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.
Phaeton took down a brown container and sniffed. “Eeesh.” He pointed the light down into the mouth of the receptacle. “Dead rodent, perhaps?”
Returning the crock, he studied the clear glass jars. “If I am not mistaken, doctor, some of these bits of flesh appear to be human organs.”
“When the great kings and queens of Egypt passed from this life, we know they were embalmed and mummified. Organs were removed and stored in jars.” Exeter lifted up what remained of a simple reed sleeping mat. “Upon the pharaoh’s awakening, the organs were to be returned to the body, as his servants readied him for the arduous journey into the underworld.”
Phaeton took another glance at the contents of the jars. “Might the assumption be that she is collecting organs for herself? Or is this exercise in mayhem wrought for someone else? She is a goddess, after all. Do the gods perform these rituals on each other?”
“You ask for answers far beyond my ken.”
Phaeton sucked in a breath.
“What is wrong, Mr. Black? Even in the dark, you are obviously distraught.” The doctor’s voice echoed softly off the walls of the chamber.
“The Whitechapel murders. Mary Kelly, the last victim. Found her cut to shreds, her own organs removed and lined up neatly around her body.” Phaeton sensed a growing tension in the atmosphere. The doctor took a position to one side of the sarcophagus.
He pointed the torch directly at Exeter, who blinked under the harsh glare. “You two have been at this game for some time. What is this for you, doctor, round two? Abating or abetting, which is it?”
“Shall we save this discussion for another day? Right now we need to destroy the nest.”
Phaeton kept the light steady. “The nest or the evidence, doctor?”
The man sighed. “What do you wish to know?”
A rush of wailing, hissing shrieks sounded from somewhere above.
“She returns. We have no time for argument.” Exeter shifted his focus to the can of petrol. Opening the tin, he drenched the interior of the sarcophagus.
Phaeton hesitated, but only for a moment. He tossed off the gas cap and doused the chamber floor in petrol. The scratching, hissing noise returned. He flashed the torch upward onto the ceiling and froze. “At your first opportunity, take a glance at the object overhead.”
Phaeton set a stick of dynamite in the sand and unwound a coil of fuse wire.
Exeter placed one foot behind the other and slowly traced his steps backward, toward the opening in the wall. “I know what I perceive. What do you see?”
He glanced upward and followed after. “A large black stain spreading—rapidly.”
“I see an orifice, with large fangs for tearing and chewing.” The doctor pointed to a number of pointed objects projecting from what was now beginning to look more like a cavernous hole.
“Ah yes, but is this muzzle real or illusion?” Phaeton unrolled more wire as the gaping mouth moved off the ceiling and inched down the wall.
“Light the fuse. Quickly, Mr. Black, before we are swallowed.”
The moment he lit the wire, his body was lifted out of the chamber. The walls of the sewer sped by in a blur. He rocketed through the tunnel, passing ladder rungs as he flew up and out of the manhole.
Phaeton stood in the middle of the lane. Dizzy.
He became aware of the clatter of horse hooves and the creak of carriages traveling along the Strand. The thought crossed his mind that it was not terribly late. Cloud cover parted overhead and he could see several stars twinkle in the ink-black sky.
“Come.” Exeter appeared out of nowhere and encouraged him to leap from garden wall to window ledge to rooftop. Exactly as he had seen this strange man escape that first night after the opera.
With his usual amount of trepidation, Phaeton sailed from one rooftop to another with the help of the curious physician, who remained a first-class enigma. Tonight, at the very least, he took satisfaction in matching Exeter jump for jump.
The dynamite detonated while Phaeton was in midair.
Chapter Eleven
A THUNDEROUS BOOM AND DISPLACEMENT OF ATMOSPHERE pushed his body through the air. Phaeton tumbled onto the roof and groaned. Rolling onto his back, his addled brain focused on the tall, indistinct man standing above him. An appendage with fuzzy fingers appeared in front of his face. He grabbed hold of a flesh and blood hand and was pulled to his feet. “Blast shock. You should fully recover in a few moments. Can you hear me?” It was Exeter’s voice all right, only it came from the bottom of a barrel.
Propped against a chimney pot, Phaeton rubbed his eyes and the doctor came into focus. He signaled thumbs-up.
Rather quickly, he was able to survey the scene below as Exeter packed up his optical device. A plume of acrid, hissing smoke bellowed out of the fissure as the river flooded into the gaping breach in the retaining wall. Towering behind a curtain of vapor, he could just make out the Egyptian obelisk seemingly no worse for the explosion.
“Thank the Thames for coming to the aid of our lackadaisical fire brigade.” At least he recognized his own voice.
Shrill police whistles joined the gasps and cries from the local onlookers. Jolted out of their beds by the explosion, a group of frightened, angry residents pushed back against the squadron of officers on the scene.
“What could be more inept? The Metropolitan Police appear to need protection from the citizenry.” He swiveled away from the river. “Ready for home? Do impart my regards to your pretty charge, doctor.”
Exeter’s steady gaze met his. “I must say, Mia was quite taken with your detective stories at tea.”
“Your ward is a clever conversationalist. A very bright girl.” He shifted his full attention to his cohort. “She, as well as your African man, call you Oom Asa.”
“An honorific of sorts. Oom means chieftain in Zulu.” The doctor shrugged. “Mia’s parents were unfortunate casualties of the Boer War—caught in a crossfire in the Transvaal. She and Mr. Tandi arrived on my doorstep five years ago.” Exeter picked up his equipment case. “Mia is only distantly related to me, but they are both family now.”
A new round of shrieks accompanied a deep rumble as another section of the Embankment gave way. Phaeton’s attention drifted back momentarily to the chaotic scene at the river walk.
“Two dens down, more left to find,” the doctor murmured.
“I am skeptical. You mentioned three or four, earlier. Why not a dozen? I continue to suspect you withhold information.” He returned to Exeter. “I also harbor growing suspicions regarding this female necromancer. Shortly after the last homicide attrib
uted to the Ripper November last, a fire was set on Dorset Street. It gives me cause to wonder if Mary Kelly’s murder isn’t somehow connected to nest number one.”
His head ached. He rubbed his temples and considered his words carefully. “There has been a fair amount of conjecture given to the idea that the Whitechapel fiend might well be either a physician or a female. What if the Ripper turned out to be both a Jack and a Jill?”
Phaeton chewed a bit of inside cheek. “Before I retire, I intend to offer my assistance to the poor officers at risk from the unhinged locals.” He studied the inscrutable man beside him. Exeter was hard to read, but this time his face was ashen. “I recommend you use what is left of the evening to prepare a confession or alibi. Your life expectancy depends on it, Doctor Exeter.”
“When she raises both of her legs, and places them on her lover’s shoulders, it is called the ‘yawning position.’ ” America stared at the book illustration. The female engaged in the unusual congress displayed commendable flexibility.
She turned the page and tilted her head. “When the woman places one of her thighs across the thigh of her lover it is called the ‘twining position.’ ” Two copper-colored bodies reclined on an intricately woven carpet. A tray of ripe fruits and cups of wine sat beside the amorous couple. She admired the size and apparent hardness of the man’s member. According to the caption, he was about to plunge his lingam into his partner’s yoni.
At least this pose seemed more feasible than the last picture. From the moment she had opened the book, there had been a stirring in her body. So far, her response to the drawings had been brazenly immodest. The Kama Sutra turned out to be utterly titillating. She squirmed at the sensation of moisture between her legs.
And her naughty imaginings and desires, with some constancy, involved Mr. Black. He had advised her to pick one of these ridiculous positions, and he would attempt to please her. She uttered an exasperated sigh. The man was a cad and a pervert. And she would never in a million years participate in a single one of these hopeless postures with him.
The Seduction of Phaeton Black Page 10
