“I’m not leaving here without it.”
“It will do you no good. You do not know how to read it.”
“I’ll learn.”
Charles gave a mirthless laugh. “That I heartily doubt,” he scoffed. “It is not like reading a road map, you know. You must know the code.”
“Then tell me.”
“I will-and gladly-on the day you finish your studies.” His father made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Go back to Oxford. Apply yourself. Show me you can finish something for once in your life.”
“I’ll show you,” Douglas said, lurching for the desk. He snatched up the bronze Etruscan mask his father used as a paperweight. “I’ll show you what I can do. The key-”
“Douglas, you may leave now. This conversation is over.”
“Give me the key, old man.” Douglas hefted the heavy artefact dangerously.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The key to the iron chest,” he snarled. “I want the map. You think I don’t know where you keep it?”
“Don’t be hasty, Douglas. Taking the map won’t get you anywhere. Sit down, let us talk this out.”
“All you ever do is talk. I’m through talking. I want the key to the chest.” Douglas, eyes bulging, his long face red with anger, raised his arm to strike.
“Put that down!” shouted Charles.
“I warned you, Father,” snarled Douglas. On his smooth forehead a vein throbbed visibly like a purple spear of forked lightning as he swung his arm in a murderous arc.
“Douglas!” Charles put up his hands to ward off the attack. “No!”
The weighty bronze smashed into the elder man’s skull. Blood spouted from the gash that opened on the side of his head.
“Douglas, no,” Charles moaned. He grabbed his head. “Think… think what you’re doing. Don’t be stupid. I can’t-”
But the bronze mask landed a crushing blow to Charles’ left temple. Charles lifted himself from his chair. Hands shaking, he beseeched his son in pitiful tones, begging him to stop.
Again and again the brass weight slammed down. The hard bone of the skull cracked under three savage blows. Charles slumped to his knees, his eyes rolling up into their sockets, showing only white. He gave a little groan and toppled slowly to his side. A tremor passed through him, and he lay still.
“Good-bye, Father,” muttered Douglas, dropping the paperweight to the floor beside the body.
Stepping quickly around to the desk, he opened the wide centre drawer and removed the ring of keys he knew would be there. Then, turning to the bookcase in the corner of the room, he pulled out a row of volumes to reveal an iron strongbox, which, though it seemed to rest on the shelf, was instead secured to the wall. He put the first key into the lock and turned; the key met with resistance, and the second key was much too big, so he moved on to the third. The lock gave at once, and he raised the heavy lid.
Inside the strongbox was a gilt-edged leather folder tied with a green ribbon. Douglas snatched up the folder and moved back to the desk. As his fingers fumbled with the satin binding, he heard a sound in the hallway, and there came a knock on the door.
Douglas glanced at once to the body on the floor, his mind racing. How much could be seen from the doorway? What if he were found with the body? Where could he hide?
The knock came again, followed by a voice: “Mr. Flinders-Petrie, sir? There’s a rag-and-bone man come to call. Do you have anything for him?”
It was Silas Cumberbatch, the caretaker.
“Send him away,” Douglas growled in gruff imitation of his father’s tone. “I’m busy.”
“Very good, sir.”
Douglas waited until he heard the footsteps receding. Then, unwilling to further risk being caught with the murdered corpse of his father, he tucked the gold-edged folder under his coat and moved to the French doors. He stepped outside, cast a swift glance around to make sure he was unobserved, then darted across the lawn to the border hedge and a place he knew behind the holly bush where he used to climb over the garden wall as a lad. Once over the wall, he proceeded down the service alley to the road and hailed a cab to take him to Paddington Station.
He bought a ticket and hurried to the platform where the train was waiting, found an empty compartment in one of the carriages, and let himself in. It was only after the train had left the station and was past Ealing and heading for Slough that Douglas removed the leather folder once more.
Setting it on his knee, he carefully untied the strip of green ribbon and opened the cover. Inside was a single piece of paper with a simple handwritten note. It read:
Forgive me, Douglas. It is for the best.
Your loving Father
The Skin Map was gone.
Epilogue
The three travellers hitched a ride down from Montserrat Abbey in the mail truck that called on the monastery every afternoon. Upon reaching the village of El Bruc at the foot of the mountain, they decided it would be prudent to procure a weapon of some description for the onward journey. In the end, the only thing they could find was a sheathed hunting knife from the little general store on the village square.
“If that’s the best we can do, so be it,” concluded Kit. “We’re wasting time.”
Attaching the knife to his belt, Kit led the other two back to the highway and started off along the verge, following the tarmac strip as it wound along the river until, after a mile or two, they came to the place were Kit had been found by the hunters. Happily, there were no gun-toting farmers around this time, so they crossed the little stone bridge and headed up the rising slope towards the cliffs. As they walked, Kit tried to set the scene.
“It is the Stone Age. More primitive than you’ve ever imagined. No buildings, no machines, no metal, glass, or plastic. Skins, not cloth.” He patted his clothes. “It is nature in the raw, and it is man against the elements. That said, it is the middle of winter. At least it was when I left-and that means there are loads of hungry animals around, so we’ll have to make contact with the clan pretty sharpish if we want to avoid getting eaten.”
“Maybe we should have brought more clothes-something warmer?” wondered Wilhelmina.
“Carrying all that extra stuff would only slow us down. Anyway, I think we’ll be okay,” he told her. “Once we’ve rejoined the clan, we can get some skins and furs and whatever else we need if it’s really cold. We don’t need to spend a whole lot of time faffing about. We get to the Bone House and make the jump to the Spirit Well.”
Brother Lazarus said something in German, which Mina translated for Kit. “He is worried that the primitives will be frightened by us-that they might attack us.”
Kit stopped walking and turned to his companions. “Look, I can’t guarantee anything, as I’ve already said. But they never showed a trace of violence in my presence. They accepted me straight away, which is fairly amazing when you think about it. And, even if they are a little skittish, they’ll remember me-I was adopted by the clan, and you’re with me. I don’t anticipate any problems, so everyone just relax and follow my lead, okay?” He looked at each of them in turn. “Okay.”
A few minutes’ hard slog up the hillside brought them to the mouth of a cave.
“This is the place,” Kit announced. He glanced at the sun, which had passed midday. “We may have to wait awhile for the portal to become active.”
They put down their packs, and Wilhelmina consulted her ley lamp. As expected, the blue indicator lights were dark. “Nothing,” she announced. “But it’s early yet. I’ll keep an eye on it. In the meantime, show us this cave of yours.”
Brother Lazarus opened his pack and handed around the flashlights. Kit switched his on and off to check it. “Ready?” asked Kit when they had shouldered their packs once more. “Here we go. Watch your step.”
Moving into the mouth of the cave, he switched on his torch and stepped into the interior. The air was still and tepid with the faintly musty smell of mildew and fungus. Among a heap of rocks near the entrance, Kit retrieved his furry shirt-hidden where he had left it a few days earlier.