body, Hargreaves’ face looked more sunken than ever and he gripped hold of Neil’s shoulders to steady himself. Then, in a rush of anguished words, just low enough to prevent anyone else overhearing, he implored, ‘Is it true? Can Verdandi really be dead? How can the deathless die?’
Neil stared up at him. ‘Who are you?’ he asked in an astonished whisper.
It was Quoth who answered. ‘Canst thou not perceive it, my Master?’ the raven cawed. ‘’Tis another scion of Askar who standeth afore thee. That fairest of cities doth glimmer dim yet steady in his eyes. As Aidan was, so too is this spindle-shanked bean pole – a servant of the Loom Maidens is he.’
The Chief Inspector lowered his eyes, murmuring. ‘To the descendants of Askar, the world’s first civilisation, Aidan was our leader. I’ve just come from Wearyall Hill. I – I saw him there. It’s up to the rest of us now to continue his work.’
Setting aside his consternation and sorrow, he cast a wary glance over his shoulder before hastily continuing. ‘There’s not much time. You’ve got to trust me. Can you get the girl to come with us without a fight?’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Back to the museum. The sooner Verdandi is returned to that sacred place, the safer we’ll all be. The Cessation of the Three has begun. Anything may happen now. The order of Destiny has been interrupted. Go calm the girl. If we don’t leave soon it’ll be too late.’
With that, Hargreaves directed the two officers holding Edie to release her and at once the girl sprang forward to hare after the stretcher.
Neil caught up with her and whirled the child around.
‘Lay off!’ she squealed, brandishing her woollen pixie hood in the boy’s face. ‘You an’ your crow stay ’way from me.’
‘Listen!’ he hissed back. ‘Keep quiet and do as you’re told for a change or we’ll never get home. That man wants to help us; he’s the same as Aidan – do you understand what that means?’
The girl ceased her struggles and swept the hair from her eyes to regard the Chief Inspector more keenly. ‘Then he must take Veronica to Ursula,’ she demanded. ‘An’ the spear – that has to come as well.’
To the surprise of his men, Chief Inspector Hargreaves announced that he was personally taking charge of the children and would drive them to the police station at Wells. Any awkward questions were abruptly swept aside when a shout sounded upon the Tor and Neil guessed that yet another mutilated body had been discovered.
In the ensuing confusion, Hargreaves led the children down the narrow track to where his car was waiting. A private ambulance with dark, tinted windows was already moving off with Miss Veronica on board and Edie glared up at the Chief Inspector, suspecting treachery.
‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her. ‘The driver is one of us. He’s going to wait on the Wells Road, then you can sit by Verdandi’s side all the way to the museum. The weapon is with her also. I know just how dangerous it is.’
Presently Hargreaves’ car pulled away and, perched in the back, his feathery face pressed against the rear windscreen, Quoth watched the vast, black shape of the Tor recede into the distance.
In a small, dejected voice he croaked a final farewell to his deceased brother and soon the lights of Glastonbury were left far behind.
Still wet from the previous day’s downpour, the roads of London’s East End reflected a dun-coloured sky. The night had grown old and a dim, grey dawn was beginning to reach over the irregular horizon of ramshackle rooftops. At Bethnal Green, the many turrets and spikes which crowned The Wyrd Museum were mirrored in the countless dirty pools that surrounded it. When viewed from the corner of the alleyway, the dark, forbidding building appeared to become a sinister, moated castle.
At the rear of the museum, within the drab, cemented courtyard, a solitary figure stood in the reservoir of shadow which gathered deep beneath the high, encircling walls.
Wearing only an old T-shirt and a pair of ragged pyjama bottoms, Neil’s father, Brian Chapman, was staring up into the fading night. Even the brightest stars had fled from the brimming heavens, yet still he gazed at the realm of diminishing darkness high above.
A cloud of vapour streamed from his lips as, slowly, he lowered his eyes. The unlovely shape of the museum filled his vision and he shuddered involuntarily.
‘There was a crooked man …’ he muttered under his breath, ‘lived in a crooked house …’
Gooseflesh prickled his bare, scrawny arms and he looked down with surprise at his naked feet which were now purple with cold. Just how long he had been standing out there he had no idea and could not recall what had drawn him from his makeshift bed in the first place. All he remembered was the shrieking which had awakened him. But there had been something else too – a compelling urge to venture outside and be wrapped in the embracing cold.
That might have been hours ago. Under the blank gaze of the museum’s darkened windows he had remained. The violent weeping had ceased, but what had happened in the mean time? Surely he could not have fallen asleep out here in the yard?
‘Blood and sand!’ he scolded himself, pattering towards the caretaker’s small apartment once more. ‘This lousy place’ll drive us all nuts.’
Clambering back on to the couch, he wriggled inside the sleeping bag beneath his duvet – but the memory of the cold lingered with him and refused to thaw.
Even as the caretaker tried to get warm, the tall, gaunt shape of an elderly woman stood silhouetted within the grand Victorian entrance of The Wyrd Museum, silently watching the last dregs of night melt into glimmering day.
Upon the topmost of the three steps she waited – Miss Ursula Webster; Urdr of the Royal House, the eldest of the Fates. She, who throughout the long tale of time had been feared far more than her sisters, appeared drawn and defeated. In former ages it was she who had severed the threads of life, determining that irrevocable ending which sundered families and lovers with a single, merciless cut. Now a similar parting had been visited upon her and the pain of that loss was something she had not felt since the first days of the world.
Over her delicately-boned features a fine dew sparkled – perfectly matching the glitter of the jet beads which bordered her black evening gown.
A cauldron of emotions seethed and boiled within her. Rage and guilt battled with her grief, but she remained erect and alert, steeling herself against the contest that she knew was to come.
At the bottom of the steps, scattered in a disjointed snarl of twisted bronze, lay the fragmented image of Verdandi. The sightless eyes of that broken, upturned face seemed to stare up at her sister, but the old woman avoided meeting that steady gaze and maintained her unwavering vigil, glaring out into the alleyway.
She knew exactly what had transpired on Glastonbury Tor and who was responsible for this heinous tragedy. His unseen hand had driven that enchanted blade through her sister’s immortal flesh as surely as if he had gripped the spear himself. In some dank corner her great enemy waited, weaving his evil designs just as she and her sisters had spun the Cloth of Doom.
Perhaps even now he was watching her, savouring to the full the extent of his abhorrent crime.
‘Do you hear me?’ she asked, abruptly snapping the silence, her clipped voice charged with contempt and condemnation. ‘Is this what you have yearned for? Is this the triumphant victory you have sought these many centuries? How pitiable you have become, Mighty Woden! Is this the same god of war who hung for nine nights upon the World Tree? Is this He who fought with axe and sword against the ogres of the first frost? Has the Captain of Askar been reduced to this – murdering a woman too old and too witless to defend herself?’
Miss Ursula’s pale eyelids drooped closed as she fought to control her anger, fiercely pressing her thin lips together before attempting to speak again.
‘What sweetness can there be in my sister’s death?’ she eventually