At the conclusion of our prayer, and after asserting that God would guide and protect our steps, Breswick suggested we continue with our plan to execute an explosive attack on the metallic infestation. Predictably, he declared that the Moon Box should remain unopened as it was not from God and would only place us outside His protection if we attempted to use it. I made up my mind to retrieve the box surreptitiously at the earliest opportunity.
Despite much heated debate on splitting our small group, it was decided that Breswick and Stromany would procure the petrol. Breswick insisted that this was not work for a woman and that Beatrice would be far safer within the school; God would watch over her. I was also to remain, not expected to do anything strenuous in my weakened state. In truth, I suspect it was Breswick’s intention to leave us alone together, and I found some small comfort in his confidence that I was not a threat to Beatrice. It wasn’t until the two of us were alone that I discovered why Beatrice had agreed so readily to stay behind: her desire to learn of Lucy’s fate was stronger than her fear that I may be a possessed murderer.
I was grateful to find amongst our gathering stocks of supplies discovered in the kitchen a bottle of aspirin; it did a great deal to relieve some of my symptoms, and as such, I felt better prepared for the tasks ahead. We performed the lamentable undertaking of moving Charlie Nubbs’s body from the drawing room to the cloakroom, as the drawing room would be a more comfortable place for us to stay than the kitchen. We took time to light more candles before the two men prepared to go outside. I exchanged firm handshakes with Breswick and Stromany. Beatrice hugged them, and reluctantly I watched them leave to find the generators.
Beatrice and I retreated to the drawing room near the entrance to the west wing, where we sat opposite each other, awkwardly wordless. We sipped at drinks, waiting nervously for the return of the two men, and with each passing minute the burden of my tale of Lucy’s death clutched at my heart, dragging it down so that it felt like a boulder in my stomach. There would be no better opportunity to tell her, but oh, the pain of that task! I could not bear it.
“It’s all right,” Beatrice whispered. “You can tell me.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I looked up at her, startled.
“You know what I want to ask you about.” She clutched at her tumbler and stared hard at the alcohol. “I’ve had time to think since we last spoke, and something I’m always telling other people is that it does no good to stew on something that’s bothering you, so I’m taking a dose of my own medicine and not letting this get to me. I can do sweet nothing to find Lucy right now, so what’s the use in getting uptight?”
She forced an unconvincing smile as she looked up, and I nodded, knowing that her confession was not sincere. For all her words, I could see the agony in her eyes; she was attempting to give me the space I needed to open up.
“What I’m trying to say, Mr. Drenn, is that I don’t want you to feel under any pressure to . . . What I mean is that . . .”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she could say no more.
I drew in a long breath whilst she held hers.
“Beatrice,” I began. I received her hand and squeezed it as I held her hopeful gaze. “I did meet Lucy on the way here.”
Her jaw trembled, but she could not bring herself to ask anything else of me, and I knew I had to continue.
“She was the bravest little girl I’ve ever met.”
Her breathing came in short, sharp pants as she snatched her hand away and looked down. I could barely hear the single word of question from her lips: “Was?”
Then she looked up at me, and I could not endure her penetrating gaze. I simply looked down and repeated the word in a whisper: “Was.”
Beatrice sagged and, as if the word itself drew the life out of her body, loosed a long, low groan. Her shoulders slumped, and with the gentle patter of tears on the carpet came the deep, pained breathing one hears only in times of grief. All I could do was place my hands around her shoulders in a comforting gesture. I could scarcely imagine the enormity of her pain. I too had been separated from those I loved, yet it was something entirely different to be told that you can never be reunited. Even though the chances were remote, the hope of seeing my wife and daughters again sustained me. But for Beatrice, that hope had been shattered.
Eventually Beatrice lay back in her seat, spent, the will sapped from her. She merely shook her head when I asked if I could get her another drink. I took some more aspirin and tried to settle my stomach with another scotch from the drinks cabinet, but Beatrice’s grief was not my only concern.
I checked my pocket watch. Stromany and Breswick had been gone fifteen minutes. It seemed to me that they would need five minutes at most to retrieve the petrol. Though it was unspoken, all of us assumed that the danger outside had diminished, that if the creatures advanced, the dreaded wail would sound. But I had heard nothing. The prospects for Breswick and Stromany seemed grim. Even if the howl did come, would the beasts still flee from it? They showed signs of resistance before. Perhaps—like the child who cried wolf—the howl would eventually be ignored.
“How did she die?” Beatrice asked.
I was startled by the question. She was not looking at me. She simply stared into darkness. I sat back down and took her hands, rehearsing the words in my mind carefully before speaking. “We were trying to escape the village,” I said eventually. “I slipped over the edge of a precipice and the creatures took her while I fought to climb back up. I tried to reach her, Beatrice, I swear it, but they were too fast, and I didn’t see where they went.”
“So . . . so you didn’t actually see her die?”
“No, but . . .”
She nodded, and I saw the pain of grief torture her again.
The silence returned, and in the moment I took out my pocket watch to check the time again, the awful howl roared through the school. Adrenaline filled my veins, and after exchanging a momentary look of shock with Beatrice, I stood. Resisting the urge to cover my ears, I twisted my head around for any clue to the direction of its origin.
“Quickly,” I shouted, “go to the door. Let them in.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“I’m going to find out where it’s coming from.”
It faded by the time we hurried from the room into the corridor, but before I could ask Beatrice if she had any idea from where it came, the howl called a second time. I left Beatrice and rushed toward the east wing and down the steps into the servants’ quarters and kitchen. A third howl took me beyond the kitchen, through the utility room, and toward a second flight of stairs before it stopped. The sweat was pouring from me as I stared into the dark descent. I had no wish to venture down to the wine cellar alone. I could not go through that door.
Feeling a slight dizziness, I rushed back to the entrance to find Stromany and Breswick safely inside and Beatrice slamming the door. My initial impression was that Breswick was unharmed. Stromany, however, was streaked with blood and dirt, and the shovel he had taken as a weapon was now reduced to a splintered stick. He staggered a few feet inside the reception hall, let go of what remained of the shovel, and dropped to his knees. He clutched at his head, where two thick gashes bled steadily, and growled his pain.
Breswick was leaning forward with his hands on his knees, breathing hoarsely. He looked up at me through gritted teeth. “We retrieved seven cans of petrol,” he said. “But it may only have been one or two were it not for our strongman here.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, but Stromany—”
“I . . . will heal.” Stromany was too exhausted or agonized to say anything else.
Beatrice moved quickly, presumably to our supplies, so that she could treat Stromany, and I turned my attention to Breswick. “What happened?”
“There are so many of them,” Breswick said through gasps. “So many. And any one of them could bring down an elephant.” He pointed at Stromany. “I have never witnessed more ferocity than in this man. He took to them like a maddened bull when they came for us, and were it not for that howl, they would have torn him apart. As it is, one of them still resisted and almost ended his life with a single blow.”
Stromany’s eyes were pressed tightly shut, and now, instead of clutching his head, he was gingerly checking the ribs on his left side.
“Beatrice will help you,” I said.
She returned with a box and set to work immediately, pressing a towel to his head and placing a glass of water and the aspirins on the floor in front of him. “We’re out of laudanum,” she said, “but this will help.”
“I am all right,” said Stromany, getting unsteadily to his feet and declining the water from Beatrice. “But we got the petrol, Drenn. We got it.”
It was the first time I had seen a sign of happiness on his face. Huge white teeth. It was a nice smile. I wondered if this bear of a man had actually found his struggle with the creatures a much-needed release of his frustrations. He held the towel to the top of his head and grimaced as it soaked up more blood. “Now I am like you,” he said. “I have a damaged head.”
“I followed the direction of the howl,” I told them. “I think I know where it’s coming from.”
“Where?” Breswick asked. He had regained his breath and was now leaning against the door, examining a long rip in the side of his cloak.
“The wine cellar.”
Beatrice pursed her lips. “The door Lizzy and I didn’t want to open.”
“None of us want to go there,” I said. “It’s warning us away.”
“Yes,” Breswick said. “You’re right.” He seemed fueled with adrenaline as he looked at Stromany. “I think we should find out what it is, don’t you? Are we in fit shape to do that now?”
“It’s pitch black down there. I don’t like it,” Beatrice said. “And it might be locked.”
“Then we’ll break it down if we have to,” said Breswick. “And we have lamps and candles to light our way.”
Stromany nodded. He was my biggest concern. His conflict with the creatures had dealt him some serious blows, and I suspected one or more cracked ribs. His breathing came in short, sharp snatches of air, and he was leaning to one side. But he was eager to follow Breswick’s lead. I wondered too about Beatrice. The distraction of the men’s return was enough to subdue her grief for now, but with their immediate needs dealt with, I expected her mind to sink back into the depths of despair at any moment. Nevertheless, she was adamant that the two men should rest before doing anything else, and I agreed. In truth, I was terrified of the wine cellar. We had no idea what was down there, and although the howl had been protecting us throughout our time in the school, I could not suppress an instinctual dread at the thought of meeting its owner.
It was at this time of solace and reflection in the drawing room that I noticed an unnerving change in Breswick’s temperament as he slouched in his chair sipping at scotch. At first I thought it was the result of drinking too much, for a casual observer would think him intoxicated, and perhaps the alcohol did indeed play its part. I would have paid only partial attention to his words, thinking they were nothing more than a verbal oozing of his fear and supplication, were it not for one particular phrase.
Old Man Tarky had rambled about the way that the Innominatum could reach in and subvert a person’s mind, bending their thoughts so that they would willingly present themselves as prey to the beasts. He had also called this entity the father of lies and the devil. Although it would be no surprise to hear a chaplain like Breswick using these names in prayers of spiritual warfare, it was the way in which he used them that gave me pause.
Much like Elizabeth had done when she sang her song in the kitchen, Breswick gazed dreamily ahead, a gentle smile curling his lips as he whispered a hypnotic cadence of words. It sounded like poetry or perhaps even a grim and bizarre nursery rhyme. It was certainly no prayer.
“In darkness lies the father of lies, the lord of lies, the father of flies. Oh, how I love to further the lies the father of lies doth lie to me. He flies above the world of lies, our father of lies in filth and flies and filthy lies he loves to lie . . .” And on he went.
It was not Breswick I was listening to. I did not know if it truly was the same affliction that crawled into Elizabeth’s mind, and I did not know if—without the murderer’s fatal intervention—she would have wandered outside to the beasts, but I did not want to see Breswick heading that way.
“Theo?” I said, but I do not believe he heard me.
“Chaplain!” I tried again, but still he continued his ominous verse.
With Stromany and Beatrice watching as still as statues, I rose from my seat, marched over to him, and slapped him hard on the cheek. It worked. Breswick’s face portrayed the shock of a man startled from a deep trance. He touched his fingers to his cheek and looked up at me fearfully.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“What happened?” said Stromany.
Darkness crossed Breswick’s face, and the muscles twitched in his jaw as if he was wrestling with anger at what had just happened. “Nothing,” he said. “I think we have spent enough time here. We need to go to the cellar and get to the bottom of all this.”