“One of our number,” Ernest continued, “is already dead. Another has been attacked. It was never the intention of our expedition to cause offence. We wanted only to share Zheng’s story.”

  “Perhaps,” Kun said mildly, “some stories are not meant to be shared.”

  Ernest sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. But tell me, Mr Kun, can the yaoguai be stopped? Can it be killed?”

  Kun turned his blind gaze upon Ernest—and for a moment Ernest felt as if the old man’s milk-white eyes were staring into his soul. “The weapons of man can wound it, and thus temporarily deflect it from its intended course, but they cannot kill it. The enchantments that surround the yaoguai are strong. They will quickly repair any physical damage that has been done to it.”

  “How then?” asked Ernest. “How can we stop it?”

  “You must fight magic with magic. You must first draw the yaoguai into a trap.”

  “What manner of trap?” Ernest asked.

  “The yaoguai will not rest until all those who plundered its master’s tomb have been destroyed.” The little man smiled as if amused by the news he was about to impart. “One of you must act as bait...”

  If he had been thinking logically, Richard would not have entered the house. But he was not thinking logically. He was overcome by fury, by the desire to avenge Sir Winston’s death.

  Limping slightly, he rushed through the front door and into the hall-way, scanning the debris of wood and glass scattered across the tiled floor, in the centre of which lay the crushed and mangled grandfather clock. Not even the sight of the devastation gave him pause for thought, however. Indeed, the evidence of such casual and wanton destruction only fuelled his rage still further. Despite Arthur’s account of how the creature he had encountered last night had shrugged off bullets as if they were pinpricks, he snatched up a spar of wood and rushed up the stairs.

  He had recognized the window that Sir Winston had fallen from as the one in his study, and reaching the top of the stairs, he saw that the door to that room had been smashed inwards, the bottom half still hanging on its hinges. From within came the snorting of what sounded like a wild animal, accompanied by shuffling movement and the crunching of debris underfoot. Richard began to move determinedly towards the room, but had taken no more than a couple of steps when a large black shadow spilled from within it, followed a moment later by the creature that had cast it.

  It was only when he saw the beast in the flesh that Richard realised how foolish he had been to think he could teach it a lesson. If this was a demon, there was nothing remotely otherworldly about it. On the contrary, it was all too real—a shaggy, powerful mass of muscles, tusks, and claws. The thing smelled of sweat and musk, and even from a distance Richard caught the stench of its hot, meaty breath as it opened its vast mouth and bellowed at him. He began to back slowly away. And then, as the creature first tensed on its haunches, then sprang towards him, he flung the spar of wood at it like a spear before bolting for the stairs.

  Hearing the yaoguai galloping along the landing behind him made him reckless, and instead of taking care on the stairs, as he usually did due to his injured leg, Richard plunged headlong towards the gap between the banisters, hoping to descend the steps two or three at a time. His right leg took the weight of his first downward step readily enough, but as soon as he put his weight on his left leg, a sharp pain shot through his thigh, the shock of which caused his knee to buckle beneath him.

  Unable to halt his momentum, he pitched forward. Bringing up his arms to protect his head, he felt the world spinning around him as he fell, felt his body buffeted by hard, sharp edges that struck him as vigorously as fists or clubs. The fall lasted only a few seconds, but by the time he came to rest, sprawled among the debris in the hallway, his head was ringing and his body felt bruised all over. Even so, a voice yammered in his mind, urging him to get up, to run for his life.

  Like a beached fish, he floundered, then flipped over, groaning in pain, on to his back. The yaoguai was descending the stairs on all fours, muscles rippling in its massive shoulders, taking its time as if it knew he was powerless. Groggy though he was, Richard tried to push himself to his feet, but found that his left leg was completely numb, and would not respond. Horror swept through him, although what really terrified him was the thought of how appalling it would be for Florence if, on the same day, she lost both her father and her fiancé. Yelling wordlessly, in the desperate hope that a show of anger might unsettle the yaoguai and cause it to flee, he began picking up chunks of wood and glass and hurling them at the creature.

  Projectiles bouncing off its hide as if they were no more substantial than soap bubbles, the yaoguai kept on coming. When it reached the bottom of the stairs, Richard closed his eyes and braced himself, hoping his death would be quick and painless. He tried to clear his mind, to blot out his senses as best he could. But he couldn’t blot out the sudden ear-splitting scream behind him.

  His eyes sprang open. Aware of movement on his right-hand side, he half-turned and was horrified to see Florence standing there, her clenched fists pressed to the sides of her head, staring in terror and disbelief at the yaoguai.

  “No,” Richard croaked, barely able to force the words from his throat. “It doesn’t want you, Florence. Run.”

  But Florence, eyes stretched wide, gave no indication she had heard him. She continued to stare in shock at the yaoguai, her body rigid.

  And all at once, Richard realised that the yaoguai too was standing as still as a statue. It appeared to be mesmerized by Florence—or perhaps it was her scream that had frozen it into immobility.

  Glancing at her again, Richard caught a glint of green at her throat, and suddenly it came to him. The yaoguai was not mesmerized by Florence, but by the jade green pendant at her throat!

  For the moment, at least, its attention had been diverted from him. He kicked out at a shard of wood close to his right foot, sending it scuttering along the floor, but the yaoguai showed not even a flicker of interest. Gripping his left thigh with both hands, Richard tried once again to rise to his feet, and this time, little by little, grimacing with pain all the while, he managed it.

  Still, the youguai didn’t move, not even when he limped towards a closed door that led off from the hallway. He opened the door, and entering a small sitting room, crossed immediately to a glass case on the wall above the fireplace, which he knew contained a pair of Sir Winston’s old army pistols. Opening the case, Richard lifted one of the pistols down, then crossed to a bureau and opened one of its drawers. Here was the ammunition, which Sir Winston kept “in case need of it should ever arise”. Richard loaded the pistol quickly, then moved back out into the hallway. Florence and the yaoguai were still frozen in place, transfixed by one another, albeit for entirely different reasons.

  With great deliberation, Richard raised the pistol, levelled it at the yaoguai’s face, and pulled the trigger. There was a bang, a flash, and a puff of smoke, and suddenly the spell was broken, the yaoguai shaking its head rapidly to and fro, as if stung on the snout. Richard fired again, and this time the yaoguai yelped in pain, its right eye filling with blood. To Richard’s astonishment, the creature suddenly transformed in front of his eyes, dissolving into a funnel of black smoke, which, as swift and lithe as an eel, shot up into the air above their heads, then whipped out through the gaping doorway.

  For a moment Richard stood with the gun still upraised, barely able to believe he was still alive. Then his arm dropped and the gun slipped from his nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor. He limped across to Florence and spoke her name.

  Her eyes were still fixed on the place where the yaoguai had been standing, but as he said her name for the second time they flickered towards him.

  “Richard?” she whispered.

  Then her face crumpled, and she fell sobbing into his arms.

  After he had said goodnight to the last of his fellow staff members, Ernest closed and locked the main door of the museum, then hurried to the delivery door at the side of the building. Opening it, he stepped out and gestured to the carriage across the street. The carriage door opened and two hefty-looking Chinese men stepped out. Behind them came Chang, dapper in a dark blue suit. He barked an order, and the two men leaned back into the carriage to aid the emergence of a stooped and frail, but smiling, Kun. The old man was wearing a simple black suit of Chinese design, and he hobbled towards Ernest with the aid of a walking stick. His guardians, hovering at his shoulders, matched him every step of the way, ready to spring forward should he stumble.

  “Thank you for coming,” Ernest said when Chang reached him. In contrast to the old man, Chang’s expression was set and stern, but he gave a small bow of acknowledgement. Ernest ushered the group into the building, then led them through a series of corridors and high-ceilinged rooms to the storage area at the back of the museum. Because of Kun’s lack of mobility, progress was slow, but although Ernest was anxious to begin the preparations, he was thankful for the company. Since his experience the previous evening, he had felt nervous and vulnerable whenever he had found himself alone in the building. He had no doubt that when the yaoguai deemed it was his turn to die, it would come for him regardless of whether he was on his own or in a crowd, but he still found comfort in being surrounded by his fellow human beings.

  When the group entered the room containing Zheng’s sarcophagus, Kun crossed to it immediately and placed the fingers of one gnarled hand on the blade of the sword nestled in the recess in the stone lid. The little Chinese man tilted his head to one side, looking for all the world like a doctor listening for a heartbeat. And then, apparently satisfied, he nodded and stepped back.

  Using a complex system of pulleys and levers, Ernest, Chang and the two muscular Chinese men spent most of the next hour manoeuvring the stone casket onto a wheeled trolley, which was then pushed into the centre of one of the museum’s wide colonnaded walkways. When the sarcophagus was in position, a wide circle of brass incense burners was set up around it, into each of which Kun lodged a number of incense sticks. When he lit the sticks, curls of red smoke began to rise from them, disappearing into the shadows above, and a sweet, pungent scent filled the air. Although the incense burners had been evenly placed, Ernest noted that there was a break in the circle, opposite the foot of the sarcophagus, creating a natural doorway. Here, he supposed, was where the yaoguai would enter the arena when the time came.

  He was contemplating this thought when Kun appeared at his side.

  “All is ready,” the old man said with a beaming smile. “Now our trap lacks only the bait.”

  “And how is Florence now?” Arthur asked.

  Richard sighed and leaned back in his seat, trying to relax as much as he was able inside a carriage that was bouncing over cobbles and lurching through potholes in the road. He had just finished recounting that afternoon’s terrible events, and now he felt exhausted. He knew, though, that there was more—and possibly worse—yet to come, and that very soon he would have to find renewed energy to face it. The feeling, he thought ironically, was not unlike that of being a soldier once again.

  “She is...as well as can be expected,” he said. “Dr Mapling has given her something to help her sleep after the traumas of the day.”

  Arthur nodded gravely, aware that those traumas would still be there for Florence to face when she woke up.

  “And what of your own family?” Richard asked.

  “I hope I have done enough to move them out of harm’s way. They are staying with Hettie’s sister in Brighton.”

  “George too?” asked Richard.

  Arthur gave a wry smile. “George is as brave as a lion, and was loath to leave me. But in the end I persuaded him that his departure was for the best.”

  The carriage began to slow. Richard pulled back the curtain to look out of the window, and saw the familiar row of massive stone columns standing sentinel at the entrance to the British Museum. He took a long deep breath, then turned to Arthur.

  “We are here,” he said.

  Feeling oddly as though he were introducing guests at a garden party, Ernest said, “This is Mr Chang and Mr Kun.”

  “How do you do?” said Richard, shaking hands with Chang, and responding to Kun’s bow with a self-conscious bob of his head. Arthur greeted the two men politely but perfunctorily, and then asked, “So what happens now?”

  He was eyeing the sarcophagus and the circle of incense burners as he voiced his question, not exactly suspiciously but clearly with trepidation.

  “Mr Kun has said we must fight magic with magic,” Ernest said.

  Arthur frowned. “How?”

  “That does not concern you,” Kun replied, his gentle smile a contrast to the dismissive nature of his words.

  “Does it not?” said Arthur, bridling. “May I ask, then, what purpose we serve in being here?”

  “We are here to focus the yaoguai’s attention on this location. Besides which”—Ernest grimaced—“one of us must act as bait.”

  “Bait?” Richard repeated, taken aback.

  “To entice the yaoguai,” explained Kun happily.

  There was silence as Richard and Arthur digested the information, then Arthur said bluntly, “I will do it.”

  Immediately Richard protested. “Out of the question. It should be me.”

  Arthur laughed. “You are young, my dear chap. You have too many good years ahead of you.”

  “And you have a family. A wife and children who rely on you. I have no such dependents.”

  “You have Florence,” Arthur said. “And she has lost too much already.”

  Before Richard could respond, Ernest cleared his throat. In an unhappy voice, he said, “I have no dependents at all.”

  Arthur and Richard looked at him, then Arthur placed a hand on Ernest’s shoulder.

  “If you believe that makes your life less worthwhile than either of ours, you are mistaken. There is no need for you to volunteer for this task, Ernest.”

  Ernest scowled. “On the contrary, there is every need! I won’t pretend that the prospect does not terrify me, but I won’t be disregarded on that basis.”

  Arthur laughed. “Very well. Then of course you shall be considered. But how shall we decide?”

  “We should draw lots,” said Richard. “Mr Chang, will you do the honours?”

  Chang had been following the proceedings without comment, but now he nodded. He snapped one of three spare incense sticks in half, then turned away from the group. When he turned back, only the tips of the sticks were protruding from his fist.

  “Ernest?’ Arthur said, raising his hand in an “after you” gesture.

  Ernest stepped forward and nervously selected the stick on the left. It slid out from Mr Chang’s fist, complete and intact. Ernest’s eyelids fluttered briefly and he took a step back.

  Now Arthur stepped forward. Without hesitation he chose what had been the middle stick before Ernest had made his selection. It had been broken in half. Arthur nodded in something close to satisfaction.

  “It is decided then,” he said.

  “So it would seem,” said Richard ruefully. He offered the older man his hand. “Good luck, Arthur.”

  Arthur reached out in response, whereupon, so swiftly it was almost a blur, Richard’s hand clenched into a fist and he delivered a perfect uppercut to his friend’s jaw. Arthur’s head snapped up, his eyes rolled back into his head and he hit the floor with a seemingly boneless thump.

  “How is he?” Richard asked anxiously, massaging his bruised fist.

  Chang was already kneeling beside Arthur’s motionless body. “He is unconscious, but breathing.” He looked at Richard and raised an eyebrow. “Most impressive.”

  “I was an army boxing champion for two years until I was invalided out. Added to which, Arthur was not expecting the blow.”

  Ernest had been looking on, aghast, but now he found his voice. “What did you do that for?”

  “Arthur has a family. He has far more to lose than either of us.” Turning towards Kun, who was standing on the periphery of the group, wearing his usual benign expression, Richard asked, “Tell me, Mr Kun, what must I do?”

  As Ernest and Chang dragged Arthur to the side of the room, Kun gave Richard his instructions. The young man listened intently, nodding every now and again. At last he straightened and glanced at Ernest. “Wish me luck, my friend.”

  “I do,” said Ernest, “for all our sakes.”

  Richard took a deep breath to compose himself, and then strode towards the sarcophagus. As he lifted the sword almost reverently from its recess, Kun entered the circle, stood to one side and began to chant, almost to sing, his voice a high, childlike wail. Ernest spoke Mandarin and Cantonese passably well, but he couldn’t interpret Kun’s words; they seemed ancient and arcane. To the accompaniment of the old man’s incantation, Richard gripped the handle of the sword with both hands, then raised it up in front of him, point down. He paused a moment, then struck the marble floor with the tip of the sword, once, twice, three times. The sound was sharp, like a hammer striking an anvil, and seemed to ring throughout the building.

  She could not stop sobbing. The love of her life was gone. She knelt beside his stone tomb, swathed in white mourning robes. Barely able to speak through her tears, she murmured the words of the holy writings, giving thanks for the life of her husband, and for his honourable death. When she was done, she rose shakily and approached the open casket, the stone lid of which was propped against the wall behind him. His sword, embedded in its recess, stood proudly upright, its blade gleaming.

  She looked down into her husband’s face, which was serene in death. She leaned forward and kissed his cold cheek, and then she removed the jade pendant from around her neck and placed it in his folded hands.