Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Simon R. Green
Title Page
Copyright
Myths Ancient and Modern
Chapter One: A Perfectly Normal Couple
Chapter Two: A Celebration of Murder
Chapter Three: The Past is Always With Us
Chapter Four: Who’s There?
Chapter Five: Time to Go
Chapter Six: Death and the Demon
Chapter Seven: If These Walls Could Speak
Chapter Eight: Clean-up
A Selection of Recent Titles by Simon R. Green
The Ishmael Jones Mysteries
THE DARK SIDE OF THE ROAD *
DEAD MAN WALKING *
VERY IMPORTANT CORPSES *
DEATH SHALL COME *
INTO THE THINNEST OF AIR *
The Secret History Series
PROPERTY OF A LADY FAIRE
FROM A DROOD TO A KILL
DR. DOA
MOONBREAKER
The Nightside Series
JUST ANOTHER JUDGEMENT DAY
THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UNCANNY
A HARD DAY’S KNIGHT
THE BRIDE WORE BLACK LEATHER
* available from Severn House
INTO THE THINNEST OF AIR
An Ishmael Jones mystery
Simon R. Green
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
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This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2017 by Simon R. Green.
The right of Simon R. Green to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8757-3 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-873-6 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-935-0 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
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Myths Ancient and Modern
ANCIENT
Back in Victorian times a certain Elliot Tyrone ran a very popular inn, the Castle. It was set just outside the small Cornish community of Black Rock Towen, not far from the coast. A well-liked and eminently respectable local man, Tyrone had been the innkeeper for more than twelve years, providing good food and drink for the townspeople with the help of his wife and two teenage daughters. And most of all, everyone looked forward to Tyrone’s Christmas dinners – a special treat on that most festive of holidays. But one particular Christmas, in 1886, something happened.
Half the town knew someone attending the evening meal at the Castle that Christmas. But as the hour grew later and none of the guests returned home, their families became worried. They emerged from their houses to gather in the town square and discussed the matter with increasing concern. Finally, a deputation of the bravest souls marched through the freezing weather, up the long road to the inn.
When they arrived, lights were blazing from every window but there wasn’t a sound to be heard. No songs, no revelry, no conversation. The front door was standing open, spilling bright light out into the night. The townspeople went inside, and found their missing relatives still sitting at their Christmas dinner. Up and down the long table they sat slumped in their chairs, eyes wide and staring, some with their mouths still stretched in silent screams. All of them quite dead.
The townspeople found Elliot Tyrone in his kitchen, sitting on a chair, staring at nothing. There was no trace of his wife or daughters anywhere. When questioned, Tyrone freely confessed that he had poisoned the food in his special Christmas dinner and watched his guests die. When asked why, he said ‘The Voices. The Voices told me to.’ And that was all he had to say. The townspeople dragged him outside and hanged him from a nearby tree.
The Castle passed through many owners after that. But it was never as popular again.
MODERN
In 1963 an alien starship fell from the skies and crashed in an English field. All the crew but one died in the impact. The ship held together just long enough for its transformation machines to remake the sole survivor into a human being, right down to his DNA, so he could survive without being noticed until help came. But the machines had been damaged in the crash. And they wiped all of the survivor’s previous memories: of who and what he was before he was human. The newly-made man stumbled away from the crash site, dazed and confused.
NOW
When I finally came to myself after the crash, I was a long way away. I couldn’t even remember where the ship had crashed.
I have spent more than fifty years living among humanity, learning how to be human. I don’t remember anything else, and I don’t ever want to be anything else. I haven’t aged a day in all that time. So I have to keep moving, and moving on. These days I work for the mysterious secret group known as the Organization; on the cases they send me, protecting humanity from all manner of otherworldly threats. And in return they keep me safe and hidden from the overinquisitive eyes of this modern world.
Call me Ishmael. Ishmael Jones.
ONE
A Perfectly Normal Couple
I’ve spent most of my life working and living on my own. Not by choice, it’s just safer that way. For me, and for the occasional people who drift in and out of my unusual life. Because I’m not normal, I can never have a normal life with anyone; and because I don’t age, it isn’t fair to tie my life to people who do. And yet, despite all my experience and better instincts, I’m no longer alone. Penny Belcourt has become my partner in crimes, and my fellow solver of mysteries. We fell in love. For better or worse. Because, after all, I’m only human.
I was spending the evening at Penny’s London apartment when I first heard about Elliot Tyrone and the Castle Inn. Most of the time I live in small hotels and boarding houses. The kind of places where, as long as I pay in cash, people can be relied on not to remember my name or face. In today’s surveillance-crazy world, it’s not easy staying off the grid and under the radar. But I try to spend as much time with Penny as I can without putting either of us at risk.
Penny’s place lies right in the heart of London’s most fashionable area. Where more than one bedroom and room to swing a medium-sized cat can cost you a sizeable portion of the national debt. Penny inherited the apartment from her father, and decorated it to suit her personality: loud and colourful. The first time I walked through the door I was almost blinded by the shocking-pink carpets, the wall panels in peacock blue and Imperial Chinese yellow, and the assorted technicolour cushions. With its s
turdy furniture, packed bookshelves, assorted glass sculptures and a 1920s-style telephone, so she always knows where it is, the apartment has always seemed comfortable and inviting to me. Or perhaps I just feel that way because Penny lives there.
That evening we were snuggled together on the sofa, watching some documentary about wildlife in the Scottish Highlands. Scenery porn, mostly. A glamorous presence even when relaxing at home in a baggy sweater and faded jeans, Penny has a pretty face with a strong bone structure, a wide smile, dark flashing eyes, and a mass of dark hair piled up on top of her head. Add to that a trim figure and more nervous energy than is good for her, and it means I never have to worry whether my partner can keep up with me.
Whereas I am … quietly anonymous. I’ve put a lot of time and effort into learning how to be just another face in the crowd, so I can move unnoticed in the world.
Whenever Penny and I work together, it’s my job to spot the things that most people wouldn’t notice; and it’s her job to keep me honest, and human. We work well together, solving mysteries, identifying murderers … And, on occasion, dealing firmly with the odd monster.
‘Have you ever been to Cornwall?’ Penny said lazily.
‘Not officially,’ I said.
She turned her head, to give me plenty of time to know a disapproving look was on its way.
‘You know, you don’t have to keep secrets from me …’
‘Not everything I know is mine to tell.’
She sniffed loudly, and went back to watching the television. I looked at her thoughtfully. She had something on her mind. I could tell.
‘The scenery is lovely,’ said Penny.
‘It is.’
‘It’s good to get away,’ said Penny. ‘I’ve been thinking …’
‘Oh, that’s always dangerous,’ I said.
She punched me, companionably, in the arm. ‘The other day I received an invitation to attend the grand reopening of an old Cornish inn. Tyrone’s Castle, just outside Black Rock Towen.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, that name doesn’t sound at all ominous. Why have you been invited, exactly?’
Penny shrugged. ‘The people who’ve taken over the inn are old friends of my father, from way back when. Albert and Olivia Calvert. I think they really wanted to invite my father; but after they found out that he’d died recently, they very kindly extended the invitation to me. They sound quite keen to have me there for the first meal in their brand-new restaurant.’
‘Do you know the Calverts yourself?’
‘Barely. They used to visit my father at Belcourt Manor when I was just a child. I think I only remember them because they always made a point of bringing me a big tin of Quality Street. I remember the chocolates more than I remember them.’
‘Never cared much for Quality Street,’ I said solemnly. ‘Too many toffees. Far too much hard work involved in toffees.’
‘I haven’t seen the Calverts in years,’ said Penny. ‘They just stopped coming to see my father. I don’t think I ever knew why. The invitation arrived completely out of the blue. Apparently it’s to be a special pre-opening meal, for a few specially selected guests. I’m thinking of going, and I’d really like it if you were to come with me.’
I thought about it. The whole conversation, I realized, had been carefully engineered to bring us to this point.
‘Why?’ I said. ‘You don’t need me for this.’
‘I always need you,’ said Penny. She turned off the television, so she could give me her full attention. She knows I always find it harder to say no when she’s staring straight into my eyes. ‘I want both of us to go. It sounds like it could be a lot of fun.’
‘It sounds like a publicity stunt to launch the new owners,’ I said. ‘Which means there will be local press, and photographers. You know I can’t afford to be part of any publicized event.’
‘Not everything is about you,’ said Penny. ‘What attention there is will be directed at the inn and its new owners. You’ll be just another guest – my plus one. You can always hide behind me if someone points a camera in our direction.’
‘Why does my going matter to you so much?’
‘Because I want to be able to spend a normal weekend with you, doing normal things,’ Penny said earnestly. ‘We only ever go away on missions for the Organization, chasing monsters and murderers. I want us to have a nice weekend off, like any normal couple.’
‘I thought you liked being Penny Belcourt, girl detective?’
‘I do! Just … not all the time.’
I thought about it. ‘You know … it seems to me every time we go away for the weekend somebody dies. Maybe we’re a jinx. Maybe we should stay at home and never go out, and then no one would die.’
‘It’s just a nice weekend in a nice country inn!’ said Penny. ‘Nothing bad is going to happen.’
‘You can’t be sure of that. The kind of world we live in …’
‘But we don’t have to live in it all the time!’
I looked at her. ‘Why does this matter to you so much?’
‘Because I don’t want everything about us to be about you and your world.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘If it’s that important to you … How far is it to Black Rock Towen?’
‘It’s all the way down on the Cornish coast,’ said Penny. ‘We can take a train to the nearest good hotel, then hire a car to get us to the inn. And yes, I have looked it up. It’ll make a nice break, for both of us. And the Calverts did specially ask me to be there, so I feel just a bit obligated.’
‘It hasn’t been that long since we finished our last case for the Organization,’ I said, thinking about it. ‘And they’re usually pretty good about making sure their agents get some decent down time between missions. They know how easily people can burn out from too much exposure to the weird stuff. So it’s unlikely we’ll be interrupted.’
‘Then we are going? You and me?’
‘If that’s what you want, we’ll do it. When is this very special meal?’
Penny gave me her best devastating smile. ‘Tomorrow evening.’
I sighed. ‘I never stood a chance, did I?’
‘No. I knew if I gave you too much time to think about it, you’d come up with loads of really good reasons why you couldn’t go.’
‘I suppose it would be nice to visit some place well away from the weird and the unnatural, just for a change.’
‘Well …’ said Penny.
‘I think I just heard the other shoe dropping,’ I said, resignedly. ‘What have you found?’
Penny reached out to the side table for her laptop, balanced the machine on her lap, and fired it up. An image appeared on the screen: an old country inn standing alone against a stormy sky. The hanging sign said only ‘The Castle’, no mention of Tyrone. It was a squat, solid, almost brutal stone structure. Grim and grey, and not in the least inviting. It looked like it had been built to withstand whatever man or nature could throw against it and sneer at both of them. The Castle Inn was set on a clifftop, looking out over the sea, and I could almost feel the cold wind gusting in off the dark, choppy waters. The inn at the end of the world …
‘I looked the place up, after the Calverts invited me,’ Penny said cheerfully. ‘And I found all kinds of weird stories not just about the inn but about the whole surrounding area.’
‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Surprise me.’
Penny’s fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard, pulling up image after image. ‘Back in the eighteenth century the whole coastline was a hotbed for smugglers. They’d bring in expensive goods from France, land them on the beach, and then use the Castle as a storehouse and distribution centre. Apparently the smugglers used to spread all kinds of scary stories about ghosts and demons that walked the night at specific times, so people would know to stay indoors while the smugglers were about their business. But it only took a little digging to discover that a lot of these stories predated the smugglers, sometimes by centuries.’
‘Why m
ake up something when there are already perfectly good stories just waiting to be used?’
‘Exactly!’ said Penny. ‘Black Rock Towen and its surroundings have a long-standing reputation as a place where people go missing. Never any clues, or even a warning. They just disappear without a trace when no one’s looking. We’re talking about stories that go back even before there were local records.’
‘How do the locals explain these disappearances?’ I said.
Penny shrugged. ‘There are all kinds of theories. The locals have blamed the disappearances on everything from fairy rings to alien abductions, and ghost dogs that drag you down to Hell.’ She stopped and looked at me. ‘Any of this mean anything to you?’
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I have been to Cornwall, on occasion. Coastal areas are always rife with strange occurrences. Maybe because even the weird and uncanny like to go on holiday now and again. Is there a map showing exactly where the Castle Inn is?’
‘Of course,’ said Penny.
I studied the map she showed me, and nodded slowly. ‘I thought so. The town is only a mile or so from the cliffs, and the inn is perched right on the edge. People could easily fall off or be blown away by the wind, and the bodies would never be found. And then, there’s the smugglers. Who might well have decided it was better to make any people they encountered disappear, rather than risk being identified to the authorities. Not much mystery there.’
‘There’s one particular story about the Castle Inn,’ said Penny. She quickly ran through the story of Elliot Tyrone, and all the people who died at his poisoned Christmas meal. ‘After he was discovered, Tyrone swore that “Voices” told him to do it, which you might think was a fairly obvious defence. But he wasn’t the first to talk about Voices. I’ve tracked down accounts of fourteen other cases where local murderers made the same claim. Some of them go way back …’
‘Has anyone ever identified these Voices?’ I said. ‘Put any name to them?’
‘No,’ said Penny. ‘But there are all sorts of interesting stories about local people being driven mad by strange voices and sounds up on the cliffs and in the local woods.’