Let me say, at the outset, that burdening you with this matter is something in the way of a last resort, the flailing gesture of an old, tired and sadly ineffectual man who has, for some years, been attempting to stay afloat in waters beyond his depth. I was hoping to, as they say, sort things out myself, with the help of others. This has clearly not been possible in the time left to me, especially as there now seem to be remarkably few 'others' I feel able to trust. Also the situation seems to have escalated at an alarming rate, as poor George implied it might as we approach the Millennium.
Be assured, however, that I would not expect you to do anything beyond coming to the rescue of my good and staunch friend, Verity Endicott, who is in grave and mortal danger, standing as she does directly in the path of (and, God help me, I do not exaggerate) an old and utterly merciless evil. Oh, Mrs Carey, how it pains me to have to use language of such Biblical intensity. Yet I beg of you not to dismiss it as nonsense as I, to my shame, have done in the past. As a highly intelligent and worldly woman, you must have wondered many times why, in seeking a strictly limited outlet for George Pixhill's Diary, we approached you. And, indeed, your shop was hardly picked at random from Yellow Pages.
The truth is that, despite your merits as a bookseller (and, indeed, your not inconsiderable personal charms) you were chosen primarily because of your long association with Diane Ffitch, a young woman who, I am obliged to say, may now also be in danger of a most extreme and everlasting nature. I do not know the girl, but I rather suspect it would be unwise to show her this material directly. Perhaps the facts could be broken to her in stages. I leave this to your personal assessment of Miss Ffitch's state of mind. As you can imagine, my association with Colonel George Pixhill (and how often I have cursed the poor man) has compelled me to delve, with a good deal of distaste, into arcane and occult matters better left, in my view, to moulder among the pages of ancient and disreputable books. Perhaps your professional knowledge of such volumes will render some of this more accessible to you than it has, over the years, been to me.
As I may have mentioned, the most important items here are the 'missing' sections of the Pixhill diaries which we were unable, for reasons which will become apparent, to publish. You have probably asked yourself many times: what was the point in publishing the diaries at all and in such a restricted fashion? Well, firstly, as I have tried to explain, George was most insistent that his knowledge of the Dark Chalice become not widely known but yet accessible to those might find it meaningful, at a time when the twothousand-year-old Glastonbury tradition would face a terrible challenge. (I believe that challenge is upon us-or, upon YOU.) Secondly, it is especially clear to me now that had we not published when we did the Pixhill diaries would NEVER have seen the light of day. I did not realise for a long time how close George was to the source of it and that some of the danger might emanate from within the Pixhill Trust itself. It can only have been a rare prescience on my part that persuaded me to publish the diaries when we did and to entrust them to an outside agency – that is, your good self.
How drastically things have changed in that short time. I had my health then and there was a sound nucleus of us old comrades at the heart of the Trust. As I write, I am the only founder member left alive. When you read this, there will be none of us left unclaimed by disease, senility or accidents of the kind which tend to befall the elderly. Had I been a wiser man, I might have sought protection.
Ah, but we are old soldiers, used to an enemy we can perceive. How could we have had any idea of the possible implications of helping out a friend?
I have no more to say. Let George Pixhill speak for himself. Thank you my dear. From wherever I am, I pray for you, for Verity and for Miss Ffitch. God bless you all. Timothy Shepherd.
Powys folded the letter.
In his head a big book fell from a shelf.
A tweed hat swung on a branch.
A steaming black bus roared through the night.
The irony of it did not escape Don Moulder.
He laid the ten-pound notes one by one in the scrap dealer's outstretched hand.
'… three-thirty, three-forty, three-fifty.'
Fat grey snowflakes came down on the yard like sheep at feeding time.
'What you gonner do with it, then?' the scrap dealer asked.
'None o' your business.' Don Moulder wound the rubber band round the remains of his wad.
Three hundred and fifty. Exactly what he'd been paid for letting the parasites in. A terrible rip-off, but it could be bad luck to haggle.
'You wanner start 'im up, have a gander at the engine?'
The dealer trying it on now.
'No, thank you.'
'Bloody morbid, you ask me,' said the dealer, bold bugger now he'd got his money.
'Well, no bugger is askin' you. So you keep your trap shut, mister.'
The scrap-dealer grinned, pocketed the money. The extra fifty for the time of delivery.
Don Moulder drew him a little map. 'After dark. Well after dark, all right? No need to knock on the door, I don't want the wife to know. You just leave it there, got that?'
Don walked out to his old Subaru. He didn't want anyone to see it till the Bishop arrived at dawn.
Verity put the letter down,
'Such a kind man,' she said.
'Is that all you can say?' Powys drank half his disgusting camomile tea without blinking. 'This guy thinks you're in mortal danger, standing – he picked up the letter – ''in the path of – and, God help me, I do not exaggerate – an old and utterly merciless evil," What Does he mean? Do you know? Do you have any idea?'
Verity went prim. 'I really don't consider myself qualified to attempt a definition.'
Powys tried another one. 'What does Grainger think is inside that well?'
'Energy. That is what he said. Energy which has been stifled…'
'I heard that, Verity. I didn't believe it. I don't think you believed it.'
They had taken the parcel into the kitchen. Even with all its lights on, the dining room was not the most suitable place in which to read for long.
Verity poured him, to his dismay, more camomile tea.
'Joe, I'm sorry. You will have to excuse my apparent unwillingness to cooperate. I'm unsure. Unsure of what I know and what I only think I know. More than that, I'm unsure of how much the Colonel would wish me to say.'
'He's dead, Verity.'
'He remains, through his Trust, my employer.'
'Who runs the Trust now then?'
'Faceless people,' Verity said. 'Solicitors, accountants. And Oliver. I don't know how Oliver worked his way in. As an employee, I am not party to such administrative details.'
'But they didn't get on.'
'I fear that's something of an understatement. After Mrs Pixhill had her breakdown, she and the boy went to live in a rented flat in the town. Neither of them would have understood why the Colonel could not sell Meadwell.'
'Meadwell was the reason for her breakdown?'
'It couldn't have been easy,' Verity said, 'for any of them.'
'And Oliver was resentful?'
'Oliver hated his father, Joe. The thought that the work of the Trust might now be influenced by a man who would do anything to besmirch the Colonel's memory fills me with horror.'
'And what is the work of the Trust? What's its actual purpose?'
'Officially,' Verity said, 'to further the cause of peace and harmony in a troubled world. Rather inexact, I'm afraid.'
'But unofficially?'
'Unofficially…' Verity hesitated. 'Unofficially, to prevent Meadwell falling once more into the hands of the Ffitch family.'