I’d found Father’s diary, filled with field notes from his many expeditions. I skipped forward to the most recent entry: a rough sketch of the metal ball. There were these really odd symbols drawn below.
“What do they mean?” I recall asking, though there was nobody around to answer me. “This isn’t Egyptian writing.”
Father showed me Egyptian hiro… gli – whatever they’re called - a long time ago. Lots of animal shapes, but the symbols in the diary were nothing like those. They were patterns of squares. Some joined along the edges, others tilted with gaps in between, a few apart from the rest. All sorts of peculiar arrangements. I can only recall three in detail: a Y-shape, a shrinking spiral, and one that resembled a diamond necklace. But there were many others.
The next page was blank, and so were all the rest. I was about to close the diary when I noticed a loose sheet of paper inserted at the back. It was a leaflet for a society I can’t recall the name of, with another pattern of squares printed below the title. All different sizes, arranged in a big box like a jigsaw puzzle.
Father’s scribbled note wasn’t nearly so neat, all squashed up under the pattern: Symbols. Code? Speak to Gustav Ernst. There was a reference to… Somewhere in Cambridge? I can’t remember.
But I do remember the name. Gustav Ernst. Is that who Father was talking to on the telephone? Ernst sounds German. Didn’t we fight them in the Great War? What business could Father have with a German?
Chapter Two: The Find of a Lifetime
I’m drowning in rain. My dress clings to my chest, and my stockings squish with every step. The journey’s taken longer than I expected because the streets are so slippery. Irene’s her usual self, strolling along as if it was a bright, summer day.
“Are we there?” she asks me. For the third time.
“Nearly,” I say. “It’s just across the street.”
The British Museum is a huge stone building with columns and a sloped roof, a very similar design to the Roman temple in that painting Father used to have. Electric lampposts light the path to the entrance. The grounds are enclosed by a spiked, black iron fence, with the padlocked gate guarded by a uniformed policeman. I just hope he lets us—
“Irene!” I scream, grabbing her shoulders.
I pull my sister back to safety. In her hurry to cross over, she didn’t stop to look. Black taxicabs are a common sight on London’s streets, but that was almost the last one Irene saw. I briefly see the driver – a tanned, rough-faced man with a bushy, black beard – before the taxi turns past the museum fence.
“Stupid girl,” I chide. “You could have been killed. Let’s get you inside.”
I don’t release my sister’s arm until we’re safely at the main gate. She’s in shock, and for once she doesn’t struggle.
“Sorry miss,” the policeman says, raising a hand. “Museum’s closed for repairs.”
Now I’m two feet away I see the bobby – as policemen are fondly known – is a firm-jawed man with a bruised cheek and broken nose. He’s been in a scrap or two with criminals, but that doesn’t deter me.
“I’m Edith Clayton,” I tell him. “This is my little sister Irene. We’re cold and wet, and I’ve had to listen to her moaning all the way here.”
“No you didn’t,” Irene protests.
“Miss Clayton,” the policeman says. “I’m under strict instructions—”
“Let us in now!” yells my sister.
The bobby’s left speechless. He mustn’t be used to dealing with mouthy five year olds. Unlike me. But we’re getting nowhere. I need to try a different approach, one that involves less shouting.
“We’re the daughters of Stephen Clayton, the arch… arceo…” What does Father do? It’s one of those long words I can never say properly.
“Archaeologist?” the policeman suggests. “If you mean Lord Clayton, he went in earlier. You’d better come inside.”
Perhaps the bobby knows Father by reputation, or feels sorry for two children stuck in the rain. Or maybe he’s just had enough of my sister. I certainly have. He sighs, takes a brass key from his pocket, and unlocks the chain. The hinges are well oiled, and the gate swings inward without a sound.
“I’ll be locking up behind you,” the bobby says. It’s not clear whether that’s for reassurance, or to remind us who’s in charge.
Irene isn’t fussed. She simply shrugs and marches on toward the museum. I catch up midway. There’s a loud clang, followed by the clinking of metal links. I don’t stop to watch the policeman secure the gate. I just want to get indoors, where it’s dry and warm.
My wish is partly granted. We’re out of the rain, but it’s just as cold in the museum as outside. Either there’s no heating in here, or it’s not switched on. I shake the water from my dress, wring my floppy hat, and look around.
The entrance hall is gloomy, lit by a single globe on the ceiling. Above me gold stars shine in a dark blue sky. They’re only painted panels, but much lovelier than the view outside. Round pillars cast long shadows across the floor, and I have to feel my way around the many display cases and book stands. Directly ahead is a grand staircase that connects to the museum wings. In a building this size, it would be very easy to get lost. I’d better keep Irene close.
“Where’s Father?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Why don’t we go and loo—”
I stop mid-sentence. The clack of high heels echoes round the hall. A cloaked female comes downstairs, face masked by gloom. I edge closer to my sister, standing in front as the mystery woman steps into the light. She’s young – probably in her late twenties – with wavy, orange hair. Her clothes are a city worker’s: plain beige coat buttoned over a maroon, ankle-length skirt, brown leather gloves, and polished shoes. Her professional look is completed by a wide-brimmed hat and steel frame spectacles.
“Edith. Irene,” the woman says in an eastern European accent. She sounds surprised to see us, but obviously knows who we are. “I was just on my way to the exhibition to take you home. What are you doing here?”
“Why couldn’t Father collect us himself?” I ask.
“He had some urgent business to attend to.”
Different voice, but the same tired excuse. He probably told her what to say.
“We haven’t been introduced,” the woman says. “I’m Lydia, your father’s assistant.”
She shakes my hand. And then I recognise her. She’s the lady who sometimes comes round to the manor house in the evening. Before today, I’d only seen Lydia from a distance. Counting their trips away, Father’s spent more time with her than Mother. Or us.
“Do you work with Father a lot?” asks Irene.
Lydia kneels down to greet her. “I’ve known your father a long time,” she says. “I was there when you were born.”
Was she? I vaguely remember an orange-haired woman being at the hospital, but that was five years ago.
“He’s in the restoration laboratory,” Lydia informs us, standing up. “We’ll go the long way round, and keep out of the rain.”
We follow Lydia to the upper floor. The exhibit halls are like Father’s description of tombs: eerie and quiet. Not all the lights are switched on, and many statues and displays are darkened. The only sounds are our footsteps and heavy rain pattering on the tall windows. Much of the outside view – and courtyard - is taken up by a circular, domed building.
“That’s the reading room,” says Lydia. “Part of the British Library.”
We pass through a doorway into a long, narrow hall. The main attraction here is a row of carved slabs. They’re laid out lengthways, side by side, in an illuminated glass case. The stonework is blackened by soot. I don’t know how old these tablets are, but they look ancient. Battle is the recurring theme, but the dirt makes it difficult to see who’s fighting who. One of the stones in better condition depicts a topless warrior thrusting his spear at a strange beast. It’s a horse, except there’s a man’s upper body where its head should be.
“A battl
e between a Lapith and a centaur,” says Lydia, touching the glass. “These are the Parthenon Marbles.”
“What are they?” Irene asks.
Lydia pulls us together, like Mother used to when we were young. “You know them as Elgin’s Marbles. They’re from the Acropolis. That’s a hill in Athens, the capital city of Greece. In mythology, the city’s patron goddess was Athena. She was known for her great wisdom, and the Parthenon was her temple.” She stops to close her eyes for a moment. “Two thousand years ago it was beautiful, but over time it became damaged. In the early nineteenth century, the British ambassador was granted permission to remove some of the marble frieze and bring the pieces to England for preservation. And they’re still here, in this very room.”
A sad tale. It doesn’t seem right to take away something so precious. It’d be like pulling the hands off Big Ben. But I suppose that’s what museums do: take things that don’t belong to them.
“You know a lot about these marbles,” I say.
“I’d be a poor archaeologist if I didn’t study my own people’s history. Or yours.” She takes my sister’s hands. “Do you know what day you were born?”
“Armistice day!” Irene shouts, acting like she’s answered a really hard question.
“Of course she knows,” I scoff. “Mother’s told us a hundred times.”
If this carries on, I’ll be wandering off myself. We’re here to see Father. Why are we wasting time on old stories? But Lydia’s ignoring me, and my sister’s enjoying the attention.
“And do you know what happened on Armistice Day?” Lydia asks her.
Irene has to think for a moment. “The Great War ended.”
Lydia nods, wiping away a tear. Did she lose someone in the fighting? She smiles, but I can tell she’s putting on a brave face. “That’s right. And that’s why you’re called Irene. You were named after Eirene, the Greek goddess of peace. It was my idea.”
“Mother said it was hers,” I argue.
Lydia glances at the marbles. “She would do,” she says with a trace of bitterness.
Is she angry about what some ambassador did a hundred years ago? Is she calling Mother a thief too?
“Are we done with the history lesson?” I ask. If my frustration shows, all the better.
Lydia says nothing further. She takes us to some stairs. One floor down, she unhooks a red cordon from a brass post, lets us through, and replaces it behind us. We continue to the bottom. No windows here. I think we’re below ground, in a private section of the museum. It’s not as clean as the public halls were, and the air smells of dust. I cover my mouth to keep from coughing.
We walk by thick, oak-panelled doors. They all look the same, with brass nameplates and tarnished knobs. I hear murmuring voices. Two men, but I can’t tell what they’re saying. They get louder the further along we go. Lydia stops outside a slightly ajar door. Someone’s left a tagged steel key in the lock. The typewritten label reads RL, but I’m more interested in Lydia. She puts a finger to her lips, and beckons us closer.
“Let’s find out what they’re up to,” she whispers.
Her behaviour’s improper for an an assistant. Does Lydia suspect Father’s been hiding something, too? I’m as curious as she is. I put my ear to the wood. Irene squeezes between us, eager to listen in.
I recognise Father’s voice. “…never seen anything like it, Gustav,” he says.
Gustav… The name that was on the leaflet!
“A tomb with metal walls.” I assume that’s Gustav speaking. His accent is harsh, with Ws sounding almost like Vs. My inkling was right. He’s…
“A German!” I say. “What’s—”
Lydia clamps a hand over both our mouths and pushes us against the wall. She’s very strong for a lady. My sister kicks her in the ankle. I’d be squealing in pain, but Lydia doesn’t react.
“The war’s over.” Lydia’s voice is quiet, but annoyed. “If you want, dig a trench and fight him later. I’m trying to listen.”
She waits for me to relax, then lets go. Irene struggles a little longer before giving up. We retake our positions by the door. The men are still talking. I don’t think they heard us.
“…were no weapons or jewellery,” Gustav says. “No personal items. This is not a tomb you describe.”
“Then explain the body.” Someone thumps wood. Was that Father?
“The black metal woman,” says Gustav sceptically. “Seven foot tall. No clothes. You found a statue, not a body.”
“She was sat in a chair!” Father yells like a madman. “Her mouth was open, as if screaming. Her legs were twisted. Her arms straight, pointing at the floor. Who builds a statue of a dead person? The scene was like… a pilot in a crashed plane.”
“A giant female pilot, in a circular plane without wings.”
Gustav doesn’t believe a word Father’s said. Neither do I. It’s a silly story.
“I have a theory of my own, Lord Clayton,” the German goes on. “You have been drinking too much scotch. This is a fantasy. You are a failure living in the shadow of Carter. After his discovery of the boy king, you also went to Egypt hoping for a great find. But you found nothing, and when you came back empty handed—”
“No!” Father interrupts. “Not empty handed. Next to her body, I found this.”
Wood creaks. I think Father opened a crate. I’ll have to wait to see if I’m correct. At the moment, I’m happy to leave the door closed and listen.
“Mine Got. Vas hist das?” That’s what it sounds like. Is Gustav speaking German? Whatever he said, he’s shocked.
“What this is, Doctor,” Father says, “is the greatest find in history.”
That spurs Lydia into action. She gently pushes the door open and squeezes through. Irene looks at me, wide eyed, her mouth open as if to ask, “What’s she doing?”
Lydia keeps low, crouching by a workbench four feet in. There’s a wide, open shelf underneath for storing flasks, burners, and other things, but it’s well-stocked and should keep her hidden. And there’s enough space behind the bench for all three of us.
I crawl to where Lydia is, hold my breath, and peek between two racks of glass tubes. The laboratory – is that what Lydia called it before? - is fairly new. The chemicals smell like the fluids our maid uses for housework, so I assume the cloth-wrapped artefacts are here for cleaning.
Gustav is far younger than I expected. He’s pale-skinned, roughly twenty five years old, with his blond hair tucked under a slate-grey bowler hat. His similarly coloured suit and trousers are free of creases, his beard and moustache trimmed short. His gold pocket watch is in fine condition, too. Father’s a lot scruffier. He’s worn that dirt-smudged brown coat as long as I can remember.
“Black metal that moves,” Gustav observes.
Moves? What does he mean by that? Gustav’s looking down into a wooden crate – the heavy kind used for shipping - but I can’t see inside from here.
“I didn’t ask you to come all the way from Cambridge to tell me the obvious,” Father says. “I want to know what I found, where it came from.”
I turn to signal Irene, but she’s already crouched beside me. Strange. I’ve never known her stay quiet for so long.
“I am a doctor of mathematics, not metallurgy,” says Gustav. “This object is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”
“What about the symbols?”
Gustav pauses, leaning over the crate. “They are not Egyptian,” he concludes.
Father thumps the bench so hard it shakes. “I know that! I’m an archaeologist, for Heaven’s sake.”
“There is no obvious pattern. It could be a language we are not familiar with. If so, it is impossible to interpret without some form of reference material.”
Father places a hand on Gustav’s shoulder. “We’ve known each other for years. I can’t go to the wider community with this. I’m not about to let them take all the credit. You don’t know what I’ve been through to keep this secret. There’s nobody else I trust.
”
“Nobody!?” yells Lydia. She must have stood up while I wasn’t looking. “Not even me? I wondered why you’d been so secretive since we returned. I’m your assistant, Stephen. You said you found nothing in Egypt.”
“Lydia.” Father holds his arms out wide, acting sorry. “Of course I trust you.”
“Then why did you send me away? On an errand to pick up two stupid girls?”
Irene jumps to her feet. “We’re not stupid!” she screams.
Yes you are, little sister. We’re supposed to be hiding. You’re in plain view, shouting your mouth off. That seems stupid to me. Since the game’s up, I reveal myself too.
“You brought the children here!?” Father snaps.
“They came by themselves,” Lydia says. “They wanted to know what their father’s been hiding, and so do I.”
Lydia heads straight for the crate. Father cuts across her path. When she persists, he gets violent, hands tight around her coat sleeves. I’ve never known a man to act so rough with a lady.
Irene runs past them. She looks inside the box and jumps on the spot. Then she stops, her mouth open in amazement. “A magic ball!” My sister’s pretending, of course. “I want to play with it.”
Father’s still holding Lydia, and my sister’s not one to wait for permission. She reaches toward the crate. That thing could be dangerous! I dash over and snatch Irene’s hand away.
“Edith!” she shrieks. “Let go!”
Irene breaks free, and I have to grab her arm again.
“It’s not a toy, little sister,” I tell her. “You’ve been enough trouble today. Leave it alone.”
“But it’s magic,” Irene cries. “Look!”
She points at the crate. There’s no other way to shut her up, so I play along. The box is empty except for the metal ball Father locked in his safe. Its upper surface is inscribed with five of those square pattern symbols he wrote in his diary. A strange black colour, but certainly not—
The symbols change. They can’t have since metal’s solid, but they did. It happens again. And again. Every few seconds the raised squares sink, and new ones rise in their place. My sister’s right. The ball is magic.
Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena Page 2
