The crates did make for good building materials, though. Plus, the odd, flat box were jolly good tables of all sizes. It was almost like being part of a proper home.
“You’re here,” a girl spoke gently from behind her.
Verity turned to face Emma. “You sound surprised.”
“I am. A bit.”
“Henry said a meeting in the morning.” Verity snatched up a poker, slightly bent at the centre, but still able to spread the embers of the fire down, and perhaps she used a little more vigour than was strictly required. “So where is he?”
“He’s on the roof.”
Really? Again? “Oh for Heaven’s sake. Where are the rest of the Seven?”
Emma shrugged. “We’re all here. Just...waiting.”
“Fine,” she said, dropping the poker into place. “I’ll run and fetch him. No use holding a tribunal without its judge.”
The young girl’s brow furrowed. “A wot?”
Verity felt the explanation form on the tip of her tongue, but shook her head clear and stomped up the access stairs to the roof.
Henry fancied himself a tinker, and begrudgingly Verity acknowledged his raw talent. The problem was Henry’s self-awareness. He knew he possessed a skill and anyone questioning said skill was, obviously, inferior. This made any sort of critical analysis of his contraptions a source of contention. Contention would only add to the problem at hand: Verity’s fate.
This was why Verity forced down her gullet any and all thoughts of the ornithoper design he currently wore across his back. Choking back those words forced her stomach to cramp horribly.
Henry looked at her through his goggles and smiled cheerily. “Morning, Verity.”
This utter simp, she seethed. He’s completely forgotten last night. “Really? Just ‘Morning, Verity’ after your proclamation to the Seven?”
Henry lifted the goggles up to rest on his forehead. “Oh, bugger, it totally slipped my mind.” His brow furrowed. “Why did you remind me then?”
He really could be insufferable.
“Contrary to what manages to take hold in that clotted cream you call a brain, I believe in the rules of the Seven and therefore wish to adhere to them. Even if it means my excommunication.”
Henry dropped the controls of the ornithoper and held his gloved hands up. “Now just hold on there, Verity. I do not intend to send you to the gallows or nothin’ of that nature.”
“Excommunicated, you git, not execution!” Verity snapped. “Excommunicated means expulsion. As in, to be released in disgrace. As in, the threat you made last night.”
“Oh.” Henry removed his cap, and scrunched his face as he massaged his scalp. “Guess we’d better have that meetin’ then, right.”
“Let’s just—” Verity took in a deep breath, and then slowly released it, the fog she created quickly vanishing before her face. “Let’s just get this over with.”
With that, she spun on her heel and returned to the main parlour where the remaining Seven, including the twins, waited patiently around the fireplace. The fire there was not as impressive as the one from last night, but in the tight confines it did manage to warm them all. Emma, her chestnut brown curls almost obscuring her face, was enjoying with her tea one of the scones pilfered from Thorne’s. She glanced at Verity while whispering to one of the twins. Jeremy—most likely. His brother Jonathan was finishing off a bowl of porridge with apparent relish, since he was wearing most of it on his face. Leaning against one of the taller crates, Christopher tapped his fingers impatiently, occasionally glancing in a small mirror in his palm to check the mud smeared on his face.
It wouldn’t do to go out looking like they lived in Kensington if they wanted to shake a penny in a bowl. Colin and Liam were seated at the far end, and both immediately stopped talking as soon as Verity came into the room.
No getting away from it. She took a place atop one of the crates within sight of everyone, the wood creaking ever so slightly as she made herself comfortable. No one dared to speak a word, not as if they needed to. Whenever they looked at her, their gazes spoke volumes.
Finally, Henry entered the parlour, the ornithoper secured somewhere up in the attic, no doubt, and suddenly Verity experienced the unfamiliar feeling of being at the bottom of the pecking order. But was this not the risk she accepted on knowingly violating rules the Seven instituted to protect them all? She had gone off without letting anyone know where—in fact, she’d done that numerous times—and concealed a job of her own. Any endeavours must be shared with the group, so the risk and the rewards were spread out amongst them all.
“Guess we all know what brings us here,” Henry began. Verity could not be certain, but she thought there was a hint of regret in his words. “Verity broke the rules. Not letting anyone know where she’s disappearin’ to at night, and then hiding a job from us!”
Verity cleared her throat. This court Henry called did not make her own confession any easier. “The job I’m working isn’t a real job, per se.”
“Per wot?” Liam asked through a mouthful of porridge.
“Per se,” she repeated, a faint smile crossing her lips. “It means, ‘by itself’. I’ve been looking for this friend of my father’s, Uncle Octavius. He was supposed to have been killed on the Nile just before my parents were murdered, but I’ve seen him. Remember the time Agent Thorne asked us to find that one-legged bloke Arthur Clayton last year?”
“We all voted to help him,” Emma reminded everyone—loyal as ever. “You went undercover at Lady Bucket’s Hospital for War Veterans and found him.”
“That was a good caper, that was,” Christopher chuckled. “You found him while we searched all over Shoreditch for the bastard.”
“Yeah,” Liam piped up again, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, “Thorne saved your life when you was dangling from a window while you was spying.”
“But Clayton was killed,” Henry broke in, folding his arms over his chest. “And you didn’t tell us about this uncle of yours being involved back then.”
Verity bit her lip. “I didn’t tell you because it was about my parents and...” She stuttered to a finish without knowing quite what to say.
The children around her were silent, probably thinking about their own mothers and fathers. All of them were orphans in one way or another. Liam and Colin looked at her with twisted expressions, sharing her pain of losing loved ones. Henry, Emma, Jonathan and Jeremy looked at her with envy, for they had only ever known cruel parents.
“Per se or not, this game of yours is still against the rules,” Henry said, his brown eyes boring holes in her.
Now the words tumbled out of her. “I’ve been trying to find someone else connected with Uncle Octavius, someone from the hospital Clayton was dossing in. I figured he might not be the only one recruited from there. I didn’t want to pull any of you into this ‘cos I thought it too dangerous and maybe too ridiculous. Then, last night I found another soldier.”
“That’s no excuse.” Henry’s voice was low, and his expression was stern. “We have rules to keep each other safe. If you can’t abide by them then you shouldn’t—”
“It’s her family!” It was Christopher who interrupted Henry—and he was usually the older boy’s staunchest supporter. His thick thatch of hair was almost bristling like a dog’s. “If any of us had any family worth a damn we’d do the same thing.”
“We’re supposed to be her family,” Henry shot back. “We should be enough!”
“Just ‘cos of your useless dad?” Emma yelled from where she sat. With a rustle of dirty skirts, Emma crossed the parlour so she shielded Verity, as if she could protect the older girl from Henry’s slings and arrows. “She was only looking out for the Seven.”
“But she could trust Thorne, couldn’t she?” He slipped into a mocking impression of the agent, twirling an imaginary moustache as he said in an affected manner, “This one’s a ruby from China. This is an emerald from Iiiiiinnnndiiiiiiaaaaa...”
Now Verity
did want to poke him. Hard. Henry took entirely too many liberties, and treating an adult who showed nothing but kindness to her and the Seven as an elaborate double-cross stood upon the height of rudeness. They were children...well mostly...and Thorne had done so much for them.
Colin and the twins thought the impersonation was funny. They were the only ones. “An’ what about this job?” Henry pressed. “What if it was a right score per se?”
“You’re not using ‘per se’ correctly!” Liam shouted.
“Shut it, Liam!” Colin barked. “Henry’s right! She’s keepin’ secrets.”
“You mean like the little flask of rum you keep under your pillow?” Emma bit back. She then whirled around to face Henry. “You’ve never liked Verity as she’s smarter than you! Always has been.”
Henry pointed at Emma. “You’re takin’ sides!”
“It’s an argument! You’re supposed to!”
He was the oldest of the Seven, and yet Henry stomped his foot as he shouted, “You always take her side!”
In a moment, the whole parlour was in an uproar as urchins bounced to their feet and yelled their particular points of view at the tops of their lungs. Verity did not join in, because in her mind she shared with them the truth—well as much of it as she could—and now it was up to them to sort it out. Colin, with Jeremy and Jonathan egging him on, were standing by Henry, livid she’d waited until now to tell them what she’d been up to. The rest of the Seven continued to defend her just out of unconditional love. They didn’t want her to leave, and that offered her embers of hope.
Then the alarm cut through the din, silencing them all instantly. Someone had come in through the front door.
“Nommus,” Henry whispered to the twins.
Jonathan gave curt nod to Jeremy and slipped away into an adjoining room. In a moment the twin completely disappeared from sight.
“Hello now,” the very adult voice called from the foyer, “Exactly what have I walked into?”
Harrison Thorne paused in the doorway of their parlour. Tucked under one arm was a thin, long wooden box which his left-hand fingers idly tapped. He had quite the talent for calling upon them unexpectedly.
“Agent Thorne,” Henry said, straightening his tattered waistcoat, “to what do we owe the pleasure?”
“You know,” Thorne began, setting the long box on one of the crates beside him, “part of keeping a hideout hidden is keeping your position secret. I could hear you all as I rounded the corner.” He then stopped in mid-step and said to Henry in a whisper loud enough for everyone to hear, “And the emerald was from South Ameeerrrrrrricaaaa, not Iiiiiinnnndiiiiiiaaaaa.”
Now everyone, even those siding with Henry, laughed. The younger man’s mouth twisted into a scowl, but the sour expression only earned him a wink from Thorne.
“You know what I do,” he said to Henry, then cast his gaze across them all. “Secrets are not always a bad thing. You sometimes hold secrets in order to protect the ones closest to you. And if this is what Verity is guilty of, then is it safe to assume no secrets are kept in the Ministry Seven?” He looked to each of them. “Go on. Tell me honestly none of you has ever kept a secret from the others.” Not one member of the gang moved. “Let’s hear it then. The floor is yours and Verity awaits judgment.”
Each member of the Seven glanced to one another.
“So I thought,” the Ministry agent said. “I’m sure you all have good reasons for keeping these secrets from one another, just as she has in keeping this one from you.” Thorne turned to face her. “So, Verity, are you ready to share with all of us this secret? Or is it too soon?”
Verity gently bit her bottom lip, then took in a deep breath. “I was telling the Seven about this friend of my da’s, Uncle Octavius. He was supposed to have been killed just before my parents were, but he’s alive.”
“Alive?” Agent Thorne repeated while he brushed his moustache.
“I saw him a couple of months ago. I don’t know what it means, but he was concealing his identity. I didn’t show myself to him because it just didn’t feel right. That’s all.”
“That’s all?”
Verity swallowed, hoping she didn’t flinch at the tightness in her throat. Did she tell them about the sudden “connection” she was feeling towards mechanisations big and small? “Yes, that’s all.”
“This Uncle Octavius,” Henry asked, his voice grabbing everyone’s attention, “tell us a bit more about him. What sort of geezer is he?”
Verity shrugged. “My dad and Uncle Octavius were both archaeologists. They met at university I think, and they were working together, trying to solve an ancient puzzle. At least that is what Dad said.”
“What puzzle?” Emma asked.
“Honestly, I don’t remember,” Verity said. “I just know they were on the verge of what Dad called ‘the most significant find of modern day’ and that night, the fire...” and her voice trailed off as a sudden chill gripped her heart.
“Archaeology does seem to have become a rather dubious field now, doesn’t it?” Thorne said, causing Verity to start. “Between your father, this Uncle Octavius, all these deaths centred around the Silver Pharaoh, and the abduction of Doctor Williams, it would hardly come as a surprise to me if the British Museum were not some epicentre of organised crime ring.
“As I told you all Professor Williams possesses first-hand knowledge of the Silver Pharaoh, and now he is the only archaeologist from the excavation still alive. The participants who took part in the Silver Pharaoh dig started dropping like flies just last year. Seven scientists of all varying backgrounds, and the first collapsed in March of last year. From the reports, it appeared he suffered a fatal heart attack.”
Verity held up her hand. “Hold on. Appeared to suffer a heart attack?”
“The third death was when the Ministry took notice. A contact at Scotland Yard reached out to us when they came across a suicide. Doctor Gerald Hart, Egyptologist. Famous for the Silver Pharaoh dig. Found dead in his home. Hung himself. And the good doctor was thorough. Weights around his ankles. Hands tied behind his back.”
“So what was the mystery?” asked Liam.
“His neck wasn’t broken, for starters. That’s usually how people who are sent to the gallows die.”
“For starters?” Christopher asked. “What else was off?”
“The fact the good doctor lived alone. Not even house servants.”
For a moment, the Seven looked at one another until Emma’s hazel eyes lit up. “Coo. That’s clever.”
Henry shrugged. “Wot’s clever?”
“If the toff be living alone, how did he tie his hands behind him?”
Agent Thorne chuckled. “Perhaps we should find you a flat on Baker Street, little Emma. But yes, you are right. So we started to investigate into the doctor’s death, and that rather clever archivist of ours—new chap, can’t remember his name—made the connection with the two other deaths. By then, a fourth death around the Silver Pharaoh occurred.”
“Sounds like there’s some sort of curse ‘round this blighter, the Silver Pharaoh,” Liam said in a near whisper, his eyes wide. Verity pinched the bridge of her nose as she let out a long, slow sigh. The boy was always quite taken with the ballyhoo. “Maybe we should return the king back to his homeland, right? Lay the curse to rest?”
“A brilliant idea,” Agent Thorne whispered back, “if we knew where the Silver Pharaoh was.”
Verity’s head popped up. “I beg your pardon, Agent Thorne?”
“The Ministry’s investigation has uncovered quite the mystery within the mystery. The Silver Pharaoh you see on display at the British Museum? It’s a fake.”
“Bloody brilliant!” Liam proclaimed, clapping his hands.
“As part of a goodwill outreach to the Empire, the British Museum sponsored a tour with the Silver Pharaoh. The plan was to begin here in England, move up to Scotland, then work their way around the world.”
“I remember this,” Verity said. “That w
as three years ago.”
“Yes, and somewhere between Ireland and Scotland the Silver Pharaoh up and disappeared.”
“Disappeared? So what has been in the British Museum all this time?”
“An elaborate fake, created by Her Majesty’s jeweller.” He leaned closer to Verity and winked. “And I will wager you believed the newspapers when they reported the tour’s stop in Egypt had been cancelled on account of protest from the locals.”
Verity covered her mouth with her hand. All this time, with so many people gasping in wonder at this glimpse of the past…
“So now you all know the secrets the British Museum has been keeping all this time, and now—thanks to Verity and her own field work from the previous night—I know a bit more about Miss Lobelia and St Austell, both of which have set this mystery on its ear. I take it none of you recognize these names?” The children all shook their heads. He nodded, his massive shoulders shrugging ever so slightly. “I would have thought, Miss Fitzroy, you of all people might have. Miss Lobelia Delancy is the headmistress of the Delancy Academy for Exceptionality, just your sort of place. The Delancy Academy, located in the remote hamlet of St Austell’s. Where Tomorrow Is Discovered Today. That is their motto.”
Verity furrowed her brow. “What does an academy for brats living in the Rothschild have to do with this Silver Pharaoh and the kidnapping of Doctor Williams?”
“Indeed what.” Harry fixed them all with a pointed look. “This connection is the only lead we have in the whereabouts and potential fate of our Egyptologists, and this lead presents quite the challenge for me.”
“How so?” Colin asked, peering out from under his mop of hair.
The Curse of the Silver Pharaoh Page 3
