Wicked

by Shannon Drake

  He ran his fingers up and down his glass, looking down at it. “I don’t be needing entertainment, dearie,” he said.

  With shrewd, narrowed eyes, she leaned back. “Didn’t appear that ye’re the type to be getting it up to par, old man. But then again, I’ve been known to raise a few with sheer ability, if ye get me drift o’ things.”

  She was waiting for his reaction, watching him.

  “I need money myself,” he told her.

  “And you’ve a way of making it?” Once again, the woman’s accent disappeared.

  “I have things to sell.”

  “There is enough garbage around here.”

  “I have good things.”

  She eyed him up and down. His clothing was tattered; he’d rubbed dirt in the glued-on beard.

  “I’ve no time for you, old man,” she told him. “Sorry. That’s the way it is.” She started to rise.

  “I work at the museum,” he told her.

  She sat back down. Her eyes narrowed again. “And you’ve stolen from the museum?”

  He shrugged. “Who suspects an old man who can barely wield his broom?”

  “I could get you arrested, you know.”

  Again, he shrugged. “You’d rather make money. And I don’t believe that the buyers you know are from this area.”

  “What do you have?”

  He leaned forward, whispering. She drew back, her eyes growing wider.

  “Maybe…maybe I can make some arrangements.”

  “I don’t want any ‘maybes.’ I saw that fellow’s body the other day, the bloke at the bar there when I’d been in.”

  “Murder happens all the time here,” she said.

  He snaked his hand out suddenly, encircling her wrist. “There were other men in here trying to sell trinkets. Your man—and he was your man—meant to rob them, but someone killed him. Before he could get too close to the pair? You don’t need to speak, I know you’re not going to answer me. But when you set up a sale for me, there won’t be any petty thieves following me around. I’ll want a name and a place. I’ll pay your price. But if I’m followed, I promise you, there will only be more dead men. As you said, murder happens all the time. You should be taking care yourself.”

  With that warning, he released her wrist. She sat rubbing it, staring at him.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  She nodded. He saw the hatred in her eyes, and dug into his pocket, producing a gold coin, which he slid straight into her hand. If they were noticed, it would appear that they were making arrangements for a dark alley.

  He smiled. “I’ll be watching…and waiting,” he told her, and exited the pub.

  Outside, he hesitated. He wanted to give her plenty of time to send a goon out after him. He believed that she did have buyers. But she didn’t believe that he had anything to sell that wasn’t already on his person.

  Now all he had to do was move slowly.

  GETTING OUT OF THE HOUSE was going to prove more difficult than Camille had realized. Shelby was gone, off somewhere with the Earl of Carlyle. The doctor was preparing to leave. And though it appeared that Alex was fighting the remaining toxins in his system with a steady tenacity, she was very afraid to leave him alone.

  Corwin, she noticed, had taken up Shelby’s position by the door. He had greeted her with courtesy when she entered. And when she was ready to leave the room, she spoke with him.

  “Corwin, the earl is out?”

  “Aye, miss.”

  “I need you to bring me into London.”

  He frowned. “Miss, I can’t leave my post. And I don’t believe the earl intended for you to go into the city.”

  “Corwin, I’m not a prisoner, am I?”

  “No, indeed not.”

  “I…have an appointment. Today. For confession.”

  “Confession?”

  “I’m Catholic, Corwin.” She waited, wondering if God would strike her down for the lie. But she was certain that a power far greater than any of them would know that her intentions were honest.

  “Ah, a Catholic,” he murmured. Then, perplexed, he said, “It’s Saturday!”

  “Yes, Corwin, I know the day. You confess Saturday so that you’re ready for God’s grace on Sunday. Can you please get me into London? And, of course,” she added, determined to convince him of the outright lie, “wait for me and bring me back.”

  “I don’t like leaving Mr. Mittleman.”

  “You won’t be leaving him. Ralph and Tristan will look after him.”

  Corwin mulled it over.

  “I must get to confession!” she said, sounding desperate.

  He nodded. “As you wish. And I’ll be waiting for you, you needn’t worry.”

  She went to Tristan and found him in his room, playing chess with Ralph. He was up and dressed and looking very well.

  She greeted him with a kiss on the cheek and whispered a possible move to him. Tristan’s eyes widened with delight. He made the move. Ralph scratched his head.

  “Ah, Camie, that’s not at all fair! I’d have had his sorry hide, I would have!”

  “Oh, Ralph! You’re right, I shouldn’t have helped. It’s just that he is a recuperating man, and we wouldn’t want him to feel as if he hadn’t all his senses going for him, would we?”

  “Your friend, Alex, is doing well?” Tristan asked.

  She nodded. “Tristan, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’d…I’d dearly like to get to church.”

  “Church? It’s Saturday,” Tristan said.

  Again, she sighed. “I know, but….” She was lying, and lying about church. That couldn’t be good. Still, it was important. “I’ve an appointment to talk, you know.”

  “You can talk to me.”

  “She wants to speak with someone a bit more holy than the likes of us!” Ralph said.

  “I feel it’s important for the welfare of my soul.”

  “I’d imagine, Camie, that your soul is in wondrous shape!” Ralph told her.

  She smiled. “It’s troubled, I’m afraid. And you two have definitely put some of the trouble into my soul!” she told him, but without reprimand. “I’ve asked Corwin to get me into London, but I’m afraid to leave Alex alone. I mean—” She hesitated. “I mean that I don’t want him left alone for a minute, not a minute.”

  Tristan looked at her gravely.

  “I’ll see to him,” he swore gravely.

  “Ralph, if Tristan leaves, you must see to him,” she said.

  Ralph nodded to her solemnly, as well.

  She thanked them both.

  Now, all she had to do was get out of the house without Evelyn Prior being aware that she was leaving!

  HE KNEW, as soon as he started down the street, despite the bustle around him as many hurried on to the Saturday market, that he was being followed.

  He made a point of joining in the market rush, pausing to inspect vegetables. Fishmongers hawked their fresh catches, and farmers crowed about the taste of their crops. He inspected fruits that were advertised to have arrived just that morning from the south, and each time he paused, he noted the man behind him.

  He bought a bag of oranges, fresh in from the Mediterranean if the fellow selling them was to be believed. The bag was heavy. Perfect.

  He continued his way along the streets, then set forth through a string of alleys, stepping over a drunk here and there, tossing a few coins to children begging.

  At last he found what he was seeking—an overgrown square, littered with gin bottles and debris, surrounded by houses with boarded-up windows.

  And when he entered, the fellow followed.

  “I HAVE A GREAT DEAL on my conscience,” Camille told Corwin. “If you wish to have a spot of tea or a pint of ale, I’ll be a good hour or so.”

  “Whatever you wish, Miss Camille. I will be here,” he swore, leaving her at the entrance to St. Mary’s.

  She quickly walked up the path to the great front doors. Once inside, she felt the guilt of her lie upon her.
She wasn’t Catholic, but she crossed herself before the high altar, then hurried out through the cloister.

  On a back street, she found a hansom. When she arrived at the museum, crowds were all about in the street. The fiasco of the night before had not kept them away. Indeed, it appeared they were more fascinated than ever to view the remnants of ancient Egypt. The thrill of believing that there was a curse was like an aphrodisiac.

  Camille caught bits and pieces of conversation as she hurried through the Saturday crowds, then through the area where the elegantly adorned tables had been placed just the night before. Everything was as it had been, as if the gala had never taken place. Except that the terrarium was gone.

  She ran up the steps and came into the offices. Sir John was not there, but his coat rested on the back of his chair. Knowing where he was, Camille sped back down the stairs to the storage rooms.

  To her surprise, the door was open. She stepped in. “Sir John?” There was no answer.

  She walked on in, certain that he had to be in there somewhere. “Sir John!” Still, there was no answer. She began to move through the vast aisles of cartons, coming to the rear where the massive crates had held the sarcophagi of the dead found at the last expedition. Most crates now lay open.

  There was a ping! The light, poor at best, faded as one of the few overhead bulbs exploded.

  “Sir John?”

  “Camille…!” That voice again, calling out to her. Then, from within one of the crates, something slowly began to rise.

  “Camille…!”

  Dust from thousands of years formed a sudden haze. The mummy began to rise from the sarcophagus, then staggered to its feet and came jolting after her….

  It was so dark. Her heart began to thunder as she backed away, her mind denying the possibility that such a thing could occur. And then, the cracked and terrible whisper again.

  “Camille…”

  AS SOON AS HE SENSED the man directly behind him, Brian spun around, planting his fingers around the fellow’s throat.

  “Wait! Stop, for the love of God!”

  Brian held tight, feeling the man’s fingers tearing at his hand in desperation. He quickly ascertained that the man wasn’t filthy, and though his clothing was poor it was not shabby. He didn’t seem the type to inhabit the pub.

  “Start talking!” he commanded.

  “I didn’t come to hurt you,” the man choked out.

  “Why were you following me.”

  The fellow hesitated.

  “Let’s go to the police, shall we?” Brian said.

  “What?”

  “Let’s go to the police. Now!”

  The man let out a long exhaust of air. “I am the police.”

  It was Brian’s turn to be confused. “What?”

  “I’m Detective Clancy, Scotland Yard!” the man said quickly.

  Not at all certain, Brian warily eased his hold. The fellow stepped back, rubbing his throat.

  “You were at the pub,” Brian said.

  “You were at the pub,” he said, and added nervously, “And you’re under arrest.”

  “For…?”

  “Robbery—and murder!”

  CAMILLE STARED at the apparition, panic rising in her breast. She backed away, ready to turn and flee. And then, suddenly, sense and fury overrode terror. Mummies were nothing but the pathetic remains of people who had believed that their bodies would serve them in an afterlife. They did not come back to life. But someone willing to go to the lengths of playing a mummy might well be a murderer, though wrapped as they were, they could not do much harm. It was her chance.

  She played the game, turning to run in terror. But as the creature stumbled after her, she looked for a weapon along the way.

  She passed the crate she had delved into the other day. And, of course, she knew that the mummy’s arm was already broken off. She reached into the crate, came to a standstill and swung with all her might, catching the lumbering being hard in the ribs.

  “Damnation!” a voice cried out in agony. The figure doubled over.

  Camille gave it another hard smack on the head for good measure. The creature fell to the ground, clasping its head now with wrapped hands. The ancient arm had taken too much abuse, as well. It crumpled into pieces.

  “Lord God!” the thing on the floor swore.

  “Who the hell are you?” Camille raged in fury, no longer afraid in the least, though she might have used more common sense.

  “It’s me, Camille. I was just trying to scare you.”

  “Me who?”

  The creature was already maneuvering around to sit up. Camille reached forward, grabbing hold of a loose piece of tattered linen and pulling.

  “Ouch! Go slow, please!”

  The man grabbed hold of her hand, then the wrapping.

  “Hunter!” she gasped.

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “You idiot! I could have killed you.”

  In the darkness he looked at her dryly. “Not with a mummy’s arm, though I admit, you took me by surprise and you pack a strength that hurts abominably!”

  “Hunter, what in God’s name are you doing?” she demanded.

  “I told you! Trying to scare you.”

  “Why?”

  “So that you get away from Brian Stirling and the wretched curse he’s brought down on all of us again! Help me up, will you? And please, I beg of you, don’t let it get out that I was beat to the floor by a…a woman.”

  “Beat to the floor! Hunter, this is far more serious than that!”

  “Yes, it is. You’re living with the man. And you’re engaged to him.”

  “Hunter, stand up. Let’s get the rest of these wrappings off you.”

  “Yes, I guess we should hurry, before Sir John makes an appearance.”

  “Where is he? His coat is in the office.”

  As they finished taking off the wrappings—half real, from some poor naked mummy, and half, apparently, concocted from museum canvas—Camille was astounded that he had been able to fool her, even for a second.

  “I saw him earlier, not since,” Hunter said.

  “Well, you’re an idiot,” she told him flatly. “Sir John is somewhere. And how did you even know that I’d be in today?”

  “I knew you’d be in. After last night.”

  “That’s a ridiculous assumption. After last night, I shouldn’t be anywhere near the place today!”

  He grew somber suddenly. “How is old Alex doing?”

  “He was sound asleep when I left, but the doctor said that he was doing very well. Steady pulse, good respiratory. It’s a miracle.”

  “Hmm.” Hunter wound all the wrappings together and set them in one of the cases. “How is my hair? Too much dust or dirt?”

  “You look all right, for a grown man who played at being a mummy,” she said. “Hunter, that was truly cruel! And what did you think you’d achieve?”

  He sighed. “Camille, I cannot tell you just how concerned I am. Perhaps I can’t convince you that there is such a thing as a curse. But there is something very wrong at Carlyle Castle, and with Brian Stirling. He has stayed away from the museum and things have gone well. He appears, and Alex is bitten by an asp, Lord Wimbly is called before the Queen—”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “And it seems that Sir John has gone slightly mad. He doesn’t really hear anyone, he’s never at his desk…Camille, please. I swear, I am terrified for you.”

  He was so sincere, it was touching. But she retained her anger and indignation. “You might have given me a heart attack, you know.”

  “Hardly!” he protested. “You weren’t even out of here before you’d convinced yourself that a mummy couldn’t rise.”

  “Perhaps we’d best leave now,” Camille said. Then she looked at him, puzzled. “How on earth did you manage to make the lightbulb break?” she demanded.

  “I didn’t,” he admitted with a rueful grin. “It was simply rather convenient timi
ng.”

  She sighed, shaking her head. “Hunter, if you ever—”

  “Camille, please, tell me that you’ll at least think about what I’m saying?” he begged.

  “Hunter, you’re right. I don’t believe in curses. We shouldn’t have kept a cobra at the museum. Naturally Lord Wimbly has to face the music regarding what happened. However, I believe it will all work out.”

  “There’s something evil afoot, whether it’s a curse or a madman,” he said.

  She sighed, looking downward.

  He stepped forward, catching her chin. “Why, you’re in love with the bastard, aren’t you?”

  “Hunter—” she began to say, then froze.

  They were both dead still as they heard the eerie sound of a groan in the near darkness.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BRIAN SAT in one of the few private offices at the Metropolitan police station with Detective Clancy and Sergeant Garth Vickford, the first one at the scene of the shooting yesterday.

  Though he hadn’t shed his costume hair or beard, Brian had identified himself in the square. At first, Clancy had a bit of difficulty believing him or grasping the situation. But since Brian had been the one with the upper hand there, he’d been forced to listen.

  Brian had been averse to continuing their discussion in the square, not certain if there had been others following him from the pub, as well. He did not care to have Clancy or himself shot down by a sniper on a distant roof or by bold ruffians simply running in from the alley, so he had insisted that they head for the station to further their conversation.

  “We know that the fellow killed in the square was the man actually arranging the sales of black market items,” Detective Clancy explained to Brian. “His name, we know now, was William Green, or at least that’s as close as we’ll get to his true identity. That woman at McNally’s apparently changed her line of work during the days of Jack the Ripper, though I imagine she takes on a fellow now and then. But mainly she pretends to be a whore, and acts as a go-between for all manner of criminals. We knew there was such a place, we just didn’t know where many of the illegal Egyptian transactions were taking place until Green was killed the other day and some bystanders mentioned that he’d come from McNally’s.”