.
The castle itself was burning.
Hastily clambering into his dressing gown and slippers, he warily stepped out into the corridor and walked towards the source of the most calamitous sound: the fourth-floor landing. He reached the rail above the broad, curving staircase, and peered over to see guests and staff alike struggling against one another to descend, even though great plumes of smoke billowed up from below. Down there, at the very bottom of the oval staircase, he could see an enormous flickering orange glow, which suggested the fire had taken hold. Why were these stupid people running in that direction?
Like lemmings they fled, not away from the fire but directly towards it.
Perhaps there was an exit the conflagration had not yet touched. Certainly, the front doors had to be caught in the blaze. A side door, then. There should be one through the offices behind the receptionists’ counter. But he was definitely not going to join the throng below, tied in one huge knot of arms and legs.
Even the Jews had gone to their deaths peacefully, and the only sound that had come then, muted through the gas-ovens’ metal doors, was the wailing. That dreadful sound came to his ears now, even over the screams and bellows of distress as people below fought each other to get clear of the collapsed heap of humanity spreading from the stairway and swelling out into the lobby like a spillage of oil.
But he, Aribert Heim, would not lose his dignity by joining them, frightened though he was. No, the best way to avoid a panicking crowd was to walk away, find another escape route. This is what he would do. This would show the Dummköpfe the honourable way to act by using his brain, which was still sharp, even if his body was a little feeble. He would escape the fire as he had escaped the Allies.
The smoke was growing thicker on the fourth floor as he returned the way he’d come, so much so that a dense layer of blackness permeated the ceiling, its languid, wafting underbelly drifting halfway down the walls. He tried to control his strained coughing by stripping off his dressing gown and tossing it over his head and shoulders, leaving him in blue-striped pyjamas, his body bent over to avoid the smoke. Meanwhile, his eyes were streaming tears, though they were caused by the astringent fumes and not apprehension or terror. He squinted up at the darkened smoke-filled ceiling, where he was sure he could see shapes like little pitch-black balls, some of them pulsating.
And something much worse.
Heim uttered a small cry as he quickly pulled the dressing gown back over his head, drawing in stinging fumes as he was forced to take a deeper breath. He was sure the smoke was forming into hands, clawing hands of no real substance, which tried to reach down to him. Just my imagination, his once-clinical mind told him in an effort to banish the fear. But he was quite clear about the images his blurry eyes had taken in. Stumbling on, he passed the door to his suite, but did not linger: it would be foolish to take shelter inside. Besides, he’d another goal in mind.
After falling once, feeling inexplicably frail, and having picked himself up, he finally arrived at the destination he’d been aiming for as the corridor abruptly widened into an ornate hallway. He’d reached the grand lift.
With some trepidation, Heim pressed the call button to summon the roomy lift to him, wondering if anyone else had thought to use this particular method of reaching the ground floor. Heim was satisfied the only danger lay at the front part of the castle, where he had seen for himself the flickering orange glow in the swirling fog of smoke near the bottom of the oval staircase. There must surely be other stairways towards the back of the building.
His tired old legs could barely s
upport his weight these days, and tonight – probably because of all the excitement and dread of late – they were more exhausted than ever. He wouldn’t be able to walk down some ancient stone stairway; more likely fall down it and break his neck.
Anxiously, the German pushed the call button again and waited impatiently for the ping that would tell him the lift had arrived.
Meanwhile, the smoke around him grew progressively heavier. He doubled up almost to his knees, a raw cough raking his throat. There was pressure on his chest. He waited. And waited.
There were shadows all around him and several were almost tangible. He tried to ignore them, but held the dressing gown tightly around his head, peeking out occasionally to check that the lift hadn’t arrived unheard. When at last it came, he rushed to the slowly opening doors, thrusting his fingers through them in a vain effort to hasten the process. But the doors took their own time and in his efforts, his dressing gown slipped down his back to the floor.
He tried to squeeze through the opening sideways, and as he did so he ripped a button off his blue-striped pyjama jacket; it sprang across the hallway to land on the floor by a giltwood settee.
He practically stumbled into the capacious car, coughing and spluttering and wiping tears from his eyes. He barely registered the lift doors closing far more rapidly than they had opened, almost slamming shut.
The smoke haze inside the lift was like heavy smog. When his eyes adjusted themselves, although still somewhat blurred, he realized he was not alone.
In fact, the lift was crowded.
Crowded with people, all of whom had their backs to him. And oddly, they all, as far as he could tell in the gloom, wore the same blue-striped pyjamas as he.