Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena

by A. D. Phillips

  “Quick,” I tell Irene. “Go in.”

  I jump down, and crawl into the tunnel after her. I find the oil lantern, and switch it on, relieved to see it still works after all these years. The bottle racks are empty, but I knew they would be. I’m not interested in those. I need a way to close the door from the inside. There! That stone lever on the wall. I give it a hefty pull.

  The door scrapes shut. Feet trample on grass outside. Slow, steady footsteps, pacing around the statue. I hug Irene tight, praying that Lydia doesn’t find us. After a few nervy seconds – and bites of my trembling lip - she moves away.

  I sit on the damp floor, head in hands as I wonder what to do. Father’s dead. Mother’s dead. Our house is burning down. I’ve got these… mysterious powers. Lydia and Kostis are still out there, searching for us. And we have nowhere to go.

  Chapter Six: The Pursuit of Knowledge

  They’re behaving as if we’re criminals. The police have locked us in a cold, white tiled room. We’re not in chains, but the door is riveted steel and there are no windows. This is a cell, however much they pretend it’s not. Me and Irene sit at a bare wooden table, with Rodgers and his notepad bobby opposite. The ‘butler’ is by the door. As before, he’s been left holding the inspector’s fedora and overcoat.

  “Do you believe me now?” I ask. “About Lydia?”

  “One of my men at the museum saw you leave with her and the taxi driver. A Mister…” Rodgers looks to his assistant.

  “Kostis,” I answer for him.

  I think back to this morning. Not too hard. I don’t want to go on another memory trip.

  It was dawn when we came out of hiding. By then Clayton Manor was a smouldering ruin. A village bobby showed up on a bicycle not long after, took us to the local station, and provided us with fresh clothes. Matching green, long-sleeved dresses, shoes, cotton gloves, and straw hats. Traditional ladies outfits. I expected my sister to grumble, but she put them on without a word.

  Then Inspector Rodgers arrived, promptly took over the investigation, and drove us to New Scotland Yard. We’ve been questioned for an hour, and I still don’t know why he brought us here.

  “You said there were two other men?” he asks.

  “Yes. Three men, and Lydia.” How many times do I have to tell him?

  “What about the Kraut?”

  That question takes me by surprise. I think a moment before replying. “If you mean Doctor Ernst, I didn’t see him.”

  Lying to a policeman is risky, but the Great War veteran has already shown he has no love for ‘Krauts’. I don’t either, but Gustav isn’t the one who kidnapped us and killed Father.

  “What were these men after?” asks Rodgers. “It certainly wasn’t a golden beetle. What was so important that four people lost their lives?”

  “Irene’s already told you. A magic ball.”

  I don’t mention the liquid, the changing symbols, or my healing powers. Rodgers will think I’m crazy and lock me up, and who’ll take care of my little sister then?

  Rodgers looks over at Irene. “Is she usually this quiet?”

  “She’s only five years old,” I say. “How do you think she’s feeling?”

  Not well would be my answer. She’s dropped her gloves on the floor, and keeps scratching the back of her hand.

  “Our mother and father are dead,” I remind the inspector. “It’s a lot for her to handle.”

  Irene shows Rodgers her hand. There are fingernail marks all over her knuckles, and some are bleeding.

  “I wish I could heal like Edith,” she says. “I would have saved them.”

  Rodgers looks at his assistant, who shrugs his shoulders but jots it all down anyway. Irene looks dreadful with all those scratches. I pick up her gloves and put them back on. My sister doesn’t fight me. Or moan. What’s gotten into her?

  “I am trying to get to the bottom of this matter, Miss Clayton,” Rodgers says sternly. “But you’re not helping. Now, enough fairy tales. What really happened?”

  “My little sister’s only pretending,” I say, giving Irene a hard glance. “But there was a ball. A black metal ball with strange symbols that Father found in Egypt. That’s what Lydia tried to steal at the museum. It’s why she came to our house. And it’s why…” I sniffle, fighting back tears. “It’s why she killed him.”

  Rodgers offers me a handkerchief. Maybe it’s because I’m almost crying or a genuine change of heart, but I think he’s starting to believe me.

  “My men went through the house this morning,” he says after I’ve blotted my eyes. “They didn’t find a metal ball.”

  “Lydia must have gone back to get it.”

  Or Kostis. We were in the treasure room for hours. They had plenty of time to search the manor.

  “Is there somewhere you could stay?” the inspector asks, reclaiming the handkerchief. “A relative who might take care of funeral arrangements?”

  “My Aunt Emma,” I reply. “In Norwich.”

  I’ve only seen her once, before Irene was born. What if she doesn’t recognise me? But I’ve no other family, and no idea how to arrange funerals. That’s a job for grown ups, not children.

  “Norwich. That’s on the old Great Eastern line.” Rodgers waves his butler bobby over. “We can catch a train from Liverpool Street.”

  A black, boxy-shaped car is waiting when we step out onto the Thames embankment a half hour later. Rodgers’ butler holds the door open for us. Irene gets in first and shuffles across to the far side. I don’t stop to look at New Scotland Yard. I thought the red brick, Victorian building was impressive when we arrived, but having spent two hours in a ‘cell’ I hope never to see it again.

  Does Rodgers’ man do all his driving too? He sits behind the wheel - as he did this morning - with the inspector alongside. We set off through Westminster, following the riverbank as it bends right. Irene rests with her chin on one hand, kicking the back of Rodger’s seat. I swing my leg in front of hers to block it.

  “Only a short trip,” I whisper. “Now stay still.”

  Irene keeps kicking, even though I’m in her way. Timid blows. I don’t think my sister’s aware of what she’s doing. After the brief spell of bravery last night, solemness has set back in. Maybe I can cheer her up.

  “Look!” I put on an excited voice, pointing out the rear window. “There’s Big Ben.”

  The famous clock tower is just about visible, sticking up beyond a row of white buildings. My sister doesn’t show any interest. I’m about to turn around when I spot a black taxicab. Twenty yards back, with no cars in between. It turns left after we do. Is it following us? Sunlight reflects off the windscreen, and I can’t see the driver.

  “We’ll do everything we can to find this… Lydia,” says Rodgers. “I wouldn’t worry. It’s not you she’s after.”

  But it is, and Lydia could be right behind us. I say nothing. There are hundreds of black cabs in London, and they all look alike. It’s hard to keep my eyelids open. I haven’t slept since—

  I’m crouched behind the laboratory workbench. Father’s next to Gustav, looking down at the crated ball.

  “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.”

  “Miss Clayton!” the inspector shouts.

  I wake up. That didn’t feel like a memory, and time has moved on. Maybe it was a dream, like normal girls have. We’ve stopped by a road that slopes down to a brick building with lots of arched windows. A sign reads Main Line – Way in for Cars, but Rodgers’ driver hasn’t taken us past the gate.

  “We’re here,” Rodgers says. “Liverpool Street station.”

  His driver opens the door. I get out, closely followed by Irene.

  A black taxicab parks just ahead. The same one I saw before? I can’t tell. A veiled lady in a long, purple dress exits the car, carrying a walking cane. Is it Lydia? She’s the right height. I breathe faster as she hobbles toward us.

>   “Is everything all right, Miss Clayton?” enquires Rodgers.

  I nod, eyes following the woman through the station’s swinging doors. She doesn’t turn her head. Or come back. I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Go back to the Yard, Benson,” Rodgers tells his driver. “I’ll see the girls off.”

  Liverpool Street is bustling inside, an enormous terminal covered by a glass roof. The train platforms are behind gated barriers, past the news stands and cast-iron pillars. There’s no chance of sneaking past the ticket inspectors, so we’ll need to queue up. Me and Rodgers join the shortest line. I count ten other people in front of us. We could be here a while.

  “A quarter to one,” says Rodgers, checking a four-faced, hanging clock. “Not in a hurry, are they?”

  There’s a poster above the ticket office: a comical image of a long-dressed woman riding a white horse. I think that’s Queen Elizabeth who ruled England in the 1500s, but it’s the writing below that catches my eye. Cambridge. It’s quicker by rail.

  Aunt Emma can’t help us. What does she know about black metal? Symbols? Father only told one man about his find: Gustav Ernst. I don’t fully trust him, but he’s the only one who can give me some answers. Rodgers will get suspicious if I ask him to buy tickets to Cambridge, but according to the map below the poster it’s on the same railway line as Norwich. We’ll just have to get off early, but how are we going to manage that?

  There’s a loud whistle. A train departs, engine chugging as white steam puffs from its funnel.

  “Choo choo,” I say, hoping to cheer Irene up. But she’s not there.

  My sister hasn’t gone far. She’s ten feet away, viewing a stone memorial. Eleven long lists of names. There must be over a hundred chiselled on the slabs. I can only read the big plaque above from here: Great Eastern Railway.

  “This station got hit by a Gotha in the war,” Rodgers says harshly. “A German bomber plane. Blasted Krauts.”

  So many dead. They were railway workers, civilians. Not soldiers. I shudder. If the Germans did this… Maybe I should tell Rodgers about Gustav. But I don’t. He’s too prejudiced to think it through.

  “I’ll get my sister,” I say.

  I join Irene by the memorial. Her shoelace has come undone, so I bend down to tie it up.

  A wooden cane strikes the floor behind her. “I saw you looking at the poster, Edith,” says the veiled woman. Lydia’s voice! So it was her following us. “You’re going to see Doctor Ernst.”

  Irene’s still daydreaming. Rodgers is at the counter, purchasing the tickets. Passengers walk by without looking. It’s just me against a madwoman.

  “Still the same, silly little girl,” Lydia chastises me. “Do you think Ernst cares about you? Or your sister?”

  “I think…” My knees wobble as I stand up. I quell my fear, and peer directly into Lydia’s veil. “That you’re here to kidnap us. Where’s Kostis?”

  “Outside. I was hoping to reason with you, but if you won’t listen…”

  Lydia shoves me back. My head cracks against the stone memorial, flattened straw hat landing beside me. I see two blurry purple-dressed women. Both raise their walking canes high, preparing to swing down. My vision quickly returns, but not my confidence. I close my eyes, awaiting the impact.

  It doesn’t come. Lydia stands still, her cane raised. A newsboy points at us. Stunned pedestrians watch. Rodgers has one foot off the ground as if sprinting toward me, except he’s not moving at all. Nobody is. It’s like looking at a photograph, only in colour. This must be a memory, the last thing I saw before I shut my eyes. It feels as though I’ve… frozen time.

  I need to avoid Lydia’s swing. The attack’s coming from my left, so if I go…

  Things move again. I dodge to my right. The cane swishes past my ear, chipping the memorial.

  “You used your memories.” Lydia’s compliment sounds strangely genuine. “You’re learning, Edith, but there’s a lot more I need to teach you.”

  “How to kill someone’s parents?” I want her to know I’ve not forgotten what she did.

  Rodgers grapples Lydia from behind, holding her waist in a bear hug. “Side pocket,” he gasps.

  Three paper slips stick out of his jacket. Train tickets to Norwich. I grab two of them in one hand, and Irene’s arm in the other. Lydia swings her cane overhead, whacking Rodgers’ face. His hold weakens.

  “Platform four,” the inspector says, just about hanging on. “The one fifteen. Go!”

  I glance at the clock. Thirteen past one. We’ve only got two minutes. I race to the ticket barrier, pulling Irene into a run. Commuters stop, mouths agape as they watch the ongoing struggle behind us. I look over my shoulder. Lydia pulls Rodgers’ finger, breaking it. A woman in the crowd faints.

  “Come on, little sister,” I pant.

  Lydia breaks free, beating Rodgers down with her cane. A train whistles. It’s one fourteen when we reach the gate. On the other side is a polished black steam engine coupled to six varnished wooden carriages. The conductors are too engrossed in the fight to check my tickets, so I let myself through the barrier.

  Lydia throws off her dress, revealing her black cloth outfit. She runs toward us. The crowd – ladies, working class men, everybody – make way for her.

  Another shrill whistle. The train’s leaving! We run past the engine and coal container to the first compartment. I pull open the door, and help Irene up. A couple of bobbies attack Lydia with truncheons. She fights them off. That’s two big men, at once.

  “Edith, you can’t trust him!” Lydia floors a policeman with a high kick, about turns, and blocks a truncheon swing with her cane. “Ernst only wants your—”

  The chugs get louder, drowning out her voice. I climb in the compartment as the train backs out of the station, slam the door shut, and lean out through the rolled down window to watch.

  Lydia knocks out the second bobby with her cane. She leaps over the gate, running after us. But she’s not fast enough to catch a locomotive. The engine leaves Liverpool Street, stranding Lydia at the platform edge. Once I’m sure she hasn’t jumped on the tracks, I slide the window up.

  There’s only one other passenger in our compartment: a black-haired gentleman wearing a tweed jacket and deerstalker.

  “What was the commotion?” he asks, lighting up a silver bowled pipe. “Louts causing trouble, no doubt. They should show some consideration for others.”

  “They should,” I agree, wafting away tobacco smoke. In this closed space, me and my sister have no choice but to breathe it.

  I sit next to Irene, sharing three seats between two. The ‘gentleman’ opposite pays us little heed. Irene still won’t talk, so the rail journey is one of discomfort and awkward silence. It’s a struggle to stay awake, but the eye-stinging smoke helps.

  It’s late afternoon when the train pulls into Cambridge. The railway station is a mile outside town, surrounded by quaint cottages and open fields. A welcome change from inner city London, and it’s nice to breathe fresh country air. There are no buses parked outside, and I’ve gone off taxicabs, so we proceed on foot.

  “Edith.” My sister hasn’t spoken since we left Scotland Yard, so I think I’m imagining it until she asks a question. “Where are we?”

  “Cambridge.” I need to keep her interested, so I point to the medieval steeples and towers ahead. “See those really old buildings? They’re university colleges.”

  “What are those?”

  I think how best to explain. “It’s like a school, only for grown ups. Very clever people come here to study.”

  And those with lots of money. Cambridge is a rich boys’ club, but hopefully they’ll let two girls in for a peek.

  “Which one are we going to?” asks Irene.

  A very good question that makes me stop. Cambridge doesn’t look so small up close. Oarsmen steer punts and rowing boats along a river that bends in a half-circle through the town. I see colleges on both sides. They remind me of castles, with turreted towers, ra
mpart walls, and enclosed gardens. There must be at least a dozen, and Gustav could be in any of them.

  Perhaps there’s a clue I missed in Father’s study. What did I see two nights ago? I close my eyes and think of Gustav. I see his name scribbled in Father’s terrible handwriting. On the leaflet I found in the back of his diary. The box of squares is clear in my mind, as is the note underneath. Symbols? Code? Speak to Gustav Ernst. Trinity Mathematical Society. Cambridge.

  “Trinity,” I answer after opening my eyes.

  “Where’s that?”

  I want to keep Irene’s spirits up, so I pretend to know. “That one.”

  I choose the tallest building: a long, medieval church with stained glass windows. That turns out to be King’s College Chapel. The chaplain gives me a hateful glare when I tell him I’m looking for a German called Gustav Ernst. He’s a little more friendly when I enquire about Trinity College. He talks to us, at least.

  “Up the road,” the scrawny man says, shooing us out. “Look for the Great Gate, a statue of Henry the Eighth with a wooden leg.”

  Wooden leg? Father had a granite bust of Henry VIII. He was the king with six wives, but I don’t recall him being a pirate. Weren’t they the ones with peg-legs?

  We walk on up a narrow, cobbled street. After a couple of minutes, we come to a stone gatehouse with a tower at each end. Tall, angular towers with eight sides. Above the entrance is a statue of a chubby, bearded man wearing a cape and round hat. He’s holding a golden ball and… I think it’s meant to be a sceptre, but aren’t they made of metal? I look again, and realise it’s a wooden chair leg. College students being silly, probably.

  “This is the place,” I tell Irene.

  Both gates are locked. I knock on the smaller one to the right several times before someone answers. The door opens two inches. Through the narrow gap I see the porter’s a short, balding man wearing a black tunic and top hat.

  “We’re here to see Doctor Gustav Ernst,” I say.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  If I say no, he’ll lock us out. Wealth matters at Cambridge University, so I put on a proper, upper class voice. “We’re the daughters of Lord Stephen and Lady Olivia Clayton. Doctor Ernst is a family friend. We’ve come all the way from London. Kindly show us to his room.”