And yet that cryptic Jumbo letter had hinted at unknown dangers and secrets his parents had not lived to tell him. Whoever Jumbo was, he had never received that letter.
Damnation! He had forgotten to bring the Jumbo letter! It was back at the hospital.
Obviously there was not going to be any logical, mundane explanation. Mr. Oldcastle had said that those behind this whole horrible mystery were involved in the outbreak of a worldwide war, and he had claimed that the ringlets woman had occult abilities to bypass locks—implying that she had both entered Fallow and exited Greyfriars Abbey through bolted doors. The little man himself had sent her away without any visible use or threat of force. One or the other of them had most certainly arranged for the patients and staff of the hospital to be smitten with inexplicable deafness, at the very least. Where had all the nurses gone? Had they met the same fate as Bagpipe? How had Mr. Oldcastle himself arrived in answer to Edward's Shakespearean summons?
None of it made real-world sense, nor ever would. You could not expect Sherlock Holmes if you already had Merlin.
The only brightness in the murky affair was the thought of Inspector Leatherdale's face when he learned of his suspect's disappearance.
A halt and sudden stillness jerked Edward out of a shivery daze. Creighton jumped down at the same moment. He went to open a gate and lead the pony through it. After it was shut again, he scrambled back to the bench and the dogcart went lurching slowly across a meadow, climbing gently. The sky was starting to brighten in the east, and the moon was just setting.
Edward was not sure how long they had been traveling—an hour, perhaps—and he had no idea where he was, but then his familiarity with the country around Fallow did not extend as far as Greyfriars. Lately Mr. Oldcastle had been giving directions, so Colonel Creighton did not know either.
He was stiff and cold. His leg throbbed abominably. But he was alive, and at the moment he was free. Both conditions might be transitory.
Beyond another gate the track was thickly overgrown, winding into the patch of woodland that crowned the little hill. The pony picked its way cautiously, brush crackled under the wheels, and overhead the sky was almost hidden by foliage. The air smelled heavily of wet leaves. After about ten minutes of that, the trail ended completely, ferns and high grass giving way to bracken and broom. No farmer's cattle grazed here. A faint predawn light was evident, but not enough to show colors, only shades of gray.
Creighton reined in. “We get out here, Exeter. I'll give you a hand down."
Getting out of the dogcart was even worse than getting in. The accursed leg felt ready to burst the bandages and the splints as well. The grass was cold and wet.
"Leave one crutch and lean on me,” Creighton said. “Just a few steps. And leave your hat, too."
In that undergrowth, a few steps were plenty. Eventually Edward reeled and almost fell.
"Two more yards'll do it,” Creighton said. “Other side of this stone. Good man. Now, you'd best sit down. No—on the grass. I expect it'll be chilly on your you-know-what, but this shouldn't take long."
Edward was already aware that the long grass was soaked with dew, and he did not see why he should not try to make himself comfortable on the wall instead, but he was hugely relieved just to sit, leaning back with his hands in the dewy leaves, his legs stretched out before him. He took a moment to catch his breath and then looked around. Creighton was kneeling at his side, bareheaded. It was highly unusual to see an Englishman out of doors without a hat.
"Where's Mr. Oldcastle?"
"He's around somewhere,” Creighton said softly. “He can undoubtedly hear what you say. Any guesses as to what this place is?"
Puzzled, Edward took another look. The trees were mostly oaks, but very thickly grown together, mixed with a few high beeches. The stillness was absolute—not a bird, nothing. Eerie! He was tempted to start cracking jokes, and knew that was merely a sign of funk. Funk would also explain his teeth's strong desire to chatter, however much he might prefer to blame the cold.
The low wall at his side was not a wall at all, but a long boulder, mossy and buried in the undergrowth. Eventually he made out a tall shape within the bracken at the far side of the glade. Then another, and he realized that he was within a circle of standing stones. Scores of them dotted the countryside of southwestern England, relics of a long-forgotten past. Sometimes the stones were still upright, sometimes they had fallen or been pushed down by followers of newer gods. The great boulder beside him had been part of the circle.
Feeling very uneasy, he said, “It makes me think of The Oaks, Druids Close, Kent."
"You're on the right track. It's very old. And what we are about to do is very old, also—there's a price to pay. You're going to have to trust me in this."
Creighton had produced a large clasp knife. He unfastened his right cuff and pulled back his sleeve to uncover his wrist. He drew the blade across the back of it, holding it to the side, well clear of his pants. He stretched out his arm and let the blood dribble on the mossy boulder. In the gloom it seemed black.
He passed the knife to Edward.
It was exam time.
Edward wondered what Uncle Roland would say if he were present, and thought he could guess the exact words.
The cutting hurt more than he expected, like cold fire, and his first attempt was a craven scratch that hardly bled at all. He gritted his teeth and slashed harder. Blood poured out, and he adorned the stone with it—like a dog peeing on a post, he thought.
"Good man,” Creighton muttered. He accepted the knife back, closed it one-handed, and dropped it in his pocket.
"Now what, sir?"
The reply was a whisper. “Wait until it stops dripping. Don't speak—and it may be best if you keep your eyes down and don't look too directly at, er, anything you may notice."
Edward himself could refrain from speech, but his teeth were going to chatter. His fingers and toes were icy. Even his leg seemed to have gone numb; it hardly throbbed at all now.
Something moved at the far side of the circle, a shadow in the undergrowth. He tried not to stare, but that was not easy. Whatever or whoever was moving might have been very hard to see clearly in any case.
The shape flitted from stone to stone, peering around this one, over that one, darting to and fro, pausing to study the visitors like a squirrel or a bird inspecting a tempting crust. A man? A boy, perhaps? He made no sound. He was a darkness in the shrubbery, as if shadow went with him, or was deeper where he was. He would grow brave and approach with a mincing, dancing step, then suddenly scamper back as if he had taken fright or had decided that the other way around the circle would be a safer approach.
Gradually Edward built a picture in his mind: no clothes, thin, terribly thin, and no larger than a child. His head seemed clouded with silver hair, but without taking a direct look, Edward could not decide if it was a juvenile ash-blond or white with age. He was too small and much too young to be Mr. Oldcastle, and yet there was something familiar about him—the way he held his head forward, perhaps? Or perhaps he was much too old to be Mr. Oldcastle. He was not an illusion.
He was not human, either, and the grove was silent as a grave.
Advance, retreat, advance ... At last the numen was only ten or twelve feet away, behind the closest of the standing pillars. He peeked round one side, then the other. There was a pause. Then he repeated the process. Suddenly the decision was made. With a silent rush, he scampered through the undergrowth and took refuge on the far side of the fallen boulder, out of sight but more or less within reach.