Sands of Time

1

It had snowed in the night and a skim of white lay across the rough grass, clinging to the banks of rhododendrons, weighing down the leaves into graceful arabesques across the track.

Toby Hayward parked his car near the ruins of the ancient castle which rose from the uneven ground ahead of him. A tall man, in his early forties, he looked the archetypal Scotsman, with sandy hair, high colour and handsome regular features. Dressed in a shabby waxed jacket and old boots he stood for a moment trying to find his bearings. The place was deserted; it was too cold for visitors and the forecast that the weather was going to grow worse would deter any strangers from joining him in this very personal pilgrimage. The ruins were picturesque, huge and gaunt, the high broken walls, the gaping windows, the areas of castellation silhouetted against the snow and the backdrop of stately ancient trees.

The imposing stable block that had once graced this great pile and which had been destroyed by fire in the latter half of the nineteenth century had long ago been pulled down. The castle itself had also been ravaged by fire, this time shortly after the end of the First World War. The ruins had not been rebuilt. Toby grimaced. Two devastating fires. Coincidence? Who would ever know now.

He fished in his pocket for the guidebook his mother had given him before he left London for Scotland a couple of weeks earlier. It traced the history of the castle and of the Carstairs family from the fourteenth century to its heyday under the ninth earl, the infamous Victorian traveller and occultist. On page twelve there was a reproduction of a portrait of the earl. Chewing his lip Toby stood staring down at it. The Roger Carstairs who gazed out at the world also had handsome regular features, offset by dark arrogant eyes. He was dressed in the sort of middle-eastern costume favoured by Lord Byron and T.E. Lawrence.

Turning the page Toby stared down at the entry about Lord Carstairs. It was the final paragraph that intrigued him.

‘The ninth earl maintained his enigmatic reputation to the last. The date and manner of his death are unknown, but rumours abounded as to the full horror of what occurred. It was said that he had perfected a method of transporting himself from place to place and even

from one time zone to another by magical or shamanic techniques which he had learned on his travels in Egypt, India and North America. The methods he used, so it is said, left him vulnerable to the demonic forces which one day overwhelmed him. Maybe the ninth earl did not in fact die at all. As you look around the ruins of the castle which was once his home, be aware that the eyes which scrutinise you from the shadows may not be those of a ghost. They may be those of a man in hell.’

Toby shuddered. What rubbish. Who wrote this stuff?

He moved on across the grass leaving transparent ice-sheened footprints in the snow, heading for the main entrance to the castle with its imposing flight of steps. These led up to the rounded arch which had once surrounded the huge oak door and he stood there for a moment looking into the gaping space which had once been the great hall. The echoing cry of a jackdaw broke the intense silence and he watched the black shadow of the bird sweep between windows open to wind and snow.

For four years now Toby had lived within ten miles of this old pile without being aware of its existence.

He wished he still didn’t know.

He moved forward into the space which had once been the centre of the household’s activity and looked up. Five fireplaces, one above the other, rose up within the floorless keep, each successively smaller. A huge pile of twigs filled the top one, the chosen dwelling place of the jackdaw family, sole occupants now of the building which had seen so much of Scotland’s history. And, so it turned out, that of his own family. He shuddered. The cry of the jackdaw was echoed by the wild mew of a buzzard circling the surrounding hills.

Toby rammed the guidebook into his pocket and moved on. It was cold within the walls of the castle, shadowed from the sun which outside was fast melting the night’s fall of snow. All around him he could hear the sound of water, from the river which ran in full spate round the bottom of the escarpment on which the castle stood, from the sea of rhododendrons and from the dripping icicles and the melting snow.

Slipping on the icy, worn stone steps, he ducked out of the keep and walked into the rectangular area which, according to the guidebook, had formed the north tower, an extra block of living quarters built in the sixteenth century, but which had then been torn down to form the base of the carriage house and stables constructed much later by the seventh earl. It was here that his grandson, Roger Carstairs, had kept his museum, the collection of artefacts which had been destroyed by the catastrophic fire started, so the story went, by a disaffected servant while Roger was away on his travels. Included in this collection, presumably, were all the things he had brought back from his trips to Egypt.

Toby sighed. Egypt. Where only a few brief weeks before he had first met Anna.

He had set out on the visit to Egypt with such optimism. True it was going to be a package tour from Luxor to Aswan, with a boat full of strangers, but that was OK. That was his job. A painter and travel writer, he was going to report the experience for a Sunday paper in full humorous detail – the ups, the downs, the good places, the spoiled places, the nice people, the sad people. He was going to go home with a sketch book full of wonderful ideas and as a bonus he would catch some winter sunshine.

He had met Anna Fox on the flight out. Or at least tried not to meet her. He was well aware that he was being boorish, but he had vowed, if he was stuck next to some gossiping idiot for the five hour flight, that he would not be sucked in. The fact that the woman next to him had been beautiful with her long dark hair and her hazel eyes and in the event, far from being a gossiping idiot, had in fact been extremely interesting, had not penetrated his thick skull. Not then. Not for sometime. Although he had at least become aware that, far from engrossing herself in some trashy airport paperback, she had spent the journey reading an old diary, a Victorian diary, which, from his occasional oblique glance across at where it lay on her lap, seemed very interesting indeed.

The scream of the buzzard was louder now. It was circling closer, scanning the ground. Toby ducked instinctively as the broad-winged shadow flicked over him and disappeared behind the high grey walls.

He moved forward thoughtfully, picking his way over the remains of the more recent walls, which were marked now by no more than a couple of courses of stone. How odd that only the earlier foundations remained. Of the comparatively new Georgian and Victorian grandeur there was nothing to be seen. He moved across what had once been the open courtyard, slipping on the uneven cobbles. It wasn’t so strange to think of Roger Carstairs living here. An urbane, sophisticated world traveller, he had been still, in his blood, the wild border Scot, descendant of caterans and murdering reivers, a man used to getting his way; a man used to taking what he wanted, whether it was an artefact – or a woman. There was one artefact he had failed to obtain, and it had belonged to the one woman whom he had failed to win. There was a paragraph about her in the guidebook. Fishing it out of his pocket, Toby glanced down at the page which opened in front of him. Roger had met the artist Louisa Shelley in Egypt. Their relationship had, according to the author of the guidebook, been nothing short of stormy. Toby grimaced. What an understatement. But then the author hadn’t had the opportunity of reading Louisa’s diary. The diary in which Anna had been so engrossed when he first met her.

Behind him, from the keep, a chorus of angry shrieks and a shower of twigs falling five storeys into the open undercroft beneath the keep signalled a quarrel amongst the avian residents of the castle. Toby glanced up as a ragged black feather drifted down. He bent and picked it up, then straightening abruptly he glanced round, the feather in his hand. He had heard someone laugh. He frowned uneasily. The deep throaty chuckle had seemed to come from immediately behind him. He turned to stare at the shadowed embrasures, the open doorways. There was no one there. The buzzard had headed away now towards the distant hills. The jackdaws had subsided into silence as they preened on the top of the wall in the sunlight. In the shadow of what remained of the tower it was intensely cold. Toby found himself listening carefully. Had some more visitors arrived while he was wandering around lost in thought? Shivering he rammed his hands deep into his pockets. Just for an instant he had imagined that someone, somewhere, had whispered his name.

God! The place was getting to him. The atmosphere was in some way thickening. He stretched out his hand as though he could touch the air around him. There was no one there. No one that he could see. And yet he had the feeling that he was being watched. Watched by whom?

He could guess.

It was his great-great grandfather.

His hand closed around the guidebook. To think that when he had set out on the trip to Egypt he hadn’t believed in ghosts. He hadn’t believed in a lot of things. But then he hadn’t known of his descent from Lord Carstairs. He had vaguely heard of the man – who hadn’t? His sinister reputation was the kind that reverberated down the years, leaving an unpleasant taste in the mouth. As it happened the earldom had died out with the death of the eleventh earl. As far as he knew there were no direct descendants left. Just his mother, Frances. And him.

He smiled grimly. What a cocktail of blood to inherit.

2

Serena Canfield was kneeling before a small ornate altar in the front room of her maisonette in West Hampstead. She was still very aware of the emptiness of her home. It was several years now since her much loved partner and soulmate had died. The aching gap and the silence left by him had been only partially filled by a succession of tenants and Charley, the latest, had just returned to her parents’ home. The ensuing peace had initially been supremely welcome, but lately, perhaps because her next door neighbours on one side were away, on the other side out at work all day, the quietness of the place had begun to worry her.

The last of her prayers completed, she sat back on her heels in silent meditation.

An attractive woman in her mid forties with short dark hair, it was Serena’s huge green eyes which immediately caught the attention. She was a self-confessed modern-day priestess of Isis – something which at the beginning of their cruise up the Nile, had intrigued and amused her fellow passengers. She had been visiting Egypt as part of a spiritual journey which she had been following for many years now. The visit had been traumatic and in many ways frightening, but it had done nothing to lessen her faith. On the contrary, it had left her more certain than ever of the power of her chosen goddess.

Opening her eyes she surveyed her altar. There, between a statue of Isis and the stately, smug Bast cat with its single gold earring and its inscrutable gaze, stood a small old bottle. The pale encrusted glass reflected no light at all. Rather it seemed to absorb it. She reached out to touch it, hesitated, then almost defiantly she picked it up. The bottle seemed unnaturally cold. Uneasily she glanced round the room. It was full of shadows, the only light coming from the candles on the altar and a small table lamp in the opposite corner. Before she had started her prayers she had closed the curtains. By now it would be dark outside, the streets wet with sleet reflecting the car headlights as homecoming commuters turned down the road and competed for parking positions. She could hear an engine revving now as someone tried to back their car into an impossibly tight slot. A stray beam from the headlights as they manoeuvred penetrated the curtains and hit the wall near her. She caught her breath. Something had moved, caught in the beam. A figure, here in the room with her, or just a trick of her overwrought imagination? ‘Blessed Isis, be here. Protect me. Show me what to do with this bottle of your tears.’ Serena whispered the words out loud. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. Her hands holding the little bottle were shaking.

Why had she told Anna that she would take care of it? That her prayers could keep it safe; keep its powers contained. A bottle that in its three thousand years of history had caused nothing but grief and pain. What was it Anna had said, back in Egypt? Generations of people through thousands of years had died fighting for possession of this tiny artefact with its legendary contents. So, why, in the name of all the gods was Serena looking after it?

Outside, her neighbour killed the car engine. The headlights were extinguished and after a moment she heard a door bang. She took comfort from the fact that next door the lights were coming on and that whoever had come home was turning on the TV, pouring a drink, going to look in the fridge, all the everyday things that reassured. Suddenly she did not feel so alone.

Climbing to her feet she carried the bottle over to the lamp. Strangely she had never examined it closely before. The glass was etched and blistered by time; small cement-like patches of hardened sand had set around the base of the sealed stopper. She stared at it, frowning. So small and yet so powerful. It was her fault that it was here. Anna had wanted to get rid of it in Egypt; to give it back to the goddess to whom it belonged. It was Serena, fool that she was, who had retrieved it and its burden of legends, its curses, its attendant ghostly guardians. When Anna tried again to dispose of it, everything had gone wrong. It wouldn’t stay lost. It had returned. She gave another shudder. Had Hatsek and Anhotep, the priestly ghosts from ancient Egypt, travelled with it to London? Were they here now, in her small house, watching over the bottle in her hand? She froze suddenly, her fingers tightening involuntarily around it. A strange scent was drifting round her. She sniffed cautiously, her eyes straining into the corners of the room. There was no incense on her altar today. Just candles. But this was not beeswax she could smell. She swallowed nervously. This was subtle. Exotic. Redolent of the desert wind. It was the smell of kyphi, the incense of the gods.

She took a step back, terrified, scanning the room. There was no one there. No ghostly figures in the shadows. It was her imagination.

She looked at the bottle in her hand then quickly went to drop it back on the altar. Blowing out the candles she made for the hall, heading for the phone in her small galley kitchen at the back of the house.

Slamming the kitchen door she leant against it as she dialled Anna’s number.

‘Anna? I’m sorry. I am going to bring it back.’

On the altar in the darkness in the front room a small plug of sand, dislodged when she had put the bottle down, scattered its grains around the statuette of Isis. Beneath the plug a hairline crack in the ancient glass was exposed to the air for the first time. For a while nothing happened. Then an infinitesimal smear of moisture bloomed on the surface of the glass.

In the dark two wispy figures coalesced, smoke-like, hovering above the altar. For a moment they hung there unseen. When new headlights strobed the darkness from the road outside they had dissipated back into the shadows.

3

Anna was sitting at the table in her living room writing letters when Serena arrived the next morning. The two women gave one another a hug then Anna ushered Serena inside. Anna’s grey-green hazel eyes were shadowed and tired, her complexion pale, her long dark hair tied back with a blue scarf.

‘Anna, you have to make a decision about what to do with this.’ Serena’s voice was tense. ‘I don’t think we can keep it, and, I’m sorry, but it’s begun to scare me.’

Anna showed her into her living room and watched as Serena put a small bubble-wrapped parcel down on the table. ‘What’s happened?’

Serena hesitated as they sat down, one on either side of the table, the parcel between them. ‘I have seen shadows. I’m not sure. Nothing has happened that I can put my finger on. I’ve just become uncomfortable about having it in the house. I think -’ She glanced up to hold Anna’s gaze. ‘I think the priests are still guarding it. I think I’ve seen them.’

‘Here? In London?’ Anna looked shocked.

The two women had been friends since their first meeting in Egypt on that fateful cruise. Together they had read Louisa Shelley’s diary, together they had learned to fear the forces that surrounded the bottle which had once been Louisa Shelley’s and which now, in spite of her attempts to rid herself of it, belonged, it seemed inexorably, to Anna.

‘I know I offered to look after it when the Egyptian authorities returned it to you. I know I said I could cope. But I’m not sure I can.’ Serena hesitated. ‘We have to make a decision. Something has to be done. And done fast! I don’t think we can destroy it. I think to do so would unleash untold terrors. That is what Lord Carstairs thought; didn’t he? He knew more about it than anyone and he wanted to possess it so badly because he believed it contained incredible power. I don’t know what kind of power, but I think we should assume that he was right. Listen, Anna, I’ve been thinking. I’m prepared to go back to Egypt, if that is what you would like. I’ll take the bottle back to Philae and leave it there in the Temple of Isis. The goddess can have it back.’

‘I can’t ask you to do that, Serena.’ Anna stared at her aghast. ‘You’ve already done so much to help me. Oh God, I wish I knew what to do for the best. It’s too dangerous for you to take it back! It’s too dangerous for us to keep it here.’

‘Well, we have to do something.’ There was another short silence. ‘This is all my fault, Anna. If I had let you leave the bottle where you wanted to, in the temple, so much would have been different.’ Serena hesitated again. ‘What do you think should happen to it?’

Anna stood up. Walking over to the mantelpiece she picked up the small leather-covered diary which was sitting beside the clock. They both stared at it. ‘I don’t know. Oh God, Serena, I don’t know how to make a decision like this. I have no idea what to do. I just want to get rid of it. I never want to see it again.’

‘If we can’t decide, perhaps we need another opinion,’ Serena put in quietly. ‘What do you think Toby would suggest?’

‘He would say get rid of it. One way or another.’

Serena nodded. ‘Why did you send him away? He helped you so much, Anna.’

‘I know.’ Anna sighed.

‘And he is in love with you.’

‘Yes.’ Anna bit her lip. ‘I think he is.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I got too close to the story, Serena. Too close to Louisa. She sacrificed everything to keep the bottle from falling into Lord Carstairs’ clutches.’

‘But Toby isn’t Carstairs. For goodness’ sake!’

‘I know.’

She had thought about Toby often over the past weeks, wondering where he was, asking herself why she had sent him away. It wasn’t his fault he was Roger Carstairs’ descendant; it was just a supreme irony. And she was missing him more than she would have admitted even to herself.

‘Why don’t you ring him?’ Serena was watching her face. ‘Ask him to come over. See what he thinks we should do.’

‘You’re right.’ Anna nodded. Suddenly more than anything else in the world, she wanted to talk to Toby.

‘He’s gone home, Anna.’ Frances Hayward was enormously pleased to hear from her. She had not forgiven herself for scaring off the woman whom she had dared hope might be potential girlfriend material for her only son. ‘To Scotland.’

The stunned silence which followed that revelation betrayed clearly the fact that Anna had not considered the possibility that he might not be in London, if she had even remembered at all that he did not live there permanently. ‘I’ll give you his phone number.’ Frances wished heartily that she could produce her son with a click of the fingers. Suddenly the Scottish borders seemed very far away.

Serena had seen Anna’s shoulders slump with dejection and waited as she scribbled a number and ended the call. She shook her head looking back at the small bottle, still in its bubble wrap, on the table. ‘I’m sorry. I thought it could just sit in my front room indefinitely. But it was beginning to get to me. It really was.’ She glanced up at Anna again with a rueful shrug. ‘I probably imagined the priests.’ She looked away quickly. ‘But even so I’m scared. Ring him. I don’t think we can make this decision alone. I think we need help.’

4

Toby was standing in front of his easel in the long low conservatory built on the back of the stone farmhouse he now called home. He had moved after his wife had died and it had taken him a long time to put past unhappinesses behind him and settle in. But slowly, between trips abroad, the routine of writing and painting and hacking his way through the jungle of what might one day be called a garden had brought about a feeling if not of permanence, then at least of ease with himself in this place.

The portrait was coming on even better than he had ever dared hope. At first it had seemed a crazy idea. The illustration in the guidebook was so small and fuzzy; the detail hard to make out. A reproduction of a long lost portrait from an obscure collection in America. Perhaps it was the empty canvas that had inspired him. It had been standing there for months, ignored in favour of watercolour paper. But suddenly, after his visit to Carstairs Castle, the idea had come to him out of nowhere. He had clamped the canvas in place and set to work conjuring those strong saturnine features into paint. He stood now staring at the eyes of his illustrious ancestor. Dark, compelling, powerful. He had no idea what colour they had been in real life. He couldn’t tell from the illustration. In the event the eyes he had painted were, though he hadn’t yet realised it, his own.

He looked up suddenly, the brush suspended in mid air. The light was going. Striding over to the windows he gazed out across the garden towards the hills. The sky was the colour of Welsh slate. Huge drops of icy rain were beginning to plop one by one onto the leaves of the magnolia grandiflora which added such presence to the house. He sighed. Time to stop work.

He stood back and surveyed the portrait again as he reached for a paint rag. The face was almost alarmingly life-like. He frowned. He was not over modest about his own capabilities but he was not a fool about them either. He could recognise something exceptional when he saw it and this was exceptional. His best piece of work ever.

Go on. You don’t need more light.

The voice in his head was peremptory.

Toby gave a wry smile. He was not usually that dedicated either. Any excuse to stop; grab a cup of coffee, read the paper.

The portrait is nearly finished. Why delay?

Why indeed. He picked up his palette again.

The eyes were holding his own with so powerful a gaze that he found for a moment he couldn’t look away. It was like staring into a mirror. He scowled uncomfortably, aware that behind him the rain was beginning to hit the windows with unusual violence, rattling against the glass, resounding on the roof panels above his head. The wind had begun to roar in the boughs of the Scots pine at the end of the garden, a sure sign that a vicious storm was building in the north. Toby stepped back away from the easel.

No. Go on. Finish it!

The conservatory was growing darker by the minute. Turning towards the table spread with paints and pencils he reached for the lamp and turned it on. It was not a light he could paint by but it flooded the studio area with a warm glow. Putting down palette and brush he sighed. No more painting today.

Now! Finish it now!

‘Don’t be silly. I can’t finish it now. It’s too dark.’ To his surprise he had spoken out loud against the noise of the storm. Appalled, he stared round. The voice, the voice that was egging him on, had come from inside his own head. Or had it? He glanced at the picture. It was barely visible outside the range of the lamplight. He moved closer to it. It was finished, or as near as dammit. All it needed was one or two more touches of the brush. He reached for one and leaned closer, adding a small twinkle to the eyes, a quirk to the corner of the mouth. Then he stood back again, satisfied.

Yes! It’s done.

He was going mad. The sudden conviction that the voice had come from the portrait was the craziest thing that he had come up with yet. Lord Carstairs, traveller, visionary, occultist, magician, speaking through a portrait painted by the man who had inherited his bloodline?

Oh God! Toby could feel the fear crawling up his back. What had he done?

He didn’t react for several seconds when the phone rang, echoing round the conservatory, the bell an eerie counterpoint to the drumming of the rain. When at last he picked it up he was still standing facing the portrait as though afraid to take his eyes off it for a single second.

‘Toby?’ It was Anna. ‘Toby, are you there?’

Her voice was warm, friendly, the hesitant suspicion with which she had sent him away, gone. ‘Serena and I want your advice. About the bottle. Serena has brought it back. It made her uncomfortable.’ She didn’t have to explain the reason why to Toby. He had been there on the cruise. He had seen what happened.

‘Please, Toby. You couldn’t possibly come back, could you?’ Anna paused. ‘We -’ She hesitated. ‘I need you.’

Behind Toby the rain drummed even more loudly. He was smiling. Part of him had been steeling itself against the fact that he might never see her again; that the warmth and affection – he didn’t dare call it love – which had begun to burgeon between them had shrivelled and died before it had had a chance to develop. And now here she was asking, begging him to go back.

‘Of course I’ll come.’ He turned back to the portrait with a broad grin. ‘I’ll come as soon as I can. Don’t do anything until I get there.’

As he put down the phone he was aware of a strange overwhelming sense of triumph.

5

‘He’ll be here tomorrow.’ Anna looked at Serena with a shrug.

‘I bet he was glad to hear from you.’ Serena smiled.

‘I think he was. Yes.’ Anna gave a deep sigh. ‘But what do we do in the meantime?’ She was staring at the small bubble-wrapped package on the table. I don’t want it here overnight any more than you do. Not if I’m here on my own.’

Serena grimaced. ‘You’ve got a garden, haven’t you? Why don’t we put it out there. A London garden in March. That should cool the ardour of any passing ghosts!’

‘And you could bless it. To keep it safe overnight.’

‘Of course I will.’

‘And stay here with me?’

Serena laughed out loud. ‘I saw that coming.’

‘Please. I have such faith in you, Serena. You know what to do. You’ve studied all these esoteric subjects. You know how to deal with the paranormal.’

‘So why have I brought it back to you, Anna?’ Serena spoke very softly. ‘Because I was afraid I didn’t know what to do any more.’

The two women sat for a moment staring at the package. Then Anna stood up again. ‘Come on. I know where we’ll put it. Just till Toby comes.’

Outside the back door the cold hit them. Pulling on coats as they went they walked out into the walled garden and stood on the path. Serena gazed round in delight. ‘It’s beautiful! Did you do all this?’

Anna nodded. ‘My pride and joy. That’s why I started taking photographs – to keep a record of it all. And that’s why my ex let me keep the house.’

‘Bloody hell! That’s generous!’

‘No. It was the price of guilt.’ Anna led the way down the path through a rustic arch and into a small hidden area walled with budding clematis and roses. In the corner was a little pond. At its centre an ornate iron confection which in summer was obviously a fountain sat on a small island of sparkling granite. ‘I’ll put it there. Surrounded by water.’ She was holding the parcel gingerly with her fingertips. Kneeling on the rim of the pond she leaned forward and dropped it onto the island. ‘There. Will that contain it, do you think?’

There was a pause as both women looked round. A stray breeze rustled through the weeping cherry near them, stirring the hanging branches into a moving curtain of delicate pink flowers. A cat’s paw of ripples sped across the water’s surface and was gone.

Serena nodded with more certainty than she felt. ‘They say witches can’t cross water. I’m not sure about Egyptian ghosts. Or djinn. It’s worth a try.’

‘Weave a spell for me. Just to make sure.’

Serena gave her deep throaty laugh. ‘I can’t imagine what you really think of my so-called powers, Anna. I don’t do spells. I’m not a magician. I have studied Egyptian spirituality, that’s all.’

‘It’s enough.’ Anna caught her arm and squeezed it. ‘Go on. It’s only got to last the night.’

She stood and watched as Serena prayed and added her own fervent p.s. to the message then they turned and walked back towards the house. Neither woman looked back.

The storm struck about midnight. Anna lay in bed staring up at the ceiling listening to the rain, wondering if Serena in the room across the landing was doing the same. Switching on the lamp by her bed she sat up, shivering. She climbed out of bed and padded across to the window. Pushing back the curtain she peered out. The garden lay in total darkness; rain streamed down the window panes and spattered the paving of the terrace below. Climbing back into bed she lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes with a shiver. The lamp was still on; she made no move to turn it off.

On the stone island the bubble-wrapped parcel lay glistening in the darkness. All around it the sound of water filled the silence. The rain on the stone pathways; the rain on the leaves; the rain in the pond, splashing the lilies, dripping from the small fountain head, filling the basin higher and higher. Slowly the rain was seeping into the wrapping. Inside it another plug of ancient sand began to dissolve. The guardian priests leaned closer. In the darkness the wraithlike shapes were all but invisible. Their anger was growing stronger.

In her dream Anna could see the sun setting across the desert; she could smell the hot air wafting from vast distances; it was scented with kyphi; she could feel the heat of the desert beneath her feet. In her bedroom a drift of sand appeared on the carpet and blew gently to and fro as though shifted by the desert wind. Toby. She wanted Toby. In her dream she was searching for him, knowing only he could save her, knowing that somewhere he was waiting for her. Restlessly she turned over, her hair spreading across the pillow. Even in her sleep she was afraid.

6

Toby drove down overnight through the storm to his mother’s house in Battersea, had a couple of hours’ sleep, a quick shave, a cup of coffee and was at Anna’s door by ten. She opened it so quickly he guessed she had been watching for him through the curtains.

They stood for a moment staring at one another, awkwardly, then Toby stepped forward. He gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Hi. Good to see you again.’ He longed to take her in his arms.

‘And you.’

‘I’m glad you phoned. It felt very far away from the action, up there in Scotland. I was wondering how you were and what was happening.’

‘I’ve been trying to get back to normality.’ She found she was staring into his eyes as though mesmerised by his gaze. She hadn’t realised how much she had missed his presence near her. ‘It seems I can’t quite manage it without your advice.’ She smiled at him and, reaching out, took his hand. ‘It’s so good to see you.’ There was a moment’s constrained silence and then it was over; they were both smiling and reaching out towards one another and Anna was blinking away tears of relief and happiness.

As Toby hugged her he was overwhelmed with contentment. ‘Oh God, I’ve missed you so much. I was afraid – ’

‘So was I. I was a fool to let you go. I’ve thought about you every second.’ She clung to him. ‘Oh Toby, it’s been so awful without you, and it’s taken this to bring me to my senses. This terrible fear. I can’t tell you how dreadful it was last night after Serena brought the bottle back.’

When they had convened over the coffee pot in the kitchen that morning, the two women had both been exhausted; both had woken in the night; they did not have to compare notes to know that they had both suffered from nightmares.

The bubble-wrapped parcel had been retrieved cautiously and fearfully from its island and superficially dried with a dish cloth. It was once more on the table when Toby followed Anna inside. Serena was already sitting in front of it and when the other two joined her all three sat looking down at the bottle in its wrapping in silence for a few seconds.

Toby could feel a strange knot of excitement in his throat. He wanted to grab the small parcel. To make sure it was safe. He glanced up from one face to the other. ‘So? What has been happening and what are the options so far?’ His gaze returned to Anna and he smiled at her. But he could feel the fear in the room. It was like an electric tension in the air.

‘Serena has offered to take it back to Egypt – to Philae – and leave it there buried in the sand, or perhaps to try throwing it in the Nile again.’ Anna shivered. ‘Or perhaps one of us could throw it into the Thames. That might work. It might just disappear for ever in the mud. Or, I had another idea this morning. I could take it to the British Museum. This is twenty-first-century London; the age of reason and science. Let the experts decide what should happen to it. Maybe a glass case is the best place for it. Maybe they would even open it and see what is inside – ’

Her suggestion was greeted by a moment of total silence as they considered what she had said. Toby gazed down at the parcel thoughtfully; rationally. The opposition when it came seemed to explode from inside his own head.

No!

He put his hand to his forehead uncertainly.

Keep it, you fool!

Use it!

His lips hadn’t moved; he was sure he hadn’t spoken and yet both women were staring at him incredulously.

‘Toby?’ Anna’s face was white.

His mouth had gone dry. For a moment he didn’t dare speak. The voice, which had boomed out so suddenly, had come from him and yet for a moment he had not even been aware of what had happened. He put his hands out in front of him as though to reassure himself that the table was still there. ‘Did you hear someone say to keep it?’ he whispered.

Anna frowned uncertainly. It was Serena who nodded.

‘So, who was it?’

Serena raised an eyebrow. ‘It was a voice, Toby. A voice from the past.’ Sometimes she wished she didn’t hear these things so clearly. She had spent so long training, so much time reading, learning the old prayers which people mocked as pastiche, so many hours meditating to develop her skills, but sometimes, more and more often lately, she had found herself wishing she hadn’t. Wishing she didn’t hear, didn’t see, things that most people never even suspected were there.

‘Toby?’ Anna reached out towards him and put her hand over his. ‘Are you all right?’ The room was suddenly very cold.

He nodded. He swallowed hard, clutching at her fingers. ‘Sorry. I’m not sure where that came from. Put it down to the sleepless night. And take no notice. I think all your options are good ones. Have we decided the bottle shouldn’t be destroyed?’

‘Absolutely.’ Serena frowned. ‘According to the diary the hieroglyphic inscription which came with it was clear about its power. If it was released something awful would happen. We don’t know what, but surely it is not worth taking a risk. The people who made this bottle, the priests who put the tears of Isis inside it, have thought it worth fighting over for thousands of years. Lord Carstairs thought it was worth killing for. It isn’t just a skin lotion!’

‘No.’ Toby frowned. He was watching the bottle as if any moment he expected it to move. Abruptly he stood up and strode over to the window, seeking fresh air. Lifting the curtain he peered out into the street, deep in thought, then, taking a breath, he swung back to face them. He had to get a grip on himself. ‘Are we still being sucked in by all this? I know in Egypt it was hard not to be – we were part of it all there: Louisa’s story; the ghosts; the curses. It all went with the landscape. But not here. Not now, not in London.’

‘Last night,’ Anna said softly, ‘I dreamed about Egypt. I thought I could smell the incense again, feel the heat of the desert. But it was here in this house. There was sand drifting across my bedroom floor. I could see it all so clearly. And I knew, in my dream, that when you came back it would all be normal again.’

‘Nothing is going to be normal as long as this thing is in the house!’ Toby came and sat down again. He reached out towards the bottle then he withdrew his hand, suddenly afraid to touch it. He glanced up and met Serena’s steady gaze. Had she too realised that the voice in his head had had nothing to do with the ghosts of ancient Egypt? It had rung with the patrician tones of Victorian England.

Which was crazy. He had known for only a matter of weeks that he was descended from Carstairs and yet he was allowing it to play on his mind so much – to influence him to such an extent – that he was vocalising the man’s thoughts; a man who had been dead for at least a century! An image of the Carstairs Castle guidebook swam suddenly into his head. The paragraph which had caught his attention in the castle ruins, the paragraph which had, if he was honest, terrified him to such an extent that he couldn’t get it out of his head: ‘Maybe the ninth earl did not in fact die at all. As you look around the ruins of the castle which was once his home, be aware that the eyes which scrutinise you from the shadows may not be those of a ghost. They may be those of a man in hell.’ He put his head in his hands for a moment then he looked up. He took a deep breath. ‘So, Anna, which suggestion do you prefer?’

She looked suddenly defeated and unhappy again. Her expressive large eyes were blank. For a moment she didn’t react to his question; when she did it was to shrug helplessly. ‘I think on average I like Serena’s idea. I think it should go back to Egypt, if she is willing to take it.’

No!

The voice in Toby’s head exploded with rage once more.

Stupid, foolish women.

They don’t understand. They will never understand!

Don’t let them touch it!

Take it! Take it back to Scotland! We can use it there!

Pick it up!

I will tell you what to do with it!

‘I must take it back to Scotland.’

Toby heard himself repeat the words, zombie-like.

‘That is what I’ll do. Take it to Scotland.’

‘Scotland?’ Anna seemed puzzled. ‘Why Scotland?’

‘Toby -’ Serena reached out towards him and touched his hand. ‘Are you all right?’ She turned to Anna. ‘Listen, he’s exhausted. Why don’t you go and put on some coffee.’

Anna hesitated. Then she nodded. Standing up she moved towards the kitchen. ‘I don’t see why it would help to take it to Scotland.’

In Scotland I can use it. Pick it up, man. Waste no more time with these women!

‘Toby!’ Serena’s voice was filtering through into his consciousness. ‘Toby, listen to me. Don’t let him use you. Think about something else!’ She had pushed back her chair and reaching out she took Toby’s hands as they lay on the table. She grasped them tightly. ‘Repeat after me. Come on! Repeat after me: Mary had a little lamb! Its fleece was white as snow!’ Her voice was insistent, cutting through the other, drowning it out.

The temperature in the room had plummeted.

‘Mary had a little lamb -’ Somehow he managed to frame the words.

‘Good. Again!’

‘Mary had a little lamb – ’

He was forcing the phrase out, his lips stiff, his mouth dry.

Anna had stopped in the kitchen doorway. She had turned and was watching, white faced. ‘What is happening? What is the matter with him?’ It was scarcely a whisper.

‘He’s being used, Anna. Someone is speaking through him.’ Serena was still holding Toby’s wrists, pinning them to the table.

‘Who?’ Her mouth had gone dry.

‘I think it is Lord Carstairs.’ Serena glanced up at her. ‘Who else would be interested in what happened to the bottle?’

Anna gasped. ‘No, that can’t be true. It can’t be. Why? How?’

The man her great-great grandmother’s diaries had described as a nightmare, a visitor from hell, a tormented and tormenting soul, was speaking through the man whom she thought she loved. The man she had come to trust; the man who had saved her from her own personal demons, was now fighting some terrifying battle of his own.

Running to his side she put her hands on his shoulders. ‘Toby? Speak to me! Please -’ Her voice slid up in panic. ‘Speak to me.’

He turned towards her and it was then she saw it. The face that was not his, the eyes that for a fraction of a second were not his eyes. ‘Toby!’ Her cry cut through his anguished struggle. The nursery rhyme stuttered into silence as he saw her expression. He read it all in her eyes. Wrenching his hands away from Serena’s firm grip he stood up and, pushing Anna aside, he turned to look into the mirror which hung over the fireplace. The face he saw looking back at him was not his own. It was that of a stranger! A handsome, arrogant, dominating stranger! The stranger whose portrait he had painted with such skill and care in his conservatory in Scotland. With a cry of horror he stepped back, his hands tearing at his features, desperate for reassurance that they still belonged to him, then he turned blindly and made for the door, racing up the staircase. He headed for the bathroom. His reaction in a crisis had always been to stick his head under a cold tap.

There was a mirror over the basin. For a moment he stood in front of it with his eyes shut, then, finally plucking up the courage, he opened them and leaned forward, scrutinising his face with care, searching fearfully for some sign of the intruder. The face of his ancestor. What he saw was reassuringly familiar again. Turning on the tap he scooped a handful of cold water over his face, then he studied his image carefully once more, noting the drops of water clinging to his sandy eyebrows, dripping from his nose, running down the planes of his cheeks. Same old face. Fortyish, handsome-ish, rugged-ish. Sandy hair. Nice smile. Or so he thought. Hoped. Up to now. With a sigh he reached for the towel. He was tired and he was stressed. He probably needed a caffeine fix, that was all. The illusion that there had been another man inside his head, the illusion that the eyes that had stared back at him from the mirror downstairs only moments before had not been his, had lasted only a few terrifying seconds, but that moment of vivid imagination had shaken him badly. He groaned.

‘Toby?’ A face appeared over his shoulder in the glass and he grimaced. The suddenness of its arrival had made his heart thud uncomfortably.

‘Serena?’ He turned towards the woman standing in the bathroom doorway.

‘Are you all right?’

He nodded. ‘I felt a bit odd, that’s all. Is Anna OK?’

Serena shook her head. ‘She’s gone, Toby.’

‘Gone?’

Looking down at the towel in his hands as though he didn’t know it was there, he rammed it back onto the rail and took a step towards her. ‘What do you mean gone?’

‘After you ran out of the room she stood up, grabbed the bottle and fled out of the front door. She couldn’t cope with Carstairs. I don’t know where she is.’

Fool!

Find her!

Don’t let her dispose of the bottle!

‘Fight it, Toby!’ Serena reached out to him.

He couldn’t.

He laughed.

The stupid woman was standing in his way.

With a violent push he shoved past her and ran for the stairs. In seconds he was out in the street, looking for Anna.

7

Anna had grabbed her coat and shoulder bag. She was shaking with fear and horror when she stuffed the bottle, still in its bubble wrap, into the bottom of the bag.

‘Anna!’ Serena had followed her into the hallway. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I don’t know. I just have to get away. You saw what happened! Why did I ask him to come? I should have known it would be a mistake. I’m such a fool.’

‘Let me have it. I’ll take it back to Egypt. Today. I’ll go straight to the airport.’

‘No.’ Anna shook her head. ‘No, Serena, I have to deal with this myself.’

She was gone, running down the steps and ducking across the street before Serena had time to move. At the end of the road she paused and looked back. Serena hadn’t waited. She had stepped back inside and the door was closed.

Suddenly Toby had become the enemy; whatever happened, whatever she did, for Louisa’s sake, she would not let him get his hands on the bottle.

The cab dropped her off in Great Russell Street. She stood for several minutes in the forecourt of the British Museum staring up at the huge pillared façade. She wasn’t entirely sure why she had come. It was just one idea; one thing that she could do with the bottle. If she walked around the galleries, looked for other glass artefacts from Egypt, perhaps a solution would present itself. She had not reached any definite decision. She did not necessarily intend to show it to anyone. She didn’t actually have to do anything at all. Slowly she walked towards the main entrance and began to climb the steps.

The Egyptian galleries were teeming with visitors; children; school parties. She stood, looking round. If someone came up to her. If someone said, can I see your Egyptian bottle, if someone said, may we have it, maybe she would have agreed. Handed it over. Sighed with relief that here it would be safe from Lord Carstairs. But no one knew. There were no Egyptologists patrolling the galleries. They were somewhere behind closed doors, out of sight, poring over ancient artefacts with scalpels and microscopes and computers or whatever it was they used. The attendants were not interested in her. She stopped in front of a mummy case and looked down at it. Somewhere at the end of the gallery a boy let out a shout and small feet pattered as a group of children out of control and bored ducked in and out of the exhibits. She didn’t notice. She was gazing down at the painted wooden face with its wide staring eyes. All she had to do was speak to someone. Ask to see an expert. Hand it over. Get rid of it. Leave the decision to someone else.

Turning her back on the glass case she looked round wildly. There must be someone she could speak to.

And there was. She was walking towards Anna down the centre of the gallery. A woman in her fifties, her greying hair neatly styled, spectacles swinging from a chain around her neck, her matching blue skirt and sweater contrasting with the scarlet plastic clipboard file she was clasping to her chest. An identity tag and set of keys confirmed her as member of staff. An Egyptologist. An expert. She would know what to do.

Clutching her shoulder bag tightly, Anna stepped forward and stood facing her, waiting as the woman moved towards her, her eyes fixed on the floor as she walked, her expression distant, preoccupied, her thoughts clearly far away. As she approached Anna, who was standing squarely in her path, she diverted slightly to miss her. Anna stepped sideways in step with her and at last the woman looked up.

‘I’m sorry.’ Anna smiled uncertainly.

The woman gave an apologetic shrug and attempted to walk on. Only Anna’s hand on her arm stayed her. She frowned.

‘Please.’ Anna’s hand closed on her sleeve. ‘Please. I must talk to you.’

The woman stepped back. She was clearly only dragging herself away from her own preoccupations with difficulty. She scanned Anna with pale blue intelligent eyes, obviously trying to place her, to put a name to the face.

‘It’s about a bottle. A small Egyptian bottle. I need help. It contains the tears of Isis. It’s haunted. It’s dangerous -’ Anna was grappling with the flap of her bag.

The woman took another step away. She frowned warily. ‘Egyptian you say?’ She was clearly under the impression that Anna was slightly unhinged. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not the person you should be talking to.’

‘No! You will know about it. You will know what to do.’ Anna’s certainty that this woman would take charge, would remove all the responsibility from her, was absolute. ‘Please, let me show you quickly. It will only take a minute. It’s so important.’

‘I’m sorry.’ The woman was beginning to look agitated. ‘I am truly sorry. I don’t work in this department.’ She was glancing round for an attendant.

Anna stopped dead, staring at her. ‘But you must. I was so sure.’

Her stark shock and misery were so obvious that the woman almost felt sorry for her.

‘You’re not an Egyptologist?’ Anna was incredulous.

‘No.’

‘But I was certain.’

The woman shrugged again. She was edging away steadily. ‘Abyssinian bas-relief,’ she said apologetically. ‘I was just socialising in Ancient Egypt. May I suggest you go back to the central enquiry desk?’ And turning away, she was gone.

Anna swallowed hard. The crowds seemed thicker than ever. More children streamed past her to surround the mummy cases, each with his or her small clipboard; more noise echoed beneath the high ceilings. She was beginning to feel disorientated and dizzy.

‘Are you all right?’ The man beside her had been watching her for several minutes.

She focused on him with difficulty. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure?’ He frowned at her through the top of his bifocals. ‘Shall I call the attendant?’

‘No!’ Suddenly she was hugging her bag more closely to her. ‘No, I’m all right. I’m leaving.’ Had his hand been hovering? Had he been after her purse? He might have stolen the bottle! Suddenly almost overwhelmed with a hysterical desire to laugh she dodged away, leaving him standing watching her in puzzled confusion as she pushed her way back towards the exit.

Outside the ice cold wind brought her to her senses. The wet London street, the hot-chestnut man selling his wares by the museum gates, the suitcases of tacky souvenirs, so many of them new-minted ancient Egyptian – it was all too much. Stepping out into the road she raised her hand to hail a black cab, climbed in and settled back into the seat with a sigh of relief.

It had just turned the corner into Bloomsbury Street taking her safely out of sight when Toby appeared, walking fast, heading across the forecourt and up the steps into the museum.

8

Toby was standing almost where Anna had encountered her Abyssinian specialist when Carstairs abandoned him with a curse. Sweating with fear Toby stared round. He had no idea how he had got to the museum. He remembered nothing of the journey; he had no idea how he had found his way to the ancient Egyptian galleries. All he knew was that he was shaking violently and he wanted to be out of there as soon as possible. Obviously Anna was not there, otherwise Carstairs would have stayed with him. Why else had Carstairs brought him here? He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands, trying to get a grip on himself. What was happening to him? What was he to do? Where should he go?

It took him a while to thread his way back to the main entrance. Once outside he too searched for a cab, quickly feeling better in the damp cold air.

In less than an hour he was sitting across the table from his mother, shaking his head. ‘It was my imagination. It must have been. But the voice was so loud. So real. And Serena and Anna heard it too.’ He rounded on her. ‘Why in God’s name did you have to tell me we were related to Lord Carstairs?’

‘I thought that you would be interested, Toby.’ Frances sighed. She was a tall handsome woman with wild grey hair. The resemblance between mother and son was obvious. ‘Personally, I thought it was rather glamorous. I never mentioned it in the past because you weren’t interested in family stuff, but once Anna had showed me that diary -’ She paused. ‘I do see it is awkward for you as far as Anna is concerned. I am so sorry. He does seem to have given her ancestor a very hard time.’

Toby groaned. This whole sorry mess was all his mother’s fault.

Here he was, independent, if not entirely back on an even keel after the succession of best-forgotten traumas that had rocked his life, and Frances had managed to bowl him a killer ball – in Anna’s presence – which had slipped under his guard without his even seeing it coming. He smiled tiredly at the explosion of mixed metaphors and clichés running through his brain. He knew he was being unfair but just at the moment it was hard to be anything else.

And perhaps Anna was right. She usually was. She was a good judge of character. After all, she had not cared for him much at the beginning of their relationship. If it was a relationship. It certainly wouldn’t be now. He sighed. She was so beautiful, Anna. So vulnerable. Her ex-husband had somehow isolated her, kept her prisoner in a glass palace so that when she finally broke free of the marriage she was like an exquisite butterfly, unspoiled, naïve. But not nearly so naïve as he was!

He groaned again. ‘It is the understatement of the year to say he gave Louisa a hard time!’ He scowled. ‘And this morning, for a few minutes -’ He shuddered. ‘He seemed to be giving me one as well. Do you believe in possession? In life after death? Is it even remotely possible that what I’ve told you really happened, or have I gone stark staring mad?’

Frances raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think you’re mad. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what I believe. I confess I did go and see a medium once – hasn’t everyone? And what she told me was convincing – not guesswork at all. But in this case, I think maybe you’re right. I don’t mean I think you are mad, but I think it may be a hefty dose of over-imagination. Egypt seems to have had a pretty powerful effect on you all.’ She paused. Toby’s anguish was obvious. She bit her lip. ‘It’s hardly surprising when you consider the potent mix of Louisa’s diary, and the legends and myths and ghosts, and on top of all that the death of that poor young man you were travelling with. All that with the magic of the Nile itself.’ Climbing to her feet she put a hand on his shoulder, then went over to switch on the kettle. ‘I’m sure Anna is fine. She’s no fool. She’ll look after herself.’ She paused. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have come down to London. Perhaps after all it would do no harm for you two to be apart for a bit while you both take stock. What did Serena think about all this? Where did she go after Anna left?’

‘Home, I presume.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea what she thinks, though I can guess. Oh God, I wish I knew where Anna went. And what she intended doing with that damn bottle.’

‘You don’t care what she does with the bottle, Toby,’ his mother said firmly as she made a pot of tea. ‘Do you?’ She glanced up and scrutinised his face sharply.

He shook his head. ‘Not a fig. No.’

‘Good. Then leave it at that. She knows where we are. She knows she can always contact you here, and I am sure she will when she is ready.’

‘But I frightened her – ’

‘No, from what you have told me you all frightened each other. Don’t go convincing yourself you are a channel of some kind or a spirit medium or even, heaven forbid, the reincarnation of Lord Carstairs! You had never heard of the man a few weeks ago. You have not suddenly turned into a villainous Victorian occultist with swirling black moustaches and a silk lined cloak.’

‘He didn’t have moustaches!’ Toby grimaced wryly.

‘Well, whatever! From the diary he appears to have been extremely handsome.’ She smacked the cup of tea down in front of him, spilling a little into the saucer. ‘He did seem to have some strange habits, but then a lot of those Victorians were extremely odd. Keep focusing on the solid clergymen in our family, Toby. None of them kept pet cobras which obeyed their every whim like he did. Much more healthy to have a labrador! Don’t let him become an obsession.’ She frowned. ‘Did you go to Carstairs Castle?’

‘Of course I did. You gave me the guidebook, remember!’ The guidebook which had spelt out the enigma of Lord Carstairs’ final disappearance.

They stared at each other. Toby felt a strange chill strike between his shoulder blades. The hairs on his arms were standing on end. ‘It happened there. He was waiting for someone to come along. A patsy. A descendant!’

‘No. No, Toby. That’s fantasy!’

‘Is it?’ He stared down at his cup without touching it. ‘I’ve painted a portrait of him. That’s how I know he didn’t have moustaches. I know exactly what he looked like. It’s the best thing I’ve ever painted.’ He glanced up at her with a grimace. ‘That’s when it happened. Oh God, what have I done?’

‘Toby. This is nonsense.’

‘No. It isn’t. It’s happened.’ He stood up. ‘Christ! It’s like being told I might have got cancer! There might be something hiding inside me. Lying in wait. Something I can’t control.’

‘Toby! Stop it!’ Frances was terrified.

‘What am I going to do?’

‘You’re going to pull yourself together. Look at all the problems you’ve come through before, Toby. You’re going to remember that you are a strong, determined fighter. Roger Carstairs is dead. He has to be. Any other idea is a complete nonsense. I doubt if he is even a ghost. Even if he had some kind of weird pseudo consciousness it would be no more than that of a wraith; nothing you couldn’t override. I doubt if he even has that. I don’t think he exists at all in any form.’ She was trying to convince herself. ‘I don’t think he’s anything more than a waking nightmare. Your nightmare.’ She stood up, agitated. ‘For goodness’ sake, Toby. Don’t lose this chance. Anna trusts you – ’

‘Not any more she doesn’t.’ The interruption was very bitter.

‘She will, Toby. She knows you. She knows you are strong. Look how you took care of her in Egypt. When she was so ill at the end you brought her home. You looked after her. You brought her here.’

‘I did, didn’t I?’ He sighed. ‘If only I could guess where she was. Where she would have gone.’

And suddenly he knew.

She would have gone back to her Aunt Phyllis in Suffolk. Of course. It was so obvious. It was Phyllis who had given her the bottle when she was a child, Phyllis who had given her the diary, Phyllis who had suggested she go to Egypt, and it was to Phyllis’s house that they had driven – both of them, together – to talk about the horrors and adventures of the trip they had just shared. Phyllis was her mentor and her home was Anna’s natural sanctuary. The first place she would head for.

9

Serena was once again sitting cross-legged in front of the small altar in her front room, deep in meditation. Reaching out into the darkness, questing back into Egypt, towards the scented misty distances, she was seeking answers; advice; help for her friends. She could see the still, deep waters of the Nile, she entered the temple, walking across the sand blown courtyard, she could smell the kyphi, hear the sound of distant music, see the shadowed shapes of temple attendants at the periphery of her vision.

Help me; help Anna. What should we do with the bottle containing thy tears?

Her prayer wove across the distances, drifting, seeking answer.

Shall I bring it back to Egypt?

She was there. She could see. She could hear, but there was no answer. The bottle was not hers to take back. It had gone and she did not know where it was.

Pressing her palms together she lowered her head in acknowledgment of the goddess, crossed her arms across her breast, hands on shoulders in the time-old Egyptian pose, and opened her eyes. The room had grown dark while she was praying. Standing up with a groan at the stiffness in her knees she blew out the candles, extinguished her incense and went to switch on the light.

Outside the street was dark. It was still pouring with rain. Serena shivered and, drawing the curtains, bent to switch on the electric fire. The central heating had gone off for the night while she had been praying and now the house was chilly. Glancing at her watch she wondered if it was too late to ring Anna – to see if she had come home yet.

The phone rang on and on in Anna’s empty house in Notting Hill. Glancing at the notepad beside her on the kitchen worktop Serena saw the second number she had jotted down. Toby’s number – or rather Toby’s mother’s. Toby, who had pushed past her, his face a mask of anger, his head filled with the thoughts of an angry, vicious stranger. Serena hesitated, shivering.

Frances Hayward was awake. Unable to sleep, she was huddled in the kitchen over a cup of cocoa and the newspaper when Serena rang. ‘I have no idea where he is. Where they are. Toby went off after her several hours ago; he thought she would have gone to see her great-aunt Phyllis. Do you know where she lives? I don’t drive so I couldn’t follow him and I don’t know Phyllis’s phone number or address. I think it’s Suffolk somewhere. I never thought to ask. He went off in such a hurry.’ Frances was glad to have someone to talk to. ‘I am so worried about them. This whole thing seems to have blown up into something so strange.’

‘Lord Carstairs seems to have been a terrifying man.’ At home in her kitchen Serena shook her head. ‘Just the idea of him is frightening enough. If he has indeed established some sort of link with Toby then we should be worried. We had enough problems with the Egyptian bottle without Carstairs sticking his oar in.’ Her voice was dry. ‘We needed Toby on our side.’

‘He is on your side. He loves Anna.’

‘I know.’ Serena’s wistful smile was betrayed in her voice. ‘But unfortunately Carstairs doesn’t. He has no reason to. And he is strong. I don’t know if Toby could fight him. That first time, it took him by surprise. It took us all by surprise. I don’t know how Toby would cope if Carstairs tried to speak through him again.’

‘So you do believe all this?’ Frances sighed. ‘I was so hoping it was Toby’s imagination.’

‘It’s not his imagination, Mrs Hayward. I’m afraid Lord Carstairs is all too real. In his way.’ Serena shook her head.

There was a short pause. ‘He said you told him how to drown Carstairs out,’ Frances said hopefully.

‘But will he do it?’ Serena shivered. She was thinking that it was Carstairs, not Toby, who had pushed her out of his way.

Frances was silent for a moment. When she spoke again her voice was full of doubt. ‘I’m sure he will do his best, Serena. He loves Anna. He really does. He would never knowingly do anything to put her in danger. He would do anything to protect her.’

‘If he can.’ Serena sighed. ‘If you hear from them, will you tell me? I’ll give you my mobile number. Please, call me anytime. I mean it.’

There was nothing more she could do. Turning out the lights she climbed up to her bedroom and laid the mobile on her bedside table. Downstairs the smell of incense from her ceremony began to dissipate. Soon it would be gone.

Frances walked slowly through her house deep in thought. If she could find out Phyllis’s address she could ask Serena to go there. Serena had sounded sensible and caring; she was knowledgeable and she had somehow managed to cut through Toby’s torment, teaching him her nursery rhyme mantra.

Out of the blue the name came back to her.

Lavenham.

That was it. And surely it wasn’t a big place? She reached for the phone.

Phyllis Shelley’s number was listed.

Serena wasn’t asleep. She answered the phone on the second ring; she was in the car and on the road within half an hour.

10

Leaving London just as the rush hour was starting, it had taken Toby three hours to drive to Lavenham. Pulling up his car in the darkness of Phyllis’s deserted street in the picture-book small town he sat for a moment, his head resting on his hands on the rim of the steering wheel. Faint light showed through the tightly closed curtains of Phyllis’s oak-beamed cottage. Now he was there he was wondering why he had come. Supposing Anna wasn’t there? What would he say to the old lady? And if she was there, what was he going to do then? What was Lord Carstairs going to do? He shuddered. Suddenly he felt very sick.

A twitching curtain indicated Phyllis Shelley had heard the car draw up outside. With a deep sigh he reached down to release his seat belt and climbed out.

She showed him into her sitting room where an apple log fire smouldered reassuringly in the hearth, supervised by a large sleepy cat. It was apparent at once that Anna was not there. A quick phone call established she was not at home either – or if she was, she was not answering her phone.

Phyllis, smartly dressed in a blue cardigan and matching skirt, her grey wiry hair neatly cropped, looked far less than her eighty-eight years. After one glance at Toby’s pale face and drawn expression, she wouldn’t let him explain the reason for his visit until he had consumed a glass of whisky, some tomato soup and a cheese sandwich in the chair beside the fire. Only then was he allowed to speak, but by then he was fairly certain her calm scrutiny had winkled out most of his innermost secrets without him having had to utter a word. She asked him nevertheless. ‘So, what has gone wrong, Toby?’ She had a quiet voice with a thread of steel in it. ‘You love each other. Can you not work things out between you?’

He gazed down at the glowing ashes. ‘Not in this case.’ He bit his lip ruefully. ‘It appears Lord Carstairs has come between us.’

She raised a haughty eyebrow. ‘And how, pray, has he managed to do that?’

He gave a wry smile. ‘Just how unfair do you think it is possible for fate to be? It appears that I am his great-great grandson!’

He looked up in time to see a twitch of humour for a fleeting second in her eyes. ‘That doesn’t sound like fate, Toby. That is The Fates. Did you never believe in them?’

He shook his head morosely. ‘You don’t even seem surprised!’

She smiled – openly this time. ‘I won’t spout the cliché about how when you reach my age you cease to be surprised about anything. It does however happen to be true. There is obviously some deeper destiny working its way out here.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘What does surprise me is that Anna should have let it come between you.’

‘I told you why. It’s not destiny, Phyllis. It’s Carstairs.’ He told her what had happened.

It was several minutes before she said any more. Seeing her so deep in thought he was content to sit back in his chair staring at the flames, somehow purged of his fear by having told her. His moment of peace was short-lived.

‘How strong are you, Toby?’

He shrugged. ‘It depends.’

‘Let’s imagine the worst. Suppose Lord Carstairs is an unquiet spirit of some sort. Maybe he is a common or garden ghost.’ She gave a small snort of derision. ‘Or maybe he sold his soul to the devil or maybe he is one of the undead.’ She paused thoughtfully with a sideways glance at her guest. ‘Supposing he is still determined to own the ampulla. Supposing he believes he can use it for some sinister purpose. Supposing the fact that you are his great-great grandson has somehow allowed him to make a connection with you so that he thinks he can use you in some way.’

‘Use me as a medium?’ It was what his mother had implied. Toby shuddered. Discussing the subject so dispassionately somehow made the nightmare worse.

Phyllis nodded uncertainly. ‘Something of the sort.’ She hesitated, then went on, feeling her way with care as she spoke. ‘It seems to me that in this case he would be dependent on you as the host acting for him. He would need your mouth to speak; he would need your hands to gather in his precious ampulla and he would need you to use it for whatever purpose he has in mind.’

‘So, if I refuse to comply he would be helpless.’ Toby nodded, slightly comforted.

‘Exactly.’

‘But -?’ He was watching her face.

‘There are no buts, Toby, if you are strong.’ She gave a gentle smile. ‘And this has only happened once, has it not? You don’t know that you will ever hear of or from him again; you don’t know that what happened was any more than a momentary hallucination. But I don’t think we should underestimate him.’ She paused, then went on thoughtfully. ‘And I don’t think that now is perhaps the right moment for you and Anna to test your resolve.’

‘That’s what my mother said.’

‘Well, she’s right. Are you sure Anna is on her way here?’

He shook his head. ‘I thought this the most likely place she would come.’ He stood up. ‘I couldn’t think of anywhere else. But I know so little about her, Phyllis. I don’t know who her friends are; her relations. I am in so many ways still a stranger, and -’ He hesitated. ‘I am not sure how long I can stand the suspense of all this. It’s like having a time bomb inside me!’

‘He’s not inside you, Toby! Don’t imagine that.’ She looked very stern. ‘It is your body. Your brain. He cannot use them unless you let him.’

‘What if I can’t help it?’ He was staring down at the fire.

‘That sounds very defeatist. You can’t afford to be weak. Not for an instant.’

‘It would be easier if I knew when he was going to strike.’

‘If he is going to strike.’ She sighed. ‘If anything else happens, Toby, it is because he still wants the bottle. My guess is he would wait until it is nearby. He would wait for Anna. And you’re right. I think she might come here.’

‘Then I must go.’ Turning to face her, he sighed. ‘I can’t risk being here when she arrives.’

‘You’ll have to face her one day. I have a feeling Carstairs could wait longer than you would be able to.’

‘You’re not suggesting I stay? Face him out?’

‘I’m not sure what I’m suggesting, my dear.’ She looked round helplessly. ‘I’m not an expert in all this. I don’t know what we should do. Perhaps we should ask your friend, Serena. She seems to have been the only one with any idea of how to deal with this situation.’ She raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘It is fairly specialised.’

In spite of himself Toby chuckled. ‘You can say that again. As was her solution. A recitation of “Mary had a little lamb”!’

‘Simple but effective,’ Phyllis replied drily. ‘You are lucky there was someone there who took what happened seriously. I suspect a great many people would have laughed it all off anyway and said you were all hallucinating!’

‘Those people were not with us in Egypt!’ Toby commented grimly. ‘You know, I would almost be relieved to think I was suffering from schizophrenia – under the circumstances it would be preferable to the other possibility.’ He shuddered.

‘You don’t mean that, my dear.’ She shook her head. ‘Now, may I suggest that you stay the night. It’s far too late to drive back to London and I doubt if Anna will come tonight. Then tomorrow we will try and establish where she is and what if anything she has done with her scent bottle. And then, and only then, can we decide what you should do next.’

11

Toby!

Toby, wake up you fool. She is here!

The figure standing beside Toby’s bed was tall, insubstantial in the near darkness of the room. Outside the half drawn curtains the sky was bright with stars. It was very cold. Toby had turned off the electric fire before he climbed into the high old-fashioned bed and pulled the eiderdown up over his head, and now, in the warm cocoon of mattress and blankets and sheets he turned over with a groan and settled more deeply into sleep.

Toby! The bottle contains power beyond your wildest dreams. With the help of the goddess Isis you could achieve anything, be anyone. You could rule the world. Listen carefully, Toby. I will tell you what you need to do.

Outside the window a car had driven up. Briefly the lights reflected on the wall by the door, then they were gone. As the clouds had cleared the temperature had started dropping. Soon there would be ice. The engine fell silent; the lights were switched off. A door opened and slammed and footsteps echoed up the path beneath his window. He did not hear them; nor the rattle of the knocker on the oak panel; he was not aware of the light going on, on the landing outside his bedroom, or of Phyllis, wrapped in a red chenille dressing gown, tiptoeing lightly down the stairs, opening the door, drawing Anna inside and with a glance up towards his bedroom door, leading her into the sitting room. There, with new logs thrown onto the glowing embers the two women sat down to talk quietly and urgently by the light of one small lamp.

‘I saw Toby’s car.’ Anna shook her head. ‘I nearly didn’t come in. But I didn’t know what else to do. Where to go. I sat in a coffee place for ages, then I drove round for hours before I decided to come here. What did he say? Where is he?’

‘He’s upstairs. Asleep. He explained what happened, Anna.’

‘What am I to do?’

‘Have you still got it?’

Anna nodded, glancing towards the shoulder bag she had thrown down on the sofa next to her.

In his dream Toby watched her reach over and fumble in the bag, produce the small bubble-wrapped parcel and hold it in her hand, staring down at it.

‘I am afraid to keep it; afraid to destroy it. Supposing that unleashes something? Someone? I need to hide it, Phyl. Hide it somewhere Toby and Carstairs can’t find it.’

The sleeping Toby gave a grim smile. How stupid did she think he was? He was watching her. He would know what she did with it. He knew her every thought. And every thought of the guardian priests who hovered so anxiously over her. He frowned. In his sleep he paused to wonder why the priests were so anxious. So angry. They were afraid.

Phyllis was thinking deeply. ‘I don’t believe we should hide it in the house. In fact, maybe you shouldn’t hide it at all. I will. It might be better if you didn’t know where it was.’

‘Phyl, I don’t want you to put yourself in danger.’

‘Danger!’ The old woman was indignant. She ran her fingers through her hair, leaving it standing on end. ‘I gave it to you in the first place. I gave you the diary. I sent you to Egypt. Anna, my dear, I got you into all of this and it’s up to me to get you out.’ She held out her hand. ‘Give it to me.’

Anna handed over the bottle with a shiver. For a moment both women stared round the room, sensing the drifting cold. They saw nothing.

‘Right. Now I want you to go up to your usual bedroom. I have put Toby in the green room at the top of the stairs. Get a good night’s sleep and in the morning it will all be taken care of.’

No. Don’t let her do it.

You must get it now.

That woman has inner strength. She can defy us. Anna is weak because she loves you. A cynical laugh. She can’t quite bring herself to think you would hurt her. More fool her. You would hurt her, wouldn’t you, Toby? You would do anything I ask you. You will get up and go downstairs now, Toby. You will take that bottle from the women and you will give it to me!

Under the eiderdown Toby was growing more and more restless. Twisting his head from side to side he threw off the covers and turning he thumped the pillow with his fist.

Get up, Toby!

The figure moved closer, coming to stand immediately beside the bed. With another groan Toby obeyed, his eyes still closed.

That’s right. Now move to the door and open it. Come downstairs. Now.

As the door into the sitting room opened Anna and Phyllis looked up startled. Toby was standing there, dressed in the ancient striped pyjamas which Phyllis had produced from the airing cupboard, his hair on end, his feet bare. His eyes were tightly closed. He stepped into the room and held out his hand.

I need that bottle.

Phyllis put it behind her back.

‘Toby?’ Anna was staring at him. ‘Toby, wake up! Do you hear me, wake up!’

Toby had stopped just inside the doorway. For a moment he remained unmoving then slowly he opened his eyes.

‘Anna?’ He stared at her in astonishment. ‘When did you get here? I must have fallen asleep. What time is it?’

‘It’s late.’

‘It must be.’ He moved towards the fire, rubbing his face slowly with his hands. ‘I’m sorry. I’m still half asleep. I can’t think clearly. Thank God you’re here. I was so worried about you.’ He put out a hand towards her. ‘I had such a terrible dream.’ He hesitated. He couldn’t bear to be standing so close to her and not touch her. Gently he put his finger on her shoulder, then cautiously, carefully, he drew her into his arms.

For a moment she resisted, stiff against his embrace, then she relaxed. ‘Toby. Are you all right? I’ve been so frightened.’ She was nestling against him.

‘There’s no need, my love. No need at all. You’re safe now. Quite safe.’

All you need to do is give me the bottle. His grip tightened slightly. Where is it?

‘Toby?’ Anna pulled away from him sharply. ‘Toby? What did you say?’

Toby frowned. Had he spoken out loud? Please God it wasn’t happening again. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t care where the bottle is -’ He ran his hand across his forehead, pushing back his hair. He stared round frantically. ‘I love you, Anna. I would never try and take it unless you let me.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s just that I can’t seem to see straight.’ He shut his eyes again as a twinge of pain hit him.

You will give me the bottle.

‘Phyllis?’ Anna was terrified. ‘It’s happening again. That is not his voice. His lips didn’t move.’

‘I can see.’ Phyllis backed towards the fire.

‘Oh God, it’s not Toby. Something has happened to him. He’s not there. Carstairs has taken him over.’ Anna’s voice cracked into a sob. ‘Toby, can you hear me? Toby, please. Fight him!’

‘Anna, my dear. Move away.’ Phyllis kept her own voice calm with an effort. ‘Have you got your car keys?’

Anna nodded. ‘They are there, in my coat pocket.’

‘Get them. Get ready to run.’

Toby had moved a couple of steps closer to Phyllis. He seemed to be working on automatic pilot. His face was blank.

Ah, Miss Shelley. So it is you who has it. Give it to me. I don’t want to hurt you. This is nothing to do with you. The bottle is mine by right.

Behind him Anna had pulled on her coat. She drew the keys out of her pocket with a shaking hand.

‘You’re going to have to take it off me, Toby. Or should I address you as my lord?’ Phyllis moved a step closer to the fire. She was almost standing in the hearth. ‘It is my lord, isn’t it? Toby is not there. You have pushed Toby aside. You have walked in and taken his body because you are too weak to achieve anything on your own!’

You don’t think it an achievement to take his body?

The voice was mildly amused.

Behind her back Phyllis transferred the small parcel to her right hand. Moving so fast Anna almost failed to see what was happening, the old woman tossed it swiftly towards her, at the same time diving towards the poker which had been lying on the hearth.

Anna did not wait to see what happened. She was into the hall in a moment, bottle in hand, pulling open the front door and diving towards her car. With a frantically revving engine and a shriek of tyres the car sped away from the hedge and disappeared up the road.

Behind her Phyllis was staring at the body of the man lying at her feet, blood pouring down his face into the carpet.

12

Where do I go?

Changing gear Anna pulled onto the main road.

What shall I do?

She gritted her teeth, desperately trying to steady her breathing.

Drive carefully. The roads are icy. Don’t be a fool. Calm down. He can’t reach you here.

The bottle was lying in the foot well on the passenger side where she had thrown it. She couldn’t see it in the dark, but she could hear the bubble wrap rustling as the car swung round the corners.

What had happened to Phyl? Was she all right? What would he have done when he realised he had been thwarted? Oh please God, take care of her. Don’t let him hurt her.

She drove on. She didn’t know where she was going, all she knew was that she had to get rid of the bottle. Once and for all. Water. She had to find some water and throw the bottle into it. That would be the best thing to do. See it sink without trace. Deep water. Bottomless water which would suck it down for ever. Weight it down with something. Make sure it could never float to the surface again.

Her brain was working frantically as she threw the car down the narrow winding roads. She needed to go east, towards the sea. Which way? Her mind had gone blank suddenly. All she could think was:

Bring it back. Bring it back. Bring it back now!

The voice in her head was not hers.

‘No!’

She clamped her hands on the wheel until her knuckles went white. She was speaking out loud now. ‘Never! You can’t have it! Toby, fight him. Please fight him. Oh Toby!’ She shook her head angrily as her eyes filled with tears. How could this be happening? She had loved Toby, she realised it now. Really loved him. She had thought he was the one who would make her happy at last. And Carstairs, bloody, vicious, awful, DEAD, Lord Carstairs was taking him away from her.

But Toby wasn’t here. That voice had been in her own head. Not Toby’s. Oh dear God, what was she going to do?

She was heading towards the A14 now and almost without realising she had done it she swung the car onto the eastbound carriageway, heading towards the coast. She put her foot flat to the floor and felt the car gather speed alarmingly as she tried to put distance between herself and the source of the mocking voice in her head. Before her the road stretched away empty, leading towards the sea.

In the back seat a shadowy form had begun to materialise, invisible against the black upholstery. She didn’t hear the quiet chuckle above the sound of the screaming engine.

13

‘Are you OK?’ Phyllis bent anxiously over Toby’s recumbent form. He groaned, somehow forcing his eyes open to see the old woman in the red dressing gown standing over him, the poker still in her hand.

‘What happened?’ He put his hand to his forehead and brought it away, sticky with blood.

‘I’m afraid I hit you with the poker. Or at least, I didn’t hit you, I hit Lord Carstairs.’

Toby blinked. Somehow he forced himself into a sitting position. ‘How did I get downstairs?’

‘You walked, my dear.’ Phyllis lowered the poker, satisfied that the rightful owner was once more in charge of his body. ‘You were sleep walking. Your eyes were closed. You woke up but then somehow he seemed to overwhelm you again. I had to hit you. You were trying to get the bottle from Anna.’

‘Anna?’ He looked round. ‘Oh God! I remember now. Did I hurt her? Where is she?’

‘She’s gone. She’s all right, but if I had any doubts before about what you said had happened to you, I have none now. It was awful. Frightening. It was not you I hit.’ She shook her head ruefully. ‘But even so, I might have killed you. I don’t know my own strength. I’m so sorry.’

‘So Anna got away?’

She nodded. ‘And I don’t know where she’s gone so there is no point in asking me.’ She frowned. ‘Do you think I ought to call the doctor. Perhaps you need a CT scan or something.’

He laughed – then winced. ‘I doubt that. I’ve got a tough head. I might need a psychiatrist, but not a doctor.’ Levering himself onto his feet he groped for a chair. ‘Did I threaten her? I can’t believe this is happening to me. I love her.’

‘So do I, Toby.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘And I don’t know what to do. She’s safe for the moment. That’s the main thing.’

‘I hope to God she gets rid of that damn bottle. Permanently.’

‘She’s afraid to. She’s afraid that will unleash some awful curse upon the world.’

‘I’m far more afraid that it will release some awful curse upon her. Oh, God! I wish I could speak to her.’ He paused. ‘Mobile! Has she got a mobile?’

Phyllis shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

‘How stupid! I should have her number. I should have asked her. Who would know?’

She shook her head.

‘There must be someone! Her father? She told me about her father.’

‘With whom she doesn’t get on. No, Toby, let it be. Anna is safe now, wherever she is. For the time being it is better if she is as far away from you as possible.’

The Orwell Bridge. She was heading towards the Orwell Bridge, that soaring arc of white concrete flying high above the river which divided Essex from Suffolk. Anna smiled. At last, as her fear abated, a plan was taking shape in her mind. The river was deep in the centre; it must be. Deep, and its bed must be mud. Thick black mud which would contain whatever was in the bottle absolutely and completely for ever. It was there she would throw it to its final resting place.

The decision made, she pushed the car harder, concentrating on the road rolling out in front of her, unaware of the restless anger building in the seat behind.

A woman’s body. At first the idea had been exciting; titillating even. A curiosity. Something to be enjoyed; played with. But now he was not so sure. She was beautiful – in some ways not unlike her great-great grandmother, the woman who had so teased and angered and enticed him. But she had a different energy. She was stronger; isolated there inside her head. The love she had harboured for Toby had been reined in, fenced off, and in the fencing, he was not sure that there were any gaps so that he could slip inside her head as he had done so easily with his own great-great grandson. He had spent too long in the dark. His strength and his focus had waned. But that would change. His frustration was growing, and with it his substance.

On the back seat of the car the shadows deepened. They were taking on a shape. If Anna glanced in the mirror she would see it now. She didn’t. Her eyes were fixed on the empty road. Several lorries hurtled by on the opposite carriageway, heading for the Midlands. She didn’t see them. She was feeling sleepy. The exhaustion of the last days; the wakeful nights and nightmares, the lack of sleep, were catching up with her.

Carstairs was concentrating on Anna’s thoughts. He sensed her tiredness; it made her vulnerable. Weak. Soon she would be defenceless. He was only marginally aware that they were travelling at some speed; that he was seated in some sort of horseless carriage which was travelling faster than he would have believed possible. It was not until her eyelids drooped and the car began to veer across the empty road that he realised the danger.

At the last moment, her eyes flew open and her hands wrenched the wheel straight as a vicious shot of adrenaline knifed through her stomach. Carstairs felt the fear; he saw the danger through her eyes. He heard the small parcel roll around in the front of the car. He smiled.

‘Shit!’ Anna banged the steering wheel with the flat of her hand. ‘Be careful, you idiot!’ She was talking to herself again. Clutching the wheel tightly she concentrated on the road and now at last she glanced up into the driving mirror. The back of the car was in darkness, her passenger only shadows. She noticed nothing unusual as she drove on.

Ahead she saw a lay-by signposted. She swung the wheel and pulled in. Drawing to a halt she locked the doors and sat with her head back against the head rest, breathing deeply. She was shaking all over. A short nap. She must have a short nap. She couldn’t keep her eyes open.

On the floor beside her a tiny drop of moisture seeped slowly through the bubble wrap, spread across the shiny bumpy plastic and was absorbed by the carpet of the car. Inside the wrapping, in the warm darkness, the crack in the glass bloomed with another thin line of liquid. The life force of the ages was beginning to run out. The priests, hovering over the lay-by, were losing their power.

Anna’s eyes closed. This time she didn’t open them again. She felt safe now that she had stopped. Her breathing slowed. Behind her the shadowy figure leaned forward. Anna didn’t feel the light brush of his finger through her hair.

As the level of her sleep deepened she began to dream. Her bedroom was dark, her nightgown light as a feather, her feet bare. She was standing at the window, looking out into her small back garden. It was lit by brilliant moonlight and in the distance she could see the arched glitter of her small fountain, playing quietly into the pond, where bright concentric ripples spread out into the darkness at its rim. On the lawn she could see two wispy figures, one dressed in shadowed white, one in the skin of an animal. Hatsek and Anhotep. The priests of Sekhmet and of Isis, the would-be guardians of the little bottle, the men who had followed it through aeons of time. Their power was waning. They could feel it and they were angry. They turned as though sensing her watching them and she felt the strength of their impotent fury as a knife blade in her heart. With a gasp she staggered backwards, away from the window. Hands gripped her shoulders. Don’t be afraid. They can’t hurt you. Not any more.

She gave a small cry of surprise and fear as the hands tightened, stopping her from turning round to face him. She felt warm breath on the nape of her neck. You are safe here, my dear. Quite safe. I won’t let them come near you.

‘How can you stop them?’ She could feel him behind her. He was taller than her and very strong. Now she could feel warm lips on her neck. She tried to struggle free but she couldn’t move.

Surely you would rather speak to me than with them.

His hands slid forward to her breasts, caressing her, feeling for the buttons on the front of the nightgown, one by one slipping them free of their embroidered loops. The garment, feather-light silk, was slipping off her shoulders and she could do nothing to stop it.

‘Please. Who are you?’

There was a quiet laugh. Don’t you know?

He was turning her to face him and she found herself looking up into his eyes. The dark, handsome face looking down into hers was that of a stranger. He bent to press his lips against hers and she felt desire knife through her body. Behind her in the garden the moon vanished behind a curtain of cloud. The two wispy figures on the lawn faded.

She was behaving like a harlot, unable to control herself, pressing her body against his, feeling every line of muscle in his tall frame, hungrily reaching for his lips as his hands roamed her hot eager body…

In the distance a loaded container lorry heading for the coast thundered towards her. As it raced past the lay-by her car shook and rocked. Anna awoke with a start in time to see the tail lights retreating into the distance. She blinked hard, pushing herself up in the seat. The buttons of her blouse were undone, her skin was on fire. It was almost as if…

She groped for the dream but it was gone.

With a yawn she stretched. Then she reached for the ignition. She didn’t hear the quiet exultant laugh from the back seat.

14

Passing Ipswich Anna drove on, ahead of her the Orwell Bridge and beyond it the road to Felixstowe. When she drew up at last at the side of the road it was on the apex of the bridge. Exhausted, she sat for a moment, staring out of the windscreen at the empty road ahead. From the car she couldn’t see the river, only the expanse of road stretching away ahead; the central reservation; the parapets on either side. They didn’t look high. She should be able to see over. Taking a deep breath she bent and fumbled for the parcel. It had rolled under the passenger seat and for a moment she couldn’t find it. Swearing under her breath, she leant across the handbrake and the gear lever, her fingers groping frantically in the darkness, encountering nothing more than empty space beneath the seat.

Behind her, the shadow that was Lord Carstairs stirred. She did not notice.

‘Damn! Where is it?’ She leaned further across the seat. And then her fingers closed around the bubble wrap. It rustled under her touch and for a fraction of a second she drew back. Had Carstairs somehow conjured a snake to guard the bottle as he had on their boat on the Nile? Was it possible that now, here on the Orwell Bridge, there was a cobra, coiled around the bottle to prevent her from throwing it into the water? There was no snake. Almost as she thought it her fingers encountered the small parcel again. It was wedged in the far corner beneath some integral part of the seat. Gently she waggled it free, her fingers slipping on the wet paper, and then she had it. She didn’t pause to wonder why it was damp; wonder where those few drops of moisture had come from. She didn’t hear the anguished wailing from the shadows around her in the dark above the car or suspect that the guardian priests were nearing the end of their strength. Sitting up triumphantly she opened the car door and stepped out into the road. An icy wind whipped past her as she walked around the front of the car, stepped over the low metal traffic barrier and leaned against the parapet, looking down. The water was a long way below, just visible in the darkness.

Don’t do it.

The voice at her elbow made her cry out in fear.

Don’t dare to commit such sacrilege. You will take this bottle back to Scotland. To my house. There you and I will make use of it as I planned all along.

Anna stared round, terrified. The wind was tearing at her hair, her coat, bringing tears to her eyes. There was no one there. No one in sight. A lorry rattled past in the fast lane, with horn blaring, then she was alone again on the deserted bridge. The voice had not come from inside her head. It was real. External. Coming from the dark recesses of the night.

‘Who is it? What do you want with me?’ But of course she knew. Clutching the bottle she peered round desperately, trying to see him. ‘Where are you? You bastard! How did you get here?’ Terrified she turned to face the road. There were no cars or lorries in sight, no pedestrians. The road was completely empty again.

My great-great grandson proved weak and ineffectual. The voice echoed in her head. She couldn’t see where it was coming from. He wanted to protect you. How stupidly gallant of him, and how convenient that you should have given him the slip so effectively! And, there was a short pause, that we should get on so well.

How could he be speaking to her, close to her, in her ear, and yet she couldn’t see him? She turned round again, her eyes darting from left to right, frantically trying to see shadows where there were none, trying to see a figure where there was no one to see. Below the bridge the black was deeper, more opaque above the clear reflective darkness of the river. The night was suddenly very silent. ‘Go away!’ Her voice came out as a broken whisper. ‘Go away, leave me alone.’

Scotland, Miss Shelley! If you please.

‘Where are you? I can’t see you.’

You don’t need to see me.

‘I do. I am not getting into the car with a passenger I can’t see.’

There was a quiet laugh, nothing but a whisper in the silence. You brought me here, Miss Shelley.

‘If I did, it was without knowing it.’ Dear God, he had been there in the car behind her as she drove. As she stopped in the lay-by. As she dreamed. She gave a small cry of horror. ‘I may have brought you here, but I am not taking you any further. This is where it stops. This is where everything stops.’ She raised the bottle in her hand, moving towards the parapet. ‘This ends now.’

But someone had grabbed her wrist, wrestling with her, holding her arm with iron fingers. She could feel them grinding her bones, she could feel him next to her, smell the sudden waxy perfume of the pomade he wore in his hair, she could feel the enormous strength of the man overwhelming her.

But she couldn’t see him. There was no one there. She was alone on the bridge in the dark wrestling with an invisible figure. The man from her dream. He was the man in her dream. It was all coming back to her now. The smell of his pomade was filling her nostrils. It had been Lord Carstairs tearing off her nightdress, caressing her breasts. His breath on her neck. His whisper in her ear. Her face grew hot. She had wanted him so badly. She wanted him now.

Desperately she tried to wrench herself free. But he was dragging her away from the edge. Somehow he was pulling her back towards the car. ‘You bastard!’ she sobbed, struggling violently. ‘Let me go. This isn’t happening. How can it be. Let me go!’

He was stronger than she was by a long way. She couldn’t fight him. Somehow he thrust her back through the open door of the car and it closed behind her with a slam.

Scotland! The voice was in the car with her. She sat behind the wheel panting. Tears were running down her face. Throwing the bottle down on the seat beside her she stared round the car, turning to scan the back seat. It was empty.

‘Where are you?’

There was no answer.

‘Are you there?’ She was trembling; her own voice was a whisper.

Silence.

Was he still there? She didn’t know. She could hear nothing. Smell nothing. The car was empty. Still.

‘Right.’ She put her shaking hand to the ignition key. ‘Well, in case you hadn’t realised, I am not a bloody taxi! I am not taking you to Scotland.’ But where was she going to take him? She didn’t know.

Pulling away from the kerb she was startled by the sudden blast of a car horn behind her. The first car she had seen in ages tore past in the fast lane, leaving her gasping with shock. She had stamped on the brakes and for a moment waited, her eyes closed, trying to pull herself together, until at last she managed to look up and slowly engage gear once more.

Her mind was whirling, trying to think, trying to be calm, trying to decide what to do.

I am still here, Miss Shelley!

She jumped. He spoke softly, his breath warm on her ear. It was easy to hear him above the scream of the engine.

Remember we are going to Scotland! Please don’t imagine you can fool me. I shall know if we cease going north.

North. She was trying to picture the map. She was heading over the river and into Suffolk. By no stretch of the imagination was she on her way to Scotland; as far as she could remember she was going east. Still towards the sea.

The car was picking up speed again. Her brain was beginning to work, sorting out her options.

A chuckle came from the seat behind her.

I can read your thoughts, my dear. A talent I always had with women. We will turn off the turnpike at the first opportunity. Once we get there, then we can resume our so pleasant dalliance. But not until then, I fear.

Anna felt the heat coming to her cheeks. ‘I don’t think so.’ She took a deep breath and gritted her teeth. ‘I am going to need petrol soon. So, my lord, I trust you understand enough about modern transport to believe me when I say we are going nowhere without it.’ Her eyes flicked to the dashboard. The needle was indeed dancing on the red. The tank was emptying fast.

There was no answer from the back.

She drove on. Ahead, the turning to Woodbridge led off the road.

Here. We will leave the turnpike here.

She gave a cry of fear as a cold hand closed over hers. She had no choice. The car veered off the A14 and turned north.

She was past Woodbridge on the A12 when at last, in answer to her prayer, she saw a service station ahead.

Drawing up at the pumps she sat for a moment taking deep breaths. The bottle lay beside her on the seat. There was no comment from behind. Presumably her remark about petrol had somehow been understood.

She had no handbag with her. How was she going to pay for the petrol? In spite of herself she smiled. Was her unwelcome passenger going to present her with ghostly gold sovereigns to complete the transaction? Half-heartedly she leaned forward to open the glove pocket. Of course. She always left a ten pound note there, tucked into the A-Z for just such an emergency. And there too was her forgotten mobile phone.

She was still desperately trying to picture the map in her head. It was years since she had driven this way, but when she was married she and Felix had come up here sometimes after visiting Phyllis, heading for the coast. Exploring. Suddenly she had an idea. Aldeburgh. Somehow she must guard her thoughts. Fend him off. Keep him out of her head. She would head for Aldeburgh. There she could bring the car right up to the sea’s edge; to the wild shingle coast. And she knew exactly how she was going to convince him that that was the perfect place for them to go.

Leaving the bottle on the seat she climbed out of the car. Ten pounds’ worth was not going to get her far, but with luck it would get her to the sea. Her hands were still shaking as she unscrewed the petrol cap and reached for the nozzle. She glanced into the back of the car. It was in shadow, but there would be nothing to see anyway. Was that, she wondered, why he was seeking all this power? Was that what he wanted, to find the means to bring him back to life?

In the shop she paid her ten pounds and then ducked into the ladies. Shutting the door she stood for a moment with her back against it, her eyes closed. Had he followed her? Was he in there with her? Oh God, if she went to the loo would he be watching? She stretched out a hand in front of her. It encountered nothing. How had he done it? On the bridge, he had gripped her wrist. He had felt like flesh and blood. He had been strong. She had sensed him, smelt him.

‘So, are you there?’ She whispered the words out loud. ‘Are you so little the gentleman that you would follow a lady in here?’

There was no answer.

Had he left her then? Was he still in the car? Or was he outside the door waiting? She swallowed hard. Then she reached cautiously into her pocket for the mobile. ‘Please. Answer. Serena?’

Serena’s phone was switched off. The phone service picked up the call. Sobbing with frustration Anna left her number in a whisper. ‘I am heading towards Aldeburgh. I’m going to throw it in the sea! Serena, tell them Carstairs is with me. He isn’t in Toby any more. Help me. Please!’

15

When Serena had arrived in Lavenham at last it was after midnight and Toby was once more asleep. Phyllis led her into her kitchen where it was warm. ‘Don’t be too horrified when you see him. I hit him over the head with the poker and he’s got a terrible lump.’ She chuckled. ‘It did the trick though. Carstairs vanished!’

Serena smiled. ‘I didn’t think of that. You’re obviously a woman of action!’ She surveyed her elderly hostess admiringly as she explained who she was. Phyllis was obviously not only a very brave woman, she was also far more alert than her visitor, who after the long drive was exhausted. ‘So, what do we do? Should we wake Toby?’

They decided, on the principle of letting sleeping dogs lie, that they wouldn’t wake him yet. He too had been exhausted and he had a headache and they would achieve nothing by dragging him downstairs. After all, Anna and the bottle weren’t there and he could be no danger – or help – to her. Not now. Not tonight. Not until they knew where she was.

They didn’t have to wait long. Serena, asleep on the sofa in the sitting room by the fire, heard Toby as he stumbled downstairs. Climbing to her feet she went to meet him in the hall. ‘I heard about your run in with the poker.’ She eyed his bruise.

He nodded ruefully, his hand to his head. ‘I came down to get a drink of water. I’ve got a filthy headache.’ He followed her into the kitchen. ‘But you will be glad to hear it did the trick. Carstairs is gone.’

‘Are you sure?’ Phyllis appeared behind them. She had heard him come downstairs.

She waved her guests into chairs at the kitchen table, gave Toby a glass of water then set about making them all a pot of coffee. The cat, Jolly, was sitting in front of the Aga licking its paws.

‘I’m sure. I don’t know how, but I can sense it.’ Toby’s face was grey with fatigue and the huge bruise on his forehead was swollen. Outside it was still dark.

Serena ran her fingers through her hair. ‘You don’t think he followed Anna? After all, she has the bottle.’

‘Dear God!’ Toby stared at her in horror. ‘That never occurred to me. I thought it was me he was using. Because we were related.’ ‘It was you,’ Serena said thoughtfully. ‘But if the bottle has gone maybe he is not interested in you anymore. You can’t help him while you are here; you can’t help him unless you are with her.’

‘I wish I knew where she is. Do you think she’s gone home?’ Toby stood up and went over to the window. Lifting the curtain he peered out. There was still no sign of it getting light.

‘Not if she’s running away.’ Phyllis was sitting staring at the coffee pot. ‘She’ll have gone somewhere none of us will find her. As far as she is concerned Toby is the enemy.’ She glanced at him. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. But it’s true.’

‘And always will be?’ Toby groaned in despair.

Phyllis glanced at Serena helplessly. ‘I do so hope not.’

Serena shrugged. ‘I’m out of my depth. I’ve only studied ancient Egypt. I’ve never had to cope with a Victorian occultist. I don’t know where to start.’

‘Mary had a little lamb,’ Toby said softly. ‘That worked.’

For a moment they were all silent.

Outside, in Serena’s car, her phone had finished charging. It lay forgotten, nursing its secrets in silence.

16

Anna tore open the back door of the car and looked in. ‘Where are you?’ Her anger had temporarily conquered her fear.

There was no reply.

Biting her lip she slammed the door and went round to the driver’s side. Pulling that door open in turn she stared down at the bubble-wrapped package lying on the passenger seat. She didn’t notice the infinitesimal patch of damp beneath it on the dark leather.

What would happen if she dumped it here? She could throw it into the bins she could see at the side of the garage building. Drive off and leave it. Or she could take it to a bottle bank. Toss it in amongst a thousand wine bottles to be ground to dust and recycled into some innocuous item which would find its way onto a supermarket shelf somewhere.

Don’t be foolish. Do you realise what would happen if it was broken?

Somehow he had picked up on that thought.

The power that would be released would devastate the world! We want that power, you and I. Oh, Miss Shelley, we could do so much with that power!

‘What? What do you want to do with all this power?’ Smothering a sob of frustration, Anna fired the question into the dark. ‘What is it with you men? Why do you all want to dominate the world?’

A mere woman would not understand such matters, Miss Shelley. The tone was mocking.

‘And another thing, I wish you’d stop calling me Miss Shelley. That is not my name!’ Anna snapped back at him. ‘My name, if you wish to be so formal, is Anna Fox.’

A car had driven up and parked opposite her on the far side of the pump. She saw the driver stare at her, startled, as he reached for the nozzle.

Very well, I will call you Anna. And please, do not try running away from me. I can move at the speed of thought. Get in, my dear. We have to go north! I have everything we need at Carstairs Castle. My laboratory is waiting.

‘I doubt it!’ Anna retorted. She climbed in reluctantly, tossing her mobile onto the other seat to lie beside the bottle, and reached for the seat belt. With the car light off her neighbour couldn’t see who she was talking to and talking to her passenger seemed to be the right thing to do. ‘If I remember rightly Carstairs Castle is a ruin. I think the whole place has been razed to the ground.’ She put the key in the ignition and turned it, waiting for his reaction to that piece of news. None came. She smiled to herself quietly. ‘As it happens I do know the place to go. I’ve thought of the perfect place of power.’ She glanced over her shoulder towards the empty seat. Would he suspect her plan? See through her? ‘Trust me, my lord. Let me show you.’

She waited.

Silence.

She could feel the small hairs on the back of her neck stirring.

‘OK. Let’s go.’ It couldn’t be that easy. Surely he was not going to believe he had won her over? Was he really that conceited? Carefully she engaged gear and pulled back out onto the A12 once more. Somehow she had to veil her thoughts. She couldn’t let him know that she had reached a decision. That she was going to fling the bottle into the sea, to let it sink or float or grind to pieces amongst the shingle. Mary had a little lamb. She held her breath, listening. Oh God, it was worse when he was quiet. She didn’t know if he was still there. She could imagine him sitting on the seat – was he relaxed, legs crossed, watching the passing scenery or was he leaning forward, his hand on the back of the seat just behind her neck? She jerked forward slightly, feeling the tiptoe of fear again. Mary had a little lamb. Concentrate on anything but where she was going. What she was going to do.

As she approached the turning towards Aldeburgh she slowed the car, her hands gripping the wheel, holding her breath. The road she took ran due east.

This is the wrong way. We need to go north!

She smiled grimly, almost relieved that the silence had been broken. So he was still there. Still awake. Still with his built-in compass. ‘I told you, I am going to a place of power I know. A wonderful place. You will like it.’ She was visualising the white-domed silhouette of Sizewell nuclear power station.

You are deceiving me! Turn round!

‘I am not deceiving you. I told you, we are going somewhere just right for your purposes.’

You do not know what my purposes are, madam! Turn round!

‘I can’t.’ She gripped the steering wheel even more tightly. ‘I have to go on. It’s the perfect place. You’ll see.’

Stop now!

‘I told you, I can’t. I have to go on.’ She pushed her foot to the floor. ‘It’s important we get there before sunrise.’

Ahead a thin strip of cloud had begun to lighten, tinged with palest red. Above them, the sky was still dark, studded with stars. The road sparkled with dusted frost. Gritting her teeth she pushed the car on down the straight narrow road, heading inexorably towards the sea.

I told you to stop!

‘Not yet. Not till we get there. It’s not far.’

I do not trust you. Shelley women are dissemblers. They tease. They lie!

‘Not me.’

The needle on the speedometer was moving steadily to the right.

‘You must trust me. I know what I’m doing. Wait, it’s not far now.’ Mary had a little lamb.

Stop. I insist. You plan to destroy the bottle. I will not allow it!

‘I am taking you to a place of power. It is called a power station.’ She was gabbling frantically. ‘You must believe me. It is the right place to go. There the power of the bottle will be magnified. It will be ten times greater. More even than you dream of.’

Stop now. Turn round.

‘I can’t. This is a narrow road. I’m not allowed to turn. We’re nearly there.’

Anna. Please obey me. Do not make me angry.

And suddenly she felt the touch of his fingers on her neck. Ice cold. Strong.

She leaned forward, hanging on to the wheel. ‘Don’t touch me! Keep your hands off me. If we crash the bottle will be broken.’

The bottle is wrapped. It will not break. Come, Anna. Slow down, my dear.

Suddenly the fingers were caressing. Not cold this time, but warm, enticing. The hands she had felt in her dream.

‘We need to be there by sunrise.’ She gripped the steering wheel ever more tightly, forcing herself to concentrate on the road. It was growing lighter by the minute.

Don’t think about what she was going to do. Don’t let him read her thoughts. Keep that bland, deadly silhouette there in her head. And recite. That was what Serena had said to do. Recite. Block him out. Mary had a little lamb. Its fleece was white as snow. And everywhere that Mary went the lamb was sure to go…

17

Serena and Toby had wandered through into the sitting room while their hostess, abandoning the idea of going back to bed, went upstairs to get dressed. Toby stood looking down at the cold hearth. ‘Shall I light a fire?’

Serena nodded. ‘Why not?’

He picked up the poker from the carpet where Phyllis had let it fall hours before. Examining it he grimaced. ‘I can’t believe I survived being hit by this.’

Serena smiled wearily. ‘The Carstairs family obviously have tough heads. And the Shelleys are pretty feisty. Try not to worry. She’ll be OK.’

‘If I just thought she could contact us. Ring me. Anything.’ The phone in Anna’s flat just now had rung on endlessly.

‘She’s not going to ring you, Toby.’ Serena watched as he picked some logs out of the basket. ‘If she calls anyone it will be Phyllis. Or perhaps me.’ She felt automatically in her pocket for her mobile and frowned. ‘Of course. I left it on charge in the car. Perhaps I’d better fetch it.’

Toby felt the draught of cold air as she pulled open the front door. He stooped, crumpling up a newspaper he had found lying on the chair, piling the logs carefully over it with handfuls of kindling, building them into a pyramid. In the distance he heard Serena’s car door bang. There was a box of matches on the huge black beam which served as a mantelpiece. He picked it up and shook it. Reaching for a match he was striking it as he heard Serena come back in, closing the door behind her.

The paper caught. Then the dry twigs, crackling up with a satisfying roar. He sat back, staring down at the fire, feeling the sudden warmth on his face. Then he looked up puzzled. Serena had not reappeared. Instead he heard the creak of floorboards above his head. She had gone upstairs.

Serena tapped lightly on Phyllis’s door and went in. ‘She’s called in. Listen.’ She dialled up Anna’s message and held it to the old lady’s ear.

‘Oh God!’ Phyllis stared at her. ‘We were right. He went with her. What do we do?’

‘Shall I tell Toby?’ Serena bit her lip. ‘He’s out of his mind with worry, but he is so vulnerable to Carstairs. Oh, Phyllis, I don’t know what to do for the best.’

‘Ring her back. That’s what she’s asked you to do. Call her. Now. Quickly.’ She handed the phone back to Serena and watched anxiously as Serena keyed in the number.

18

The phone rang as Anna turned the car into the high street and threaded her way towards the sea. She grabbed it. ‘Serena? Is that you? I’m here. In Aldeburgh -’ The phone hissed and crackled and went dead. She stared at it in disbelief, then she threw it down. She could see the sea wall ahead of her. She was driving slowly now, manoeuvring as close as she could to the beach.

Carefully she drew the car to a halt.

‘We’re here. The place of power.’ From the beach he would be able to see the power station in the distance. Surely he would realise that it was different; something strange he would never have seen before; would sense its sinister aura. Just so long as he gave her time to reach the sea.

‘We’re there. Let me show you. It’s the most amazing place.’ As she groped for the door handle she found herself smiling wryly. Maybe he was not so clever after all. And she had to keep it that way. Cajole him. Go along with him. Fool him. She was wondering how high the tide was. She would only need a few seconds to reach the sea. Not long.

In her mind’s eye she conjured again the picture of the power station, so close along the coast. Its great white dome would be easily visible from the edge of the sea.

As she climbed out into the bitter dawn, the bottle was in her hand. ‘OK. Come on. I’ll show you where we’re going. More powerful than anything you ever dreamed of.’ It was windy here. Her hair whipped round her face. She paused, half expecting the rear door of the car to open. It didn’t. There was no sound. Nodding grimly she turned towards the sea wall, and searching for a gap set off into the teeth of the wind down across the pebbled beach.

The tide was nearly high; it hurtled in against the pebbles with a rattle of falling stones and shingle and she stood for a moment staring at it, dazed by the noise. In front of her the sky had begun to turn red. Along the coast the dome reflected the hint of blood.

It was bitterly cold. She stared round, to see if Carstairs was following her. There was no sign of him. Her fingers tightened round the bottle.

Stray shreds of mist were drifting in off the sea.

Suddenly she began to run down towards the tide line, the pebbles shifting and lurching beneath her feet. She was there. He couldn’t stop her now.

In her hand one of the last drops of moisture worked its way through the wrapping in her hand to dampen her fingers in the wind. Above her head a cloud seemed to coalesce and waver. She sensed its presence. Stopping she whirled round in time to see two figures, white, wispy in the dawn light. They towered over her, arms outstretched towards her. She could feel their anguish – and their anger. ‘Oh God, the priests! They know what I’m going to do!’ Clutching the bottle to her she backed away, terrified. They were coming towards her. They were growing in strength. Their mutual enmity forgotten, they were intent on one thing – the small bottle in Anna’s hand and the final few drops of its precious contents. In a moment they would envelop her.

‘No!’ Her scream rang out into the roar of the sea and was echoed by the cry of a gull. A small trickle of moisture ran up her arm. It was warm. Healing. Blessed.

Hold on to it. Don’t let them have it!

Carstairs’ voice was strong.

Save it, Anna. Keep it for us!

Inside the bottle the last drop of liquid seeped past the cork. And was blown away in the wind. As their final echoing shrieks of despair dissipated into silence the two figures began to fade. The last traces of mist vanished over the sea.

Anna took a deep breath. She was only yards from the water. They couldn’t stop her. No one could stop her now.

‘Can you feel it? The power?’ she cried. ‘Over there. Along the coast? And here. Even better, here in the sea! This is where the bottle belongs! This is where it is going! To follow the priests into oblivion!’ Running down across the last strip of pebbles she headed for the waves.

No! Stop!

Suddenly he seemed to realise what she had in mind. She felt a blow on her shoulder. She spun round as fingers grasped her wrist. The bottle was being wrestled from her hand. The bubble wrap tore free and she saw it bowling away along the shingle as the bottle slipped from her grasp and fell amongst the stones. Without a second’s thought she swooped on it and falling to her knees she picked up a large smooth stone. She had forgotten the danger. She had forgotten to be afraid. Her only thought was to prevent Roger Carstairs snatching the bottle from her. At all costs she had to stop him from getting it. Lifting her arm she brought the stone down on the bottle with all her strength.

No!

His scream of anguish was appalling as the glass splintered, and suddenly the whole world seemed to stand still. The wind dropped. The sea grew silent. She knelt there on the stones staring down at the small patch of broken glass. Amongst the splinters, a few damp grains of sand sifted, ran down into the shingle and disappeared.

Anna cringed, waiting.

Nothing happened. No explosion. No Egyptian goddess. No archangels. No high priests. As the last touch of moisture evaporated into the air the power was gone. On the horizon the sky was blazing, but it was a silent sunrise.

Then slowly she became aware of the sound of the sea again. And the wind. A gust blew past her and the final grains of Egyptian sand disappeared. The crunched slivers of glass settled in amongst the stones and vanished. In a few moments the rising tide would come and obliterate the spot. She climbed to her feet and watched as the sea crashed in up the beach, swirling, clean. Purifying.

A gull flew up the beach past her, its eerie cry echoing in the wind.

It seems you win, Anna.

He was still there.

‘The priests have gone.’ She was defiant; triumphant.

Indeed they have. The breath of Isis sustained them. They were always beyond my command.

‘You thought something would happen, didn’t you? You thought the whole world would blow up!’ Shaking as much from cold as fear, she was staring down at the line of waves breaking on the shore at her feet. She had already lost sight of the place where the bottle had broken.

Indeed I did. As did you. Which makes you a brave woman. A worthy descendant of my Louisa. There was a pause. But a foolish one. Did you think to thwart me so easily? I will find the power I need. One day.

She turned. There was still no sign of him. The beach was empty. ‘What is it you want power for? You still haven’t told me.’

Nor will I! But when I have it the whole world will hear once again of Roger Carstairs!

She shuddered.

And so will you, Anna. So will you. But in the meantime, maybe after all you are the right woman for my great-great grandson. You could make a man of him.

Anna was staring out to sea, her hands wedged into her pockets.

On the horizon a crimson segment of sun was beginning to show.

‘Do you remember the Egyptian dawn?’ she whispered. ‘The birth of the Sun God, Ra?’

But the tears of Isis had vanished; there was no place any longer for Egyptian magic in this cold land on the edge of the world. In seconds the rising sun was swallowed by a line of black cloud. The crimson path of light in the sea was extinguished; the water turned grey. Sizewell power station vanished in the drifting mist.

There was a quiet chuckle. She turned. It sounded so close. So real. Then she felt him. His hands were on her shoulders. His lips on hers.

So. The god has gone too. For now. Goodbye. Good luck, my dear. She could feel his breath on her cheek. Smell the sweet pomade. We could have been so good together. It is a shame we weren’t born in the same century, Mrs Fox. A great shame. But I will return for you one day. Make no mistake about that. The voice was fading to a whisper. Until then, farewell.

And the voice was gone.

Only the sound of the shift and suck of the tide on the beach and the cry of gulls broke the cold silence of the dawn.

19

When Toby and Phyllis and Serena arrived it had been full daylight for a while. Anna was sitting on the sea wall, her hands in her pockets, her coat collar turned up around her neck. The tide was at its height, gentler now, lapping at the seaweed and shells which marked its highest point. Soon it would start its retreat and draw back across the beach, leaving it sparkling and clean.

Anna looked up as they approached. She smiled wearily. ‘It’s all over. The bottle has gone.’

They stopped in their tracks. ‘Are you sure?’ It was Toby who voiced the thought they all shared.

She nodded. ‘I smashed it.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Nothing! The tears of Isis had evaporated. All there was left inside were a few grains of sand.’

‘And Carstairs?’ Toby scanned her face anxiously.

She frowned. ‘Carstairs has gone too.’ Stiffly she rose to her feet. ‘He left you a message before he went.’

Toby frowned. He braced himself visibly. ‘What was it?’

‘He seemed to think you and I had a future together.’ She reached out and took his hand. ‘He gave us his blessing; he said he thought a Shelley woman could make a man of you!’

‘What?’ For a moment his face was a picture of indignation. Then it relaxed and he reached out towards her and drew her into his arms. ‘She might at that,’ he said softly. ‘She just might, if she could ever grow to trust me again.’

She smiled. ‘I trust you, Toby.’

As they kissed in the ice cold wind Serena and Phyllis exchanged glances.

‘Yes!’ Phyllis raised her thumb in triumph.

Nestling into Toby’s arms Anna clung to him tightly. The rest of Lord Carstairs’ final message she would keep to herself.