Читать книгу The Fatal Strand - Robin Jarvis - Страница 10

The rest of Neil’s morning was taken up showing Austen Pickering around The Wyrd Museum. The man marvelled at every room and each new display. He was a very methodical individual who took great pains to ensure that no exhibit was overlooked, reading each of their faded labels. Therefore, the tour took longer than Neil had anticipated, for the old man found everything to be of interest and had an opinion about all that he saw.

Quoth found this a particularly tiring trait and yawned many times, nodding off on several occasions, almost falling from Neil’s shoulder.

Whilst they were in The Roman Gallery, Miss Celandine came romping in, dressed in her gown of faded ruby velvet and chattering away to herself. The old woman was giggling shrilly, as if in response to some marvellous joke, but as soon as she saw Neil and the old man she froze, and a hunted look flashed across her walnut-wrinkled face.

‘Don’t leave me!’ she squealed to her invisible companions. ‘You said we might go to the dancing. You did! You did! Come back – wait for me! Wait!’ And with her plaits swinging behind her, she fled back the way she had come.

Austen Pickering raised his eyebrows questioningly and Neil shrugged. ‘She’s not all there, either,’ he explained.

‘The vessel of her mind hast set sail, yet she didst remain ashore,’ Quoth added.

Their snail-like progress through the museum was delayed even further by the ghost hunter’s habit of pausing at odd moments whilst he jotted down his impressions in a neat little notebook.

‘You never know what may turn out to be important,’ he told Neil. ‘A trifling detail seen here, but forgotten later, might just be the key I’ll be looking for in my work. The investigator must be alert at all times and record what he can. It might seem daft and over-meticulous, but you have to be thorough and not leave any holes for the sceptics to pick at. I pride myself that no one could accuse me of being slipshod. Everything is written up and filed. No half measures for me. I’ve got a whole room filled with dossiers and indexes back home up north, accounts and news clippings of each case I’ve had a hand in. It was the Northern Echo what first called me a ghost hunter, although … Blimey – would you look at this!’

They had climbed the stairs to the first floor where great glass cases, like huge fish tanks, covered the walls of a long passage, making the way unpleasantly narrow. Neil did not like this corridor, for every cabinet contained a forlorn-looking specimen of the taxidermist’s macabre art.

They were the sad remnants of the once fabulous menagerie of Mr Charles Jamrach, the eccentric purveyor of imported beasts, whose emporium in the East End of London had housed a veritable ark of animals during Victorian times. After both he and his son had died, the last of the livestock was sold off and a portion of it had eventually found its way into The Wyrd Museum.

Stuffed baboons and spider monkeys swung from aesthetically arranged branches. A pair of hyenas with frozen snarls looked menacing before an African diorama, incongruous next to an overstuffed, whiskery walrus gazing out with large doe eyes. In the largest case of all, a mangy tiger peered from an artificial jungle.

In spite of the fact that the cases were securely sealed, a fine film of dust coated each specimen and the tiger’s fur crawled with an infestation of moths.

Shuddering upon Neil’s shoulder, Quoth stared woefully at the crystal domes which housed exotic, flame-coloured birds, and whimpered with sorrow at the sight of a glorious peacock, the sapphires and emeralds of its tail dimmed by an obscuring mesh of filthy cobwebs.

‘Alack!’ he croaked. ‘How sorry is thy situation – most keenly doth this erstwhile captive know the despond of thine circumstance.’

‘Your raven isn’t comfortable here,’ Mr Pickering commented. ‘I don’t blame him. The Victorians had a perverse passion for displaying the creatures they had slaughtered. Disgusting, isn’t it? Beautiful animals reduced to nothing more than trophies and conversation pieces. You might as well stick a lampshade on them, or use them as toilet-roll holders.’

‘I’m not keen on this bit, either,’ Neil agreed, pushing open a door. ‘If we go through here we can cut it out and go around. There’s more galleries this way – even an Egyptian one.’

Leaving the glass cases and their silent, staring occupants behind them, they continued with the tour. It was nearly lunchtime and Neil was ravenous, remembering he hadn’t eaten anything since the previous day. But the boy wanted to show Mr Pickering one room in particular.

Eventually they arrived at the dark interior of The Egyptian Suite and the old man gazed at the three sarcophagi it contained. ‘Not satisfied with parrots and monkeys,’ he mumbled in revulsion. ‘Even people are put on display. Is it any wonder the atmosphere is filled with so much pain?’

But Neil was anxious for the man to enter the adjoining room, for here was The Separate Collection.

Moving away from the hieroglyphs and mummies, Mr Pickering followed his young guide, but the moment he stepped beneath the lintel of the doorway which opened into The Separate Collection, he gave a strangled shriek and fell back.

‘What is it?’ Neil cried. The man looked as though he was going to faint.

Mr Pickering shooed him away with a waggle of his small hands and staggered from the door, returning to the gloom of The Egyptian Suite.

‘Can’t … can’t go in there!’ he choked.

Neil stared at him in dismay. He hadn’t been expecting such an extreme reaction. The man’s face was pricked with sweat and his eyes bulged as though his regimental tie had become a strangling noose.

Blundering against the far wall, Austen Pickering’s gasping breaths began to ease and he leaned upon one of the sarcophagi until his strength was restored.

‘My, my,’ he spluttered at length. ‘How stupid. Austen, old lad, you should’ve expected it. You told yourself there had to be one somewhere. Oh, but I never dreamed it would be so … well, there it is.’

Quoth fidgeted uncertainly. ‘Squire Neil,’ he muttered, ‘methinks yon fellow may prove a swizzling tippler. The ale hath malted and mazed his mind.’

‘Are you all right?’ Neil asked the old man. ‘You look awful. What happened?’

Mr Pickering mopped his forehead and stared past the boy into the room beyond. ‘A fine old fool I am,’ he wheezed. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you, lad. It’s that room, I can’t enter – at least not yet.’

‘How sayest the jiggety jobbernut?’ Quoth clucked.

‘What stopped you?’ the boy asked, ignoring the raven. ‘Is it one of the exhibits?’

The ghost hunter shook his head. He had recovered from the shock and an exhilarated grin now lit his face.

‘All the classic case studies tell of them,’ he gabbled, more to himself than for Neil’s benefit. ‘Though I’ve come across the more usual cold spots before, I’ve never truly experienced this phenomenon. This really is a red-letter day.’

‘What is?’ Neil demanded.

Mr Pickering clicked his fingers as though expecting the action to organise and set his thoughts in order.

‘Occasionally,’ he explained excitedly, ‘a haunted site will have a nucleus – a centre of operations, if you like, where all the negative forces and paranormal activity begin and flow out from.’

‘And you think it’s The Separate Collection?’ Neil murmured. ‘I suppose it would make sense. There’s a lot of mad stuff in there.’

‘I’m quite certain of it. But the intensity – it’s incredible. Oho, it didn’t want me to go in, that it didn’t. It knows why I’m here and doesn’t want to let its precious spectres go. Well, we’ll see about that.’

Neil gazed into the large, shadow-filled room which lay beyond The Egyptian Suite and recalled how frightened he had been when he had first moved into The Wyrd Museum. He remembered how the building had almost seemed to be tricking him, deceiving his sense of direction – leading him round and around until finally he was delivered to that very place, where the exhibits were eerie and sinister.

A shout from Ted had put a stop to it back then, but the spirit of the airman who had possessed the stuffed toy was finally at rest.

‘Are you saying that the building is alive?’ he finally ventured. ‘Watching and listening to us?’

The old man gave a brisk shake of the head. ‘Not alive, no, not in the sense that we understand. That would imply intelligence and I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. I do believe, however, that there is a presence which permeates every brick and tile – an awareness, if you like. Call it a mass accumulation of history and anguish, recorded on to the ether, which operates on some very basic and primitive level. That is what we are up against. It is that force which feeds upon the energies of both the living and the deceased, and binds them to itself.’

Gingerly moving towards the doorway once more, the ghost hunter considered The Separate Collection and a gratified smile beamed across his craggy face. ‘This is amazing,’ he declared. ‘Absolutely amazing. There mustn’t be any more delay; the investigation proper will have to commence at once. But first things first. I’ll have to go back and fetch my equipment.’

Infected by Mr Pickering’s delight, Neil laughed. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked. ‘An exorcism?’

The ghost hunter calmed himself. ‘Give over,’ he replied. ‘I can’t do that. We must learn all we can first. Besides, I don’t want to jump in at the deep end. I’ll work through the museum systematically, room by room and floor by floor. That Separate Collection is the supernatural heart of this place and I’m not ready for the surprises it might throw at me – not yet at any rate.’

When Austen Pickering left The Wyrd Museum to return to his lodgings, Neil hastened back to the caretaker’s apartment, taking care to leave Quoth in The Fossil Room once again. It proved to be a wise precaution, for Brian Chapman was in a terrible mood. He had only been awake for half an hour and it was now nearly two o’clock.

When he realised the time, he had looked into his sons’ bedroom but found it empty. Hurrying into the kitchen, he discovered a pool of spilled milk near the fridge and a bowl of half-eaten cereal in the sink. Tutting, he left the apartment to search for them.

Josh was playing in the walled yard, with a coat pulled on over his pyjamas and a pair of Wellington boots covering his bare feet. The little boy told him that he hadn’t seen his brother all day and that he’d tried to shake his father awake. When his efforts had failed, he had made his own breakfast.

Brian ran his hands through his greasy hair and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d had an awful night and was now even more determined to look for another job. Anything. Just to get out of this hideous place was all that he craved and nothing anyone could say would change his mind. It wasn’t like him to sleep so late and he was more angry at himself than anyone else.

Neil hated it when his father was like this and decided against mentioning Austen Pickering, for that would certainly have made matters worse. The only course to take was to let Brian calm down. So, shutting himself away from the squall of his father’s temper, the boy calmly began to make sandwiches for them all.

Miss Ursula had not set any new work for Brian to do, so in the afternoon he slipped out, hoping that she wouldn’t notice. Entrusted with looking after Josh, Neil took the four-year-old to find Quoth. The child was scared of the raven at first, but he was soon tickling him under the beak, feeding him ham sandwiches and laughing at his absurd speech.

At four o’clock, a morose jingling announced Austen Pickering’s return and Neil ran to the entrance to admit him. Three large, much-battered suitcases surrounded the grizzle-haired man as he waited upon the steps, and he grumbled to Neil about the exorbitant cost of cabs in London, whilst the boy helped him to haul the luggage inside.

‘You’ve certainly brought enough!’ Neil exclaimed. ‘What sort of equipment have you got in here?’

‘That witch of a landlady told me to sling my hook! Got a terrible tongue on her, that cat has,’ the man puffed, dragging a heavy portmanteau under the sculpted archway. ‘She’s chucked me out – this is everything I had with me. You know, lad, it’s the living what scare me most. The dead I can deal with.’

Neil contemplated the suitcases thoughtfully. ‘So, you’re staying here then?’

‘Makes sense really,’ the ghost hunter replied. ‘I’d have to be spending the nights here anyway, so I might as well stop. No point shelling out for a new room when I won’t even be there. The Websters won’t mind, I’m sure.’

But Neil was not thinking about them; he was wondering what his father would have to say.

‘You know,’ Mr Pickering reflected, ‘I’m sure that nosy woman had been furtling through my stuff. She’d best not have messed with any of my apparatus. It’s already getting dark and I want to get started straight away.’

When Brian Chapman returned to the museum he discovered, to his consternation, that Austen Pickering had taken over one corner of The Fossil Room and was busily setting up his equipment in the rest of the available space. Several of the connecting rooms also contained one or two experiments; lengths of string were fixed across windows and doorways, and a dusting of flour was sprinkled over certain areas of the floor.

Neil’s father regarded the man with irritation. He had certainly made himself at home. His mackintosh was hanging from a segment of vertebrae jutting conveniently from a fine example of an ichthyosaur skeleton set into the far wall. His highly-polished brogues had been placed neatly beneath a cabinet and his feet were now cosily snug in a pair of slippers.

That disease-ridden raven was playing in one of the cases, tugging at a spare pair of braces he had unearthed amongst a pile of vests, and the newcomer himself was talking to his sons about haunted houses.

‘Blood and sand!’ Brian mumbled. ‘It’s one thing after another in here.’

There was, of course, nothing he could do about it. If his eccentric employers wanted to have seances, then it was up to them, but he wasn’t going to permit Josh to remain and listen to this nonsense.

Brian had spent the afternoon trawling the local markets and public houses, asking after casual work, and had eventually ended up in the job centre. His searches had not been successful, but he had brought a bundle of newspapers and leaflets home with him. Leaving the ghost hunter to his own business, he returned to the caretaker’s apartment, with his four-year-old son trailing reluctantly behind.

Neil heaved a sigh of relief. For a moment he had thought his father would demand that he join them, but Mr Chapman’s mood had mellowed in the time he had been out and he was obviously too anxious to hunt through the papers to begin an argument.

‘Doesn’t say much, your dad,’ Austen Pickering commented. ‘Now, where did I pack my pullover? Be draughty in here tonight – already turned a mite chilly.’

Neil glanced at him. The old man was busy putting new batteries inside an old tape recorder and the boy cast his eyes over the apparatus he had arranged on the glass surface of the display cabinets.

The ghost hunter’s paraphernalia was disappointingly mundane. Neil had envisaged sophisticated electronic gadgets which bleeped and flashed at a phantom’s approach. But the most advanced piece of technology was an ordinary camera, loaded with infra-red film.

As far as he could see, coupled with the tape recorder, that was as far as scientific instruments had progressed with regard to studying spectres. The rest of the ‘equipment’ was hardly impressive. There was a flashlight, at least a dozen balls of twine, a carrier bag filled with candles, several thermometers, a tape measure and a packet of chalks. The familiar notebook had joined forces with a clipboard, a bag of flour and a small, brown glass bottle.

‘Smelling salts,’ Mr Pickering explained, seeing the boy’s curious expression. ‘It has been known for people to swoon with fright when they come into contact with the spirit world. Always pays to be prepared.’

Neil began to suspect that the old man had never actually seen anything ghostly at all before, and that the smelling salts were for himself. Perhaps he was just a harmless crank who had let his hobby turn into an obsession. At the moment, anyone looking at him could mistake Mr Pickering for a lonely old pensioner settling himself down for a quiet night in front of his stamp collection, rather than preparing to see in the early hours, keeping watch for the supernatural.

‘Do you think you’ll see anything?’ Neil asked.

The old man peered at him over his spectacles. ‘Who can tell?’ he answered. ‘I might be here a week before I hear so much as a creaking floorboard.’

Neil groaned inwardly and realised how much he had been looking forward to what might never materialise.

‘Then again,’ the old man added, ‘there’s so much bottled up in here, I think it’ll be more a case of what won’t I see. Soon as I tweak the cork that’s holding it all in place, just stand back is all I’ll say.’

Neil brightened up – perhaps he wasn’t a fraud after all.

‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen,’ the ghost hunter continued. ‘Misty shapes drifting over the ground, blurred figures melting into walls – investigated the lot, I have.’

‘What was the most frightening?’ Neil asked ghoulishly.

Mr Pickering reached into a case for his pullover. ‘The dead can’t hurt the living,’ he declared, his voice a little muffled as he dragged the olive green woolly over his head. ‘Like I said, all I want to do is help them and see that they pass over. Besides, I’ve got the most powerful defence I could wish for.’

From another case he brought out a small, black-bound book, the pages of which were gilded about the edge, and he brandished it with great solemnity. ‘My Bible!’ he proclaimed. ‘That’s the first and most important safeguard. There’s no harm can come with this as protection.’

The evening was closing in. Darkness pressed against the blank windows of The Wyrd Museum and the old man moved through the rooms, measuring distances and drawing diagrams of the layout in his notebook.

‘Would your dad mind if I filled my thermos with hot water?’ he asked. ‘Three large mugs of strong black coffee should see me through and stave off the drowse.’

Neil thought that if his father was still in his relatively good humour then there was no harm in trying, and so he led the old man to their apartment.

Brian Chapman was sitting at the small table, surrounded by a sea of open newspapers. Josh had been put to bed and the caretaker scowled at the interruption when the door opened.

‘What is it?’ he snapped.

Neil guessed correctly that his father’s job hunting was proving more difficult than he had anticipated and was glad that he had not brought Quoth along also.

‘I said Mr Pickering could have some hot water for his flask.’

His father grunted and irritably flapped the paper he was reading. ‘You know where the kettle is.’

‘This way,’ the boy began.

Austen Pickering followed him inside the apartment, then drew a sharp, astonished breath. ‘Tremendous!’ he exclaimed, blowing upon his hands and shivering uncontrollably.

‘What’s the matter with him?’ Brian asked.

‘Can’t you feel it?’ the old man cried.

Neil shook his head, but glanced warily at his father.

‘It’s freezing in here!’ the ghost hunter declared. ‘This room is a definite cold spot. Something quite dreadful must have happened here in the past. Let me get my thermometer – I must see if it registers.’

Brian Chapman rose from the chair and slammed the newspaper upon the table. ‘That’s it!’ he snapped. ‘You and your crackpot notions can get out of here. For God’s sake, I’ve got a four-year-old boy trying to sleep in the next room. I don’t want him scared by this mumbo-jumbo claptrap. Go on – I said leave!’

Still shivering, a crestfallen Austen Pickering looked away, embarrassed. ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you,’ he uttered. ‘I sometimes get carried away. I’m sorry, I’ll get back to The Fossil Room. It doesn’t matter about the hot water.’

‘Oh well done, Dad,’ Neil shouted when the old man had departed. ‘There was no need to be so nasty. He isn’t doing any harm.’

The boy’s father sat down once more and rested his head in his hands. ‘I’ve had it up to here for today,’ he groaned. ‘On top of everything else, I don’t want a loser like him telling me that this flat is haunted.’

‘This place must be a magnet for losers, then,’ Neil snapped, heading for the door.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘To apologise! Though I don’t see why I should – but I know you wouldn’t dream of it.’

Neil slammed the door behind him and, with a yell of frustration, Brian Chapman threw the newspapers across the room.

In The Fossil Room, Neil found Austen Pickering sorting through the many candles he had brought with him, whilst Quoth nibbled at the wax and pecked at the tantalising, worm-like wicks.

‘Sorry about Dad,’ Neil said. ‘He’s been a complete pain lately.’

The old man brushed the incident aside. ‘I told you some people don’t like what I do,’ he reminded the boy. ‘I’m used to it by now. A solitary vocation, that’s what this is.’

‘I could go back and fill your thermos for you.’

‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ Mr Pickering replied, walking over to where his mackintosh hung and pulling a silver hip flask from one of the pockets. ‘A nip of brandy will do just as well. I said I was prepared.’

Gathering up a handful of candles, he placed one in each corner of the room then threw Neil a cigarette lighter. ‘If you could set those going for me, I’ll just put two more in the centre here and jot down the direction of the draughts.’

In the bright glare of the electric lights, the candle flames looked cold and pale. Quoth amused himself by dancing around trying to blow them out – until Neil saw what he was doing and scolded him.

‘There.’ The ghost hunter finally nodded with satisfaction. ‘Now, if you could flick the switch, lad.’

Neil obeyed and the room was immediately engulfed in shadows which leaped about the walls. The huge black bones of the fossils appeared to twitch as great hollows of darkness yawned between the massive ribs, and prehistoric nightmares flew through the night above their heads.

Beneath them, however, the six cheery candle flames were reflected in the glass of the cabinets, and the cases which contained mineral samples glinted and winked as the faceted crystals and pyrites threw back the trembling fires.

‘Such glistering gaudery!’ Quoth cawed, hopping across to spread his wings and let the shimmering light play over his ragged feathers. ‘Fie, how this sorry vagabond doth put the lustrous Phoenix to shame.’

Neil grinned but Austen Pickering was already heading towards the next room. ‘Much more conducive,’ the ghost hunter remarked. ‘This kind of investigation always works better in the soft glow of candles. All to do with light waves and atmospheric vibrations – electricity is a terrible obstacle for some of the weaker souls of the departed, you know.’

The boy followed him and, dragging himself away from the sparkling cabinets, Quoth came waddling after.

‘Put the rest in the other galleries, I think,’ Mr Pickering decided, handing Neil a dozen more candles. ‘Then I’ll settle down and wait. I’ve got high hopes for this night. Once the usual noises of an old building settling on to its foundations have subsided, who knows? Perhaps there’ll even be a manifestation. I’ve never been so excited, not even in the Wigan case.’

‘What was that about?’ Neil asked.

The old man set another candle down and marked its position in his notebook. ‘Up till now it was my most rewarding investigation,’ he announced, ‘and an object lesson which proves that not all hauntings occur in churchyards or ancient buildings. Just an ordinary semi that a young family had moved into. Wasn’t long before they noticed strange things were happening – so I was called in.’

Wandering into another room he paused and lit another candle before continuing. ‘Five nights I was there till the poor soul made his appearance,’ he chuckled. ‘Except for the baby, we were all downstairs and I was beginning to wonder if the young couple had imagined it all. But sometimes the departed don’t want to let go of their ties with this world, and they can get a bit wily. That’s what was happening there. The old chap who’d lived there originally didn’t want to leave and was hiding from me. If it wasn’t for modern technology, I might still be there trying to find him.’

‘How do you mean?’ Neil broke in. ‘Did the ghost show up on one of your photographs?’

The old man laughed. ‘Nothing like that,’ he chuckled. ‘No, as I said, we were all downstairs when, over the baby monitor, comes a voice. He was up there in the nursery, talking to the littl’un in her cot!’

‘That’s well creepy.’

‘Oh, he didn’t want to hurt her,’ Mr Pickering asserted. ‘Just sad and lonely, that’s all. People don’t change just because they die, you know. He was a kindly soul, was old Cyril.’

‘What about those who were nasty when they were alive?’

‘Luckily, there’s more good in the world than television would have us believe,’ the ghost hunter replied.

In each of the ground floor rooms they had placed four candles, and the winding, connecting corridor was lit with another fifteen at five-metre intervals. All the electric lights were switched off, and now only those small flames pricked and illuminated the momentous dark.

When they reached the main hallway, where the stairs rose into the impenetrable, prevailing blackness of the upper storeys, the old man clicked his fingers in the manner which Neil already recognised as the sign that he was marshalling his thoughts.

‘There,’ he muttered, gazing back at the glimmering trail they had left behind. ‘I’m ready. I propose to begin here and work my way back to The Fossil Room. Thanks for your help, lad.’

The boy smiled at him. The lenses of the ghost hunter’s spectacles mirrored the candle which the man held in his hand and two squares of bright yellow flame shone out from his lined face. Yet behind those reflections, Mr Pickering’s eyes burned just as keenly. Neil wished that he could stay and see what would happen, but he sensed that tonight the eager newcomer would rather work alone.

‘Good luck,’ he said.

Mr Pickering raised his hand in a slight wave, then took a deep breath to prepare himself.

‘Come on, you,’ Neil told Quoth, lifting the bird on to his shoulder. ‘Let’s see if I can sneak you past Dad.’

Walking through the collections, the boy looked back to catch a last glimpse of the ghost hunter, cocooned in a golden, glowing aura, the cavernous night dwarfing and besieging his stout form as he began his lonely vigil.

‘Hope he finds what he came for,’ Neil said. ‘This place could do with a psychic spring-clean.’

In the entrance hall, Austen Pickering took out his Bible and held it tightly as he lowered his eyes and murmured a heartfelt prayer. The candle in his other hand fizzed and crackled as particles of The Wyrd Museum’s ever-present floating dust drifted into the heat and, presently, the man lifted his head. He was ready.

‘I know you can hear me,’ the ghost hunter called in a firm but friendly voice. ‘I don’t want to frighten any of you – there’s nothing to be afraid of. My name’s Austen. I’m here to help. Now is the time you have waited for. Listen to me – I can feel your torment. Don’t let this place keep you any longer. Come forward, I beseech you. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I call you to me.’

The pensioner’s words echoed through the hall and out into the collections. Passing through The Roman Gallery, Neil and Quoth heard his compassionate appeals, the sonorous tones ringing through the still emptiness of the vacillating dark that surrounded them.

‘Make yourselves known to me. Let me guide you to the peace you have been denied.’

Quoth’s single eye gleamed small and sharp in the shadows as he cocked his head to listen, and Neil felt a sudden tremor of apprehension judder through the raven’s body.

‘Is something the matter?’ the boy asked.

‘Yea,’ Quoth answered in a hoarse whisper which was filled with dread. ‘The lumpen one knows not what is moving. From the Stygian mirk it cometh. Mine very quills doth rise at its approach. Tarry no longer, Master Neil. To thy father and the light we must away and flee this ray-chidden dankness.’

‘There’s nothing to be scared of.’

Yet the urge to leave that place was mounting within the boy too, and he quickened his pace. About the walls, the shadows of the countless terracotta pots and jars which crammed the shelves seemed to move independently of the candle flames. Neil forced himself not to look at them, for it was easy to see any number of imagined horrors in that crowding dark.

‘I should have taken the quick way through the corridor,’ he muttered.

‘Come to me!’ he could hear the ghost hunter calling. ‘Show yourselves!’

Quoth let out a bleating yelp and clung tightly to his master’s shoulder. ‘Canst thou not sense the terror?’ he wailed. ‘The wall of night doth quake and crack. Make haste afore the barricade is riven!’

Into The Neolithic Collection Neil hurried, running past the cases which housed fragments of Stone Age skulls and avoiding the gaze of reconstructed Neanderthals.

‘Squire Neil!’ the raven yammered, glancing behind them. ‘Behold the flames!’

Whirling around, the boy saw that the candles in the rooms they had passed through were guttering.

‘Lo!’ Quoth uttered miserably. ‘The nocturn breath of the unquiet dead doth blow upon them.’

As though caught in a gusting draught, the small flames sputtered. To his dismay, Neil saw in the distance an engulfing darkness creep closer as, one by one, the candles were extinguished.

‘Midnight as an ice lord’s gullet,’ the raven cawed.

Through the galleries the blackness moved, pouncing from corner to corner as each flame died. The boy could no longer hear Austen Pickering’s voice and, when he spun around again, he saw that the lights ahead were also dwindling and beginning to fail.

‘Too late!’ Quoth shrieked. ‘We are captured!’

With a rush of stale, swirling air, every light in The Neolithic Collection was suddenly snuffed out. Neil and the raven were plunged into a blackness that seemed almost solid.

‘The doom hath descended!’ Quoth cheeped forlornly.

Neil rubbed his eyes, but the darkness was absolute. This room had no windows so there was not even a pale glow from outside to guide him. ‘Stop panicking,’ he reproached the raven crossly. ‘You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?’

‘Alas yes!’ the bird replied. ‘Neath night’s mantle all manner of fell frights may stalketh – with gangrel limbs to drag the ground, clustering eyes and dribble-drenched snouts a-questing our hiding places. Oh, how the fetor steameth from their fangs! Aroint this umbral broth; ’tis the unseen fancy which inspireth the horrors tenfold.’

‘This is stupid,’ the boy answered, trying to sound calm. ‘It was only the wind that put the candles out. But if it was a ghost, then I’ve seen them before and I’m not scared. Edie used to keep loads of them in the bomb sites during the Blitz, the same as other people keep goldfish.’

‘Doughty and of the halest oak is thine heart fashioned,’ Quoth whimpered in admiration. ‘Yet, what sayest thou if the shades who dwell herein doth prove to be fiends most bloody and angersome? No wish hath I to be plucked untimely and robbed of mine gizzards. Spare this frail flower from the greed of the unclean eclipse!’

Neil rummaged in his pockets for the lighter, but remembered that he had given it back to Austen Pickering. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a cheerful laugh. ‘Why don’t I just switch the lights back on?’

Groping through the dark, he felt his way around invisible cabinets until he came to a wall and passed along it, picturing their progress in his mind.

‘The door to the passage should be near here,’ he muttered. ‘The switches are right next to it.’

Fumbling beside a long glass case, the ridges of the door jamb abruptly met his fingertips and at that same moment an anxious voice called out to him.

‘Are you all right, lad?’ Austen Pickering’s concerned cry came echoing through the museum. ‘All the candles have gone out. Stay where you are and I’ll come find you. Blast it! The lighter won’t work and I’ve left the torch back with the fossils.’

‘Don’t worry!’ the boy shouted back. ‘I’m going to put the—’

A frantic dab at his cheek caused his reply to falter. ‘What’s the matter now?’ he demanded of the raven.

‘Hush!’ Quoth urged, his rasping voice now charged with genuine terror. ‘We are not alone in this chamber. Hark – something hath stolen within!’

Neil held his breath, and his skin crawled when he heard faint scrabbling sounds coming from the direction of the far wall. It was a small and furtive scuttling noise which seemed to keep close to the skirting, travelling the boundaries of the large room as though shy of the open space which filled it.

‘What did you say?’ the ghost hunter called. ‘I didn’t catch it.’

But Neil was too afraid to answer. Whatever had joined Quoth and himself in The Neolithic Collection had overcome its reticence and given a sudden, pig-like grunt. Even now they could hear it snuffling across the floor, scampering under the cabinets and growling softly to itself.

‘’Tis a beast of the ancient wild!’ the raven whispered fretfully. ‘Or some frightsome bogle crawled from its brimstone grot. Master Neil, the great lights – command them!’

With the guttural breaths now sounding from the centre of the room, the boy hunted feverishly for the switches on the wall, but found only a blank expanse and his heart beat faster in his chest.

‘They’re not here!’ he hissed. ‘Quoth! I can’t find them. I must have got it wrong. This is the door to The Norman Hall – I thought we were on the other side of the room!’

At the sound of their frightened voices, the bestial snorts ceased and a foul, exulting gurgle issued from the blackness.

‘The fiend hath detected us!’ Quoth yowled. ‘We are discovered! Fly, Master Neil!’

A triumphant chattering whooped from the deep shadows as the creature bounded from beneath the cabinets, with a gnashing and champing of teeth.

Unable to contain his panic, Neil scrabbled with the handle of the door and cried out in despair. ‘It’s locked!’ he wept.

‘Then flee another way!’ Quoth implored, hopping up and down in terror. ‘The demon is upon us!’

Blundering sideways, Neil ran blindly across the room, but the snapping horror veered around in pursuit, its claws clattering over the polished floorboards.

‘More speed!’ the raven cried.

Neil flung himself through the gloom and the gargling snorts of the unseen beast rose to a horrible squeal.

Suddenly, the boy yelled in pain as he crashed into a table. Unable to check his momentum, he vaulted head over heels through the darkness, landing in a crumpled heap upon the other side.

Screeching, Quoth toppled from his shoulder and went tumbling backwards – straight into path of the oncoming nightmare.