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‘I’m a guardian, though. And I have no friends.’

‘Guardian of what?’

‘She changed the letter,’ said Miles. ‘Millie changed it, but that doesn’t mean anything – I still had to come back.’

‘Why don’t we walk you up to the school?’ said Brother Morgan. ‘We could have a nice chat with your headmaster and hear all about it. Shall I turn the light off,
Brother?’

‘Yes, please do.’

They emerged into the passage and began to climb the stairs. Miles let himself be led by the hand. ‘Do you want me to call your home?’ said Brother Rees. ‘Is something going on
that perhaps your parents should know about?’ Miles walked on. ‘If you’re upset about something, I’m sure they’d want to know. Where’s your mum?’

Miles stopped. He was at the top of the stairs now, looking down.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Brother Morgan.

Miles looked at them, silently.

‘I think you need a doctor,’ said Brother Rees, slowly. ‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’

‘No.’

‘You can tell us, you know. We might be able to help.’

He went to touch Miles’s shoulder again, but this time the boy backed away from him and stood poised, ready to run.

‘Don’t be frightened.’

Miles stared at him. ‘I’m not,’ he said.

‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there? Tell me your name.’

‘Miles. I’m a guardian.’

‘Miles, I think we need to talk to your parents . . .’

He went to touch the boy again, but Miles simply dived to the side and fled.

‘Miles!’ cried the monk. ‘Come back!’

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, the boy had disappeared. They could hear his feet drumming along the tunnel, until they were lost to the silence.

‘Brother Morgan,’ said Brother Rees. ‘I want you to go up to the school and find that headmaster. The boy’s in grave danger, I can feel it. Go at once, please.’

‘We should have brought a trolley,’ said the policeman. He was rubbing his hands and flexing his fingers. ‘There’s a small fortune down here! This is
the most remarkable find!’

‘There’s rooms everywhere,’ said Gary. ‘We need a truck! You look for the sword, Father. We’ll get other stuff together, anything that looks valuable.’

‘The sword’s the most valuable item—’

‘And you’re sure it’s not that gold one? That suit of armour must be worth—’

‘You don’t pay three million pounds for one of them, I can promise you. The sword of St Caspar has twelve priceless diamonds – I showed you the pictures!’

‘So go and look for it!’ said the policeman. ‘Look at this . . .’ He turned and yanked at a tapestry.

Gary laughed, ‘And to think a little foreigner’s been sitting on all this. It’s enough to make you weep.’

D.C.C. Cuthbertson turned to the boys. They were sitting quietly, back to back, their handcuffs tight on their wrists. ‘This where you have your midnight feasts, is it? You’re more
daft than you look, if that’s possible. You could’ve made millions out of this.’

‘Oi!’ shouted Gary. ‘Here’s the wine cellar! How much did you say a bottle would fetch?’

‘A thousand pounds.’

He stood in the kitchen doorway with a bottle in each hand. He smashed the neck of one against a nearby table and the wine foamed over the carpet. ‘We can afford a glass each, can’t
we?’ he laughed. ‘Celebration time?’

He pulled two of Tomaz’s best wine glasses from their cabinet and glugged the wine into them. The two men gulped a mouthful down.

‘This is to you, boys,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘Thanks for being stupid. And thanks for being our guides out of here.’

‘We won’t be guiding you anywhere,’ said Ruskin, bravely. ‘And my brother needs urgent medical attention – that is the priority.’

‘The priority,’ said Gary, kneeling beside Ruskin, ‘is that when the time comes, you get us straight down to the pump-room. Or I’ll break his other arm.’

‘Cuthbertson!’ called the old man.

The policeman looked up. ‘What?’ he shouted. ‘What have you found?’

‘Come and see this – you won’t believe it.’

The two men trooped out of the lounge and down a passage. They entered another grotto – the chamber Tomaz used as his bedroom. The old man was standing by a long rosewood table and on it
was a hexagonal chest. It was Indian sandalwood, clearly carved by a craftsman. Its drawers got progressively smaller as they rose to the apex and every face was inlaid with marble. Father
O’Hanrahan had removed a drawer and revealed the contents to his colleagues: a diamond, the size of a pea. He set it down and removed another. Two emerald earrings lay on a bed of red velvet.
It was a jewellery chest that all the children had seen and admired. They had taken turns polishing the gems and rearranging them in different sized drawers. Anjoli had once sat down to dinner
wearing the rings, two on each finger, so that his hands looked like they were in flames – but Asilah had made him put them back.

‘I’ll take care of that,’ said Cuthbertson. He was smiling broadly. ‘You look for the sword.’

‘I will do – but this in itself is a million! We’re rich . . .’

‘I’ll take care of it.’

The policeman pulled his rucksack off and opened it wide. It took him two minutes to go through the chest, and by the time he was finished he was ankle-deep in empty drawers. His brother,
meanwhile, had started work on the oil paintings. He stripped the larger ones from their frames and rolled the canvases. He laid them gently in a leather trunk, interspersed with wine bottles. Now
he stared around the room, wishing he knew more about antiques – wishing he knew what was really worth stealing.

Father O’Hanrahan, meanwhile, made his way back to Tomaz’s kitchen. He pulled out the drawers, hurling everything onto the floor. He moved to the larder and upturned trays of
vegetables and fruit. The sword was in use, every day – that’s what the Brethren had told him. Assuming they were telling the truth, that must mean it was a tool – so why not a
kitchen implement?

He swung his torch into the recesses, muttering greedily.

‘Something that is used every day . . . A spit, maybe? A carving knife?’

He searched the kitchen methodically, but found nothing of value.

‘Think!’ said Father O’Hanrahan.

Cuthbertson walked in. He had a large stone Buddha in his arms.

‘Is this worth anything?’ he said.

The old man ignored him. ‘The monk told me he saw it,’ he said. ‘It must have been in the main room, not in here . . . Why am I wasting time in here? Where would you put a
sword? Why would he be using one?’

‘It’s not on display,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘We would have seen it. And you’re sure it’s not the gold one?’

‘I showed you pictures, man. It’s a small thing.’

The old man stood still. ‘What do you use a sword
for
? What is a sword, eh? It’s a stick. A walking stick? A lever – something to lift things with?’

‘A toasting fork?’ said the policeman. ‘What if he toasted things on it, by the fire?’

They moved quickly, back to the main chamber. Gary Cuthbertson joined them at the stove.

‘We’re so close,’ said the old man. ‘I can feel it. It’s getting cold as well, isn’t it? The temperature’s dropping. That’s a good
sign!’

‘Why?’ said Cuthbertson. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that wretched old ghost’s around, I reckon. It means he’s not happy – and it means we might be right on top of what we’re looking for.’

He went right up to the stove and opened the door.

‘See if there’s a poker, or something,’ said Gary. ‘That would be used every day, wouldn’t it?’

Cuthbertson felt his heart lurch: there
was
a poker and it lay discarded on the flagstones. He put his hand on it gingerly and it was warm and heavy.

‘Give that to me,’ said Father O’Hanrahan.

‘It’s small enough, isn’t it?’

‘Give it here.’

Cuthbertson held onto it, weighing it in his hands. ‘I think we’re in business,’ he said. He was grinning again. He took out a penknife, and as he did so, the mirrors above
started to move. They knocked gently together, as if shifting in a breeze. The temperature had dropped again and the men found that they were shivering and rubbing their hands.

Cuthbertson handed the poker to his brother, who held it firm. He stroked one of the sides with a blade and started to scrape carefully at the coating of coat dust.

‘Harder,’ whispered O’Hanrahan. ‘Scrape it there, on the . . . Just there!’

The policeman pushed the point in and twisted. Then he levered up and a lump of black came away, like crust. A precious stone winked up at them and – unseen – a wall mirror split
with a silent crack, top to bottom. In seconds, throughout the chambers, every mirror shattered. The three men were too intent to notice. They didn’t hear the deep, angry rattling of
glassware.

Underneath the crust of carbon, shining like pure, silver fire, lay walnut-sized diamonds.

‘Oh my word . . .’ whispered Father O’Hanrahan. ‘We’re touching it.’ One by one, the policeman exposed them.

‘This is it.’

‘This is it – you’re holding it!’ The old man started to laugh. ‘Find something to wrap it in! Quickly. On the chair – look . . .’

There was a red velvet cloth, draped over a fallen table. The policeman grabbed it and watched as the old man took the sword and wrapped it. He held it to his chest, laughing softly. ‘What
did they say? Too beautiful to be looked at, that’s why it’s concealed. Gentlemen, we have what we came for – the sword of St Caspar! The job’s done.’

He stopped and looked up.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Cuthbertson.

‘The ghost.’

‘What about him? Where is he?’

‘Somewhere close. Oh, he doesn’t like us, that’s for sure. Can you hear him? I can . . .’

Father O’Hanrahan looked carefully around him. ‘You can feel him, can’t you?’ he said. ‘He’s wanting that showdown I promised him.’

The policeman took the sword and pushed it firmly into his rucksack. As he was clipping it shut, he saw the old man move into the middle of the room. He was looking up, now, for the shards of
glass were dancing again, louder, and the noise they made could not be ignored.

Father O’Hanrahan held up his crucifix. ‘In the name of the Father,’ he said, firmly. ‘In the name of the Son. I command you . . . to leave this place.’

On the far side of the room his bottle of holy water stood on the sideboard, next to the whisky. He moved towards it and, as he did so, it broke apart and the water ran harmlessly over the
wood.

Father O’Hanrahan chuckled. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘That’s your game, is it? We’re having a stand-off are we? Well, you won’t get the next one, Vyner,
old chap! And you will not resist me, for I am here by the power that
no
spirit can resist. I am here by the Spirit—’

‘You’re not a priest!’ cried Ruskin, from the floor. He was craning his head to see what was going on, peering through his sellotape and spectacles. ‘You’re just a
crook and a fake.’

Father O’Hanrahan’s right hand was moving slowly to his satchel. His left held the crucifix high and he was turning in a circle, knowing the ghost was about to attack. He ignored
Ruskin and cried out again in his deepest register: ‘
In nomine Domini et in nomine Christus!
’

He loved to use Latin.

He remembered the pulpit vividly. He remembered the incense and the choir singing – he remembered the robes. His fall from grace had been swift and total, but the memory of the church was
still there. He opened his satchel and reached for the second bottle of holy water. He had three in all.

‘
In nomine Christus!
’ he cried again. ‘
Res mea, occupa – et exit in nomine Deus!
I, as a servant of the Lord, command you!’ He took a deep breath for
the climax, his confidence at its peak. Exorcism was all about showing strength. Ghosts would fight to distract you. They would try to terrify you. The secret was to be focused and remember that
you wielded ultimate power. He grinned in satisfaction as the glasses burst in the cabinet – as an armchair leaped backwards and the chimney wrenched itself free of the stove. Lord Vyner was
getting violent and that meant he was scared!

There was a vibration in the ground and he could hear the tinkling of little rock falls. All he had to do now was spray the holy water round the chamber and that would force the old ghost out,
once and for all. He would be sealed out – and a homeless ghost could be vanquished in seconds. He felt for the third bottle – it was entangled in some kind of foliage, so he delved
deeper, pushing it clear. He shook the satchel and pulled.

‘I say it again!’ he cried. ‘In the name of the Father!” He shook the satchel and pulled, and that was the moment Joe the scorpion decided he’d endured enough.
He’d been woken by the cold and was in the foulest of moods. The satchel was flapping open and rocking about – the light had scared him. Then a thumb had pushed him roughly to one side
and four fingers seemed to be scrabbling around in his nest. Using all the instincts he possessed, he backed into a corner and arched his tail. Then, as the hand continued to jostle him, he slammed
his sting right into the back of it. A spurt of poison followed, jolting into the vein – then Joe stabbed again and, clenching his pincers and closing his eyes, stabbed once more for
luck.

Father O’Hanrahan was rigid and silent.

‘Has he gone?’ said Cuthbertson.

The old man couldn’t speak.

‘Have you won, Father? Why the silence?’

Father O’Hanrahan staggered, swallowing. He pulled his hand out of his satchel and stared at it, unable to believe that pain could be so intense. He opened his mouth to scream, but no
sound would come. The worst thing was that the pain was increasing, as if some fuse had been lit and was igniting pain cells up his arm, and across his chest. It was as if his heart was pumping not
blood but some dreadful acid. He sank to his knees and felt his brain boiling. At last, he managed a whimper. Then a cry. Then at last, as the steam of the poison built its intolerable pressure, he
screamed. He screamed and screamed, and when the policeman and Gary ran to him and tried to hoist him back to his feet, he was violently sick and the screams turned into a terrible gurgling.