Peter and the Sword of Mercy (4 page)

T
HE
V
ISITOR

T
HE DOORBELL RANG
, AND Mrs. George Darling sighed. She had just sat down for her first relaxing moment after a long and busy day. She put down the newspaper—another awful story about somebody disappearing in the Underground—and rose from her chair.

“Who is it?” shouted a high-pitched voice from upstairs, followed by a clatter of descending footsteps, followed by the appearance of her two sons, John and Michael.

“Who is it?” repeated Michael, who was three and, as always, was holding his stuffed bear.

“How would she know?” said John, who was seven and therefore knew a great deal more than Michael about everything. “She hasn’t opened the door yet, you ninny.”

“Mum!” cried Michael. “John called me a—”

“I
heard
what he called you,” said Mrs. Darling, glaring at John as she reached the front door, “and I will discuss it with him later. But right now you will both behave.” She opened the door, and her frown turned instantly to a smile at the sight of the tall figure standing there.

“James!” she said. “What a wonderful surprise! Do come in!”

“Are you sure?” James said. “I know it’s late, but…”

“Nonsense!” she said, taking his arm and pulling him into the foyer. “John, Michael,” she said. “This is Mr. Smith.”

Michael eyed James warily. “Who are you?” he said.

“Michael Darling, that is a rude question,” said Mrs. Darling. “Mr. Smith is a very dear friend to your father and me. And we are delighted to see him at
any
hour, especially after…James, how long
has
it been?”

“Years, I’m afraid, Molly,” said James.

“Molly?” said John. He giggled.

She turned to her son. “It’s the name I went by when I was a girl.”

James blushed. “I’m sorry!” he said. “I didn’t realize …”

“There’s no need to apologize,” said Molly. “It’s just that George considers Molly a childish nickname. These days he prefers to call me by my given name, Mary. But that would sound odd coming from you. Please, call me Molly.”

“Molly!” said John, giggling again.

“Are you a barrister?” asked Michael. “Our father is a barrister. He wears a wig. But he’s not a lady.”

“Michael!” said Molly.

“Well,
are
you a barrister?” repeated Michael.

“No,” said James, with a glance toward Molly. “I work for Scotland Yard.” He saluted the boys. “Inspector Smith, at your service.”

“An inspector from Scotland Yard!” said John, delighted. He peered up at James through his round eyeglasses. “Are you looking for a murderer?” he said.

James grinned. “Not at the moment, no. But I am on a top secret assignment.”

“Really!” said John.

“Yes. I’m looking for children who skip their baths.”

“Oh,” said John, disappointed.

“I’ve had my bath!” said Michael. “Yesterday, I think.”

James was about to say something more when a third child descended the stairs—a girl of eleven, with long brown hair and a face that might be called delicate, except for the boldness in her startlingly green eyes.

“My goodness,” said James. “Is that…”

“Yes,” said Molly. “That’s Wendy. I imagine she was just a baby when you saw her last. Wendy, this is Mr. Smith.”

“How do you do?” said Wendy, offering a curtsy.

“Please forgive my staring,” said James. “But you look so much like your mother when I first met her.”

“What was she like?” said Wendy, with a disarmingly frank look that James had seen many times on her mother’s face. “Was she an obedient child?”

“Obedient?”
said James, barely stifling a laugh.

“Wendy!” said Molly. “Mr. Smith did not come here to discuss my childhood behavior. Now, you three go upstairs. Wendy, please put your brothers to bed, and then yourself. I’ll be up to tuck everyone in after Mr. Smith and I have talked.”

Reluctantly, the children obeyed. James, watching them climb the stairs, said, “They’re fine children, Molly. I can see you in Wendy, and George in the boys.”

“And mischief in all three,” sighed Molly.

“And how
is
George?” said James.

“He’s doing well,” said Molly. “Very busy with his career. He’s at some sort of dreadful law banquet tonight, as he often is.” She paused. “But you didn’t come to ask about George, did you, James?”

“No,” admitted James, giving Molly a somber look. “Something’s come up.”

“I’ll make tea,” said Molly.

A few minutes later they were in the sitting room, cups in hand. James took a sip, swallowed, and began.

“Are you familiar with Baron von Schatten?”

Molly frowned. “The German? Yes. George and I saw him briefly at an embassy dinner. Odd man. Wearing darkened glasses, indoors? And at night?”

“The glasses are far from the only odd thing about him,” said James.

“What do you mean?”

“Molly, this is a man who, only a few years ago, had no connection whatsoever with the royal family. He appeared as if from nowhere, and somehow managed to ingratiate himself with Prince Albert Edward. The prince’s staff and advisers were wary of von Schatten, of course, but the prince seemed oddly tolerant of him. Almost deferential.”

James took another sip of tea.

“Then, one by one,” he continued, “those same staff and advisers suffered misfortunes—illnesses, injuries, even two deaths. All of these incidents appeared to be either natural or purely accidental. But each one removed another barrier between von Schatten and the prince, so that when the prince became king, von Schatten was his most trusted—in fact his only—adviser. It is now almost impossible for anyone else, including his family, to get close to him. For all intents and purposes, von Schatten is, next to the king, the most powerful man in England.”

“I had no idea,” said Molly.

“Very few people do,” said James.

“How do
you
know all this?” said Molly.

“Six months ago,” said James, “I was given an unusual assignment: to take a menial position on the palace staff, without revealing my identity as an inspector. My instructions were to find out as much as I could about von Schatten and his relationship to the king.”

“Spying on the
king?”
said Molly.

“I questioned it myself,” said James. “But Chief Superintendent Blake told me that the orders came from the highest levels of government. They’re worried about von Schatten’s influence, Molly.
Very
worried. And they have good reason to be.”

“What do you mean?”

James, leaning forward, lowered his voice. “Molly,” he said, “do you know what von Schatten’s profession was, before he came to England?”

Molly shook her head.

“He was an archaeologist,” said James. “Quite a well-known one, in fact. But his career ended suddenly ten years ago, when he had a serious accident. It’s the reason he must always wear those dark glasses. Or so he says.”

“What sort of accident?”

“Von Schatten is vague about the details,” said James. “But it happened at an archaeological site in the North African desert. Von Schatten was exploring the ruins of a temple—a temple that had stood for thousands of years, only to collapse twenty-three years ago in a mysterious explosion.”

Molly went pale. “Rundoon,” she whispered.

“Yes,” said James. “Rundoon. Von Schatten was exploring the Jackal.”

“But it was destroyed!” said Molly. “The rocket…”

“The temple was severely damaged, yes,” said James. “Obliterated, in fact, aboveground. But there was a crater, and at the bottom of that crater a hole, a sort of cave in the sand. Von Schatten went down there. He went alone—the guides would not go within a mile of that cursed place. He was gone for several days. When he finally came out, he claimed to have fallen and hit his head and lost consciousness for a time. He had no visible injuries. But he was…changed.”

“How so?” said Molly.

“For one thing, he could no longer stand sunlight. That can happen temporarily, of course, after days in total darkness. But the affliction stayed with von Schatten. He is never seen outside, and his eyes are always hidden behind those impenetrably dark glasses. But there was more: his personality had changed. Before, he had been outgoing; now he was reserved, sullen—an utterly different person. His family, his colleagues, said it was as if”—James lowered his voice—“as if someone else were inhabiting his body.”

For a moment, the two just stared at each other. Then Molly shook her head.

“It can’t be,” she said, her own voice a whisper. “After all this time…It just
can’t
be.”

“I wish you were right,” said James. “But after what I learned at the palace …”

He leaned forward, his eyes boring into Molly’s.

“Molly,” he said. “I think it’s
him.”

“And that,” said Wendy, “is why the moon changes its shape.”

“Because an
elephant is eating
it?” scoffed John. “That’s
silly!”

“I’m sorry, but that’s your bedtime story,” said Wendy, rising from the rocking chair at the end of the boys’ beds.

“That’s the worst bedtime story
ever,”
said John.

“Well, it’s the one you get tonight,” said Wendy. It was true; she usually told a much longer story. But tonight she was more interested in what was going on downstairs.

“How does the moon come back?” said Michael.

“I don’t know, said Wendy impatiently. “Perhaps the elephant spits it back out.”

“But then it wouldn’t be round!” said John. “There would be just pieces of moon, covered with elephant spit.”

“Good night,” said Wendy, going to the bedroom door.

“But what does the elephant
stand
on?” said Michael.

“I said good
night,”
said Wendy, closing the door behind her, leaving the two boys to complain to each other about the declining quality of bedtime stories.

Wendy walked to her own bedroom, paused, then continued down the hallway to the top of the stairs. She listened for a moment, then descended on quiet bare feet to the staircase landing. Now she could hear her mother and Mr. Smith talking. She couldn’t make out the words, but her mother’s tone was clear: she was upset about something.

Wendy frowned. Her mother was not easily upset. What was this mysterious Mr. Smith telling her? What had brought him here at this hour?

On tiptoe, Wendy started down the stairs.

Molly was shaking her head. “I thought this was over,” she said.

“We all did,” said James.

“After Rundoon,” said Molly, “when years and years passed, and there were no more starstuff falls…Father was convinced—
all
the Starcatchers were—that the Others had finally been defeated, along with that awful creature …” She stopped, not wanting to say the name.

“Ombra,” said James.