The Merlin Chronicles: Box Set (All Three Novels)

by Daniel Diehl

  At thirty-seven years of age it had been a decade since he received his doctoral degree and since then he had worked hard to earn the respect of the scientific community. But for all that, he was never as comfortable as when he was rubbing elbows with people in their twenties. They helped keep him young, on his toes and mentally alert. And, he had to admit to himself, the timeless atmosphere of The Vaults helped him ignore the passage of time since his own university days.

  “Coke?”

  “What?”

  It was only mid-afternoon but The Vaults was already so crowded the customers had to scream if they were further apart than the width of a table. “I said,” the young man near the bar drew a deep breath before shouting out the rest of the sentence. “Do you want another Coke?”

  Jimmy waved his hands helplessly and shook his head from side to side indicating that the answer was “no”. Once he swallowed the mouthful of burger, he waved his hand in the air again and shouted. “Ketchup.”

  Taking a step toward Jimmy’s table, the chubby young man cupped a hand around one ear, indicating that he could not hear. Standing up and leaning forward, Jimmy shouted “Ketchup!” Then pointing toward the plate in front of him, added, “For my fries!”

  “You mean tomato sauce for your chips, don’t you Jimmy?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, man,” Jimmy grinned, “where I come from its ketchup and they’re fries.”

  “Bloody hell, Jimmy, how long have you been over here, anyway? Learn the language, mate. You want fries and ketchup go to Mickey D’s, it’s only two streets over.” This was obviously a familiar game between the two.

  “Jesus, don’t ever say that word in front of me.”

  “Which word was that?”

  “Mickey D’s. I’m from California. I’m into healthy living and natural food and all that shit. No Mickey D’s for this boy. Now just get me some ketchup, sit down and let me finish my damn hamburg, will ya’?”

  Tom Souter plunked his fresh glass of cola down on the table, tossed two tiny plastic packages of ketchup toward Jimmy and leaned across the table till their faces were only inches apart. “Beef burger.” He said quietly.

  “Oh, fuck you, man. You just won’t quit, will you?” Jimmy could hardly keep from choking with laughter.

  “Seriously, Jimmy, where did you Yanks come up with a name like hamburger anyway? There isn’t any ham in the thing.”

  “It’s not an American word, its German. You know, like the city of Hamburg. It’s where they were invented, or something.

  Tom lowered his head and shook it in mirth. “Ok, Jimmy, whatever you say.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “No you’re not. You’re only serious inside the lab. Speaking of the lab, how is our little blue ball coming along?”

  “Great.” Jimmy nodded furiously, now serious. “Most of it has already passed maximum diameter and started to pull in.”

  “You mean it’s actually keeping its shape?” Tom looked pleasantly surprised.

  “Seems to be.”

  “Do you think it’s really going to close at the top?”

  “I can’t tell yet. But it’s heading in that direction.” Then, after a shrug and a pause “Keep your fingers crossed.”

  “Right. I’m really sorry I haven’t been around. Too much to do.” Tom Souter ran a hand over his close-cropped yellow hair.

  “No worries, man. Everything’s cool. I’m happy to have you whenever you can get away.”

  “Thanks, Jimmy.” Tom started to rise from the table, taking a final, massive slug of Coke. “Speaking of the lab, I think I’ll pop over there now. See you when you get there.”

  Jimmy waved in acknowledgement, stuffing the last bite of the burger into his mouth. “Catch you later, dude.” He mumbled around the food.

  Jimmy Lo-Pan settled back to finish the last of his fries, deciding he would allow himself one pint of beer before heading back to the lab. It was going to be a long night and he needed all the energy he could get. After a few minutes he pushed his chair away from the table, stood up and walked toward the bar. While he waited for the bar tender he became vaguely aware of someone standing near his side. Turning slightly, he saw an attractive woman about his own age examining his face. He offered a little smile and said “Hello.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. Aren’t you Dr. James Lo-Pan?”

  Jimmy raised his eyebrows in surprise. Did he know this woman? She was incredibly attractive. Slim and dark, she was neatly and expensively turned out in an oversized lilac sweater and a long scarlet leather skirt. “I am. And I’m tickled to death you recognize me. Do I know you? And if not, why not?” A huge, toothy smile spread across his amber face.

  “There’s no reason you should. I attended a symposium on biochemistry that you spoke at in Manchester. When was that, two years ago?”

  “Three, actually. You mean to tell me you remember me from one speech after three years?”

  The woman glanced down, slightly embarrassed. “You’re very memorable, Doctor.”

  “Jimmy, please. Everybody calls me Jimmy.”

  “Ok, Jimmy. I’m Moyra le Fevré.” She stuck out her hand “Nice to meet you. May I buy you a drink?”

  “Nice to meet you, Moyra le Fevré. And yes, you can. Thank you.”

  On their way back to Jimmy’s table, he picked up the thread of their conversation. “Moyra le Fevré? Irish and French?”

  “Welch and French, actually.”

  “Oh, that’s the accent, isn’t it? Welch.”

  “I don’t have an accent. Everyone else does.” They both laughed and smiled at each other, their eyes locking ever so briefly.

  “So tell me, Moyra, what on earth were you doing at a symposium on biochemistry? You don’t look like a biochemist; they’re all grizzly old geeks with thick glasses.”

  “Oh, I’m not. It’s just one of my little hobbies.”

  “Pretty deep stuff for a hobby.”

  Her eyes shone in the soft lighting. “I’m lucky. I have a lot of time to devote to my hobbies.”

  “Good for you.” He picked up his glass and tipped it toward her in the suggestion of a salute. “So what other hobbies do you have?”

  “Right now, I’m mostly interested in geochemistry.”

  Jimmy’s eyes flew open wide. “And since you already know I’m a geochemist, and you just happen to stumble into The Vaults and I just happen to be here...” He let the sentence trail off and hang in the air.

  “Something like that.” She smiled a strange, mysterious little smile.

  “Ok, so what can I tell you about geochemistry?”

  “Nothing in particular…anything you want. What are you working on at the moment?”

  Having been given such an obvious platform, and by such an attractive audience, Jimmy leaned back and launched into a long, rambling discourse on his work, his teaching and his grant projects, occasionally studying the woman’s face to see if she was getting bored. By all appearances, he had a rapt audience and he loved it. “So a couple of weeks ago this old dude, he’s the grandfather of a friend of mine, he comes to me with this weird project.” Jimmy could see Moyra lean forward slightly, hanging on his every word. “I think he accidentally broke this historical artifact, or something, and he wants me to recreate it so he can put it back before anybody knows it’s gone.”

  “So what was it?”

  “Who the fuck knows?” He threw back his head and laughed. “But it’s really cool. It’s this sort of glass ball, hollow, you know? And the glass is all seamed with a crystalline web of some kind. Really strange. I’ve never seen anything even remotely like it. So it’s a real challenge.”

  “I can imagine. Are you having any luck? How can you do that?”

  “I’m growing it in a vacuum. Feeding liquid crystal into the bell-jar and monitoring the progress through a computer feed.” Jimmy smiled with obvious satisfaction.

  “Like growing a plant in a terrarium.” She muttered to half to h
erself.

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  “Could I see it?”

  “It’s not very exciting. At least not to most people. Right now, it just looks like half of a scooped out orange skin. Except, of course, its blue.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t sound exciting to most people but, I assure you, I’m not most people. I’d love to see it. If it’s not too much trouble and I’m not breaking any rules.”

  “I don’t see why not. It’s not like its top secret or anything; at least if it’s something from the Ministry of Defense, nobody told me. Look, I have to get back to work in a few minutes but I’ll finish up about nine o’clock. Why don’t you stop around then and you can have a peek? Maybe we can catch a drink afterward and chat some more.”

  “I’m afraid I have to be out of town tonight. Are you free tomorrow evening?”

  “I’m never free, but I can be very reasonably priced.” The face-splitting grin disappeared as Jimmy went over his mental schedule. “Tomorrow…Saturday, right?”

  “It is.”

  Then it’s a date. Same time, same place, different night.”

  “That would be fabulous. Where is your lab?”

  “Do you know the main campus?”

  “Fairly well.”

  “Do you know the Houghton Physical Sciences building?”

  “As it happens, I do. Is that where your lab is?”

  “Yep. Lower level. B134.”

  “Then I’ll see you there about eight-thirty, if that’s ok?”

  “Great. Now,” he said, pushing himself back from the table, “I hate to accept a lady’s drink and run, but I really do have to get back to work.” Rising to leave, Jimmy gave a little bow with his head and walked toward the door, whistling under his breath.

  Chapter Ten

  Grabbing his overnight bag, Jason stepped off the train at Liverpool Station and searched for the exit. Following the signs pointing to the main desk, busses and taxis, he pondered whether to walk to the hotel or treat himself to a cab; finally deciding his cramped muscles would appreciate the walk.

  Elbowing through the jostling crowd he stepped through the big doors and into the din of central Liverpool. The air smelled like exhaust fumes and down the sidewalk bits of newspaper and discarded fast food wrappers scurried past, carried along by the wind. Pausing to look at his map, Jason located the quickest route to the Marriott hotel. Half an hour later, after showering and changing into his suit, Jason asked the desk clerk the way to the museum and was delighted to hear it was only a five-minute walk.

  The Liverpool Museum was one of a long row of five, interconnected buildings, all built in the mock Greco-Roman style of the late nineteenth century. Dozens of stone colonnades fronted the row of buildings, proclaiming their importance and grandeur. As he walked toward the massive, two story portico, the day’s last visitors were being ushered out by a uniformed guard.

  Smiling ruefully, the guard muttered “Sorry, lad, museum’s closed for the day. Have to come back tomorrow.”

  “I’m here for the exhibit opening. I’m from the University of York’s Archaeological Department.”

  “Oh, sorry, mate. Come on in. You can check your coat over there...” the guard said, waving vaguely to his left. “Then just follow the signs. Can’t miss it.”

  The room where the exhibit was set up was small, cramped and already filling with well-dressed people who were obviously not the museum’s usual brand of visitors. Most of them seemed to know each other and were clustered around chatting amiably in small groups. Occasionally one of them would break away and move from one group to another after offering an exaggerated wave to someone. The combined buzz of their voices made the room seem even more crowded than it was.

  Jason had no idea where to go or what to do. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was just five-thirty; he had to be here for an hour before he could move on to the reception which was being held somewhere else. And he had no idea where that was. He hoped someone here would recognize him. Had Miss Littlemore sent anyone on the museum staff a description of him? In the rush and confusion following Dr Daniels’ heart attack he had completely forgotten to get a contact name. All he knew was that the director’s assistant was supposed to show him around and introduce him to people. Until he found her, Jason could only wander around, staring at the long glass cases containing the dig finds from Daniels’ summer projects. At least it was exciting to see so many of the objects he had helped bring to the surface after centuries in the ground. To his amusement, he even found the remnants of Merlin’s sphere in one of the cases. Surrounding the tiny chips of glass were copies of the photos and drawings that Beverley had made at the dig site. If these people had any idea. He wished Beverley was here to share the little thrill with.

  After what seemed like days, but was actually less than half an hour, Jason decided to pick someone at random and ask if they could point out the director’s assistant. He strained his ears, listening to snatches of conversation to see if there might be one he could interrupt without feeling too embarrassed.

  A few feet away an immensely fat man in an old fashioned morning coat and striped trousers was talking to a skinny man in a rumpled, double-breasted suit. The fat man leered as he spoke. “Right to business. By Gad, sir, you’re the man for me! I’m a man who likes to talk to a man who likes to talk.”

  “Alright,” the skinny man said in a clipped New York accent, “then let’s talk about the black bird.”

  “Better and better. Let’s…”

  “Excuse me. I’m looking for Sir Robert Cunningham’s assistant. Do either of you happen to know her?”

  “Well I’m damned, another Yank. Welcome to the club, kid.” The skinny, rumpled man offered a crooked, toothy smile, sticking out his hand. “Name’s Sam. What’s yours, junior?”

  “Jason Carpenter.” He stuck out his hand, allowing Sam to grab it and shake it like a pump handle. Jason offered his hand to the fat man, who pointedly ignored it, so he addressed himself to Sam. “Mr. Cunningham’s assistant is supposed to show me around. Do you know where she is?”

  Sam squinted and peered around the room. “No, can’t say as I do. But right over there’s Bob Cunningham. Go introduce yourself to him. He won’t bite.”

  Jason looked in the direction the man indicated with his head.

  “Which one is he?”

  “Dark three-piece suit. Silver hair. Clean-shaven. See him?”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Jason eased his way toward the director, careful not to bump into anyone. Their introduction was brief and friendly. Robert Cunningham seemed almost as unhappy to be in the crowded room as Jason. But their conversation had hardly gotten past an exchange of names before Cunningham was hailed from the far end of the room. Waving acknowledgement, he said to Jason. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carpenter. I have to go.” Then, leaning close, he continued. “These people are all generous supporters of the museum and I have to be very nice to every one of them. Without them, there wouldn’t be a museum.”

  “I understand. Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  “I do hope so. Really.” He said, elbowing his way through the wall of people. Then, turning back, he raised a hand and added. “Look, in about ten minutes everybody will be moving to the reception. It’s in the Walker Art Gallery. That’s the next building but one. Phillipa, that’s my assistant, will find you there.”

  When the crowd began filtering out of the gallery, Jason followed them outside, down the steps, past the front of the adjoining library, and toward the Walker Art Gallery. The Walker was impressive, to say the least. The lobby extended into the distance, culminating in a grandiose marble staircase leading to an impressive mezzanine that encircled the space below. Up these stairs the throng of VIP guests flowed in a steady, slow moving wave. The reception was laid out in a large, dark red gallery filled with grand Pre-Raphaelite paintings; in the center of the room a table had been laid with hors d’oeuvres. Waiters in white c
oats wandered through the crowd refilling wine glasses.

  As he stood there, looking for a new face that might belong to Sir Robert’s assistant, Jason’s eye caught a figure that most definitely stood out from the black-tie crowd. The minute he looked at the woman, she broke away from the group she was chatting with and waved enthusiastically at him with one hand, while pointing at him with the index finger of the other. “Hey, you!” she called playfully.

  Jason pointed at his own chest and raised his eyebrows questioningly. The answer was a vigorous nod accompanied by a big smile. As the young woman excused her way through the crowd, Jason studied the tiny figure. Barely over five feet in height she moved with the determination of a charging locomotive. Her dress was black and formal, but on her legs were a pair of red and black-striped leg warmers that looked like they should be sticking out from under Dorothy’s house in The Wizard of Oz. Her hair was died a shiny, surreal black and streaked with the same blood red as her stockings. Oh, my God, thought Jason, the woman’s a Goth.

  “Hi ya’.” She grinned, sticking out her hand for Jason to shake. “You must be Jase from York.”

  “Yes, but I prefer Jason.”

  “Well, you’re Jase to me. I’m Bob Cunningham’s assistant, Phillipa Heseltine-Smith but, hey, you just call me Phil.”

  “Nice to meet you, Phil.” Jason was forced to smile in spite of himself. Already he liked this strange, brash powerhouse of a woman. “I was feeling a little lost over at the museum.”

  Laying a comforting hand on his sleeve, she nodded her head. “I’m really sorry about that. I got caught up in a bunch of last minute work. Don’t you hate when that happens? Anyway,” she punctuated the line by waving a hand through the air as though she were wiping words off of a blackboard. “It doesn’t matter, now. This is where you need to be to meet people. That was just the preliminaries, over there. This is where they really do their schmoozing and networking.”

  “How did you know who I was?”

  “I got your description from poor Doc Daniels’ secretary. Hey, I even know where you live.” When Jason’s eyes flew open, she laughed, adding “I mean your hotel. I made the reservations. I’m sort of here to look after you. So, how ya’ doin' anyway?”