numbers. The security services were immediately notified, and a major search initiated. Watches were kept on all British ports and airports, and roadblocks set up in Hampshire and Surrey. Several houses were searched, including Professor Braithwaite’s holiday cottage in the Lake District.
Some days later, when the press made polite inquiries about Professor Braithwaite’s whereabouts, they were told that he had flown to the United States to undertake several weeks of “background research.” It’s hard to remember how trusting the press used to be in those days.
To date, though, neither Professor Braithwaite nor his assistants had been sighted anywhere, dead or alive, and there was no evidence to explain what might have happened to them.
Except, of course, the empty casket. The lid of thecasket was still in place on the morning of May 18th, but investigators were able to lift it open without difficulty. Inside they found it to be lined with whitethorn wood, and thickly bedded with dried garlic flowers and wild roses. On one side lay an empty sack made of thin brown linen, like a torn-open shroud. There was a deep impression in the petals, as if somebody had been lying there, motionless, for a very long time.
“Didn’t anybody suspect what had happened, even then?” I asked Charles Frith. “Didn’t anybody think to ask what kind of creature could have been lying in a sealed casket for nearly thirteen years, without air, or food, or water?”
“Afraid not, old man. Security services are never very good at communicating with each other, at the best of times.”
“Somebody could have used their imagination.”
“Imagination?” Charles Frith blinked at me as if I had used a four-letter word. “Not a requirement for MI6, I’m sorry to say.”
The police reports on all of the recent killings were depressingly similar, and all of the photographs, too. Heaps of bodies with their clothes torn open, their abdomens sliced apart and their hearts pulled out from underneath their rib cages. Men, women and children—even toddlers, in little white socks. In the background, cheap floral wallpaper, decorated with loops and spatters of blood. Nobody had ever seen anybody entering the crime scenes. Nobody had ever seen anybody leave.
“We’re um—we’re quite certain that this is the work of—you know—
strigoi
?”
“No doubt about it. One
strigoi mort
and at least two
strigoi vii
, and they’re going to multiply fast.”
“More tea?”
“No thanks. I think I’ll go to my hotel, if that’s all right with you, and take a shower. I need to call my wife, too. Then I want to go to this house in Croydon and take a look at this birthday party. Terence, do you think you can arrange for our dog handler to meet us there? Say about three-thirty?”
“I don’t anticipate any problem with that, ‘Jim.’ I’ll give her a tinkle.”
I stood up and Charles Frith stood up, too. “Tremendously pleased to have you on board, Captain Falcon.”
“Well, me too, sir. I have a very personal interest in catching this particular Screecher.”
“Really?”
“It’s a long story, sir. I’ll report back to you later.”
“Ears. Good. Oh—but there’s one more thing. You’ve been issued with a side arm. Colt .45 automatic, I gather. It’s all been approved but I have to ask you to be very discreet with it. This
is
England, you know, not the Wild West.”
“Of course,” I told him.
“Ears,” he repeated.
On the way back along the corridor, I said to Terence, “He kept saying ‘ears.’ What did he mean by that?”
“Oh . . . that’s English upper-class for ‘yes.’ ”
House of Flies
For my first night in England, the SIS had booked me a room at the Strand Palace Hotel. It was comfortable in a well-worn, shabby way, although the traffic was so noisy that I had to close my window, and the furniture reeked of cigarettes. I booked a transatlantic call to Louise, and tried to take a shower. The
Some days later, when the press made polite inquiries about Professor Braithwaite’s whereabouts, they were told that he had flown to the United States to undertake several weeks of “background research.” It’s hard to remember how trusting the press used to be in those days.
To date, though, neither Professor Braithwaite nor his assistants had been sighted anywhere, dead or alive, and there was no evidence to explain what might have happened to them.
Except, of course, the empty casket. The lid of thecasket was still in place on the morning of May 18th, but investigators were able to lift it open without difficulty. Inside they found it to be lined with whitethorn wood, and thickly bedded with dried garlic flowers and wild roses. On one side lay an empty sack made of thin brown linen, like a torn-open shroud. There was a deep impression in the petals, as if somebody had been lying there, motionless, for a very long time.
“Didn’t anybody suspect what had happened, even then?” I asked Charles Frith. “Didn’t anybody think to ask what kind of creature could have been lying in a sealed casket for nearly thirteen years, without air, or food, or water?”
“Afraid not, old man. Security services are never very good at communicating with each other, at the best of times.”
“Somebody could have used their imagination.”
“Imagination?” Charles Frith blinked at me as if I had used a four-letter word. “Not a requirement for MI6, I’m sorry to say.”
The police reports on all of the recent killings were depressingly similar, and all of the photographs, too. Heaps of bodies with their clothes torn open, their abdomens sliced apart and their hearts pulled out from underneath their rib cages. Men, women and children—even toddlers, in little white socks. In the background, cheap floral wallpaper, decorated with loops and spatters of blood. Nobody had ever seen anybody entering the crime scenes. Nobody had ever seen anybody leave.
“We’re um—we’re quite certain that this is the work of—you know—
strigoi
?”
“No doubt about it. One
strigoi mort
and at least two
strigoi vii
, and they’re going to multiply fast.”
“More tea?”
“No thanks. I think I’ll go to my hotel, if that’s all right with you, and take a shower. I need to call my wife, too. Then I want to go to this house in Croydon and take a look at this birthday party. Terence, do you think you can arrange for our dog handler to meet us there? Say about three-thirty?”
“I don’t anticipate any problem with that, ‘Jim.’ I’ll give her a tinkle.”
I stood up and Charles Frith stood up, too. “Tremendously pleased to have you on board, Captain Falcon.”
“Well, me too, sir. I have a very personal interest in catching this particular Screecher.”
“Really?”
“It’s a long story, sir. I’ll report back to you later.”
“Ears. Good. Oh—but there’s one more thing. You’ve been issued with a side arm. Colt .45 automatic, I gather. It’s all been approved but I have to ask you to be very discreet with it. This
is
England, you know, not the Wild West.”
“Of course,” I told him.
“Ears,” he repeated.
On the way back along the corridor, I said to Terence, “He kept saying ‘ears.’ What did he mean by that?”
“Oh . . . that’s English upper-class for ‘yes.’ ”
House of Flies
For my first night in England, the SIS had booked me a room at the Strand Palace Hotel. It was comfortable in a well-worn, shabby way, although the traffic was so noisy that I had to close my window, and the furniture reeked of cigarettes. I booked a transatlantic call to Louise, and tried to take a shower. The
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