Skeletons in the Closet (Phantom Rising Book 2)

by Davyne DeSye

  “I will find another place to work on my own projects,” he answered. They will not beat me.

  “Father will help you. He will be so angry! He will…” In her indignation, she seemed ready to spit or stamp, the matter of his eyes forgotten.

  “Your father can do nothing, nor should he. That would not help me,” Petter interrupted.

  Phoebe looked her exasperation at him, and then her face cleared with sudden inspiration. “Father has store rooms you could work in. I am certain…”

  “I will ask him in the morning.” Petter’s calm statement broke through Phoebe’s anger and outrage.

  “Oh,” she said. “Good.” She seemed to shrink in size back to the small, plain girl she was.

  “And tonight, I can at least take several close photographs of the carvings,” he continued. “The parts that are not ruined.” Almost growling the last word, anger tinted his words away from the calmness he had achieved in his determination. He took another deep breath to quiet himself again. “Would you be willing to assist me?”

  “Of course!” Phoebe answered. “What can I do?”

  “Hold the lantern, if you would. The photographs will likely be better in daylight – I can take additional photographs tomorrow – but perhaps the shadows and glow of lantern light will lend themselves to a more interesting photograph.”

  “Of course,” she said, with a shy smile.

  After taking several photographs, Petter approached his drafting table, half expecting to see his unfinished architectural plans ruined as well. Nothing was disturbed. In all likelihood, the vandals had not known whether the plans were Petter’s own or a task assigned by Evans, and they would not have risked damaging Evans’ work. Petter folded his plans, and locked them into a drawer beneath the drafting table, vowing as he did so to do the same every day before leaving the shop. Phoebe remained at his side as he returned the key to his pocket. She did not question his reasons.

  Turning to Phoebe, Petter said, “Thank you. For everything.”

  She nodded in acknowledgement, and turned to her desk to retrieve her abandoned overcoat.

  “May I see you home?” he asked, moving toward her to assist with her coat. He wondered what he had not questioned in his surprise at finding her here: that she had come to the office unescorted. Now, given the lateness of the hour and her kindness of the past hour, felt compelled to see her home.

  “Yes, thank you, Petter,” she said. “Unless it would be an inconvenience. I am perfectly capable of…”

  “It would be my pleasure,” he answered, and presented his arm. They walked in silence the few blocks to the brownstone residence she shared with her father.

  “Please get some sleep, Petter,” she said when they reached her door.

  “Hah!” he answered. “Tired as I am, I could not sleep just now.” Phoebe turned back and looked at him with such concern in her eyes that he felt compelled to explain further. “I think I will take in a silent picture. There is a theater not far from here. A dose of banal humor should do the trick.”

  Phoebe hesitated, before saying in a rush, “Petter, if you would like company…” She stopped, and in the lamplight, she flushed. Petter could not imagine why she would.

  “No need to worry about me, Phoebe. Thank you. I have imposed upon you enough this evening.” He bowed in an attempt to show his thanks and appreciation for her friendship.

  Phoebe hesitated again, and Petter thought she would say something more. Instead, she said, “Good night then, Petter.”

  “Good night, Phoebe.” He waited until the heavy door of her residence closed behind her before turning away.

  He wondered as he walked if he should relay all that had happened this evening in his next letter to his parents. Before he reached the theater, he had decided he would not. His parents had probably never experienced these kinds of malicious behavior, and would worry. As he paid for a ticket to the silent picture, he thought again:

  I am stronger than they think. They will not beat me. They stole my work from me this time, but not my skill. Nothing will stop me.

  Minutes into the picture, he fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 5

  A HINT OF TROUBLE

  “Oy, Lucky!” The voice boomed across the docks toward where Erik stood wearing a tattered, hooded rain cloak, the large hood covering his head and pulled forward to cover most of his face.

  Smiling and shaking his head inside the over-sized hood, Erik turned toward the tall broad-shouldered man moving up the pier. He had not seen his friend in too long a time, and only now realized how much he had missed the cheerful sailor.

  “Mattis,” Erik said, as the two men closed to arm’s reach. “It is good to see you, old friend.” His words came out in grunts as the large man threw his arms around Erik and pounded his back.

  “Why do you still wear this worn old thing?” Mattis asked, pulling at the hooded cloak. “No shame in being lucky, Lucky.” The great man threw back his head and boomed a great laugh.

  “Nostalgia,” Erik answered. “Believe it, if you will – this is the same cloak I wore when I first met you.” Erik recalled the day of their first meeting, more than two decades ago, when the sailor had first unhooded him and thought his deformed face the result of a shark bite – and Erik had never corrected the misconception. Mattis had dubbed him “Lucky,” and had used the epithet exclusively since. Mattis would forever hold a special place in Erik’s heart for the complete acceptance of his deformity and the quick friendship that followed between the two – the first real friendship of Erik’s life. The once golden hair of the man was now shot with silver, and his girth had grown, but Mattis still wore the same bright blue eyes, and the lines that bordered his eyes were all drawn by smiles over the years.

  “Oh, ho! I’d believe it. Looks it.” Mattis paused, and then said, “Smells it, too.” The old sailor laughed again. He tugged at the cloak again, feeling his question unanswered.

  “I know most everyone at the docks is aware of my… features. I just do not feel the need to discomfit them,” Erik said.

  “You’re no uglier than I, and we both have managed to keep beautiful wives…,” he grinned, then shrugged. “But suit yourself, eh?” Mattis threw an arm around Erik’s shoulders, and together they began walking toward the small outdoor dock café where they always took lunch. “So, how’s the boy? What brings you here today? Up for a bit of fishing?” Mattis asked.

  “Petter’s fine, if his letters are to be believed. Although his mother worries…” Erik began.

  “’S mother’s job to worry, and Christine always did dote on the boy. But he’s a fine man – so help me – better man than my youngest, the lazy git! Them being grown doesn’t stop Mama from worrying ‘bout them all. But Petter’ll make you proud, mark my words.” Mattis stopped to take a sip from the mug of beer that had just been delivered to the table, and continued. “Fishing? Eh?” He licked at the rim of foam on his upper lip, his eyes bright with anticipation as he looked back at Erik.

  Erik could not suppress another smile, and a flush of gratitude at the simple pleasure of sharing an afternoon with the happy man. A tension that he did not realize had been gripping him over the last days – or weeks – lifted, and he felt lighter under his cloak. He lifted his own beer in silent toast to Mattis, before answering the man.

  “I’m afraid not. Not today, Mattis, my friend.” Erik smiled again as an accepting resignation settled over Mattis’ large features. “I would like to hire your services, however.”

  “Hire?” Mattis said, and a slight frown of confusion and disapproval clouded his sunny face.

  “Christine and I would like you to take us south, if you would, where we can catch a larger ship – we are going to London for a visit.” Even here, without Christine to hear his words, he needed to reinforce that the trip to London was merely a visit.

  “Ah, to see the boy! Excellent, excellent!” Mattis pounded a hand on Erik’s shoulder. “I can take you to Stockholm.” Another si
p of beer, and Mattis said, “And when do you return? I will meet you to bring your tired bodies home!”

  “From London, we plan to travel for some months. I don’t know when we’ll be returning.”

  “Exciting, exciting. Mama doesn’t care for travel, but to each their own, eh? When do you want to leave?”

  “In a week,” Erik answered.

  After giving Mattis the details of their plans, Erik settled into a haphazard discussion with his friend, discussing the latter’s newest fishing boat acquisition, his wife and sons, and the weather – which for a sailor was no trivial subject. They both enjoyed an excellent fish stew and shared a dark, heavy loaf of fragrant bread. Erik relaxed as the two talked and laughed away the better part of the afternoon.

  “I must get home, Mattis,” Erik said. “Christine has had the unpleasant task of shopping for clothes and sundries we will need in our travels, while I have had the day to while away in the pleasure of your company.” Erik’s eyes roved the docks as they had throughout the day.

  “Finish your beer, Lucky, no sense in wasting it, although I reckon it will be on its way out again soon enough.” Mattis laughed, and touched his own near empty mug to Erik’s.

  “Yes… of cour–” Erik stopped mid-word as his eye caught on the dark robes and turban of a Persian leaving a small passenger vessel at the far dock. The man’s furtive movements would have been enough to interest Erik even without the exotic clothing, but the sight of a Persian here, in a small fishing village in Sweden, seemed surreal and unnerving.

  Erik had not seen a Persian in garb since his escape first from Mazenderan and then from Constantinople more than four decades hence. In both cases he had escaped the death sentences that had been levied upon him – death sentences that undoubtedly were still in place. The sultans of both Mazenderan and Constantinople had used Erik’s expertise to build or add to their magnificent palaces, but then sought to erase his knowledge of their interiors, secret passages, and protections by ordering his death. It was the reason he had left Persia forever. And now a Persian appeared in this small Swedish fishing village. Intuition caused his skin to prickle with chill even in the warmth of the afternoon.

  Erik’s unease heightened when the Persian, with a last cautious look about, moved from view behind a small shack at the far end of the dock. He returned his gaze to Mattis.

  “There’s a strange one,” Mattis said. “Don’t see the likes of Moors in these parts often.”

  “No,” Erik answered.

  “In the big ports, sometimes, but then usually with a crew.” Mattis sipped at his beer and said, “Wonder why he’s here. Think he got on the wrong boat?” He chuckled at his feeble joke.

  “Perhaps we should stay a bit, and see,” Erik answered. He pulled his hood farther over his head and yanked at its edge to better cover his face.

  Mattis grunted in reply, and Erik realized that his own uneasiness was infecting the jovial sailor.

  As the minutes passed, Erik’s curiosity and frustration nearly propelled him from the table to question the Moor – perhaps a simple introduction to the Persian would alleviate his suspicions – but a sense of foreboding kept him seated. He waited for the man to reappear. Mattis stopped his attempts at continued conversation when Erik answered him with brief and distracted comments. The sailor finished his own beer, and then Erik’s, as Erik waited and watched, unmoving.

  Finally, another man approached the same shack behind which the Persian had disappeared. Erik sucked in his breath as he recognized the man as a servant from his own household, and also took in the man’s stealthy posture and cautious looks from side to side.

  Too much coincidence.

  Erik was certain he was still a wanted man in the two kingdoms – and now his own servant was meeting with a Persian! He pulled at his hood again and sank lower into his seat.

  “Friend, what–?” Mattis began, but Erik interrupted, leaning forward to place a hand atop the giant hand of the other.

  “Mattis, how long are you staying? There is trouble in the making,” Erik said. He kept his eyes on the far shack as he spoke.

  “I’ll stay a month if it will help you. What sort of trouble?”

  Erik pulled his eyes from the shack to look into the earnest eyes of his friend. “Trouble in which I do not want you involved. But Christine and I may be leaving much sooner than I thought. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Tonight, if need be,” Mattis said. “I’ll make ready right away.”

  “Thank you, friend, most sincerely,” Erik answered. Mattis looked alarmed when Erik accepted the idea of immediate departure. “Don’t speak of this or of me to anyone. I will come to you soon. Where will you be staying?”

  “On my boat!” Mattis answered. “There’ll be no delay on my account. I’ll be ready to push off in just two hours. Where do we go?”

  “I don’t yet know.” With a final look toward the shack, he stood, threw money to the table enough to cover their meal and more, and raised his hand to the other man’s shoulder. “Thank you again.” Then Erik was off, hurrying toward his home and Christine, leaving his friend standing confused and concerned at the small dockside table. When he looked back over his shoulder, the sailor was already moving toward his boat to make ready.

  ***

  “Christine!” Erik startled the young maid Aina as he burst through the front door of the manor house. Looking to her, he said with uncharacteristic sharpness, “Where is your mistress?”

  Alarmed at Erik’s evident agitation, she pointed toward the stairs to the second level. Erik had no time to apologize or calm the poor girl, but instead ran up the stairs, two and three at a time, undoubtedly alarming the girl further.

  “Christine!” Erik shouted again, as he reached the top of the stairs. “Christine!”

  “Here,” she answered from their bedroom. Her muted voice sounded to his ears like that of an angel, his relief at her unconcerned reply causing him to gasp. He walked to the open door and huffed through a small smile at the tranquil scene of domesticity he found there, as Christine folded and stacked and organized items atop their large bed. She looked so calm and happy.

  “Did you have a nice visit, dear?” she asked, and raised her smiling face to his. Discerning his anxiety from his posture or some telling expression on his face, or perhaps from some other clue of which he was unaware – they had been together long enough to make such intimate knowledge seem natural – the smile fell from her face. She dropped a coat she had been folding, and coming around the bed toward him, concern now blanching her cheeks, she said, “What is wrong? Is it something with Mattis?”

  His arms came around her as she rushed to embrace him, and he kissed her on the forehead, holding his lips there longer than necessary, cherishing her anew, thankful that she was in his arms, only now realizing how much he had feared for her safety.

  She released him, and taking his hand and pulling him to the large window seat, she said, “Come, you must tell me.” Aina appeared in the doorway as they crossed the floor, and Christine said, “Aina, tea please.” And to Erik, “Are you hungry?” and before he could answer, again to Aina, “And biscuits.” She pushed Erik onto the cushioned seat, and sat beside him, taking his hands in hers. Worry creased her brow.

  Erik took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and shook his head from side to side, as if to deny what he prepared to tell her.

  “I am found,” he said.

  “Were you lost?” The statement sounded as if she meant it to be humorous, as if she meant it to be followed by a small laugh, but her tension denied her any levity.

  “It seems we may be moving from Sweden after all, Christine,” he said, dropping his eyes from her needy gaze and squeezing her hands in his own.

  “Erik, please speak sense,” she said. “You’re frightening me!”

  He sighed and kissed her. She responded with a perfunctory meeting of their lips, and drew back again. He could not blame her. He could see the fear and worry in her eyes, and he ha
d not, in fact, explained himself yet.

  “There was a Persian at the port,” he said. He waited, letting the implication settle in her mind, and then continued, “And Jacob met with him. Secretly.”

  “Jacob? But why would he meet–?” As understanding dawned, she shook off the irrelevant question. Outrage at the servant’s betrayal flashed across her face. “They cannot still seek your death after all these years,” she said, but there was no conviction in her voice.

  “I am under a death sentence twice over, my dear. You know that.”

  Christine turned to look out the window, toward the flower garden she had nurtured, but her gaze did not seem to take in the view. She stood, pulling her hands from his.

  “Then we are moving. I have a start on the packing.” She paced to the bed, and took up the coat she had been folding when he entered the room. “When do we go? Where?” she asked. “And before you say it, I know we will not be moving to London. You would not endanger Petter so.”

  Erik’s throat closed and his eyes blurred as he filled with pride at Christine’s immediate acceptance and action, at the strength of his bride, at her abandonment – for a time at least – of her melancholy obsession. For a moment he could do nothing but watch her purposeful movement.

  “What on Earth could have you smiling?” she asked. A smile grew on her own face in response. He rose and came to her, taking her in his arms.

  “I am smiling at you, wife.” He kissed her, and this time she returned his kiss with fervor. When they broke, he tried to keep his hold on her, but she pulled from him and turned back to stacking clothing.

  “What can we take? When are we leaving? How do we travel?” she asked.

  “Mattis.” He answered. No further explanation was necessary. “He will be ready to leave before we are, and will take us wherever we choose. It may be best if we board under cover of darkness. Can you be ready by this evening?”