Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3

by Jordan L. Hawk

Father could afford a bribe to get them to investigate, but I had the feeling such an action would be in vain. “No, no. Don’t, er, concern yourself. Truly, I’m fine.”

  Christine appeared in my open doorway, barging in without an invitation. Not to suggest I would have expected her to do otherwise. “What the devil is wrong with you, Whyborne?”

  “He was set upon by ruffians!” Miss Parkhurst exclaimed indignantly.

  “Really?” Christine asked. “Whatever for?”

  I pulled the compress away and gingerly dabbed at the scrape on my chin, where it had met the wall. “A robbery gone awry, I believe,” I said, not wishing to speak further in front of anyone else. “Thank you for your assistance, Miss Parkhurst. I assure you, I’m quite all right.”

  She looked as if she wished to hover. Lacking an excuse, however, she only smiled and wished me a speedy recovery. As soon as she departed, Christine said, “Well, out with it. What aren’t you saying?”

  How the devil had she known? No matter. “Griffin will be here soon, or should be.” I’d sent the first urchin I’d come across with a note, a penny, and the promise of a second coin if he delivered it to our home with all haste. “But I’ll catch you up on the situation.”

  By the time I explained Father’s invitation and the origins of the black stone, Griffin arrived. His eyes widened at the sight of my bruised face. “My dear Whyborne, are you quite all right?” he demanded.

  “It appears far worse than it is.” It must have looked awful, given Griffin and Miss Parkhurst both wished to coddle me over it. “At any rate, we have a much bigger problem than a few bumps and bruises. The black stone has been stolen.”

  I related the entire incident. “The men, whoever they were, knew exactly what they were looking for,” I finished.

  Griffin perched on a corner of my rather messy desk, his lips pressed into a grim line. “They must have known your father had it. If they were keeping watch on Whyborne House, they would have seen us leave with it last night.”

  “And waited to catch me alone?” An alarming thought. Even more alarming to imagine they’d been behind us in the dark somewhere, while we walked home. Had they lurked outside the gate all night, watching? The thought sent a shiver down my back. Thank heavens we scrupulously kept the doors locked and the curtains pulled over the windows.

  “No doubt they wished to see if you would carry the stone to the museum with you—not an unwarranted assumption,” Griffin agreed.

  “And now we’ll never know what it said,” Christine remarked with a scowl.

  “Assuming we might have translated it to begin with,” I pointed out. “With such a small fragment, lacking other context, unless the pictographs proved to be closely related to a known language—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m quite aware of the difficulties, even if I’m not a philologist like yourself. Do we know the provenance of the artifact? Was it truly old, or simply a hoax? If we could visit the site—”

  Griffin cleared his throat to recapture our attention. “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” he said. “The one thing this incident has served to prove is someone didn’t want the stone to remain in our possession. Whyborne’s father might be right. Strange forces may very well be at work in Threshold.”

  “You mean to take the case?” I asked.

  Griffin looked as if he wished to argue, but his shoulders slumped in defeat. “I can’t just leave it. The Pinkertons in Threshold won’t be prepared to deal with such possibilities, just as Glenn and I weren’t prepared when we went into that accursed basement.”

  “If we could convince them to close the mine—”

  “Based on what? A bit of petty theft?”

  “Griffin’s right,” Christine said. “No one is going to shut down a profitable mining operation without an excellent reason. I’m afraid it is up to us to find such a reason, and, perhaps, put a stop to things.”

  “Us?” Griffin asked, arching his brow.

  “Of course,” I said briskly. “As much as I hate to give in to Father’s request, there is far more at stake than my pride. I will have to ask the director for time off, of course, but I hardly think he can complain, seeing as I’ve not had so much as a short vacation since joining the staff four years ago.”

  “And I’m already on sabbatical,” Christine put in. “That’s what I had come to tell you, Whyborne—the blasted director wants me to concentrate on my manuscript concerning Nephren-ka’s tomb.”

  “Shouldn’t you consider remaining here to work on it?” I suggested.

  “Don’t be absurd. Do you think I’m going to sit here in Widdershins while you go haring off? One or both of you would end up kidnapped, or eaten, or God knows what. Then who would I talk to at those dreadful formal affairs? Far better I come along.”

  Griffin shook his head, but an involuntary smile creased his lips. “Indeed. How can I argue with such logic? I shall look into the train schedules straightaway.”

  Chapter 4

  A week later, the three of us sat in the first-class passenger car of a train winding its way deep into the mountains of West Virginia. We were the car’s only occupants, although I’d seen a few men getting on the second-class car when the train stopped in Charleston. I wondered what business took them to Threshold, and was secretly glad we had a section of the train to ourselves.

  We left civilization behind hours ago, and now delved deep into the countryside. Mountains shrouded in green rose and fell around us, the mass of trees occasionally giving away to startling expanses of bare rock. The river alongside the track sometimes ran smooth and broad, before suddenly turning wild and white, like a dangerous animal, which might purr or bite without warning.

  “I can’t believe we actually managed to remove Whyborne from Widdershins for a few days,” Christine remarked from her seat across from us, going through the notes of her manuscript.

  Griffin cast me a fond smile. “Is this the farthest you’ve been from home, my dear?”

  “I simply don’t see the need to go rushing about all over the country. Or the world,” I said, folding my arms over my chest.

  “Yes, I know.” Christine frowned slightly and corrected one of her notations as best she could with the jostling of the train. “It’s why we never married.”

  “What?” Surely I couldn’t have heard her aright. “Married?”

  “Of course.” She didn’t bother to look away from her notes. “It must have occurred to you.”

  “Good gad, of course it didn’t! Are you completely mad?”

  Christine rolled her eyes and finally looked at me. “Do try to consider this objectively. It would have given us a bit more respectability, at least in some circles, and I shouldn’t have to put up with dunderheads constantly asking what my husband thinks of my career. We would be of no trouble to one another at all, I should think, and it isn’t as if we would be the first couple to seal their vows with a handshake rather than a kiss.”

  “I cannot believe this.” I turned to Griffin, expecting him to be equally horrified. Instead, he seemed to be attempting to suppress laughter—and doing a rather poor job of it.

  “I don’t see why not,” Christine went on. “But if we wed, you would be expected to accompany me to Egypt, and I can’t see you enjoying such a trip. So I decided against it.”

  “Thank heavens,” I muttered. “And thank you for consulting me in all this, by the way. I can’t believe you’d actually think I’d agree to some…some sham marriage! It’s a sacred vow!”

  “Really? I thought you were a materialist?”

  I glared at her, although to no effect, as she’d turned back to her notes. “That hardly implies my oath is meaningless. Nor,” I added, turning to Griffin, since he at least paid attention to me, “can I believe you aren’t upset.”

  “I am, my dear,” he soothed. “It’s only I don’t find the idea particularly shocking. It’s hardly an uncommon arrangement for men like us.”

  I folded my arms across my chest and slouched in my
seat, glaring at them both. “You find the idea of me moving into a separate house and marrying Christine to be amusing, do you?”

  “No, I find the idea of you marrying Christine at all amusing.”

  “You’re both horrid,” I muttered, fixing my gaze out the window. “I cannot imagine why I put up with either of you.”

  Fortunately, we didn’t have much farther to go. The train plunged into a long tunnel. Beside me, Griffin tensed. I relented and put my hand on his, in an attempt to alleviate his fear of underground places. In the dark, his fingers curled tight around mine. I wished we were alone, so I might speak some comforting words.

  The tunnel seemed to go on forever, before ending in a sudden blaze of light. The mountainside tumbled away sharply beneath us as the train roared over a high trestle, spanning a deep gorge. On the other side, we passed through a much shorter tunnel, before descending a gentle grade as the mountains gradually rose around us. By the time the train began to brake, the green peaks loomed to either side like old men, peering down at the tiny creatures which had dared wake them from their sleep. Only a narrow strip of blue sky remained visible; the hours of direct sunlight must be short indeed.

  The train came to a stop at a small depot. Christine gathered her notes and tucked them into a valise, and we soon found ourselves on a busy platform. Men sorted crates, boxes, barrels, luggage, and mail sacks into various wagons. One wall held a series of posters, each one with the likeness of a man, all labeled “public enemy,” and warning any who saw them to report to the nearest authorities immediately. The infamous McCoy gang, no doubt, who had vanished mysteriously.

  A man with the build—and face—of a whippet approached us. He wore a brown suit, which matched his bowler hat, and a drooping mustache, which matched his morose expression. “Dr. Whyborne?” he asked.

  Although the case was technically Griffin’s, our trip had put me in a rather awkward position. As the Ladysmith’s resident philologist, I was a nonentity as far as most of the world was concerned. It was a state of affairs which suited me quite well, but unfortunately was of absolutely no use in this case. As Niles Whyborne’s youngest son, however…

  “Er, yes,” I stammered. Curse it, Griffin was much better at this. Everyone was much better at this.

  The man’s gaze took in every detail, from my oxfords to my hat, but his expression told me nothing of his inevitable judgment. “I’m Clark Fredericks. Mr. Orme sent me to meet you.”

  Mr. Orme operated Threshold Mine for Stotz Mining. I automatically touched the letter of introduction in my pocket. “Oh, er, yes.” Who was this Fredericks fellow? An overseer of some sort? A manservant? I held out my hand. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Right this way, sir,” he said, and turned to lead the way out. Feeling like a fool, I let my hand drop back to my side.

  A carriage awaited us outside the depot. Without speaking further, Fredericks climbed into the driver’s seat and impatiently waited for us to get in. Trying to contain a scowl, I opened the door and waited while Christine ignored Griffin’s offer of assistance and climbed inside. As soon as we settled, the carriage lurched into motion, and we crossed into Threshold.

  ~ * ~

  My first impression of the town was of its roads: utterly unpaved, filled with potholes, and a misery to endure inside a conveyance of any sort. Every jolt threatened to shove my spine into my skull, and Christine let out a series of curses, which would have felled a sailor.

  Griffin directed his attention out the windows, however, and it seemed a good idea to imitate him, as he had experience in these matters. I strove, therefore, to gain at least an overall impression of the town as we passed through.

  Like many other mining towns, the company had built Threshold. One day, there had been wilderness; the next, loggers cleared vast acreage, while builders followed close on their heels, constructing a brand-new town as quickly as possible. Almost as soon as the first homes were finished, the company filled them with workers.

  The narrowness and depth of the hollow forced the town into a long line to either side of the creek. Above, the peaks seemed to lean in, but one towered above its fellows. Was this Threshold Mountain, for which the town and the mine had been named?

  And what, I wondered, had the mountain been named for? A threshold to where? Or what? As far as I knew, only untamed wilderness lay on the other side of the ridge, just as it had here until recently.

  Chickens and small children scattered out of our way as the carriage jolted along the muddy track. We passed the general store, an enormous, three-story affair whose loading doors opened directly onto the railroad tracks. Beyond lay the town proper, which mainly consisted of row upon row of identical houses, all of which appeared to have been built in great haste using the shoddiest materials available. I glimpsed a church, also cheaply constructed, and a huge, one-story building with a sign proclaiming it the “Threshold Community Center.”

  Over everything hung a pall of smoke and dust, darkening the whitewashed houses, graying the laundry dangling from lines, and seaming the creased faces we passed. Foul smoke, reeking of sulfur, boiled from the beehive-shaped coke ovens. The sides of the gorge blocked the wind, and the smoke was thick as fog in some places. We rattled across a makeshift bridge over the creek, and the fetid stench of sewage rose from waters stained a bright, poisonous orange.

  What an awful place. I longed for Widdershins’s fishy breeze.

  The entrance to the mine itself lay near the lowest point of the hollow. Mules drew carts laden with coal along a set of rails, back and forth from the mine to a tall, wooden building beside the railroad tracks. Enormous piles of debris—refuse from the mine, I assumed—towered nearby. One of them smoldered alarmingly, adding its fumes to the fog belching from the coke ovens.

  The carriage finally came to a halt in front of a wooden building not far from the mine entrance. Griffin hopped out, pausing to assist Christine, who glared at him for his trouble.

  “Mr. Orme’s office is just inside,” Fredericks said. “I’ll wait and take you to the hotel when your business is done.”

  Three men loitered about the porch as we approached, all of them in suits and with conspicuous firearms at their sides. “Pinkertons,” Griffin murmured. “Here to act as mine guards. I expect Fredericks is one as well.”

  The guards watched us coolly as we mounted the steps and crossed to the door. I felt glad to enter the building, away from their judging gazes.

  The door opened directly onto a large room, occupying the front half of the building. My first glance took in two desks, a number of filing cabinets, and a pot-bellied stove, cold now in the late spring. Surveyor’s maps decorated the walls, marking the locations of coal seams.

  Three men occupied the office. One sat at a smaller desk, and I assumed him to be the operator’s secretary. The cold-eyed man with a receding hairline and small, neat mustache must be Mr. Orme. As for the third, who sat in a chair in the corner, clearly awaiting our arrival…

  My heart sped involuntarily—dear lord, he was handsome! Classic features, firm chin, sculpted lips: my throat went dry just looking at him. He wore his golden hair neatly parted in the center, and the small, trim mustache enhanced rather than detracted from his tempting mouth.

  Upon seeing us, his blue eyes widened, and all the color drained from his face. “Griffin?” he exclaimed, rising to his feet. “Griffin Flaherty?”

  ~ * ~

  I blinked then glanced at Griffin, who seemed just as shocked as the handsome stranger. “Elliot?”

  Elliot crossed the room and clasped Griffin’s hand warmly, putting his free hand on Griffin’s shoulder in a friendly gesture I immediately resented. “Mr. Whyborne’s letter said a private detective would accompany his son, but I had no idea it would be you!” He stood back, as if to take in the sight of Griffin. “You appear to be doing well—very well indeed.”

  “I-I am.” Griffin swallowed visibly; clearly, this chance meeting had shaken him badl
y. “You’re heading the Pinkerton operation here?”

  “Yes. The opportunity was too good to pass up.” The man looked as if he wished to speak to Griffin further, had politeness not forbade it. “Are you not going to introduce your companions?”

  “Yes; of course.” Regaining some of his composure, Griffin turned to me. “Dr. Percival Endicott Whyborne, permit me to introduce to you Mr. Elliot Manning, lately of the Chicago office. Mr. Manning, Dr. Whyborne.”

  We shook hands; I hoped my palm wasn’t too sweaty. “A pleasure,” he said, looking me straight in the eye.

  He was even more beautiful close at hand. I looked away hastily; the tips of my ears burned. “Yes. Er, I mean, I’m glad to meet you.”

  Introductions proceeded; as I had guessed, the man behind the large desk was Mr. Orme. He called for his secretary to fetch more chairs from one of the back rooms. Once we were seated, he turned to Christine.

  “Forgive me…Dr. Putnam, was it?” he asked. “We are rather rough here in Threshold, and I fear you may find us unprepared to entertain a lady.”

  “Quite all right,” she said, and offered nothing further.

  Although I appreciated her stance, I also knew Orme had every right to wonder what her place in the visit might be. “Dr. Putnam works at the museum with me,” I explained.

  “Surely you must be the lady archaeologist who uncovered the pharaoh’s tomb last year,” Manning said with open admiration.

  Christine seemed surprised he recognized her name, although, of course, it had been in all the papers. “Quite so. Although I prefer to simply be known as an archaeologist, if you please.”

  “Oh!” the secretary—he hadn’t been introduced—blurted out. “I read about that! How astonishing!”

  “Yes.” Orme’s speech had a curious, controlled quality to it. He seemed a man who held back everything of himself, and did his utmost merely to observe those around him rather than participate in life.

  Did I come across in the same manner?

  “As for why we’ve come,” Griffin said, accepting an offer of coffee from the secretary, “I assume Mr. Whyborne’s letter explained his concerns?”