The Bone House

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Silas! Certainly, I remember you,” Douglas lied. “Do forgive me. Yes, of course, now that you remind me.”

  “’Course, I was younger then, and you were away at school and university and whatnot.” The landlord wiped his hands on the towel around his waist and smoothed it out as if this put the matter to rest. “Happy days they were.”

  “Yes, yes,” agreed Douglas amiably. He was aware that the other patrons were watching them, and actually relieved now that the place was not more crowded. “Happy times, indeed.”

  “Pardon my asking, sir,” said Cumberbatch, leaning nearer the table. He lowered his voice. “If you don’t mind, there’s something that I’ve always wanted to know. I’d be most obliged.”

  “I’d be happy to help if I can, Silas. What is it?”

  “Did they ever find the man who killed your father?”

  To buy himself a little space to think, Douglas took a drink of his ale, then, placing the glass carefully on the table, said, “I am sorry to say they never did.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear.” Cumberbatch shook his head. “That’s a right pity. Did they never have a suspicion, then?”

  “Suspicions, yes,” replied Douglas, “but nothing more. The coroner’s verdict at the time of the inquest reads ‘unlawful killing by person or persons unknown.’ At this late date, I fear it is likely to remain a mystery.”

  “Ah, dear me,” sighed Cumberbatch. “That is a shame, that is. He was a good man, your father—a very decent chap, if you don’t mind my saying. A solid and upright fellow—always treated me well, and that’s a fact, that is.”

  “Yes, well, as you say it was all a long time ago. Perhaps it is best forgotten.”

  “No doubt, sir. I’m with you there.” Cumberbatch brightened once more. “But it is good to see you, Mr. Flinders-Petrie. Here, now, can I get you another pint?”

  “Thank you, but no, I—”

  “On the house, sir—for old time’s sake. It would please me no end.”

  “Very well, then. Thank you, Silas. I would enjoy that.”

  “Coming right up, sir.”

  The landlord beetled off to pull the pint. Douglas drew his pocket-watch from his waistcoat and flipped it open. It was half past nine. In another hour he would make his move. Until then, he had a warm place to wait and watch. The landlord returned with his pint and, after another brief exchange, he was left alone to finish it and his meal in peace.

  It was after ten thirty when he finally rose and, promising to return for another visit next time he was in the neighbourhood, retrieved his black cape from the coatrack and went out into the mist and drizzle. The weather was perfect for his purposes—a miserable night meant fewer folk around to notice any peculiar comings and goings. The gas lamps hissed and fluttered, pale orbs that did little to cut the all-pervading fog. Perfect.

  He smiled to himself as he walked to the corner of Montague Street, turned, and proceeded along the side of the museum to where the service alley joined the street at the rear of the building. There he paused to observe the street one last time; a lone hansom cab rattled away in the opposite direction, and two men in top hats staggered along—one in the gutter, the other on the pavement—oblivious of their surroundings, singing their way home from an evening’s celebration.

  Satisfied, he ducked into the alleyway and hurried quickly and unerringly in the dark to the back of a town house opposite the rear of the museum. There, lying in the lane beside the house, was the wooden ladder. With swift efficiency, he placed it against the high iron railing, climbed to the top of the fence, balanced on the upper bar while he pulled over the ladder, then climbed down. Once on the ground, he hurried to a window near the corner of the enormous building where even the lowest windows were eight feet off the ground. Positioning the ladder, he climbed up and rapped on the glass, counted to ten, and then rapped again.

  As he finished the second tap, the window slid open from inside and a pale face, round like a solemn little moon, appeared in the darkness of the opening.

  “Well done, Snipe,” said Douglas. “Hand me in.”

  The stocky boy reached out and, with strong arms, pulled his master through the open window.

  “Now then,” said Douglas, drawing a small tin from his pocket. He flipped open the lid and shook out a few congreves, selected one, and swiped the head against the roughened top of the tin. The slender stick of soft pine erupted with a pop and spluttering red flame. “The lantern, Snipe.”

  The youth held up a small paraffin lamp; Douglas raised the glass and touched the match to the wick, then lowered the glass and waved the spent stick in the air to cool it before placing it back in the tin. “Let us be about our business.”

  By lantern’s glow they made their way through the darkened stacks of the Smirke Bequest—a small, shelf-lined chamber off the great cavernous hall of the Reading Room. This cosy enclave was given to certain exceptional volumes from the libraries of wealthy patrons who had donated or bequeathed their collections to the national archive for the general benefit of their fellow men. This ever-growing collection housed a particular volume that had long eluded Douglas Flinders-Petrie. It was this book he had come to acquire.

  The Rare Books Room, as it was more commonly known, was strictly forbidden to all but the most eminent scholars, and then entry was granted only in the company of the Keeper of Antiquities or one of his assistants, who would unlock the chain at the doorway—there was no door, so that the books could be viewed from a distance even if they could not be perused—and usher the chosen one into the inner sanctum. White cotton gloves were to be worn at all times in the room, and no one was permitted to remain alone in the stacks at any time whatsoever. Douglas, having observed this exacting protocol on his survey trips to the museum, decided to forego the formalities and visit the room outside of public hours.

  It had then been a matter of finding a place for Snipe to hide until well after closing: a storage cupboard in Room 55 on the upper floor was adequate to the purpose, and so, during a late-afternoon viewing of the Nineveh alabasters, Douglas had deposited his able servant in the closet with a cold pie and an apple to wait until the clock in Saint Bartholomew’s chimed eleven. At the appointed hour, Snipe had crawled out and made his way down to the Rare Books Room to let Douglas in through the window.

  So far so good.

  “Go to the door and keep watch,” Douglas commanded, directing the glow of the lantern towards the nearer stacks. As the servant moved to the doorway, Douglas began scanning the shelves. The books, he quickly discovered, were arranged in a loose chronological order—no doubt owing to their primary interest as artefacts rather than for the value of their contents. He found the proper historical period and started working down the line book by book. What should have been a task of moments, however, dragged on far longer than he planned, owing to the fact that many of the older books had no titles on their spines or covers and had to be drawn out, opened, and thumbed to their title pages before being placed back on the shelf.

  He was only partway through the 1500s when he heard a sibilant hiss—like that of gas escaping from a leaky pipe. He stopped, held his breath . . . waited. The sound came again and was repeated. He quickly turned down the lantern wick and put the lamp on the floor, then hurried to the doorway, where Snipe stood behind the doorpost, peering out into the great hall of the main reading room.

  “Someone coming?” Douglas whispered.

  Snipe nodded and held up two fingers.

  “Two of them. Right.” Douglas turned and retreated into the stacks. “Follow me.”

  They crept off to the farthest corner of the room, placing the main body of stacks between themselves and the door.

  “Get down,” whispered Douglas.

  The two pressed themselves flat to the floor and waited. Voices drifted into the room, and then footsteps could be heard as the watchmen made their rounds of the Reading Room. Shadows leapt from the stacks as one of the guards paused and shone his lantern into th
e room with a practised sweep. Then the footsteps receded and the voices resumed. The watchmen were moving off.

  “That’s better,” sighed Douglas. “Back to work.”

  The two returned to their respective places and began again. Midway through the 1500s, Douglas found the book he was looking for—exactly as he had pictured it from his researches. One glimpse of the strange cipher writing and he knew he had it.

  “Come to me, my pretty,” he whispered, carefully placing the light on the shelf beside him. With trembling fingers, Douglas opened the book to reveal page after page of tightly ordered script in the most fanciful-looking letters he had ever seen. “You little beauty,” he mused, brushing his fingertips lightly over the script. He might have spent a happy hour or so paging through the old curiosity—and he would—but now was not the time. He slipped the slim volume into an inner pocket of his cape, retrieved the lantern, and hurried to fetch Snipe.

  “I’ve got it. Come away—time to make good our escape.”

  They climbed out the window, closing it carefully behind them, and retraced their inward journey, replacing the ladder at the rear of the town house opposite before walking back down the alley to Montague Street. Douglas’ mind was so filled with the book and the treasures it was certain to yield that he failed to see the policeman standing in the pool of light under the streetlamp. Emerging from the darkness of the alley like the guilty thieves they were, the pair naturally drew the interest of the policeman, who, raising his truncheon, called out, “Well, well, what have we here?”

  “Oh!” gasped Douglas, spinning around to face the officer. “Good evening, constable. You quite gave me a start.”

  “Did I now!” He looked the pair up and down, his expression suggesting he did not care for what he saw. “Might I ask why you were lurking in that alley at this time of night?”

  Douglas’ hand went to the gun in his pocket. “Is it that late?” he asked affably. “I hadn’t realised. Yes, I suppose it is.” He glanced at Snipe beside him. The boy’s lip was curled in a ferocious scowl. “It’s the lad here,” he offered. “He ran away earlier this evening, and I’ve been looking for him ever since—only just found him a few minutes ago.”

  The constable, frowning now, stepped closer. “That your son, then?”

  “Good heavens, no,” replied Douglas. “He’s a servant. I’m taking him home with me.” As if to underscore this fact, he put his hand to Snipe’s collar.

  The policeman’s brow furrowed as he caught a glare of almost pure hatred playing over the boy’s pallid features. Certainly, there was something odd about the youth that he could never have been mistaken for anyone’s beloved son. “I see,” concluded the police officer. “Does he run away often, then?”

  “No, no, never before,” Douglas hastily assured him. “There was a bit of a kerfuffle with the housekeeper, you see, and the lad took umbrage. A simple misunderstanding. I think I’ve straightened it out.”

  “Well,” said the policeman, “these things happen, I suppose.” He returned the truncheon to the hook on his belt. “You best get yourselves home. It’s high time all respectable folk were abed.”

  “Just what I was thinking, constable. A pot of cocoa and a biscuit wouldn’t go amiss either, I daresay.” Douglas released his hold on the pistol, but maintained his grip on the boy’s collar. “I will wish you good night.” Douglas started away, pulling the glaring Snipe with him.

  “G’night, sir.” The policeman watched them as they moved away. “Mind how you go,” he called. “There are thieves and such about. It’s weather like this brings ’em out.”

  “You’re not wrong there, matey,” murmured Douglas under his breath. “Come away, Snipe. Tonight we let him live.”

  CHAPTER 2

  In Which a Wander in the Wilderness Is Good for the Soul

  Kit stood staring down the Avenue of Sphinxes feeling very much alone. It was early yet, and there was no one else around. He drew the clean, dry air into his lungs. Deeply relieved to have been rescued from looming death by Wilhelmina’s unexpected yet timely intervention, he nevertheless could not help feeling slightly bruised by her brusque manner. In fact, she had socked him on the arm as soon as they were free of the wadi and the tomb that had held them captive to Lord Burleigh’s whims.

  “Ow!” Kit complained. He had not seen the smack coming. “What was that for?”

  “That was for abandoning me in that alley back in London,” she told him. “That dark, stinky alley in the rainstorm—remember?”

  “I remember, but it wasn’t entirely my fault.”

  She smacked him again. “It wasn’t very nice.”

  “Sorry!” Kit rubbed his upper arm.

  “I forgive you.” She smiled, then hit him once more for good measure.

  “Yikes! Now what?”

  “That is so you remember never to do it again.”

  “Right. Okay. I get it. I’m sorry, and I won’t desert you ever again, I promise.”

  “Good. Now pay attention. We’ve got some ground to cover, and we don’t have much time.” She had then told him about Luxor and what he was to do there.

  He had been instructed to go to the Winter Palace Hotel and ask for a Mr. Suleyman at the front desk. Upon presenting himself, he would be given a parcel and a letter with further instructions. Wilhelmina had been very precise: don’t stop to think or look around, hit the ground running, get to the location, secure the parcel. “It is imperative that you retrieve the package and follow the instructions to the letter.”

  “Why can’t I go with you?” Kit had asked.

  “We have to split up,” she told him. “The Burley Men will soon be on our trail, and they’ll follow me. If you peel off now they won’t know—they’ll think we’re all still together.”

  “What about Giles?”

  “He’s going with me. If they catch up with us, I’ll need someone to help me fight them off.”

  “I could help,” Kit insisted. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get separated. Where are you going anyway?”

  “It’s best if you don’t know.”

  “But if I—”

  She had put a hand to his face. “Do you trust me, Kit?”

  “Of course I trust you, Mina. It’s just that—I mean, we only just met up. I don’t see why—”

  “If you trust me, then believe me when I say”—she pinched his cheek between her thumb and finger—“we don’t have time for this discussion. The ley is active now, and any minute Burleigh and his goons will learn of your escape. When they do we must be as far away from here as possible.”

  “But I’m not going very far,” Kit pointed out. “You said I was just to go to Luxor—that’s only a few miles away.”

  “If you do exactly what I told you, you’ll soon be in a different time zone,” she said, pinching his cheek harder. “Now, stop fussing and just do what I say.”

  “Ow! Okay, okay! I’ll do it.” He rubbed his cheek. “I don’t like it, but I’ll do it.”

  “Good.” She released him and gave him a pat. “We can talk about all this once I’ve given them the slip and done what I have to do.” She smiled. “Relax, it’s going to be fine.”

  She started down the broken pavement towards Giles, who was standing guard at the end of the Avenue of Sphinxes. “Just pick up the package and do what you’re told,” she called, half turning back as she walked. “If all goes well, it’ll only be a few days—your time. You’ll be busy enough, don’t worry.”

  “A few days,” said Kit. “Right.”

  “No more than a week or two,” she hedged.

  “Weeks!” objected Kit. “Wait a minute.”

  “A month at most.” Wilhelmina turned and hurried to join Giles. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you.”

  Kit had watched her retreating figure, feeling like a child abandoned in a parking lot. At the end of the paved walkway leading to the ruined temple, she gathered Giles, taking him by the arm. Sir Henry’s former footman cast a quick g
lance behind to Kit, raised his hand in farewell, then fell into step beside Wilhelmina. The two proceeded down the centre of the avenue, passing between the double row of statues at a fair clip. There was a gust of wind, a swirl of dust; both figures turned fuzzy and indistinct—as if viewed through the combined haze of heat and dust—and then they vanished altogether.

  Kit drew another breath and held it, listening for sounds of pursuit, but heard only the thin warble of a solitary bird on a distant cliff top. Satisfied that he was alone for the moment, he let out his breath again. Still raw and reeling from the loss of Cosimo and Sir Henry, and the prospect of his own demise narrowly averted, Kit stood contemplating his next leap and thinking that everything was happening way too fast. Off to the east, the sun was just breaching the ragged hill line. If he did not go soon, he would have to wait until evening, and that would very likely be an invitation to disaster. “Might as well get on with it,” he muttered to himself.

  Mina had told him to start his walk at the fifth sphinx from the end of the row, and to be at full stride by the eighth ram-headed statue—a distance of thirty or so paces. If he had not made the crossing by the time he reached the eighth sphinx, he was to stop dead in his tracks, carefully retrace his steps, and try again. Wilhelmina had been most emphatic about that. Making the leap at the precise spot on the avenue would bring him to the predetermined time period—give or take a few hours, days, or perhaps weeks. Any more than that and he would be wildly off course in time, if not in place as well.

  He paced back to the appropriate sphinx at the end of the avenue farthest from the temple, turned, and paused to locate the eighth statue in the long double rank. “Ready or not, here I come,” he said, and started walking briskly.

  He felt the air quiver around him and sensed a prickling on his skin. The wind gusted sharply as he approached the designated statue. Stepping up his pace, he drew abreast of the eighth ram-headed statue and braced himself for the transition.

  Nothing happened.