(1992) Prophecy

‘A well-paced thriller that delivers maximum emotional torture’
Chicago Tribune

‘Grippingly intriguing from start to finish’   James Herbert

‘Too many horror stories go over the top into fantasy land, but
Dreamer
is set in the recognisable world … I guarantee you more than a frisson of fear’  
Daily Express

‘A thought-provoking menacer that’s completely technological and genuinely frightening about the power of future communications’  
Time Out

‘This compulsive story is a tale of the search for immortality … I cannot remember when I last read a novel I enjoyed so much’  
Sunday Telegraph

‘Gripping … plotting is ingenious … in its evocation of how a glossy cocoon of worldly success can be unravelled by one bad decision it reminds me of Tom Wolfe’s
Bonfire of the Vanities’   The Times

‘Peter James, Britain’s closest equivalent to Stephen King’  
Sunday Times

‘The suspense holds on every page, right to the end …’  
She

Peter James was educated at Charterhouse then at film school. He lived in North America for a number of years, working as a screenwriter and film producer before returning to England. His novels, including the number one bestseller
Possession
, have been translated into thirty languages and three have been filmed. All his novels reflect his deep interest in the world of the police, with whom he does in-depth research, as well as science, medicine and the paranormal. He has produced numerous films, including the
The Merchant Of Venice
, starring Al Pacino, Jeremy Irons and Joseph Fiennes. He also co-created the hit Channel 4 series,
Bedsitcom
, which was nominated for a Rose d’Or. He is currently, as co-producer, developing his Roy Grace novels for television with ITV Productions. Peter James won the Krimi-Blitz 2005 Crime Writer of the Year award in Germany, and
Dead Simple
won both the 2006 Prix Polar International award and the 2007 Prix Coeur Noir award in France.
Looking Good Dead
was shortlisted for the 2007 Richard and Judy Crime Thriller of the Year award, France’s SNCF and Le Grand Prix de Littérature award.
Not Dead Enough
was shortlisted for the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Thriller of the Year award and the ITV3 Crime Thriller Of The Year award. He divides his time between his homes in Notting Hill, London and near Brighton in Sussex. Visit his website at
www.peterjames.com
.

Cover

Title

Copyright

Dedication

Praise for Peter James

About the Author

By Peter James

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Epilogue

As ever, I am indebted to many people and organizations whose help, knowledge and input has been invaluable. In particular, a very special thank you to the following:

The Viscount Hampden for allowing me to use Glynde Place as the model for Meston Hall (although I should add that Glynde Place is in very considerably better condition than Meston and I have made changes both to the house and grounds). I should also add that the Halkin/Sherfield family are entirely fictitious and bear no relationship to any of the Viscount Hampden’s family nor previous occupants of Glynde Place.

Brian Inglis. Roderick Main of Scarab Research for his invaluable help also on coincidence (and for the coincidences!). Robert Knox, Deputy Keeper of Oriental Antiquities at the British Museum. Frances Wollen. Canon Dominic Walker OGS. Dr Robert Morris of Edinburgh University. Miss Eleanor O’Keefe of the Society for Psychical Research. Jane Henry. Ruth West. Brian Dickinson. Tim Mair. Pippa Hooley, Bovine Consultant. Councillor Pam Stiles. Kathryn Bailey. Sophie Allen, Game Boy Consultant. Dr Nigel Kirkham. Dr Tim Carter. Dr Duncan Stewart. Dr Brian Kirkland. Mick Harris. David Garbutt. Nina Mackay (for lightning calculations on the backs of envelopes!). Ray Hazan and Peter Marshall of St Dunstan’s. Adrian Elliott. Mark Towse. Peter Orpen of AVT. Dr Robert Wilkins. Roy Gambier of the Shuttle-worth Collection.

I am indebted also to the hard work of Sue Ansell;
to my agent, Jon Thurley; to my editors, Joanna Goldsworthy and Richard Evans and my copy-editor Elizabeth Reeves. And to Bertie, for not eating all of the manuscript. And to my wife, Georgina, who through all the bludgeonings of chance kept me bloody but unbowed …

26th March, 1652

The man and boy walked along the London street trying to keep clear of the gutter, the man hurrying, clutching the boy with sharp, bony fingers, turning down one dark alley then another, like a rat that has learned its way through a maze.

The boy was confused and uncertain; he did not know who the man was and did not like him. His mother and the man had talked in low voices and his mother had not kissed him or looked him in the eye when the man had taken him away. They had walked for a long time through the failing light and the rain, and he was tired and hungry. And becoming afraid.

After a while they stopped in the rear yard of a large house and the man knocked loudly. The door opened a few inches and dark, suspicious eyes peered out. ‘Come in,’ a woman said and the door opened wider. The man pushed the boy ahead of him into the kitchen.

The woman frightened the boy. She was tall, dressed in a black gown, and had a skeletal face with eyes that seemed to scold him.

‘How many years has he?’

‘Eight,’ the man said.

‘He stinks.’

‘He needs a wash, that’s all.’

The woman studied the boy carefully. He had fair curls that were unkempt and matted, large blue eyes and a snub nose; his lips were drawn sullenly down, and his clothes were little more than grimy rags; his feet were bare. ‘Wait here,’ she said.

The boy stood gazing at the stone floor, aware of the flames in the hearth and the pot above it from which came an acrid, unpleasant smell.

After a few moments the door opened and the woman came back in, followed by a tall man with a limp. He was wearing a gold, full-length robe, and had a cruel, vain face framed with a carefully trimmed beard. He stood in the doorway and smiled approvingly at the boy. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You have done well.’

He came closer to the boy, dragging his club-foot across the floor with a scrape, and stood still again, admiring him. ‘Very good.’

The boy was impressed by the man’s robe and by his noble appearance. The man moved closer, then in one fast movement tore the clothes off the boy, letting them drop around his ankles.

The boy looked at him in shock. The nobleman took a step towards him and laid a hand on his shoulder. The boy whipped his head around, bit the man’s wrist hard and bolted for the door on the far side of the kitchen.

The man who had brought him grabbed him by his hair and held him tightly. The nobleman roared with laughter.

‘He is fine and spirited. You have done
very
well, for a change.’

‘Thank you, my Lord.’

‘Yes,’ he said. He eyed the boy’s body with mounting satisfaction. ‘I will reward –’ He broke off as a commotion beyond the kitchen disturbed him. He frowned; they were early. Much too early. They were not due for at least two hours yet, surely? He turned, staring through the open door and down the passageway.

A man in a tall black hat, a high white collar and a
black coat over tight, ribboned breeches strode through the doorway. He was followed by a group of soldiers wearing the red coats, grey breeches and waist sashes of the Parliamentarian Army.

His grey eyes scanned the room then fixed on the nobleman. He spoke with a humourless smile. ‘Good evening, Francis,’ he said. ‘Have I interrupted some sport?’

‘What do you mean by this intrusion, Thomas?’ The nobleman stared with a vexed expression at the soldiers who were clustered inside the door; their faces beneath their buff leather hats carried an air of intent that disturbed him.

The man in the black hat looked at the woman and the rat-faced man beside her. ‘Who brought this child?’ When they remained silent, his voice became hard and stern. ‘Who brought him?’

‘’Twas I,’ the rat-faced man said.

‘Clothe him and take him back.’ And then, to the woman, ‘How many servants are here in the house now?’

The woman glanced at her master as if for approval to speak.

The nobleman’s vexation was tempered by uncertainty. ‘Thomas, I’ll not have this. Take your men and leave forthwith.’

The man in the black hat ignored him and continued to stare at the woman. ‘I want all the servants to be gone immediately and not return until curfew time. Understand?’ He turned and nodded at the soldiers.

They moved forwards and seized the nobleman’s arms. His expression turned to fury. ‘Thomas – my brother, man! For God’s sake! What do you think you are doing?’

‘For God? For
God’s
sake?’ his brother echoed
mockingly. ‘What dost thou know of God whom thou hast abandoned these five and twenty years?’ He led the way out of the door and down a passageway into a fine hall with a black-and-white tiled floor, candles in ornate sconces on the walls and gilt furniture. The soldiers, headed by their sergeant, frogmarched the robed nobleman, ignoring, as his brother did, his protestations.

They went downstairs into a dark, evil-smelling cellar and halted at a door outside which a candle burned. Thomas jangled a key tauntingly at his brother, unlocked the door and led the way into a huge cellar chamber.

A massive fire blazed in a hearth beneath a brick flue on the far wall, the echoes of its cracking and spitting resounding like gunshots around the brick walls and flagstone floor. There were stone tablets fixed to the walls, some containing five-pointed stars, others squares of numbers. Skulls and bones, human and animal, were laid out on shelves between lit black candles.