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“It's been fired. One barrel.”
“No lights showing in the house, sir,” Hoare noted.
“Oof!” Spencer grunted as Fidget yanked at his lead. “Looks likethe dog has picked up the scent again!”
“Allow him to show us the way, Mr. Spencer,” Krishnamurthyordered. “And voices low, please, gentlemen!”
Following behind the basset hound, they ran up the slope to theback of Tichborne House, crossed the patio, and entered cautiouslythrough the open doors to the gunroom.
The house was silent.
Hoare touched his superior's arm and pointed to the floor.Krishna-murthy looked down and, in the dim light, saw black spotstrailing across it. He bent and touched one, raised his finger tohis nose, and whispered: “Blood. Someone's hurt.”
“Not Richard, I hope!” Swinburne hissed.
They moved across the chamber and out into the hallway, tiptoedalong it, and passed into the large ballroom.
Fidget's nose, and the trail of blood, took them straight acrossthe dance floor, out through another door, and along a passagetoward the smoking room. Before they got there, the dog pulled theminto an off-branching corridor.
“I thought so,” Swinburne muttered. “There are stairs ahead thatlead down to the servants’ quarters, the kitchen, and the entranceto the labyrinth.”
“You think they have him under the Crawls, lad?” Spencerasked.
“I think it likely.”
Commander Krishnamurthy pulled his truncheon from his belt andnodded to Hoare to do the same.
“Move behind us, please, gentlemen,” he said. The poet andphilosopher obeyed.
They crept on, reached the stairs, descended, and became awareof a low-pitched repetitive rumbling.
“It's Mrs. Picklethorpe's bloomin’ snorin’!” Spencerwhispered.
A few steps later, voices came to them from the kitchen.
“Shhh,” Swinburne breathed. “Listen!”
“-knows the finances of the estate, so we need to keep the foolalive for the time being.”
The poet recognised the brash tones at once. It was EdwardKenealy.
“But can we make him cooperate?” came an unfamiliar voice. “He'sa stubborn old sod.”
“He'll crack as soon as we get him near the diamonds again,don't you worry. He's very susceptible. No resistance at all. How'sthe doctor, Bogle?”
“He's bleeding badly, sir.”
A fourth man spoke, his voice tremulous: “I'll be allright.”
Swinburne recognised the tones.
“We need you for the seance, Jankyn,” Kenealy said.
“Just bandage me up tightly,” came the response. “Bogle can runme to the Alresford doctor later. I'll be fine for the seance.”
“I should dig out the pellets, sir.”
“No, Bogle,” Kenealy snapped. “There's no time. We have tocontact the mistress as soon as we can. She wants to check onBurton's condition. Waite, help me find a table and chairs. We'llcarry them to the central chamber. We have to conduct the seance inthe presence of our prisoners.”
Krishnamurthy turned to his companions and whispered, “Four of’em, and one disabled. Come on!”
He and Constable Hoare dashed forward, with Swinburne, HerbertSpencer, and Fidget at their heels. They hurtled into the kitchenand all hell broke loose.
Swinburne caught a glimpse of Jankyn, shirtless and bloodied,lying on a table with Bogle standing beside him. Edward Kenealy anda Rake-the man named Waite-were near the pantries.
“Stop! Police!” Krishnamurthy bellowed.
“Don't move!” Hoare shouted.
“Damnation!” Kenealy barked, swinging around and raising hisright arm.
Swinburne dived aside as a bolt of blue lightning crackled outof the lawyer's hand and whipped across the room to envelop thepolicemen's heads.
Krishnamurthy covered his eyes and collapsed to his knees.
Hoare, though, took the full brunt of the attack. His bodysnapped rigid and rose six inches from the ground, floating withina dancing, sizzling aura of blue energy. He shook wildly and letloose a high-pitched howl of pain. His face turned red, then blue,and blood spurted from his nose and eyes.
“Bleedin’ heck!” yelled Spencer, who'd fallen against acupboard. “Stop it!”
Swinburne looked around, saw a frying pan, and before he knewwhat he was doing, he'd grabbed and thrown it.
The pan hit Kenealy's forehead with a tremendous clang. Thelawyer staggered, tripped, and fell onto his back. The energyshooting from his hand left Hoare, fizzled across the ceiling, andvanished.
The constable dropped.
Waite leaped over to a work surface, seized a wooden choppingboard, and launched it at Swinburne. The poet ducked. It spun pasthis head and smacked against the wall behind him.
Krishnamurthy moaned and fell forward onto his hands.
Bogle picked up a di
Fidget barked and ran out of the room.
Kitchen implements were suddenly flying back and forth; pans,crockery, and cutlery, crashing and smashing with a deafeningracket.
Constable Hoare's truncheon rolled to Spencer's feet. Thephilosopher grabbed it and sent it spi
Krishnamurthy crawled forward, moaning with the effort. He'dalmost reached Kenealy when the lawyer rolled over, turned, andlooked up. Blood was streaming down his face from a wound in hisforehead. He jerked a hand toward the policeman. Blue flame grewaround his fingers.
“None of that!” the Flying Squad man groaned, and whacked histruncheon down onto the hand.
Kenealy screamed as his finger bones crunched.
Krishnamurthy slumped forward and passed out.
“What's the meaning of this!” demanded a voice from the doorway.It was Mrs. Picklethorpe, resplendent in her nightgown and haircurlers. A pan, launched by Bogle, hit her square between the eyes.She toppled back against the corridor wall and slid to thefloor.
Swinburne flung a full bottle of wine at Bogle and whooped withsatisfaction as it bounced off the Jamaican's head and explodedagainst a cupboard behind him. The butler swayed and buckled,dropping onto Kenealy.
The lawyer pushed his uninjured hand out in Swinburne'sdirection.
“I'll kill you!” he snarled.
Spencer bounded across the room and sent a thick hardboundcookery book thudding down onto Kenealy's head, knocking him cold.The heavy volume fell open at the title page: Miss Mayson's Book ofHousehold Management.
“Well, I'll be blowed!” Herbert muttered. He bent and retrievedthe volume then sent it slapping into the side of Waite's head. TheRake collapsed, out for the count.
Jankyn sat up and moaned. He held both his hands flat againsthis left side. Blood leaked between his fingers.
“Bastards!” he said huskily.
“You're hardly in a position to insult us,” Swinburne observed.“I assume Guilfoyle shot you?”
Spencer knelt and helped the recovering Krishnamurthy to hisfeet.
“Yes,” Jankyn groaned. “He tried to take Burton from us. Kenealykilled him but the man's shotgun went off as he died. The onlyworking gun on the whole bloody estate, and I have to get it!”
“What was that lightning Kenealy fired from his hand?”
“Get me to a hospital. I'm bleeding to death.”
“Answer my questions and I'll consider it,” the poet answered,and Spencer had never heard the little man sound so grim.
“It's etheric energy. Kenealy has a talent for cha
“The mistress? Who's she?
“She's the leader of-Ah! It hurts! I need treatment, man!”
“The leader of the Rakes? I know. And she's a Russian. Butwhat's her name?”
“I haven't the foggiest, I swear! Enough! Enough! Look at thisblood! Help me, damn it!”
“Is Burton alive?” Swinburne demanded.
“Possibly. He's in the centre of the labyrinth.”
“How many are in there, guarding him?”
“None.”
“You're lying.”
“I'm not.”
“If that's the way you want to play it, fine. Physician, healthyself, and if you bleed to death, I'll not mind one little bit,you damned blackguard.”