Warriors

CHAPTER 57

Hello?”

“Ambrose, sorry, it’s Pelham.”

“Good Lord! It must be after midnight, Pelham! You sound—”

“Someone’s been murdered, you see.”

“Where? Who?”

“Here at Hawkesmoor… and…”

“Alexei?”

“No, thank God. But his nanny, Sabrina, and…”

“Sabrina was murdered?”

“Yes. Apparently she died trying to save the child’s life.”

“Someone tried to kill Alexei, Pelham? Look here. I’m on my way. I’ll be over there posthaste… How is Alexei? Is he hurt?”

“Wounded, but in no immediate danger. Superficial cuts to the head and hands. He’s with me now, resting. There was a bird, you see, a raven, and— Listen a moment, Ambrose. I saw who did it. It was a woman. A young woman, late twenties, I’d guess. Blue silk dress. Short black hair, cropped straight across at the neck. I saw her going out onto the balcony window as I broke into the nursery.”

“You broke in?”

“An axe. Locked from the inside.”

“See her face?”

“Unfortunately not.”

“Damn.”

“However, I did manage to get the plate number on the rear of her car.”

“Good show! What kind of car was it.”

“A vintage Roller. Silver or light grey, I believe.”

“By damn, I know that car! Big saloon. Saw two women driving it across the Fens one very foggy night. Never got the plate number. Tell me. Was the Roller a 1930s vintage?”

“Indeed it was.”

“Plate number?”

“M… A… O…”

“M… A… O… As in Mao? Chairman Mao?”

“I never thought of that but… yes… I suppose that could be correct…”

“I’m ringing off. I need to get on to Cambridge Police, have them run a trace on that plate number. Pelham. You need to try and calm down. You need to get the child to hospital immediately. Have young Ian bring the locomotive around and drive you there! Now!”

“Was going to do that, but he seems relatively unharmed save a few cuts and scratches and — I think—”

“Take him anyway. I want an official police record of his admission and a log of his injuries… for the day this murder and attempted murder goes to trial. I say, did you mention something about a bird?”

“Yes, by God I did. A bloody blackbird. A gift from Sabrina to Alexei when she returned from her holiday in Cornwall. I’m sure she had no idea what she was introducing into this household. A predator bird trained to kill on command, for God’s sakes!”

“Outrageous. Simply outrageous.”

“Indeed. And to think this vicious creature has been perched right by Alexei’s bedside in the nursery for days on end now! It had to be that woman who escaped who set the bird loose! She used Sabrina’s silver whistle to coax it from its cage somehow. Ordered it to kill Alexei.”

“Was that the first time the bird left the cage?”

“Not at all. Sabrina played with it all the time, tooting the little whistle to make it flit about the room, often perching on the foot of Alexei’s bed. Harmless fun, I thought. This time it killed Sabrina and was attacking Alexei when I entered… and I… got the damn thing once and for all. Always hated that bird.”

“Good God, Pelham. You must be a wreck. Shall I have Diana come and spend the night there? Keep you company?”

“No, not necessary. We’ll spend the night in hospital. I’d better ring down to the stables and get Alexei over to St. Paul’s Infirmary straightaway. He’s started shivering… Gone pale as milk. Going into shock, I think… I hope he doesn’t…”

“Go, go. Wrap him in a warm blanket and sit with him on the rear seat. Try to calm him. The trauma of seeing what that bird did to his dear nanny… Call my mobile en route if anything changes. I’ll be in my car as soon as they pull an address off that plate. That poor Sabrina, that dear and lovely woman. This is one arrest I bloody well plan to make myself.”

Ambrose gunned the Yellow Peril perilously quickly through the corners on the narrow and rain-slick county lane. It was a pitch-black night. His yellow-tinted headlamps were not the very latest technology, better in fog than on a clear night like this. There were deer in these woods. Hit one at speed in his small yellow growler and he’d be done for himself as well as the deer.

He pressed on into the countryside.

He was headed for a small village he’d never heard of. Called Haversham and located about thirty miles outside of Cambridge proper. Inspector Cummings had given him an address to plug into his Garmin GPS and said he was headed to a country house, some drafty old pile or other called Ravenswood.

A blackbird, Pelham had said, attacked the child. Yes, certainly. A trained raven. It all made sense. The house was owned by a Dr. Moon. A well-respected professor at Cambridge, Cummings said on the phone. Chinese, actually. Hardly likely to be involved in a heinous crime like this one, he said. Ah. Well, it was all adding up now, wasn’t it?

Watanabe had died a horrific death, subjected to an ancient Chinese form of torture called the Shining Basket. Perhaps the woman Pelham had seen escaping was someone who very well may have killed his old friend? Entirely possible. But he couldn’t prove it. Not yet, anyway.

Why on earth had a distinguished professor tried to murder Alex Hawke’s son?

Alex Hawke, who only half an hour ago had been on the telephone with Ambrose Congreve. Alex, furious about what had happened in his absence but under control, of course, wanting to leave Florida and fly back to England immediately… find whoever had murdered Sabrina… and remove the threat to Alexei.

He’d managed to calm his lordship down after a bit. Told him about the child’s minor injuries, that he was spending the night in hospital with Pelham by his side, two men from Scotland Yard posted outside his door. That he’d already ordered massive security out from the Yard to put Hawkesmoor on a lockdown. The local constabulary was already doing a crime scene investigation while others were searching the grounds for any hint of evidence. Crime scene police were still with the murder victim, an ambulance on scene…

And then he’d reminded Hawke of the seriousness of his mission. He had the world on his shoulders again, and it was no time now to just slough it off. And, in the end, Hawke had agreed. But he demanded round-the-clock presence at Hawkesmoor from Scotland Yard Royal Protection starting tonight. Congreve had assured him once more that his home would be crawling with Royal Protection Squad men by daybreak.

Well before the child and Pelham returned home.

He mashed on the accelerator. 80… 85… 90…

He was getting as much out of the old girl as he could squeeze. He looked over at his murder bag on the single seat beside him. The last time he’d opened it, at Watanabe’s cottage, it was because he needed his gun. He had an idea he might need it again tonight. He reached inside, felt the reassuring cold steel, and withdrew the weapon. Also, an extra box of hollow-point cartridges, which he stuffed into the pocket of his coat.

Half an hour later, speeding through the woods, he was just slowing for a tight right-hander when he saw the huge black iron gates looming up in front of him. His headlamps played across them, and he caught a glimpse of the ornate word RAVENSWOOD fashioned out of gilded wrought iron standing atop both gates. They were both ajar, as if someone had hastily forgotten to close them.

He put his wheel hard over, skidded a bit on some wet leaves from the afternoon showers, straightened her out, and headed for the narrow opening.

There was a lodge to either side of the drive. When he was perhaps twenty yards away, two men leaped out directly in front of him, automatic weapons coming up. He tapped the high-beam button with his foot and flicked on the powerful searchlight mounted on his windscreen.

Something must have done the trick because they dove to either side as he sped right through.

He heard the chatter of automatic fire behind him and waited to hear the thump of multiple slugs slamming into the thin-skinned Peril’s boot.

Or his own damn boot for that matter.

Neither happened.

He’d rounded a sharpish curve while heading into the deeper woods just as they’d opened fire. Dark clouds heavy with rain hid the moon. It was dark as devil’s night, and without the powerful spotlight hinged from his windscreen, he would have had an extremely rough time staying on the road. At least the rain had held off for the nonce.

It was the longest private drive by far he’d ever been on. Where the hell was the bloody house? At this rate, he’d need a petrol station before he got there!

He saw lights.

House lights, flickering through the skeletal black trees. He slowed the Peril and doused his spotlight and the headlamps. Only a few more turnings and he’d arrive at the porte-cochere entrance.

Congreve slowed to a stop at the front of the very grim-looking residence of Dr. Chyna Moon.

There were only a few faint lights glowing from within.

He extricated himself from his machine and proceeded to walk down the gravel drive to the walled-in forecourt, the gate of which was open. Heavy drops of rain began to spatter the bricks, and he raised his beloved Swiss army knife umbrella, grateful Diana had once more insisted he bring it along.

The old silver Roller was tucked in between a vintage motorcycle and a pair of much sprightlier vehicles, an older British racing green Aston Martin DB4 and a shiny red Ferrari Berlinetta. Professor Moon was either a collector of vintage sports cars or she had guests who were. He went round to the long, louvered bonnet of the Rolls and laid his hand on it. Still quite warm. Faint ticking noises from within. No surprises there.

Ascending the wide steps to the entrance, he took his time. The murderer was to be found within these walls. No doubt the two armed thugs at the entrance had announced his arrival. He reached into his left-hand jacket pocket and pulled his snub-nosed revolver. Inserting it inside his waistband, he buttoned his tweed jacket over it.

He heard a muffle of voices from within. Two high-pitched female, one deep male.

Apparently, thanks to the minor gate episode, he was expected.

He rang the bell, then rapped smartly on the door with the stout wooden handle of his beloved brolly, the MI6 “Special Edition,” as he now thought of it.