“Did Khalim know you found something?” Lydia asks. “Is that why he left us?”
I’ve never heard the name before. But Father obviously knows who she’s referring to. He panics, losing his grip. Lydia pulls away, shakes her head in disgust, and slaps Father’s face. He winces, blood trickling from his lower lip.
“I put everything into this expedition,” Father says. “If you’d seen what else I found in the desert, you’d know why… I did it for us. For you, my family. You understand, don’t you?”
When Lydia shows Father no compassion, he turns to me. What does he expect me to say? Yes, and forgive him? He kept this secret from us. All of us. Me, Irene, Lydia. Everyone except the German.
“This presents a problem,” says Gustav. He’s the calmest person in the room. “But family are loyal, and your daughters are young. They are not likely to talk. And if they do, they will not be believed. Not without proof, and we can keep that under control. Your assistant may be more trouble. I suggest confiding in her fully.”
I want my sister to punch him. But Gustav’s right. A magic ball… who would believe us?
“Your advice is nine weeks too late,” Lydia says, walking to the crate. I expect her to be amazed, but she only takes a quick glance. Not enough to see the symbols change. “This is your big secret? Some stupid metal ball? Do you want to know what I think?”
Lydia grabs a flask from a nearby shelf. It’s two thirds full of clear liquid, with a cork stopper in its neck. The big writing on the label reads Concen … cid. I can’t see the rest of the letters because her glove’s in the way.
“Please.” Father clasps his hands together. “Lydia, be reasonable.”
He takes a step closer. Lydia pulls out the stopper, tilts the flask, and holds it over the metal ball. If she turns it any more, the liquid will pour out. I stay back. Even my sister’s not brave enough to challenge her.
“Do not worry,” Gustav says, though some of his earlier calmness is gone. “From what you told me, the artefact is thousands of years old. And inconsistent with all known civilizations. Any archaeologist would be intrigued by such a find.”
“I’ll do it,” threatens Lydia. Her eyes dart from side to side. I don’t know about Gustav, but I believe her.
Father’s falling to pieces. “Stop!” he frets. “Think what this could be worth.”
“I’ve done a lot of thinking, Stephen,” says Lydia. “About your selfishness, your greed. You were never going to share this discovery, were you?”
She’s right. Father doesn’t care about her. About Mother, about us, or even Gustav. He’s only here because Father needs his help, not because they’re friends.
The silence answers Lydia’s question. “I thought not,” she says, and pours the liquid.
It never touches the ball. A pool forms in mid-air, about an inch above the crate. There’s a screech so loud we all shield our ears. Benches vibrate. Glass tubes rattle in their racks. The metal is… alive. It sounds silly, but it’s the only way I can describe it. Wavy blue lines move across the ball. The symbols turn dark purple, and stop changing.
It’s getting warmer. The pool bubbles and vaporises to white steam. I cough, feeling my throat burn as I inhale the acidic fumes. Irene struggles toward me, arms dripping with sweat. She risks exposing her ears to push me aside. Lydia, Father, Gustav… they all step back. The German’s lost his confidence. Now he’s shaking with fear like the rest of us.
“Edith!” Irene somehow shouts over the noise. “Come on!”
My sister pulls me toward a bench, the same one we used for cover. I feel as though I should run, but I can’t take my eyes off the crate. Lightning – like I’ve seen in thunderstorms, only thinner with a lot more forks – strikes from inside. The door slams shut. Papers scatter through the air, caught in a fierce, whistling gale.
The wind is lighter further back, but it’s still hard to stay on my feet. My hat flies off and slides into the corner next to Irene’s. I scream, huddling my sister close as I grip the nearest table leg. Father clings onto a swaying cupboard door, eyes shut tight. Lydia stumbles into Gustav, and they both tumble over.
Bolts of lightning strike the electric lamps. Glass bulbs shatter. Before the last one breaks into fragments, I see its filament melt. When is the storm going to end? Will it ever end?
I still have that scary thought in my head when the screeching suddenly stops. The air cools, becoming calm around me. Then the purple glow above the crate fades, and we’re left in darkness.
Chapter Three: Two Brave Girls
I grope around, blind. My fingers brush wood and curved glass. Flasks? I must be near a workbench. The next thing I touch is smooth, meaty, and moist.
“Get off me!” shouts Irene.
She knocks my hand away before I have chance to move it. Was that my sister’s sweaty arm I just felt? I think so. Someone coughs. One of the men, but I can’t tell who.
“Father?” I call out. “Is that you?”
The man coughs again, more violently this time. He sounds in a bad way. I don’t know whether it’s Father or Gustav, but I’m not stumbling about in the dark to find him. Neither of them deserve my help.
“Do not move,” says Gustav. “I will try to find a light.”
He’s to my left. The coughing came from the other side of the laboratory. It must have been Father I heard before. A cupboard door slides open. I hear Gustav - I assume it’s him - search the shelves. There’s a click, and an electric lamp switches on. A powerful beam shines on the crate. Of course he’d check that first. We’re not as important as his precious metal ball.
When my eyes adjust, I see Gustav’s holding a torch. Father has one at home. It’s a portable light source with a bulb protected behind a glass circle, and a thick metal case to house the battery. The torchlight falls on Father. He’s slumped against a bench, eyes closed. There’s a nasty wound on his forehead, and an awful lot of blood. I feel a little guilty for not helping before. Only a little, but I hope he’s all right.
A woman screams. It must be…
“Lydia!” I yell.
I hear muffled cries and grunts, sounds of a struggle. Gustav waves the torch. Someone sprints through the beam: a hooded figure dressed all in black. The masked man slides under a workbench. Whoever it is, he’s fast. Gustav loses the trail. The torchlight moves back and forth as he searches the room.
“Behind you!” Irene shouts.
My sister must have owl-like vision, because I don’t see the intruder. Not until a gloved hand strikes the back of Gustav’s head. He collapses against a wooden stool, torch rolling from his relaxing hand. The beam settles on the crate. Lydia’s hat rests against it, crushed out of shape. Next to it is a single black, high heel shoe. Where did she go?
“The artefact,” coughs Gustav. “Stop him.”
Is he talking to me? He must be, since Father’s wounded, Irene’s only five, and Lydia’s in trouble. I’m a child, and he wants me to get involved? And I’m supposed to forget what he said earlier, about us being a problem?
“No! You do it,” I shout back. The metal ball nearly killed us. If the man in black wants it so badly, he can have it.
Irene runs into the light and picks up the torch. The beam spins around, shining on the masked man. He’s right in front of her!
“Irene!” I scream.
The man ducks into the shadows. Irene swings the torch two handed, aiming where the intruder’s head was moments ago. How’s she even holding onto that thing? A black foot kicks the torch away. More grunts and moans. Irene flies across the beam of light, feet in the air. She lands with a smack. Any other little girl would burst into tears. So would most boys her age, but my sister’s back up in no time.
The door opens behind me. The corridor is well-lit, and I get a good look at the thief as he sprints off to the left. He’s wearing an all-black outfit: long cloak, leather gloves, cloth covering his arms and legs, full face mask. But no shoes. The rubber soles appear to be an extensi
on of the leggings.
“Stop him,” Gustav repeats.
Irene runs over and tugs my hand. “Come on, Edith,” she says. “He’s got our magic ball.”
“We do not have time for this,” Gustav complains.
Shut up! I’m not letting her go out there.
“It’s not ours,” I explain to Irene. “This isn’t a game, little sister. Stay here with me. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“I’m not little!” she yells, letting go.
My sister’s determined to run after the intruder. How can I stop her?
“All right,” I say, standing up. “We’ll get him. You fetch the torch.”
We don’t need it, but Irene’s too excited to think it through. While she’s busy getting the lamp, I tiptoe out into the corridor, close the door, and turn the key clockwise.
“Edith!” My trapped sister rattles the knob. “Let me out!”
“It’s too dangerous,” I reply. “You stay with Father.”
I ignore Irene’s angry protests and go after the thief. After a short run, I come to the spiral staircase. The corridor ahead is long and empty. I don’t think he went that way.
I go up the steps, pausing after the first flight to catch my breath. My ankles are ready to burst. What am I doing? I’m just a girl. I can’t fight a grown man. But maybe I can follow the intruder, and tell the grown ups where he went later. Now, which way? There! The cordon post’s been knocked over. I climb over the low rope.
The man in black is about a hundred yards down the exhibit hall. He’s next to the marble slab with the horse-man creature, the spot where Lydia talked about… whatever she did. Why has the thief stopped? And where’s that blue light coming from? Is there a lamp behind him?
The thief spots me and sprints off. I follow, heels clacking on the floor. The man’s flat soles are much better suited to running, and I soon fall behind. Exhausted, I rest my body against the glass display case. A sign says not to touch it, but I don’t care. I straighten my hair, and wipe sweat from my forehead.
My hands have turned blue. There’s light coming from my side, where the glass is. I turn round slowly, ready to duck if I see a lightning bolt coming my way. I don’t. But what I do see is… magical.
Thin blue lines glow on the marble frieze. Burn might be a more appropriate word to use, but the glass doesn’t even feel warm. The symbols! Not the same ones, but that style of writing. These are less ordered than those in Father’s diary. The squares are all over the place, with no clear pattern. Different sizes, bizarre angles, lots of overlapping. The lower right corner section could be part of a bigger square enclosing them, but two edges are missing. The light fades, and the marbles go back to dull, grey and ordinary.
Lydia said these slabs came from Greece. Did her people draw the symbols? And why can’t I see them any more? It’s not important. I need to find the man in black, before he gets away.
I dash from one hall to the next. It’s fairly dark among the exhibits, so I keep close to the windows. The rain has stopped, and a half-moon shines in the misty evening sky. Shouts come from… I think it’s the courtyard. Looking out, I see Gustav chase the thief around the reading room. How did he get out of the laboratory? Father must have a spare key, or maybe Gustav used the paper under the door trick. I’m just happy my sister’s not with him.
The intruder slips on a wet tile, allowing the German to close the gap. The two men disappear into the fog.
“Gustav!” I shout, but he’s gone.
I stagger on to the entrance hall. Shortly after my arrival, a policeman walks through the front door. It’s the bobby that was guarding the main gate. The thief leaps from the shadow of a pillar, surprising him. A jab to the throat, a leg sweep, and the policeman’s on his back. He didn’t get chance to draw his truncheon.
I stumble downstairs. The agile thief’s out the door before I take three steps. I hear a wince of pain. Gustav lies by a toppled leaflet stand, hands pressed round his ankle.
“Go after him,” he says.
“Where’s Irene?” I’m angry at myself for leaving her alone with those two.
“She ran off into the museum. Get the artefact.”
This is stupid, but I suppose the thief hasn’t killed anyone. Only injured two people. Surely he wouldn’t hurt a little girl? Would he? It’s not until I reach the door - and see the taxicab parked beyond the gate - that I have second thoughts. I recognise the bushy-bearded driver. He’s the man who almost drove over my sister! Maybe the thief’s not a killer, but I’m not sure about his accomplice. At least there’s an iron fence between us.
The man in black reaches the gate. He drops the metal ball into his spacious cloak pocket, and grabs the railings. The padlock chain yanks taut, but holds. I run. He climbs. It’s a race, and he’s going to win.
It doesn’t matter. No need to be brave I tell myself. Just watch which way they drive.
With fifteen feet to go, I hear fabric rip. The thief’s cloak catches on a spiked railing. He tries to pull free, but only makes the hole wider. Without thinking I jump up and grab his coat. We slam into the gate. The chain clanks. An old woman on the street stops to stare. Who wouldn’t? A girl in a white dress hanging from the coattail of a masked man… That must seem strange.
The intruder kicks my shoulder. Only a glancing blow, but painful. I struggle to hold on, toes scraping the ground. The old woman runs off, shouting for help. The thief’s coat rips off his back, and I fall with it. Something heavy lands in the gravel beside me. The metal ball?
I crawl from underneath the cloak. The masked woman looks at the taxicab, then me, then the ball. She can’t decide what to— I look again. With the coat gone, the thief’s cloth shirt is exposed. Her body shape is clearly female. The clever disguise had me fooled. Gustav, too. We all thought it was a man. Through her narrow eye slits, I see the woman’s pupils focus. I falter under her piercing gaze. She knows I know. Is she going to kill me, so I can’t tell the others?
The taxicab driver beeps his horn. Whistles blow, preceding footsteps. It’s the police! The woman in black mutters something. Probably a naughty word, but it’s muffled by her face mask. She steps on the chain, using it as a foothold. I grab her other leg. She shakes it loose, catching my forehead with her rubber-soled foot.
I collapse on the gravel, feeling numb and sleepy. My vision’s tinted red. She must have cut me. A black circle rolls by, dividing in two as I lose concentration. The strain to stay awake becomes too much, and encroaching darkness swallows my view.
When I wake up, I see yellow stars in the blue sky above. I know that pattern, and I recognise the display cases and stairs. I’m back in the museum entrance hall. Someone must have brought me inside.
“I didn’t realise you were so heavy,” Father says, returning my cloche hat. “You dropped this.”
Am I dreaming? Why is he being so nice? Feeling drowsy and confused, I put on my cloche and look around. I’m curled up snugly on a leather couch, with Irene sat by my feet. My forehead aches. I rub it better, stopping when my fingers catch on something. Looking at my reflection in a glass case, I see someone’s wrapped a bandage around my wound.
My throat is parched. It takes three attempts to speak. “What happened?” I finally ask.
“My eldest daughter got into a fight,” Father says. “I couldn’t believe it when they told me.”
They? There’s nobody here but… I see the police. Two guarding the door, and three with electric torches wandering the room. More voices upstairs. There must be at least a dozen bobbies here. So that’s why Father’s being friendly. It’s all for show.
“A theft on Government property,” he says. “The police are taking it very seriously. They sent an inspector from Scotland Yard.”
Father nods toward the staircase, where a grey-haired man with sideburns questions Gustav. A silver, cross-shaped medal is pinned on the inspector’s tweed jacket. He must have fought in the Great War. Two bobbies stand behind him, all stiff and se
rious. One takes notes on a writing pad. The other carries a brown overcoat and fedora. I didn’t know policemen had butlers.
“Miss Clayton,” the inspector calls out. He comes across with his two assistants. “If you’re feeling up to it, I’d like a word.”
“The girl is in distress,” Gustav shouts. “We have told you everything. Me and my colleague disturbed an intruder. He left empty handed.”
She left. I’ve got to tell them it was a woman. And why is Gustav lying to the police? Is he shouting so I can hear? Does he expect me to lie, too?
“I wasn’t talking to you, Kraut,” the inspector bellows. “So, if you’ll excuse us.”
“What’s a Kraut?” It’s the first thing Irene’s said since I woke up. She probably hasn’t forgiven me for locking her in the laboratory.
“Another name for a German,” I reply.
Nobody protests at the inspector’s outburst. Our countries may be at peace now, but the Great War is still recent history, and a lot of British men died in the fighting.
“Can I be of assistance?” offers Father. “My daughter’s still in shock.”
“This will only take a moment,” the inspector says, undeterred.
He’s not going away. I want to tell him about the woman, but Father won’t let me get a word in. “Edith didn’t see much,” he says.
“Even the smallest detail can be important.”
Father would probably object further, but he’s run out of excuses.
“Miss Clayton.” The inspector looks at me to distinguish which of us he’s addressing. “Inspector Rodgers, Scotland Yard. My colleagues tell me you chased the man and grabbed him. Very brave. We could have used you against Doctor Ernst’s lot in the trenches.”
The bobbies chuckle at Rodgers’ crude joke. None of this matters. I’ve got to tell them.
“It was a woman!” I blurt out.
There’s complete silence. Everyone looks at me.
Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena Page 3
