With the realisation that she couldn’t beat Maddie came the knowledge that it was only a matter of time before Maddie killed her. And it turned out that knowing death was imminent was extremely motivating. She was determined to get as much done as possible. She was going to lose to Maddie, but she would do everything she could to protect those she was leaving. Which also meant doing her very best to take Maddie with her.
There was a Guillame Chartes listed by the London Assay Office, but no way to contact him. Lydia called the office number and pretended to be calling from the British Museum. No dice. The man she spoke to was either genuinely unable to give her an address for Guillame, or unwilling.
Jason, however, had no problem in nosing around in the Assay Office’s database. ‘It’s not exactly high security,’ he said. ‘They’re using a cheap cloud-based system and they’ve only got native encryption, not continuous.’ He shook his head fondly. ‘The muppets.’
‘Did you find him?’
‘Oh, yes. All entries for Guillame Chartes as a registered maker. Same name, different dates going back a couple of hundred years. Either there is one hell of a naming tradition in that family, or it’s the same guy.’
‘That’s impossible,’ Lydia said automatically.
‘Said the magical PI to the ghost.’
* * *
The Assay Office didn’t hold home address details, but they did have relevant places of business for the makers. These were mostly galleries, shops, and smithing studios. The database still showed Guillame’s shop in the silver vaults, so it needed updating, but there was an additional piece of information in the ‘biographical notes’ section. Lydia read it three times to be sure, before calling to make an appointment.
Lydia couldn’t help feeling, somewhat superstitiously, that the man would manage to remove his current location from existence before she managed to speak to him. Of course, that would be quite some conjuring trick, Lydia mused as she tramped through Kensington Gardens at the edge of Hyde Park and approached the palace. It was a modest palace, as these things go, but still pretty tricky to erase. People would notice for one thing.
Once she gave her name and confirmed that she was here to see the ‘Surveyor of the Queen’s Silverware’, Lydia was waved through security. A woman who was definitely carrying a concealed weapon patted her down and led her deeper into the palace. She tried to make conversation, but the woman answered with two word ‘yes, ma’am’ or ‘no, ma’am’ responses until Lydia gave up and let silence prevail.
* * *
Guillame Chartes looked exactly as Lydia remembered. Like a lizard in a suit only somehow less appealing. He was sitting behind a polished hexagonal table which was laid with a delicate china tea set and was holding a pair of silver tongs. ‘Tea? Or I can call for coffee…’
‘No,’ Lydia said, the word coming out fast and instinctive. She added a ‘thank you’ and forced herself to approach.
‘I won’t pretend I’m pleased to see you again, Ms Crow,’ Guillame said, dropping a cube of sugar into his tea and replacing the tongs. He picked up an ornate spoon and stirred, not looking at Lydia.
‘That’s good,’ Lydia replied. ‘I won’t either.’
‘In what way do you believe I can help you?’
After parsing the sentence, Lydia took the information she had printed from the London Assay Office. ‘This is your mark, yes?’
Guillame didn’t even glance at the paper. ‘I’m but a humble conduit. I buy and sell silver. Very nice pieces, if I may be so bold, and I have a modicum of historical knowledge which is useful in the assessing of pieces, but still that is the extent of my skill.’
‘Why are you lying?’ Lydia raised the paper slightly. ‘This is your maker’s mark.’
He smiled and Lydia’s skin prickled in horror. ‘I believe you are mistaken.’
‘Your mark is on the base of a cup that was made for the Silver Family. They wanted a suitable gift for the king. James I to be precise.’
Guillame had lifted the teacup to his lips and now he took a delicate sip before replacing it on the saucer with the faintest of sounds. ‘I think you must realise that is an impossible accusation. James I was on the throne in the early seventeenth century.’ He gave her a slimy smile. ‘That’s a long time ago, Ms Crow.’
‘I’m in the business of the impossible,’ Lydia said. She produced her coin and flipped it, slowing its spin and moving it through the air so that it danced between them, curving lazy arcs and dips.
His eyes widened a fraction and his tongue darted out, moistening his lips. It wasn’t much of a tell, but it was something. She leaned forward a little, pressing. ‘Could you do it again?’
Chartes seemed to relax. ‘You want to commission me?’
‘Yes.’ An idea had been forming in the back of Lydia’s mind. She didn’t trust this man, naturally, but if she could imbue an object with Crow power, just as the cup was imbued with Silver magic, then maybe it would work to keep Jason powered up when she was gone. Like a battery. It wouldn’t last forever, of course, but it would give Jason more time and maybe let him decide when he was ready to go rather than have consciousness ripped away. ‘Can you work with gold?’
‘Easily,’ Chartes said. ‘But you can’t afford me.’
‘Don’t be so sure,’ Lydia said.
He produced a card and fountain pen from inside his jacket and wrote down a number.
Lydia glanced at it, keeping her features immobile. ‘What if I offered a favour? In return for a steep discount. As well as my discretion regarding your unnaturally long life. How do you do that, by the way? You’re not the first I’ve met, but you don’t smell like a Pearl.’
‘Silver is an extremely healthy substance,’ Guillame said.
‘So, I’ve heard. Doesn’t quite cut it as an explanation, though, does it?’
‘I jog,’ Guillame said, producing that slimy smile again. ‘I eat a healthy diet. Don’t get involved with dangerous people.’
‘Now I know you’re lying. You enchanted that cup for the Silvers, for starters. Was it a surprise or did you know you could do it? Did someone teach you?’
Guillame’s tongue darted out, again, licking his lips. ‘It would have to be a very large favour.’
Lydia spread her hands wide and fixed Guillame with her shark smile. ‘A favour from the head of the Crows. What could be bigger?’
He stared back at her, impassive, but considering.
* * *
In the end, the worst part had been shaking on the deal. Guillame’s hand wasn’t damp, but cold and dry with a subtle waxiness. Lyda had never handled a snake, but she imagined it would feel the same.
There were smithing studios for hire around the city, and several in the Hatton Garden area. ‘You don’t have your own workshop?’
Guillame had given her a pitying look at that. Of course he wasn’t going to let her into his private domain. ‘Safer to be in public, I believe.’
Too late, Lydia realised the truth. He was wary of her, too. Lydia had always been scrappy, but true strength was such a new thing, she kept forgetting she had it. The studio was on the middle floor of an old industrial building off Greville Street. There was a pub on the ground floor and an advertising agency above.
As directed, Lydia had hired a bench for a day. She wasn’t entirely certain Guillame would show up, but there he was, on time and carrying a battered leather bag. Inside the studio, there were three other people, spaced out around the large room. Two were chatting, takeaway coffees in hand, while the third was sketching on paper, head down. All of them ignored Lydia and Guillame, which was a relief. Lydia’s stomach was in knots and the idea of making small talk seemed even more impossible than usual.
Guillame opened his bag and began laying out tools on the bench. Lydia recognised the hammer and pliers, but couldn’t name the others. They all looked extremely old and well-used, the wooden handles worn smooth and ashy. He pulled out a blackened canvas apron which reached right down
to his ankles and a pair of leather safety goggles.
Lydia had settled on a simple curved bracelet made from a single band of gold. She wanted to spend as little time with Guillame as possible. Besides, it wasn’t as if Jason would be too fussy. She wanted it to be a wearable item, in case it turned out that he needed constant contact for it to work.
Guillame had a lump of raw gold which he placed into a crucible. Fitting his safety goggles over his head, he told Lydia she should do the same. There were some hanging up on a rack with stringy rubber straps. She put a pair on, knotting the straps to make them stay in place. Guillame pulled on heat resistant gauntlets and used a blow torch to heat the block. Using long-handled tongs, he brought it to a hand-powered machine with iron wheels. It looked a bit like a mangle and, as it turned out, acted similarly, too. The heated gold went in one side and came out the other in a flattened lozenge.
‘This is it,’ Guillame said, clipping the edges with a cutting tool and picking up a small hammer.
Lydia produced her coin and focused her attention while Guillame tapped the surface of the band, creating dimples in the surface. He worked steadily and without hurry, looking to Lydia before each tap. Lydia imagined her Crow power flowing from her and into the hammer so that with the blow, the power would transfer to the gold. She wasn’t sure if it was working, but she kept picturing it and pushing.
The warmed gold was dull in colour, but after a few taps it had darkened to an ochre. Just as Lydia was going to ask Guillame if they should start again, that it didn’t feel as if anything was happening, he hit the metal and left a spot of shiny black. Black like a shadow. Black like a crow’s wing. The kind of black that Lydia saw in her dreams, that made her want to spread her arms and take off into the sky. She almost lost her wits and stopped concentrating, and Guillame tutted. The next blow was the same and the area of shiny black extended. Lydia pushed more Crow to the hammer, focusing everything she had on that one point. The place where the metal head of the hammer was meeting the band of gold.
Once the tapping finished, Guillame picked up pliers and a thick wooden pin. He laid the band over the wooden cylinder and smoothed it down with his gloved hands, like he was moulding plasticine. Lydia didn’t know if that was usual, but she was light-headed from concentrating and the fumes and the flow of power which had left her body, and couldn’t spare much brainpower to question it. Once the band was shaped into a circle, Guillame flattened the ends with the hammer and slid it off the wooden cylinder. He removed his gloves and used a file on the hammered edge. The band tapered at each end and the filing made this more pronounced until two points emerged. They looked sharp, like they might cut into the wrist of the wearer if they weren’t extremely careful.
‘It’s done,’ Guillame said, dropping the piece onto the bench as if it was still hot. ‘Anything else would be purely decorative.’
‘Why did you file it like that?’ Lydia said, reaching out and touching one of the points. It was as sharp as it looked.
‘I don’t know. It felt right.’ He gave her a look. ‘Things like this? They become the shape they’re meant to be.’
The black colour which had begun halfway through the process, seemed to have set. Guillame had a cloth and was polishing the band’s surface. Half was now a shining warm gold and then other half the strange black. A black that looked like no material Lydia had ever seen before. The bracelet was heavy in her hand. ‘Do you have something to wrap it in?’
Guillame took a clean rag from his bag and passed it over. ‘No extra charge.’
Chapter Nineteen
Lydia parked around the corner from The Fork and scoped the cars lining the side streets as she walked home. She spotted the undercover officers with zero trouble, which meant that Maddie would be able to do the same. She hoped they were armed and experienced. She also restrained herself from tapping on the roof as she passed and saying ‘boo’. Fleet would be proud. A thought that was instantly followed by the gut punch of missing him. Where the hell had he gone?
Angel had already left for the night and the cafe was dark. Lydia raided the kitchen for some lasagne and took the plate upstairs to nuke it in her microwave. Despite the surveillance reminding her that Maddie was a clear and present threat, and the absence of Fleet that made her chest ache, Lydia realised that she was humming as she waited for her dinner to ding. She also didn’t feel queasy or faint. She took the bracelet out of the cloth bag and ran her fingers over the strange black surface. The crow power was there, vibrating beneath the surface of the metal like a tuning fork. She tucked it away and ate her lasagne sitting on the sofa. Perhaps making the bracelet had siphoned off some of her power and that was why she felt better? Had Guillame shown her a way to keep on top of her abilities without having to kill?
She was almost asleep when her phone rang. It was Paul and he didn’t sound happy.
‘Do you know what time it is?’ Lydia rubbed her face, fighting the feeling that a good night’s sleep had just been snatched away.
‘I need your help.’
That woke her up. Paul Fox rarely spoke so plainly. ‘What’s happened? Are you all right?’
‘I put the word out about that robbery. Turns out one of my lads did knock over Alejandro’s. Said he nicked the cup and was going to bring it to me. Not that I believe the little shit.’
‘Was going to?’ Lydia latched onto the past tense.
‘Yeah. He sold it on sharpish. Said it gave him a funny feeling.’
‘Smart little shit.’
‘Foxes ain’t stupid,’ Paul said. Then a pause. ‘Not as a rule, anyway.’
‘Did he tell you who he sold it to?’
‘Eventually.’ Paul’s voice was grim and it sent a shiver down Lydia’s spine. ‘I’m going to buy it back and I want you to come with.’
Lydia was just about to ask why, when Paul answered her question.
‘You said the one under the church was a fake. I want to know if this one is real before I pay for it.’
Lydia was privately surprised that Paul was planning to offer cash. She would have assumed he would take a more violent approach, but she also wanted to be invited along so she didn’t say so out loud.
* * *
The buyer lived in Knightsbridge which seemed like the kind of place someone would be shopping in Harrods for solid gold spoons, not plundering the dark web for stolen silverware. ‘Your boy sold it to this guy online, right?’ Lydia asked Paul.
‘Apparently. Kids today, eh?’
Paul looked as out of place as she did. Two black-clad chancers walking among the social climbers and upper middle class of London. Lydia had convinced Paul to go for an early morning visit the next day. He had been hell bent on going straight round after their chat in the middle of the night, but Lydia had pointed out that there was a high chance of things going pear-shaped with a midnight visit. People were just generally more wary of folk who showed up under cover of darkness and asked to do a deal. If he wanted this to be all nice and professional with a neat exchange of cash, it would be better not to act like crazy gangsters.
The street was tucked behind Cadogan Square and filled with smart brick terraces. Number eighteen had steps leading up to an arched entrance with stonework balustrades and ornate black iron railings. The door was freshly painted and there was a keypad entry lock with a row of buzzers. ‘Flat four doesn’t have a name,’ Lydia said. ‘Hope your info is solid.’
Paul shot her a look.
Lydia pressed the buzzer for flat three. When it crackled into life she said, ‘parcel for flat four, can you buzz me in?’. She hadn’t even finished speaking when the door unlocked.
The shared stairs were extremely clean, the white walls lined with tasteful framed photographs, and the air smelled of polish and expensive perfume. It was, in other words, a far cry from any rental place she had ever lived.
Lydia was hoping the buyer was home and this could remain a legal and friendly exchange. She had come prepared for plan B, though, w
ith her pick set in her pocket, and Paul was carrying a duffel bag with some power tools, but they didn’t need either. The flat door was already ajar and the place where the lock had been a splintered mess.
They exchanged a silent look and Lydia put her ear to the gap and listened. A muffled thump came from inside. Lydia stopped thinking and pushed through the door.
It opened into a short entrance hall with doors leading off. There was a shoe rack overflowing with trainers and an expensive looking bicycle leaning against the wall. The place might have looked fancy, but the buyer clearly still didn’t want to risk leaving his bike in the communal area.
‘Wait,’ Paul whispered. He seemed as confident as he always did, but there was a wariness to his gaze as he looked around. There was another sound from the end of the hall. The door was half-open and Lydia moved toward it. She was aware, in her peripheral vision, of family and travel photographs lovingly framed and displayed on the walls, and of Paul walking behind her. She glanced at him, eyebrows raised and he nodded. She pushed the door open, muscles tensed, hoping and praying that the room was empty and that whoever had broken the front door was long gone.
The room was not empty.
‘I told you to stop following me,’ Maddie said, straightening up from a figure lying in the middle of the carpet. She was covered in blood up to her elbows. Bright, wet, red. Very recent.
‘I wasn’t,’ Lydia said, her gaze skipping over the dead man on the floor. He looked young, but it was hard to tell at this point. His clothes looked young at any rate. ‘I’m looking for that,’ Lydia pointed to the cup, which was in the dead man’s hand. He was still clutching it by one handle, which can’t have been easy during the attack. ‘For a job.’
‘Finders keepers.’ Maddie tilted her chin. ‘Long time no see, Paul. How’s tricks?’
Lydia was trying very hard not to stare at the blood. She glanced at the man on the floor. He really was a mess. Her stomach flipped over and bile rose. She swallowed it down. She couldn’t see the weapon Maddie must have used. Her hands were empty but that didn’t make her any less deadly.
The Shadow Wing Page 14
