The Fatal Strand. Robin Jarvis

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СКАЧАТЬ he called. ‘What about Quoth?’

      At the mention of his name, the raven flew to his place at the boy’s shoulder and let out a sorrowful croak.

      ‘Oh, well – bring him along then,’ Brian relented, seeing how downcast and forlorn the mangy bird appeared. ‘But he’s not to sleep in your room.’

      ‘Zooks hurrah!’ Quoth sang.

      Neil thanked his father and said goodnight to Mr Pickering. ‘Be careful,’ the boy warned him.

      When he was alone in The Fossil Room, the ghost hunter gave a slight shiver and inspected one of the thermometers.

      ‘Down five degrees,’ he commented aloud, adding the information to his notebook.

      The next half-hour was spent sprinkling more flour in the adjoining rooms, relighting all the candles and switching off the electric lights again. When it was done, the old man made himself a mug of strong black coffee and eased himself into his chair.

      A brooding silence had descended over The Wyrd Museum and Mr Pickering took time to gaze about him. Like a dark sea, profound shadows lapped the walls and ceiling above him, and he lightly closed his eyes, trying to assess the building’s mood.

      ‘Nothing,’ he murmured. ‘Having a bit of a rest are we, or is it the sulks? Well, let’s see what else you’ve got up your sleeve, or should I say drainpipe?’

      His voice echoed hollowly into the empty gloom and he shrugged. ‘Maybe you just prefer frightening children. You’ll not upset me so easily.’

      Placing his Bible upon the counter, he took a swig of coffee and chose a book from one of the suitcases.

      ‘Billy Bunter!’ he proclaimed to the watching night. ‘A perfect read for the small hours. You’ll love it.’

      Turning the pages, he moved the two central candles a little closer and started to read aloud. The beetle-black canopy enclosed around him and the ghost hunter reflected that it was going to be a long, but hopefully eventful, night.

      Obscured behind thick, impenetrable cloud, the moon imparted little light upon the unlovely shape of The Wyrd Museum. Yet what drizzled through the large square windows was far brighter than the hoard of shadow with which the building clothed its galleries.

      Those rooms facing out on to Well Lane benefited from the extra glare of the street lamps. Their stark, sodium glow diffused through the cluttered spaces in an unnatural, sulphurous daubing and, up on the first floor, Edie Dorkins meandered through The Separate Collection, the silver tinsel in her pixie hood glittering with small orange sparks.

      After the Chamber of Nirinel, this was her favourite place. She loved to stare at the exhibits, wondering what they were for and, in some cases, who they had been. The headstrong and enigmatic little girl revelled in the delicious oblivion that the dark afforded and relished the musty, decaying smells of the museum which were always stronger in the lonely, shadowy murk.

      Standing on a box, she pressed her nose against one of the glass lids and her mouth watered at what she saw inside. A large golden locket, bigger than her fist and curiously shaped, lay upon a cushion of faded purple velvet and Edie traced the snaking loop of the fabulous chain with the tip of her tongue.

      Staring at the accompanying label, she almost wished that she was able to read what it said, for who could have worn such a heavy, prodigious pendant?

      ‘It contains the heel bone of Achilles,’ Miss Ursula’s voice sounded at the entrance to The Egyptian Suite.

      Without taking her tongue from the glass, Edie raised her eyes. The eldest of the Websters was standing in the semi-darkness of the threshold to that midnight, windowless room, but the girl could only make out a black shadow shape which glinted when the jet beads of the woman’s evening gown caught the glare of the street lamp.

      ‘You can remove it from the case if you wish, Edith.’

      With an impertinent toss of her head, the girl jumped from the box. The lumpy locket had lost some of its appeal now that she had been given permission to wear it and she ambled over to another cabinet.

      The figure in the doorway remained in the masking gloom. ‘Soon you will know the history of each exhibit,’ she promised. ‘Remember that you are to succeed my sister and I as custodian of these precious and perilous objects. Ask of me what you will, before my mind collapses into the dementia of Celandine and Veronica before her.’

      Peering into the recess of this larger case, Edie inspected the contents. Balanced upon a roughly-carved granite plinth was a great globe of worn and crackled leather. Over the irregular bumps of its scarred and weathered surface, the mustard-coloured light curved softly, making the pummelled and dented sphere look like a giant, mouldering apricot.

      ‘Big football?’ the girl speculated. ‘Break yer toes kicking that round the park.’

      ‘You know very well it is nothing of the kind,’ Miss Ursula’s floating voice upbraided her. ‘It is the Eye of the Fomor.’

      Edie studied the huge, swollen globe anew. ‘A real eye?’ she breathed, misting up the glass. ‘It’s massive.’

      ‘The Fomorians were monsters who plagued the Ireland of ancient time,’ the old woman began in a whispering chant. ‘Yet even amongst their hideous company, Balor, the son of Buarainech, was as a mountain. All feared him, for one of his eyes had the power to wither and kill at a single glance. Such was its dreaded strength that he was compelled to keep it firmly closed and covered. But when the Fomorians rode across the plain to meet their enemies, the attendants of Balor would raise his eyelid with a great hook and entire armies fell before its destroying gaze.’

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