Burning Lamp

by Amanda Quick

  “As it happens, Mr. Harper, I have a strong psychical talent that draws energy from the dreamlight end of the spectrum.”

  Norwood felt faint. He had sold one of his finest fakes to a master criminal possessed of some form of dreamlight talent. He could almost see an unmarked grave opening beneath his feet.

  “Mr. Luttrell, I can explain—”

  “Most people would have no notion of what I am talking about, but I can tell that you comprehend me quite clearly,” Luttrell said. “Excellent. That will make things so much simpler.”

  “Sir, if you will allow me—”

  “As I’m sure you are aware, dreamlight talent takes a wide variety of forms. But even someone with a weak version of the ability is usually capable of discerning the approximate age of an artifact such as your pretty little queen. Creativity generates a tremendous amount of psychical energy. Such energy always leaves an impression on the object that is produced. Embedded in that impression is some sense of the time that has passed since the act of creation. It is obvious to me that your queen was crafted quite recently.”

  Norwood knew then that his life depended on talking his way out of the horrific situation. He was a Harper. He had a great talent for deception. He drew himself up and assumed an air of offended dignity.

  “Sir, if the statue is a fake, I promise you that I had no knowledge of it. As I told you I acquired it from a trusted source.”

  “Enough.” Luttrell sat forward and pulled the black velvet bell cord that hung down the paneled wall. “Under other circumstances I would find it amusing to listen to what would no doubt be a very inventive piece of fiction. But I am rather pressed for time at the moment.”

  “Sir, I can assure you—”

  The door of the office opened. A large, heavily muscled man with the face of a bulldog entered the room. His shaved head gleamed in the light.

  “Yes, Mr. Luttrell?” he said.

  “Please escort Mr. Harper to the guest quarters.”

  “Yes, sir.” The big man gripped Norwood’s arm and hauled him toward the door.

  “One more thing,” Luttrell said.

  The burly enforcer paused. “Yes, sir?”

  “Inform Dr. Hulsey that there is now a human subject available for his experiments. I’m certain that Mr. Harper will be only too pleased to help advance the cause of paranormal research.”

  29

  ADELAIDE ADJUSTED HER VEIL TO MAKE CERTAIN THAT IT concealed her features. She contemplated the front window of the small, nondescript bookshop. The film of grime was so thick on the panes of glass that it was impossible to see the interior of the establishment.

  “This is your office?” she asked, intrigued.

  “One of several that I maintain throughout the city,” Griffin said. “I rarely use the same one twice in a row. In my line it never pays to become too predictable in one’s habits.”

  “I must say I’m impressed that you have no difficulty conducting business as usual even though we are in hiding.”

  “The Director or those who work for him must always appear to be omnipresent on the streets,” Griffin said. “It’s a vital aspect of my reputation.”

  He opened the door. A bell tinkled somewhere in the shadows. Adelaide whisked up her skirts and walked into the shop. A gas lamp burned behind the counter but its glow did little to drive back the shadows.

  The premises looked as if they had not been swept or dusted in a very long time. The shelves were laden with an untidy assortment of unimpressive volumes.

  She opened her own senses. Layers of Griffin’s darkly iridescent dreamprints covered the dusty floor.

  There were other tracks, as well. They formed a miasma of murky energy. What startled her was the strong emotion that burned in many of the tracks, almost all of it dark. She saw tendrils of fear, seething currents of desperation, the sad waves of despair and the acid-colored fluorescence indicative of dread.

  Few people came to the bookshop to purchase the latest sensation novel, Adelaide thought. It was clear from the tumultuous energy on the floor that, for those who braved the nameless lane and the ominous shadows, the little shop was a place of last resort. Those who came here did so only when there was nowhere else to turn. She wondered what they hoped to find.

  A gruff-looking gnome of a man appeared from the back room. He squinted at Griffin through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. He looked vaguely irritated. Evidently the sight of his employer standing there in the shop was not the highlight of his day.

  “Eh, it’s you, sir.” The gnome adjusted his spectacles. “The Harpers are waiting.”

  “Thank you, Charles.” Griffin looked at Adelaide. “Allow me to introduce you to Charles Pemberton. He is a scholar who does not like to be interrupted in his studies. But we have an arrangement. He manages this bookshop for me and, in turn, I see to it that his papers get published in a respectable journal.”

  Adelaide looked at Charles. “What is your field of research, sir?”

  Charles grunted. “The paranormal.”

  Adelaide smiled. “I should have guessed.”

  Charles sat down behind a rolltop desk. “As it happens, I have a paper coming out in the next quarterly issue of the Journal of Paranormal and Psychical Research.”

  Adelaide stared at him, astonished. “That journal is published by the Arcane Society. Some of my father’s work appeared in it.”

  “It is one of the very few legitimate publications in the field,” Charles said, his attitude warming now that he could see that she was impressed. “My paper is on the controversy surrounding D. D. Home.”

  Adelaide nodded. “He was certainly a legend in the field. It was said that he was a man of great talent. Supposedly he could levitate and walk through fire, among other amazing feats.”

  “Rubbish.” Charles snorted. “He was a complete fraud. In my paper I prove that all that levitating through the air and flying in and out of windows was just so much sleight-of-hand. Bah. The man was a charlatan to his fingertips.”

  “A very successful charlatan,” Griffin said, amused. “He moved in the highest social circles. One must give him credit for carving out such an impressive career.”

  Charles glowered ferociously over the rims of his spectacles. “It’s his sort that gives serious, legitimate paranormal research a bad name. My paper in the Journal will dispel the myths that surround his name.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Griffin said. He took Adelaide’s arm and steered her toward the closed door of the back room. “In my experience, when given a choice between a good legend and a few boring facts, people will inevitably choose the legend.”

  “Having spent a number of years in show business, I can testify to that piece of wisdom,” Adelaide said.

  Charles snorted in disgust.

  Adelaide glanced at Griffin. “How is it that you are able to get Mr. Pemberton published in the Society’s journal? I thought you avoided all connections to Arcane.”

  “One of the current editors owes me a favor.”

  “Yes, of course. I would be interested to know the nature of that particular debt.”

  “Someday I’ll tell you. Meanwhile, I would like you to attend this meeting with my new clients with your senses open.”

  She watched him through the veil. “Why?”

  “Your talent may prove helpful.”

  “Very well.”

  She walked into the other room. Energy shivered in the air behind her. She did not have to look at Griffin to know that he had drawn his cloak of psychical shadows around himself.

  Two men and a woman waited in the small space. They were seated on plain wooden chairs. Their anxiety was well concealed behind politely composed faces but Adelaide sensed the panic just beneath the surface.

  When she slipped into her other vision she saw the hot tension that radiated in their prints. Another kind of energy illuminated their dreamlight tracks as well. The three individuals were clearly persons of talent.

  At the sig
ht of Adelaide and Griffin the men got to their feet.

  “Sir,” the older of the two men said. He was silver-haired, well dressed and distinguished looking. He spoke in cultured tones. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Calvin Harper.” He nodded toward the woman. “My wife, Mrs. Harper, and my brother, Ingram Harper.”

  They all looked expectantly at Adelaide but Griffin did not introduce her.

  “We have not met but I know something of your extensive family,” Griffin said. “I believe we have brushed up against one another on occasion over the years. I congratulate you on the excellent vases in the Taggert Gallery. Taggert tried to sell one to me but I declined.”

  Calvin Harper affected an air of grave distress. “My dear sir, please accept my apologies if there is any past misunderstanding between us.”

  “None whatsoever,” Griffin said easily. “Those phony Etruscan vases are Taggert’s problem, not mine. As he appears to be content with them, I doubt that you have any need to be concerned.”

  Mrs. Harper peered at Griffin closely. Adelaide knew that she was trying to bring his face into sharp focus. Griffin was not invisible by any means but he seemed to be drenched in shadows, as though he stood in a dark, unlit hallway rather than the center of the room.

  “What makes you think that Taggert’s vases are fakes?” Mrs. Harper asked icily.

  “I am aware that Taggert has acquired a number of his best pieces from the Harper family workshops,” Griffin said.

  Ingram Harper bridled. “Now, see here, sir, if you are implying that our family is in any way connected to the disreputable trade in fraudulent antiquities—”

  “Ingram, that’s enough,” Calvin said firmly. “We have business with the Director. We do not have time for this. Norwood’s very life is at stake.”

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Harper said softly. She clutched a limp, damp handkerchief in her gloved fingers. “We can only hope that he is still alive. We came here today to plead with you to help us, Director. We don’t know where else to turn.”

  Calvin squared his shoulders. “Rumor has it that you will occasionally assist those who find themselves in dire straits. We are prepared to pay whatever fee you ask.”

  “I take my fees in the form of favors that I expect to be repaid when I send word that I am in need of information or a service,” Griffin said.

  Calvin swallowed. “Yes, sir. We understand that.”

  Griffin inclined his head in an encouraging manner. “Why don’t you start by telling me who Norwood is?”

  “Yes, of course.” Mrs. Harper composed herself. “Norwood is my nephew. Norwood’s wife would have accompanied us but she is in a state of complete shock and unable to leave her bed.”

  “I am Norwood’s father,” Ingram added. “My son is an extremely talented sculptor. He is also the proprietor of a small antiquities shop.”

  “Harper Antiquities, I believe,” Griffin said. “Yes, I have heard some rumors about the shop. Evidently some of Norwood’s work is sitting in a number of respected private collections here and in America.”

  Ingram sighed. “In his defense, I can only say that it was Norwood’s confidence in his own great talent that persuaded him to take the risk of selling the queen to such a dangerous man.”

  Griffin studied the Harpers’ anxious faces. “Are you saying that Norwood sold a fraudulent artifact to a collector who was displeased to discover that he’d been cheated?”

  Calvin’s jaw tightened. “Evidently the collector concluded that the statue was not a genuine antiquity. It’s all just a terrible misunderstanding, of course.”

  “Of course,” Griffin said.

  “But now Norwood has disappeared. When he left his shop he told his clerk that he had been asked to consult with the collector who purchased the queen. Norwood never returned from that meeting.”

  Mrs. Harper dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “The past several hours have been a nightmare. We were expecting to learn at any moment that Norwood’s body had been pulled out of the river.”

  Calvin put his hand on her shoulder in a soothing gesture before turning back to Griffin. “This morning we heard rumors to the effect that Norwood is being held prisoner.”

  “Have you received a ransom demand?” Griffin asked.

  “No, no, nothing like that.” Mrs. Harper dried her eyes. “There has been no word of any kind. That is what is making this situation so dreadful. It’s why we came here to see you, sir. We could not think of anyone else who might have the connections necessary to discover what has happened to Norwood.”

  “Your concern seems a bit extreme,” Griffin said. “Most collectors who believe they have been deceived simply demand a refund.”

  There was a short pause. The Harpers exchanged glances.

  Ingram cleared his throat. “We have reason to think that the collector in question may be Mr. Luttrell.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Griffin said very softly. “Norwood Harper sold a fake antiquity to Luttrell? Now, there’s an astonishing display of nerve for you.”

  “Will you help us, sir?” Ingram pleaded. “Our entire family is distraught.”

  “I will make some inquiries,” Griffin said. “But this is Luttrell we’re talking about. Norwood Harper may already be at the bottom of the river.”

  “We are aware of that, sir, although my intuition tells me that he is still alive, albeit in dreadful peril,” Calvin said grimly. He squared his shoulders. “But regardless of the result of your inquiries, please know that we are in your debt. If there is ever anything you need that the Harper family can provide, you have only to ask.”

  Mrs. Harper rose and stepped forward. “And if it transpires that you do not require anything of a Harper in this generation, rest assured that the obligation will pass down through the family. Harpers do not forget a debt. If one of your descendants ever needs our assistance, we will stand ready to aid him in whatever way we can.”

  “I’ll try to come up with something to request in my own lifetime,” Griffin said. His tone lacked all emotion.

  Adelaide’s intuition tingled. She sensed that Griffin did not intend to produce any descendants. It certainly explained why he was not married, she thought. But he was a vigorous man as she had discovered last night. She wondered what had occurred to make him conclude that he did not want or could not have a family.

  Then, again, she thought, she had made a very similar decision, herself.

  30

  “WE KNOW ONE THING FOR CERTAIN ABOUT NORWOOD Harper.” Griffin unrolled a map on the small table near the window. “He is a fool.”

  “Because he sold one of his fakes to a vicious, ruthless crime lord who will not hesitate to make an example of him?” Adelaide asked.

  “You will agree that such a transaction does not speak well for his common sense.”

  “I expect the artist in him got the upper hand,” Adelaide said.

  She set two mugs of tea on the table and watched Griffin draw a circle on the map.

  “Do you do this sort of thing often?” she asked.

  “Go to ground in rooms that no one knows I own while I try to decide how best to flush out the person or persons unknown who sent two talents equipped with a large number of infernal devices to subdue my entire household?” Griffin did not look up from the map. “As rarely as possible, I promise you. It is not at all convenient.”

  She sat down across from him and glanced around the small space. Griffin had brought her here following the meeting with the Harpers. After seeing the bookshop he used as an office, she had not been surprised to discover that his bolt- hole consisted of two small rooms above a shuttered shop on yet another nameless lane. Evidently crime lords did not concern themselves with luxuries and amenities when they went into hiding.

  “I was not referring to our new quarters,” she said. “I meant your new clients.”

  “Ah, yes, the Harpers.” He sat down and picked up a mug. “I’ll be honest. I
’m not at all hopeful that Norwood is still alive.”

  “But if he is you will try to rescue him.”

  He swallowed some of the tea and lowered the cup. “I’ll see what I can do. I may be able to negotiate with Luttrell.”

  “Why? Surely there is no favor you will ever need from a family of forgers.”

  “Psychically gifted forgers,” he reminded her. He shrugged. “The Harpers have a true talent for the work. I might someday find myself in need of their skills.”

  “Or one of your descendants might need to call in the favor,” she suggested gently.

  She held her breath, aware that she was pushing against some invisible gate, but she could not resist. The urge to discover all of Griffin’s secrets had become something of an obsession of late.

  “Not likely,” Griffin said. He set the cup down with an air of finality.

  She frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “Mine is a dangerous world, Adelaide. I will not bring a wife into it, let alone a child. I tried that once, when I was younger and still somewhat inclined to take a romantic view of life.”

  “You were married?” She was taken aback. Somehow she had not expected to hear that particular fact.

  “When I was twenty-two I fell in love. She was nineteen but she had been on her own for several years. She knew the ways of the streets. She knew my world.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “Rowena had some talent for reading auras and a good head for business. She made her living as a fortune-teller. That put her into a position to learn many secrets. In those days, I was always in the market for information just as I am now. So I did her a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “Got rid of a client who had begun to frighten her.”

  He watched her very steadily. She knew he was waiting to see some indication of shock or, at the very least, strong disapproval of the implied violence. She kept her expression calm, revealing only her curiosity.

  “How did he scare Rowena?” she asked.

  “Did I mention that Rowena was very beautiful?”