“Rayne possesses superb story-telling skills…” US Mystery Guild
“A quality novel of supernatural power through the ages… Blending well-fleshed characters and a strong story…” Bradford Telegraph & Argos
The Devil’s Piper
On inheriting his grandfather’s tumbledown Irish cottage, adjoining the grounds of an ancient monastery, Isarel West discovers some old sheet music, composed by his grandfather – a notorious and scandalous composer from the 1930s.
The music is the almost-forgotten Devil’s Piper Suite, but when Isarel starts to play it, he has little idea of the sinister force at its heart… A force that brought tragedy to a twelfth century family of Italian violin-makers… A force that charmed a Tudor King three hundred years later, with shocking consequences… And a force that, as recently as the twentieth century, wove a dark and dreadful thread through 1940’s Berlin.
Isarel, in company with Brother Ciaran, whose Order has guarded the music’s secret for centuries, sets out to trace the dark legend to its source.
As they crossed the quadrangle he had the feeling that they were being watched, and he paused, holding his candle aloft, shielding it from the sighing night wind with one hand. But there was nothing to see except the Abbey’s own black shadows, and he turned back to where Cuthbert was unlocking the outer door of the tower.
The crypt stairs twisted round and down. They were dark and narrow, worn away at the centre, and Ciaran felt a shiver of awe at this evidence of age. As they went down, the feeling of being silently followed was very strong indeed.
Cuthbert said, in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘The tomb is over there, I believe. Directly ahead.’
‘I don’t think we’re going to miss it, Cuthbert.’
Ciaran looked about him at the shadowy crypt, the low archways of stone, the shelves of rock at the sides, and drew breath to frame a prayer. As he did so, Father Abbot’s hand came down on his arm.
There in front of them, shrouded in twisting darkness, was a crouching black bulk: a waist-high rectangle of dark stone, roughly eight feet in length and four or five feet wide.
The tomb of Ahasuerus.
Father Abbot said, softly, ‘They bound him to the grave with every symbol of light they could find and still he escaped.’
The light from the candles fell across the stone sepulchre, and horror lashed against the minds of the three men.
The immense stone lid had been pushed aside so that it lay at right angles to the elaborate sepulchre. Inside was a smaller, more conventional coffin: wooden and unexpectedly flimsy as if it might have been constructed hurriedly, in immense secrecy.
The wooden lid of the inner coffin had been flung aside, and a thin layer of linen lay discarded as if whatever had lain under it had pushed it aside and sat up.
The tomb was empty.