said: ‘Let’s see.’
Pobjoy stared at her but didn’t answer.
‘Hazel, don’t be rude,’ Bartlemy said mildly. ‘I’m always happy to see the inspector. He helped save Annie from a psychopathic killer – or have you forgotten?’
‘She saved herself,’ Hazel argued. ‘She’s much tougher than she looks.’
‘I know,’ Pobjoy said. ‘She’s a very brave woman.’ He was disconcerted by his own recent cowardice, by the strange panic that had held him in its grip. He hid uncertainty behind the leftovers of his former grimness.
Bartlemy looked faintly amused, as if he knew. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘you’d better tell us what happened out there, before you fell through my door. You were running away from something, weren’t you?’
‘It was nothing,’ Pobjoy said. ‘Nothing I could see. The dark – some animal – I don’t know what came over me. I’m not one to jump at spooks, just because I’m on a lonely road.’
It was Hazel’s reaction which surprised him. ‘Them,’ she said, and her voice was gruff. And to Bartlemy: ‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘I fear so.’
‘But why were they after him?’
‘The rules have changed,’ Bartlemy reiterated. ‘They’re out of control. You did well to run, my friend. Had they caught you, they would have entered your mind and driven you mad. Remember Michael Addison.’
‘This is nonsense,’ Pobjoy said, setting down his plate, fortified by the apple tart on its way to his stomach and the afterglow of the unknown drink. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I don’t believe it. All that supernatural crap. I was just – spooked. That’s all.’
‘Then go outside,’ Bartlemy said. ‘See for yourself.’
Pobjoy got up, walked through the hall, opened the door.
They were there, he knew it immediately. Watching for him. Waiting. Just beyond the reach of the light. He saw shadows shifting in the darkness – heard the whisper of the rain on the leafmould, and behind it another whispering, as of voices without lips, wordless and soulless. Suddenly, he found himself picturing Michael Addison’s drooling mouth and empty eyes. Fear reached out in many whispers. The hairs crawled on his skin.
He drew back, closing the door. Against the night, against Them.
Back in the living room he said, trying to keep his voice even: ‘What are they?’ And: ‘What do I do?’
‘For the moment,’ said Bartlemy, ‘you stay. I think you need another drink.’
Bartlemy sent Hazel home in a taxi which he paid for, even though she insisted she could perfectly well walk. ‘I have iron,’ she pointed out. ‘I’m not afraid.’ She was determined to put Pobjoy in his place, to show him that in a world of dark magic – a world where being a policeman counted for nothing – she was the one who could handle herself. But Bartlemy overruled her and Pobjoy barely noticed. He had more than enough to think about.
‘What are those creatures?’ he repeated, when the two men were alone.
And, in the subsequent silence: ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘They are not ghosts,’ Bartlemy said. ‘Here, they might be called magical, but you must realise magic is merely a name for a force we don’t understand. Once we can analyse it and see how it works it becomes science.’
‘That’s an old argument,’ Pobjoy said. ‘Television is magical unless you’re a TV engineer. The things out there – how do they work?’
‘They come from another universe,’ Bartlemy explained matter-of-factly. ‘They are made of fluid energy, with little or no solid form; partly because of this, some can migrate between worlds. The species has the generic name of gnomons, but those which are able to cross the barrier are called Ozmosees. I heard about them – read about them – once, but these are the first I have ever seen, since although they did exist in this universe, they died out here long ago. They are hypersensitive to sound, smell, light, but they have no intelligence and must be controlled. I am not sure how that is done; possibly by the dominion of a very powerful mind.’
‘What are you saying?’ Pobjoy demanded, resolutely sceptical. ‘They got here through the back of a wardrobe?’ He had read few of the right books but had once inadvertently watched a documentary on the making of Narnia.
‘I doubt it.’ Bartlemy smiled. ‘Unfortunately, I know very little about them, and their behaviour – as you must realise – is hard to study, though I have tried. The process may be assisted by attaching them to a person or object in this world, thus drawing them out of their place of origin. We cannot know for certain. However …’
‘What object?’ Pobjoy interrupted. He was a detective, and even on such unfamiliar territory, he could work out which questions to ask.
‘I imagine you can guess.’
There was a short pause. ‘The cup?’ Pobjoy said, as illumination dawned. ‘The Grimthorn Grail?’
‘Precisely,’ said Bartlemy, looking pleased, like a teacher with a pupil who, after a long struggle, has finally grasped the principles of calculus. ‘They appear to have been sent to guard it. There are also indications that their guardianship extended to Nathan and Annie—’
‘Nathan and Annie? But – why? – how?’
‘I don’t know,’ Bartlemy admitted. ‘There is some connection between them and the Grail, too complicated to go into now. In any case, I am not yet sure exactly what it is, or how deep it goes.’
‘Did Nathan steal it that time?’ Pobjoy asked sharply.
‘Dear me no. In fact, he got it back. It’s a long story, too long for now. To return to the gnomons, the problem seems to be that they are no longer – focused. There was no reason for them to pursue you, yet they did. And there have been other incidents lately. Evidently they are getting out of hand. The power that manipulated them may be losing its grip, or merely losing interest. There could be other factors. At this time, we have no way of finding out.’
‘Are you saying someone here – some sort of wizard—’ Pobjoy enunciated the word with hesitation and distaste ‘—is controlling these creatures? Some local bigwig with secret powers?’ He didn’t even try to keep the irony from his tone.
‘Of course not,’ Bartlemy said mildly. He was always at his mildest in the face of scorn, anger or threat. ‘Their controller is in the universe from which they came. That’s why we know so little about him.’
‘If this is true,’ Pobjoy said, attempting to keep the world in its rightful place, ‘what’s his interest in the Grail?’
‘He placed it here,’ Bartlemy said. ‘Probably for safekeeping. A long time ago, I had a teacher who contended there were many otherworld artefacts secreted – or in some cases dumped – on this planet. He claimed they were responsible for almost all myths and legends, and several major religions. Apples of youth, rings of power, stone tablets falling out of the sky. That sort of thing. Of course, he may have exaggerated a little.’
He’s nuts, Pobjoy thought. Clever, yes – harmless – but nuts. I wonder if Annie knows?
Then he visualised the gnomons, waiting in the dark …
He spent the night in the guest room.
He was woken in the small hours by someone tapping on the window. It was only