SEVEN

An Inspector Calls

Two dogs found the body wedged under the riverbank, early on Sunday morning. Their owner, an elderly villager who disapproved of mobile phones, walked briskly back along the Glyde to the nearest house, which happened to be Riverside. Michael called the police and returned with him to the spot where the dogs had been left on guard. Uniforms arrived, followed by CID, and there was an unpleasant interlude while those who were ordered to do so got wet and the body arrived on the bank and was zipped into a plastic bag. ‘Well, she’s dead,’ the police doctor said brightly. ‘A good few days, I’d say. Probably drowned. In her mid-late sixties, pretty fit from the look of her. Accident, at a guess. Fell in – hit her head – caught in the weed. Autopsy should tell us more.’

Michael and the dog-owner were asked if they minded taking a look for possible identification.

‘I’m sure I recognize her,’ Michael said. ‘Yes … I’ve seen her around. The local witch, I always thought.’

‘It’s old Missus Carlow,’ confirmed the villager. ‘Pretty old she was too. Been around as long as I can remember. Can’t really take it in, her dying. Not like this, any road. She wasn’t the type.’

‘Was she getting a bit dithery?’ the police constable inquired.

‘Not she. Sharp as anything, she was. Not the sort to slip in the river and get herself drowned.’

‘D’you know her next of kin?’

In due course, two officers paid a call on Lily Bagot, the dog-owner dropped in on the pub and let fall a few cryptic utterances, and Michael knocked on Annie’s door in search of coffee and a sympathetic ear.

‘Stupid to be shaken up,’ he said, sitting at the back of the bookshop, closed for Sunday, cupping the coffee mug between his hands. ‘All the same … I haven’t seen too many dead bodies, and none like that. My mother looked peaceful, my grandfather empty, like a waxwork. But Mrs Carlow – there was an expression on her face – rage, fear, horror, any combination. Her eyes wide open and the weed hanging over them. Sorry: sounds such a cliché. She died with an expression of unspeakable horror on her face. I know you think it’s a big adventure, Nat. That’s your age.’

‘It’s horrible,’ Annie said quietly. The previous evening Nathan had started to tell her about Eric, dreams, other worlds, and she had listened and accepted, adding her own experience of the gnomons. But she had said nothing about Rianna Sardou or the thing from the river, and now the drowning struck her as more than ordinarily unpleasant. There was too much water about.

‘She was Hazel’s great-grandma,’ Nathan said. ‘I ought to go see her.’

‘Nathan –!’

‘Hazel, I mean. Don’t worry, Mum. I’m not turning into a ghoul.’

‘It’s natural you’d be interested,’ Michael said. ‘I expect you’d like it to be murder, but I’m afraid it was just an accident. The rage and horror was probably because she fell in the river, and found herself caught in the weed. That would be enough to horrify anyone.’

‘Hazel must have been fond of her,’ Annie said. ‘She’d been staying with the Bagots for a while, hadn’t she?’

‘Since Hazel’s dad left,’ Nathan replied. ‘Hazel’s a bit afraid of her – I mean, she was – but so was he.’

‘I said she looked like a witch,’ Michael remarked.

Nathan went round to the Bagots’ house as soon as he could. Lily let him in; she wasn’t crying, but she looked frightened. ‘She thinks Dad’ll come back,’ Hazel explained. ‘She’s scared. I don’t think she was fond of Great-grandma – she couldn’t be, ’cos Great-grandma wasn’t fond of her, she wasn’t fond of anyone – but she protected us. Now, there’s nobody.’

‘There’s the police,’ Nathan suggested. Hazel grimaced. ‘Mum’ll help. About your great-grandma – d’you want to say I told you so?’

‘I told you so.’

In Hazel’s room, he gave her back the horseshoes. She sat on the bed, holding one of them, stroking the coarse metal with a single finger. ‘It’s too late,’ she said. ‘We should never have taken them. She needed the iron too. Something got through …’ She hadn’t told him about the face in the basin, and the head emerging into the room. That had been too grotesque, too unnatural – no mumbled charm but a reality that defied belief. She refused to think about it, let alone discuss it, but it filled her mind, squashing all other thoughts into the corners. She tried to convince herself that Effie’s death really might have been accidental, but it was difficult, when horrible ideas were crowding into her head. It was hard to keep hold of a failing reality, with only the corners of your mind. In the end she put on some music which sounded eastern, with a twangy instrument that she said was a sitar, and they drank coke because there was no ginger beer. They talked little, but she was glad he was there.

After Nathan had gone she went back to the attic. Nothing had been done about the broken lock, and the door swung loose. She had a feeling it ought to be fixed – an attic should have a lock – but she didn’t know what to do about it. There was no point in mentioning it to her mother right now. Inside, everything was as they had found it when – with the assistance of a muscular neighbour – they broke in. The herbs and bottles on the table, the smell – very faint now – that didn’t belong in an attic, an outdoor smell, a river smell, the shards of the broken basin on the floor. Hazel didn’t pick them up; she didn’t want to touch them. She had a carrier bag with her and she crammed in all the stuff on the table, quickly and carelessly; the bottles clattered as she carried them downstairs. She had intended to throw them away but her mother was in the kitchen talking to someone and she didn’t want to answer questions about what was going in the bin. In the end, she hid the bag under her bed and left it there.

Later, Lily talked about Effie’s age (a grey area), and how she must have slipped, and what a tragedy it was for someone who was still so fit and had more than her fair share of marbles. Hazel gnawed on her frustration and a lingering sense of guilt, and said nothing.

It wasn’t until Wednesday that the detectives came to Riverside House. Michael opened the door to an inspector from the CID and a uniformed sergeant who identified themselves politely, presented warrant cards, and requested a brief word.

The sergeant, a woman, was black, burly and six feet tall; the inspector was about the same height but much slimmer, with a narrow, intent face that looked both pale and dark, hard eyes and a secretive mouth. His name was Pobjoy. It didn’t suit him. He declined coffee for both of them in the voice of one who would decline any such offer as a matter of principle.

‘The inquest is next week, isn’t it?’ Michael said. ‘I was told my attendance wouldn’t be required.’

‘No, sir. We only need evidence from the man who found the body. We just wanted to confirm a few small points.’

Michael studied the officer consideringly, absorbing the significance of his rank and plain-clothes status. ‘There’s nothing suspicious about the death, is there?’

‘You think there might be?’

‘Well – no,’ Michael responded, slightly nonplussed. Old woman walking by the river, presumably after dark, falls in, drowns … It’s an unhappy accident but surely nothing more.’

‘What makes you so sure she was walking after dark?’ the inspector said.

‘Easier to miss your footing, I suppose. Unless she had bad eyesight.’

‘Her eyesight was excellent.’

‘Maybe she had an attack of dizziness,’ Michael speculated. ‘She must have been getting on a bit. She was a great-grandmother, I gather.’

‘The autopsy confirmed she was exceptionally fit for her age,’ the inspector said noncommittally. ‘Whatever that was.’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘There is no record of her birth, and her relatives seem to be – uncertain – about it. Did you see her walking along the riverbank on a regular basis? Living here, you must know everyone who uses this route.’

‘Not really,’ Michael said. ‘Our strip of the bank’s private. People walk further up – that way – and the path isn’t good, so it doesn’t get used as much as you would expect. I’ve seen the old boy with the dog a few times, but I don’t ever recall seeing Mrs Carlow before. In the village, yes, but not by the river. What exactly are you getting at, Inspector?’

But Pobjoy wasn’t giving anything away. ‘Merely trying to establish the facts. The lady was strong and healthy, and in full possession of her faculties. She also had a reputation for being extremely acute. If she was in the habit of strolling along by the river we thought you might know; otherwise it seems an unlikely thing for her to do. You said yourself, the path isn’t popular. And she had no dog.’

‘Did she fall or was she pushed?’ Michael asked. ‘Is that the idea?’

‘There is no evidence of foul play,’ Pobjoy said repressively. ‘But we would like to know if you saw anyone frequenting the area in the days preceding the discovery of the body.’

‘Acting suspiciously? I don’t think so.’

The inspector proceeded to take Michael through every encounter of that week, no matter how trivial. The postman, a courier with a consignment of books, a delivery from Sainsbury’s in Crowford, a couple of schoolboys fishing without a permit, another dogwalker. ‘And your wife?’ Pobjoy concluded. ‘I’m afraid we’ll need to talk to her as well. When do you expect her back?’

‘In a month or so,’ Michael said. ‘She’s in Georgia.’ This time, it was the policeman’s turn to look nonplussed. ‘She’s an actress. She’s been on tour for a while. I doubt if she could tell you anything useful; she doesn’t spend much time here.’

Pobjoy threw him a swift, hard look, curiously devoid of expression. ‘I see,’ he said, in a tone that made Michael wonder exactly what he saw. ‘That will be all for now, but I may need to come back to you.’ He offered no thanks, departing on a curt nod, leaving Michael thoughtful and vaguely disquieted.

Outside, Sergeant Hale asked: ‘Well, sir? Do you really think there’s something wrong?’

The inspector shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ Evidently he wasn’t prepared to discuss the matter. As they headed back to the village where they had left the car, he said: ‘I’ll meet you in the pub in half an hour or so. I want to take a look around. Get yourself some lunch.’

The sergeant set off pubwards and Pobjoy wandered down the High Street, apparently aimless, dropping in on the deli to buy some cheese, observing Lily Bagot, whom he had not yet interviewed, without telling her who he was. While he was there Annie came in, exchanged a friendly word and bought half a dozen eggs. When she left he watched where she went, and after a few minutes followed her into the bookshop.

He leafed through a volume of military history – a subject in which he was genuinely interested – and murmured a couple of preliminary courtesies before identifying himself. Clearly she wasn’t the type to offer casual gossip about the Bagots, so he had nothing to lose by putting his inquiries on a semi-official footing.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said. ‘Surely … surely Mrs Carlow’s death was just an accident. Why should anyone harm her?’

‘That’s what I was wondering,’ he said. He let the remark hang, sensing the trace element of doubt in her voice and knowing the value of silence with a possible witness; but Annie didn’t react. She looked almost fragile, he decided, with her sensitive mouth, her soft eyes, the filmy halo of her hair – a gentle creature whose warmth of heart showed in her face. But there was strength under the softness, and evidently a capacity for reserve. ‘I get the impression she was a sharp old lady,’ he resumed. ‘No one gains financially from her death, as far as I can tell, but she might have made enemies.’

‘She could be outspoken,’ Annie conceded.

‘So she must have upset people.’

‘Not particularly. You know how it is: everyone makes allowances for the very old and the very young. They can get away with all kinds of cheek. I expect Effie traded on that. She tended to say what she thought, but nobody really minded. It wasn’t as if she was a gossip or a scandalmonger, always stirring up trouble. Actually, she kept herself to herself most of the time. Until …’

‘Until she moved in with Mrs Bagot?’ Pobjoy suggested.

‘That was just a temporary measure. Lily’s broken up with her husband; she needs support. Effie just came to help.’

‘And how did the husband feel about that?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’ Annie met his eyes full on. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

‘I expect I shall.’

He tried a few more inquiries, but without eliciting any interesting results, bought the book he had been studying, and left, a little reluctantly. A nice woman, he thought, and crime rarely brought him in contact with nice women. He had recently moved from Hastings, which had a major drug culture and all the depressing fallout which invariably accompanies that. His marriage had fallen by the wayside some years earlier, the pressures of his job taking too heavy a toll on his homelife. A notorious failure on his watch – the fault, in fact, of an arrogant colleague who had planted evidence, leading to repercussions which had affected him – had led to his removal to the relative backwater of Crowford. There was little serious crime in the area and only the occasional murder, usually domestic in origin. Fellow coppers had raised eyebrows at his interest in the death of Effie Carlow, but despite the scandal in his past he had the reputation of a talented detective and his superiors had allowed him the leeway to investigate. He couldn’t define precisely what he thought was wrong, just a collection of niggling details which didn’t fit in. There was the curious statement of Lily Bagot and her daughter that Effie had shut herself in the attic and never emerged, for instance. And now the possible hostility of Dave Bagot. He rang the CID office and got someone to check his record. Two convictions for drunk and disorderly, one for driving under the influence. Plus an ABH which had been dropped for lack of evidence. All of which, though far from conclusive, at least suggested further lines of inquiry.

And then there was the question of the anonymous letter.

At Thornyhill, Eric was improving his English by reading the newspapers. He had done his quota of work at the café but had accepted a small cash payment instead of lunch, since Bartlemy had managed to imbue him with the idea that it was an offence against local custom to eat out when you were staying somewhere as a guest. He had slept out only once so far, lured indoors by the comfort of the bed and the restful atmosphere of the house. In the evenings, he and Bartlemy talked about poetry, and politics, and the alternative world which had been his home, but his host studiously avoided any discussion of Nathan’s dreams. The newspapers had been Bartlemy’s suggestion; he had returned from shopping at Sainsbury’s in Crowford with an armful of the quality press. Reading one of the multiple supplements, Eric gave an exclamation in his own language. Hoover, who had been watching him with the air of a schoolmaster surveying a promising pupil, pricked his ears and gave a short bark.

‘What is it?’ Bartlemy asked, emerging from the kitchen.

‘This.’ Eric had evidently paled: his dark skin had a greenish tinge. He indicated a lengthy feature illustrated with two photographs. One showed Annie and Rowena Thorn wielding a piece of paper in the bookshop; the other, printed ‘by special permission of Sotheby’s’, was the Grimthorn Grail.

‘Yes, that’s Annie,’ Bartlemy confirmed. ‘Not a bad picture-for a newspaper shot.’

‘She’s famous?’ Eric queried, looking inexplicably troubled.

‘Good heavens, no. It’s just because she found a missing document which may prove Rowena’s right to reclaim that cup. It used to be the property of her family.’

‘Not possible.’ Eric made a graphic gesture of dismissal. He gestured frequently and with energy, Bartlemy noticed, perhaps to compensate for his still imperfect grasp of the language. ‘Cup is from my world. Must not be here.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I cannot mistake. I never see it – it is too important, you would say, holy? – but I see many pictures. Is first of three. Everyone know of them. Part of religion.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in God?’ Bartlemy murmured.

Eric struggled to explain himself. ‘Religion is not God. Religion is spirit, faith. There is word you use here, in church-salvation. We are not many now, people of my world – even Eos die soon – but we believe will be saved. Maybe just one man, one woman, but they will not be sterile, will have children again, our world will continue. Salvation.’

‘And this cup is part of that?’ Bartlemy pursued.

‘Very important, special, holy. First of three. Cannot be here. Is kept in safety, in secret place, guarded by monster from ancient time, until is needed.’

‘What do you mean by the “first of three”?’

‘Three things. Cup, sword, crown. Belong together. All holy. Cup of stone, sword of stroar, crown of iron. Make Great Spell to save us.’

‘Sword of straw?’ Bartlemy echoed.

Stroar,’ Eric repeated. ‘Is special metal in my world. Very strong, make sharp edge, sharp point. I not know name here. Maybe not exist on Earth.’

‘I see. The stone, too, would be different – perhaps just slight molecular differences, but it would defeat analysis. And the age … from another universe, another time, impossible to date. That would explain the anomalies. Although iron seems to be iron everywhere.’ He fell silent for a moment, pondering. Eric returned to his contemplation of the newspaper, as agitated as a Catholic might be to find the Turin shroud on Mars. ‘So what is this Great Spell?’ Bartlemy asked at last.

‘Is deep mystery,’ Eric said. ‘If we know, our world is saved; but no one knows it. Maybe Grandir find out. People say, first Grandir make three, long long ago, a million years our time. Cup is sometimes full of blood, sword moves without hand to hold, crown has many powers – I not know them. His crown, his blood, sword that kill him. True story so old, much confusion now. Is forbidden to discuss, because people may invent, lie. Religion must not lie.’

‘That’s a novel idea,’ Bartlemy remarked. ‘What was the first Grandir’s name?’

‘Great secret,’ Eric said. ‘Grandir’s name always secret. I think, name in language of force and has power.’

‘Yes … names have power, language has power, especially the language of magic. I wonder …’

‘How is it here?’ Eric reverted to his former plea. ‘Is wrong, very bad. If cup is here, my world cannot be saved. No hope left. Who steal it? Who bring it here? Perhaps Nathan dream –’

No.’ Bartlemy spoke with unaccustomed sharpness. ‘There may be a connection, but not that. Anyway, this cup has been here for centuries. Possibly our world is where it was sent for safekeeping, the secret place you mentioned. The ancient monster could be just a blind, a focus for gossip, a distraction for thieves. It’s an old ruse: you build a vault to challenge and confuse people, and hide your treasure under the bed.’

‘Cup is kept under bed?’ Eric was horrified.

‘Don’t worry, I was speaking metaphorically. At the moment, I promise you, it’s secure. We must arrange for you to see it. The photograph is pretty clear, but we need to be sure. If you could see it, would you know definitely if it was from your world? There are many cups and chalices similar to this.’

‘I know it,’ Eric insisted. ‘Patterns there – there – holy, have much power. How can it be here? I think, I am here as chance. Others dream like Nathan?’

‘I doubt it,’ Bartlemy said. ‘There is obviously some link between our worlds that goes a long way back. It may be chance that Nathan brought you here, but it isn’t chance that makes him dream. I need you to tell me everything you can remember about the cup – and the other items. In our world, the cup is also supposed to be one of several relics – three or four, legend is unclear. Another is a spear, which might be transposed into a sword; I don’t know about the crown. Stories have always centred on the cup. Here, too, it is said to have held the blood of someone holy. There seem to be parallels between the traditions in your world and ours which cannot be coincidence. Do you give the cup a name, or is that secret too?’

Sangreal,’ Eric said. ‘That is sangré, blood, and grala, cup, bowl. Is word in language of force.’

‘It sounds,’ Bartlemy said, ‘like the language we use here for strong magics, which is in turn a source for many other languages. Your world may be far more advanced than ours – advanced enough to be on the verge of annihilation – but there are plainly many basic similarities. Right, let’s have the story from the beginning. It isn’t forbidden to discuss it here.’

Eric told him all he could, but he knew little more than the scanty details he had already provided. The first Grandir had been a ruler of great power and holiness, treacherously murdered by his best friend – an ending he himself had foreseen, though why he had done nothing to avoid it was not clear. In some versions the killer was his own son, or his sister-wife. He had prophesied that eventually mortals would misuse the magic which abounded in their universe, and it would turn into a poison that would destroy them. But he had created a spell which might yet save them, a spell that was embodied in the cup, the sword and the crown: the cup that had held his blood, the sword that slew him and the crown he had worn in life – yet he was slain before he could reveal what the spell was. Why? asked Bartlemy, gently practical. It seemed a particularly ill-timed assassination. Eric shrugged and gestured, looking both tragic and doubtful. It was fate, doom, a grim inevitability. Or maybe it had been written down, in a document since lost, or whispered in someone’s ear and passed on, down the ages, to each chosen listener, until the moment came when they would speak the words aloud. But that moment had come, and no one had spoken. Why should the cup be hoarded in an alien world, by those who did not know its value? Were the sword and the crown here too, or scattered throughout assorted universes? They must be recovered, and returned to Eos, and then maybe the spell would be completed.

‘Perhaps that is why Nathan bring me here, though he not know it. Is pattern, destiny. Cup not safe here. Must be watched, guarded.’

Bartlemy remembered Nathan’s reference to the star shining down on Eade.

‘Someone’s watching,’ he said.

‘Are you – are you quite all right at the moment?’ It was Edmund Gable who spoke, one of Nathan’s classmates and the boy who occupied the bed next to him in the dormitory. They both played in the cricket team and had been good friends almost from the beginning of school.

‘Of course I am,’ Nathan said. Ned looked anxious and unsure, a state of mind that wasn’t normal for him. ‘Why?’

‘You don’t seem to be concentrating in class lately – only a B in chemistry, and –’

Nathan grinned. ‘You sound like Brother Bunsen –’ this was their nickname for Mr Bunyan, the chemistry teacher. ‘Chemistry isn’t my subject. Of the sciences, I prefer physics and biology, you know that.’

‘You used to come top in all of them. Something’s wrong – something weird. I woke up last night and looked at you, and you looked sort of – dim.’

‘Thanks! I’m supposed to look clever in my sleep?’

‘Not that kind of dim. I mean – blurred. Like you weren’t quite there.’

Nathan’s heart jolted so violently it was a minute before he could speak. ‘You must have imagined it. I expect you were dreaming or something. Anyway, how could you see? It was dark.’

‘Early dawn,’ said Ned. ‘There was light enough to see by. Honestly. And I didn’t imagine it. You were almost – transparent. Like a ghost.’

‘Well, I’m here now,’ Nathan said. ‘Solid as anything. Feel.’ He held out his arm. ‘If I was a ghost I’d be dead, wouldn’t I? Not about to thrash you at cricket practice this afternoon.’

He brushed the incident aside as best he could, and Ned didn’t refer to it again, but he was horribly frightened.

Until Ned spoke to him, he had completely forgotten his dream. How many other dreams might he have forgotten? Was there information he ought to know, mislaid in his subconscious? And what might he have done, on all those lost voyages? Supposing he dreamed every night? He tried to rein in speculation, tempering his panic with what he hoped was common sense. After all, he remembered the dream now. And surely whatever power it was that let such dreams happen, it wouldn’t cheat him by blanking them out.

The evidence of dematerialization was still more disturbing. Presumably, the more real he became in the dream, the less real was the body he left behind him. As he seemed to become increasingly solid every time, and he could find no way of stopping the process, he began to wonder what would happen if he disappeared completely from the bed in which he slept. Would he ever be able to get back? Instinct told him that his body acted as a kind of anchor, pulling his spirit home; even in alternative universes they were never entirely separate. But if his physical being vanished from this world, perhaps his spirit would be unable to find the way back. He would have to discuss it with his uncle Barty. Somehow, he felt sure, the old man would know what to do. Or if he didn’t feel sure at least he felt hopeful. The relief of having an adult to turn to rushed over him like a sudden warmth, and he headed for his next lesson (French) in a more optimistic frame of mind.

Even so, French didn’t hold his attention. His thought drifted, back into the now-remembered dream. He was back in the chamber at the top of the tower, where the pale globes rotated slowly, suspended in mid-air, emitting a light that went nowhere. The Grandir moved around the room, studying first one, then another, his footsteps virtually soundless on the dark floor. As the light illuminated so little, Nathan could only see him when he drew close to a globe, then the white mask would glimmer into being as though equally suspended, while his sombre garments made his torso all but invisible. Nathan himself had no trouble finding concealment; all he had to do was keep well away from the spheres. What had Bartlemy called them? Globes of interdimensional space, bound by magic …

The Grandir approached one of the peripheral spheres, spoke the word he had used before, a word not in the common language of Eos. ‘Fia!’ Nathan trusted the subsequent flash blinded the man as effectively as it did him, otherwise, if the Grandir had looked in the right direction, he must have been revealed. But the ruler was concentrating on the ceiling. A circular image had appeared, inverted; Nathan guessed it was sea. There was just a breadth of dark blue with a thin strip of sky along the bottom, curving slightly as it was refracted by the sphere. He wondered if it was the ocean he had seen in another dream.

The Grandir obliterated the image with another word and moved on. A different sphere, a different scene. A tumbled mass of reddish rock with what looked like the entrance to a cave, a hi-tech cave with sliding doors emblazoned with a sun-symbol in bronze. Nathan was reminded irresistibly of Thunderbirds, but when the doors opened a figure emerged, far smaller than he anticipated, changing the whole scale of the scene into something huge and magnificent, though it was difficult to appreciate it upside-down. The figure wore futuristic clothes of a dull rainbow sheen and seemed to have a shaven head, but he thought it might be a woman. It descended a flight of steps set among the rocks and was lost to view. The Grandir watched for a few minutes while nothing happened. A featherless bird, like a xaurian, dropped out of the yellow sky and snatched at a snake which stretched its jaws in threat, a spiked ruff extending round its neck. But the Grandir did not wait for the outcome, and the image flicked out.

Several more scenes followed. There was a world of snow where shaggy beings shuffled around, insulated from the cold by a pelt of fur which might be their clothing or their hide. An enormous creature like a mammoth hove into view, surmounted by a carved seat where three more of the shaggies perched precariously. Then there was something that resembled a mediaeval village, with worn thatch on the roofs and smoking chimneys and a young woman in padded leather trousers whose hair was an extraordinary apricot-gold. Then a woodland scene which for some reason made him uncomfortable, a woodland in autumn – but an autumn richer than any he had ever imagined, where the leaves were yellow and flame-red and crimson and magenta, and vividly spotted fungi swelled from every tree-bole. Other visions unfolded in succession: a desert with riders mounted on two-legged reptilian animals winding across it in a long defile; a city on top of a cliff, where bridges and buildings extruded from the rock as if they were part of it; a forest of giant mushrooms, their ragged caps overhanging a house or temple with scarlet pillars and curling roofs. Lastly there was a wide green lake, mirror-smooth and bordered with spiked bulrushes twenty feet high, and beside it a purple-clad man sat on a flat stone in what might be meditation, still as a tree.

These are other worlds, Nathan thought, awe mingling with a strange excitement. The globes are like peepholes in the very fabric of space and time, and I can see through into different realities, different states of being. And these are just a few. There must be thousands of them, millions, perhaps billions, many of them far more alien and bizarre. There could be places where the world is flat, or the sea is pink, or the most intelligent life form is a talking rabbit. Infinity has room for everything. And everything seemed to him suddenly such a big word, he had never known how big, a huge word, encompassing realms beyond imagination, and galaxies beyond counting, and creatures of every size or shape or form. His mind could not stretch far enough to take it in.

He looked round and saw, almost with relief, that he was still in the circular chamber, and the multi-world visions had gone, and there were only the spheres turning slowly, and the rays of light that never reached the walls. The Grandir was in the centre now, his hands encircling the largest globe, not touching but apparently locating a particular facet. The brilliance flared, and an image appeared above him. Not the bookshop this time but a section of riverbank. It must be near Michael’s house, where they found Effie Carlow. A woman was walking along the path, a dark-haired woman whose face Nathan glimpsed only briefly. He saw the jut of prominent cheekbones, the downward sweep of brooding eyebrows. He was sure he knew her, but it took him a few seconds to remember. Rianna Sardou, the actress and film star, Michael’s absentee wife. He wondered why she was back, now of all times, and what it meant, seeing her walk along that stretch of river – if indeed it meant anything at all. She had a perfect right to come back if she wished to, he told himself; after all, she lived there.

As she went past the long grasses beside the path parted, and a face peered out. A swarthy, warty face half covered in hair, the narrow eyes netted with wrinkles, the expression both sly and somehow desperate. Nathan had only seen that face once before, and then just for an instant, but he recognized it immediately. The prisoner in the Darkwood. He started, twisting his head, trying to see better, but the dream had begun to slip away, and the picture vanished. There was a moment when the white mask seemed to rotate slowly amongst the globes, as though seeking him out, then sleep engulfed him again.

He emerged from his recollections to find the class had fallen silent and the teacher was eying him expectantly. A page of French prose was open in front of him. With only a little prompting, he began to translate.

Dave Bagot turned up at the house on Thursday evening. Hazel, listening at the kitchen door, heard him say to her mother: ‘Now the old witch has gone you’ll take me back, won’t you? Kicking me out wasn’t your idea. It was all her. She hated men. Evil old hag.’

‘She’s dead,’ Lily said listlessly.

‘Can’t say I’m sorry. I know, I know, she was your grandmother, but –’

‘I don’t want you back. I don’t want you to come back at all.’

‘Don’t be so fucking silly. You’re my wife, this is my home, I’ve got a right to be here. You can’t turn me out.’ More four-letter words followed, and shouting, and eventually the sound of a blow. He gets to that part much sooner these days, Hazel thought. Her mind whizzed round, Wondering what to do, who to turn to. If only that police detective were still around – but he hadn’t proved much use after all. She slipped out, hearing her mother sob, feeling a tug at her insides which made it hard to go. But she must get help.

It was just after eight when she arrived at the bookshop, rattling the knocker, clutching at Annie when she opened the door. ‘Nathan said, come to you,’ she explained. ‘No – you mustn’t go back there. Dad’s too strong. Find someone. Call someone.’

They found Michael, on his way to the pub for a quick pint. Seeing him, Annie thought for a confused moment that he looked like the answer to a prayer, her knight in shining armour – then she remembered that Dave Bagot was a big man, heavily built, where Michael was thin and whippy, and suddenly she was afraid for him, and terrified for Lily, and all the mixed-up fears made her behave stupidly, stammering and clasping his arm. ‘Call the police,’ he said tersely. ‘No – don’t come with me. Just show me the way.’

But they went with him, of course, while Annie rang the police on her mobile, hearing the shiver of panic as she spoke. ‘Please c-come. Come quickly.’

At the Bagots’ house the front door was open the way Hazel had left it. Michael went in, and they heard his voice raised, sharp and cold and unfamiliar – a scuffling sound – a thump – a fall. ‘Wait,’ Annie told Hazel, and rushed in. They were in the kitchen. There was a chair upset, and broken crockery on the floor – Lily had been washing up – and she was crouching by the wall with her hands trying to cover her face. Michael was struggling to his feet with blood running from his nose, but Dave Bagot hit him again before he could stand up, and again, calling him interfering, a busybody, and the usual foul names. Annie screamed to him to stop, but he paid no attention – she made a grab for him but he knocked her aside. Then she saw the saucepan on the draining board, the kind of heavy-duty saucepan which could also go in the oven, and she picked it up with both hands, and swung it, bringing it crashing down on his head. And then he crumpled to the floor – as much as his substantial figure could crumple – and Michael’s face was all blood, anger and amazement. Lily uncurled herself, forgetting her damaged face, and Annie stared down at what she had done, totally horrified.

‘Maybe I’ve killed him …’

‘No such luck,’ Michael said grimly, and suddenly he hugged her. ‘You star. You star.’

‘You’re bleeding on me,’ Annie said. ‘Let me clean you up.’

‘I’ll get something,’ Lily offered. Her face was bruised but not bloodied and she seemed to be pulling herself together.

‘I wasn’t much use,’ Michael said ruefully, ‘was I?’

‘You were wonderful,’ Annie whispered. ‘Should we try to revive him?’

‘No.’

Then Hazel came in with a neighbour, and about ten minutes later uniformed police arrived, and there were cups of tea, and offers of help, and Lily was adjured to call her lawyer about an injunction, and Dave Bagot came to himself with a severe headache to find he was being bundled into a police car and taken away. ‘Is he being arrested?’ Hazel asked one of the officers.

‘Not at the moment, unless your mother decides to press charges. But CID want to question him about the death of the old woman, and a night in the cells won’t hurt.’

‘It was brilliant,’ Hazel told Nathan the next evening. ‘I don’t care if he is my dad. It was totally brilliant. I think your mum is the bravest person in the world.’

Nathan grinned, bursting with suppressed pride. ‘I like her too.’

He added presently: ‘I wish I hadn’t missed it. I don’t suppose I could have done anything, but –’

‘You didn’t need to. Your mum did it.’

‘School’s fine, but boarding is a pain. With all this stuff happening, I ought to be here. Thank God the holidays start soon.’ As he was at a private school, his term finished well before Hazel’s.

‘The best part is the police think he might have pushed Great-grandma in the river.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘It’s obvious,’ Hazel said. ‘That’s what they meant by “holding him for questioning”, or whatever they call it.’

‘But he didn’t do it – did he?’

‘Of course not. It was something she … called up, conjured … something not – not human. I wanted the police to come, I hoped they would find out things, but then I realized it was no good. I never thought of them arresting Dad. It’s really neat.’

‘But what if he goes to prison?’

‘I hope he does,’ Hazel said. There was a note of defiance in her voice, and Nathan didn’t push it any further.

Later, he asked his mother about it.

‘Do the police really think Hazel’s dad shoved Effie Carlow in the river?’

‘I don’t know,’ Annie said. ‘They haven’t told me.’

‘Do you think so?’

She sighed. At heart, she wished she did. ‘No. That would take planning – sneaking after her, catching her unawares, picking the right spot to do it. His violence is always impulsive, not planned. I hate the way he behaves, that goes without saying, but there’s a big difference between hitting someone in anger and killing someone in cold blood. I’m sure Effie’s death was just an accident.’

There was a pause, loaded with thoughts unspoken.

‘Well anyway,’ Nathan said, ‘you hit him with a saucepan. That was just – wow.’

Annie couldn’t help smiling at the glow in his eyes. After recent misunderstandings, and despite burgeoning problems, suddenly life felt good. ‘Michael was amazing,’ she said. ‘It was brave of him to tackle Dave Bagot. Dave’s much bigger than he is.’

‘Yes, but you did for him,’ Nathan said. She gave him a squeeze, and noticed how tall he was getting, taller than her now. ‘Have you seen Eric?’

‘Not lately, but we’re going to Thornyhill on Sunday. Uncle Barty says we’ve something important to discuss.’

That night before he went to bed, he climbed up to the skylight to look at the star. He hadn’t done it for a while, things had been so busy, and there had been such a lot to think about. Sometimes it seemed to him that his head was becoming so crowded soon his thoughts, maybe even his dreams, would start spilling out of his ears and eyes, taking shape around him. But then, perhaps they already had. There was Eric – and there was the star. It looked very ordinary and star-like, except that it didn’t twinkle: it was just a steady white pinpoint of radiance. What else had it seen? he wondered. The prisoner from the Darkwood, who had evidently escaped the gnomons, and was hanging around for some secret purpose … the death of Effie Carlow … Hazel knew something, he was certain, something she wasn’t telling him, but maybe, as with his inhibition in speaking of the grail, it was something she couldn’t tell him even if she wanted to. And then he let go of his thoughts, because they were too many for him, and gazed at the stars of his own world, arranged in their grand familiar design, spelling out stories and mysteries for soothsayers, luring astroscientists into the wilderness of space. There were nights when the vastness of the universe oppressed him, but this time it seemed to him that the constellations were like signposts, and the routes were well-known, somewhere in his spirit, and all of it – every nebula, every galaxy – was home. His stars, his place, his world. He gave the intruder one last hard look, and scrambled down from the Den and went to bed.

‘Magic,’ Bartlemy was saying after lunch, ‘is part of what we think of as the spiritual plane. You will see if you take a quick look at history that mankind, as a species, tends towards overenthusiasm. We latch on to one big idea and try to use it to cover everything. Whatever it is, it has to be the only truth, the explanation for every single detail, every niggle, every hiccup in reality. First it was religion, then science. Right now, we are trying to cut our world to fit the scientific laws. But there is a dimension of the spirit which exists apart from those laws – there are elementals everywhere, mostly in an incorporeal state, and they express themselves through what we call magic. Humans originally had no such powers, but power was given to them, or to some – never mind how, the theory is too long for now – and that power is known as the Gift. It has spread genetically, so these days there is probably a little of it in all of us. In its most extreme form, it can include intensive telepathic and telekinetic abilities, spellbinding, separation of spirit from body, influence over or control of other minds. If developed, it can lead to longevity, though beyond the normal lifespan this is usually accompanied by sterility. If over-used, it will corrupt the user, and turn to madness. But owing to our present penchant for science, extreme magic is not widely used here. Perhaps that is fortunate.’

‘But it is in Eric’s world,’ Nathan said.

‘Evidently. Such power may be native to humans there. What is clear is that so much – er – force has been generated that it is, so to speak, floating around loose, like electric storms: hence the contamination. Uncontrolled magic is very dangerous, in any world. I’m not sure how it could be poisoned in the way Eric describes, possibly by the misuse of an exceptionally potent spell. The people there are plainly so imbued with power that they habitually live for thousands of years and no longer have children. Someone like Eric uses his power only to extend his life: he has nothing left for anything else. In this world, with no extraneous magic to draw on, that ability may wane. I have explained to him that he can expect to age here.’

‘Is no matter,’ Eric said. ‘I have thought much on this, read much poetry. Life is maybe more beautiful, if it does not reach end of page.’

Annie met his eyes as he spoke, and found them very bright, not knowing that brightness was mirrored in her own.

‘How do you know all this?’ Nathan asked. ‘Do you – have you –’

‘I have the Gift in a small way. I rarely use it. I have seen what it can do to people. I only ever wanted to heal – heal the body to heal the spirit – and cook beautiful food. The right food, too, is good for the soul, or so I believe.’

‘Is fine idea,’ Eric said, full of lunch. There was general agreement.

‘How – how old are you?’ Nathan inquired tentatively, studying his friend with new perception.

‘Dear me, don’t you know that is not a polite question? Old enough. I have seen many things, both real and unreal. But this is the first time I have had anything to do with matters beyond this entire universe. I am working on theory here; I have no personal experience. This time, Nathan, you are the expert.’

‘I don’t want to be,’ Nathan said, with a shiver.

‘From what Eric tells me, the Grimthorn Grail is an artefact from his world, which seems to have been placed here for a purpose, possibly safekeeping. I would like Eric to examine the cup before we are certain, but he seems to be very positive about it.’ Eric assented vigorously. ‘I think – this may tie in with Nathan’s dream-journeys, but I have no idea why.’

‘Do you have these dreams all the time?’ Annie asked her son, a little shyly.

‘No. I don’t know. I might forget. I’ve been worrying …’ He related the incident that week, and his fears about his hold on this reality. It did nothing to ease his mind when Bartlemy listened in silence, his normally comfortable face very serious.

‘What about sleeping pills?’ Annie suggested. ‘Might they prevent the dreams?’

‘I wondered about that,’ Nathan said.

‘Not a good idea. We don’t know how long this problem will last, and Nathan needs to be in control. I can only say that I believe in due course he will learn what to do. We must have faith in whatever fates there may be to take care of him. However, there are certain precautions that can be taken.’ He turned to Nathan. ‘There is a preparation of herbs which must be kept in the bedroom – don’t worry, the aroma is quite strong but not unpleasant – and an oil of the same which I will give you to anoint your hands and face before sleeping. The herbs have a powerful attraction for the spirit-world, and may help your spirit to find its way home, if it strays. We will also draw the Mark of Agares, the Rune of Finding, on your wall, and you must inscribe it in indelible ink on your arm or chest, renewing it whenever it begins to fade. But how effective such things will be across the barriers of space and time I do not know.’

‘You’re not very encouraging,’ Nathan said, hoping he sounded brave, and realizing he didn’t. He had been privately sure Bartlemy would have a solution.

‘Then take courage. Have faith. This ability has been given to you for a reason. I don’t think you will be allowed to get lost.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Nathan said doubtfully, but he felt a very little reassured. Absently, he ruffled Hoover’s head. The dog was sitting at his feet, chin on his lap, large brown eyes raised to his face. ‘I wish I could take you with me. It would be good to have company.’

‘Perhaps you could dream him with you,’ Annie said idly.

‘That could be dangerous,’ Bartlemy said. ‘Don’t try. We don’t know the full scope of your power. You could take someone with you and be unable to bring them back. I’m fond of Hoover; we’ve been together a long time.’

Nathan thought of asking how long, but refrained.

‘What about the death of Effie Carlow?’ Annie inquired a little later. ‘Was it really an accident? People don’t often drown in the Glyde.’

‘You said you thought it was,’ Nathan reminded her.

She made no answer, remembering all too vividly the thing from the river which had turned into Rianna Sardou. She was still reluctant to tell Nathan about that, feeling in some obscure way that knowing would only increase his danger, and she had no intention of discussing with him the secret of his conception, though she knew Bartlemy wanted her to. But that was too deep a matter, too personal, a wound that could not be touched.

‘This woman who die,’ Eric asked, ‘she was bad person?’

‘Oh no,’ said Bartlemy. ‘Just a small-time witch with a little power, not enough to achieve anything, but enough perhaps to poke and pry, and get herself into trouble.’

‘Hazel said Effie told her she was two hundred years old,’ Nathan volunteered. ‘I thought she was a bit batty, but … did she have the Gift?’

‘In a way. She had certainly been around for some time. The villagers didn’t notice – she was clever enough for that – but I did. She didn’t trouble me. She was something of an anachronism, a country witch of a former century, living more on her reputation than her deeds. She was clearly curious about Nathan, and maybe about the cup, but whether curiosity killed the cat or not we may never know.’

‘They released Dave Bagot,’ Annie said. ‘I heard this morning. But he could be rearrested. Inspector Pobjoy seems pretty suspicious of him.’

‘Pobjoy?’ Nathan echoed. ‘What a name! Is he fat and pompous?’

‘No,’ Annie said. ‘Thin and pompless. The taciturn type who says nothing and waits for you to incriminate yourself. You could imagine him staying quiet for so long you’d confess just to break the silence.’

‘Pobjoy.’ Bartlemy, too, was ruminating on the name. ‘I’ve heard that before. His father, maybe … no, grandfather …’

‘When?’ asked Annie.

And: ‘Where?’ Nathan.

‘In the war.’ It was strange to hear him refer to it like that, as if he had been from another generation – but then, they reflected, he was. A generation outside time.

He didn’t seem disposed to continue, and Nathan, conscious of cliché, inquired: ‘What did you do – in the war?’

‘What I always do.’ Bartlemy smiled faintly. ‘I cooked.’

The object of this casual speculation sat in the living room of his house ignoring the radio that chattered in the background, surveying a piece of evidence which he knew he shouldn’t have brought home with him. But so far he was the only person to take the case seriously, and no one would call him to account. His house felt very empty despite its smallness, quiet with his own intent quietness, its décor neither in good taste nor bad. He wasn’t interested in it, and it showed. For him, it wasn’t a house, just a place to sleep and sometimes eat, when he remembered meals. Part of a takeaway grew cold on the table at his side. Had he been asked, he couldn’t even have told an interrogator the colour of the curtains.

But he had absorbed everything about the letter. Handwritten in block capitals with a thick-nibbed felt pen which, if the writer had any sense, would have been thrown away immediately afterwards. The effect was intended to be characterless, but there was a certain roundedness about the lettering which reminded him of the increasingly rare communications he received from the ten-year-old daughter whom he hardly saw. The pen was red – symbolizing blood? – the paper the kind used in a photocopier. Easy enough for a child to obtain, probably from school. He was sure the writer was a child. ‘Effie Carlow didn’t die naturally. She was killed.’ Saying the same thing twice – a childish mistake, or an ill-educated adult.

There was only one child connected with the case. An officer had noted she looked pleased when they took Dave Bagot away. Had she written the letter because she really believed he had murdered her great-grandmother, or simply to make trouble for him? If the former, she might have filial reservations; if the latter, why not name him?

But the letter never mentioned a killer, only the fact of the killing. The letter never mentioned a person at all …