The Draugr (Midnight Gunn Book 3) Read online

  “I will say this, Superintendent. I do not believe Arthur Gredge committed those murders. I admit to having a few doubts as to that fact before, but as you so graciously accord me, I am an expert of sorts in alienism, as you call it, and Arthur is my friend as well as my colleague. Whether you allow it or not, I intend to use all of my influence to prove him innocent and determine the identity of the real killer. I should like to think that you desire that same outcome.”

  Branford nodded once.

  “Excellent,” said Midnight. “Then, rather than fishing in my pool of existence, how about we help each other in this case? I will do my thing, and you will do yours?”

  “Alright. I agree. And you will keep me informed of any conclusions you may come to?” Branford asked.

  “I will, if you will grant me the same courtesy. You can liaise with me via Sergeant Rowe; he and I are acquainted.”

  Branford took his time in replying. Tapping his fingers on his desk, he appeared to be deep in thought. Midnight stood and held out his hand for Branford to shake.

  Come on, man. Take my hand, Midnight willed the man in his mind.

  Finally, the super rose slowly and purposefully from his seat and clasped Midnight’s hand.

  “Agreed.”

  At the very moment their skin made contact, Midnight knew that Superintendent Robert Branford was lying.

  17

  SURREY COUNTY GAOL

  JANUARY 21ST 1862

  He had at least been allowed some paper and a stick of charcoal to write with, which provided some sense of relief if not comfort. Arthur was having trouble keeping his thoughts straight these last few days, and found that the only way to stop himself from going completely insane was to write them down. He did not have his latest journal with him—no personal possessions were permitted—but the paper and charcoal would suffice. The blackened stick in his hand had worn down to almost half its original size in the short time he had been incarcerated.

  Arthur finished the sentence he had been writing and placed the stick carefully back on the piece of brick that stood askew in the wall by the small window of his cell. He held his scribblings up to the candle to read.

  “Gredge! You got a visitor.”

  Startled by the gaoler’s rough shout, Arthur jumped.

  “You got ten minutes,” he heard the man say.

  Then, another, more familiar voice pierced the gloom. “Let us say I have as long as this buys me, shall we?” Gredge heard the chink of coins, and the gaoler chuckled.

  “Take as long as you want, Your Lordship. It ain’t like he’s goin’ anywhere… not yet anyway.” The gaoler shuffled away, heavy iron keys clanking at his belt.

  Gredge’s heart beat faster in hopeful anticipation as a graceful but imposing figure emerged from the gloom. “Midnight?”

  “Hello, Arthur. I shan’t ask how you are. I can see it for myself. You look dreadful.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “A pleasure to see you, too. I gather, then, that now we are done with the niceties, we can get straight down to business?”

  “Eh? What business?” Gredge walked closer to the iron bars that sealed him away from the world.

  “Proving your innocence, of course. I’m not here to broker a sale, man.”

  “My…“ Gredge frowned. “But… you said… you saw. In my head that I—“

  “I was wrong, Arthur, so very wrong, and for that, I offer you my most humble apology.”

  “Lay still, will you? I cannot concentrate while you are fidgeting so.”

  “Are you sure you’re not just wasting your time? I still don’t understand how you could be wrong,” Arthur protested as he wriggled under Midnight’s touch.

  Exasperated, Midnight let go of his friend’s head and addressed him as if he were a rebellious child. “Look, here. We can do this with you conscious or unconscious—it is entirely up to you. But if we are to do this, it needs to be now, before the guard returns and finds me in here with you in an unlocked cell. The way you are behaving, anyone would think that you want to hang. Now, will you please be quiet and let me in?”

  “Fine!” Gredge hissed and went rigid on his rickety bed. “Just… be bloody careful. My bonce is messed up enough as it is.”

  “Shush!” Midnight hissed back.

  Gredge grumbled something under his breath and closed his eyes.

  Midnight put his hands back on Arthur’s forehead and drank in the shadows. Flashes of imagery and sounds raced through his mind’s eye as he dug deeper and further back in time into Arthur’s memories. He pushed until he found memories of Scotland, the hill, the stone circle, Shins, the blue glow of the portal.

  Midnight drew in a little of the candlelight to balance himself; experience told him not to let the shadows gain too much purchase in his mind. Thin tendrils of golden light seeped into him, and he mixed their warmth in with the smokey darkness.

  Slowly, Midnight brought the memories forward to more recent times, pausing each time he thought something looked promising. But he could not find anything other than evidence of the mental struggles his friend had suffered these last months. That was until he skimmed the memory of his and Arthur’s trip to the archives at the museum.

  Midnight focused hard and slowed the flourish of images down to normal speed. He used his abilities to read emotions when in contact with a person to try and sense what Gredge had been feeling then. As his mind’s eye merged with Gredge’s, he began to see and feel things as if he were his friend.

  Boredom, dusty shelves, dim lighting.

  Curiosity, a wooden mask, runes.

  Claustrophobia.

  Can’t breathe!

  Need to get out!

  Help me!

  Midnight had the sense of falling, the sound of something crashing nearby and smashing. His vision began to darken, and he saw himself then, through Arthur’s memories, rushing towards him, along with Elldy Bird.

  Midnight pushed on to the moment when Arthur came to—

  This! This feels different. Arthur feels different.

  “It is the mask! Arthur? Are you alright? I think I know what has happened to you.”

  “Midnight?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do not ever, ever do that to me again.”

  18

  THE BRITISH MUSEUM

  JANUARY 21ST 1863

  Midnight knew he was not the most patient person, and waiting to speak to the museum’s curator—as he had turned up without making an appointment first—was proving rather difficult. He knew it was late in the afternoon. He knew it was a long shot. But he had to try. Time was of the utmost importance now that Gredge had named the date of his trial as February first. That left Midnight just ten days to prove Gredge’s innocence.

  In truth, he had not yet worked out how he was to convince a judge and jury that some supernatural entity had likely possessed the good inspector and driven him to murder. Midnight would get to that later. Right now, he needed to talk to Elldy Bird.

  He checked his pocket watch again. It was just twenty minutes to four o’clock, when the museum would be closing for the day.

  “Damn it all to Hell and back!” Midnight cursed under his breath.

  “Lord Gunn? To what do I owe this late, and unexpected pleasure?”

  Midnight spun around, embarrassed to have been caught using such brash language in front of a lady, and in a public place no less.

  “Miss Bird. My apologies on all accounts. I beg your pardon for the intrusion, but I need to talk with you on a very urgent matter.”

  “So urgent that it cannot wait until tomorrow? Why, what on earth could you need from a museum curator at such short notice?”

  “I need access to the room in the basement, the one near the archives. There is an artefact in there that I believe has made Detective Inspector Gredge—the man who accompanied me on my first visit?” he clarified after seeing her confusion.

  “Ah, the bumbling fool who broke one of the museum’s oldest treasures!”

  “He did? Oh, I am sorry. Perhaps I can make a donation to the museum on his behalf?”

  “Perhaps. Get to the point of your visit, sir. The museum is about to close, and I have much to do.”

  “Quite. As I was saying, there is an artefact in that room that has made my friend very sick, and I must see it. Please?”

  “But… that is impossible!” Miss Bird blurted out.

  “It may sound that way, but I assure you it is not.”

  “No. You misunderstand me, sir. I can clearly see that you believe what you are saying, and there is no doubt of the sincerity and urgency in your manner. And as much as I would love to oblige you, I am afraid it is impossible today, at least.”

  Midnight checked his time piece once more. “The museum does not close for another fifteen minutes. Surely, there is time for a quick visit.”

  “I am sorry, Lord Gunn. The museum may not close until four. The archives, however, close every day at three o’clock, and I do not have the key.”

  “You are the curator,” Midnight quipped.

  “Yes. However, in the interest of maintaining the security of everything stored within the archives, I do not hold the key. In fact, there is a rota; the designated key holders change monthly—another safety measurement. There are some extremely rare and valuable documents in that room,” she explained. “I am afraid you will have to come back tomorrow. Unless there is anything else I can help you with.”

  Midnight could not hide his disappointment, but then he had a flash of inspiration.

  “Actually, Miss Bird, there is. Upon my last visit, when we discussed my cube. You said you had kept notes on the research you had completed. Do you still have them?”

  “Of course. I always keep my re
search. One never knows when it might be useful.”

  “Indeed.” Midnight smiled. “I wonder if I might borrow those notes? I assure you I will return them as soon as I have finished with them.”

  Elldy frowned but agreed. “They are notes on the research that you paid me for, sir. I suppose you are entitled to borrow them. Wait here, and I shall bring them to you.” She returned a few moments later with bundle of documents tied with ribbon and handed them to Midnight. “Do try not to lose them.”

  “Thank you, Miss Bird. You have been most helpful.” He turned to leave, but Elldy called out to him.

  “See you soon, Lord Gunn. I look forward to your return and your very large donation!”

  “Oh, I do intend to return, Miss Bird,” he replied then, to himself, said, “Much sooner than you think.”

  19

  THE BRITISH MUSEUM

  THE EVENING OF JANUARY 21ST 1863

  It was fully dark by four thirty. Midnight had waited in a tea shop not far from the museum on Great Russell Street. By five o’clock, most of the museum staff had gone home. Elldy Bird had left at five-twenty-five. Midnight calculated that the only remaining staff must be the nightwatchmen and perhaps a few cleaners who worked the evenings, clearing away any mess left behind by the museum’s patrons.

  He tucked the bundle of papers that Elldy had loaned him into his coat pocket and prepared to scale the iron railing that ran the perimeter of the site. Checking first that there was no other person in sight, he sought out a safe place to climb. He did not want to use his powers to assist him in case a passerby happened upon him; scaling the barrier in a normal fashion he could explain, whereas using his powers to elevate himself up and over it he could not. However, the night was clear and crisp, and even dressed in dark clothing as he was, the bright gas lamps made him all-too visible.

  “Perhaps a little cover would not do any harm,” he muttered.

  Opening his palms, he sent small flurries of smokey dark power outwards and upwards until the street lamps became shrouded in gloom, dimming the street where he stood enough to camouflage his climb over the railing. As soon as he reached the grand stone steps at the museum’s entrance, he let the shadows by the lamps go and redirected them towards the locked doors in front of him.

  The dark tendrils whirled and swirled inside the keyhole until he heard a distinct click. Grasping the handle, Midnight gently turned it and pushed open the door just enough for him to squeeze through.

  Once inside, he gathered his bearings—not easy in the gloom of the big building. There were faint voices up ahead.

  Nightwatchmen!

  Standing as still and as quiet as he was able, he listened to see if he was at any risk of being discovered. Deciding it was clear, Midnight slowly made his way through the darkened halls, past the glass display cases that housed the exhibits until he found the stairway that led to the storage basement.

  The stairwell held the same fusty smell of decay as it had before, and it was as black as the Devil’s soul with none of the oil lamps lit. Even when his eyes had adjusted to the faint glow of moonlight that managed to seep in through one small window, it was impossible to see anything.

  “I need a damned light.” Fumbling his way down the staircase, he felt around for the small desk that he remembered had been nearby and found an oil lamp atop it. After more fumbling, he managed to find a box of long matches. He took one out and struck it. The small flickering flame became a larger one once the lamp was lit, and the enclosed walls seemed to creak in welcome of it.

  Now beyond the basement door, the heels of Midnight’s shoes clicked loudly on the flagstone floor, making him feel rather exposed despite the many towering shelves in the storage room, and bulky artefacts that were shrouded in ghostly white protective sheets.

  He found the spot on the floor where Arthur had fallen, and walked down the aisle from which his friend must have emerged. Stopping to look and rummage around the vast collection of objects, he found the mask he had seen in Arthur’s memory.

  Placing the lamp on the shelf, Midnight held the mask in his left hand, making sure that its wrappings remained as a protective barrier between the artefact and his bare flesh. From what Arthur’s memory had shown him, the inspector had put the mask to his face and then had immediately felt ill. Bringing it closer to the light, Midnight carefully turned the mask around, looking at every inch for any sign of a curious marking or poisonous residue that might explain his friend’s sudden and bizarre reactions. He saw nothing but the engraved runes on the front-side metalwork.

  “There has to be something,” he said insistently.

  He felt sure from his vision that this strange, Nordic artefact was somehow responsible for Gredge’s uncharacteristic killing spree.

  There was a sudden noise at the top of the steps.

  “Bleedin’ door’s unlocked!” One of the nightwatchmen declared.

  “Eh? Can’t be. Ernie locked up today. He’d never leave it open,” said another.

  “Shall we go down and ‘ave a look, then?” the first man asked half-heartedly.

  There followed a few seconds of silence in which Midnight held his breath and clutched the mask to his chest as if trying to prevent it from making any noise.

  “Nah. Just close the door, and we’ll tell Ernie in the morning. Ain’t like anyone’s down there now. Fancy a cuppa? It must be time for a sit down by now, eh?”

  “There’s a light,” the other man said in a hushed tone.

  “Eh? You sure? Let me see.”

  Midnight silently cursed and quickly smothered the lamp’s glow in a cloud of shadow.

  “You’re seeing things, Dickie. There’s nothin’ there. You been on the pop again?”

  Relived, Midnight heard the clang of the door closing, and the faint voices of the two men’s conversation fade into nothing.

  Alone once more, he let the light breathe again and examined the mask a second time. How frustrating. He had been convinced the mask would show some evidence of what exactly had caused harm to Gredge.

  Deciding in a moment that the only sensible thing to do was to ‘borrow’ the artefact and study it at length and in detail at home, Midnight carefully bound the wrappings around it and stuffed it under his coat.

  No one noticed him leave—the gentleman thief. No one except the man in the long coat and tweed cap.

  20

  MERITON

  LATE EVENING, JANUARY 21ST 1863

  Throwing his coat over the rack in the hallway, Midnight made straight for the library, shouting for Giles as he went. “Bring me everything you can find on Norse mythology, the Icelandic sagas, Scandinavian folklore, runes, anything! I’ll be in my study. And Giles?”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t forget the brandy, we are going to need it.”

  Some hours later, when the fire had almost burned down to nothing but ash, Midnight finally found a passage in one the many books in his father’s old collection.

  “Here! Giles, look. I think I have found something.” Sliding the book across the desk to where Giles sat, surrounded by open tomes and piles of old papers, Midnight tapped the page he had been reading. “Right there. What do you think?”

  Giles turned the book around so he could read from the place on the page that Midnight had shown him. “Bind runes: a combination of two or more runic symbols conjoined to make a single glyph of significant power and meaning.”

  “I believe this is why the markings on this mask are proving difficult to translate. These are not like any runes I have seen in any of these books. They are very stylised, almost ornamental. No wonder I did not recognise them. Usually bind runes are made up of just two, sometimes three, single runes but these have more.” He held up the mask to demonstrate. “See this one, for example? It is faded, but I can certainly determine there to be at least four or five from the Elder Futhark—the oldest form of Scandinavian runic alphabets.