The Curse of the Silver Pharaoh

by Pip Ballantine

  Verity frowned. “Stopped, just like that?”

  Thorne nodded. “Where Germany would be.”

  “The Goths? They stopped them?”

  Thorne turned his gaze to her, and Verity swallowed. She suddenly felt cold again, even with the warmth of the fire. “According to the lore we have in the Archives, Psusennes personally led a party of his finest warriors on a night raid on a border tribe they encountered. The Egyptian Historians said their Pharaoh did not return until the following night, and he was changed. He would not drink the wine or eat of the succulent boar roasting on the spit. The following morning, Psusennes and his men disappeared once again, but their servants were discovered. Their bodies were completely drained of all life. Seems their beloved pharaoh had become something quite terrible.”

  Realising her cup and saucer were rattling in her hands, Verity gently placed them on the table, and leaned forward as Harry continued his story.

  “After that, apparently the Egyptian forces turned on Psusennes and his guard. Forty against four hundred thousand. Of the records we have in the Archives, we know only this: King Psusennes was taken alive, and the Egyptian Empire lost half of their men that night.” He leaned in closer to Verity, and his voice was a whisper. “And you ask why they buried him in a silver coffin?”

  Verity arched an eyebrow. “Your Ministry Archivists wouldn’t be named Stoker or Polidori per chance?”

  Thorne chuckled. “Verity Fitzroy, for one who has assisted me on several Ministry adventures, you can be quite closed-minded.”

  She shook her head. “The only thing that goes bump in the night is whatever Henry is combobulating on the rooftop of Number 5 Onslow Square.”

  “Tosh, girl,” he said, draining his cup. “Are you going to sit there and tell me you weren’t enjoying my modest ballyhoo, even just a little?”

  “It takes a bit more to scare me than a children’s ghost story,” Verity said, with just a little wag of her finger.

  Just then, the double-doors of Thorne’s penthouse burst open, and a band of six sopping-wet children slipped and skidded into the foyer, their eyes all frantically searching for someone, be it a valet or...

  “Good evening, everyone!” Agent Thorne called as he rose from his seat. “I see you all got my message.”

  The eldest of the children, tall and broad in the shoulders, his normally tanned skin looking somewhat pale in the present light, righted himself and took in a deep breath. “We were wonderin’ if it had something to do about Verity. She—” and he stopped when he caught sight of her. Now concern turned to a glare. “You didn’t tell anyone where you were going!”

  “I was tending to a personal matter, Henry,” Verity replied evenly.

  Henry Price was insufferable, making entirely too many assumptions that—being the eldest and male—he stood as leader and voice of the Seven. His father had been a military man serving in India, but Henry himself never served, and she was damned if she was going to let him make their little band of urchins into an army unit. They were children...well, in age at least.

  “You know the rules, Verity. All you did was barge in, take Liam’s contraption—”

  “Spider Legs,” Liam corrected.

  Henry shot the boy an angry glare before continuing. “And then you done scampered off. What if you got nicked by peelers?”

  “Before you let your Indian temperament get the better of you, Henry,” Agent Thorne broke in and motioned to the parlour, “why don’t you and the rest of the Seven dry off, change into night clothes and come back here to talk about tonight, yes?”

  Henry’s hand tightened into fists at his side. Verity felt her back stiffen. It was beyond the pale that he treated an adult who showed them nothing but kindness so rudely.

  “Or,” Agent Thorne began, walking over to the doors they left open on their arrival, “you can go back to Onslow Square. I’m sure you have a fire and hot chocolate to warm you up there. It’s your choice.”

  As Thorne closed the doors, Henry looked to the others.

  “We’ll spend the night here. No need risking pneumonia, right?” he motioned with his head to the parlour, and the gang all scampered to the warm room, disrobing as they went. The Seven were not necessarily known for their modesty. “We have a lot to talk about, I guess,” Henry added, glancing at Verity as he passed.

  While it was true that it was a rule of the Seven, she did not like being reminded of it. Verity hated his tallness, which had only developed in the last few years and gave him a bit of an advantage in asserting himself. When they joined the Ministry Seven together, it had been far more even. They still argued the same, but at least when she was eye to eye with him it felt fairer somehow.

  In the stark glow of the electricity Henry appeared paler than he was, the heritage of his Indian mother faded somehow, and he might have been able to pass as nothing but English—as he could not do during the day. The handsomeness however did not go away. That also had been there when they first met, and only served to irritate Verity further. She was well aware of the manner in which his good looks influenced her—she would have been very dull indeed not to—and it made their arguments perhaps even more frequent. She would not be some weak-willed English rose demurring to the strength of a man or because he had a pretty face. Henry was Henry, and he most definitely did not have any sort of charge over her.

  When one meets a wall, her father said to her once on a dig in Crete, one does not attempt to go through it, one simply goes around it. This was exactly the method Verity employed with Henry.

  After a few minutes of raucous chatter between which nightgown would belong to whom and where each respective urchin would be sleeping in the toasty-warm parlour, the Ministry Seven were gathered around the grand hearth where Agent Thorne and Verity were. Hot chocolate warmed their hands and bodies, and the occasional pockets of silence were interrupted by the crunch of biscuits.

  Verity regaled her fellow street urchins with her story of the wild ride through London, the man from the British Museum, and the bruisers who absconded with him into the darkness.

  Henry ran his hands through his damp, dark hair, ruffling it so it stood up on all angles. “What were you doing there anyway? That end of town ain’t our turf, not like we can break into the British Museum.”

  She felt her temper rise another notch at the implication. In her estimation there was nothing in all of London the Ministry Seven, with the application of a little thought and planning, could not get into. The question of how much to share with the rest of her street family was an uncomfortable one.

  “Tell the part again wot when the Spider Legs grabbed the barker out of the rampsman’s hand,” Liam pressed. “Sounds like it worked real well!”

  Agent Thorne gave a long, low sigh as he sat back in his grand chair. “Was there anything they said that gave an indication of where they would be taking Doctor Williams?”

  “I remember Floyd saying to the bludger ‘you don’t even know where Miss Lobelia’s house is! St Austell might as well be in hell for all you know.’ which I really don’t understand.” She looked across her own Seven and asked, “Does any of this make sense to you?”

  All save Henry either shrugged or shook their heads.

  “How very interesting. Very interesting indeed,” Thorne said, scratching his chin. “You see, Doctor Xavier Williams, the gentleman I was keeping watch over tonight, is an Egyptologist at British museum who specialises in their ancient language.”

  Colin, the eight-year-old far too clever for his own good, scrunched his nose. “Wot’s an Eeee-jip-”

  “An Egyptologist, Colin, is one of them toffs wot works at the British Museum,” Christopher stated. He was also trying to force his voice into its lower register.

  A shadow shifted across the floor, and the six-year-old boy tugged on Colin’s nightgown. The shy urchin whispered something to him, and then turned to look at Agent Thorne as Colin asked, “Why were you watchin’ the doctor?”

  “I am
glad you asked, Colin,” Thorne said. “Williams is living quite the charmed life. He is the only living scholar to have first-hand knowledge of the Silver Pharaoh.”

  Liam tilted his head one way. “The Silver wot?”

  Thorne blinked, then chuckled. “Oh, that’s right, you all missed that bit. The Silver Pharaoh has proven quite the legend since its discovery five years ago. The doctor was merely a scholar at Cambridge back then, but being part of the original archaeological dig has turned him into something of a celebrity, academically speaking. He now holds the distinction of being the only archaeologist from the dig remaining above ground.”

  The Seven all exchanged nervous glances with one another before turning to look at Verity.

  “Yes, Verity, you may have been the last person to see Williams alive. The manner of these deaths around the Silver Pharaoh is what attracted the Ministry’s attention.”

  “What do you mean?” Liam asked.

  Thorne looked to each of them and then his expression hardened. “Perhaps I should save the details for tomorrow.” He held up a single hand in response to the collected groans and protestations. “It is late and I have to report this evening’s brouhaha to the Director of the Ministry.” Thorne glanced over to Verity. “I will look into this Miss Lobelia as well as what a ‘St Austell’ is. So, off to bed with the lot of you. Bernard can whip you up some breakfast if you like tomorrow morning, but stay as long as you like,” he said, motioning to the setting before them. “And thank you, Verity. Because of you, I have a lead.” He gave a small bow and then retreated to his bedroom.

  As Thorne closed the doors behind him, a lump formed in Verity’s throat. With the agent’s exit she would have to face the rest of the Seven and the questions they had. All she could hear now was the steady crackle of the fire in the hearth.

  “Verity,” Henry began. Verity turned to find him looking down at her with one of those looks which was far too adult for her liking, “You’ve been up to something these last few months—ever since we helped Thorne find that Arthur Clayton fellow. I think it is time you shared a bit more, or perhaps you’d like to go on your way.”

  Now she was really bristling, but that was definitely because he was right. Urchins grew up in the Ministry Seven. They did not stay there when the adult world called. They moved on to things adults do—finding a trade, making a family, or perhaps more unfortunately joining one of the grown up gangs like the Elephants or the Hooligan Boys. She was not ready to take those risks just yet. Not when she was at last in possession of a lead on the one man who might know why her parents were killed.

  Verity stared blankly at Henry for a moment though, unable to believe what he’d just said. He followed it up with something worse though.

  “Tomorrow, back at the square, we’re holding a meeting of Seven.”

  Now there was no avoiding it. Either reveal herself or be cut adrift from the gang. Verity wanted to punch Henry very badly not just for forcing her hand like this, but also because he might just be making her do the right thing.

  The soft tapping from the glass doors leading to the balcony stole everyone’s attention on her.

  “Jeremy!” Colin whispered but then bit his bottom lip as he nervously glanced to the closed doors of Thorne’s bedroom. They all stood stock still for the moment, and the seconds crept away. With only the occasional pop from the fireplace, Verity turned to the others and nodded. Silently, they all slipped over to the window and opened the glass doors leading to the balcony. Another six-year-old, the perfect reflection of quiet Jonathan, slipped into the warm dwellings. On seeing his twin, he smiled and nodded appreciatively before whispering something to Jonathan who, in turn, whispered something to Colin.

  “Jeremy’s just checking to see if we were taking the Huntley.”

  “No blue bottles, so we’re coming to the Rothschild tonight,” Henry told the boy. He then motioned to Liam and Colin. “Send Jeremy back with whatever he can carry from Agent Thorne’s setting.”

  “Just the food,” Verity hissed.

  Colin and Liam glanced to one another, then looked to Henry.

  “Just the food,” Henry echoed, his eyes locked with hers.

  The two boys disappeared from sight.

  “Next time we spend a night here, it’ll be your turn, Jeremy. All right?”

  Jeremy nodded to Jonathan. Jonathan then nodded to Henry.

  Colin and Liam handed Jeremy two napkins cinched at the corners. “Right then, we got scones, biscuits, and a few small bowls of clotted cream and jam in there.”

  “Bowls we will clean and return as soon as possible,” Verity stated firmly.

  “Very well,” Henry said. “Watch yourself out there.”

  Jeremy nodded to Henry, took the two loads of food, and then slipped back out into the night.

  “I don’t know why we have to keep Jeremy a secret from Agent Thorne. Considering all the good things he has done for us...”

  Henry rounded on Verity. “You are a right one to talk! We have to keep Jeremy a secret from the adults as he is our insurance when we are no longer useful to Agent Thorne and his Ministry, now isn’t he?” He was now barely an inch from her face as he asked, “So why do you keep your secrets from us, Verity Fitzroy?”

  Nothing was worse than being wrong in Henry Price’s eyes. Nothing.

  “Come on, you lot,” he said, leaving Verity at the balcony’s glass doors, “let’s get some sleep.”

  One by one, all the boys followed Henry to the parlour where a modest fire and warm bedrolls awaited them. Verity took a deep breath watching Liam look back to where she stood just before slipping out of sight.

  “Why’d you do it?” the soft voice asked from the darkness.

  Emma, the only other girl in the Seven at present, finally spoke. Verity was not used to the precocious child being so quiet. She was perhaps eleven, on the verge of following Verity into womanhood, and looked to the older girl for instruction too much. Also she sometimes borrowed her things—but despite that Verity was sorry to have caused her pain.

  She stared down at her hands for a moment, wondering how she could explain it without making it seem like she thought herself better than the rest of the urchins.

  They were children of London and her slums. Verity came from proper education and standing. When she first joined them, it had taken a great deal of effort to suppress her upbringing, and convince them it meant nothing to her.

  “It was for me Mum and Dad.” She tried to steady her voice, not appear weak. The night was catching up with her. “Every night I dream of the flames, and I hear what he said before he went back in.”

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “Something like ‘they finally did it’. He never said who they were...and then he was gone...” Verity said it fast so the pain of recollection was fleeting.

  “Henry’s a bit of a ratbag, but he does have a point. You know how much we all trust you.” Emma looked her over from head to toe. “When are you gonna trust us?”

  She didn’t wait for a reply, instead disappearing into the parlour where the Seven settled.

  The sob which escaped Verity shortly thereafter was small and muffled. These children of the streets were her family now, but that didn’t mean she could abandon her blood family. She couldn’t let their deaths and the injustice of their demise to go unanswered.

  Wiping away the tears from her eyes, she let out a long, slow exhale. Rather than joining the Seven in the parlour, she pulled one of Thorne’s chairs in from of the fire and curled up there.

  The effort tapped her of her remaining strength, and once she stretched out on the plush surface, sleep quickly wrapped its arms around her.

  Thankfully it was deep and void of dreams.

  Chapter Three

  The Queen Calls upon the Ministry Seven

  Onslow Square was home to writers, admirals, and other people of means. It was a large fenced and gated garden surrounded by the finest white stone buildings in London.<
br />
  It was one of the most fashionable places for the affluent to live. It was also—thanks to a strange twist of fate and fortune—home for the Seven. Number 5 Onslow Square was just as resplendent as every other house on the street, but it’d been specifically built to serve as a safe house for the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences.

  At least that was its initial purpose, but the interior was furnished only on the ground floor. The others were decorated with odds and ends from all over the Ministry. Budget cuts meant Number 5 was never completed as a true safe house, and now it was more for storage.

  Until those funds miraculously appeared to complete the it, Number 5 was the threadbare dwelling the Seven called home.

  Verity scrambled quickly up the wrought iron fence as they lacked the proper keys to access the park like the more public residents of Onslow Park. Today, her fate would be decided, and even with a brisk morning’s constitutional out to London’s West End and then back home, she was still lost in her own fears of what would happen.

  The tunnel entrance was concealed very artfully in a stout oak tree, opening only to the right combination of presses. The rattle of the gears moving was completely silent, though it did telegraph itself inside Verity’s head. Usually that was comforting, but now—thanks to Henry and his proclamation in the midnight hour—it was almost the complete opposite.

  Verity took the circular stairs downward and stalked through the hallway leading under the street into Number 5. After climbing one more staircase, she emerged into the kitchen.

  A kettle hung over the fire, burning low but keeping it just hot enough to make a decent cup of tea. It was definitely Emma behind the gesture. The younger girl was thoughtful like that. Verity found her present predicament far from remedies any comfort could bestow. Even tea. Sleep, however, steeled her courage. She woke to find herself almost alone in Thorne’s house. Only his valet remained.

  She hated being the last to rouse, but the rest and the breakfast Bernard prepared afterwards both proved most satisfactory.

  In their own house, the children lived among stacks of crates. Apart from the kitchen, they didn’t have a great deal of room to move around, but it was incredibly comfortable compared to their former room in the East End. It had not even really been a room, more like a wet basement they shared with a collection of women and children. It had also been the hunting ground of many of the gangs, who wanted either knife-wielding children, or ones that were more biddable to sell their bodies. Age didn’t really matter in either case.