Wulf the Saxon: A Story of the Norman Conquest by G. A. Henty (top 100 novels of all time .txt) 📕

Corndell leaned forward. “You should be very interested in me–”

Gardener realised there was no stopping Corndell now, even if he wanted to. He had the microphone, and there was probably very little that could be done but let him have his finest hour. It would – after all – be his last, thought Gardener.

“Chaney was a true legend, Mr Gardener, and could only be admired. He was an inspiration, and I have taken his place: I am the modern-day master of the silver screen, the modern day ‘man of a thousand faces’. Or at least I would have been if your father and his friends hadn’t meddled. Who did they think they were? What right did they have to pass judgement on my masterpiece, to ruin my career? Well, let me tell you Mr Gardener, no r–”

Gardener cut him dead as he shouted, “If you’ve quite finished, I have no wish to stand here all night while you give me what you think will amount to your finest hour. I want to know where my father and my friend’s wife are. Now, if you don’t tell me in precisely ten seconds, I’m going to forget that I’m a police officer and fucking throttle you with my bare hands. Do you understand?”

Corndell burst out laughing. “Such language, Mr Gardener. I really don’t think your superiors would take kindly to that. I do have rights, you know.”

“His superior officer is having trouble with his eyes and ears at the moment,” said Alan Briggs, appearing in front of the curtain at the back of the warehouse. “And as for any rights, as far as I’m concerned, you gave up those when you started murdering people all over the city, and then decided to kidnap one of my officers’ wives.” Briggs glanced at Gardener. “So, you go right ahead, Stewart, do what you have to, so long as you get the information we need.”

Briggs walked slowly towards Gardener, who had never been more pleased to see him than now.

But where was Sean?

Briggs whispered to him. “He doesn’t have your dad, Stewart. He’s back at the station with a couple of junior officers. I left word with the desk sergeant to locate the rest of the squad and get them here, pronto.”

Gardener turned and glanced at Corndell. He wore a long dark cloak with one arm swept across his chest. Even his clothes were covered in dust for emphasis. The other arm was reaching to something that Gardener could not see because of a low-slung velvet drape.

“Where is she?” asked Gardener. “Your time is up.”

“How true that statement is, Mr Gardener,” said Corndell.

Gardener realised how much confidence Corndell had. You couldn’t do what he’d done without self-assurance. That thought alone was worrying, because right now, he was holding all the cards.

“You’ll find what you’re looking for inside. And by the way... best of luck.” Corndell pulled the rope behind the low-slung drape.

Two things happened.

Firstly, he disappeared behind the curtain. Secondly, the front doors of the opera house clicked open.

Chapter Fifty-five

The warehouse lights dimmed, leaving only those of the opera house for guidance.

“Right, forget that mad bastard for the moment,” said Briggs. “Let’s get inside and see what we have to do.”

Both men took the steps two at a time, and Gardener went through the door first. The inside was as magnificent as the outside, only much more disturbing.

They were in a graveyard. An earthy smell, and it being soft underfoot, told him that the maniac had used soil – and not for appearance. Peering into the distance, Gardener could make out a series of randomly scattered tombstones and, what he suspected were fake trees. On the extreme right and left of the building were in fact two shrines; on either side of the headstones were two angels staring down at the names on those headstones. A small amount of green coloured lighting added to the emotional scene. Other than that, there was very little light.

Gardener felt a breeze skate across the back of his neck, forcing him to shiver. He really didn’t like it at all.

“Jesus Christ!” whispered Briggs. “How does he think of all this?”

“He’s disturbed,” replied Gardener. “He doesn’t live in the same world we do. Everything about him tells you that.” He moved forward and bumped into something solid, causing him to curse. Whatever it was must have grazed his shin.

“Steady, Stewart,” said Briggs, before shouting, “he could have given us some fucking lighting to work with!”

Which is precisely what their host did.

Puzzled, Gardener glanced behind and noticed that he had bumped into a real tree stump. And that the headstones all around them contained names of all the people he knew: his father, the rest of the watch committee, even one for himself and Sean Reilly. The shrines bore the names of Corndell’s parents: Wallace and Betty.

Corndell junior had a very sick mind. His masterpiece confirmed it: the inside of the opera house was more unsettling than anything he’d ever seen.

Gardener turned around again as a noise diverted his attention. Two halogen lamps cut the darkness to reveal a round column, rising up from the graveyard, leading into the rafters up above.

Gardener peered upwards. Although it was dark, he could make out the top of the column, which had a small round base. Though he couldn’t swear to it, he thought he could see a pair of feet.

Chapter Fifty-six

Corndell chuckled to himself as he surveyed his handiwork from another arched box at the other side of the opera house. Two police officers completely out of their depth, unaware of the situation they were caught up in, and therefore unable to help. Something to which they were unaccustomed.

He turned, reached out and pulled a lever. The hum of an electric motor broke the silence.

Laughing even more, Corndell was