‘Do they have doorbells, Francis? Each one with its own High Priest to admit you to the presence?’
‘Alas, they do not,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I think we’d better knock at the windows if we can find any. What would you do if you were Charles Harrison, Johnny? I’m sure he wants to find out what Martin knows about what’s going on in the bank. Whatever he knows, they don’t want him wandering about the place and talking to William Burke.’
Powerscourt and Fitzgerald tiptoed their way through the trees. The moon had gone behind a cloud, the only light coming from a few stars in the east.
‘Right, Johnny,’ Powerscourt murmured, ‘up this little hill is the Temple of Apollo. Our first port of call, I think.’
Johnny Fitzgerald pulled a fearsome spanner from his pocket and proceeded to tap, softly at first, then more loudly, on the walls. They listened. Nothing moved in the woods around them. No noise came from inside. Fitzgerald tried again. There was a faint echo from the blows, the sound dying among the trees.
‘No good, Francis,’ whispered Fitzgerald. ‘Nothing doing here.’
They went carefully down a rocky path that led to the edge of the lake. On the far side they could see the outline of the Pantheon, its six columns standing to attention in the dark. Powerscourt dislodged a small boulder which rolled down the hill and splashed into the water. The ripples made their way across the surface of the lake, fading as they went.
‘Temple of Flora next,’ muttered Powerscourt quietly, leading the way on the path by the water’s edge. Just beyond the little temple Powerscourt could see the boathouse and the rowing boat that had carried him on his mission to the island. The island was sitting perfectly still in the water.
Fitzgerald peered carefully through the windows. He motioned Powerscourt to be still. He tapped slowly on the glass. There was no answer. Fitzgerald tapped again. Silence ruled once more over the Blackwater lake.
‘Blank again, Francis,’ muttered Fitzgerald. ‘Do you think we are on a wild goose chase?’
‘No I do not.’ Powerscourt was defiant. ‘Two more places to try, at least.’
They walked across the little path that separated the two lakes. To their left they could hear the noise of the waterfall, cascading down its rocks into the water below. The moon had come out from behind its clouds. The Pantheon was bathed in a ghostly light, beckoning them on across the water. Powerscourt felt for his pistol in his pocket. Johnny Fitzgerald was rubbing his spanner. They passed under the columns and looked at the great door that guarded the statues within. Powerscourt thought he might go mad if anybody locked him in there, surrounded for the night by Hercules and the pagan deities.
‘Do you want me to force this door open?’ Fitzgerald whispered. He was inspecting its hinges carefully. ‘If I could get some leverage on it I think it might give way.’
‘There’s another door inside, Johnny. A bloody great thing made of iron bars.’
‘Very good,’ said Fitzgerald, and began knocking on the wooden doors. Then he walked round the temple, tapping loudly on its walls. Powerscourt saw a fox had come to join them, standing at the water’s edge, a look of astonishment on its face at the nocturnal practices of its human neighbours. Fitzgerald climbed up a tree and scrambled on to the roof. There was a domed rotunda at the top. He knocked once more on the roof, then slid back down to earth again.
‘No humans in there, Francis. Only those bloody statues. Gave me the creeps, all standing there in the moonlight as if they’re waiting for somebody.’
‘Just one place left, Johnny. There’s a little cottage up here that’s been converted into a summerhouse.’
Powerscourt led the way. The fox had trotted off. Two owls were sending messages to each other across the trees. The Temple of Flora was now reflected in the moonlight on the other side of the lake, the pillars rippling in the water.
Suddenly Powerscourt realized they should have started here. He stopped suddenly, holding Johnny Fitzgerald by the arm. He pointed to the path ahead.
‘That leads up to the house, through the trees over there to the left. Can you see anybody coming?’
Once again he had the sensation of being watched, of eyes following his every move. Maybe the statues are restless, he said to himself. Maybe the Roman gods themselves come out at night, prowling round the lake, seeking out the unpurified spirits and banishing them to the underworld.
‘Nobody coming,’ whispered Fitzgerald, who was now making his way round the back of The Cottage.
‘Look, Francis.’ He pointed to some heavy footprints in the ground by the back door. ‘It rained quite hard when we were in the train. Somebody’s been here very recently. Very recently indeed.’
Powerscourt went back to the path to keep watch for any other visitors to The Cottage. Fitzgerald began tapping very softly on a window. He tapped again a little louder. There was a scraping noise coming from inside now, as if a hand was scratching on the wall. Fitzgerald summoned Powerscourt from his vigil. He tapped again. Again the scraping sound came back.
‘Right, Francis. I’m going in there.’ He checked the doors. He checked the windows at the front and the back. Powerscourt felt suddenly afraid. There was a muffled tinkling of glass. Fitzgerald had placed his coat above the middle lock on one of the windows. A dark patch was spreading across his hand. Maybe he had hit the window harder than he intended. He reached inside and lifted the window pane up as far as it would go. It creaked loudly as it went. A small colony of spiders hurried quickly away. Then he was inside. The first room was empty.
The second room was not. Tied to a chair, his mouth gagged, with dark marks on his face, was a young man Fitzgerald had not met. To hell with the introductions, he said to himself as he untied the gag.
‘Name’s Fitzgerald. Friend of Powerscourt. Friend of William Burke. Rescue mission.’
The knots were naval ones, he noticed, the rope drawn tight along the young man’s arms and legs. Fitzgerald carried him back out through the window and dumped him on the grass. The young man looked very frightened indeed. He whimpered on the turf rubbing at his arms and legs.
‘Who are you? What are you going to do with me now?’
‘We’re friends, Richard,’ Powerscourt whispered, ‘Powerscourt’s the name. We met at the cricket match. Sophie Williams told people you hadn’t been home.’
He tried to lead his little band away from The Cottage to safety. But Richard could hardly walk. Fitzgerald picked him up as if he were a sack of coal and set off towards the Pantheon.
‘I’ve got to tell you something,’ croaked the young man, ‘something terribly important.’
Richard Martin’s voice was very faint. Fitzgerald sat him on the ground. It was dark again, the moon hidden behind the clouds. The fox was on patrol once more, lurking outside the temple. A slight wind had risen, whispering through the tops of the trees.
‘I lost track of time in there,’ Martin said, ‘I must have been inside that place for over a day. But they said they were coming back for me at midnight. If I didn’t tell them what they wanted to know then, they were going to seize my mother and bring her to join me.’
‘What time is it, Francis?’ said Fitzgerald, staring at the blood that was drying on his arm.
‘It’s ten to twelve.’ Powerscourt peered at his watch. ‘We’ve got ten minutes to get out of here. I don’t fancy going back to the station. It’s the first place they’ll look for us. There’s a path behind the Pantheon that leads down to the river. There’s a couple of rowing boats down there.’
Powerscourt stopped suddenly. Far off, beyond the lake, coming down the track from Blackwater House maybe, they could hear voices. Three of them, thought Powerscourt, stifling the urge to run.
‘Follow me,’ he whispered. ‘Try to be as quiet as you can.’
He took the path behind the temple. It was not much used, brambles lying on the ground, the route sometimes invisible through the dark wood. They passed the lower lake with the waterfall and began going downhill. Once Johnny Fitzgerald, still carrying Richard Martin on his shoulder, stumbled and nearly fell. Powerscourt made them stop every now and then to listen for the voices. They heard nothing, but the owners of the voices could not be far from The Cottage now and would realize that they had been cheated of their prey.