banging. Somebody was in the house, moving things around, searching for something.
Wendell-Carfax had lived alone all his life. He’d never married and the days when he could afford live-in staff were long gone. He’d had burglars in the place twice before, both times kids from the local village, looking for something they could grab and sell to pay for cigarettes or alcohol or drugs. Each time he’d taken care of the problem himself because he knew if he called the police they’d take at least an hour to get to him, and wouldn’t do much when they arrived.
He heaved himself out of the bed, pulled a dressing gown around his thin frame and grabbed his walking stick from the chair beside him. Trying to move as quietly as possible, he made his way along the corridor to the head of the central staircase. There he stopped, staring down towards the ground floor. Somebody had switched on the lights in the grand salon.
Not only did he have burglars, he had cheeky burglars.
Holding the end of his walking stick, so that he could use it as a club if he had to, he crept down the stairs to the hall and walked slowly across to the partially open door of the salon.
He peered through the gap into the room, and almost muttered his displeasure aloud. Somebody – Wendell- Carfax could only see the figure from behind – was sitting in his favourite chair beside the empty fireplace, smoking a cigarette and tapping the ash on to the carpet.
Wendell-Carfax straightened up, changed his grip slightly on his walking stick and opened the door. He raised the stick, fully intending to bring it crashing down on the head of the intruder – and froze. An ugly black automatic pistol was pointing right at him.
‘Sit down,’ the stranger said, his voice little more than a sibilant whisper. He gestured towards the chair in front of him.
He was stockily built, about forty or fifty years of age, and there was an air of confidence, of menace, about him that was frightening in its intensity. He had tanned skin and black hair, and his eyes were so dark they almost seemed to have no pupils. But it wasn’t the man’s face that most arrested Wendell-Carfax’s attention – it was what he was wearing.
‘You’re—’ he began.
‘Be quiet,’ the man said softly, but there was no mistaking the power his words conveyed. ‘You have something I want and I’ve come to collect it.’
‘What is it?’ Wendell-Carfax demanded. ‘And who the hell are you?’
The stranger stood up, and stepped across to where Wendell-Carfax was standing.
The old man raised his walking stick threateningly, but the stranger brushed aside his pitiful weapon and with the fluid power and casual malevolence of a striking snake, he smashed the barrel of his pistol into the older man’s stomach.
Wendell-Carfax folded at the waist, gasping for breath, as a second blow crashed into the back of his neck.
* * *
Consciousness returned slowly and painfully. His stomach and his neck ached, but the greatest pain Oliver Wendell-Carfax was feeling was in his wrists and arms – an aching, tugging sensation. When he looked up, he saw the reason.
His attacker had dragged him out into the hall, looped a thin rope over the banister rail of the main staircase, tied the end of it around his wrists and then hauled him upright, securing the rope around another banister. He was suspended, his toes barely touching the floor, completely helpless. Already he had lost almost all feeling in his hands. But that wasn’t his biggest problem.
In front of him, the stranger sat in one of the chairs he’d obviously brought from the salon. His face was calm and relaxed.
‘Who are you?’ Wendell-Carfax demanded again, his voice made harsh by pain and fear.
The stranger bent down and picked up a leather whip from the floor. It was a handle with about a dozen thongs attached to it, and at the end of each was the glint of steel. He walked across to the suspended figure, stepped slightly behind him and swung the whip at the old man’s back.
The pain was shocking, sudden and overwhelming, a red ribbon of agony that stretched the whole width of Wendell-Carfax’s unprotected back. He howled in pain, his body arcing forwards. He felt a sudden dampness as he lost control of his bladder.
The stranger swung the scourge again, sending a second bolt of pain lancing through the old man’s thin frame. Then he walked back, resumed his seat and waited until Wendell-Carfax stopped screaming.
‘I’ll ask the questions,’ the stranger said, his voice still soft and controlled. ‘The scourge will encourage you to speak the truth, as it has done through the ages.’
Wendell-Carfax nodded.
‘I want the parchment,’ the man said. ‘You know the one I mean.’
‘I don’t have it,’ Wendell-Carfax gasped.
‘Don’t play games with me. I know it’s here. Somewhere.’
‘You don’t understand—’
‘No,
Wendell-Carfax shrieked in pain, then sobbed his agony.
The man stepped in front of Wendell-Carfax again. ‘I can do this all night. The scourge will cut you to shreds unless you tell me what I want to know. Where’s the parchment?’
‘I don’t have it,’ Wendell-Carfax whispered. ‘It’s gone.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It fell to pieces. It was two thousand years old. My father didn’t know how to look after it. It discoloured, then it just fell apart years ago. It’s gone for ever.’
For the first time the stranger’s expressionless face changed. It was as if a cloud passed across his eyes, to be replaced by a kind of cold fury.
‘You stupid, stupid old fool. Didn’t you know what you had in your hands?’
Once more he stepped behind Wendell-Carfax and swung the whip, again and again, the old man’s thin pyjamas turning deep red as the skin of his back split open.
The assault stopped as suddenly as it had begun, leaving Wendell-Carfax dazed and barely conscious, bleeding from dozens of wounds, his back flaring with the agony of ripped skin and torn flesh. Then Wendell-Carfax felt a new pain as a hand grabbed what little hair remained on his scalp and pulled his head up.
‘But you copied it?’ the stranger demanded. ‘Your father must have made a copy of the parchment?’
‘Yes.’ Wendell-Carfax’s voice was slurred and faint, his eyes virtually closed. ‘Yes, he did.’
‘Where is it?’
Wendell-Carfax’s mouth moved but no sound emerged.
‘Where is it? Say that again.’ The stranger stepped closer to Wendell-Carfax, turning his head so that his ear was virtually touching the old man’s lips.
Wendell-Carfax’s eyes flickered open, and in that instant he knew what he should do.
‘It’s . . .’ he began, the words scarcely audible, and the stranger leaned closer still. Then Wendell-Carfax bit down on the stranger’s ear with all the strength he could muster. Blood spurted into his mouth and he felt his teeth meet through the thin flesh.
The stranger howled his own agony. He dropped the leather scourge and jerked away involuntarily and, as the flesh of his ear tore further, the pain reached a new crescendo. He reached up to Wendell-Carfax’s face, trying desperately to force the old man’s jaws apart, but he couldn’t reach, couldn’t get a purchase.
But he had to get free.
He swung his fist, hitting Wendell-Carfax in the stomach, but the blow was badly aimed and weak, and had no apparent effect. So he hit him again, and again, until at last he managed to land a solid punch on the old man’s solar plexus.
Wendell-Carfax gasped with the pain, and his jaw muscles relaxed, allowing the stranger to escape.
‘You bastard,’ the stranger snapped. He grabbed the whip and swung it savagely against Wendell-Carfax’s body, lashing him mercilessly.
But even as the first blows landed, Wendell-Carfax’s face changed. A kind of spasm, a rictus of agony
