John Schettler - Fallen Angels - 9 Days Falling, Volume II

“But you’ll not forget the churchyard,” Mary persisted. “It’ll need your blessing for certain, Rector. For what I heard this night had little respect for the dead, no matter how many lordships and ladies may sleep in those graves.”

“In a little while,” the Rector placated her with a calming gesture of his hand. “Looks like the rain may ease a bit after midnight. Then I’ll go and have a look if it will set your mind at ease. After that it’s off home with you. I’ve an early day tomorrow.”

The rector gave a reassuring nod and went on his way, down the long cold hallway to the cloak room so he could throw on a warm wool overcoat. The things I do in the tending of my sheep, he thought. Old Mary is getting a bit daft these days. She’s taken to keeping odd hours in the chapel, fitfully watching that graveyard as though she had an appointment to keep there soon. Don’t we all, he thought. Yet the cold rain on his cheeks and the bite of the wind made him feel alive when he was finally out the door and headed over to the chapel.

He stood for a moment, looking at the iron fence around the churchyard, and thinking of the man who was laid to rest there. Ah, Winston, you were a man for your time. The world was falling into the inferno of the Second World War and you were there to catch it and hold the damn thing up on your shoulders like Atlas. What would have come of Western civilization without a man like Churchill to keep watch with his steely resolve and bull headed perseverance?

He went in through the side entrance to the chapel, listening, as though he thought he might hear the wail of a demon, but all was calm and quiet, save the quiet stippling of the rain on the roof as the storm abated. It was just daft old Mary, he thought. He’d best get back to her and see her off to her cottage in the village.

But it wasn’t daft old Mary…It was Ian Thomas and his drill, and even as the Rector finished up and was making his way back along the gleaming wet cobblestone walkway, collar pulled high against the wind, a few yards beneath his feet Ian Thomas was creeping silently through the long tunnel he had dug, a night stalker making off with his ill gotten gain.

Stalking through history, he thought to himself as he reached the end of his narrow tunnel, slipping up the ladder and up through the floor boards of the cottage he had rented for just this little mission. He shivered, glad to be out of that long damp passage and back in a room that promised some warmth. But he had it now, the canister was well packed with enough ash to fulfill the Duke’s purpose nicely enough.

Ian held up the sealed metal container, smiling. “Begging your pardon, Sir Winston,” he said aloud with a grin. “I wouldn’t be one to pilfer a man’s grave, but the pay is so good that I could do nothing else. My, my… you don’t look nearly as imposing sitting here in my metal jar—not at all like that towering figure you were in your day, champion of the West; bulwark of the British Isles. Look at you now…”

The edge of his lips was already tipped up in a devious smile, and that look of profound satisfaction was settling onto his features as he contemplated his reward. All he had to do now was retrieve his drilling equipment and shovel, and fill in the hole again. No one would be the wiser. Then it would be off to see the Duke. There would be the usual rigmarole, of course—the DNA testing, the weighing and measuring of the sample, but he knew he would satisfy on both counts. Then he would hear the same old litany again, that he was not to breath a word of this to any living soul. Well of course not! Who would believe it?

Then his favorite part… the check, the million pounds tucked neatly away in his jacket pocket. This little caper was going to make his life very comfortable for the foreseeable future. Nine days of back-breaking work, a little stealth and imagination, and he was a wealthy man. Now he had the rest of his life to spend that money, and he was already thinking just what he would want to buy first.

But he did not know then that the rest of his life could be very, very brief. For the world was digging its own little tunnel at that moment—nine days on the journey to hell.

And it was already Day Five.

He was standingby the tapestry, admiring the loom and color of the piece, and the exquisite artistry of the crest woven above his house coat of arms. Sir Roger Ames, Duke of Elvington, was also listening carefully to the account of his acquisitions agent, just back from Bladon where he had been working the operation under St Martin’s church. The Duke was the latest appointment to the peerage, with lands and estates in the County of York. There had not been a Duke outside the Royal Family for generations, and so the appointment was a rare privilege, but then again Sir Roger Ames was accustomed to rarity and privilege, and had come to expect as much in all walks of life. Now he was assuring himself that a certain matter he had commissioned was completed to his satisfaction.

“And sir,” the agent continued, “I can report that the operation was a complete success. The sample has been recovered, and with more than sufficient quantity, and the access has been resealed to a depth of six feet.”

“Not the whole of it?” the Duke questioned.

“Six feet has proven to be more than enough in prior circumstances, your Grace.”

“Yes, well that might do on foreign soil, Mr. Thomas, good for the tunnel work in Egypt I suppose, but this is the homeland we’re speaking of. Can you assure me this won’t make news one unfortunate morning with something on the order of a sink hole?” The Duke wasn’t really concerned about it, but pretended nonetheless. There wasn’t time to be worried. There were only four days remaining.

“Oh, most assuredly not, sir. All the reinforced wood work remains in place. There should be no trouble of the sort. In fact, I would venture to say the ground is stronger now than before. Remember that I was able to use that utility tunnel to get a good deal of the way. Otherwise I could never have completed a tunnel of that length in just nine days. The rest has been very well sealed.”

“Won’t it erode?”

“In time, sir, but the cavity is likely to simply fill up with rain water, which will give the whole scene the appearance of a natural aquifer if ever uncovered.”

The Duke gave him a dubious glance, indicating that he simply didn’t buy that argument, but the man didn’t seem prepared to quibble the point further.

“Sufficient quantity, you say?”

“Seven pounds, your Grace—that’s two pounds beyond the normal delivery specification. Quite adequate.”

“Quite,” said the Duke. “And certification?”

“Everything is in order, sir. DNA testing has come back double plus to the good. I have the lab reports right here with me as part of the delivery.”

“Very well,” said the Duke, turning now to regard the man he had been speaking to for the first time. Ames was a tall man, straight back, impeccable deportment, a thin twirl of a mustachio beneath a well used face, yet the lines there had given him a stately expression, haughty yet deepened with hint of hidden wisdom, the eyes dark and yet soft in their regard and lit with the confidence of intelligence. He was a man who had seen enough of the world to know the difference between good times and bad. And times were good on the Elvington Estate just now. Very good.