‘I did telephone Mr Alban a few days ago,’ Crowley said. ‘He said he couldn’t speak as he had to go and look after a Mr Brown.’
They were sat in Crowley’s study. Brinkman glanced at Guy Pentecross. He happened to know from a recent high-level briefing that Alban was at Chequers, the Prime Minister’s country house, and ‘Mr Brown’ was in fact the Russian foreign minister Vyacheslav Molotov, who was meeting Churchill there.
‘What did you want to talk to Alban about?’
Crowley shrugged. ‘Nothing important. He asked me to do something for him a little while ago. I merely wished to confirm that I had done it. But,’ he went on quickly, ‘what can I do for you? It seems that our arrangement is all rather one-way at the moment, doesn’t it?’
‘How do you mean?’ Guy asked.
‘I scratch your back. And that’s it. Although my own back does occasionally itch too, you know.’
‘I’m sure there are many people who would happily scratch it,’ Brinkman told him. ‘But if there is anything specific?’
‘Oh please.’ Crowley’s smile was almost predatory. ‘You first.’
‘Nothing too taxing,’ Brinkman said. ‘We just wanted a quick word with Jane Roylston.’
Crowley’s smile hardened into a frown. ‘May I ask what about?’
Brinkman considered for a moment before answering. ‘We wondered if she knew of any connection between the Vril and Greece. Crete in particular.’
Crowley sat back in his chair. ‘Well, you’ve answered one of my questions already, then.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m afraid Jane isn’t here. She disappeared, just upped and left about, oh, a couple of weeks ago, I should think. I did wonder if she had come to join your people. Obviously not, if you’re asking me about her.’
‘You’ve no idea where she went?’ Brinkman asked. It seemed unlikely, but it was possible.
Guy voiced his next thought:
‘That man Rutherford – could he have anything to do with her disappearance?’
‘No.’
‘You seem very sure,’ Brinkman said.
‘I am. Ralph is no longer with us either, you see.’
‘Then perhaps—’ Guy started.
But Crowley cut him off. ‘There is no connection between the two, I can assure you. If you need confirmation, then ask your friend Alban. He knows what happened to poor Ralph, and if I tell you that Ralph, er, absented himself from us, shall we say, before Jane left then you will understand that the two are not connected.’
‘I see,’ Brinkman said, though in truth he didn’t. He would leave a message for Alban and hope the MI5 man could clarify things. ‘Then it seems we’ve had a wasted journey.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Crowley said. ‘But I’m sure Miss Roylston will return to us soon. She probably just needs a little time to herself. But I must apologise that she isn’t here to help you now.’
‘Unless you can help us,’ Guy said. ‘Do you know of any connection between the Vril and Crete?’
‘Not off hand,’ Crowley admitted. ‘There are various sources I can consult. If I do find anything, I shall be sure to let you know.’
‘And is your back no longer itching?’ Brinkman asked.
‘It has eased. But there is still one matter you can perhaps help me with.’
‘Which is?’
‘A term I have come across. Perhaps I heard it from one of you, I forget. Tell me, what exactly is an Ubermensch?’
Brinkman glanced at Guy, and found the major was looking back at him for guidance. Brinkman nodded.
‘We don’t really know,’ Guy said. ‘They are people who are somehow infected by the Vril. They become subservient to the creatures. But they also gain in strength and resilience as the infection or whatever it is spreads through their body.’
‘I see.’ Crowley nodded. ‘Hence the name. Could this infection be spread through physical contact?’
‘That is our best theory,’ Brinkman agreed. ‘It doesn’t seem to be passed on by an Ubermensch to other humans, but direct contact with the Vril themselves could instigate the change.’
‘And how can you spot these Ubermensch? Are there many of them?’
‘To be honest, we don’t know how many there are,’ Brinkman said. ‘We do know that at least one was working with the Germans, but how the alliance was arrived at or whether there was an element of coercion on either side…’ He shrugged.
‘And the only way to spot them,’ Guy said, ‘the only way we’ve found, is that when you kill them, they don’t die.’
* * *
When he had found her standing over the body of Ralph Rutherford, Crowley had confined Jane to the cellars. He had no idea how dangerous she really was, but Brinkman and Pentecross had said nothing to allay his fears.
For the moment, Jane seemed docile. She lay on the altar table, wrists manacled to the sides as before. Her legs were free, and she was wearing a plain white robe of thin cotton as she did for séances and ceremonies.
Crowley wouldn’t say that the young woman was back to herself exactly. But she was far more communicative, far more like the Jane she used to be than she had been when she killed Rutherford. He could only assume this was connected to the degree of infection. Was the restoration of self-will and individuality a stage in whatever process of transformation she was undergoing? Or was it a side effect of her not being directly controlled by the Vril?
Standing on the dais, looking down at her supine body, it occurred to Crowley for the first time that the answer might be obvious.
‘Can I ask you something?’ he said. Would she simply tell him what he wanted to know? Could it be that straightforward?
Jane turned her head to look up at him. ‘Unchain me,’ she said, her voice devoid of intonation.
‘Perhaps if you answer my questions. But I can make no promises.’
‘You always used to make promises,’ she said. ‘Promises you then broke.’
‘I wasn’t afraid of you then,’ he admitted.
‘If I tell you I could leave here whenever I wish, does that make you more afraid?’
He caught his breath. But she was lying, bluffing. Wasn’t she?
‘I see,’ she said, turning away. She had her answer.
‘If you can leave, why don’t you?’ he asked.
‘I have no instructions,’ she said simply.
‘Jane? Are you still Jane?’
‘Who else would I be?’
‘You tell me.’
She turned back, staring at him angrily. ‘You did this to me,’ she said, her voice suddenly laced with emotion. ‘And now you ask me what is happening? I am Jane – of course I’m Jane. But I’m not alone in here. I can feel them inside my mind. Always there, waiting to tell me what to do. It took a while to get used to it. To deaden their voices. But I’ve always heard them – in séances and ceremonies. When I wore the bracelet … Now I tell myself they’re just talking louder and I can ignore them.’ She stared up at the ceiling. ‘I can ignore them,’ she insisted through gritted teeth. ‘I can.’
‘Always?’
‘Mostly.’
‘When they speak to you…’ Crowley licked his thin lips with a bloodless tongue. ‘Do they ever mention Greece? The island of Crete?’
‘That’s not how they speak. I see in my mind what they are thinking. It’s like voices, but it’s also pictures. Thoughts…’ She closed her eyes, the muscles in her face relaxing.
For a while there was silence. Crowley was about to leave when she suddenly opened her eyes again, staring unfocused at the vaulted stone above.
‘I see darkness in the shape of the axe, carved into the living rock. Tunnels where the shadows dance on the rough-hewn walls. Passageways and steps, closing in around me, stale suffocating air that no one has breathed in centuries. In millennia.’
‘In Crete?’ Crowley breathed.
‘A pathway that leads through hidden depths, down into the earth itself. The lair of the Guardians. The place where they sleep, patiently awaiting the time of awakening. The time when they will spew forth across the world and take what they believe is theirs.’
‘Where?’ Crowley demanded. ‘Where is this place?’
She drew a sudden rasping breath, her chest convulsing with the effort. Her head rose from the stone, straining at the chains as she stared across at him.
Her voice was angry snarl of contempt: ‘It is the gateway to Hell.’