Alchemist

  The gong boomed, then boomed again, five times in succession. Then, as it boomed a sixth time, the Magister tightened his grip on Daniel’s arm and pressed down hard, driving the blade deep into the baby’s chest. Daniel gasped in reaction.

  The baby’s mouth opened as if it had been sprung by a lever. Its arms and legs shot outwards. Its eyes registered only mild surprise, as if it had been expecting a dummy, or food. Blood streamed like red ribbons either side of the blade and down the infant’s bare chest. Some fell into the waiting chalice, some ran down its side, the remainder dripped on to the floor.

  A cry turned to a gurgle, then silence.

  The gong sounded.

  Then the wolf-woman held up the chalice to Daniel.

  ‘Drink,’ the Magister commanded.

  In deep shock, Daniel pressed the metal rim to his lips, then tasted the warm, coppery blood. He swallowed, aware of dozens of eyes all watching him. He saw the Magister nodding approval.

  ‘Shemhamforash!’ The gong sounded again.

  ‘Hail Satan!’ the entire assembly chanted.

  Daniel felt a sudden, strange surge of power within him. With it came an elation greater than anything he had ever experienced. The Magister nodded at him encouragingly. ‘Feel the power, Theutus? Do you feel it?’

  The boy nodded. He felt as if he could fly.

  ‘Test it, Theutus. You have drunk the blood of power. You have all the power in the world. Test it with a command!’

  Daniel thought hard, lowered his eyes, then raised them again towards the Magister and spoke in a voice so loud and strong it startled him: ‘O, Lord Satan! I command you to take away from my mother the ability to put her hands together in prayer!’

  The gong sounded again. Daniel felt the force of his words carried with it, far beyond the walls of the temple.

  57

  Monday 21 November, 1994

  Monty stayed motionless in the kitchen, the knife gripped in her hand, listening to every sound, watching every shadow through the windows.

  Finally, she heard the sound of a car approaching fast, then the slam of its doors. Moments later she saw the beam of a flashlight out in the garden; but it was not until she heard the reassuring crackle of a two-way radio that she began to relax.

  There were two policemen; one remained outside, the other searched the house with her, starting upstairs with her bedroom. He opened the large Victorian wardrobe, checked the inside, then locked it again. Raindrops dripped from the peak of his cap all the time and rolled down his heavy blue coat. His name, he had told Monty, was P. C. Brangwyn.

  ‘You’re quite sure you didn’t leave the front door locked and go out via the kitchen today, madam?’

  ‘I’m quite sure I wouldn’t have jammed a piece of wire in the front door lock if I had.’ She managed a smile. ‘I’m not Houdini.’

  He looked back at her thoughtfully, the joke eluding him. ‘It’s a common technique for professional burglars, locking the front door to prevent themselves being surprised and leaving an exit open for a quick getaway – in your case the kitchen.’

  He nodded towards her dressing table, neatly tidied by Alice, and asked, ‘Nothing missing?’

  ‘Not that I can immediately see.’

  The radio fizzed and crackled just then and a truncated voice said: ‘Charley-Victor-ove –’ followed by a rasp of static.

  Constable Brangwyn nodded an apology at her and pressed a switch on his radio: ‘Attending at Foxholes Cottage. On the scene now. Over.’

  ‘Thank you Charley-Victor.’

  P. C. Brangwyn looked at Monty again. ‘You may have disturbed them before they had a chance to take anything.’

  The remark brought her fear swirling back.

  ‘Do you have a routine? Always leave for work and arrive home at the same time?’

  ‘It’s changed during the past few months – I used to work in Reading, now I commute almost every day to London.’

  ‘What time do you get home?’

  ‘Normally between eight and nine.’

  ‘And tonight?’

  She stiffened. ‘Earlier – about half past six.’

  He nodded. ‘That could explain it. You didn’t notice any unfamiliar vehicles along here or parked on the main road recently?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Perhaps you ought to have a word with the Crime Prevention Officer some time – if you ring the main Reading station they’ll put you through. Being as isolated as this, your house is very vulnerable.’

  ‘It’s only a little cottage – I wouldn’t have thought it was of much interest to burglars.’

  He gave her a long, searching look. ‘It might only be a cottage to you, madam, but compared to what some people live in it’s a palace.’

  She smiled wistfully. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, I suppose you’re right.’

  The drawing room smelled of fresh polish from Alice’s administrations and nothing was disturbed. Then Monty suddenly noticed her rubber plant over in the far corner, by the window. It had been flourishing for the past couple of years, and had grown to over four feet. Now it looked dead; its leaves were brown and curled at the edges, and the stem seemed to be buckling.

  Her eyes shot to her poinsettia, which had been in bloom yesterday. But the flower had browned and withered and the plant looked a goner. Startled, she looked at her palm and her aspidistra. The same story.

  ‘Problem?’ the policeman said, sensing her consternation.

  ‘My plants – I noticed the dead flowers in the kitchen and it’s the same here.’ She pointed at them. ‘They were fine yesterday.’

  He walked over to the poinsettia, pulled off his leather glove and dabbed the earth with his finger. ‘Bone dry.’

  ‘That’s impossible! I watered it yesterday.’

  He went over to the palm and knelt, digging his fingers into the pot, then raising a pinch of earth. ‘Dry as sand – I’m a bit of a gardener myself – these haven’t been watered for weeks – months, more like it.’ He reassured her. ‘Easy to forget these things when you’re busy.’

  She went over and touched the earth herself. He was right. She darted over to each plant in turn; the soil was bone dry.

  Am I cracking up? she wondered.

  P. C. Brangwyn’s colleague came in, holding his dripping hat in his hand. ‘No footprints or anything,’ he announced.

  Brangwyn removed his own hat, held it dutifully by his side, and spoke to Monty in a new, stiffly formal tone, with his eyes constantly moving as if he were addressing not just her but an entire roomful. As he was mid-delivery, the cats re-appeared and circled his ankles warily. Monty watched them, still puzzling over their earlier behaviour.

  ‘We’ll put a call out to all patrols asking them to keep a close eye on your property tonight. You’d best be vigilant, keep your doors locked at all times and an eye out for strangers. If you see any unfamiliar cars down the lane take their number and give us a call.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  She stood at the front door, watching them turn around then drive off down the track. As the tail lights disappeared, she felt very vulnerable and closed the front door, sliding the safety chain firmly home. The cats stood and watched her expectantly.

  ‘What’s the matter with you two?’ she said, kneeling and stroking them. ‘Did someone give you a fright?’

  She checked to see that the kitchen door was properly locked, turned the central heating up, switched on the porch light, then hurried round drawing the curtains in each room.

  When she had done that, she gave her plants a drenching in the hope of reviving them, then laid and lit a fire in the living room. She felt dirty, as if she and the house had been violated, and badly wanted a bath or a shower, but there wasn’t time.

  She had been planning to casserole the chicken in the Aga, but now she would have to rush and use the microwave; less traditional, but too bad.

  Two minutes past eight. Conor would be here any moment, and she hadn’t changed, or put
on any make-up. She dashed upstairs, hoping the traffic would delay him, and in her rush to get prepared momentarily forgot her anxiety.

  She stripped off, splashed on some Issey Miyake cologne, pulled on a black pullover that she knew flattered her figure, her best jeans and her suede boots, shovelled her hands through her hair, then ran back downstairs to the kitchen.

  Should they eat in here or the dining room, she wondered. Light a couple of candles and the dining room could be romantic. Maybe too romantic, she worried, not wanting the American to think this was some kind of deliberate seduction scene. They would eat in the kitchen, she decided.

  She checked the microwave, but the windowpane rattled in a gust and she turned, nervously feeling a draught like cold breath on her neck, and saw the closed blinds shifting from side to side. She looked at the chopper, which she had left out on the draining board for reassurance, then walked over to the Aga and held her hands over the chromium-lidded hot plate, grateful for the warmth. It was still unaccountably cold in here.

  Perhaps she was going down with flu, she thought, parting the blinds and peering into the darkness. Was someone out there now, biding their time? Intruders. Burglars who hadn’t taken anything. That was becoming a familiar story lately.

  She remembered Zandra Wollerton telling her about her break-in. Nothing had been taken then, either, except a pair of cotton panties from her wash box. So far Monty had not actually counted her knickers.

  She also remembered, involuntarily, Hubert Wentworth’s words that first time he had come to see her here. He’d been telling her about his son-in-law’s break-in on the day of Sarah Johnson’s funeral.

  You see, there’s something else curious: on the afternoon of Sarah’s funeral, her home was burgled, ransacked. Alan could find nothing missing at all … Burglars are normally after consumer goods, jewellery, silverware, cash. These ignored all that. Possibly they were disturbed, but it seems strange that they found time to riffle through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.

  Caroline Kingsley’s home had also been ransacked, and the burglars had riffled through her medical cabinet …

  Outside Monty heard the sound of a car pulling up. She went into the living room and peered through the curtains. Relief surged through her as she saw Conor Molloy walking uncertainly down the path to the front door, his coat collar turned up against the rain.

  Don’t look too keen, she told herself. Don’t seem too anxious. She waited until she heard the doorbell, then hung on a few seconds after that before walking through to the hall.

  But the moment she saw him all her defences crashed. He had removed his tie and his soft white shirt was open at the neck. Two licks of hair were plastered down his forehead and his face was largely obscured by a bottle of wine and large bouquet of flowers.

  Before she knew what she was doing, as he stepped in the door, she flung her arms around his neck and held him tight, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘Thank God,’ she murmured, clinging to him as if he were driftwood. Rain lashed in but she barely noticed, feeling the stubble of his cold wet cheek against her face and the reassurance of his arms around her, squeezing her gently.

  ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘That’s some greeting!’

  His grip slackened and she stepped back, closing the door behind him. ‘God, I’ve been scared,’ she said.

  His forehead creased into a frown as he saw her distress. ‘What’s up – what’s happened?’

  By way of answer, she led him through to the living room and despite her agitation she noticed him relishing the chintz surroundings. If he observed the dead plants he didn’t show it.

  He looked at Monty with concern, asking again, ‘So tell me what scared you?’

  She relieved him of his coat and his gifts, furnished them each with a large Teacher’s whisky and collected her thoughts, then began. He listened to everything, interrupting only occasionally to ask for a further detail. She told him first about the intruder; then about her visit to Hubert Wentworth in his office, and the discovery of the fourth Maternox victim, Caroline Kingsley, in Zandra Wollerton’s files. About her attempt to talk to Dr Corbin, and then his horrific death. About her visit to the Kingsleys’ flat. Finally, she pulled out of her handbag the vial of Maternox capsules she had taken and handed it to him.

  He studied the label, then he prised off the cap and shook the capsules into the palm of his hand.

  She watched the concentration in his face as he held one of the capsules up to the light. There was something about the seriousness of his expression that seemed to go beyond mere curiosity, beyond mere courtesy to her. It struck her, as she watched the hard set of his grave brown eyes, that she was watching a man driven by some private demon. And as her curiosity about him deepened, so did her attraction to him.

  They had both finished their whiskies, she realized, and she jumped up. ‘Let me get you a refill?’ She wondered whether he would be worried about drinking and driving, but he accepted gratefully.

  When she returned, accompanied by Crick and Watson, the American was holding a black notebook in one hand and the Maternox vial in the other; he was so absorbed that he did not acknowledge the refilled glass she put beside him.

  ‘I see it’s the same,’ he said, his expression very drawn. ‘Our old friend, BS-M-6575-1881-UKMR.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Her mouth felt dry; despite the whisky. ‘Do you know anything about the batch-numbering system for Maternox?’

  ‘Uh huh. There are about five hundred batches run off a year for distribution in the UK. Maternox is produced in Britain at three different plants – Reading, Plymouth and Newcastle – and the distribution is regional.’

  ‘Sarah Johnson, who used to work for us, lived in Reading. Caroline Kingsley in London, so I suppose it’s very possible they’d have had Maternox from the same plant,’ Monty said. ‘But one of the other women lived in Birmingham, and the other in Edinburgh.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I suppose Birmingham might be supplied by Reading, also. But not Edinburgh.’

  ‘Edinburgh would definitely have been supplied by Newcastle,’ he said. ‘I checked.’ He dropped the pills back into the vial, then he picked up his whisky, rattled the ice cubes and drank some more. ‘We need to get a chromatography analysis done on these capsules to see if they conform to the specification or whether –’

  His words hung in the air.

  ‘Whether they’re a rogue batch?’ Monty prompted.

  ‘Something’s wrong with them. Dr Farmer, the Director of Medical Information, knows that but she’s not doing anything about it – or rather she is – she’s covering up. Covering up real hard.’

  ‘Why? Because of the financial damage a scandal could do to the company?’

  For a while his expression became unreadable as he examined his whisky, then he began. ‘I –’

  But he was interrupted by a sudden hiss from Crick. Both of them stared, startled, at the cat. He was standing, with his back arched, staring at the doorway. Watson stood also. Then the two animals stalked determinedly out of the room as if after a quarry.

  Monty and Conor exchanged a glance, then followed. Monty saw the cats suddenly sprint down into the kitchen. She walked swiftly after them.

  Watson stopped in the kitchen door, his back arched stiffly, spitting. Crick, near the table, raised his paw and swiped at something. A creature jumped, then jumped again.

  Monty shrieked and backed away, straight into Conor.

  ‘It’s a frog!’ he said. ‘Just a little frog.’

  It jumped once more. Crick had another tentative go at it with his paw, as much in curiosity as anything else.

  Conor ducked down, grabbed the frog by one leg, then lifted it up, cupped it gently in his hands and held it out to Monty. ‘Poor little thing – I guess it’s got confused with all this warm weather. I –’

  He stopped, suddenly noticing that Monty had gone sheet white. Eyes bulging, she backed away from him.

  ‘Hey! It’s only a harmless little –’
br />   ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Don’t. Don’t bring it near me, I have a thing about them.’

  ‘About frogs?’

  ‘Please get rid of it.’ She darted across to the back door, unlocked it and opened it.

  Hold the cats.’ Conor deposited the frog outside and hurried back in.

  Monty locked the door again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said meekly.

  He put an arm protectively around her shoulder and gave her a hug. ‘It’s OK. We all have our phobias.’

  She fought hard to stop herself from crying and sniffed. ‘Oh boy, my nerves are all shot to hell today.’

  They went back into the living room and sat down again. Monty tried to establish a more relaxed atmosphere. ‘How was your weekend, Conor?’

  ‘Well, I had some interesting talks with Charley Rowley. He doesn’t share my views about Bendix Schere being ruthless enough to kill anyone.’

  Monty drank some more of her whisky; she felt it burn first her throat, then her stomach, then the warm buzz spread through her, calming her, making her feel better, stronger.

  ‘Conor, you said on Friday you get to a point where you realize that things don’t make sense any more the way you’ve been perceiving them, right?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well, I think I’ve run out of my belief in coincidence here. Just what the hell is going on, Conor?’

  The wind rattled the panes and the curtains swelled up then eased. ‘Have to test those capsules,’ he said quietly. ‘Need to get hold of the original specification and a template, and see how they compare.’

  He added, suddenly, ‘Charley Rowley’s a good guy, but he’s naive as hell. He doesn’t have any idea what we’re dealing with.’

  ‘Do you, Conor?’

  ‘I have some idea,’ he said gravely.

  58

  Monty pushed her food around the plate. She forced down a few mouthfuls of the vegetables but left the chicken untouched, too many emotions buffeting her for any kind of an appetite to survive. Conor ate hungrily.

  She raised her glass, conscious that her voice was slightly slurred, but she didn’t care. ‘Delicious wine.’