NORMAN BROUGHT THEM the tragic news of the murder. It was just a little after six and the building was stirring, the smell of fresh baking bread drifting up from the first floor.
Ryan had insisted that they should be ignorant of the death of Johannes Forde, to avoid any suspicion falling on them. So they were all suitably shocked at the announcement.
“We believe that someone from the ville, who bore a grudge against us, broke in. A door had been forced around the back by the garden. Master Thomas has suggested that the films taken by Johannes might have upset the villagers. Poor, sentimental and superstitious folks. They could have believed that Johannes was, somehow, robbing them of their spirits.”
“Their immortal souls,” Doc said. “Is that not a better way of putting it?”
“Perhaps. Yes, perhaps.”
Ryan had pressed the butler over the precise manner of Forde’s passing.
“He had been badly beaten, as though by a strong man in a rage, with all of his possessions scattered and torn apart. We shall ask questions in Bramton. Oh, yes, indeed, we shall.”
“Nobody saw or heard anything?” Ryan asked.. “Must’ve made some noise, way you tell it?”
Norman shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. He wore rings on most of his fingers and they were clicking nervously, one against another.
“The house has thick walls and floors and ceilings,” he said finally.
“And there was nothing at all left of his films?” Mildred asked.
“Sadly, not. It would have been interesting to view the material he shot here.”
“But how?” began Dean, who was sitting on the bed beside his father, who reached across and rested his hand gently on the boy’s shoulder, his fingers gripping him tightly, cutting off the words.
“My son was about to ask how long it would be before breakfast. Not the most tactful thing for him to say after such sad news of a friend.”
” I Yeah, I guess it was. Sorry, Dad. Stupe of me not to think.”
“That’s all right.”
Norman giggled, the high heels of his shoes rapping out a positive fandango of nerves. “Well, I can give the lad the answer. For those who feel like eating, there will be a light breakfast served in ten minutes’ time.”
“We’ll be there,” Ryan said, standing, his hand still on Dean’s shoulder.
“What about burial of Forde?” Jak asked. “You look after that for us?”
“Of course we can. He shall have as good a burial as any chrisom child.”
Ryan nodded. “Thanks.”
NORMAN HAD GONE ON AHEAD, leaving them to make their own way along the passage and down the wide stairs. Dean insisted on helping his father.
“Wouldn’t mind a look at Johannes’s body,” Mildred said. “Be just a minute.”
She was gone for about three minutes, while they waited for her near the top of the staircase.
“Not just beaten to hell and back,” she said. “Someone also drained most of the blood from his carcass.”
Ryan picked his careful way down the stairs, his mind trying to unravel this latest macabre twist.
“Really bright sun,” said Krysty at his side. “Spearing through the shutters here.”
Ryan could feel the warmth and he turned his head in that direction, hesitating as he thought that he actually saw a glint of molten golden light from his right eye.
But, like before, he couldn’t be sure, and the moment quickly passed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A woman sat at the head of the table when they reached the dining hall.
Krysty saw instantly that she was from the same genetic stock as Elric and Thomas, looking as though she might lie between them in terms of age. Possibly in her middle to late thirties, was Krysty’s guess.
Her hair was as fine as spun silk, so white it glittered like polished silver. She was close to six feet, wearing a black dress of embroidered satin, with a high collar. Her skin was like Elric’s and Thomas’s, tight and white, like parchment, stretched over sharp cheekbones like straight razors.
Like Jak’s, her eyes were a deep smoldering crimson, set in deep sockets. The heavy silver ring on the third finger of her left hand was shaped like a human skull, with a blood opal in its forehead.
“My name is Mary Cornelius. I was so sorry to hear of the tragic, untimely death of your companion.” Her voice was soft and warm.
“Most death is untimely,” Ryan replied. “But we thank you for your thoughts.”
“Sit next to me, Ryan Cawdor. I can help you with your food and you can tell me something of yourself.”
“I help him with the food,” Krysty stated, not bothering to conceal the coldness in her voice.
“Can you help him to see again, Krysty Wroth?”
“What?”
“I think that you heard me. You don’t suffer from deafness, Krysty. Or poor sight. Indeed, we believe that you can see, if that’s the proper word for your unusual skill, better and further than most norms can.”
“Are you implying that you can help Ryan to see again? That it?”
The woman gestured for Krysty to help Ryan to the seat at her side. “I do not imply. You and Dr. Wyeth have admitted defeat over the problem of seeing. I believe that we might be able to do a little better.”
“Impossible,” Mildred snapped. “Right now Ryan is blind. The damage to his eye could heal itself in the next three or four days. Or it might not heal at all.”
“You have your beliefs, Dr. Wyeth. We believe in other powers.”
“You can make me see again?” Ryan said, hating that he stood there like a spare prick at a gaudy wedding while others talked about and around him.
Mary Cornelius looked at him. Despite his lack of sight, he could almost feel her eyes burning into him, seeming to penetrate through the core of his brain.
“I think so. After we have finished eating, you must come to my room and we shall see.” A new note of sudden anger entered her voice. “Norman, there is light piercing through a gap between the draperies and the shutters. Close it.”
“Dark as a dungeon down here in the mine,” Doc said. “Get any darker and I’ll bump into myself coming back. See mice elf in a glass very damned darkly indeed. Why not throw back the draperies? It’s a lovely morning. Bit of bright sunlight never hurt anybody, did it?”
The woman leaned forward in her seat, staring intently at the old-timer. “There are things about many of you that puzzle us. The white hair and ruby eyes of Jak. The medical skills of the black woman. The seeing of the redhead. And you, Dr. Tanner, you puzzle us a great deal. If you stay here long enough, I think we would all be eager to ask you some searching questions. You interest us.”
Doc took a half step back, as though a whip had been raised to his face. “You don’t” he began. “But I disremember what you don’t do.”
Ryan found himself sitting down next to Mary Cornelius. She had doused herself in a light but potent perfume. His guess was lily of the valley. But beneath it there was an unpleasant smell, the same dank, subterranean odor that seemed to fill every room of the mansion.
“What do you want to eat, Ryan? Trout or chicken or veal or prawns? Soup or croissants? Eggs Benedict or a plate of huevos rancheros ? When you came to us, the skills of the kitchen had beenhow shall we say?had been mislaid. Now they have been found again.”
“Plain omelet would do just fine,” he replied, knowing that it was something that he could eat without making himself look stupid.
“We have some cuts of beef that might prove a tad underdone for your palate.”
“No. Just omelet.”
AS HE ATE, picking at the cool, leathery omelet, Ryan struggled to get events into some kind of perspective, trying to make sense from what had happened.
What was happening.
But he was bewildered. They had entered an isolated ville, not far from a well-preserved redoubt that seemed to have been used for high-tech, top-secret military research, research that was somehow linked to the strange members of the Cornelius Family.
The people in Bramton were, so he’d been told, more like zombies than norms.
The Family had pressed them to visit their mansion on the cliff top, but they hardly ever saw their hosts. Either late in the evening or early in the morning, with all of the draperies tugged tight shut.
Now there was the hideous slaughter of Johannes Forde, shortly after he had boasted of taking secret films of the Family, films that had been destroyed along with the man himself.
Last of all, this woman, Mary Cornelius, had delivered unveiled hints that she could heal his damaged sight, could make him see again.
He felt around the plate with the tines of his fork, checking that there was no more food left on it. He set down the cutlery and picked up his coffee mug.