What I really wanted to do was open the parcel and have a look at the book, but the wrapping was so precise, so surgical, that any attempt I could make to re-wrap it after opening would look crude and ham-fisted. I also wanted a cigarette, but it wasn’t allowed in this place; some bars actually followed the rules that George in The Twa Dugs was able to ignore so blithely. I busied my hands with turning the business card over and over again. No matter from which angle I looked at it, there was no sign that an address had ever been there. I held it up to the light, wetted the surface with beer, and heated it gently above my lighter; still nothing. I set light to a corner and let it burn, leaving the ashes on the table beside an empty beer glass as I headed for the railway station, and another trip into Edinburgh.
An hour later the cab I’d taken from the station drew up alongside a sleek luxury yacht.
I was back in Leith again.
I thought such fantasies only existed in Hollywood; the yacht was all sleek lines, shining chrome and polished wood, the sort of thing you’d expect a villain to be motoring around the Bahamas. Seeing it here, docked alongside the rotting barges and rusting hulks in Leith made it look less of a showpiece, and more of a polished shite, but that wasn’t a thought I was about to share with its obviously proud owner. My client stood up on deck waiting for me. Two apes in smart suits bracketed me like bookends and marched me to meet him.
He held out a hand as soon as I got close enough. I passed him the parcel.
“You didn’t open it, did you?” he said.
I lied.
“Of course not,” I said.
“And you didn’t have to do anything unsavory to get it”
The way he said the word made it sound the exact opposite of its meaning.
“It was too easy,” I said. “He just gave it to me and shut the door in my face.”
That gave Penderton pause for thought, then he seemed to remember his manners.
“I suppose I owe you a drink,” he said.
“Aye. That, and a wad of cash would be nice.”
He smiled. It didn’t look natural, and I remembered I was dealing with a man seemingly devoid of any humor at all. I kept my mouth shut as I followed him across deck and into a cabin that once again made me feel like I’d walked onto a movie set. There was a carpet deep enough to lose your feet in, enough mahogany to rebuild a small forest, and wall to wall mirrors that gleamed as if polished mere seconds ago. I expected a throne-like chair and a white cat, but he hadn't taken the analogy that far—not yet, at least. He led me to the rear of the yacht and out onto a party deck. I already knew that parties weren't his style, but he surprised me by opening up a drinks cabinet and coming back with a fifty year old Single Malt and two crystal glasses.
He saw me looking.
“I find beer too common for my tastes. Anything that costs less than a hundred pounds a bottle has that effect on me,” he said. He tried another smile. It didn't fit him any better than the previous one had.
He poured me two fingers, let me savor it for all of ten seconds then started to hit me with the hard questions.
“So, why did you ignore my instructions? Why did you read the book?”
“Who says I did?”
“Who says you didn't?”
I had no answer to that one. I played for time by lighting up a smoke. He looked like he wanted to stop me, but I guess his need for answers overrode his distaste. I was halfway through the first draw when he hit me with another.
“How much did Drake offer you?”
I decided it was time for some outrage.
“I'm not in the habit of switching sides after a contract has been agreed,” I said.
He studied me, long and hard, then nodded.
“Well then, that just leaves the question of why you decided to read the book?”
I still had no answer for him, and he hadn't paid me yet, so I decided on honesty.
“In my defense, I only looked at the pictures,” I said, trying to look sheepish.
He studied me again, like one poker player to another over a big pot. He nodded again.
“Very well. But I'm afraid that means I can't let you leave until the job is done. You'll be my guest here for a while.”
“Like hell I will.” I tried to get up, but the pair of apes held me down in place until I calmed. I went back to my smoke and pretended not to care. “Okay, so I stay. Just keep me fed and watered and I'll play nice for a while.”
“No expense will be spared, I assure you,” he said. “And you might even find it entertaining, if you survive.”
I didn't like the sound of that much, but as B-movie villain lines went it wasn't a bad one so I let it lie. I also stopped pretending to be quite so naive.
“So, just how much treasure are we talking about anyway?”
I'd only had a quick peek, back on the train—just enough to confirm that I did indeed have an antique book in my possession and not a cheap hardcover from the remainder stacks. And once I had the package open, it would have been a shame not to have a look. There had been pictures of heavy chests brimming with jewelry, gold goblets and coins, and other drawings that looked like maps and directions, along with something else, something that looked suspiciously like some kind of instructions for ritual magic.
But it was the treasure I was thinking about as I looked at the opulence all around me.
“You're some kind of treasure hunter, aren't you?”
“Hunter, no. Finder, yes,” he answered. “It's what I'm good at.”
I asked the question again.
“So, how much are we talking about?”
He surprised me by doing a damned good impersonation of The Fat Man.
“Well, sir, if I told you - if I told you half, you'd call me a liar.”
He looked pleased with himself for that, and I let him have it, this time. And before I could reply, the yacht shifted below me and I heard engines throb. I looked over to see the lights of Leith behind and only moonlit sea ahead of us.
“Just a short trip,” Penderton said. “We'll be there in a couple of hours. Frank will show you to a room where you can freshen up. Supper in an hour before the main event?”
I'll give him this, he was the most pleasant villain—if indeed he was a villain—that I'd met in a long time.
I got another surprise when I went back up top after a quick shower and shave. We had a third member for supper, and I recognized him immediately, despite the purple and yellow bruises that flowered across the lower half of his face. Mr. Drake did not look happy to be away from his wee, too-clean, house in Linlithgow. The apes had done a job on him, and from the way he looked at me, I guessed I was getting at least part of the blame.
Our host had finally found something amusing.
“You gentlemen are the only people in the country who have a clue as to what I plan to do,” he started.
I put up a hand and stopped him.
“In that case, you can let me off. I have no idea what's going on here.”
Penderton looked to Drake.
“Shall you tell him or shall I?”
Drake didn't seem to be in the mood for idle chit-chat, but Penderton wasn't in the least put off. He snapped his fingers imperiously in the air, and the apes brought supper. We sat in silence, eating quail, sipping a red wine so smooth it didn't seem to touch the sides on it's way to my belly, and afterwards smoking equally smooth cigarillos as the stars twinkled into place overhead.
Neither of the other two was in any hurry to enlighten me, but I'd drunk enough of the wine to loosen my own tongue.
“Let me guess,” I said. “We're headed across the Forth; that's Burntisland up ahead. And you're a treasure hunter. You're after the King's Baggage ferry, aren't you?”
Penderton gave me a slow hand-clap.
“Not exactly a difficult conclusion to come to, was it? The lure of the silver dinner service alone would have been enough, never mind the reported wealth the retinue was carrying when it was los
t.”
“No,” I replied. “It wasn't a great leap of deduction. But that ferry went down nearly four centuries ago. Tide and current will surely have strewn it far and wide by now? Far better men than you have wasted their lives looking for it.”
“They didn't have my advantage,” Pemberton replied, but would be drawn no further until supper was over—not that I made much complaint about his excellent taste in coffee and brandy.
Drake still hadn't spoken a word by the time we rose from the table. I saw he'd not been too proud to eat and drink what was put before him. But there was now a look in his eyes that I recognized all too well, for I saw it some mornings in the mirror.
This man is terrified. And in that case, so am I.
Pemberton smiled again, which only served to increase my sense of unease.
“Come,” he said, and started to move round to the forward deck. “It's time for the main event.”
I followed him up the length of the yacht. There was no sign of any diving gear or salvage equipment. Even the apes had stayed behind to clear away supper, leaving just we three men on deck. If Drake and I had the will for it, we could have jumped Pemberton there and then, but neither of us moved, and indeed Drake seemed rooted to the spot, staring at a patch of deck near Pemberton's feet.
I looked down... and got my first hint of what was about to happen. It didn't make me any happier.
I'd seen the diagram before—the series of concentric circles, cryptic scripts and occult symbols had looked archaic and harmless enough on paper in the old book—but here it was, etched in brass into the wood of the deck, gleaming, maliciously to my eyes, in the moonlight.
A ritual was about to take place, and I knew, for a fact, I wasn't going to like the result much.
Pemberton saw me looking and gave out the first laugh I'd heard him utter.
“Finally, you're starting to understand the means by which I'm a treasure finder.”
At that moment I remembered what Drake had said to me, back on his doorstep.
“Your man here says it won't work,” I replied to Pemberton.
“I don't see why it shouldn't,” the man said. “It worked in Acre, in Valetta, in Tangiers... it has worked everywhere I've chosen to attempt it. It has paid for everything you see here. Of course it will work.”
Pemberton turned his back on us so he didn't see the small, satisfied, smirk that crossed Drake's features. But I did, and kept quiet about it.
Too late, I considered jumping our host to put a stop to things before they got started, but the apes turned up on deck just at the wrong moment. Even than I might have been tempted into something stupid, had I not caught the small shake of the head that Drake made sure I saw.
One of the apes handed Pemberton the old book and he stepped into the circle before opening it up and finding the page he wanted. I tried to relax, lit up a smoke, and watched as he did his thing.
I was no longer entirely sure who was in control here.
I just knew it wasn't me.
I've seen rituals performed before, and they all looked the same to me; protective circles, chanting in strange voices, elaborate hand gestures—then the weird shit starts.
This time was no different. It took a bit longer to get to the weird shit than I'd expected, and for a while I thought that Drake had been right in his assessment of the outcome. But just as I lit up a second cigarette from the butt of the first, the sea to my right started to shine.
The waters seethed and roiled as if being boiled from below. A silvery mist rose from the surface, drifting around us and bringing a sudden wet chill to my nose and cheeks. The shining from below grew brighter, bluer, and a distinct shape was clearly visible, rising up from the depths, a huge rectangular vessel coming up out of a long wet sleep.
Water sloughed of it, but there was no sound of it running away, no noise where waves struck the luminous hull. It rose up until it floated right alongside the yacht, twice as long and half as broad and only a foot away from the edge of our deck. The vessel had once sported a tall mast, but that was long gone, snapped off close to the base. Brown kelp coated most of the deck, a slimy carpet in which crabs crept and dying fish gaped.
There can be nothing of value to be had here.
I was proved wrong seconds later.
A hatch opened in the middle of the deck, slowly as something had to push, hard, to shift the accumulated weed and debris. I held my breath, sure that I did not want to see what was going to come up out of the darkness.
The first thing to come into view was a skeletal arm, dripping wet from ragged, torn clothing that was also in itself faintly luminescent. A ruined head and torso soon followed as the first of the King's entourage walked on deck for the first time since 1633.
More followed, a group of a score or more, all little more than skeletons, but all of whom carried cargo up out of the hold as they came; silver plates and goblets, small chests brimming, some with coins, others with jewelry and gold. They moved silently, deliberately, heading across the ruined deck and walking onto the yacht where they started to pile the treasure before Pemberton. He stood there like a king himself, receiving his tribute.
Drake made his move just as the last of the skeletal retinue laid down its burden—a small silver box, intricately carved and inlaid with what looked to be ivory. The man didn't have to do much—the ape behind him stopped him after just one step—but his foot had crossed the line of the protective circle, and that was the signal for the weird shit to get even weirder.
The skeletal crew, some of who had already started to filter back onto the wrecked deck, all turned as one, black eye sockets aimed directly at Pemberton. He frantically flicked through the pages of the book, as if looking for a counter. At the same time the skeletal forms picked up the treasure, intent on taking it back to the darkness of the hold on the wreck.
“Stop them,” Pemberton shouted. I was in no mood to move, and neither was Drake. But the apes' bond to their boss was stronger than I would have thought. They jumped forward, wading in with punches, jabs and kicks—none of which made any impression at all on the skeletons. A bony arm reached out and grabbed one of the apes by the throat. Fingers tightened with a crack. The ape fell aside, his neck broken, dead in a second. His partner joined him at Pemberton's feet moments later, eyes staring, blood running down his chest from where his throat had been torn out as easily as if it were a sheet of paper.
The pile of treasure had already diminished to almost half the size it had been.
“No,” Pemberton shouted, and began a new chant, his voice ringing across the ocean. It had no effect at all. The skeletons kept at their task, and in minutes there was only the carved silver box remaining on deck.
Pemberton turned towards Drake, his face contorted in rage.
“What did you do?”
Drake didn't reply.
“I want that treasure, and I want it right now,” Pemberton shouted.
“That can be arranged,” Drake said softly. He made half a dozen quick movements with his hands. Two of the skeletal retinue returned and stood, either side of Pemberton, who was too busy being angry to see he was in trouble.
“Take him to his treasure,” Drake said.
Bony hands gripped Pemberton at the shoulder and dragged him off. The book fell, unnoticed, onto the deck as our host went, screaming, to join his treasure in the hold of the King's Ferry.
I stood at Drake's side as the sea seethed and roiled again. The mist dissipated as the blue luminescence took the wreck back to the deep. The sea rolled over it, covering it in darkness. The last thing to go was Pemberton's screams, muffled and distant, but still audible even after the wreck was lost from sight.
Drake knelt and lifted up the silver box and the book.
“You knew what would happen all along, didn't you?” I said, trying to keep my hands steady enough to light a fresh smoke.
He nodded.
“The King was a Stewart. I suppose you know the entomology of the nam
e?”
“Aye,” I said. “What has that got to do with the price of tea?”
Drake smiled and held the silver box up to let me see it before he put it away in a pocket.
“Some day a King might come to retrieve what was lost,” he said. “In the meantime, I'm here to keep an eye on things.”
He put out a hand for me to shake.
“Call me Steward.”
The End
A Slim Chance
A Midnight Eye Files Story
By William Meikle
A Slim Chance
I smoked too many cigarettes, sipped too much Highland Park and let Bessie Smith tell me just how bad men were. For once thin afternoon sun shone on Glasgow; the last traces of winter just a distant memory. Old Joe started up “Just One Cornetto” in the shop downstairs. I didn’t have a case, and I didn’t care.
All was right with the world.
I should have known it was too good to last.
I heard him coming up the stairs. Sherlock Holmes could have told you his height, weight, shoe-size and nationality from the noise he made. All I knew was that he was either ill or very old; he’d taken the stairs like he was climbing a mountain with a Sherpa on his back.
He rapped on the outside door.
Shave and a haircut, two bits.
“Come in. Adams Massage Services is open for business.”
At first I thought it was someone wandering in off the street. He was unkempt, unshaven, eyes red and bleary. He wore an old brown wool suit over a long, out of shape cardigan and his hair stood out from his scalp in strange clumps. I’ve rarely seen a man more in need of a drink.
Or a meal.
He was so thin as to be almost skeletal, the skin on his face stretched tight across his cheeks. I was worried that if I made him smile his face might split open like an over-ripe fruit.
“Are you Adams?” he said as he came in. He turned out to be younger than I’d first taken him for, somewhere in his thirties at a guess, but his mileage was much higher. “George at the Twa Dugs said you might be able to help me.”
The Midnight Eye Files Collection Page 62
