I wanted to believe him, but doubt crept into my mind, and sent a shiver down my spine.
“I hope you’re right, Mac. I hope you’re right.”
Chapter 2
Mac and I entered the courtyard of the abandoned cloister we were living in. Like usual, the site resembled a haunted mansion: dilapidated, decrepit, isolated from the outside world. Still, the noises of London waltzed in, disrupting the silence of the cloister. If not for those noises, I could’ve easily imagined I was in the countryside rather than the capital of England.
Living in a home that looked like it was uninhabited had its upsides and downsides. The cloister had the reputation of being haunted, a rumor that kept children away when they came investigating the place and one of my devices came to life; but unfortunately, with the rise of the spiritualist movement in London, the haunting had attracted more and more not-so-easily spooked adults as well.
Mac patted his head against the front door of the cloister, pushing it open with a squeak. The door hung off its hinges, the wood rotten to the core. The feline and I walked in, greeted by the stale air of abandonment.
I stepped on the third floorboard. It groaned under my weight, while simultaneously a woman wailed from the left hallway.
One of the ghosts of the cloister: a clever use of a gramophone connected to the floorboard, the wailing voice my own. I didn’t want anyone to disturb my home, so I had installed devices to keep intruders away—or in the case of the spiritualists, unwillingly draw them in.
When we reached the sixth floorboard, a trapdoor opened on the second floor, and a doll dressed in black, tattered rags swung over our heads. In the moonlight, the scene looked eerie, and the device above the trapdoor pulled the doll back into its hiding place fast enough that no one would know the ghost scaring them half to dead was a child’s doll wearing a scary outfit.
“I can’t believe anyone falls for that.” Mac rolled his eyes while we walked further down the hallway. The entrance of the cloister, two stories high, had a large, dark oak staircase that dominated the room. The staircase was wide enough that four people could stand next to each other and still have the impression it was quite spacious. The dust-covered carpet had once been burgundy red but over time, its color had faded.
The nuns had left the cloister years ago. When Mac and I moved in, it was already abandoned, and proved to be a good hideout for someone who didn’t always walk on the right side of the law. If any of London’s fine police staff caught me carrying around golden miters and ruby-encrusted necklaces at least two centuries old, I would no doubt end up in Old Bailey.
The impressive staircase completely drew the attention away from the other side of the room. To the right stood a crumbling down closet, which no one would expect was the secret entrance to our home.
I opened the closet door and Mac jumped in first, unafraid of the darkness. I peeked around for any spiders—one had landed on my head once, and I wasn’t keen to repeat the experience—and then followed the cat. Reaching forward, I pushed against the panel at the back of the closet, revealing the secret passage.
We stumbled upon the stairs leading all the way to the clocktower of the cloister. Back when the nuns still inhabited these buildings, another entrance had been used. During my first inspection of the decaying nunnery, I had discovered that the real entrance was hidden away behind half a dozen beams that had come crashing down from the vaulted ceiling. After mapping out the layout of the cloister and coming up with our boobytraps to scare away unwanted visitors, Mac and I had decided on a place to live. We’d tossed for it and Mac’s choice won: the clocktower, once again staying true to the cat’s true nature for always choosing the highest position.
In retrospect, Mac’s choice was hands down the best one. Based on the layout we had made of the buildings, we had narrowed down where we could make a second entrance to the stairs leading to the tower, had hit the walls with a sledgehammer, put in the secret panel, and then hidden our work behind the oldest, most rotten wardrobe we could find in the entire cloister.
Mac and I put the panel back in place, and then ascended the stairs of the tower. Each step creaked under my weight; I imagined how it must have been like back when several dozens of nuns still roamed the halls of the cloister, occupying themselves with their daily tasks. Who was charged with the task of going up to the clock tower, following the same path Mac and I took on a daily basis?
We climbed the two-hundred forty-four stairs to the top, where another wooden door separated the stairwell from my home. Mac pushed the door open with his head, and I let out a relieved breath.
Home, at last.
The see-through clock occupied the center of the loft, big enough that I could look through it and be given a view of the entire city. A millionaire couldn’t pay for a view as magnificent as the one I had from my clocktower, looking out on the river Thames and the myriad houses lined up against each other like a giant caterpillar. A constant beehive with the millions of tiny worker bees toiling for her majesty, the Queen.
A wine-red couch stood to the right, with a reading lamp right next to it, followed by a telescope positioned right in front of the clock. A suitcase was lying on the carpet in front of the couch and doubled as coffee table.
To the left sat my desk, surrounded by bookcases. The desk itself was cluttered with papers, a pass, pens and pencils, and half a dozen dictionaries translating from ancient, long-dead languages to English. Next to the desk stood a globe and a chest of drawers on wheels. Each of the drawers was filled with cogs, nails, screws, glue, tweezers, and other equipment I needed for my inventions.
The seat behind my desk also had wheels under it, which I personally counted as one of my best inventions, since it allowed me to roll around the entire loft without getting up.
Left of the desk, behind the entrance, was a kitchen, and in the back was a door leading to my bathroom. It had taken some effort with the plumbing to get it running—back when the nuns were still in charge of the cloister, the plumbing obviously didn’t go all the way to the top of the clocktower—but now it worked like a charm.
Going right, moving past the couch and then turning right again, led to my bedroom, which offered another amazing view of the city, with my bed positioned in front of the second clock. From there, I could see the outskirts, the countryside beyond the bounds of the city, a field of lush green.
I plummeted my backpack down on the couch and followed suit, not bothering to take off my boots while I lay down. “I could sleep right here.”
“You promised me tuna,” Mac reminded me while he jumped on my stomach. “And you haven’t even bothered to take your coat off.”
“Too tired,” I grumbled while I put my arms behind my head as a makeshift pillow. “I feel like I can finally breathe again.”
“I was worried too that the automaton from the vault would come after us,” Mac admitted while he started kneading my shirt, one of his feline habits. “But I guess you were right.”
“Besides, there’s no way it could track us. We would’ve known if we were being followed.” I kicked off my boots one by one. “We’re safe and sound here. It’s been years, and no one has even come close to uncovering our hideout.”
“Lest of all those pesky Scotland Yard detectives,” Mac said, which made me chuckle.
Scotland Yard was looking for me, but I was pretty sure those high and mighty detectives had no clue they were looking for me. After I had broken into and plundered a secret crypt in the Circle of Lebanon, in the west part of Highgate Cemetery, the police and Scotland Yard were searching high and low for the famous Crypt Phantom.
I quite liked the nickname the newspapers had given me, even if it was a tad melodramatic.
I rubbed Mac’s back and the cat purred contently. “You want that tuna now?” I asked while I scratched behind his ears.
“Yes!” He jumped off me faster than the speed of light. Chuckling, I went to the kitchen to grab him some tuna. For myself, I took some lef
tovers from this afternoon. Moving back to my clock window, I put the can of tuna on the floor so Mac could devour it, meanwhile noticing I had another hole in my sock—the third toe peeking through so far.
With a sigh, I stuffed some cold rice into my mouth while savoring my view over the city. From my vantage point, the streetlights cast an ominous, mysterious glow over London. The darkest hours of the night, where the only creatures prowling the streets were thieves, beggars, ladies of questionable standing, and other unsavory individuals who withered away come morning.
“Mmm,” Mac said while he licked his lips. “Tuna is the most heavenly dish on the planet.”
“For cats, maybe.” I smiled at him. Despite his habit of teasing me every chance he got, I loved the little feline more than life itself, and I had no idea what I would do without him.
“So, are we going to check our haul before going to bed? I’m curious to see how much those miters are worth.”
“The first buyer I’ll contact is Dr. Moore. You know how he is.” I wondered about the tiny dots moving in the city below—was any of them a person like me, all on their own (except for their cat), with no family whatsoever, no friends? I didn’t usually mind being on my lonesome, but when staring at a city inhabited by roughly one million people, a feeling of abandonment crept in. Here, in my dilapidated building, I felt lonelier than I ever had before.
“You mean he’ll pay whatever we ask.” Mac swallowed his last bite, and then looked at me curiously. “What’s wrong? You have that look again.”
“What look?”
“A sad look. Something like melancholy, except it’s not entirely that.” Mac walked away from the empty can and rubbed against my legs. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing.” I bent my knees to pet his head.
“You know I can sense it when something’s up. We, cats, are very intuitive.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Cats were by nature solitary creatures, and I didn’t want to burden Mac with my own dark thoughts. “Let’s go check out our loot.”
We plopped down on the couch, Mac sitting next to me. I pulled my backpack closer and opened it, my lips curling into a smile at the sight of so much gold. Moore was going to pay us handsomely for this—not just for the gold, but the man was a collector of ancient artifacts. The miters and jewels of two-century-old archbishops buried in a secret tomb? Moore would sell his own soul to get his hands on that.
I removed the first miter from the backpack, and turned it left and right. The gold reflected the light of the gas lamps situated next to the couch. I knocked on the material, surprised at how heavy it was.
“If those bishops really walked around wearing golden miters while half the people of London were starving, I’m surprised people didn’t raid their tombs sooner,” Mac commented. “And that, while they were still alive, they weren’t struck down with an enormous headache.”
I sniggered at Mac’s joke and dug up the other items from my backpack. Each of the miters looked to be made of solid gold, and easily worth a fortune. The jewels in the necklaces were obviously real, too. Then, I grabbed on to the last miter and pulled it up. “That’s odd.”
“What is?” Mac had made himself comfortable on his spot, curling his tail around himself.
“This one weighs significantly less than the others.” I dipped the miter to the left, inspecting the inside. Knocking on the material, I shook my head. “This isn’t gold. Looks like it, but I think it’s just metal with a shine of gold. But there’s something inside. Some kind of device.” I turned the miter upside down to peek at the inside. A tangle of wires was curled up at the bottom—the top, if the miter was held in its proper position—leading to what looked like a crude battery. How was that possible? I knew of the Baghdad Battery, the oldest known electric battery in existence dating back roughly two thousand years, but the more modern versions of batteries were only used in the last fifty-years-or-so. By all accounts, this technology shouldn’t have been accessible back when the archbishops were interred.
Mac yawned. “Maybe this is what activated the mechanism on the archbishop automaton,” he suggested while he stretched his legs. “It had to be activated somehow.”
“And this miter was standing right on top of the coffins,” I said. “Almost as if it had been left out like bait.”
“We fell right for it.” Mac licked his paw lazily. “Whoever built that trap is probably rolling around in his grave laughing right now.”
“They certainly didn’t want anyone to disturb those archbishops’ eternal slumber,” I agreed, putting the miters back in my rucksack. “It’s about time we catch some sleep. I’m drained.”
Mac didn’t protest. Instead, he yawned again, as if to emphasize my point.
I shut off the gas lamp and moved to my bedroom, kicking off clothes as we walked, Mac waggling his tail as he kept up with me. By the time I reached the bedroom, I had left a trail of clothes in my wake, and the only item I was still wearing was a flimsy undershirt.
From inside the bedroom, another clock provided me with an almost equally magnificent view. While the clock in the living room was positioned towards the inner city, the rows upon rows of houses and slums, through the glass in the bedroom I could look at the outer circles of London: a few rows of townhouses, and beyond that, forests and lush, green fields as far as the eye could see.
Kings might spend a fortune on their castles, but none of them had a view as magnificent as mine.
Crawling into bed, I pulled several layers of covers over me.
Mac jumped into bed next to me, pressing his back against my stomach as I turned on my side. The nights could get cold in the clock tower, but between Mac’s fur and the cushions and heavy covers, I was usually sweating come dawn.
“Sleep tight,” Mac mumbled before he promptly fell asleep, without a care in the world.
Moonlight squeezed in between the fingers of the clock, casting a bluish glow into the room. I snuggled against Mac and put my arm around him. Within three breaths, I tumbled into the land of dreams.
Chapter 3
I awoke with a start, sitting up straight in bed.
Mac had rolled to the side, preferring not to let me leech off his body heat anymore. He was still sound asleep, snoring lightly—a fact he would no doubt deny the moment he woke up again.
Something had startled me awake. Sweat trailed down my back like goose bumps, and when I breathed out, my heart rammed against my ribcage. A nightmare?
Judging by the pale moonlight, time hadn’t crept past the nightly hours yet. Outside, everything was still, except for the hoot of an owl that I expected occupied one of the other buildings of the monastery.
The fragments of a dream clung to my memory, but all I remembered was something grabbing on to my ankle. Had I relived the events in the archbishop’s vault? Was the experience with the automaton toying with my mind? I had to admit, that thing had given me the creeps.
Careful not to wake Mac up, I tiptoed out of bed, picking up one of the covers and wrapping it around me. The wooden floor creaked under my weight while I shuffled into the living area and moved toward the see-through clock. This time, my view wasn’t drawn to the slums of London, but instead, I focused on the gardens of the cloister just below, trying to make out anything of the ordinary. Had some of the city’s children tried to enter the building, looking for ghosts?
The courtyard was eerily quiet. No voices, no leaves of ancient oak trees dancing in the wind, so still it almost didn’t seem real.
Then, as I strained my ears, I picked up a sound, but it was so faint I wasn’t sure it was real. A squeaking sound, like wheels spinning or cogs shifting.
It was probably my imagination playing tricks on me, or a noise warping in the silence of the night. Still, I was used to the sounds from the monastery, the lone shrieks of birds, the buzzing voices floating in from the inner city.
This noise was new, something I couldn’t place.
It reminded me of squeaky
wheels of a machine, and I mentally considered all the traps I had put in place to keep outsiders at bay. Perhaps one of those needed oiling or had become unhinged. I checked them regularly, so it was unlikely, but there had been a storm a few days ago. Or maybe the noise wasn’t what I thought it was: it could also be a door creeping open further down in the dilapidated building, or a bird slamming into glass. A thousand different possibilities, none of them offering a reason for me to feel as uneasy as I did.
Yet, my arms ran pinpricks and a cold twisted up my spine.
The monastery, my home, was my safe place. No one had ever made it past my traps, and if anyone so much as opened up the door to the building I was in, an alarm would go off in my room.
I glanced at the alarm button, which remained mute.
The echo vanished, and I wondered if perhaps the noise had only existed in my mind, a figment of my imagination brought on by lack of sleep. Father had always said I had enough imagination to fill a library.
Father. I pushed the thoughts about him to the back of mind. He was gone, his soul passed on to another world, or forever disintegrated into oblivion, and his body was a rotten corpse buried in a nameless grave. His legacy was a bunch of crumbled-up notes and several books worth of research I had tried my best to put into order, but my father’s genius was far greater than my own, and I hadn’t managed to find order in the chaos yet.
Thinking about him stirred up another bout of loneliness. I peered through the clock window once more, straining to make out any shape that shouldn’t be there, hunched near the undergrowth or the vines slowly conquering the building.
Nothing. The sound hadn’t come back either, and I figured it must’ve been the wind echoing through the empty halls, nothing more.
Pulling the blanket closer around myself, I returned back to bed, where Mac was snoring loud enough to wake up half a town.
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