Phaeton scratched his head. “I’ve read an accounting of this tale. Didn’t they pay a ransom to the fisherman who salvaged the barge?”
“A bloody fortune.” Flipping through more notes, Exeter set the file down. “Details regarding the obelisk’s installation is where the story gets muddy.” He picked up a pair of spectacles and hooked an armature over each ear. “Ah, here it is. When the monolith was being readied for installation, two sarcophagi were found laying in the sand beside it. As much as I have been able to piece together, an accident happened. One of the stone caskets was broken and discarded.”
Phaeton remembered standing near the obleisk, and Director Fyfe’s words. “I’m guessing they used the damaged one to help fill-in the sinkholes along the embankment.”
“Ah, you know about those.” Exeter nodded. “And a likely postulate. I have not been able to trace the second, intact, sarcophagus. The British Museum claims to have no records of its existence. I’m afraid the reliquary may have ended up in a private collection.”
“The significance of the broken sarcophagus, I assume, deals with its unusual contents?”
Exeter nodded. “It is my theory that each one held the remains of a god.”
Phaeton took a moment to compare remarks. So far, nearly all of Exeter’s conjecture confirmed Ping’s vision. His gaze wandered over instruments as odd as the man beside him. “I am greatly relieved to know we’re not chasing after the usual riffraff.”
“Avatar or vampire, whichever you chose. My assumption is her ancient remains long ago turned to dust.” The doctor slumped a bit. “Something must have occurred to reawaken such a dangerous Mesopotamian witch.”
Phaeton absently scanned the lab. “I thought she was Egyptian?”
“All gods emerged from the confluence of two rivers, the Tigris and Euphrates.”
“Even the Greeks?”
Exeter glowered. “Particularly the Greeks.”
The lull in conversation was broken by the sound of bubbling test tubes. Phaeton rubbed his temples. “How does one go about eliminating a goddess?”
“Perhaps the best we can do is encourage her to move on.”
He frowned. “Pass the problem along to another century, perhaps?”
“One step at a time, Mr. Black. First we must destroy her current nest and force her to move on—seek new refuge.”
A shadow moved across the windows. Phaeton was aware of something or someone in the room with them. He nearly jumped off the stool at the sight of a tall ebony-skinned gentleman. The striking fellow wore stark white pajamas and copious amounts of translucent, colored beads around his neck and wrists.
“Oom Asa, would you and your guest care for some tea or other refreshment?” Such a gentle tone of voice from the imposing character.
Exeter turned to Phaeton. “When at home, I take afternoon tea with Mia. Hot chocolate and biscuits. I sweeten mine with a spot of crème de menthe.” The man actually winked. “Please join us.”
“Here we are. 21 Shaftsbury Court.” America no sooner recited the address when Detective Moore experienced a spasm of coughing.
“Are you all right?” She patted his back.
Moore had flagged down her cab as it turned out of Scotland Yard and insisted on seeing her safely home. Now, sitting beside her with a rosy red flush surging up his neck, the man seemed positively distressed. “Are you quite sure—”
“I work here, Mr. Moore.” She had a good idea what he must be thinking. “Not for Mrs. Parker, but for Mr. Black.”
“Mrs. Parker?” The man wrenched his neck to loosen his cravat.
Was the poor man going to try to feign ignorance? After 10 Downing and 4 Whitehall, Mrs. Parker’s was the most recognized address in town. Well, infamous, anyway.
She grinned. “You must come in for tea, and I will not take no for an answer.” On their way through a near empty house, they chanced upon several ladies in the hall who greeted Mr. Moore by name.
“I say, this is embarrassing.” The man mumbled as she led the way downstairs trying very hard not to release a bubble of laughter that seemed determined to leak out.
“M-miss Jones”—he sputtered—“this not a proper situation for a young lady.”
“Proper? When the warehouse burned down, and I was left without income or shelter, Mr. Black plucked me out of the Night Home, offered decent employment and a room of my own.”
“No matter how well intentioned, it looks—”
“Whose looks, Mr. Moore? The refined, gently bred people of London who left me to fend for myself on the street?” Fists on her hips, she did her best to flatten him with a glare. “If you lost everything—a loving parent, your every worldly possession, and your livelihood—tell me, how much would you care about how things look?”
Shoulders hunched, he sighed. “Sorry to sound like such a prig. Please forgive me.”
She studied glistening, vulnerable blue eyes. “Do you take cream and sugar in your tea?”
“A spot of cream.” Mr. Moore swallowed. “You work for Phaeton Black as ... ?”
“His housekeeper and that is all.” She unpinned her hat. “You appear to be well acquainted with the companionship available above stairs.” She eyeballed him. “There are a dozen women who would jump at the opportunity to be of assistance to Mr. Black.”
Odd that her own remark would cause a pang of... what was that?
Mr. Moore moved closer. “If you would allow me, I could arrange for more suitable lodging—”
“I suggest you concentrate on my stolen ships and allow me to handle Mr. Black.” America set the kettle back on the stove to hide a grin. “Although, I do confess the man is a Lothario, at times.”
The glowering agent settled into a chair at the table. “Lothario? I’d say libertine, adulterer, profligate debaucher is more like it.”
“Dex, since when have you taken a liking to me?”
Chapter Ten
P
HAETON DESCENDED THE REMAINING STAIRS
. “I’d say debaucher is something of an improvement. Up from raving mad at the very least. Have you forgiven me?”
Detective Moore shifted in his chair and delivered a glare just short of daggers. “Good afternoon, Phaeton.”
A year ago, Phaeton had wooed a vivacious, willing widow right out from under Dexter’s amorous designs. He then had enjoyed a rather rambunctious love life with the lady until a very rich lord proposed and she accepted. Within a month’s time, she was married and whisked off to a country estate. But not before she returned to Phaeton for one last liaison. The remembrance caused a smile, which deepened the scowl from Moore. Ever since their falling-out, neither man had made much effort at civility.
America set another place at the table.
“I’ve had my tea, Miss Jones. A glass of whiskey, please, if you don’t mind?” He shed his coat and took a seat at the table. “So, Dex, how goes the investigation?”
“Very well, indeed. With the help of Miss Jones, I may have one of the culprits behind bars soon enough.”
Phaeton inhaled whiskey fumes before taking a swallow. “Tell me more.”
Moore leaned forward. “Two ships of suspicious registry put in recently at different ports—one anchored off Portsmouth and the other is dry-docked in Millwall. Tomorrow morning, I plan to locate the original records naming Charles Gardiner Jones, principal of The Star of India Trading Company, as owner of the vessels. Miss Jones assures me that when the time comes, she will be able to identify her father’s ships beyond a doubt.”
America beamed. “I am to pay a visit to the sail maker’s shop, as well as Matthew Brothers, dry dock repair. Patched up nearly all of our vessels at one time or other. They will surely be able to identify their handiwork.”
“Sworn statements will be taken to help fortify Miss Jones’s claim.” Moore’s self-satisfied grin widened as his gaze met hers.
Phaeton smacked the empty whiskey glass down on the table. “Out of curiosity, what is your plan, Dex, for boarding and searching these vessels in order to identify them as stolen?”
“I intend to press for a warrant.”
“If the ships are currently registered to another country, a warrant will take time.” Phaeton scoffed. “With no legal authorization to hold them, they’ll up anchor.”
He narrowed his gaze on Moore. “I suspect you will have to go in undercover. How exactly might that be done without placing Miss Jones in danger?”
“I assure you she will be safe with me.” He stood up. “Thank you for tea, Miss Jones. I shall keep you apprised by wire of my progress with your registration papers.”
Shrugging into his coat, Moore removed his hat from the rack. “And what about you Phaeton? Have you given any thought at all to what is best for Miss Jones, living here, in this situation?”
Phaeton slouched against the chair rails. “Miss Jones is comfortable here, if I am not mistaken. Are you not Miss Jones?”
“I did advise Agent Moore that I am satisfied with my circumstances.” She picked up the empty teacups.
“There, you see? Miss Jones is as safe with me as you, Agent Moore.”
A thin grimace creased the man’s face. “Like to believe that.” He headed for the stairs.
“Oh, Dex?”
The man paused a moment, and turned back. “What is it, Phaeton?”
“Layla was asking after you when I came in this evening.”
The detective’s eyes darted across the room to Miss Jones, who was otherwise occupied washing up dishes.
“Something about a bit of lolly for the old tosser.” Phaeton couldn’t help the grin. Really, he couldn’t.
Moore issued a shriveling scowl and bound upstairs two steps at a time.
The man had just met Miss Jones and was already possessive of his lovely housekeeper. Phaeton could not fathom a clue why he found this disclosure so disturbing. He glanced over her way. She wore the attractive emerald green dress with the plaid overskirt. One after another, several clean plates were placed on the washboard to drain. She caught him admiring her backside.
Her smile, while always pretty, seemed a bit thin. “Please don’t torture Mr. Moore. He has been very kind, and he happens to be the only man by my side at the moment.”
“That’s horribly unfair and untrue.” He stood up and moved in close. Gently he rubbed against her bustle. “I am behind you all the way, miss.”
She turned around, eyebrows drawn, lips in a bow. “Yes, but you’re rather busy what with all this chasing about after a—
déesse qui suce le sang. Créature de vampire maraudant le Strand—
”
“Slowly,
lentement, mademoiselle.
” He found her eruption of French temperament stimulating. “You are very pretty when you are cross, but rather difficult to understand.” He bent his head to make eye contact. “Try to keep me informed, and I shall do my very best to be of assistance on your case against the pirates.”
She sighed. “Do you mean this
, monsieur
?”
“I rarely say anything I don’t mean.” He picked up her apron and dried her hands. They stood face to face and wonderfully close. “Now, I don’t suppose you’ve had time to make supper?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Black.”
“If you promise to read the
Kama Sutra
tonight, I shall take you out to dinner.” Reaching around her waist, he untied the strings.
“The Cheshire Cheese offers fresh oysters and a baked fish most every Friday night.” Eyes brighter, she tilted her chin.
“Mmm, very delectable.” His gaze never left her mouth, the lips devastatingly pouty this evening. “I believe I lied to Detective Moore. You are not
entirely
safe with me, Miss Jones.”
At the edge of the rooftop, Phaeton opened the case holding the Eye of Horus and shook the jar. The small creature sprang to life, gamely bashing itself against the curved walls of the glass container.
He could hardly imagine what kind of sorcery propelled the odd little pest rattling around inside the jar. Even though the netherworld was close for him, it remained elusive, out of his scope. To wake, in the dead of night, with a succubus heavy on his chest. Attend a gala event, laughing among friends as a demon’s whisper shushed over his cheek. These were experiences he both tolerated and hid from the natural world.
After many years, he had learned to focus at the outside corners of his eyes. This way he could keep a watch over the fey creatures. Gargoyles with translucent wings and long slithering tails lurked in the dim shadows of his vision. Phaeton sighed, remembering a time when these shifts in awareness caused his spine to tingle. That didn’t happen much anymore.
He had slogged on alone with these unusual visitations since childhood. The opium helped. Drifting along in a cloud of insensibility deadened the racing thoughts. Other times, he actually baited the green fairy to appear.
Phaeton settled himself against a chimney stack and waited for Exeter to set up a wooden tripod and attach some sort of biocular telescope. Quite unexpectedly, he had found a possible mentor, and he hungered for answers. It was rare enough to discover a human being with genuine gifts. London was filled to the brim with occult charlatans. Scads of crystal ball readers, séance holders, and sundry mesmerizers, all courting an easily deceived, zealous clientele. But Dr. Exeter, it seemed, possessed a number of quite astonishing gifts. A man of science and metaphysics. Rare, indeed.
A blanket of grey cloud cover hung over the jagged rooflines along the Embankment. Phaeton’s perusal ended on the austere silhouette of the obelisk guarded by a bronze sphinx. A rise in pulse hinted at the mysteries he might uncover this evening.
Peering through the eyepieces, Exeter adjusted the instrument. “Mist rising from around the obelisk.”
“Do we have a goddess on the hunt?”
“I believe so.” The doctor straightened.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what’s to stop our little orb from following after its mistress?”
“Exactly why we will give her time to venture off.”
While they waited, Phaeton ticked off their level of preparedness. The metropolitan police had a squadron of men stationed near the theatre ready to be called into service at a moment’s notice. Once he and the doctor found and destroyed the nest, they would need the extra officers as well as the fire brigade on hand.
“Loose our pigeon, Mr. Black.”
Phaeton adjusted his pair of red-tinted goggles before opening the jar. The flying nuisance bolted out of the container and hovered for an instant before swooping down along the river. It took both sets of eyes and Exeter’s vision enhancing instruments to keep up with the fluttering little orb.
“I can’t see anything but a trail of vapor.” Phaeton followed a trace of shimmering glow as it flew circles around the obelisk. “I don’t believe it. The damn thing can’t find a way in.”
A glowing red tail dashed over pavement and wiggled around the head of a sphinx before its peculiar homing device abruptly rose high into the air. Hovering at nearly the height of the monument, it took a dive toward the water and disappeared. Phaeton noted the approximate spot using a nearby lamppost as a marker.
They waited a moment to see if the eye would reappear. Nothing.
Exeter turned and leapt across the rooftops of several buildings and waited. “No time like the present.” Phaeton took a deep breath. With each jump his racing heart rate slowed until he followed after the man with relative ease.
Both of them landed safely on the ground. “You are showing improvement, Mr. Black.”
“I’d rather not think about it.” Phaeton glanced around the alley. “Where’s the petrol?”
The doctor nodded to a row of dustbins. Phaeton retrieved both cans, handing one off.
Side by side, they sprinted for the river, carefully searching along the water’s edge for any sign of the little drone. Just east of the needle, Phaeton stopped at a gas lamp. “This is where the eye dropped out of sight.”
He leaned well over the embankment railing. “Nothing but a grotty old barge tie-up and a storm drain.” His gaze once again traveled over the retaining wall to an iron grate covering the flood control channel. “We’re going to need a rope.”
Exeter peered over the edge and studied the opening. “There’s a manhole not far from here. I rooted about down there a week ago. There will likely be some sort of access to the storm drains from below.”
Phaeton dropped down into the sludge of the sewer and waited for the doctor to lower the cans of petrol. He removed a cylindrical metal object from his coat pocket.
Having no need for ladder rungs, Exeter landed beside him. “What is that?”
“You’re not the only one with gadgets, doctor.” Phaeton toggled the switch. “An experimental torch, compliments of Scotland Yard. Runs off dry cell batteries.” He banged the apparatus in his palm and a strong circle of light illuminated the tunnel. “Ah, there we are.”
Exeter motioned him forward. “Lead on, Mr. Black.”
Slogging southward, they came to a T connection not two hundred feet from the Thames. Phaeton pivoted right, then left. “Any guess as to which way?”
A deep, howling moan echoed in answer. He flashed the beam and lit up the doctor’s face. He suspected his own eyes were as bright as Exeter’s—the thrill of danger and what not.
“No doubt she’s left apparitions here and there to terrify intruders; it’s best to go quickly now.” The doctor nodded toward the river. “Try this passage.”
They found a walkway, more like a narrow ledge, which allowed them to jog slowly alongside a trench of sewer sludge. The growls and moans continued to emanate up and down the tunnel, conveniently chasing off a few rats in their way. When the unearthly howls finally quieted, it was the silence that seemed unnatural.
Phaeton directed the torch over a crumbling patch of rock and debris. “Blimey.”
A gaping breach in the sewer wall. Huge, irregular chunks of mortar and stone partially blocked the way ahead. Exeter sprang up onto one of the larger blocks to get a better look through the opening.
He turned toward Phaeton and gave him an assist up. Beyond the crevice, the light beam revealed a good-sized chamber, filled with sand and odds bits of carved stone.
“Hieroglyphs.”
“The lair?
“Either that or close to it.”
Phaeton was the first to climb into the opening. He dropped down into a soft bed of dry earth and waited for Exeter. Slowly, he swept the torch into each dark corner until he settled on the stone ruins in the middle of the space.
The doctor landed beside him.
“Now what?”
Exeter moved forward cautiously. “If I am not mistaken, the nest is straight ahead.”
With every step, sand shifted underfoot. Carefully circling the remains of a stone coffin, Phaeton peered into the open sarcophagus. Nothing but a clean, dry bed of earth inside. “Not a glamorous abode for an ancient goddess. No wonder she’s prickly.” The torchlight flickered over a makeshift stone shelf. A row of glass jars and crockery lined up like a column of soldiers.