Death Day

    'I still don't get it,' said the policeman, a slight edge to his voice.

    'Mathias was the owner of the medallion. That very medallion which came into your possession.' He paused, watching their reaction carefully to his next words. 'Mathias was a Black Magician. Said, at the time, to be the most powerful ever known.'

    Lambert snorted. 'So you're telling me that this,' he poked the medallion, 'belonged to a witch?'

    'A Black Magician,' repeated Trefoile, 'a High Priest if you like, a Druid. Does it matter what the name is? It all amounts to the same thing.'

    There was a moment's silence then the Inspector said, 'What about the inscriptions? Could you decipher them?'

    Trefoile sighed. 'The one across the centre of the medallion was pretty simple. It means Deathday.'

    Lambert shrugged. 'The other one?'

    'That was trickier, much trickier. You see, it's not like the central one. The inscription around the outside of the medallion is written in reverse.'

    'A sort of code?' asked Lambert.

    The antique dealer nodded. 'When the letters are transposed, that's when it begins to make a bit of sense.' He pushed the gold circlet towards Lambert, pointing out the letters with the tip of his pen. 'These two words,' he wrote them down on a pad, 'as they are, make no sense. Transposed, they read REX NOCTU.' He paused. 'It means, King of the Night.'

    'What about the other words?' Lambert demanded.

    Trefoile swallowed hard. 'Inspector, don't think me a fool, a coward even, but, if I were you, I'd get rid of this thing now.'

    'Why, for Christ's sake?'

    'Because it's evil.'

    Lambert half smiled. 'Evil.'

    'Take these books,' said Trefoile, 'you'll find your answers in there. I want no part of this.' The Inspector's expression changed when he saw how pale the antique dealer had become. The older man's hands were shaking visibly as he wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead.

    'Trefoile,' he said, 'what the hell is it with this bloody medallion? It's important. People could have died because of this.'

    'Does it have anything to do with what's happening here at the moment?' The question hung in the air.

    'What makes you think that?' demanded Lambert.

    'As I said, it's evil. I can't help you anymore, Inspector.' Trefoile's voice had dropped to a low whisper. 'Just take the books and go. Please.' There was a hint of pleading in that last word.

    Lambert looked stunned. He looked at Debbie and shook his head before gathering up the two books and the medallion. He thanked the antique dealer for his help and told him that they would find their own way out. He nodded abstractedly, gazing into the murky depths of his cup, aware only of their departure by the soft tinkling of the bell over the door, lingering like some unwanted nightmare.

* * *

    Lambert and Debbie hurried to the car and climbed in, placing the two huge volumes and the medallion on the back seat. The Inspector started the engine immediately and drove off.

    'Tom, he was really frightened,' said Debbie, softly.

    'Drive me to the library,' she told him.

    'Now?'

    'We'll need a dictionary to translate the Latin; there's two or three in our reference section.'

    Lambert nodded and swung a right at the next junction. As he drove he noted how few people were on the streets. A couple of lads in leather jackets smoking, standing in a shop doorway. One or two in the fish and chip shop but, apart from that, they hadn't seen above five people since leaving the house two hours earlier.

    He brought the car to a halt outside the library and both of them got out. Debbie was first up the stairs, fumbling in her jacket pocket for the master key. Cursing the cold weather, she finally found it and there was a loud click as the heavy lock opened. They stepped in, Debbie slapping the panel of switches near the door. The powerful banks of fluorescents blazed and the library was filled with cold white light. Lambert shivered as he followed her through the maze of shelves towards the reference section.

    'Don't you have any bloody heating in here?' he said. He passed a radiator and pressed his hand to it, withdrawing it quickly as it singed him.

    'Shit,' he grunted. The radiator was red hot. Yet still he could feel that penetrating cold, an almost palpable chill which encircled him with icy fingers.

    Debbie found the dictionaries and hurried out again, turning off lights as she went. Once outside, she locked the door and the two of them hurried back to the car.

    Lambert put his foot down and they were home in under twenty minutes. He put the car in the garage while Debbie carried the heavy volumes indoors where she laid them on the coffee table. Once inside, Lambert locked and bolted every door and window in the house then retreated to the comforting warmth of the living room. Debbie already had the books spread open, a notepad by her side.

    It was going to be a long job and, as he looked at the first page, Lambert wondered what they were going to find.

    The entire book would have to be translated, word for word. They would find one word and, immediately, be forced to look it up in the dictionary. The meaning clear, it would then be transcribed onto a fresh piece of paper.

    Lambert looked at his watch as they began. It was eight fourteen P.M.

    It took them three hours to do the first page.

    Outside, the rain lashed down, the darkness covering the town and countryside like an impenetrable blanket.

* * *

    Charles Burton stubbed out his third cigarette and checked his watch against the wall clock above Lambert's desk. He exhaled through clenched teeth and pulled open the office door.

    'When the hell is he getting here?' said Burton.

    Sergeant Hayes, who was making out a duty roster, looked up and smiled.

    'He shouldn't be long, Mr. Burton,' he said.

    Burton slammed the door and Hayes raised two fingers at it. Miserable bastard, he thought, and carried on with the roster.

    Burton had never been a patient man, but, at this precise moment in time, seated in Lambert's office, he was on the point of blowing his top. He'd been waiting for the young policeman for more than thirty minutes and he wasn't going to wait much longer. As editor of Medworth's newspaper, he deserved prompt attention. He never had liked Lambert. Cocky young sod, he thought. Burton, approaching his fortieth year, wondered how someone as young as Lambert had ever been put in charge of the Medworth force in the first place. He was never very cooperative, but, regarding recent events, he'd been downright secretive. Burton was determined to get to the bottom of things. It was his right as a newsman, and the people of Medworth had a right to know too. He resolved not to leave until Lambert had told him what was really happening in the town. Burton checked his watch again. That was if the young bastard ever arrived.

    Burton felt quite exhilarated. He'd never had anything quite this big to write about since becoming editor of The Medworth Herald, but what with a number of deaths and disappearances over a matter of weeks, this was something new. Usually it was all jumble sales and tedious local events and he allowed his own meagre staff to deal with those trivialities. But this one he wanted for himself. He didn't trust one of his three reporters to cover it adequately. They'd probably miss some important detail here or there. Besides, Lambert would be able to brush them aside easily. Burton was determined not to be pushed away with excuses and half- baked explanations.

    He checked his watch again and lit another cigarette. The room was already heavy with the smell of stale smoke and Burton added to it, blowing out a long stream as he dropped the lighter back into his pocket.