The Spirit Well (Bright Empires)

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “To be sure.” Burleigh took the envelope and, while the servant waited, he opened it and scanned the few lines. Then, placing the letter and envelope on the table beside him, he rose. “Inform Dawkin to ready the carriage. I am going out.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Within the hour Burleigh was sitting in the office of Mr. Gerald Catchmole, the principal broker at Sotheby’s auction house. He had been offered whiskey and a cigar, but declined owing to the hour of the day, accepting tea instead. While waiting for the tea, they chatted about the dismal lack of quality among the items currently coming out of the Levant. “We are obliged to auction them, of course,” sniffed Catchmole, “but it does go somewhat against the grain.”

  “Not that your average punter knows the difference,” replied Burleigh. “You make your commission all the same, I daresay.”

  “But you do know the difference, my lord,” asserted Catchmole in an ingratiating tone. “Which is why I contacted you as soon as this came in.” There was a knock on the door, and a middle-aged woman entered with a tray of tea things. “You may pour, Mrs. Rudd,” instructed the broker. “And leave the tray, if you please. We’ll help ourselves.”

  She poured, handed out the cups, then withdrew without a word. When she had gone, Catchmole took a sip from his cup, then set it aside. “I thought you should be the first to see this,” he said, rising. He crossed to his desk, retrieved a wooden cigar box, and passed it to Burleigh. “Have a look.”

  Lord Burleigh took the box and opened the lid. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, were three small objects: an Egyptian scarab, a small statue of a woman in a long, multitiered skirt holding two writhing snakes, and a carved cameo of a man with a laurel wreath. They were, in fact, exactly the kind of objects currently in fashion, imitations of which were flooding the antiques market throughout Europe just then.

  Burleigh glanced up at the broker. “Yes?”

  “Take a closer look,” invited Catchmole with a smile.

  Balancing the box on his knee, the earl picked up the statue. It was about six inches high and painted with painstaking skill; the woman’s eyes were large and open wide, her dark hair piled in an elaborate braided style, and the snakes she held in either hand curled up around her arms, their mouths open. The tiny statue had been painted green, and her long, high-waisted skirt was blue and green striped. The figurine had been glazed to a fine standard.

  “I see what you mean,” said Burleigh softly. “Sixteenth century BC—the Minoan snake goddess votive figure. Extraordinary preservation. It looks as if it could have been made yesterday. Was it?” Raising his eyebrows, he glanced up at the broker, who merely indicated the next piece.

  Burleigh picked up the scarab. It was crafted from a single flawless piece of lapis lazuli of deepest blue, and the carving was exquisite, the hieroglyphs fresh and clean; a cartouche contained the name Nebmaatra. On the underside, a tiny carved eye surmounting a rod and flail identified the maker. His lordship’s brow wrinkled in thought.

  “Neb-Ma’at-Ra,” he mused, sounding the name aloud as he tried to place it. “Upon my word,” he gasped, glancing up at Catchmole, who was watching with interest. “This is from the royal workshop of Amenhotep—the pharaoh’s own craftsmen.”

  “I knew you would be impressed,” chortled Catchmole, nodding and smiling. “If anyone can tell gold from glister it is yourself, Lord Burleigh.”

  “Where did you get these?” Burleigh demanded. He flipped down the lid of the box. It was an ordinary wooden container for a middling brand of cigars—a crude carrier for such treasure.

  “May I direct his lordship’s attention to the remaining piece?”

  Burleigh flipped open the lid and lifted out the tiny stone cameo. Like the scarab, it was an elegant and finely worked piece of deep red carnelian. The profile was of a man wearing the laurel leaf crown of a Roman emperor. There was no doubt but that it had once been owned by an ancient citizen of great wealth and, no doubt, taste. There was an inscription on the backside: G.J.C.A.

  Burleigh stared at it. “Extraordinary,” he breathed. “Caesar Augustus?”

  “None other—or so I am told by Searle-Wilson. Our resident classicist assures me there cannot be more than a dozen of these in existence.”

  “I suppose not.” The earl held the cameo to the light. It would make a splendid ring, or a broach set in gold. “Where did you get these?” he asked again.

  “I can take it that your interest has been sufficiently piqued?” said Catchmole smugly.

  “They are genuine artefacts of the highest quality—of course I’m interested. But I must know how you came by them.”

  “As to that, I am not presently at liberty to say,” replied the broker, taking possession of the box once more. “I can say that I am authorised to offer them for auction.” He paused, his eyes shifting involuntarily towards the door as if he feared being overheard. Lowering his voice, he said, “I wondered if we might come to a more private arrangement?”

  “I’ll have them,” said Burleigh, rising from his chair. “Yes, of course, I’ll have them. I’ll have the lot—but under the condition that you tell me where you got them.”

  Catchmole hesitated. “I gave my word the transaction would remain in strictest confidence.”

  “And so it shall,” countered Burleigh. “The transaction necessarily involves three people—the seller, the broker, and the buyer—and only those three people need ever know about it.”

  The auctioneer regarded the box longingly. “One does not like to disappoint a client . . . ”

  “There is no need for anyone to be disappointed. Tell me where you got these items, and I will authorise a draught on my account at once.”

  “I can tell you that they came from a young man up at Oxford,” Catchmole replied, placing his fingertips atop the box. “A university student. I do not know how he came by them. One doesn’t ask such questions.”

  “Be that as it may, if we are to agree on a price I must ascertain the provenance of these artefacts,” declared Burleigh. “They could be stolen from a private collection, after all.”

  “Upon my word, sir!” the broker protested. “If it was known that I was party to—”

  “It has been known to happen,” suggested the earl, removing his leather wallet from the inside pocket of his frock coat. “I am afraid I must insist on having the fellow’s name.” He withdrew two fivepound notes and laid them on the desk.

  “Charles,” sighed the broker, giving in. “Charles Flinders-Petrie.”

  “Where can I find him?” asked Burleigh, adding two more notes to the stack.

  “He is a student at Christ Church, I believe.” The broker pushed the cigar box across the polished top of his desk towards the earl and collected the bank notes. “I was told they are heirlooms from a family collection.”

  “I’m certain that they are.” Burleigh scooped up the cigar box and tucked it securely under his arm, then turned on his heel to go. “You will do well out of this, Catchmole. I will see to that.”

  “I am only too glad to be of service, my lord.”

  “Good day to you.” Burleigh opened the door and stepped from the office. “As always, it has been a singular pleasure.”

  “I assure you the pleasure is mine,” replied the broker, folding the bank notes and slipping them into his pocket.

  Outside Sotheby’s, Burleigh climbed into the waiting coach. By the time he reached his Belgravia townhouse, the earl had determined his next course of action. “Do not put the carriage away, Dawkin. I will be leaving again within the hour.” He dashed up the steps and burst through the front door, shouting, “Swain, come here at once! I need you.”

  The servant appeared momentarily, the only alteration in his customary nonchalance the lift of one eyebrow. “Was there something, sir?”

  “I’m off to Oxford on the next train. Ready a valise this instant— a change of clothes and necessities for one night. Go!” As the senior servant padded off, Burleigh amen
ded the order, “Wait! Better make provision for two or three days in case I run into difficulty.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Before the clock in the foyer had struck the hour, his lordship’s travelling case was packed and the earl was on his way to Paddington Station to catch the next train to Oxford. A pleasant journey through the rolling countryside brought him to the university city late in the afternoon. He sent his valise along to the Randolph Hotel with instructions for booking a room, then walked from the railway station to the centre of town, taking in the warm glow of the rich Cotswold stone that made up the greater buildings of the town’s architecture. He arrived at Christ Church and, finding the gate open, stopped to inquire at the porter’s lodge.

  “Good day, porter,” he said, “I have come to see my nephew.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the porter, stepping up to his window. “And who might that be?”

  “Flinders-Petrie,” replied Burleigh. “Charles Flinders-Petrie.”

  The man scanned a ledger book. “I don’t see that anyone is expected.”

  “Surprise visit.” He removed a calling card from his wallet and passed it to the porter, who, upon seeing the title and name engraved upon the card, instantly became obsequious. “Do you think you could tell me where to find him?”

  “Of course, my lord.” The porter put on his black bowler and stepped from the lodge. “I shall take you there myself. Right this way, sir, if you will. Right this way.”

  He led the earl across the wide expanse of the quad, through a warren of corridors, gardens, and hallways, and to a narrow stone staircase. “This way, sir,” said the porter. “Right up these stairs.” The college official started for the door.

  “A moment, my good man,” said Burleigh. He fished out a handful of coins from his pocket and stacked them in his palm. “I have a question or two first.”

  “Of course, sir,” replied the porter, trying not to look directly at the silver in his lordship’s hand. “If I can help in any way . . . ”

  “I promised Charles’ father I would render a report upon my return. It is late, and I don’t particularly care to go to the trouble of hunting down tutors and whatnot.” He fingered the stack of coins. “I was hoping you could enlighten me.”

  “Well, sir, I can tell you that he is a good lad. Cheerful. Always a smile or a joke for the porters and bulls.”

  “I will accept that for what it is worth,” observed Burleigh dryly. “What about his studies?”

  “I wouldn’t know about those, sir. You would have to ask his tutors about any of that.”

  “And how is Charles regarded about town?” At the porter’s hesitation, he pressed quickly, “The truth, now. I won’t land you in the soup, don’t worry.”

  “I don’t like to speak ill of anyone—”

  “Noted,” said Burleigh. “But?”

  “But . . . well, sir, there have been occasions when I have had call to fetch the young man from some . . . shall we say . . . less than salubrious places.” He laid a finger beside his nose. “If you know what I mean.”

  “I think I can guess. Anything else?”

  “Lately, there have been men calling round to collect debts.”

  “What sort of debts? Food, drink, clothing—the usual things?”

  “Gambling, sir.”

  “I say!” Burleigh feigned surprise. “Are you certain of this?”

  “I fear so, sir. There are several gaming clubs around town. It is difficult to keep the young gentlemen out of them.”

  “And are they very great, these debts?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir. We don’t let them past the gate, you see, and they decline to leave a message.”

  “Well,” harrumphed Burleigh. “We shall certainly have a serious talk about that.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be too hard on him, sir,” said the porter apologetically. “A young gentleman must sow a few wild oats. That seems to be the way of the world.”

  “No doubt. Is there anything else?” Burleigh became officious. “Come, if I am to have any influence in the matter, I must know all. What else?”

  “There is just the matter of the battles, sir.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “The battles—accounts, sir,” repeated the porter. “The bursar can give you the pertinent details, but there is a debt owing for drink and such within the college.”

  “I see.”

  “Would you like me to take you up now?”

  “Thank you, but no. I can find my own way.” Burleigh smiled and dropped the stack of silver coins into the servant’s hand. “Let us keep this a surprise, eh?”

  “Very good, sir.” The porter pocketed the coins. “It’s the first room on the right at the top. Please, feel free to make your way up in your own good time.”

  “Good evening,” replied Burleigh.

  The servant lingered. “I will just mention, sir, he may be in hall at dinner just now—that is, if he’s chosen to eat early. Most of the young men do. If you like, I can send for the gentleman.”

  “I don’t mind waiting,” said Burleigh, waving the servant away. “If Charles is out, I will simply make myself at home until he returns.” He started up the staircase. “Again, my thanks, porter. You’ve been most helpful.”

  When the man had gone, Burleigh made his way up the stairs. At the top of the staircase, he found two doors. On one, a calling card in a neat brass holder indicated that the occupant was indeed one Charles Flinders-Petrie. Burleigh knocked quietly; when there was no answer, he tried the door, found that it was unlocked, and let himself in to a large square room with a window overlooking Christ Church meadow and, beyond it, a willow-lined stretch of the Isis River. There were cows in the meadow and a herder with staff and dog moving them towards a barn for the night.

  Burleigh stood for a moment, studying the interior. Two large overstuffed leather chairs sat on either side of a generous fireplace and, between them, a small round table bearing a silver tray with a crystal port decanter and four glasses. There was a painting on the wall of a country scene, and clothes spilled from an untidy wardrobe. A coat rack beside the wardrobe held a black student gown, a satin waistcoat, a long overcoat, two hats—one black beaver skin, one grey felt—and the distinctive striped scarves of several colleges, none of them Christ Church. One wall was taken up with a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, half full of books; the lower shelves held items of clothing, a pair of shoes, a battered straw hat, a cricket bat, ball, and gloves. He moved closer to scan the shelves; judging by the titles, the subjects were mostly to do with history. The tops of the books were dusty.

  Across the room, the bed had been made, but was rumpled; a small pile of clothing—trousers, a shirt, a waistcoat, a black tie—lay on the floor beside it. A reading table at the window held a dirty plate with a rind of cheese and crumbs of bread, an empty mug with tea stains, a half-eaten apple. A bottle of wine, empty, stood on the floor beneath the table. Hanging from a strap on a peg by the door was a leather satchel.

  In all, it was the room of a fellow who spent little time in it, and less time studying—a more or less typical student, Burleigh decided as, taking in his surroundings one last time, he lowered himself into one of the worn leather chairs at the fireplace.

  Little by little the light grew dimmer as evening settled. A chill crept into the room, and Burleigh was considering whether to light a fire in the grate when he heard voices on the staircase. Presently there was a click at the doorknob, the door opened, and in stepped a sandyhaired youth with his dinner jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. He was tall, but not gangly; slender, but not gaunt; his features were regular and well-formed and would have been fairly unremarkable if not for his eyes, which were subtly oval-shaped and ever so slightly aslant, giving them an almost Oriental appearance.

  The youth threw his jacket on the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Hello, Charles,” said Burleigh.

  The young man jumped and spun around.
“Good lord! Who the devil are you?”

  “Forgive me for startling you,” said his visitor, rising slowly to his full, imposing height. “My name is Burleigh—Earl of Sutherland. I think we share a common interest.”

  “Oh?” said Charles warily. He made no move to come nearer. “And what might that be?”

  “Antiquities.”

  “Oh, that!” sniffed Charles dismissively.

  “Yes, that,” affirmed his dark visitor. “Why, what did you think I was going to say?”

  “I don’t know—bear baiting, dog fighting, I suppose. Gambling, what have you.”

  “Nothing quite so exciting.” Burleigh turned and poured out two glasses of port from the crystal decanter on the table. “Come,” said Burleigh, and held out one to the young man. “Sit with me a little. Let us talk about artefacts. Ancient artefacts.”

  “I think you have the wrong fellow,” protested Charles. He moved to accept the proffered glass. “I know nothing whatsoever of antiques.” He flopped into the chair. “Not my line at all, don’t you see.”

  “But it is mine,” said Burleigh, seating himself once more. “I am a dealer in such things.”

  “Bully.” Charles raised his glass. “Yum sen!”

  Burleigh drank and then set aside his glass. “I will not impose on you any more than necessary, but as a courtesy I will insist that you attend me in a matter of some importance.” With this, Burleigh reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a black velvet wallet, which he unrolled to reveal the lapis scarab, the Sumerian votive figure, and the carnelian cameo of Augustus. He lined them up on the table beside him.

  Charles glanced at the objects and feigned indifference. “Charming,” he said. “But I feel it only fair to warn you that if you mean to sell me these baubles, it is a rum go from the start.” He took another sip. “Don’t have any dosh, you see. Fresh out. Skint as a lizard.”

  Burleigh regarded the young man with intent: his manner was not what he had expected; clearly, the fellow was playing at something. “You are disingenuous,” observed the earl. “Could it be that you still cling to the mistaken belief that I have not guessed the provenance of these items?”