The Parliament of Blood (36 page)

‘Anthony Barford said we would take their secrets to our graves, you recall, Eddie?'

‘I do, yeah.' Eddie was carrying Oldfield's metal box, clutching it tight to his chest like a talisman.

‘Sounds like what Hemming had written in his journal,' George remembered.

‘That's exactly what I thought,' Sir William said. He was a vague shape somewhere in front of George, leading the way along the narrow curving path. ‘And it occurred to me that perhaps Hemming meant it literally.'

Eddie's voice floated out of the thickening air: ‘And he's buried somewhere here, is he?'

‘I never actually met Hemming. But I had already taken up my position at the Museum when he passed away after his illness. I went to the funeral.'

Sir William stopped so abruptly that George knocked into him. But he seemed not to notice.

‘This way,' he decided, setting off again. ‘I think.'

‘Christopher Kingsley's grave is just along here somewhere,' George realised as he recognised a statue of an angel standing close to the path. It was barely more than a silhouette in the foggy gloom.

‘Don't I know it,' Eddie grumbled. ‘Still got dirt from it down my back, I reckon. It's itchy.'

‘Which means that right underneath us, at this moment …' George's voice tailed off as he realised Sir William had disappeared.

‘Over here,' came the old man's voice. George and Eddie found him kneeling beside a grave. The grass was long and neglected, the headstone had tilted to a drunken angle.

‘Forgive me, Xavier,' Sir William murmured. Then he straightened up. ‘Right,' he told George, ‘you've got the spade, so you'd better get digging.'

The earth was cold and damp, but George managed to make swift progress. He was spurred on by Sir William's comment that the ceremony must be due to start soon so they hadn't much time. He was less encouraged by Eddie's mention of how the Coachman could somehow detect the very casket they were looking for.

‘Perhaps we're too late,' he said, handing the spade at last to Eddie and sinking down on the damp turf.

‘Let us hope not.'

Eddie jumped down into the shallow pit that George had excavated and set to with more enthusiasm than expertise. Earth went flying, scattering across the ground and spraying George and Sir William who quickly moved out of range.

Sir William took his turn, and by the time that George took over again the hole was so deep they needed to help each other in and out.

‘Can't be far now,' Eddie said.

‘I wonder what's happening to Liz,' George said out
loud. Neither of his friends had an answer. Before George could dwell on the possibilities, he felt the spade hit something solid. From the sound and feel, it was rotting wood.

He scraped the last of the earth from the top of the remains of the coffin. There was a smell coming from it that George tried to keep out by clamping a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. But it did little to help. As quickly as he could, he prised off what was left of the wooden lid and without giving himself time to think too much about it, reached into the darkness beneath.

‘I can feel something,' he said, excitedly through the hanky. It was a regular shape – smooth and cold. He dropped the spade and lifted what he had found out up for Sir William to take.

‘I'll check there's nothing else.' Gingerly, George reached back inside the broken wooden coffin, trying not to think about what else he might find. His fingers brushed against something, and he gasped in horror as he realised it was a skeletal hand.

And the hand clutched at his wrist.

‘Help me out, quick. There's someone else down here.' The hand grabbed George's leg as he tried to climb up and out of the grave.

‘How can there be?' Eddie said, reaching down to help George. His expression changed as he realised. ‘They're coming from below?'

‘They've found us,' George agreed. With all his remaining strength, he heaved himself out of the pit.

‘Well done, George,' Sir William said. He held up the
casket for them to see. It was like the other canopic jars that had been in the crate in the Museum basement, but the lid was in the shape of a scorpion with its vicious tail curled up over its body.

‘Just in time,' George gasped.

‘Or just too late,' Eddie said.

There was a scraping from behind George. Something was pushing up through the bottom of the grave. The remains of the coffin tilted and fell as a figure forced its way into the pit. A skull-like face turned to look up at them.

The Coachman.

George turned to run. But like Eddie and Sir William he froze in terror.

The moonlight filtered through the fog just enough for them to be able to make out the vague shapes of the gravestones. And thrusting up between them were hands, arms erupting from the dead earth.

Pale, emaciated figures pushed through the graveyard soil and staggered to their feet as the graves opened and the undead awoke.

‘Run!' Eddie yelled. He wrapped the metal box inside his jacket, put his head down and charged into the figures appearing out of the fog and the ground. He hoped Sir William and George were following.

Bony fingers clutched and tore at him. There were so many of them – the undead waking from the long sleep in their graves. Eddie felt his foot disappear down a hole in the ground, and wrenched it free, almost dropping Oldfield's box. It was agony when he put his weight on it, but he ignored the pain and ran on.

A strong arm grabbed him, and he cried out. But it was George, helping him as he limped on.

George's face was the colour of the fog. ‘Where's Sir William?'

‘Right behind you. Keep running. Head for the river.'

The ground sloped upwards. Eddie hoped and expected at any moment to break through the last group of vampires. They were slow and seemed still tired as they continued to
struggle free of the cold, damp earth. But Eddie could see no end to them.

They reached the top of the rise, and Eddie found himself lurching towards a high iron fence. On the other side, he could hear the lapping of water and just make out the murky dark expanse of the Thames.

‘We'll never climb that,' George said.

Sir William was holding the canopic jar. He sank down to his knees and fumbled with the top. All around them the vampires were turning, moving slowly towards them. Hissing in anticipation.

‘It's sealed,' Sir William said.

‘Here, let me see.' George crouched down beside the casket. ‘Might be wax, or … No – look, there's a lock. Strange shape, but I think I can force open the catch.'

‘Never mind that,' Eddie said. ‘The catch is they're going to catch us.'

They were surrounded by a semicircle of the pale creatures. Taloned hands reached out at them. The fence was cold and unyielding as Eddie pressed against it. Inside his jacket he could feel the metal box thumping and juddering as the bat inside sensed vampire blood close by. But just one bat wouldn't save them now.

‘Stop right there!' Sir William's voice was loud and confident.

The vampires hesitated, but then started to press forwards again.

‘We have something you are looking for,' Sir William
went on, and now Eddie could hear the tremor in his voice. ‘Come any closer and we shall destroy it.'

There was a sound like the rustling of leaves. It took Eddie a moment to work out what it was. The vampires were laughing. The sound grew, and then suddenly stopped. The figures closest to Eddie and the others moved aside, and the tall cadaverous Coachman stepped into the moonlight.

‘Your only chance is to give me the casket,' he rasped. ‘Then we might allow you a quick death. A
lasting
death.'

‘No!' Eddie yelled. He leaped forward, ignoring the shooting pain in his ankle, and grabbed the scorpion-lidded jar. It was heavier than he expected. He struggled to lift it, the lid moved as his fingers pulled nervously at the catch George had loosened. Eddie had a lot of experience of opening locks … He staggered back, away from the circling vampires. Then, pressing the catch shut again, he held the jar up high so they could all see.

‘You back off or I destroy it,' he said.

‘It is what's inside that matters,' the Coachman said. ‘Break the jar, and we shall still have what we need.'

‘Not if it's in the river, you won't.' Eddie had moved close to the fence. His hands were shaking, the jar trembling in his grip. ‘Now back away, or I chuck it over and it'll sink for ever.'

The Coachman stretched out his arms, as if to keep his fellows back. ‘Give me the jar,' he said. His voice was calm and reasonable-sounding. ‘Just give me the jar.'

Eddie blinked. He could feel the voice eating into his
will. He
wanted
to just hand it over. This must be how the Coachman persuaded Remick to go with him. Eddie felt himself stepping away from the fence, holding the jar out towards the Coachman's waiting hands. With a massive effort, Eddie turned.

And hurled the jar as far away as he could.

It was too heavy to get over the fence, so Eddie instead threw it into the fog. He heard the canopic jar rolling across the ground.

‘Quick!' George yelled, pushing Eddie ahead of him into the fog. Eddie felt Oldfield's metal box slip from his grasp and tumble to the ground. But he had no time to stop and pick it up.

Sir William was running too. He and Eddie raced down the bank as the vampires scurried after the Coachman, searching for the fallen jar.

‘Find it!' the Coachman was shouting. ‘I must have it!'

‘Well done, young man,' Sir William said.

They drew up breathless on the path through the cemetery. Either side of them, Eddie could see the ground was churned up and broken open.

‘There must be hundreds of them,' Eddie said. ‘Their tunnels are all under here. This must be another vampire resting ground, like the house, and now they're waking up.' He looked round, peering into the swirling fog and trying to gauge the enormity of it all. Then he realised: ‘What's happened to George?'

The fog closed in around George, smothering him. He did not dare to shout for Eddie and Sir William – the chances were that it would be someone else who heard. He resolved instead to find his way out of the cemetery as quickly as possible.

The moon had disappeared again and the world was a wash of grey. He picked his way carefully round the dark, gaping holes in the ground hoping to find the path. A figure loomed up in front of him, and George stepped quickly back.

But the figure did not move. He crept towards it, careful to make no sound. And almost laughed out loud as he saw it was a stone angel, weeping into its hands.

‘I know how you feel,' he muttered.

Behind the angel was another dark shape – broad and high. George thought it might be a sepulchre or a large tomb. But it seemed to be a stone-built hut. It was windowless, with a single heavy wooden door. George walked slowly all round the little building. On the back wall, water dripped from a gargoyle's mouth in the eaves, splashing into a large trough below on the ground. In the foggy night, the liquid was dark as blood.

He barely glanced at the angel as he arrived back at the front of the building. Until it moved. And George realised that it was not the statue he had seen earlier at all, but a woman standing watching him.

‘The sexton keeps his tools in there.' Her scarlet cloak was a stain of red in the grey night. Clarissa stepped smiling out of the fog.