The members quickly finished their drinks and proceeded to the dressing rooms to change into their garb. A whole section of the building was devoted to row upon row of private cubicles, each containing a personal locker where the initiate kept his long, black hooded ceremonial robe, the bird-beaked mask that covered his expressions of delighted blood-lust during the ritual, and any other personal effects he chose to store there. Some of the members liked to snort a little cocaine or methamphetamine, to enhance their enjoyment of the evening still further. Do as thou wilt, their founder would have said approvingly.

Soon afterwards, the robed and masked crowd emerged from the house. The long line of dark figures moved in solemn procession down the moonlit lawn towards the lakeside, where they assembled in orderly fashion and silently waited for the ritual to begin. Across the water, the wooded island was all in darkness. When the first flash of fire lit up the trees, the chanting echoed across the lake.

The night was about to begin in earnest.

‘Where are we going?’ wheezed Bartholomew Van Brakel as Fitz hurriedly ushered him through the corridors and passageways. They were making slow progress. Karswell Hall was built on a grand scale, and the old man couldn’t move fast enough. His cane tapped and scratched on the floor as he hobbled along, and his breathing was laboured. It wasn’t just his liver that was failing. Every organ of his worn-out old body was gradually breaking down. He frequently had to pause for breath, forcing Fitz to bite his tongue in frustration and wait for him to move on again. They should have been out of here already.

‘We need to make for the rear exit,’ Fitz said as Van Brakel stopped yet again to catch his breath. ‘It’s just a short walk from there to the meadow at the back of the house.’

Van Brakel spluttered a moment longer, and gasped, ‘I can’t go that far. Do you want me to collapse and die?’

‘Please, sir, you must try.’

‘This is ridiculous. The car is closer. Why aren’t we going back to the car?’

Fitz carried a spare set of keys to the Rolls and could have opted to make their escape that way. He replied, ‘Too dangerous, sir. People like these might easily plant a bomb inside your car, or ambush us as we drive out of the gates. They could just be waiting to shoot us before we even got in.’

But Fitz had already anticipated every possible scenario and wouldn’t have come here without an alternative means of escape. While he gave the old man a moment to rest he pulled out his phone and hit a preset number. ‘Salter? This is Saunders. You’re needed. Get over here now.’