A tremor ran through the crypt.
The hound whined and pulled on his leash.
Phaeton backed away and signaled Exeter to do the same. The floor of the tomb began to move under their feet. A faint rumble rapidly grew into a roar as a long block of stone blasted out of the partition and crashed into the opposite wall.
A cloud of minute marble particles filled the passageway. He and Exeter were forced to exit the crypt for a time, least they suffocate.
Dressed in a formal mourning suit, Exeter dusted off his top hat.
After a small coughing fit, Phaeton checked on Harry. The creature’s muzzle had gone white with a clotted, greyish-white powder. He cleaned off a most prized nose with a pocket square. “Are you all right, Harry?”
A small nub of a tail whipped back and forth.
“The wild beast version of a thumbs-up, I believe.” Exeter returned his hat to his head.
Phaeton straightened out. “Shall we?”
They picked their way through a pile of rubble to the square hole centered on the wall. Phaeton leaned over for a peek down the dark shaft.
“Where the hell have you been?” A dry, scratchy voice greeted him. But she sounded wonderfully unafraid, even plucky.
He experienced an odd sensation, as if his chest swelled, which he ignored. “I half expected a ‘lovely to see you dear,’ or perhaps a ‘thank God you are alive, Phaeton.’ ” A very discernible harrumph echoed down the shaft. Still, he could not help a grin. “Had to let the dust clear, my dove.”
Exeter leaned in. “Ask about Qadesh.”
“Darling, where is the destructive little goddess hiding—right at the moment?”
There was a pause.
“Darling?”
He heard a sigh. “Oh she’s about, all right. Seems very agitated, a bit off her game.”
“She hasn’t—fed recently, has she?”
“You mean me?”
“Yes.” Phaeton held his breath and waited.
“No. At least I don’t think so.”
He exhaled. “Do you have any idea what she’s after?
“Difficult to say. She communicates in pictures and riddles.” America’s shallow nervous breaths seemed amplified across the thick expanse of stone between them. The wall had to be nearly five feet thick. He reached into the shaft and a moment later her small fingers found his. Her hand was like ice. He wrapped her palm in his and held on.
Phaeton turned to Exeter and kept his voice low. “I wager Qadesh wants us to see she is alive.”
“It will take time to open a passage large enough to extract Miss Jones.” Exeter scanned the opening in the wall and the stones surrounding it. Phaeton ducked his head again. “I take it you are breathing reasonably well?”
“Better now, with a bit of fresh air.”
“Food? Water?”
“Water. And quickly, please.”
Phaeton slipped his hand from hers, but gave her fingertips a squeeze.
“Don’t leave me.”
“But, I—”
Exeter tapped him on the shoulder and shook his head. “Stay with her. I’ll organize a rescue team and bring water.”
Phaeton grinned. “You tell her.”
Exeter dipped lower. “Miss Jones?”
“Doctor Exeter?”
“Yes, Miss Jones. Do try to stay calm. Phaeton will stay here while I’m off—”
Exeter’s body left the ground, tossed like a paper doll across an expanse of passageway. Simultaneously, stone and dust rose into the air, drawing every particle of rubble into a cyclone of whirling matter.
“Phaeton?” America wailed.
Like clouds crossing in front of the sun, a cyclone of debris blocked out most of the daylight in the crypt. He checked on Exeter, who lay crumpled on the ground. A garbled moan was reassuring.
Phaeton rose slowly and turned. The little necromancer of the Nile had taken on huge proportions. She sat with her hands gripping the arms of a throne formed instantaneously by marble fragments. Tiny particles of silver dust shifted around her, floating on an invisible current of air.
A small voice traveled out of the hole in the wall. “Answer me, Phaeton. What is happening?”
“Qadesh.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
PHAETON EDGED AWAY FROM THE OPEN SHAFT to help the doctor to his feet. “All right?”
“A few bruises.” Exeter brushed off his coat and straightened his tie. “She’s a bit tetchy, however.”
The beautiful goddess stirred. Regal, powerful, and deadly, she awoke from her transfiguration with the barest hint of a smile. “Ogai, pai pe nishti, Fay-ton.”
He nodded a bow. “We meet again, Qadesh.”
Exotic, kohl-lined eyes swept over the tall, stoic man standing beside him. “This one is also the issue of a god?”
“Doctor Exeter?” He swiveled to examine his comrade. “Why yes, I believe so.”
She turned her head and tilted her chin. A slight lowering of those mesmerizing orbs left no doubt as to which part of the doctor’s anatomy interested the she-devil. “Where is the sword he uses to insert his seed? Qadesh would like to see it.”
Such a wicked, ribald little goddess. “As a rule, English gentlemen do not go about brandishing their ... weapons in public.” Phaeton did not attempt to hide a grin. “But I can vouch for the doctor’s rapier, myself. Very impressive.”
Exeter stepped forward. “Almighty Qadesh. Why do you steal the breeding vessel of the demigod beside me?”
Several piercing blasts of light struck the floor at their feet. A sizzle of electrical current crawled up the walls of the room and reverberated through his spine. Phaeton had no idea lightning bolts flew from the eyes of gods. “Try not to get us killed.”
The doctor’s usual frown strained upward. “If I am not mistaken”—he flicked a tiny fragment of marble off his lapel—“she needs us alive.”
Smoke wafted around the edges of her eyes. “Bring Anubis to me, and I will release the cow.”
“Cow? Did she just call me a cow?” A very disgruntled voice echoed out of the hole in the wall.
Phaeton threw back his shoulders. “On behalf of the lovely Miss Jones—”
Exeter grabbed him by the arm. “A compliment, Phaeton. The goddess of fertility assumed the head of a cow. A symbol of great power.”
An onset of vertigo overtook the scene surrounding him. Phaeton’s attention melded with the temperamental goddess. A question had been niggling at the back of his brain all day, and he wanted, nay, needed her to confirm his suspicion. The second reliquary to arrive with the obelisk must be the resting place of her husband, but ... the sarcophagus that broke apart, that was yours, was it not, Qadesh?
Ten thousand pieces of me were thrown into the ground beside your river of life.
A whirlwind of visions passed through his mind’s eye. Pictures of a frightened, angry goddess sifting through grains of sand, desperate to form herself—to make her body whole again. Pieces of the puzzle, though not fully explained, began to fall into place. Those odd, misshapen creatures she transfigured into, nearly all of them malformed in some way. He recalled the bleeding, injured limb of the harpy perched on the window ledge. Phaeton turned to Exeter and softened his voice. “She can hold herself together only for brief periods of time.”
Great sadness and desperate isolation hung over the room like a heavy cloud. It seems the goddess was also lonely, and profoundly so. Phaeton sighed. The gods so needed to be loved.
Jerked back to consciousness, he looked up into her eyes. For the briefest moment, he experienced an understanding with her. “The doctor and I are on the trail of a missing sarcophagus—we believe it to be the companion to yours, and the possible resting place of your husband.”
In a swirl of light and dark particles, she disappeared, leaving a horrid serpent in her wake. A fiend covered in scales stood upright, and strode into the chamber. The reptilian creature sported a large snout and a set of razor-sharp teeth. A
long sleek tail cracked through the air like a whip. Useless forearms dangled awkwardly as the monster paced back and forth across the crypt entrance, blocking any escape. Another blinding quick swipe of the spiked appendage forced Phaeton and Exeter to duck, least their heads be severed from their bodies. The tail slammed into the wall. Bits and chunks of polished stone cut a swathe of marble dust through the chamber.
So much for the vulnerable, softer side of Qadesh.
The goddess spoke from the elongated mouth. “Between moonrise and moonset, you will bring me Anubis. Only then will you have your Miss Jones returned to you.”
“Do nothing to harm her, Qadesh.” He dodged another lash of furious tail.
She slipped a long blood-red tongue over pointed fangs. “By moonset, or she will die.”
Exeter leaned in. “You’ve got to charm her, Phaeton.”
In no mood to curry favor, he took a deep breath. “Lovely goddess of the Nile—”
The strange serpent disappeared. Vanished. Nothing but a sparkle of relic dust and champagne.
“You charm her next time.” A bit dazed, Phaeton turned to the doctor. “Moonrise to moonset, how long have we got?
“I believe the moon rose around eleven o’clock this morning.”
Phaeton sprung the cover to his pocket watch. “Less than fifteen minutes ago. When does it set?”
“To be safe, we should return here with Anubis, no later than three in the morning.”
“Christ. Even if we find the sarcophagus, who is to say we’ll be able to raise this rogue husband of hers?”
Exeter met his gaze with a sobered grin. “Let us hope Mr. Stickles has made progress.”
“We seem to have misplaced poor blind Harry.” Phaeton spun around. “Harry!”
“Here we are.”
The pale, elusive young man pushed back the iron gate. “Found him snuffling about Egyptian Avenue. Led me straight here.”
“I’d like to introduce you to someone.” Phaeton led Ping over to the square hole in the wall.
“Are you there, America?”
“Where else would I be Phaeton? I can’t exactly go out for a stroll now can I?”
Phaeton grinned. “My little turtle dove. I would like you to meet Julian Ping, who works as a consultant on our more challenging cases.” He drew Ping over. “Julian, please meet Miss Jones.”
Incredulous, Ping removed his dark glasses and ducked his head for a look. “Oh yes, I see.” He tipped his hat. “Good day, Miss. Julian Ping, at your service.”
“Mr. Ping.”
In rip-fire fashion, Phaeton explained the situation as best he could, including the more fantastic bits. “In short, Ping, I need you to stay here with Miss Jones.” Phaeton bit his lower lip. “Can we expect reinforcements soon?”
Ping nodded. “I wired nearly everyone at 4 Whitehall Place.”
“Good man.”
Ping looked a bit wild-eyed without the spectacles. No doubt he was overstimulated. Phaeton suspected the quirky mesmerist led a relatively isolated existence. “Will you be all right?”
Ping ducked his head and peered into the opening. “We’ll be fine, won’t we Miss Jones?”
“Of course, Mr. Ping.”
“Do not attempt a forcible escape of any kind.” Phaeton clenched his jaw. “If Doctor Exeter and I fail to meet the exchange demands, then and only then will we attempt a rescue of Miss Jones. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, Phaeton.”
“Excellent.” He swiveled, then turned back. “No press. If they so much as get a whiff of this operation, we place her life in jeopardy.”
He removed a calling card from a hard leather case, uncapped and shook down his pen, and scribbled a few words. “Show this to any officer or detective who might question your duties here.”
“ ‘Believe anything this man says. Obey any order he gives you.’ ” Ping tucked the card away.
“I’m trusting you to take charge of this operation.” Phaeton stared at Ping for a long moment, then reached into the small passage. He wrapped his hand around lovely small fingers. “I have to leave now. Do you understand why?”
Her voice trembled through the shaft. “Yes, Phaeton. Please do hurry back.”
Outside the crypt, he turned to Ping. “Miss Jones is quite desperate for a drink of water, and she will need something to eat and warm clothing.”
“I will see to it personally.” Ping patted his waistcoat and removed his timepiece. “Shall we synchronize our watches, gentlemen?”
Phaeton grinned. “I believe you’ll do quite well, Ping.”
Mr. Stickles met them at the library entrance and escorted them down the backstairs to a length of underground passage that traveled beneath the gardens to the south wing of the museum.
“All four sarcophagi have been brought up to this level from storage below us.”
“How many floors of basement are there?” Exeter dipped his head to avoid a length of low-hanging pipe.
“Three. Most of it used for storage.”
Stickles led them through two sets of doors and into a room that could almost be described as sunny. Light poured into the space from a number of skylights positioned along the side of the building.
Four sarcophagi sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by long tables covered with ancient pottery fragments and artifacts. Lab workers sat about engrossed in what appeared to be cataloguing and puzzle solving.
With the aid of several assistants, they removed the lids from three of the vessels. The fourth coffin had no cover. Even from a cursory examination it was plain to see, there was no jackal-headed god to be found in any of the oblong stone reliquaries.
Phaeton peered into the bottom corners of the last sarcophagus looking for what? A grain of sand? He chewed a lip. “Blast it all.”
“Cheer up, Mr. Black. I wager there are at least a hundred more possibilities.” Stickles seemed unduly high-spirited, which Phaeton found mildly irritating.
“I do not wish to unduly alarm, Mr. Stickles, but there has been a nasty turn of events. A young lady’s life now hangs in the offing.” Phaeton drew his mouth into a thin line. “It is imperative we find the sarcophagus by midnight tonight.”
Stickles blinked. “Oh dear. Well, we’d best get back to the ledgers, wot?”
“There is no time to identify and locate a hundred coffins.” Phaeton worried aloud.
Exeter set a brisk pace back to the library. “What we lack is a key piece of information. Something that will narrow the search quickly.”
On their way back through the labyrinth of underground corridor, Phaeton quickly deputized Stickles. “The information you are about to hear is privileged—of the utmost secret—never to be discussed or shared with anyone outside of Secret Branch. Is that understood?”
“My lips are sealed.” If he was not mistaken the old man’s eyes sparkled with mischief and adventure. “I had no idea Scotland Yard had a Secret Branch.”
Phaeton rolled his eyes at Exeter, and held the library door open. “Precisely, Mr. Stickles.” Once inside the private meeting room, each man settled down with a ledger.
Pages turned.
Hours passed.
Notes were scrawled onto pieces of paper.
Sarcophagi were located and brought up to basement level one. Trips were made to the workroom to examine empty stone boxes. Each time, Phaeton returned to the library dejected, but even more determined. He checked his watch. “It’s nearly seven. What time does the museum close?”
Stickles removed his pince-nez and squinted across the table. By now they all suffered from eyestrain. “The museum closed over an hour ago.”
“And the hired help?”
Stickles sighed, looking about the table strewn with crumpled papers and open ledgers. “We’ll just have to locate them ourselves.”
Phaeton glared. “I hope you know your way around.”
Stickles brightened. “Not to worry, Mr. Black. I began my career at the museum, catal
oguing artifacts.”
Stickles’ assistant arrived carrying a tray of sandwiches, cakes, and tea. A very late tea, but welcome sustenance. The lad handed a file to the curator. “The articles you asked for, sir.”
“Ah.” Stickles returned his spectacles to his nose. “I asked Mr. Darling to rummage about in the newspaper files. Anything in the way of articles written about the construction and installation of the obelisk.” Sifting through a number of aged clippings, the elderly gent peered over the top of the folder. “I hope you don’t mind?”
Phaeton dropped a small lump of sugar into his teacup and stirred. “Let’s have a read through, straight away.”
They went over all the clues again. Stickles’ file was mostly a repeat of Dr. Exeter’s notes, with a few exceptions. Each man took a turn reading to allow the others the opportunity to down a few sandwiches and have a piece of cake.
Exeter leaned back and tilted his chair. “A small tidbit here, mention of a stone mason who worked on the granite foundation. William Henry Gould, resident of Lambeth—”
“Lambeth, you say?” Stickles patted a few crumbs off his lips and picked up a pile of recent notes. He shuffled back and forth between papers. “Ah, here it is. A single sarcophagus brought in some years after the installation. No donor name recorded but a residence in Lambeth was notated. I thought it odd enough to make a note of it.”
Exeter leveled his chair. “Lambeth is a working-class neighborhood—seems unlikely anyone there would have a spare sarcophagus laying about unless—”
“Unless a resident stone mason happened to be working on the site when those two coffins fell out of the packing and onto British soil. Hard to say how this chap—Gould—ended up with the relic.” Phaeton leaned forward. “Let’s say he tucked it away for years. Perhaps something happened, a financial difficulty, he needed the income. The stone cutter asks about, contacts an antiquities dealer, who brings the item to the museum’s attention.”
Stickles nodded. “Black market acquisitions are often anonymous; usually an alias is used, but not always.”
Phaeton nervously fingered the edges of a ledger. “So gentlemen, what does our intuition tell us about this clue?”
The Seduction of Phaeton Black Page 25
