"Please, Mrs. Langstone. Please."

"None of this need happen," Lydia said gently. "Not if you're sensible. Where are the keys?"

"In the top drawer. On the left."

She knew she had broken him. She felt ashamed. She opened the drawer and took out the keys. "Which is which?"

"The small modern one is the door into the cloisters from the road. The Yale keys are for the storeroom and the vestry." His voice was m.u.f.fled because his head was still in his hands. "The others, the big iron ones, they fit the Ossuary, the undercroft and the chapel itself."

Lydia glanced round the room. His overcoat was on the back of the door. She lifted it off and dropped the keys in the left-hand pocket.

"I'm going to leave your overcoat on one of the hooks in the hall. Then I shall take the keys from your pocket. So if anyone asks, you're in the clear. You happened to leave your coat in the hall, and the keys happened to be in the pocket. And somebody happened to come along and take them. But nothing is going to go wrong, is it? No one's going to ask you anything."

He raised his face to her. His eyes were puffy. "Mrs. Langstone, it's already gone wrong."

Nipper followed her out of the room and ran down the hall toward the door to the cellar, toward the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Hurriedly she took out the keys, dropped them in her own pocket and hung up the overcoat. The door on the other side of the hall opened a crack. Mrs. Renton looked out.

"That dratted dog again," she said to Lydia. "I wish he wouldn't bring it in the house."

She shut the door. Serridge came into the hall, followed by Howlett.

"Ah-Mrs. Langstone." Serridge's heavy features rearranged themselves into a smile that was the next best thing to avuncular. "And how did you enjoy the meeting this afternoon?"

She stared at him. He was probably unaware that she had seen him, and therefore he did not realize that she knew he had sent Marcus and his Blackshirts on a wild-goose chase for her sake. "I found it very interesting, thank you, Mr. Serridge. But I had to leave halfway through."

"They certainly had a good turnout, ma'am," Mr. Howlett said, bending to scratch Nipper. "Mind you, I don't know how much use it all is. The world goes on turning, whatever we try and do about it."

"They get some rough types there, though," Serridge went on. "I hope you're all right."

Lydia nodded, smiling like an idiot, and said goodbye. Nipper tried to follow her outside. She shut the front door in his face, remembering as she did so the little dog Rory had seen in the photograph of a naked Amy Narton astride a bicycle. That was the reality, she thought, not this amiable old chap like Father Christmas in mufti: Serridge was a middle-aged man who had a taste for vulnerable girls without any clothes on, and preyed on elderly spinsters with more money than sense.

And if Nipper's the same dog, does Howlett know where he came from? Are we all Serridge's creatures in this house? Or his victims?

She ran across Bleeding Heart Square.

Marcus Langstone was alone, and that was something Rory had not been expecting. Langstone was cautious, though: he switched on the light, opened the door and then stood back.

Fisher and his men had left perhaps twenty minutes earlier. Langstone looked at Rory leaning against the wall near the table at the far end of the Ossuary. Rory felt sick in the pit of his stomach. But there was relief of a sort that the waiting was over.

Langstone slipped a bunch of keys into his pocket. A short rubber cosh was looped over his right wrist, swinging like a pendulum in a clock case. He was a big man, Rory thought, not just tall but surprisingly broad. His face looked so misleadingly wholesome-the pink and white complexion, the fair hair, the baby-blue eyes.

The cosh swung to and fro. Langstone didn't speak. There was an element of calculation in all this. Rory felt an extra spurt of fear which mysteriously converted itself into something like anger. The man was being so b.l.o.o.d.y childish. This was how bullies behaved in the school changing room or the corner of the playground. Standing there in his uniform he looked more than ever like a sinister Boy Scout, his emotional and intellectual development doomed to remain forever somewhere between thirteen and fourteen years old.

"I hope you've come to let me out," Rory said. "And an apology would be nice too."

Marcus actually raised an eyebrow-a single eyebrow, just as though he were a villain in an old-fashioned melodrama. He thwacked the cosh against the palm of his left hand. "I don't think so."

"You can't really think it's a good idea to go around treating members of the public like this. Surely it's bad for business?"

"You're not a member of the public. You're a dirty little journalist and a lying cheat."

"For all you know I could be a dirty little journalist who supports Fascist principles."

Langstone shrugged. The black shirt and dark trousers flattered his figure but there was a distinct thickening around his middle. "In my book, all journalists are dirty," he said. "It's not a job for a gentleman, is it? But you'd be dirty whatever you were. And that's why I'm going to teach you a lesson." He walked slowly toward Rory. "I've known about you for a long time. You live in Bleeding Heart Square. You've got the room on the ground floor on the left of the front door."

"You're mistaken," Rory said. "I-"

"You can't lie your way out of this. I've seen you there." He added with an air of triumph, "You even admitted it to my colleague."

Rory swallowed. "You've done more than see me, haven't you? The other weekend-that was you, wasn't it?"

Langstone smiled. "My people. Not me."

"Your tame Biff Boys?"

"You wouldn't have been able to get up off the ground if it had been me."

"And how are you going to explain this? You can't hope to get away with what you're doing."

"Why not?" Marcus had stopped about three feet away from Rory. "Unfortunately we've had a great deal of trouble with left-wing agitators at our meetings. Communists, Jews, foreigners, people who have the morality of the gutter. They bring all sorts of weapons and try and stir up trouble. Bicycle chains, knuckledusters, knives-you name it, they've got it."

"Whereas you go in for rubber coshes?"

"My mechanic advised me to buy one of these. Know what they call them, Mr. Wentwood? The motorist's friend."

"It's an offensive weapon."

"Defensive, please. We have to do our best to cope with this wicked violence, don't we? For the sake of the public, for the sake of democracy. We Fascists stand for free speech and free debate. We can't let you people interfere with that. It just wouldn't be right, would it? And of course you end up getting hurt. I'm about to act in self-defense, in case you were wondering, and later on there will be witnesses to confirm it. They will also confirm that you were armed." He smiled. "In point of fact I'm looking ahead: there aren't any witnesses just at present. So you can squeal as loudly as you like."

"That's the trouble with you lot," Rory said. "You start off thinking the end justifies the means. And then you don't bother justifying anything at all. You just do what you b.l.o.o.d.y want."

The last word came out like a bullet on a rush of air as Rory kicked Marcus's left kneecap. Marcus shouted and lunged forward, his face contorted, and brought the cosh down in an over-arm blow. Rory ducked to the left and the cosh hit him like a brick on his right arm, just below the shoulder.

An instant later, Marcus's left fist caught him full on the mouth. Driven backward, Rory fell against the table, the corner jabbing into the soft flesh between his rib cage and thigh. Marcus lashed out with his boots, aiming for Rory's crotch.

Rory squirmed. A toe cap thudded into his leg. Cold stone grated like sandpaper against his cheek. He curled himself up and tried to roll away from the kicks. He collided with a table leg. His mouth filled with liquid. He spat, and saw a fine red spray in front of his face. His left ankle exploded with a pain like an overwhelming flash of electricity. He screamed and wriggled farther under the table, scrabbling to escape the kicks and blows. He pushed himself into the corner where the two walls met.

Stone on two sides. All that solid mahogany above. There was a instant of calm, unutterably sweet.

Langstone's breathing changed tempo. The table trembled. Rory stared between Langstone's legs, thick and as solid as an elephant's, at the half-open door to the cloister. The table grated on the floor. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d was trying to drag it away from the wall. Automatically Rory threw his weight against the table leg behind him.

There was a grunt. Then the side of the table nearer the door began to rise. Langstone was lifting it up. Rory's hands scrabbled for purchase.

And he touched something.

Something that wasn't made of stone or mahogany. He laid his hand over it. Something dry, angular and hard, equipped with extraordinary jagged edges, ridges, holes and protuberances. This part here, he thought, which was almost straight, was like the teeth of a saw blade.

Like teeth.

Fimberry's skull. The goat's head that had come in the post for Mr. Serridge, which Fimberry, governed by some strange sense of propriety, had deposited in the Ossuary, the place of the bones.

The table reared up and went over on its side with a thump that seemed to shake the foundations of the chapel. As it rose, Rory uncoiled his body and launched himself like an exploding jack-in-the-box at Langstone. Langstone gave ground, lifting the cosh as he did so.

Rory rammed the goat's skull into Langstone's face. The points of the two horns dug into the sockets of his eyes, tearing into soft tissue, jarring on bone.

Langstone shouted. He reeled back, slapping his hands over his face. Rory curled his right hand round one of the horns, raised the skull again and this time brought it down in a sweeping backhand arc. The other horn snapped on impact. Jagged fragments of bone raked through the skin of Marcus's cheek and ripped into the flesh beneath. Something pattered on the flagstones, like a flurry of sleet.

Goat's teeth?

Rory ran for the door. There was no one in the cloister. The electric lights were on and the windows were black mirrors. He stumbled over the uneven floor, pain shooting up his left leg from the ankle Langstone had hit with the cosh. He was only halfway down the cloister when he heard footsteps, boot heels slamming against the stones.

He glanced back. Langstone's face was a blur of blood, with a single eye and white flashes of teeth. Rory staggered on. From behind him came a laugh.

"It's locked," Langstone said.

Rory looked over his shoulder again. Langstone was swinging the cosh, breathing hard in a series of rhythmic snarls, blood trickling down his face and bubbling beneath his nostrils.

He heard another sound: metal moving on metal, a key turning in a lock.

The door to the outside world swung open. A current of cool air flowed through the cloister. Lydia Langstone was standing on the threshold. Her eyes widened when she saw him.

Rory gaped at her, his mouth open. "Run," he whispered. "Run."

She stepped closer to him, reached up and grabbed his tie. She yanked it as if it were a lead and he a reluctant dog. He plunged through the doorway and sprawled in a huddle of bruised limbs on the forecourt. He was still holding the remains of the goat's skull.

As if from a great distance he heard the sound of the key turning in the lock of the door.

For the second time that afternoon, Lydia hurriedly unlocked the door of 48 Rosington Place and pushed it open. She retrieved Rory, who was holding on to the railing beside the door and swaying gently, and towed him into the hall. She shut the door and slipped both bolts across. She turned to look at him.

He had propped himself against the wall; his eyes were closed and he was breathing fast and noisily through his mouth. He had a split lip and perhaps he had lost a tooth or two. Blood trickled over his chin and there were drops of it drying on his tie, his collar and shirt. Just below the left eye, the cheek glowed an angry red. She wondered what had happened to his raincoat and cap.

Lydia stooped and opened the letter flap. No one was within her range of vision. There was just enough light to see that Fimberry's keys were where she had left them, in the lock of the door to the cloister, preventing Marcus from unlocking the door from the inside. Marcus would have to find another way out or somehow raise the alarm-though in that case he might face awkward questions.

She stood up and looked again at Rory. His eyes were open now. He tried to say something but his words mingled with blood and spittle and emerged as an indistinguishable mumble.

"There's a lavatory with a basin at the end of the hall," Lydia said.

He tried his weight on his left leg, and winced. "Ankle," he said.

She knelt down in front of him and rolled up the trouser cuff. He grunted as she eased down the sock and probed the ankle with her fingers. She lifted the leg and moved the foot to and fro and from side to side.

"I think it's a sprain or bruising," she said, hoping she was right. "You'll have to lean on me and sort of hop if necessary."

"Second time," he muttered.

"What?" As she spoke, she realized he was trying to smile.

"Second time you've done this."

Come to the rescue? She smiled. "We mustn't let it become a habit."

"I don't know." He paused, gathering energy. "You're rather good at it."

With her supporting him, he hobbled down the hall. He paused at the newel post to draw breath. She was surprised how heavy the weight of his arm over her shoulders became, and surprised at the racket they made in the silent house. He smelled of tobacco and faintly of mothb.a.l.l.s, as though his clothes had been hanging too long in a wardrobe somewhere, as perhaps they had. The tweed of his sports jacket felt rough and stiff; off-the-peg stuff.

Once again they moved forward like a wounded crab, his arm still draped over her shoulders.

"Are you all right?" he said, his voice much clearer now.

"It's you I'm worried about."

"I didn't mean to-"

"Save your breath."

Rory was flagging badly. Step by step, they struggled onward. Lydia kicked open the lavatory door. She maneuvered him inside, lowered the cover over the pan, and sat him down. His breathing began to quieten. She turned on the Ascot and filled the basin with hot water. There were two damp hand towels on the rail. She used one as a flannel to bathe his face. The water in the basin turned a darker and darker shade of pink. He kept his eyes closed, and she examined the blue veins on the lids. It occurred to her with a little jolt of surprise that this was the first time in her life that she had ever washed anyone other than herself.

"How does your mouth feel?" she asked.

The eyes flickered open. "Like a battlefield."

"Have you lost any teeth?"

"I don't think so." He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. "One's chipped."

"You're going to have some bruising on your face. I'm not sure what to do about the ankle. a.s.suming it's a sprain, we take off the shoe, bandage it up and raise it on a stool or something. The trouble is-"

"No bandage, no stool," he said. "Also, if I take the shoe off I'm not sure I'm going to get it on again. Where are we? Is this where you work?"

"Shires and Trimble are two floors up. I think I'm going to have to get help. You can't walk out of here. You'll need a taxi. The problem is we don't want to get you out while Marcus might still be around."

He nodded. "And I'd better not go back to the flat."

"The others were going to Mecklenburgh Square."

"I know," he said absently. Then he looked sharply at her. "But you were with them, weren't you-Fenella and Dawlish? And that old chap who stood up and started shouting."

"Mr. Goldman. He's a jeweler in Hatton Garden."

"What happened?"

"We hid in here. The Biff Boys thought we'd had time to get away." She didn't mention Serridge, and how he and Howlett had lied to save them. It was an odd circ.u.mstance; it needed more thought.

"I think they planned to get me from the start," Rory said. "As soon as the row started at the back of the hall, a couple of them near the front made a beeline."

"I was afraid of that."

He glanced up at her, and his eyes were bright with intelligence. "Is that why you came? To warn me?"