Beatrice Beecham's Cryptic Crypt

PROLOGUEUnlocking EvilThe shop has been in existence for over thirty years, its huge plate glass window a lidless eye gazing out upon an ever changing street. The window has watched a country turn into something quite unrecognisable—quite incomprehensible. Where there had once been chaos, there is now order. Where there had once been civilisation, there is now only brutality. This is a country that has lost its soul in a quest to find a heart. This is a country in the cold, unyielding grip of Nazi doctrine: cruelty in the name of order.This is Vienna, Austria, 1941.Vienna is now an extension of Nazi Germany, since its annexation by the German army in 1938. A climate of oppression is symbolised all around the plaza; the quiet streets, citizens exiled by the evening curfew. Huge flags are draped from the third floor window of the Heldenplatz; bent, black crosses encircled in white, and languishing on a field of blood red.Swastikas.These flags may flap lazily in the chilly Aus

CHAPTER TWOLobsters and Liberties‘Ah, Patience! Here is my little Princess of the Nile! How are you this fine morning?’Mr Khaldun Userkaf sipped his coffee, his dark eyes studying his daughter through the mist rising from the brim of his Pharaoh-shaped coffee mug. His sharp, angular features still carried the ghost of his youth and his broad smile was infectious.‘Morning, Poppa,’ Patience said as she tied her long, coal-dark hair into a ponytail. ‘Just a quick status update: I’m fifteen years old, we have no connection to royalty, and the Nile is filthy brown sludge that gives anyone who falls into it raging diarrhoea. You have plans today?’‘Of course,’ her father said, laughing at his daughter’s diatribe. ‘It’s Saturday, and I plan to do nothing!’‘That’ll be the day, Poppa.’Mr Userkaf was renowned for his staunch work ethic. He had been running his travel agency from out of Dorsal Finn for over three decades, and in that time no one in the village could remember him ever

CHAPTER FOURTeenage FBIThe enrolment phase was a swift affair helped by the incredible efficiency demonstrated by the members of The Blue Thunder Foundation. Shrugging off the melancholy air prevalent at the flagpole, the boys and girls—all in their early to mid-teens—were now inside the hut, a huge space painted in blue and white with a stage and lectern at one end. A Blue Thunder pennant secured to the wall spanned the stage, making an imposing backdrop.A series of small tables, numbered one to four, were manned by members of the foundation who made sure that, by the time an enrolee had worked their way to the last table, they were a member of the organisation, equipped with three sets of folded, cellophane-wrapped uniforms and a membership pack. The latter included Marcus’ much lauded Blue Bolt DVD and comic book.‘So what do you think, Beatrice?’ Patience said with a furtive grin.‘About what?’‘Marcus, of course,’ she said, forcing the tone out of her voice in case anyone

CHAPTER SIXThe TridentAt Dorsal Finn library, the metal box retrieved from the drop pod sat innocuously on the reception counter, subjected to the curious gaze of its six liberators.They had found out quickly that the lock on the box was unconventional: a circle with three holes, two at the top and one at the bottom, creating an inverted triangle.‘I could get an FBH from me van to open it,’ Dennis offered.‘FBH?’ Elmo asked. ‘Sounds major.’‘To you it means Flippin’ Big Hammer,’ Dennis laughed.‘Very major,’ Elmo concluded.‘Now, now, Dennis,’ Maud said. ‘We don’t want to be man-handlin’ the box an’ messin’ with its innards now, do we? Kid gloves are needed if we’re goin’ to make sure nothin’ that ain’t already broken stays that way. ’‘I guess so,’ Dennis said after some thought.Agnes was quiet and distant.‘What are ye thinkin’ Agnes?’ Maud asked.‘I can hear Klaus again,’ Agnes said. ‘He’s so faint but he’s there—that voice of his, strong and wilful. But I can’t und

CHAPTER EIGHTSeaside RendezvousThe pier had been a late addition to Dorsal Finn, a gift from the Pontefract family back in the 1960’s—a time when piers and ancient bands like The Beatles and The Who were popular. It was a thing of strange beauty. It’s black, wrought iron struts rising from the sea and climbing into impressive archways crowned with huge wooden slats, which supported a pavilion and a few small gift shops.Beatrice walked towards the pier, her eyes watching it grow as she drew closer, and as the elongated structure began to consume her horizon, so did the anxiety of meeting up with Marcus Macbeth. She’d tried to suppress it for most of the day, but now it was loose and hungry and baying for attention. Her heart thumped in her chest, her breathing felt shallow and useless, and when she saw his tall, regal figure—still clad in his smart Blue Thunder suit—standing at the railings, she faltered.‘Giddy goodness, get a grip of yourself,’ she cursed under her breath, her