Tales From The Wyrd Museum 3: The Fatal Strand Read online

  A cold laugh, which punctured even the larded hide of Jack Timms, needled from the cowl. 'You will learn,' the shrouded figure told him. ‘I will instruct and guide you.'

  From the swathing robe, the wizened hand reached out towards Jack Timms, and the warder stared at it sceptically.

  'To seal the contract,' Woden told him.

  Tick-Tock wiped a palm on his coat then wrapped an enormous fist about the proffered hand.

  'If you cross me,' he threatened. 'I'll rip your head clear off and you won't need no hood no more.'

  Woden said nothing but his fragile-looking fingers suddenly gripped the warder's giant mitten and pressed with such force that Tick-Tock yelled and tried to pull himself free.

  'And I warn you, Jack Timms.' The Gallows God made his vow, but his voice showed not the slightest tremor of exertion as the evil lout in his grasp cried in pain, his knees buckling beneath him. 'Fail me and you shall be consigned into the darkness from which there is no redemption.'

  'I won't!' the man blurted, dropping to the floor as the bony fingers squeezed and crushed.

  'Do you accept my terms—whatever they may prove to be?'

  'Anythin'! You're mashin' my hand, damn you!'

  With an exultant hiss, Woden released him and Tick-Tock fell back.

  'Crippled fist ain't no good to no one!' he cursed.

  The cloaked figure chuckled with scorn. ‘I broke no bones,' he said. 'That task is for you alone. Rise, Jack Timms. The time has come for you to commence your assassin's work.'

  As Tick-Tock Jack lurched to his feet, high above, his cudgelling cane ceased its uncanny tumbling and plunged back to the ground, clattering over the flagstones.

  Woden's cold laughter rang out over the courtyard. 'The doom of the Loom Maidens is approaching,' he called. 'Let us depart this place.'

  Retrieving his Tormentor, Tick-Tock stared about him. The dense grey fog was rising, swelling and churning until it was up to his chest.

  'Hoy!' he bawled. 'What's this—more tricks?'

  The shadow-filled hood gazed blankly back at him. 'You have a long journey ahead of you, Jack Timms,' he muttered. 'The first of many. You are my agent now, my creature—and you will be sent whither I will it.'

  Over the warder's ugly head the mist flowed, and his great bulk was soon only a dark, writhing blur deep within an ocean of swirling vapour that suffocated his filthy protests.

  Gradually, the glare of the city reappeared in the heavens and, as the cement flooded back over the flagstones, the courtyard returned to the present.

  By the boarded gateway, the figure of Woden remained. The last threads of smoke were gone and he regarded the great black shape of The Wyrd Museum once more.

  'It is done,' he murmured contentedly. 'The sisters and their allies have no hope now.'

  Then he melted into the darkness.

  Chapter 11 - Treading Deserted Pathways

  It was a bitterly cold morning that Neil and Josh awoke to. Neither of them had slept very well with the harsh electric light on throughout the night, and the memory of those hideous voices had coloured their dreams.

  With dark circles around their eyes, the boys shambled into the living room where Brian Chapman was already up and preparing breakfast.

  'Has Quoth had something to eat?' Neil asked, wiping the drowse from his eyes.

  His father took an extra large swig of tea to wash his toast down. 'It's not here,' he mumbled.

  'Oh, has he gone into the museum already?'

  'No, well... look, Neil, that germ-ridden thing was making such a racket in the bathroom that I put him outside.'

  Neil slammed the spoon into his cereal bowl. 'You did what?' he cried. 'So where is he now?'

  'With any luck it'll have flown off

  The boy ran to the window. A sharp frost had ferned the glass with ice. 'He might've frozen to death out there!' he shouted, his anger charged with anxious concern. 'How could you?'

  Without pausing to pull on his dressing gown, Neil ran to the back door and out into the courtyard. The cold air bit into his lungs. The walls of the museum were stippled with a white, wintry rime and slender icicles spindled down from the gutters.

  'Quoth!' the boy called. 'Quoth—where are you?' There was no response, so he yelled a little louder and, presently, he heard a mournful croaking in the sky.

  Over the pinnacled rooftop of The Wyrd Museum he saw the black, ragged shape of the raven tumble through the air. Down Quoth flew, but it was an artless, clumsy descent. The tattered wings were flapping in stiff, sporadic jerks and the bird pitched alarmingly.

  Below him, a worried Neil watched as the raven overshot the yard, narrowly avoiding the broken glass on top of the high surrounding walls. Squawking in frustration, Quoth began beating his wings with furious determination and swerved back towards the museum. Like an erring missile he came charging through the biting cold, and Neil held out his arm as the raven came swooping down. But the bird could not check his speed; his wings brushed the boy's face and he zoomed past, heading straight for the wall.

  At once, Neil spun round and tore after him. Just centimetres before Quoth crashed into the bricks, he reached out and caught hold of the bird. In a tangle of feathers and pyjamas, they rolled over the ground and the raven crowed in gratitude.

  'Squire Neil,' he cheeped, gazing up adoringly, 'thou didst deliver this unlicked cub from a bruisome calamity. A thousandfold thanks.'

  Holding the raven in both hands, Neil clambered to his feet. Quoth was icy to the touch, his primary feathers were edged with frost. His scalp was almost purple and his beak chattered uncontrollably.

  'No wonder you couldn't fly properly,' the boy said, hurrying to the door. 'Let's get you inside.'

  'What of thy parent?' the bird asked with a shiver. 'His charity is more cold than aught in the wild.'

  'Leave him to me,' Neil reassured him. 'Dad won't touch you again.'

  A little later, while Neil changed into his school uniform, a pampered Quoth ate a hearty sausage breakfast. He was now finishing the last drops of some warm milk under the disdainful gaze of Brian Chapman.

  'I still think it's unhygienic,' the caretaker grumbled.

  Quoth fixed him with his eye, but before he could furnish a satisfying retort, Neil butted in. 'You can't talk,' he said, glancing at his father's scruffy appearance. 'You've been wearing the same clothes for two days running, and when was the last time you had a shave?'

  Brian made no answer and Neil slung his schoolbag over his shoulder. 'Do I have to go today?' he asked. 'After what happened last night, I really don't feel—'

  Brian kicked one of the chairs aside and jabbed his son with his finger. 'Don't give me any of that!' he argued. 'I won't hear it! Just get ready and go.'

  'I am ready,' the boy answered.

  Taking the raven with him, he left the caretaker's apartment. 'Just keep out of Dad's way today,' Neil advised the bird as they made their way down the passage towards The Fossil Room. 'I'll be back this afternoon. Think you can stay out of trouble till then?'

  Quoth nodded and in a strangely melancholic tone, answered, 'This knave shalt not trouble trouble till trouble troubles he.'

  A slight frown scored Neil's forehead. The raven was unusually quiet today. It was not surprising, really, after suffering outside all night. But the boy wondered if there was something else—something his friend wasn't telling him.

  'I'm sorry you had to sleep out in the cold,' he said. 'It must have been horrible for you.'

  Quoth lowered his head; he remembered the condemning words of Woden and a shudder of fear rifled down his body.

  'Haven't you thawed out yet?' Neil asked.

  'Yea!' Quoth responded. "Twas but the memory,' And he sank into a languishing silence.

  In The Fossil Room, Neil found Austen Pickering poring over a fusty-looking book, the pages of which were yellow and brittle with age. Beside him, forming a teetering tower upon the glass counter, were ten other volumes of differing sizes.


  'Records and registers,' he announced when he heard the boy's approach. 'Miss Ursula Webster brought them to me first thing. Said they might be instructive and that they will, no bones about it—completely absorbing and utterly fascinating.'

  Adjusting his spectacles, the old man looked up abruptly and grinned like a child with a new toy. 'Good morning!' he greeted. 'What a treat you missed last night!'

  Not giving Neil a chance to speak, he pressed the 'play' button of the tape recorder and the room suddenly blared with the tremendous bellowing of the huge white stag.

  'This is where it came bursting in,' he shouted above the distorted din, pointing at the doorway. 'And this is where you can see it smashed the floorboards. There are similar marks all the way to the main hall, and up there, look—the fossil bones are shattered.'

  Excitedly, he explained what had happened. So great was the ghost hunter's delight that his words collided with one another, and he had to calm himself down more than once before he finished the story.

  'There now!' he cried at length. 'What do you think of that?'

  Neil could only stare at the damage and shrug. 'Looks like that ghost was pretty substantial as well,' he eventually said.

  The old man jiggled his eyebrows. 'Exactly! I can't begin to understand the phenomenon. We can only record what has happened.'

  Mr Pickering returned to the prodigious heap of books. 'The significance of the stag has me stumped for the present,' he conceded, 'although it was quite common for large houses to keep wild game in their parkland. I did wonder if perhaps the beast might be linked with those poor stuffed specimens upstairs, but I've already been to check and they're all most definitely of the exotic variety. Still, there must be some mention of it somewhere. I'm going to spend the whole day reading through as many of these as I can.'

  'You'd better check up on someone called Jack Timms as well,' Neil told him.

  The strain in the boy's voice caused another wide smile to light the ghost hunter's face.

  'You've seen something again, haven't you?' he cried. 'I knew this place was fit to bust, but I didn't expect all this so quickly—at this rate I won't have time to write up any notes.'

  Neil gave him a brief account of the diabolic conversation he and Josh had overheard and the old man's eyes shone brighter than ever.

  'Excellent!' he declared. 'Jack Timms at least we can check up on. There must be a record of accounts in all this lot. He's bound to get a mention. Well, I call that an amazing first night's work.'

  'That's not all,' Neil began, not sure whether to mention it or not. 'Some writing appeared on the wall by my bed.'

  Mr Pickering reached for his camera. 'What does it say?' he demanded. ‘I must get a picture. I wish I'd had the presence of mind to take one of that magnificent apparition.'

  ‘I wiped it off,' the boy confessed, cutting through his enthusiasm. 'It wasn't much, just done in crayon. "Help me" it said, that's all, and it was more of a scribble really. Josh said he didn't do it but I'm beginning to think he might've, in his sleep.'

  'Bit advanced for a four-year-old,' Mr Pickering remarked.

  'Maybe I don't like the thought of the alternative.'

  'Of course,' the old man noted, 'you could have written it in your sleep.'

  'I hope I did,' Neil admitted.

  Austen Pickering gave a benign grin, then dabbed a finger at the raven on the boy's shoulder. 'He seems a mite downcast this morning,' he observed. 'I was just about to ask if the cat had got his tongue, but maybe that's not the most tactful remark to make.'

  Quoth gave a morose sniff. 'Thinking be furthest from knowing,' he muttered.

  'My dad threw him outside last night,' Neil explained. 'Been in a bit of a sulk since he got back in.'

  'Your feathery friend is more than welcome to keep me company tonight if your father's of the same mind,' the old man offered. 'He can stay with me today as well, if he likes.'

  Neil scratched the raven under his beak and Quoth closed his eye mournfully as he pressed against him.

  'Best the new friend than the old foe,' he cawed under his breath.

  'I'd better get going,' Neil announced. 'I'll be back about four.'

  The raven accompanied him to the main entrance where Neil had to tug and pull at the stout oaken door to wrench it open. Hopping on to the ledge of the ticket window, Quoth stared at his master miserably.

  'Sluggardly shalt the hours leech by,' he croaked.

  'Just remember what I said,' Neil warned him. 'Keep out of Dad's way.'

  The door to The Wyrd Museum shuddered in its frame and the boy set off through the bleak cold. Alone in the hallway, Quoth hunched himself into his furled wings, and morning in The Wyrd Museum stole by.

  ***

  The windows of The Separate Collection were crusted with ice more so than anywhere else in the building because of a broken pane. The weak daylight that glowed over the delicate latticework of frost did little to disturb the shadows which still lay heavy within that room.

  Gaunt in her faded finery, a portrait of regal composure, Miss Ursula Webster stood by one of the glass cases, slight breaths escaping from her thin lips in wisps of steam.

  The elderly woman's near translucent eyelids were half closed and only slices of white showed between her lashes. Over her sharp features her pale skin was stretched taut, but that morning her face possessed none of its usual acid austerity. There was an air of resignation and acceptance about her which leavened those severe lines around the mouth and banished the age-old scars of distress and care.

  'Not long,' she whispered. 'Let my mind be mine till then.' Very gingerly, she began to lift the lid of the cabinet and, with a timidity alien to her, reached inside.

  'Ursula!' a young voice called.

  At once the old woman snapped the lid shut and turned archly.

  'Edith!' she exclaimed, her face suddenly stern and strict once more. 'What are you thinking of, slinking and creeping about the place like a thief?'

  'Where did you go last night?' the child asked, undaunted by the woman's scathing outrage. 'I looked all over. How did you get past me?'

  Miss Ursula moved away from the cabinet and became absorbed in picking a stray thread from her evening dress.

  'I'm sure I don't know to what you are referring,' she replied curdy. 'You could not have searched so very hard. I was there to be found.'

  'Where?' the girl demanded.

  A secretive smile flickered about Miss Ursula's mouth. 'You shall have to discover that for yourself, Edith dear,' she said cryptically.

  Edie pouted, then the excitement of the previous night bubbled up within her again. 'I saw a big 'orse with a tree on his 'ead,' she babbled.

  Gliding between the exhibits, Miss Ursula's measured tread faltered. 'You saw the stag?' she murmured. 'I did not presume that the prying powers of our dilettante phantom catcher were so strong.'

  'Tell me about it,' Edie urged. 'And about the Gogus as well.'

  But Miss Ursula's face had assumed an implacable, obstinate reticence and nothing Edie could say would goad or provoke her into disclosing any more.

  'I really must be more stringent and firm with the caretaker,' she began, avoiding the child's questions. 'There is still much to be done in here. That broken window must be repaired without delay. I shall go and give him my instructions at once. Good day, Edith.'

  Her arms folded, Edie watched the old woman depart, then darted across the room to look at the case Miss Ursula had been taking such an interest in before the girl had disturbed her.

  Standing upon the same box she had used the night before, Edie stared in at the large golden locket and sucked the inside of her cheek, ruminating thoughtfully.

  'Has Ursula gone?' wittered a meek voice.

  The child turned. Peeping around the entrance to The Egyptian Suite was Miss Celandine.

  ‘I wanted to ask if I may go dancing again,' the old woman simpered. 'Veronica wants to come too. I said she might, but only if she l
ets me choose her partners. Do you think Ursula will allow it? She can be so cross and mean sometimes—she can, she can.'

  Edie jumped from the box and led Miss Celandine into The Separate Collection.

  ‘I’ll let you go dancin',' she promised. 'An' if Ursula don't like it, she can lump it.'

  A happy, toothy grin flashed across Miss Celandine's ripe, ruddy face and she cooed with pleasure. 'Oh, you're not such a horrid little ruffian after all,' she cried, clapping her hands. 'You are a darling! If you were jam and pancakes, Veronica would eat you up—she would, she would.'

  The old woman paused and her button-bright eyes disappeared in her ruched wrinkles. 'But Veronica...' she muttered in distraction. 'She isn't here, is she? Something awful happened to her. Where is she? Where's my sister?'

  Like a great, galumphing goose, she spun around and stomped through the room, flapping her arms and shaking her head so that her long plaits whisked madly about her face.

  'Burning!' she shrieked. 'There was fire! Flames and cinders—that's where she is. Ashes and death! My sister is dead—Veronica is dead.'

  'Celandine!' Edie called, running after her in alarm. 'Veronica's waiting to dance with you upstairs.'

  The old woman halted suddenly and her decayed mind relinquished its one lucid thought.

  ‘I must go to her,' she gabbled. 'Veronica will steal all the gallants and leave me with no one—she will, she will.'

  'Not yet,' Edie said forcefully. 'They won't start without you.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'I told 'em not to.'

  Miss Celandine sighed with relief. ‘I do so hate to miss the first waltz or galliard,' she declared. 'Ursula always wants to be late and Veronica doesn't care either way, but it's so important.'

  'Tell me about the stag,' Edie prompted, taking hold of the old woman's large, leathery hands. Miss Celandine stared down at the girl and screwed her walnut face into a crumpled ball as she foraged inside the deserted pathways of her memory.

  'There were four of them,' she eventually uttered. 'Four beautiful, snowy-white creatures. Oh, how lovely they were, but fierce and noble, too. Veronica was quite scared of them—especially the largest. But I wasn't—I wasn't, I tell you.'