Ignoring the unsettling sensation, Wentworth crossed to the far wall, where he beheld a variety of interesting features. Embedded within the grey limestone substrate, he could make out the glittering shimmers of feldspar inclusions: silvery moonstone and orange sunstone along with hundreds of white quartz crystals, cut into various shapes and sizes. Wentworth had taken two courses in geology and doubted the stones had grown here naturally. Indeed, they looked intentionally placed, as though creating a pattern. A constellation, perhaps? Ursa Minor? Draco?
He drew sketches of the inclusion stones’ arrangement, as well as the general architecture of the impressive chamber, adding copious notes to each drawing. He described a long wall that held decorated urns within deep niches, as well as carved reliefs of ascending and descending staircases, suggesting that the cavern might be even older than St. Arilda’s mad monks. However, the urns looked remarkably new for having spent three hundred years beneath the earth. Their metal surfaces shone brightly in the firelight, and the colours of the painted decorations revealed strong artistic lines.
The subject matter was anything but Christian. Nude male figures with grotesque animal faces seemed a favourite subject for the funerary artists; with goats, bulls, and birds receiving primary favour as the chimeric heads. The hybrid monsters were displayed in overtly sexual poses, and a few held dead children within their greedy fingers. Others sat upon great thrones, their forked tongues extended as they consumed offerings that hinted strongly at cannibalism. Still others depicted soldiers, their formal stances that of hardened warriors. These resembled ancient Spartans, brandishing the usual implements of war: spears, swords, bows, and pikes.
A few stood significantly taller than their fellows, and these had multiple sets of wings upon their muscled backs.
“What sort of lunacy affected these monks?” Lionel wondered aloud. Were the artists simply illustrating a twisted mythology, or had the soldiers shown here died in a battle long before the abbey was built? Perhaps, they were Roman or even Iron Age warriors. Lionel wondered how this dead legion, whose bones and ash presumably rested within the painted urns, might spend their eternal days and nights; if indeed, the notion of time existed in the afterlife.
The possibility of so great an army caused his generally complacent mind to twist into confused knots; so after completing the sketches, he made one last survey before quitting the dank chamber with its disquieting urns.
It was then that he noticed an area of discolouration along the wall opposite the stairs. Still carrying his lamp, Wentworth moved closer. Even in the lantern’s faint light, he could make out fine writing, etched into the blood-red bricks. Not English; not Viking; not Roman, French, or Saxon. No language known to him. The symbols were entirely foreign, but the border round the glyphs consisted of alternating rows of giant ravens and lion-headed men. Recalling Flint’s promise of an additional hundred pounds for any ‘unusual finds’, Wentworth shouted again to his companions.
“Pitt! Holloway! In here! I’m telling you, it’s important! You’re missing out on a fortune!”
Several minutes passed before a fair-haired man in drab twill trousers and a black woolen sweater emerged through the low opening. “That’s a squeezer,” gasped Patterson. “Blimey! I thought that gallery was the prize, Worthy, but it’s a pitiful shed compared to this!”
“Fetch another lantern, will you, Pitt?” Wentworth asked.
“Where’s yours?” his friend called back.
“Nearly used up, I’m afraid. We’ll want fresh ones before heading into this new bit. If this place doesn’t count as one of Flint’s unusual finds, then I’ll eat my hat. If you see Holly whilst you’re about it, bring him along. I could use his linguistic skills.”
Patterson retreated back through the rabbit hole, returning eleven minutes later with a pair of freshly filled bullseye lanterns.
“No sign of our bashful viscount. He must have gone back up to the first section. Is that some sort of writing?” the twenty-year-old asked Wentworth.
“It is, though I’ve no idea what it says, or who wrote it.”
“This place gives me the shivers, Worthy. Besides, it’s nearly two. I’m hungry.”
Wentworth ignored the reminder. “There’s nothing on the colonel’s map that shows a passage ‘twixt Lion Hall and the abbey, right? But we’re standing underneath the abbey, Pitt. Right underneath it, and I think there’s another room beyond these bricks. That has to be what the writing is about!”
“That’s pure speculation. Besides, we’re supposed to document all these other areas first, Lionel. We can come back after we eat.”
Wentworth held his hand against the painted surface. “Feel that? Moving air. And it’s coming from the other side.”
“So?”
“So, it could mean we’ve found the old devil-worshipper himself. Abbot Lucius! Flint told us his ashes were concealed in a wall somewhere round here. Come on, let’s see if there’s a way in.”
Reluctantly, Patterson agreed, and the pair began searching for signs of a doorway. “It’s useless,” Pitt muttered after what felt like an eternity. “I’m starving, and we’ll run out of oil before long. Let’s document your new gallery and then come back tomorrow with Collinwood and the rest of the team.”
“It’s here, Pitt. I can feel it. Can’t you?”
“All I feel is cold and hunger, mate.”
“I thought Silver Spoons men feared no future. That’s what our pledge says, right?”
“It’s not the future that worries me, old chum,” said Patterson. “It’s the now. Let’s have lunch and then come back.”
“Fine, you go eat. I’ll collect the bonus on my own.”
Pitt sighed. “All right, all right! But let me find Holly first. He’ll want to know where we’ve gone.”
“You know he’s a spy, don’t you?” asked Wentworth. “He didn’t even apply for membership. Old man Flint just up and let him join; sight unseen. After the hurdles he made you and me jump to join, it strikes as odd, don’t you think? And it was Trinity’s master, Henry Butler, insisted Seth come along, or else he’d refuse to allow Blackstone anywhere near a Trinity student. You can bet Holly’s father’s involved in it somehow, which means the British government is behind it. That whole Salter family are waist-deep in politics and intrigue.”
“That’s not true,” whispered Pitt. “Seth’s all right for a titled bloke. And unlike us, he knows what he’s doing. You’re just jealous.”
“Jealousy has nothing to do with it. Holly’s a spy,” Worthy insisted. “And he’s closer to the duchess than he lets on. A friend o’ mine took one of his classes, and he says old Holly went into a deep depression when he read about Her Grace’s marriage. He’s still in love with her. If you ask me, the only reason he’s here is to...”
Wentworth stopped, mid-sentence. A deep ringing had caught his ears, as though a gigantic hammer struck against a gargantuan iron bell. Flint’s unsettling question echoed in his thoughts as though spoken afresh:
Mr. Wentworth, are you easily frightened?
“What’s wrong?” asked Patterson, his stomach growling.
“Don’t you hear that?” Wentworth whispered tensely. “Bells. Pitched deep like the ones in old church belfries. It’s coming from the other side.”
Pitt put an ear to the ancient brickwork. “I don’t hear anything. Your head’s full o’ Danny Stephens’s tall tales.”
“No, no, this is real. Listen! The pitch is very low, but it’s there all right. Like the monks are being called to prayer or something.”
“Don’t hear a thing. Thoughts of riches have sent you round the bend, mate.”
Wentworth set down the rucksack, intending to reach for the compass to determine their current direction. If the great chamber opened towards the sea, it meant the wall faced east. He felt inside the canvas bag for the metal and glass device, but
instead touched the head of the doll. He withdrew it and showed the toy to Patterson.
“What on earth?” the other gasped. “Where’d you find that?”
“Over there,” Wentworth replied, pointing towards the staircase on the far side of the cavern. “It’s a puzzler, isn’t it? The writing on the shoes says E. Anjou, which means the doll belongs to the duchess, but you have to wonder how it got down here.”
“Could an animal have dragged it down?” Pitt asked.
“I suppose so, but there’s no sign of tooth or claw marks on it anywhere. In fact, it’s in perfect condition. Like it appeared here just this morning. But it gets even weirder.” He opened the leather bag to show his friend the bones.
“What the devil!”
“Devil’s probably dead on,” declared Worthy. “What person in his right mind puts animal bones in a doll’s dress?”
“I don’t like any of this,” answered Pitt. “We should go back, Lionel. This wall’s not going anywhere. We can give it another go tomorrow.”
“No,” Wentworth declared emphatically. “This wall gives up its secrets now.” He set the doll next to the bag; then, reaching behind his back, removed the pickaxe from its leather sheath. Setting the tool against his knees, Wentworth spat on both palms, wrapped his fingers round the wooden handle, and leaned back to offer the enigmatic wall a sound thwacking.
To the utter amazement of both men, the wall started to crack before the first blow was even struck. Not only did the wall crack, it formed a neat, geometrically uniform, nine-foot-tall rectangle.
“Blimey, Pitt, it’s a door! And it looks like we’re invited in,” Wentworth declared victoriously. “You coming with me? Or are you a coward?”
“Coming, I guess,” moaned his friend.
The deep-throated bells continued to peal as they entered the opening, and Lionel heard a disembodied voice laughing and whispering:
Welcome, Mr. Wentworth. It’s time you learned what Fear really is.
Chapter Eleven
2 pm - Hôtel Meurice near the Tuileries, Paris
“And this is your private suite, Prince Alexei,” the hotel manager said as he unlocked the apartment. “We call it Le Roi Louis,” the man continued proudly. “There are three bedchambers, a meeting room, parlour, and two water closets. New plumbing runs throughout, including gas fireplaces; and you will notice that, as with our main floor, all is wired with electrics. It is decorated in the Versailles style, of course.”
Raziel Grigor, the ancient Watcher, strode into the luxurious apartment as though he ruled the world. “Is this the largest you have, M’sieur Dupuis? Perhaps, I should have stayed at the Hotel Regina.”
The manager’s smooth face paled a little. “Not the Regina, sir. It is infested with all manner of pests. Le Roi Louis is only slightly smaller than their so-called luxury apartment, but our extra ‘accommodations’ have no rival. Shall I send one up, sir? Will it be blonde, red, or brunette?”
Grigor smiled. “Why not all three? But not until later. Business before pleasure. Ah, Chastain, I see you’re already here,” he told a fat man in a tight suit, who sat in a tiny chair near the panoramic French windows. “And Urquhart? Is he also here?”
“In the water closet. Indigestion.”
Grigor walked all about the grand parlour, touching the fittings and mouldings. “Real gold?”
“But of course, Highness. We spare no expense for our special guests.”
“Is that where it happened?” he asked, stepping towards the windows.
“Happened, Highness?” asked Dupuis.
“The revolution. A century ago.”
“Oui, Highness. It is one site. The Tuileries is no more, of course. Most sadly, it was burnt to the ground during the suppression of the Paris Commune in ’71. Such a hellish time! I am fifty-six years old, m’sieur, and in my time, I’ve seen half a dozen such rebellions in our beautiful city. So much death! So much destruction! The Palais de Tuileries may be gone, but we have preserved its memory as the Jardin des Tuileries so that no one forgets the price of revolution.”
Glancing down, Raziel smiled. “Ordo ab chao. Round and round it goes, like a dragon eating its tail. I very much like it.”
He remained at the window, touching the glass as his mind returned to old memories from the dawn of time—of revolution and its ultimate price. Everyone remained silent, fearful to break the prince’s good mood.
The sound of flushing water spoilt the rare peace, followed by the entrance of a portly gentleman wearing an overly formal costume of black tails and white waistcoat. He emerged from the connecting chamber, drying his hands on a fringed, linen towel.
“Ah, most excellent! You are here. Bienvenue à Paris, Prince Alexei,” he greeted the Watcher prince, using Grigor’s human name. “You are now in true civilisation, eh? You will find it most difficult to return to London’s dismal streets once you experience the City of Lights, Highness. Paris est sans égal! It is without equal. Music, dancing, gambling, and a thousand delightful dens of iniquity, eh? You will never be bored, mon ami. Not one moment.”
“So you keep telling me, Urquhart,” muttered Grigor, his pleasant mood vanished. “Where is this meeting room?”
“Through there,” answered the builder, pointing to a set of gilded doors. “I have gathered all your crows. Linville and Comtois arrived an hour ago and now enjoy libations. The Herren Richter, Schmitz, and Baumann are also here, representing the Austrian committee. The gentlemen from Chicago have arrived and now change out of their travelling clothes. Eight days at sea is very taxing, is that not so? And Prince Aleksandr promises to arrive before sundown. He is delayed in Goussainville, it seems.”
“My brother is always late,” complained Grigor. “Wendaway! Stop ogling that maid and get in here!” he shouted into the corridor.
A thin man with an equally thin moustache of mousy blonde hair hastened into the apartment. He wore a light blue suit with a claret red waistcoat and had a face that reminded one of a marble bust with an overly chiseled nose and chin. The dainty features gave him a somewhat feminine appearance. In fact, had he shaved the sparse hair above his lip and put on a dress, Sir Albert Wendaway might even pass for a rather splendid woman.
The manager offered a set of two keys to the guest he presumed was human. “These are both tagged. You will see one fits this apartment, the other the floor’s private smoking room. It is open all night, with many fine entertainments according to your pleasure. You need only ring. Will there be anything else, Highness?”
The Watcher took the keys and handed them to the baronet. “Keep these with you at all times. I find these hotel keys cumbersome to carry. All that jingling is annoying; like tiny church bells in one’s pocket.”
Sir Albert placed the keys into a red leather valise.
“Where are my other guests?” he asked Dupuis. “I ordered this entire floor reserved.”
The manager nodded. “We’ve secured the entire fourth floor for your comfort and pleasure. The English gentlemen are all on the Rue de Rivoli side with grand views of the Tuileries. The French and Germans to the northwest, overlooking the Rue de Mon Thabor and the Place de Vendôme. There are two Americans who arrived last night, and we’ve put them nearby, in the English wing.”
“That would be Adams and Calabrese. Excellent. That will be all, then.”
Dupuis bowed and left, shutting the main suite door. Grigor smiled, his icy eyes twinkling as though he’d thought of a joke. “We’re about to begin the next phase of humankind,” he told Urquhart and Wendaway. “You’ve chosen the winning side, gentlemen. Stay here until the Americans arrive, and then bring them into the meeting room. Come, Chastain, you can introduce me to these Germans.”
The fat Frenchman followed Grigor into the next room, and Wendaway collapsed into the nearest chair. “That man is insufferable!” he exclaimed. “However do yo
u put up with his constant boasting, Clive?”
Urquhart poured two fingers of whisky into a pair of glasses and handed one to the effeminate baronet. “You will learn to ignore him. You and I should talk, but not here. Let us use that smoking parlour key and ensure privacy, eh?”
He gulped down the alcohol, as did the baronet, and then the men quietly left the luxurious suite.
The corridors were broad and colourful, finished in Languedoc marble and fine silk wallcoverings. Every six feet, a bust of a past French king or queen greeted them, but the electric lighting cast harsh shadows upon their faces, making them seem alive.
Once the two men reached the locked parlour, they hastily entered to begin plotting. “Tell me,” Urquhart said to his fellow conspirator, “how is the prince’s mood?”
“Jubilant,” replied Wendaway, “but he keeps me on a short leash. I truly do hate that creature! He thinks himself above all of us, when he’s nothing more than an escaped criminal.”
“A powerful criminal,” warned Clive. “But at least he’s keeping you from the police, eh? Else, you would find yourself in Sinclair’s clutches.”
“I’ve not read the papers,” the baronet admitted. “Not since Wychwright’s body was found at the Exchange. I didn’t kill him, Clive. Believe me, I didn’t, but I saw it done. I wonder, if I go to the police and tell my story, do you think they’d believe me?”
Urquhart laughed, twirling his waxed moustaches. “I think they would see you hang. Sinclair hates you, mon ami.”
“I have other information to offer him,” Wendaway continued. “Information about my cousin. I could use it to bargain. I never touched that girl, you know. Not really. Just a little friendly slap and tickle. Girls like that sort of thing.”
“You did exactly as her mother asked, my friend. Connie Wychwright is as calculating a woman as ever lived. She should sit with us on our new Round Table, I think. Wait, you say you saw the baron murdered? Was it... Raziel?”
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