‘Absolutely.’ Serena frowned. ‘According to the diary the hieroglyphic inscription which came with it was clear about its power. If it was released something awful would happen. We don’t know what, but surely it is not worth taking a risk. The people who made this bottle, the priests who put the tears of Isis inside it, have thought it worth fighting over for thousands of years. Lord Carstairs thought it was worth killing for. It isn’t just a skin lotion!’
‘No.’ Toby frowned. He was watching the bottle as if any moment he expected it to move. Abruptly he stood up and strode over to the window, seeking fresh air. Lifting the curtain he peered out into the street, deep in thought, then, taking a breath, he swung back to face them. He had to get a grip on himself. ‘Are we still being sucked in by all this? I know in Egypt it was hard not to be – we were part of it all there: Louisa’s story; the ghosts; the curses. It all went with the landscape. But not here. Not now, not in London.’
‘Last night,’ Anna said softly, ‘I dreamed about Egypt. I thought I could smell the incense again, feel the heat of the desert. But it was here in this house. There was sand drifting across my bedroom floor. I could see it all so clearly. And I knew, in my dream, that when you came back it would all be normal again.’
‘Nothing is going to be normal as long as this thing is in the house!’ Toby came and sat down again. He reached out towards the bottle then he withdrew his hand, suddenly afraid to touch it. He glanced up and met Serena’s steady gaze. Had she too realised that the voice in his head had had nothing to do with the ghosts of ancient Egypt? It had rung with the patrician tones of Victorian England.
Which was crazy. He had known for only a matter of weeks that he was descended from Carstairs and yet he was allowing it to play on his mind so much – to influence him to such an extent – that he was vocalising the man’s thoughts; a man who had been dead for at least a century! An image of the Carstairs Castle guidebook swam suddenly into his head. The paragraph which had caught his attention in the castle ruins, the paragraph which had, if he was honest, terrified him to such an extent that he couldn’t get it out of his head: ‘Maybe the ninth earl did not in fact die at all. As you look around the ruins of the castle which was once his home, be aware that the eyes which scrutinise you from the shadows may not be those of a ghost. They may be those of a man in hell.’ He put his head in his hands for a moment then he looked up. He took a deep breath. ‘So, Anna, which suggestion do you prefer?’
She looked suddenly defeated and unhappy again. Her expressive large eyes were blank. For a moment she didn’t react to his question; when she did it was to shrug helplessly. ‘I think on average I like Serena’s idea. I think it should go back to Egypt, if she is willing to take it.’
The voice in Toby’s head exploded with rage once more.
‘I must take it back to Scotland.’
Toby heard himself repeat the words, zombie-like.
‘That is what I’ll do. Take it to Scotland.’
‘Scotland?’ Anna seemed puzzled. ‘Why Scotland?’
‘Toby -’ Serena reached out towards him and touched his hand. ‘Are you all right?’ She turned to Anna. ‘Listen, he’s exhausted. Why don’t you go and put on some coffee.’
Anna hesitated. Then she nodded. Standing up she moved towards the kitchen. ‘I don’t see why it would help to take it to Scotland.’
‘Toby!’ Serena’s voice was filtering through into his consciousness. ‘Toby, listen to me. Don’t let him use you. Think about something else!’ She had pushed back her chair and reaching out she took Toby’s hands as they lay on the table. She grasped them tightly. ‘Repeat after me. Come on! Repeat after me: Mary had a little lamb! Its fleece was white as snow!’ Her voice was insistent, cutting through the other, drowning it out.
The temperature in the room had plummeted.
‘Mary had a little lamb -’ Somehow he managed to frame the words.
‘Good. Again!’
‘Mary had a little lamb – ’
He was forcing the phrase out, his lips stiff, his mouth dry.
Anna had stopped in the kitchen doorway. She had turned and was watching, white faced. ‘What is happening? What is the matter with him?’ It was scarcely a whisper.
‘He’s being used, Anna. Someone is speaking through him.’ Serena was still holding Toby’s wrists, pinning them to the table.
‘Who?’ Her mouth had gone dry.
‘I think it is Lord Carstairs.’ Serena glanced up at her. ‘Who else would be interested in what happened to the bottle?’
Anna gasped. ‘No, that can’t be true. It can’t be. Why? How?’
The man her great-great grandmother’s diaries had described as a nightmare, a visitor from hell, a tormented and tormenting soul, was speaking through the man whom she thought she loved. The man she had come to trust; the man who had saved her from her own personal demons, was now fighting some terrifying battle of his own.
Running to his side she put her hands on his shoulders. ‘Toby? Speak to me! Please -’ Her voice slid up in panic. ‘Speak to me.’
He turned towards her and it was then she saw it. The face that was not his, the eyes that for a fraction of a second were not his eyes. ‘Toby!’ Her cry cut through his anguished struggle. The nursery rhyme stuttered into silence as he saw her expression. He read it all in her eyes. Wrenching his hands away from Serena’s firm grip he stood up and, pushing Anna aside, he turned to look into the mirror which hung over the fireplace. The face he saw looking back at him was not his own. It was that of a stranger! A handsome, arrogant, dominating stranger! The stranger whose portrait he had painted with such skill and care in his conservatory in Scotland. With a cry of horror he stepped back, his hands tearing at his features, desperate for reassurance that they still belonged to him, then he turned blindly and made for the door, racing up the staircase. He headed for the bathroom. His reaction in a crisis had always been to stick his head under a cold tap.
There was a mirror over the basin. For a moment he stood in front of it with his eyes shut, then, finally plucking up the courage, he opened them and leaned forward, scrutinising his face with care, searching fearfully for some sign of the intruder. The face of his ancestor. What he saw was reassuringly familiar again. Turning on the tap he scooped a handful of cold water over his face, then he studied his image carefully once more, noting the drops of water clinging to his sandy eyebrows, dripping from his nose, running down the planes of his cheeks. Same old face. Fortyish, handsome-ish, rugged-ish. Sandy hair. Nice smile. Or so he thought. Hoped. Up to now. With a sigh he reached for the towel. He was tired and he was stressed. He probably needed a caffeine fix, that was all. The illusion that there had been another man inside his head, the illusion that the eyes that had stared back at him from the mirror downstairs only moments before had not been his, had lasted only a few terrifying seconds, but that moment of vivid imagination had shaken him badly. He groaned.
‘Toby?’ A face appeared over his shoulder in the glass and he grimaced. The suddenness of its arrival had made his heart thud uncomfortably.
‘Serena?’ He turned towards the woman standing in the bathroom doorway.
‘Are you all right?’
He nodded. ‘I felt a bit odd, that’s all. Is Anna OK?’
Serena shook her head. ‘She’s gone, Toby.’
‘Gone?’
Looking down at the towel in his hands as though he didn’t know it was there, he rammed it back onto the rail and took a step towards her. ‘What do you mean gone?’
‘After you ran out of the room she stood up, grabbed the bottle and fled out of the front door. She couldn’t cope with Carstairs. I don’t know where she is.’
