Silas Paterson was slipping in and out of consciousness. When Troy tried to get him moving, he could only crawl drunkenly along the floor. In the end, Troy and Glory half carried, half dragged the inquisitor along the south wing of the attic. It was slow progress. ‘This pricker had better be worth it,’ Troy said through gritted teeth. Dark air rippled after them; Glory looked behind to see a lick of yellow flames.
Finally they came to the stairs and stumbled down into the main body of the house. The air here tasted fresh and cool, and they sucked it in gratefully. After the insidious hiss and sputter of the fire, the silence was a balm; if the place did have a fire alarm, Lady Merle must have found a way to disable it. It was hard to believe that an inferno was raging somewhere above and behind them. Smoke had soaked so deeply into their skin they barely noticed the stench.
They reached a gallery that surrounded three sides of the square entrance hall. From the shadows, Glory looked down to the doorway, where the last few staff were being ushered out by a health and safety official in a fluorescent jacket. The fire had been discovered in good time; it looked like an orderly evacuation.
Meanwhile, Troy had propped Paterson against the wall, and was tying his hands behind his back with the inquisitor’s handkerchief. A search of Paterson’s pockets revealed nothing useful; his phone must have been lost during the scramble through the attics.
‘Who are you people?’ he mumbled.
‘Your guardian angels,’ said Glory. ‘And don’t you forget it.’ If she wasn’t so knackered, she’d have given him a kick.
‘It’s just as well we found our own way out,’ she told Troy. ‘I don’t see nobody rushing to go pull people out of the fire.’
‘We should head for the back of the building, try to sneak out through the kitchen or whatever.’ Troy wiped his sooty face with his sleeve and surveyed their prisoner. ‘Then once the three of us are somewhere nice and private, we’ll see what the Colonel has to say for himself.’
For the moment, Paterson was saying nothing. He’d blacked out again.
‘OK. But as we’re here, we might as well take a quick look around, right?’
‘The fire brigade will be here any minute. We need to get back to the coven.’
‘It won’t take long.’
‘We’ve got a hostage inquisitor! What more d’you want?’
But Glory had had enough of accusations and suspicions and threats. They needed more. She began to hurry along the gallery, opening doors at random.
‘Goddammit, Glory!’
‘I’m nearly done –’
The final room on the left-hand gallery overlooked the avenue. From the window, she could see the huddle of party refugees. It was hard to believe there had been a ball going on, all this time. She wondered if and when the guests had realised their hosts were missing.
However, it was the room itself that caught her attention. As soon as she’d opened the door, she’d felt her Seventh Sense stir. The walls were lined with glass-fronted cabinets and display stands. She skimmed the labels. Ceremonial Persian Scrying-Bowl, seventeenth century. Witch’s Bridle, German, circa 1815. Gris-gris Amulet, from the grave of Marie Laveau. Over the door hung a portrait of the crowning glory of Lord Merle’s witchwork collection: his wife. Her painted eyes stared out above the exaggerated band of her bridle. Their calm was haunting. Later, Glory knew, she would have to think about those last searing moments in the attic, the frenzy and flames.
But now was not the time. Paterson’s conspiracy had afforded Godfrey Merle the perfect opportunity to indulge his fetish, by using a captive witch to commit witchwork on his behalf. He’d surely want to keep some memento of their triumph. He’d be too arrogant not to.
Glory began to open cases and rummage through drawers. Troy shouted at her to stop whatever the hell she was doing and get out. He could hear sirens. The fire brigade were on their way.
‘Just a sec!’
The lower compartment of the cabinet nearest the window was locked. Thank Hecate she’d managed to hold on to her evening bag. Her ticket for the cloakroom was a small square of laminated plastic, not unlike a credit card. She slid it into the crack between the door and the frame. After a few swift wiggles and a final jerk, it popped open.
All that the cupboard contained was a small cardboard box. She opened it up to find a jumble of oddments. A sparkly red whistle, a plastic horse, a doll with scribbles over her face, and a model train. They had bits of dirt and hair attached to them. Glory thought about the witch-attacks, and how neatly these objects fitted into them. ‘Gimme a break,’ she said as Troy came into the room, hauling Paterson along by the scruff of his neck. ‘I think I’ve got something.’
‘Great,’ Troy started to say. ‘Then let’s –’
He didn’t get any further. Paterson had suddenly sprung into life. He had worked his hands free of his bonds, and now he seized the Persian scrying bowl from its stand and smashed it against Troy’s head. It was made of bronze and made a clanging sound as it struck.
Troy staggered, then fell to the floor. The Colonel snatched up Troy’s gun.
‘Put that box down, girl,’ he told Glory. ‘Whatever that is, I’m sure it doesn’t belong to you. It will be better for you to give it up, and yourself with it.’
Glory relinquished the box. She had no choice. The inquisitor’s eyes were bloodshot, and his cough was hoarse. But he wasn’t overcome with smoke or exhaustion. He looked very alert indeed. He must have been shamming all this time. In the world outside sirens blared, and the night flashed black and blue.
‘Serena Merle was a vicious maniac, with connections to the criminal underworld.’ Paterson spoke slowly, carefully, working things out. ‘The three of you lured me and Lord Merle up to the attic, where you –’
‘We saved your life!’
‘You took me hostage. A coven slut and a two-bit hood.’ He looked at Troy. ‘Like father, like son. It appears to be a bad week for the Morgan family.’
‘It was you behind that bomb, weren’t it?’
Paterson smiled. ‘Charles Morgan is a very unpopular man. There’s a long line of people waiting to give him his just deserts. I merely . . . encouraged . . . the operation. Morgan Senior got lucky. You two won’t be quite so fortunate.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’ A small dark-haired woman Glory had never seen before was standing in the doorway. She too was armed. Officer Jonah Branning was behind her, holding up his inquisitorial badge. They were both breathing hard. ‘Put the gun down, Colonel,’ the woman said.
Paterson turned around. He looked more irritated than alarmed, and when he saw Jonah, he visibly relaxed.
‘Wait . . . I know you . . . Branston, isn’t it? What are you doing here? Well – never mind. Your timing is perfect. I’ve apprehended a pair of dangerous criminals, and I’ll need you to radio ahead for back-up.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. I have a warrant for your arrest from the Witchfinder General, on a charge of high treason.’
Silas Paterson’s silvery features turned iron grey. ‘That is impossible.’
‘Nevertheless, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to surrender your weapon and come with us.’
The small dark woman advanced towards the room. Her face was intent, and her aim didn’t waver. Disdainfully, Colonel Paterson put down the gun.
Glory seized the box of witchwork, and went to Troy. He stirred and groaned and, to her immense relief, managed to sit up. ‘I knew you were trouble,’ he mumbled.
‘You are making a grievous mistake,’ Paterson was saying, as the woman put him in cuffs. ‘And you’ll live to regret it, just as soon as my colleagues –’
A radio crackled, and a man called up from the hall below. The fire brigade were on their way. Paterson smiled. He knew he had the real authority in the room. Quick as a flash, the female agent slapped a piece of adhesive tape across his mouth. His eyes bulged.
‘New operational procedure,’ she explained, as she proceeded to pull a black cloth hood over his grunting, tossing head. ‘Clause 9 of the Witch-Terrorism Act came into effect this afternoon.’
She propelled her now anonymous captive out into the gallery. Jonah helped Glory get Troy to his feet, and the five of them moved towards the stairs. A firefighter met them there. He looked at them uneasily.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’
‘Yes,’ Jonah answered briskly. ‘And thank you for your cooperation. Agent Connor and I are now going to escort the suspect to a secure detention facility. These two will accompany us as witnesses.’
Silas Paterson shook his head furiously and made a kind of strangled bellow. Jonah ignored him. ‘As I explained to you when we arrived, this is an issue of national security. Special measures are in force. The Inquisition expects your utmost discretion.’
It was not the place of the Fire and Rescue Service to question the diktats of the Inquisition, or its officers. ‘All right, fine. But I have to ask you to leave immediately. We need to evacuate this building.’
Jonah nodded. As soon as the firefighter had moved on, he turned to Glory, and his composure slipped. ‘But where’s Lucas?’