“A pleasure, Mr. Stickles.” Phaeton nodded at the elderly man whose hollow-cheeked appearance and slow, deliberate bearing reminded him of an old headmaster he and his schoolmates had dubbed Sir Bugsley Headmantis. “If you would kindly point me in the right direction?”
“I shall escort you.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“De rigueur, Mr. Black. I can’t have Scotland Yard poking about, asking questions and the like, disturbing serious research.”
Phaeton tightened a smile. “Lead the way, Mr. Stickles.” He took a deep breath and slowed his pace. After a leisurely stroll through the reading room, they passed through a set of neatly concealed doors which led to a comfortable, well-appointed meeting room. The doctor sat, engrossed in a large, handwritten ledger, at one end of a long table.
“Ah, Mr. Black, pull up a chair and have at one of these volumes.” Phaeton looked at the tall stack piled on the table. “Any one in particular?”
“The barge carrying the obelisk was towed into the Thames Estuary in January of 1878. The needle was erected in September of that same year. I asked for all inventory records from 1878 through to the present date.”
Phaeton removed his coat and tossed it over a chairback. “Why all the extra years of records?”
“If the sarcophagus was sold to a private party, it may well have been stored for a time before resurfacing.” Exeter leaned back in his chair and nodded to the librarian. “Mr. Stickles informs me that artifacts believed lost or stolen often make their way to the museum after a number of years.”
The librarian handed Phaeton a ledger from the top of the pile. “For some time, the museum has quietly let it be known to less scrupulous dealers in antiquities, we would pay handsomely for certain missing artifacts.”
Phaeton raised a brow. “No questions asked?”
“As long as the object is genuine and its provenance bona fide.”
Phaeton thought about the Hall of Mummies packed with rows of stone coffins. “Would a sarcophagus dug up in Alexandria, connected to the obelisk, be of interest?
Stickles’ eyes rolled upward. “That would depend, Mr. Black.”
“On what is inside?”
The curator’s gaze returned something that vaguely resembled a wink. “When is content not important?”
“Coffins carved with great artistry, death masks of gold, a stunning array of jewels, perhaps? And mummies of course.” Phaeton saw no reason to trouble the elderly man by adding essence of Anubis, jackal-headed god of the afterlife.
A young page poked his head in the room. “Shall the gentlemen be needing anything, sir?”
The curator swung back toward him. “Care for some tea? A simple request to have refreshment brought up from the kitchen.”
He hadn’t stopped for breakfast. “Might there be a few biscuits with that?”
When Phaeton’s stomach growled, Stickles raised a brow. “Perhaps something more substantial. A bit of toast and egg?”
Phaeton opened his ledger. “Lovely.”
Stickles turned to the doctor who looked up from his ledger. “Tea would be fine, Mr. Stickles.”
“I believe I’ll have a spot myself.” The assistant nodded. The curator swung back toward Phaeton. “Shall we get cracking?”
“You’re staying?”
“For the duration, I’m afraid.” The wily man actually grinned. “Just give me a moment.” The curator accompanied his assistant out of the room.
Phaeton’s gaze locked on Exeter. “You trust him?”
The doctor looked up from his ledger. “I know he’s an odd duck, but I have a feeling he may prove useful.”
Phaeton grabbed a blank sheet of paper and notated the number of an object listed in his log as a stone receptacle. He added a question mark. “Perhaps you’re right.”
Exeter flipped the page. “Mr. Stickles has offered to help us slog through the records. We’re bound to have questions—”
The elderly man reentered the room with a bit more spring in his step. “At your service, Detective Black, Doctor Exeter.” He carefully removed a flat, wide tome from the stack and took a seat at the table.
Phaeton continued to examine the logs in front of him.
“As you can see, gentlemen, every line begins with a date, followed by a description of the artifact. A donor name, if known, is then listed, as well as the initials of the receiving clerk who took receipt of the object. Lastly, each item is given a number and tagged so it can be stored and retrieved at a later date.”
“I assume there are records of some sort that will tell us where a numbered item might be found?” Phaeton mused aloud.
Exeter looked to Stickles, who nodded to another pile beside the tall stack. “The smaller ledgers are assigned to the museum’s archives, either one of the basements or the warehouses. Once numbered, the artifact is stored and recorded in one of these ledgers.”
“I never realized the circumlocution office was located in the British museum.” Phaeton leaned into his chairback. “We’ll be here until the turn of the century.”
Stickles peered over the rims of his spectacles. “I am not a trained investigator, Mr. Black, but might I suggest we concentrate on single entries? I would not spend much time with long lists of sarcophagi recorded on the same date. These would mostly likely be finds brought in from ongoing digs.”
The man had a point. The sarcophagus they sought would very likely be a lone entry.
After an exhaustive, tedious day in the library, Phaeton was quite relieved to be on his way home. Pressed back into the leather seat of the hansom, he made a few mental notes for the day ahead. The Baron’s funeral and internment would take the majority of the morning and then he would return to the British Library for another slog through the remaining inventory ledgers with Mr. Stickles. Exeter, of course, had been right about the odd gentleman. The curator had proven himself a most useful and enthusiastic investigator. He had half a mind to bring him in on the facts of the case.
If Qadesh had begun to feed again, he would consider having Stickles deputized. The elderly man had ordered the most promising sarcophagi identified in the ledgers brought up from storage for examination. With any luck, the morrow might end on a note of excitement. He exhaled. Well, one could hope.
Phaeton removed a notepaper from his inside coat pocket. He had found the folded up paper on the floor of his room this morning. He could only assume the list must have fallen out of a pocket in America’s gown. Six different boardinghouses were crossed out with a few remarks penciled in.
Nothing until the summer or early fall. Let the last room just yesterday. No room at the inn. Ever. The script of the last entry was crudely underscored by several dark lines. He could feel the sting in her pencil marks. The words were written beside Horsley’s Home for Young Ladies, Bloomsbury.
The words grew fuzzy as he recalled her choked words of last evening. He had never considered the color of her skin, nor her situation as untenable. America was such a fine, capable young woman, and she possessed the most startling independent and adventurous nature. He desired her like no other woman he had ever had the pleasure of—knowing, so to speak. Phaeton shifted in his seat, uncomfortably. And this rather disturbing attraction did not end with that sensuous, voluptuous body. Her candid wit and odd, charming speech patterns, part proper young English woman, part French sailor. She often took his breath away.
He checked the address again before he refolded the paper and slipped the note back into his pocket. Well, as long as he was in the neighborhood.
He rapped on the cab’s roof and redirected the driver. “51 Applegate Lane.”
The boardinghouse was a very charming home indeed. Mrs. Horsley, no doubt a fine, upstanding woman of the community, raised a brow when he offered his card.
“Scotland Yard? What can I do for you ...” The tall, severe-looking woman scrutinized the raised black letters on the card.
“Detective Black.” Phaeton surveyed the cheerf
ul sitting room off the elegant foyer. “Just a routine security check, Mrs. Horsley. The Princess Serafine al Qatari had noted your boardinghouse to be on the very top of her list of possible residences, while she extends her stay here in London.”
“I do believe I would remember a princess, Mr. Black. Are you quite sure you have the correct address?”
Phaeton flipped open a pocket-sized notebook and just as quickly snapped it shut. “Positive, Mrs. Horsley. The young lady is somewhat exotic looking, a very pretty copper color to her skin and lovely green eyes as I recall. She does sometimes take to the streets on her own. I’m afraid she’s given our bodyguards the slip on more than one occasion.”
He watched the woman’s reaction carefully. Wheels turned inside eyes that grew wide in horror. Yes. The boardinghouse mistress appeared to recall America’s visit.
“The princess has recently gotten the oddest idea in her head. Wants to experience the city as if she were any young lady of privilege.”
Phaeton leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Which brings me to the reason for my inspection. We have on our hands the rather sticky business of a possible visit from Victoria.”
“Victoria, you don’t mean—?” The woman’s stutter was interrupted by the worst sort of twitch in her right eye.
Phaeton surveyed the silk striped wallpaper and gilded hall furnishings. Yes, America would have been very comfortable living here. Point of fact, she deserved a beautiful home and a kind and decent man to look after her. He returned to the boardinghouse mistress and narrowed his gaze. “I do not wish to alarm, but yes, I do refer to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.”
He rather enjoyed watching the color drain down that unusually thin, long neck.
Chapter Twenty-five
“SHE’S ONE OF OURS, ALL RIGHT.” America sat beside Inspector Moore in a closed carriage just off the boat basin known as Millwall Docks. From the shadows of a covered passageway, she watched the loading of supplies and cargo onto their oldest square rigged clipper. Her heart swelled at the sight of her.
The sleek cut of her bow was unmistakable. The ship moored dockside was definitely the Topaz Star. The smallest gem in the fleet, but the most highly regarded. She had bested the East India Company’s fastest cutter in her day. About the time circumstances had begun to run afoul for The Star of India Trading Company, her life in service was nearing its the end.
“She once made Australia in sixty-five days.” America smiled. Oh yes, the Topaz would be retired, but not yet.
Dexter seemed satisfied with her reaction. “Not hard to locate this grand old girl. Thames patrol was able to identify every mark on her based on the legacy you provided, Miss Jones.”
”I do hope they haven’t given us away?”
“God no, at least, I hope not. They went aboard citing a routine inspection. Since then I have recognized at least two crew members from Portsmouth lurking about, dockside.”
“And what of Yanky?”
He shook his head. “Nothing yet. Zander has assigned two more inspectors; they’re searching flophouses and brothels between here and the Tower.”
She supposed Dexter grinned at her inability to stop starring at the elegant ship. “I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Moore. She barely carries some 600 ton, but the Topaz will have an important role to play in reestablishing my shipping business.”
America itched to get aboard and back to the business of operating her small fleet. Even if she never had another ship returned to her, two would be enough to start over. With fair winds and a bit of luck, The Star of India Trading Company could be back on a paying basis by year’s end.
“Miss Jones, you plan on operating the company?” A frown creased the ends of his mouth. “Please assure me you will not take a ship out on your own.”
“I intend on doing exactly that.” She pressed her shoulders back and lifted her chin. The Isle of Dogs was a chaotic, bustling peninsula of commerce. Briefly, she trained her sights on the ships being towed in and out of the West Indian Docks, a glorious cobweb of masts and rigging.
A quick dart of her eyes caused a sigh. Dexter had pressed his lips into a thin line almost as stubborn as her own. “Don’t look so nettled, Mr. Moore. I am perfectly capable of captaining a ship, at least until the business returns to the profit side of the margin. Besides, I trust no one. In fact, I’m quite sure I will never trust anyone again.”
Except, possibly, there was one man. But she didn’t wish to think about him right now.
Mr. Moore opened his mouth but at the last second seemed to decide against further protest. “It’s getting late. Allow me to take you to dinner and then see you home?”
Supper was pleasant enough as long as conversation remained on the business at hand, the discovery and claiming of her ships. The moment their discourse veered onto other matters, say, her current living accommodations or her arrangement with Mr. Black, she changed the subject. Frankly, she was relieved when their dinner fare arrived promptly at the table. Much to the amusement of the inspector, she made quick work of her supper.
“What?”
“Nothing. I do hope you are getting enough to eat below stairs at 22 Shaftsbury Court.”
She chewed and stuck him with a glare. “Mr. Black enjoys watching me tuck into a plate of chops.”
Moore’s jaw twitched. “Yes, I recall Phaeton saying he appreciates a women with appetites.”
She set down her knife and fork. “Take me home, Inspector Moore, or change the subject.”
Moore stared for a moment before he reached across the table and placed her fork in her hand. Gently, he closed her fingers around the handle. “There is a ship—a two stacker, recently registered to a Dutch holding company associated with Yanky Willem. She’s due into Portsmouth the end of the week.”
She held her breath. The Star of Bombay. The crown jewel of their fleet. Named after the enormous and splendid 563-karat star sapphire. “Legally, she’d still be Yanky Willem’s. When we were forced into default, he purchased the note on her for pennies on the pound.”
“A conviction of grand larceny or embezzlement, whichever you wish to call it, will put all joint assets into review by the courts. With the right business partner and a bit of refinancing, she’ll be yours again.”
She sawed off a piece of meat and lifted it to her mouth. “Go on, Mr. Moore.”
The rest of dinner passed pleasantly enough, as he finished his assessment of her missing fleet. His news was so uplifting she even shared the trying tale of her boardinghouse interviews, which he listened to with a great deal of interest as well as sympathy.
The ride back to Mrs. Parker’s was made in relative quiet and the inspector saw her inside the brothel and downstairs to her flat.
America held her index finger to her lips. “I believe Mr. Black has fallen asleep in his chair.”
With the evening paper folded over his chest, Phaeton appeared almost angelic in repose, until he spoke. “Quite the contrary, Miss Jones. I could hardly fall asleep when I had no idea where you were. I take it you went adventuring with Inspector Moore.”
She ignored his remark and turned to the inspector. “Thank you for dinner; I feel quite restored.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Phaeton refolded the newspaper and rose from his chair. “Dinner?”
“I’m afraid I collected Miss Jones rather late in the day to identify a ship in the Millwall basin.” Dexter’s gaze shifted away. “I thought a bit of supper was the least I could offer.”
“Indeed, and how was—supper?”
She brightened. “Lovely plate of chops and ale.”
“Well, I’d best be on my way.” Dexter patted his jacket until he found what he was looking for in a waistcoat pocket. “Mrs. Hingham’s card. The woman runs a respectable boardinghouse and would be happy to take you in straight away.”
America stared at the raised letters on the ivory cardstock. “Very kind of you, Mr. Moore.” She removed a glove and slipped the card into a s
mall pocket of her fitted jacket.
Phaeton crossed the room to stand uncomfortably close to one side of Moore. “Can’t wait to get Miss Jones removed from my sphere of influence.”
“Nearly as anxious as you are to see me out of here, Mr. Black.” She pursed her lips.
As the inspector edged away, he shot her a look of concern. “Will you be all right?”
“Never mind Mr. Black. He’s often disagreeable when—”
“Yes, never mind me, Dex.”
“Good night, then.” Dexter nodded to them both and lit up the stairs.
America whirled around to face him. “At least Mr. Moore has made an effort to find me appropriate shelter.”
“Ha!” Phaeton pressed forward. “Dexter Moore can’t wait to nose around under your skirts.”
“And which is worse, Phaeton? A man who is interested in my favors or one who would toss me out with the dogs in the middle of the night?”
For a moment his body appeared to sway toward her. “I was going to say happy to see you, my dear. And very glad to know you weren’t raped and maimed by pirates, perhaps lying injured in a gutter somewhere down in the Docklands.” He pivoted abruptly and turned down the hall. She winced when the door to his room slammed shut moments later.
Hardly knowing where to turn, she headed for the pantry, where she shifted the kettle onto the stove plate. While she waited for the water to boil, she unpinned her hat and removed her jacket, folding it neatly over a chairback.
Drat the man. She sighed. His warnings about Inspector Moore were almost certainly correct. But she could handle Moore easily enough. And if she was not mistaken, Phaeton actually appeared to worry about her. The thought almost erased a frown. She poured steaming water into a teapot and took a seat at the table.
Greyish bits of fuzz and particles took shape on a chair beside her. Chin in clawed hand, the gargoyle blinked orange-yellow eyes at her. Mimicking the pose, she rested her chin in a cupped palm. “Lately, I hardly know what to make of him, Edvar.” The creature emitted an unearthly whine.
The Seduction of Phaeton Black Page 23
