No matter, he thought, the Basic Principles of Escapology (Rope Binding Section) still apply.
Some time later, he wriggled towards Evadne. Immediately, her eyes flew open and she glared at him.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I don’t want you to gain the wrong impression from this.’
Evadne said something that Kingsley was glad was muffled. Her eyes widened behind her spectacles when he lowered his head to hers, his mouth slightly open. Her skin was fine, even and white. Her perfume was heady. He paused a moment, enjoying her closeness, thrilled by the way the skin over her throat fluttered with her pulse. Then, with a careful movement, he used his teeth to seize the large white handkerchief that had been stuffed into her mouth. A yank or two and he spat it to the floor.
She cocked her head. A ghost of a flush coloured her cheeks for a moment in an altogether appealing display. ‘I suppose I should thank you.’
‘It is customary in such circumstances. Or so I’ve read.’
‘You must read different books from the ones I read.’
‘Perhaps.’ Uncomfortable for a moment, he looked about their cell. A single bed, with no mattress. A three-legged stool. The necessary ablutions equipment looked an odd piece of engineering, and Kingsley decided he’d need an instruction manual to use it. Which he hoped he had no need to. ‘I was hoping you could tell me what we’ve landed ourselves in.’
Her shrug was muted by her bonds. ‘I’d say we’ve become caught in a dispute of one sort or another. Common enough in the Demimonde.’
‘Common enough in the ordinary world too, but such things don’t usually result in open warfare.’
‘Really? I must remember to tell that to the Boers next time I see them.’
Kingsley winced. ‘So if we’re incidental to their struggle, we should be able to slip away without too much trouble?’
‘Apart from being bound and locked up.’
Kingsley stood, the ropes falling away. ‘And now, for my next trick.’
She glared. ‘You could have done that at any time. You didn’t need to . . . to . . .’
‘Remove your gag like that? Ah. True.’ Kingsley extemporised. ‘I heard someone at the door. Didn’t want to give away too much.’
Her glare smouldered, dropping from ‘surface of the sun’ to ‘interior of a volcano’. ‘Unbind me.’
‘My pleasure.’
Kingsley reached behind his collar and found the length of thin metal, one edge of which he kept sharp. Carefully, he sawed through the key ropes and soon Evadne was standing in front of him, rubbing her elbow. ‘I’m assuming the door won’t be a problem?’
Kingsley had his lock picks in his tie. The Neanderthals had been thorough in their searching, showing considerable interest in the numerous weapons Soames had found on Evadne, but – as most people did – they missed the various bits of wire and metal secreted about Kingsley’s person.
‘The Basic Principles of Escapology begin with three very fine suggestions,’ Kingsley said as he assembled his tools. ‘Take your time. Stay calm. Take stock of your situation. I find they help in situations like this.’
Evadne eyed him. ‘Basic Principles of Escapology,’ she repeated. ‘By a well-known master of the trade, no doubt?’
‘The Basic Principles are a fluid set of guidelines, subject to change, and they’re vital to any true escapologist.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
‘Surely you don’t answer all questions anyone asks you about juggling? The mystery is important, after all.’
‘You’re still avoiding the question.’
‘Rather than discuss such things, let me demonstrate the principles by taking stock.’ He put his ear to the door.
‘Is it safe?’ Evadne asked.
‘In the heart of the lair of prehistoric people who eat humans? Probably not.’
‘Wait.’
‘What for?’
‘To show you you’re not the only one who has something up his sleeve.’
From the folds of her top coat, from the brim of her hat, from the hem of her scarf and from the heel of her boot she produced a quick succession of cogs, tubes and struts that she snapped together into a small, but lethal-looking, firearm. It was just larger than her palm, a combination of shiny steel and close-grained wood, and she regarded it fondly. ‘I’ve been dying for a chance to try out Whispering Death. Pneumatic, accurate to fifty yards.’
‘Poison darts?’
‘Or soporific. Or simply painful, if you’re hit in the right spot.’
Kingsley reminded himself not to volunteer as a target. He wasn’t sure if the little pistol would be of much use so he simply nodded, with gritted teeth, holding his wolfishness on a tight leash. It wasn’t happy, being confined in a cell like this. It was aching to get out and run free.
He held one pick in his teeth while he inserted the other. The lock was sturdy-looking, but its mechanism was straightforward, even though the way the pins were arranged did take some adjusting before he had it. ‘There.’
‘Stand back. I’ll go first.’
His wolfish self reared at that, fearing a snub. His civilised self objected, too, but quickly subsided. It was the sensible thing to do, since she was armed, and his estimation of Evadne’s capabilities was continuing to grow. No shrinking violet, she. He’d be prepared to match her against any tough, bravo or bully boy, Neanderthal or not.
Then he saw the markings on the wall over the bed. The pretty blue bricks had been defaced with scratches, the traditional prisoner’s tally marks, rough and crude, but some were also uniform and precise, evidence of different hands – and of different prisoners being incarcerated here. The hair on the back of his neck rose. In the corner, in scratchings that could only be called ‘dainty’, was a single, recognisable sentence amid the tallies, in French: Le vrai Lavoisier se trouve ici.
Without a word, he pointed at the wall. Evadne left the door. ‘Lavoisier,’ she said and looked at him. ‘The scientist?’
‘One of my foster father’s heroes. He discovered oxygen and was guillotined in the French Revolution.’
‘The true Lavoisier lies here,’ Evadne read. ‘Maybe he didn’t lose his head.’
‘In the chaos that was the revolution, anything could have happened.’
‘Even Neanderthals abducting the father of modern chemistry? Why?’
‘Lavoisier was a genius. The Neanderthals might have needed one.’
With another mystery on his hands, Kingsley followed Evadne from the cell.
Presently, he decided that whoever was in charge of this part of the Neanderthal warren could have designed hospitals or industrial kitchens. It was spotless. Underfoot, the glaze had been roughened to prevent slipping. Light spilled from roundels in the ceiling, white tinged with yellow, the promise of sunshine.
The corridor was military straight. It sloped upward fifty yards or so to where a central observation point was sited. From there, Kingsley guessed, it could monitor the radiating corridors. Simple, efficient design. He was impressed.
‘I think one of the cells is occupied,’ Evadne said, pointing.
The cell closest to the monitoring station, on the right, had a small white light glowing on the floor in front of it, inset, as if the moon had fallen to earth.
Thirty yards away. Thirty yards of corridor, totally exposed to anyone in the monitoring station. Kingsley rubbed his chin. No time for creeping about. This had to be done with authority.
He took a deep breath, summoned some of his stage presence, and strolled up the middle of the corridor. His wild self was alarmed, would have preferred flitting from doorway to doorway, seeking cover, looking for danger, but this was an occasion for a civilised approach. Ambling along, hands in pockets, exuding confidence and projecting the total and ut
ter right to be there was the best way. His gaze roamed from side to side, taking in the surroundings with unabashed interest, admiring the helpful light in front of the last cell.
It may not buy him more than an instant or two of doubt if a Neanderthal came around the corner, but it was the best Kingsley could do.
The monitoring station was empty. With relief, Kingsley took in the circular bench, the two stools and the wheelchair, a few crates hastily stowed next to one of them. The station was dusty, but it showed some signs of recent activity. The section nearest the occupied cell had been hastily swept clean. The large hand marks were still obvious.
Kingsley waved, gestured at Evadne to join him, and while he was waiting he saw something – one of the crates half-shoved under the bench of the monitoring station wasn’t as dusty as those next to it.
Curious, he vaulted over the bench. He squatted and spied Evadne’s satchel sitting on top of her sabre and the knife she’d insisted he carry. The other weapons were gone. With a sense of increasing unease, he saw that underneath this hasty arrangement the crate was packed with books. Familiar books, books that had a smell that made his throat tighten.
I wish I didn’t know what blood smells like, he thought numbly as he shuffled closer. The spines of a dozen books looked up at him, the gold lettering not as bright as he remembered. Two of the volumes were spattered with a distressing brown stain: The Peoples of the Sindh and Creation Legends Among the Jain. The name of the author was obscured by the stain, but Kingsley didn’t have to see it to know that the books were authored by – and belonged to – Dr Malcolm Ward, his foster father.
Evadne joined him. ‘What have you found?’
He handed the weapons to her without answering. She buckled on her sabre, but took in his distress. Nimbly, she leaped over the bench. She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘These came from your library at home, didn’t they?’
He plucked one of the books from the crate. The bookplate on the flyleaf confirmed it.
Kingsley remembered the kindness of Mrs Walters. She’d been a practical, busy woman. She complained about his magic paraphernalia and never understood his interest, but she was always ready with some sustenance between meals, saying she knew all about the appetites of growing young men.
‘They killed her for books?’ he said aloud. It was so petty. A flicker grew inside him, calling for vengeance against the brutes, but it was smothered by sadness. So pointless.
‘So it would seem.’ Evadne tugged on his sleeve.
‘Why? Why did they do it?’
Evadne glanced at the head of the stairs. ‘Think. It’s not a random selection of books. What do they have in common?’
‘My foster father wrote them all.’
‘True. And the subject of the books?’
‘People. Origins of people.’
‘So they’re either interested in your father or this theories about the origins of humanity. That’s enough for us to speculate on. Now, I want to see who’s in that cell.’
‘So do I,’ Kingsley said, ‘especially since I have some idea who it is.’
The man on the bed opened his eyes. ‘My boy,’ he croaked, ‘I’m glad you’ve come.’
Kingsley was at his foster father’s side instantly.
The old man’s face was bruised. His clothing, more suitable for a night at the opera than a prison cell, was rumpled and his collar was streaked with blood. Kingsley was grimly pleased. The old man had resisted!
Dr Ward had always been a big man. His limbs were strong, he had a long and muscular trunk, his hands were large, his head was leonine. His hair was long and silver, swept back but thick. His habitual mode of speaking was the boom, and it was a sign of his travails that it had been reduced as much as it had.
Dr Ward eased himself into a sitting position, leaving his legs still covered by the light blanket. He declined offers of assistance. ‘I’m well enough,’ he managed, then he saw Evadne and his dull eyes brightened.
‘How extraordinary you are, young lady. Do you know that a hundred years ago you could have been queen of Benin just because of your eyes?’
Evadne raised an eyebrow and Kingsley hastily made the introductions. ‘Father, I’d never have found you without her.’
‘I’m not sure about that.’ Dr Ward chuckled, but Kingsley wasn’t happy about the wheeziness of the laughter. ‘Regardless, you are most beautiful, Miss Stephens. I’m sure that in days gone by, thousands of men would have perished for a chance at your hand.’
‘Sorry,’ Kingsley said to her, ‘Father does live in the past, somewhat.’
‘Hah!’ Dr Ward was seized by a mighty coughing fit. He went alarmingly red in the face and hammered at his own thigh with a fist before he brought it under control. Kingsley hovered helplessly, his foster father waving him away whenever he approached too closely.
Eventually, Dr Ward gathered himself. ‘I was about to say – as you know full well, my boy – that I don’t live in the past, I merely study it.’ His expression darkened. ‘Which is why the brutes brought me here.’
‘Tell us later, Father,’ Kingsley said. ‘Let us get you out of here first.’
Dr Ward held up a hand. ‘Always precipitous, my boy, always precipitous.’ His gaze drifted upward. ‘My, that ceiling is a long way away.’
‘He’s right, Dr Ward,’ Evadne said, ‘we can’t waste time.’
Dr Ward frowned, then touched his wrinkled brow. For a moment he was amused by the shapes it made before he gathered himself to answer. ‘Time. That’s what it’s all about, after all.’
‘Father?’
‘These brutes are building a time machine. That’s why they wanted me. To help with their destination.’
While Kingsley rocked back at this revelation, Evadne leaned forward. ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded.
Dr Ward touched his cheek. ‘My, I do need a shave. I used to have a favourite barber. Marcello. He was a maestro with a razor.’ He blinked at the fierceness of Evadne’s regard. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I’m finding it hard to concentrate after their questioning.’
Kingsley was dismayed. Dr Ward had been good to him, in his vague and erratic way. He’d spent a career as a professional wanderer, often working in more than one area at once, sometimes abandoning avenues of inquiry unfinished when a new one arose. His lectures were famous for finishing many miles away from their nominal topic.
Kingsley touched Evadne on the forearm and, with a look, asked for understanding. She glanced at him, then at Dr Ward and then she bit her lip and nodded.
Dr Ward didn’t notice this unspoken conversation. He continued, as if talking to himself. ‘You know, my whole career has been looking backward, really.’ He chuckled. More wheeziness. ‘Further and further back, further and further.’ He cocked a bright eye at Kingsley. ‘That’s what they want to know, but I haven’t told them yet.’
‘What do they want to know, Father?’
‘Them and us. Homo neanderthalensis and Homo sapiens. When we diverged.’ He rubbed his chest. ‘They want to travel back in time and exterminate us. While there are only a few of us around. If they’re successful, humanity will simply cease to be.’
Kingsley went to laugh, but he was halted by the expression on Evadne’s face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly. ‘He’s muddled. He needs care.’
‘No.’ She shook her head and her silver hair flew. ‘No.’
‘Don’t tell me you believe this?’
This time, Dr Ward was following. ‘And why shouldn’t she, my boy?’
‘We have to stop them,’ Evadne said.
‘Surely you’re not serious,’ Kingsley said. Another crusade? Evadne was a young woman of principle, but it did seem to get in the way.
She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. ‘After all you’ve seen, you still d
oubt? The Neanderthals are the greatest artificers in the Demimonde. They hate us. This is exactly the sort of scheme I wouldn’t put past them.’
‘Besides,’ Dr Ward said and his voice was suddenly steady and irresistibly rational, ‘think of it this way. If you act and I’m right, you’ve saved humanity. If you don’t act and I’m right, we’re all doomed.’
That was the end of the argument. Kingsley could see that he was outmatched. Evadne’s knowledge of and experience with the Demimonde convinced her that the Neanderthals were capable of this extraordinary deed. She would not be shaken from it.
‘I surrender,’ he said. ‘Once we get you safely out of here, Father, then we can see what we can do about this time machine.’
‘I think not,’ Dr Ward said. ‘I’d say it’s best for you both to leave me behind.’
Kingsley bit his lip. Had his foster father’s ill-treatment addled his brain? ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Up on your feet. We’ll have you out of here in no time.’
‘Ah, but that’s the point.’ He pulled the blanket aside and gestured at his feet.
Evadne gasped. Kingsley was sickened by the black and blue, misshapen things on the end of his legs. ‘What have they done?’
Dr Ward shrugged. ‘It makes good sense, from their point of view, and it has many historical precedents. Some Viking leaders actually hamstrung their slaves to stop them running away, so I may have got off lightly.’
‘They broke your ankles? Aren’t you in pain?’
‘I was, at first, but they dose me with . . .’ He squinted at them. ‘I say, you’ve both thought that I’m losing my mind, haven’t you?’ He shook his head. ‘It’s the opiate they force on me. I can’t walk – they deposit me in some sort of wheelchair when they want to undertake another of their ghastly interrogations – but I’m in no pain. Just damnably foggy. Stupid arrangement, really. They need me to be sharp if I’m to advise them, but they did this to me. Sometimes seems like no-one’s in charge around here.’
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