Silver Tomb (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 2)

by P J Thorndyke

  They made love back at his hotel, and damned appearances. After all, Paris was a little more liberal in that regard, not that they cared two pennies for what other people thought. Had they been staying in the middle of Piccadilly Circus they wouldn’t have altered their actions. They had waited too long, put off their feelings for each other too many times. Now all was released like a torrent of water bursting forth from a broken dam. And the dam was certainly broken, they both knew that, hopelessly broken and who knew how many lives might be swept away in the aftermath?

  Lazarus forgot all as he lay on top of her on the bed, the light of dawn peeping in through the curtains as if spying and then blushing at what it saw. He had imagined Katarina’s naked body many times since he met her, although only out of boyish curiosity. It was ivory-white and seemed more petite than he would have thought. Her breasts were small but her abdominal muscles rippled as she reached up to grasp him in a tight embrace that reminded him that he was lying with a woman who was employed to kill people and kept her body well trained. Her lethality thrilled him.

  He grasped her black hair and tugged it loose, caring little if he hurt her, for her nails scraping down his back told him that this was not to be slow, soft sex but a hard, punishing and exquisitely exhilarating act that dealt back every biting comment and every sarcastic glance they had ever given each other since they had met, blow for blow.

  When they were finished, they lay exhausted and slept naked with no covers until after noon. They did not discuss it. There was perhaps a good deal to discuss regarding the past and the future, but an unspoken agreement lay between them; this was their time and it may be short so nothing must be allowed to spoil it.

  They had a late breakfast of croissants and coffee in a little café on Rue Sainte-Anne. Surprisingly, there was little in the papers about the business of the night before. A small headline spoke of a break-in at the Louvre and the death of a police officer. Nothing of great value had been stolen and the police were looking for Eleanor Rousseau, who had been at the museum but had since vanished. They were also looking for an English friend of hers and the foreign couple who were seen with Inspector Devaney.

  Another piece mentioned shots fired on Quay des Tuileries and that nobody had been apprehended. Witnesses spoke of a hideously made up woman fleeing through the streets and leaving her tattered and blood-soaked dress behind, but this was put down as some sort of prank. Or, perhaps, somebody from one of the heaven and hell clubs had taken a nightly stroll in full getup and had enjoyed alarming people. As with the business at the Grand Continental in Cairo, the public paid it moderate interest. Perhaps some snorted with cynical mirth over their morning coffee and muttered something about the Fin de siècle but ultimately devoted their attention to more pressing matters.

  “I must send a telegram to Cairo,” said Lazarus as he sipped his second cup of coffee. “I never said goodbye to Flinders and I can give him the good news about the dig at the City of the Silver Aten. With Lindholm and his creations dead and... Kiya...”—he stumbled over the name, not wishing to spoil their breakfast—“gone for good, the site is open for whomever gets there first. I want it to be Petrie.”

  “That should at least make up for his missing out on the Deir el-Bahari cache,” said Katarina, resting her narrow chin on the palm of her left hand.

  “Yes, he’ll be famous for this. His name will stand high in Egyptology forever more as the man who uncovered the cult of the silver Aten. And I can’t think of anybody more deserving.”

  “He was a big help,” Katarina agreed. “I liked him in the end. Do you think he liked me? I can be a bit hard on people.”

  Lazarus grinned. “It certainly takes some time to get into your good graces, I’ll say that. You are a prickly one.”

  “Prickly?” she exclaimed in mock indignation.

  “I only mean, look at all we’ve been through together and I’m only just in your good books.”

  “Yes,” she smiled back. “Only just. But you’re on thin ice.”

  After breakfast they went to the nearest PTT office to send a telegram to the Grand Continental in Cairo. Partly in jest and partly as a reminder that caution was still to be excised, Lazarus ended the note with ‘Watch out for the crocodiles’. Who knew what nasty surprises Lindholm had left behind in his laboratories?

  When he had finished scribbling his note on the postmaster’s pad, Lazarus turned to see that Katarina had vanished from his side. He had not noticed her leave. He walked into the other room and saw her bent over a desk scribbling on an identical pad. He walked up behind her and looked over her shoulder. The markings on her pad were Morse rather than words. He was about to offer to write her message out for her in French and let the telegraph operator do his job, but then he remembered that she had a perfect command of the French language. Why the Morse, then? He suddenly realized that she must be sending a message in Russian, which would be impossible for the telegraph operator to translate.

  She stood up and started at his close proximity, as if she had been caught out doing something she shouldn’t. He did not probe and she did not offer any explanation, but handed her note to the postmaster along with the coin to pay for it. They left the PTT office.

  They didn’t speak as they walked down the street back to the hotel. Lazarus knew that she must have sent a message to her superiors back in Saint Petersburg. Was she resigning? He thought of his own letter of resignation he had penned in Cairo that was still in his portmanteau.

  When they got back to the hotel, they made love again and whiled away the afternoon in their room, until hunger stirred them and their mouths yearned for the first drink of the evening.

  They had gin and tonics at the hotel bar before dining in a restaurant in the lively Palais Royal, where they watched other lovers nestle beneath the lime trees, through the doors of the gilt and wood-paneled establishment.

  Lazarus still had not mentioned the mysterious telegram, and Katarina showed no signs of opening up. He decided that the only way for them to confront the matter was for him to go first. They were having desert when he decided to take the plunge.

  “When I thought I was in love with Eleanor,” he began and then immediately wished he had started on a different note.

  “Yes?” she said, her eyes narrowing.

  “Well, I mean to say, during those heated days in Cairo when my mind was not quite what it should have been, I decided on one point which I still feel strongly about. I have decided to leave the bureau.”

  “Leave? You mean resign?”

  “Exactly. I even wrote my letter of resignation back in Cairo when I thought my future was with Eleanor. Well, what I’m trying to say is, although Eleanor is gone and my feelings for her are utterly dead, my desire to resign and begin another life still stands. Another life with you.”

  Katarina stared at him. She set down her ice cream spoon. “You would leave the bureau for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “My God, Lazarus. You do have some funny ideas.”

  He blinked in astonishment. “You mean to say that you don’t feel the same?”

  “Lazarus, I love you. I hope you know that by now. But I have my duty to my country. And to my uncle. I cannot walk away from it, like you.”

  “But that telegram you sent this afternoon,” Lazarus protested. “You wrote it in Morse and so I assumed it was in Russian. I also assumed that it was your resignation on its way to Saint Petersburg.”

  “You are right in thinking it was in Russian. And it did indeed go to Petersburg. But it was not my resignation. It was a coded signal to my contact in the government that I will be returning shortly. This excursion to Paris was not part of my mission, and I have been missing in action for far too long now. I will be taking the train back in the morning.”

  “Back?” Lazarus exclaimed. “Then what was all this, then?” he indicated the tablecloth strewn with breadcrumbs and the empty wine glasses, as if it represented everything from the crumpled up bed sheets in t
heir room at the hotel to the late evening walks along the Seine. “Was this all just a game to you? A bit of a holiday between cases?”

  “Don’t cause a scene, Lazarus,” she replied. “It is so unbecoming for a man to cause a scene. Of course it hasn’t been a game. My feelings for you are no lie nor jest. But look at us, Lazarus! An English spy and a Russian assassin! Our countries are practically at war, or what passes for it these days. We could never make it work.”

  “We could if we disappeared...”

  “We cannot disappear. Not in this world. Too many people would come looking for us. From both sides. And besides, there is my duty.”

  “Hang your duty! Is that all you care about?”

  “I’m not like you, Lazarus! Please see that! I’m not hopelessly disillusioned with my homeland. I still feel a twinge of loyalty, deep down.”

  Lazarus was silent. He had never considered himself to be ‘hopelessly disillusioned’, but now that she had said it he supposed that it did have the ring of truth about it. He wanted nothing from his homeland now, and the thought of continuing to work for Morton’s office made him sick. All he wanted was Katarina and a bright future free from empires and wars and killing. But it was clear that she did not feel that way.

  They went back to the hotel and did not make love. They lay awake in the dark, side by side, each pretending that they were asleep. Then, eventually, she rolled over and placed her palm on his chest.

  “Damn you, Lazarus, don’t let us go out like this. I’m leaving in the morning. I can’t bear to spend our last night together not speaking. Let’s make it count.”

  And so they did.

  Steam billowed in great clouds along the platform, making ghosts of the people walking towards the carriages and wavering silhouettes of the well-wishers. Lazarus carried Katarina’s carpet bag all the way to the carriage door as if reluctant to let it go. She eventually wrestled it from his grasp and seemed coldly amused by his devotion.

  “No tears now, Longman,” she warned him in a mocking tone. “I don’t want a scene.”

  “Don’t make fun of me,” he replied.

  “Well, what now for you? Back to England?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And the bureau?”

  “I still have my letter in my portmanteau.” It was not an answer and he knew it. But he honestly didn’t know what he would do. What else could he do? London seemed to paw at him through its own greasy smoke, as if a wretched old hen was drawing one of its wayward chicks back to the nest.

  “It would have been lovely,” said Katarina, leaning forward to kiss him on the lips. “Maybe in another time and another place, things might have worked out better for us.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Another time and another place...”

  She boarded the carriage and he followed her along the platform, watching her through the glass until she found her seat and sat down.

  “Chin up, Longman,” she called down to him from the open window. “Whatever happens, at least we’ll always have Paris, isn’t that what they say?”

  Lazarus wasn’t sure if he had heard the expression before, but it seemed to fit. “Yes,” he said to himself as the carriage rolled away from him. “I suppose we will.”

  A Note from the Author

  Thank you for reading Silver Tomb. I hope you have enjoyed it. If you haven’t already, I urge you to check out the first book in the series – Golden Heart – as well as the free prequel short story; On Rails of Gold. If you feel like doing me a favor I would be eternally grateful if you would leave a review on Amazon or your preferred retailer or perhaps recommend these books to somebody. Keep an eye out for the third book in the Lazarus Longman Chronicles – Onyx City – which will be available soon.

  Check out my blog at www.pjthorndyke.wordpress.com where I post about all things Steampunk and you can even get your hands on another free Lazarus Longman short story in the near future. I am also active on Facebook and Twitter.

  And now, I leave you with the opening chapter of Onyx City.

  Onyx City

  Chapter One

  In which a journal of some import eludes our hero

  The butler who admitted Lazarus Longman to the house on Cavendish Square had the air of one who had nothing of enjoyment left in life but the promise of retirement. He was sizing Lazarus up as if determining whether or not he should be sent around to the tradesman’s entrance, when Lazarus spoke.

  “I don’t have a card. I have been in correspondence with Mr. Walters and he invited me. The name’s Longman.”

  “Ah, yes, sir,” the butler said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I have been told to expect you. This way please.”

  The house must have been a fine one once, but now the floorboards creaked under threadbare carpets and gloom hung about the place like a pall. It looked like it had never been a family home. The only pictures on the walls were mezzotints of bridges and watercolors of foreign parts. Cobwebs dangled from the lamp fittings and chandeliers. If Cornelius Walters employed a maid, Lazarus decided, she should be flung out on her ear.

  They entered a library, although for all the foliage about, Lazarus wasn’t sure that it didn’t double as a conservatory. Skylights and windows let in large amounts of light, which couldn’t have been good for the books that were lined up on mahogany shelves, interspersed with pots dangling their green tendrils onto the shelves below. Occasional oddities like mammal skulls and small antiquities gave the place the air of a haphazard museum.

  In a wicker chair sat an elderly man with a small pair of spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. His hair was snow white and swept across a balding pate. “Ah, Mr. Longman!” said the man. He did not rise from his chair, but motioned to an identical one opposite.

  Lazarus sat down and accepted the old man’s hand. “Mr. Walters, it is a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh.”

  “Likewise, sir. And I must say that you are younger than I imagined. Tea?”

  “Please.”

  “Bring us a pot, Peterson,” Walters said to the butler, who nodded and ducked out of the room.

  Lazarus loosened his collar and looked around at all the plants. “Is all this humidity good for the books?”

  “Not at all. But these books you see here are not in the least bit valuable. Junk mostly, but I can never bear to throw a book out. My library upstairs is where I keep my real treasures. The conservatory is merely where I choose to spend most of my time. The bones ache at my age, you see. I only keep books in here because there is no other place for them.”

  “And it is a particular volume that I am here to examine,” said Lazarus.

  “I know, and I must apologize for wasting your time.”

  “Wasting my time?”

  “You see, I did possess the journal you spoke of and fully intended to sell it to you, but alas, a fellow came calling with a better offer and I let him have it. I know it wasn’t particularly polite of me, but I am trying to run a business here, such as it is. My fortunes of late have dipped a little, as I am sure you can tell.”

  “That’s quite all right. I am a little disappointed though. And a little surprised that another individual should express an interest in such an obscure curiosity.”

  “It’s not too hard to fathom,” said Cornelius. “The journal, though one of a kind, is an invaluable resource on the mountain peoples of Siam. It is a firsthand account and the mysterious fate of its author makes it doubly interesting.”

  “The author’s fate is no mystery,” said Lazarus. “Thomas Tyndall died in Siam.”

  “Under extremely unusual circumstances, as I’m sure you will agree.”

  “Nevertheless, I find it uncanny that somebody who shares my interest purchased the journal within days of our last correspondence.”

  “You are very disappointed, I can appreciate that. Allow me to make some way in amends. The gentleman left his calling card, and you may have it should you wish to approach him with an offer.” Cornelius rifled
through a stack of newspapers and letters on the side table, upon which stood a Japanese bonsai tree in a glass bell jar. He retrieved a calling card and passed it to Lazarus.

  It read;

  J. C. TURNBULL

  Fine Boots, Shoes and Pumps

  REPAIRS DONE PROMPTLY

  57 Copley Street, Stepney

  “A cobbler interested in an explorer’s journal of Siam?” asked Lazarus in astonishment.

  “A hobby, perhaps. Come to think of it, I don’t remember you telling me your profession, Mr. Longman.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I suppose it would be crossing the boundaries of professionalism to enquire as to your own interest in the journal?”

  “You’re right,” said Lazarus smartly. “It would.” He rose and clutched the rim of his bowler hat. “I must leave you now, I’m afraid. I’m a very busy man.”

  Just then, Peterson the butler entered, bearing a tea tray.

  “Sorry, I can’t stop for tea. This was a professional visit after all, and there is little further to discuss. Thank you for your time and the card.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Longman,” said Cornelius Walters. “I wish you all success in your pursuit.”

  Lazarus gritted his teeth as he stepped out onto the street and heard the door close shut behind him. He was being given the runaround, that much was certain. What was less certain was why.

  He spotted the four-wheeler and its horses on the other side of the street. It was a Clarence, known as a ‘growler’, usually privately owned, although it was becoming more common in recent years to see second hand examples put into use as Hackney carriages. Often they showed some trace of the former owner’s coat of arms on the side, but this one had a glossy, black finish without a single adornment.

  Its door opened and a face was thrust out. Lazarus felt he had seen it before somewhere but could not quite place it.