Mightiest of Swords (The Inkwell Trilogy Book 1)

by Aaron Buchanan

  Valentine stared at me, not complying. My quick glance down at the dart gun then back at him convinced him. He stooped down and went through the man’s pockets and finally found the man’s inspector’s badge inside his jacket. “Inspector Simmons is a legitimate officer of the law, Miss…” he elongated the single syllable of miss while he waved the badge in my direction.

  “Grey.”

  “Miss Grey, by his line of questioning I could gather that two and two were adding to be something entirely different than four, so thank you for doing what you did. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  Dr. Valentine seemed like a paper-pushing bureaucrat in the guise of an academic, but he was plain-spoken and truthful. I respected that. “Thank you,” I nodded, writing my spell. Even though I learned that Clio was taken from off the street, I wanted to complete a divination spell just in case. It was not working. “Dr. Valentine,” I looked at him with wet doe eyes, “I need something that was special to Dr. Piridis. Please do not ask what I’m doing, just think of it as my way of sniffing out someone.”

  He must have read the somber expression on my face. “Sorry. I had deep affection for Dr. Piridis. She was an institution here. She didn’t associate much with anyone here, but she was always exceedingly kind. I admired her keen intellect. Did you know she was fluent—fluent—in at least 12 languages?”

  I should have guessed. “And she was the best historian I’ve ever heard of,” I added.

  “Agreed! Extraordinary woman!” he professed excitedly. “That—he gestured to a tapestry framed and hanging behind her desk chair. I hadn’t noticed it in the dark, but now that the lights were on, I could see it—the tapestry was of the nine Muses. Her most precious possession she kept at work was her family portrait. It only just occurred to me as Valentine helped me remove the frame from the wall, that Clio and Calliope would have been the only ones capable of mourning Apollo’s passing. Yet, here in Clio’s office, it was only her sisters she cared about. There was no way for me to know without some full scale interviews, but I always pictured Apollo as a bit of a dick. Sort of a rock star persona, but without the talent or grace to back it up. Shred, on the other hand, had that shit nailed. I had opened a corner of the frame and began writing on a scrap of paper with a Sharpie while the paper touched the tapestry.

  I let the paper I had just written the spell on be my guide. I had less than an hour before I’d have to catch my train and already guessed there were several missed texts from Joy and/or Gavin, but if I could retrace some of Clio’s last steps, it might provide some insight we have been sorely lacking.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Valentine,” I held the Post-It once more in my palm. “I need to leave now. Will you escort me out, please?”

  “Yes, of course. And I do hope you find what’s become of Dr. Piridis,” he was smiling, but once he saw Inspector Simmons lying on the ground, he grimaced. “What should I do with him?”

  “Good question. The honest answer is I’m not sure,” I was lost for his best course of action. “I don’t know if he will try to hurt you, so your best bet is to come back here with several people and act like he passed out. He’ll be groggy and confused, but he will also know better than to follow up on his questions with others around. Then, Dr. Valentine, I don’t know if you just returned from holiday in Italy, but my sincerest advice to you is leave immediately and take another holiday. Do not return until I can send you an all-clear.”

  He sighed, long and heavy. This was not news he wanted to hear. “I think I just had a death in the family. I’ll have to take a leave of absence effective immediately.” Or maybe, he was just putting on the face he’d need to pull of his lie. Dr. Valentine surprised me. He did not ask me unnecessary questions; he rolled with his punches. I was skeptical of that, naturally, but was glad he was more than the stuffy academic I first thought him to be.

  Valentine followed me all the way to the coat check to retrieve my luggage. I slipped the divining Post-It into my jacket pocket and crossed Great Russell Street to the coin dealer. I was running out of time to catch my train, and was slowly starting to acknowledge I would not be able to follow Clio’s trail. Still, that might not be as important as what happened at the shop. Joy had texted me that they were at St. Pancras. I asked her to wait outside the gate for me with my ticket and that I would be there in about 25 minutes. This gave me less than 15 minutes to spare. I hurried inside the store, and was knocked over by the whirling outline of a man as he exited the coin shop. My satchel came open, emptying its contents on the floor. Instead of catching a glimpse of who had just toppled me, I scrambled to cover the tranquilizer gun with papers and shove it haphazardly in the bag before it could be seen.

  “Are you quite all right, my dear,” the shopkeeper came from behind his counter to help me up. I put out a hand as I knelt to pick up the pens, making sure to stow Bill’s Quill more safely this time. He also knelt to collect the Post-Its and pens.

  “Thanks. Where is the fire? I pride myself on excellent balance, but I had no chance on that one.” I told him, taking the last handful of pens from him and stuffing them into the bag and taking out my writing pad.

  The incident had already cost me precious minutes. I wrote a quick note and handed it to him, “Hold on to this.” He did so without question, turning it around to read, locking him into the truth spell. “Three days ago, an historian who worked at the museum came here. I need to know what she was doing.”

  His eyes flicked down to the page, mind racing to make sense of what he was seeing, then back to me. I did not time for his hesitation, and just as I was about to grab his hand to write on it, he spoke, “She sold me a coin. Please tell me she didn’t nick it from the museum?”

  “No, she most assuredly did not. I need to buy that coin. Now. You need to hurry and bring it to me.” The five minutes was down to two.

  “I’m sorry, m’am, but the…” he cleared his throat, “gentleman who just left just purchased it.”

  “I have a train to catch. I need you to tell me as much as you can about that coin and about the man who bought it from you. Please?” I was growing more anxious by the second.

  “I don’t really remember his face, now that you bring it to mind,” he looked glass-eyed and and gazed off to his left. I did not have the time to prod further.

  “Okay. They coin. What made it so remarkable?” My time was dwindling, but a quick glance at my phone assured me I was still on time.

  “Oh, it was a remarkable specimen,” he intoned with significant more confidence and clarity. “It was Roman. 1st century A.D. In fact, I was goint to send it to the auction house. It is unbelievably value…” he trailed off once more.

  “How much did you sell it for?” I asked, acknowledging my time was well past being up.

  With that question he hurried to his cash register, opened it, lifted the tray, and rifled through several hand-written receipts. He slammed it down, slipping from agitation to panic. “I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know…” He flipped through his receipt book and then ran to the back to, I assumed, look at security footage. That was my cue to exit, though before I did I took out another Post-It, drew upon it, and took a photo of an incomplete pattern, and sent it to Joy. I asked her to delay the train by writing her own Post-It and putting it near the engine. And to have Gavin wait for me with my ticket. I then sent her the word to finish the spell, as completing it would have caused my smartphone to go on the fritz.

  I arrived at St. Pancras and met Gavin at the gate. While it did garner some looks, we made it through to the train. Most of the attendants and conductor were standing by patiently as a mechanic was checking the undercarriage of the train. It was only 10 minutes past its scheduled departure time, but the fact a mechanic was already checking the train spoke volumes to the efficiency of the system. I wrote once more on a Post-It and held it in my palm. I surreptitiously summoned a powerful wind gust and pointed my hand toward the front of the train, hoping to dislodge Joy’s own Post-It. Confi
dent that it worked, I closed my hand and crumpled the paper.

  Once seated in the First Class section of the train—I immediately sent a thank-you text to Victoria.

  I recounted to Joy and Gavin what happened at the British Museum and told them about the coin and its apparent theft.

  “So, no immediate ideas what significance this little episode holds for us?” Gavin asked, bending forward, hands steepled over his mouth.

  “I have some ideas, but nothing of much substance so far.” I held back that there was something that bothered me, mostly because I couldn’t put my finger on it. The uneasiness would have to linger.

  Joy removed my Gulliver’s Travels from Gavin’s satchel, and handed to me along with a legal pad with several notations not written by her hand, and seemingly not by Gavin’s either. “And then there is this…” She tossed a pile of notes and the book onto my lap.

  Chapter 18

  “The woodcuts are from different books,” Gavin attempted to explain Professor Engel’s handwriting. “Five different books. He’s written them down here for you.”

  “Five different books,” I furrowed my brow, puzzled, “and he knew exactly what he was looking at?”

  “Yeah. For the most part,” Joy answered. “He knew his stuff. He ended up calling one of his colleagues into his office for a consult, but his conclusions are solid.”

  My phone started ringing.

  “Victoria?” After a few minutes conversing with the goddess, I mouthed Victoria so they knew to whom I was speaking. “She doesn’t know what the deal with the coin is,” I confirmed what they already heard from my end of the conversation. “But she’s going to inquire.”

  “So, we sit on the coin business for the time being,” Joy held up Gulliver once more. “I’m wondering why the inspector came to Clio’s office”

  “I’ve been ruminating about that one, too.” And I had. I think he was there for fact-finding on what Dr. Valentine witnessed. But he had also asked Valentine what Clio had been working on lately. I didn’t think for a moment he was actually interested in what came across Clio’s desk. Rather, Inspector Simmons was looking for something she possessed. Could it be the coin? Surely not, or he would have been to the coin shop first. Also, whatever they sought, it was not on her person. “We need to ask Victoria to investigate that aspect, if she already isn’t.”

  Gavin laughed. His laughter made Joy smile. The laughter was grim, though not the result of gallow’s humor; at least not yet. Rather, the twisting, turning, ambushes, and close-calls were taking their toll. Joy, however, remained wide-eyed and indomitable.

  “What are you thinking she’ll find?” Gavin asked.

  “I have no idea. But rEvolve needs something Clio had, and Clio sold this coin moments before she was taken. It’s impossible the two aren’t related.”

  “Could she have just needed the money to hide her sisters somewhere? Maybe take them back to the States and Solemn Ages?” Joy posited. Those were sound questions, and perfectly reasonable, but, “I honestly think she would have asked Victoria to arrange that passage. We have no idea what their financial station was, but, judging by their manor in Mousehole, I don’t think money was an issue.”

  “Then was she trying to hide it? We know the rEvolver,” Joy eyed both of across the table at which we were seated, “we encountered in Cambridge followed her to the shop. If he saw her selling a coin, would he not have followed up?”

  “He might not have gathered the significance?” Gavin asked us both.

  “It’s almost like, they did know until later on? And the guy I saw was…” I shuddered. What was gnawing at my gut finally was coming into the light of day. I looked at Gavin and Joy, “he was with me, or, at least listening to the conversation in Clio’s office. Once he heard, he knew to check back there.”

  “Plausible, I suppose. There could have even been a collar-cam like the cops back home have to wear,” Joy posited.

  “Then maybe this trip to France isn’t quite so random. Maybe the coin has something to do with it,” I exhaled sharply, settling my neck on the cushion of my chair. I could easily take a nap then and there, were it not for the mountain chain of conundrums plaguing us. My mind was working overtime as it was. I reached forward and grabbed the copy of Gulliver’s. Then I reached for the legal pad with Professor Engall’s notes and read them over to myself several times.

  “So he had nothing to say about the maps, right?” I asked them both.

  Joy and Gavin looked at each other. “No,” Joy shrugged. “He said though printed, they do not match anything he was familiar with.”

  “Then I’m sure my father made them, had them printed and melded with the book. I’ll come back to those,” I held the legal pad in front of me, pointing at the list Engall made of each illustration’s origin:

  P. 21 is Shakespeare’s Collected Works Rowe’s 1709 Play—Romeo and Juliet

  P. 60 is Shakespeare’s Collected Works Rowe’s 1709 Tempest

  p. 115 is Shakespeare’s Collected Works Rowe’s 1709 Pericles

  p. 179 is Shakespeare’s Collected Works Rowe’s 1709 Merry Wives of Windsor

  p. 209 is Shakespeare’s Collected Works Rowe’s 1709 All’s Well that Ends Well

  P. 244 Chatelet’s French Etymology 1766 edition Owl depiction

  p. 283 Colby’s Sound Waves and Acoustics 1938 *Not woodcut; diagram (DeHaan consulted)

  P. 305 Encyclopédie Française 1897? steam engine diagram

  P. 322 Malone Studies in English Phonology 1922 tongue/mouth diagram

  “This is nothing short of intense. It had to have taken him a while to compile this?” I had my own pen out, doodling in the margin.

  “It took him all of last evening,” Joy paused, grimacing, “We gave him the $2,000 that we brought. Otherwise, he had a dinner he was supposed to go to.”

  “I understand. He needed some convincing. Expenditure approved.” I stiffened my posture and pulled my jacket down.

  “Ha. Thanks. I would kill for a good cup of coffee right now. You guys want some? I’ll flag our attendant down.” Joy waved her arm like a school girl, though the attendant was nowhere in sight.

  “Absolutely,” Gavin, since Cambridge, had not lost his dour expression, though it did seem to now be softening.

  “Not at the moment. But I am thirsty.” Within a few minutes more, Gavin and Joy were each nursing a cup of coffee, and I was given a bottle of water.

  Refreshed, I took another look at the Shakespeare plays.

  it was staring me plainly in the face: All’s Well that Ends Well.

  “Guys!” I exclaimed, a little too loudly, startling Joy.

  “Ouch. Damn it,” she spilled some of her coffee on herself. “What?” The hot coffee dribbled down the hand the held the cup, though she attuned herself to what I was about to say.

  “The last play is ‘All’s Well that Ends Well,’” I beamed. “Well!”

  “Okay, but what about the other plays?” Gavin chimed in.

  “Dunno. I think they might be filler, because my dad put the Well-one last, like, ‘Okay, everything after this one is now important.’”

  Gavin was unconvinced, “That seems quite a leap in logic.”

  “Not really. I knew her dad. Not well, but it seems like something he would have done,” Joy turned and looked at me, “He loved Shakespeare. It’s kind of like he was waving at her to get her attention, plus using a Shakespeare nod is the way to do it.”

  “I’m thinking so,” I took another gulp of the water. I took one more drink and spoke, “The books are far-flung enough that they can’t be related. Different times, different subjects.”

  “Then how can they be related. Some sort of secret code from your father to you? I mean, it is meant for you, right?”

  “Has to be.” I thought about telling him about my memory that allowed me to open my vault, but skipped over that part. “He came over to this part of the Europe a few months before he died. He told me he was on vacation. When he go
t back, he told me he brought back several antique books. Then, all he wanted to talk about was how he felt like Gulliver on his travels across the world. The conversation delineated into stuff about the book, but, looking back at it, that conversation was very intentional. I think he wanted me to associate him, his trip, with that book, I think. It’s a stretch, but I don’t think we could just come out and talk about it.”

  Gavin never lost his look of skepticism, but he relented. “Okay. I believe you then. What’s the connection with the other books. Like you said, different times, different subjects.”

  Gavin made for an excellent sounding board—different subjects indeed. “Whoa. Whoa. No…surely not?”

  “What?” Joy asked enthusiastically.

  “My battery is almost dead,” I removed my phone from my pocket and checked the indicator. This international calling-thing drained the battery down quickly. “I need one—or both—of you to look up the Dewey Decimal system. Wikipedia. Whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay, okay,” Gavin removed his own phone while Joy did likewise.

  “First non-Shakespeare book is about French etymology. Though I know my Dewey well enough to get a girl through a library, I need precisely what number that corresponds to,” I instructed, fetching one of my pens out of my messenger bag.

  “Right,” Joy read from her phone, “looks like…442.”

  I wrote it down. “Next book is, what, science of sound?”

  “Yeah,” Gavin’s turn, “So, that should be physics. Physics, physics, physics. Okay—sound & vibration is 534.

  I wrote the next set of numbers down. “A French encyclopedia. Where does that fall?”

  “Doing this on a smartphone screen is much more difficult than it should be. Can we get tablets soon?” Joy scrolled through her screen. “Okay, here we go: General encyclopedic works in French, Occitan & Catalan,” she read. “034.”

  “Last book is a linguistics book about English phonology,” and no sooner had the words left my mouth, Gavin was on it…

  “Writing system, phonology, phonetics of standard English 421. Wait, are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked, sounding more like a true-believer.