Detective Moore sputtered out his agreement.
America studied the more punctilious man. “I find it peculiar, Mr. Moore, that you never met with my father regarding the piracy of his ships. As I recall, he made several trips to Number 4 Whitehall to report his suspicions.”
Moore flipped through a number of files. “There are no records of any interviews, but then I recently took over this investigation.” A hardened expression turned vulnerable as he met her gaze. “The agent working on this case went missing months ago, Miss Jones. He is presumed dead.”
Phaeton stepped off the train and onto the platform. An engraved placard of a hand with an outstretched index finger pointed the way toward the Underground lift.
P-s-s-st. A draft of steam and a gust of wind whipped through the station. Phaeton glanced over his shoulder as he followed foot traffic up a narrow tunnel plastered with handbills.
A prickly, spine-tingling sensation coursed down his spine as he became aware of a figure trailing behind him. Pivoting on his heel, he swung around to confront—nothing. He scanned the station searching through the crowd of commuters. Imaginary? He thought not; he sensed something, someone.
“Phaeton.”
There, in the corner, a slender man dressed in black emerged from the shadows to stand beside a match peddler. Julian Ping.
Phaeton dodged a few bustling pedestrians. “Hello, Ping. Thought we were to meet in the park.”
“Turned out to be a lovely day topside.” With the dark spectacles off, one could plainly see why the young man needed protection from the sun. “Easier this way. No need to cover up.” Pale skin, silver eyes, nearly colorless, even in the dim light of the tube station. Exotic, liquid mercury orbs framed by dark lashes. Sable hair, pulled straight back and clasped tightly at the back of the head. No. Ping was decidedly not albino. He was ...
“Immortal, potent energy.”
Phaeton leaned closer.
“No ordinary fiend is stalking the Strand. You are dealing with the remnants of a divine being’s corpse. Relic dust and champagne.”
He cocked his head and squinted. “Sorry. Did you say relic dust and champagne?”
“In-between matter. To the naked eye, one sees nothing but darkness. The substance, in-between other substance.” Ping raised both hands and bounced a small, sparkling ball of violet energy between his palms. “But in a vision, she leaves a trace of sparkling effervescence.”
“Yes, I believe I have a bit of in-between matter in this satchel.” Phaeton lifted the bag.
Ping closed his hands in prayer, and lowered his voice. “Gods, reanimated. An ancient form newly risen, with hardly any control.” The wan young fellow backed away.
He considered the message. “Thank you, Julian—oh yes, and Jin.” He tipped his bowler. “So much simpler to call you Ping. Where is she today?”
Ping tilted his chin and swept a leisurely glance up his body. “Aroused, as usual, to see you, Phaeton.” The young man drifted close, then angled away.
He rolled his eyes and called after the solitary figure. “Not Jin—the immortal she-devil.”
An echo of feminine, flirty voice trailed after Ping as he headed back toward the platform. “Be careful, love.”
Phaeton exited the tube station at Hyde Park corner and walked a few blocks to the tony Mayfair address of Dr. Exeter’s laboratory. Half Moon Street turned out to be a charming block of elegant townhomes. The absolute reverse of any residence he might have imagined the doctor would occupy. The austere, greystone Gothic manse he had pictured in his mind’s eye turned out to be a pristine white terrace house featuring elegant columns that supported a covered portico entry.
As he reached the top step, he noted tall palladium windows. A row of flower boxes beneath the sills sent up the first green shoots of spring’s hardiest flower, the daffodil.
Before he could lift the door knocker, a stunningly attractive young lady opened the door. She wore a school uniform and a smile.
Dr. Jason Exeter, it seemed, attracted a number of lovely ladies. And what had he expected? A high-toned butler, large of girth with pointed nose in the air? Or some wizened, prickly old door opener?
“Mr. Black. I hope your journey across town was pleasant. The Underground can be terribly congested these days.”
Since no cab or carriage sat at the curb, she must have guessed at his mode of transportation. Still, he was rather flummoxed. “Do we know each other, Miss—?”
“Anatolia Chadwick. Please use my pet name, Mia, if you don’t mind?” After his coat was hung in a nearby closet, she led the way upstairs.
“I understand you are a detective—a Yard man?” Her eyes gleamed with interest. “All the girls at school positively swoon over the idea of a dashing Scotland Yard inspector.”
“I can hardly think why, miss.”
She looked at him as if he were mad. “Because you pursue evildoers and villains, because ...” The young lady bit her lower lip as she searched for the right word. “Because you are heroes.”
“I suspect your friends read too many harrowing tales of crime in the Strand magazine.” A breathy giggle told him he could not be far off.
His young escort tapped lightly on the door before bursting into a large airy space that immediately struck him as both a study and a laboratory. Every wall except for a bank of windows facing the street was lined with shelves, spilling over with books, beacons, and an assortment of peculiar scientific equipage.
They approached a long table in the middle of the room. Glass tubes set over Bunsen burners bubbled mysterious liquid contents. Dr. Exeter sat at one end, bent over an instrument of some kind.
Mia spoke first. “Making progress, Oom Asa?”
“A frustrating day, I’m afraid.” He looked up from the contraption. “Ah, Mr. Black. You have met my ward?”
“Indeed, Miss Chadwick. A lovely and hospitable young lady.” Phaeton nodded to the girl who returned a shockingly sultry smile.
Exeter frowned at her flirtation. “Schoolwork finished?”
“A fiendish tract of Latin left to translate.”
Before the doctor’s glare narrowed further, the precocious chit excused herself with a flip of her skirt and a mutter under her breath. “Bollocks.”
“You are not allowed to say that word, Mia.” The doctor’s perplexed grimace was rather amusing. “Smart as a whip but a bit of a chatterbox. Lately, she’s taken to blurting out the most inappropriate words and phrases.”
“Charming girl.” He clamped back a grin. “Befitting her age, wouldn’t you say?” Phaeton’s interest returned to the odd apparatus in front of the doctor.
“You like my microscope, Mr. Black?”
“Curious.” Phaeton set a leather satchel on the table.
“Come have a look.” Exeter showed him how to adjust focus as a number of plump, brownish red objects resolved into view.
“My area of research is serology. The study of blood serum. I have a contract with the university to discover and identify blood groupings, a theory of mine, which I hope to someday be fortunate enough to publish.”
Phaeton removed a glass jar from the briefcase. The doctor edged closer, eyes locked on the fluttering creature inside the container. “You caught one, Mr. Black?”
“Batted one off my arm and it fell into my pocket. I thought we might take it down to the Embankment and let it loose—”
“The malicious little irritant could lead us right to her den.” Exeter raised a brow. “What could be simpler?”
“Yes, you brilliant types need us simpletons.” Phaeton crossed his arms.
The doctor’s eyes crinkled ever so slightly. “Brilliance is very often simple.”
Phaeton ignored the compliment. “Care to tell me what significance the eye of Horus or Ra has on the case we are dealing with?”
“Ah, so you are studious as well as clever.” The doctor closed a large file full of notes and opened another. “I have come to believe the perpetrator of this
murder spree arrived in London nearly fifty years ago, when the obelisk was shipped here from Egypt.”
Exeter turned over several pages. “According to what I have found, newspaper articles and several published articles from the dig, Cleopatra’s Needle was packed in native soil and transported in a large custom-made tube.
“The cargo ship set out from Alexandria towing a barge carrying the obelisk. The voyage was unusually rough. Horrendous storms. At one point during extreme high seas, the obelisk separated from the ship and was considered lost for several days.”
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
PHAETON 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.
The Seduction of Phaeton Black Page 9
