Chapter Fourteen
In the spring green shoots
Small signs of renewed triumph
Death’s grip is broken
VIVIEN ARRIVED AT THE MILNER SQUARE HOUSE FIVE MINUTES AFTER the response teams from both bookshops and, it seemed, every possible other emergency vehicle. The entire length of the square in front of the safe house was jammed with two police Rovers, a police armored Land Rover, a police van, two police motorbikes, two ambulances, a paramedic motorbike, and two fire engines, one a ladder truck, its turntable ladder being extended to the rooftop of the third town house in the row along from Mrs. London’s. There were uniformed police officers outside almost every house, sending people back inside, who kept ducking out to see what on earth was going on. The short stretch of cross street on the northern end of the square’s garden was blocked by two of the bookshops’ taxis and a dozen motorbikes from the Old Bookshop response team.
Vivien was in the third taxi, driven by Audrey, who said, “Lord love a duck” and parked up on the curb at the southern corner of the garden. Vivien was out of the cab even before Audrey had turned the engine off.
Two edgy armed police officers in the street outside the safe house raised their H & K MP5s but lowered them as Vivien held up her warrant card, and they let her proceed to the unarmed constable by the front door, who was recording names of personnel as they arrived. He looked at her card for a few seconds, made a face, and waved her in without writing anything down.
As she went up the front steps, a group of paramedics came out with a body on a stretcher and she had to stand aside. A green blanket was pulled over his or her face, but Vivien noticed the shoes, and stopped, shocked into stillness.
Mrs. London’s sensible square-toed shoes, from some nursing supplier that had somehow survived into the twentieth century. Florence Nightingale shoes.
“Goodbye, Mrs. L,” whispered Vivien, and went inside.
Greene was on the hall phone, standing almost at attention and listening to someone who liked the sound of their own voice. Vivien—who, as with all the right-handed, had extraordinarily acute hearing—could make out most of it, particularly as the one word deniability was vehemently repeated. The inspector cupped her hand over the receiver and said, “Merlin’s out back.”
Vivien rushed past. Merlin, his left hand in a paisley oven mitt rather than a glove, was standing on the floodlit back lawn, talking earnestly to Una, who for once was listening intently. The younger bookseller had his foot on a cooking pot, which was rattling and thudding. The other left-handed members of the response team were picking up . . . wriggling bits of meat . . . from the lawn and garden, using forks and barbecue tongs and dropping them into half a dozen smaller saucepans, sorting them in some fashion because they didn’t drop them into the closest pot. Three of the right-handed booksellers from the New Bookshop response team were taking notes and making drawings of the pieces, while another two were on their knees, inspecting the wards at the back of the garden.
There were two bodies near them, right on the boundary, men in workmen’s overalls with pig-face plastic masks, sprawled in pools of drying blood and ever-lambent mercury. One still held a sawn-off shotgun, the other lay sprawled near a Sterling submachine gun. Three SOCOs—scene-of-crime forensic officers—in their blue nylon suits and slippers were standin.g together in the far corner, waiting their turn and pointedly not looking at what the various booksellers were doing. They had all donned elbow-length gloves and were fingering their gas masks nervously.
Vivien could hear the SOCOs whispering something about MI5, biological and chemical weapons, and Porton Down and distrusting the assurance they were safe, but she paid them no attention.
“Cauldron-Born,” said Vivien quietly behind Merlin, working it out. “Different pots for different bits so it can’t put itself back together, right? And I guess the head’s in that pot.”
Merlin turned. He looked terrible.
“Vivien. They’ve got Susan.”
“What? Who?”
“This was all to kidnap her. Men killed here and on the roof, fresh blood and mercury to break the wards. Then they came in through the ceiling of Susan’s room. Islington goblins, you know, the leather apron crew. They took her to a garden a few doors down and a Fenris carried her away. I threw my sword at it—hit it—but from the way it jumped it can’t have been badly wounded.”
“A Fenris? Which one?”
“I don’t know!”
“There are only seven in England,” said Vivien. “Did you see any distinguishing features? Silver hairs along the snout? Extra toes? The wider tail?”
“No, no, it was dark and it was a huge bloody wolf, so I didn’t take the time to check its identity!” said Merlin. “I was on the roof, it was preparing to jump, I threw my sword like a spear and you know how hard that is. I missed the head, got it in the haunch. I thought that might stop it for a second, it was deep, but the sword stayed in the wound and it took off.”
“The sword? That sword! You’ve lost it as well?”
“I haven’t lost it, it’s stuck in a Fenris heading north,” said Merlin. “And as soon as I’m finished here I’m going to find the wolf, Susan, and the sword.”
“You are finished here,” said Una. “But you can’t simply hare off north. The Greats will want to see you as soon as possible. Merrihew’s even cadged a helicopter ride from Hereford at night and you know she hates that.”
“The Greats can wait,” said Merlin. “I’ll phone from somewhere along the road.”
“How are you going to find out where the Fenris has taken Susan?” asked Vivien. “And what if the sword falls out along the way?”
“I’m not worried about the sword!” said Merlin tensely. “It will find its way back to the Grail-Keeper if necessary; it always does, doesn’t it? It’s Susan
