The Spirit Well be-3

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The girl thought for a moment. “There’s the Old Ship,” she said. Extending a grubby finger, she pointed to a storefront a little farther along the street.

  Wilhelmina glanced around and saw a low building painted white with a black door. A sign overhead bore the image of a ship under full sail on a stormy sea, the waves crashing against its prow. “Well,” said Mina, “I’m going to go there. I hope you’ll come too.”

  She turned and started towards the public house. Maggie watched her for a moment, then followed a few steps behind. The door of the pub pushed open easily, and Wilhelmina entered a dim, low-ceilinged room. The air, redolent of stale beer and coal smoke, was thick and muggy, but not unpleasant, and unlike anything of Wilhelmina’s experience.

  A plump young woman stood behind the heavy oak bar drying thick glass jars with a rag. “G’day, m’lady,” she called cheerfully. “What can I get ye?”

  “Good day,” replied Mina. “I would like a cup of tea. Is that possible?”

  “To be sure, m’lady,” replied the barmaid. Her eyes flicked to the youngster who had entered behind Wilhelmina. “You! Haven’t I told you ’bout comin’ in here? Now, get on wi’ ye.”

  “Sorry,” said Wilhelmina quickly. “She’s with me. I asked her to join me.”

  “That’s as may be, m’lady. But young’uns ent allowed in t’pub. An’ she knows better, that one.”

  “Oh yes, of course. You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “You ent from around here, are you, m’lady,” said the young woman behind the bar.

  “No, I-no, I’m not.”

  “Just off t’ship, then?”

  “Travelling, yes.” Wilhelmina, keen to change the subject, glanced around the pub. “Do you think I could have my tea outside? And maybe some cake if you have it?”

  “We have some nice oat cakes just come out t’oven. I can give ye o’ that wi’ some good jam.”

  “Would you?” said Mina. “That would be perfect. Bring me a pot, please-and a glass of milk. I’ll be waiting outside.”

  Wilhelmina stepped back onto the seafront and, with Maggie in tow, found a pleasant spot on a wharfside bench to wait. The sun was warm on her back, and she gazed out on the peaceful little harbour, the sea glinting blue and silver beneath a cloudless sky. Presently the tea came-served in a brown crockery pot with two chunky cups- one filled with milk-a plate of small round oat cakes, and a tiny bowl of red jam.

  “Will there be anything else, m’lady?” asked the serving girl.

  “This is lovely,” said Mina. “Thank you, no. That will be all just now.”

  “Just bring the tray back when you’re done.” She cast a last dubious glance at Maggie, then returned to the pub.

  After a moment Wilhelmina poured her tea. “Sefton seems a pleasant place,” she observed, passing the cup of milk to her young companion. “Have you lived here long?”

  “All me life long,” replied Maggie. “An’ have ye always lived in the Indies?”

  “No,” replied Mina. “I used to live in London.”

  “London,” mused the girl. The way she said it made it sound as exotic and far away as China. But then, Wilhelmina reasoned, being a deep-water port, little Sefton probably saw more folk from foreign climes than from the capital.

  The two chatted amiably, and then a bell in a church tower somewhere in the town tolled the hour: three o’clock. Maggie jumped up and, curtsying awkwardly, took her leave, saying, “My da’ will be comin’ home wi’ the catch.”

  “Then you’d better run along,” Wilhelmina agreed. “I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble. Good-bye,” she called as the girl scurried away. “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

  Wilhelmina sat for a while longer enjoying the day, and thinking what a strange life she now led. Her experience in London, far from arousing any lingering feelings for her life there, merely confirmed what she had known, or at least suspected, all along-that she did not miss the place and no longer cared to live there.

  When the clock in the unseen church tower tolled four, Mina gathered up the tray and took it back inside the Old Ship Inn; she paid for the tea and cakes, holding out an assortment of coins from her penny jar from which the barmaid selected a few coppers. She then returned to the alley to see if the ley was active yet. With a quick glance around to see that she was unobserved, she drew the ley lamp from her pocket and ascertained from the absence of blue lights that the ley was still dormant. Stuffing the device back into her pocket, she stepped back from the mouth of the passage and, as she did so, her eye fell upon a word scrawled low down on the wooden siding of one of the walls. The mere glimpse rooted her to the spot.

  She blinked her eyes to make sure she was indeed seeing what she thought she saw. There, written in black grease pencil, was a name: Wilhelmina.

  There was more-a brief message that read simply, Collect letter from Molly at the Old Ship Inn-Cosimo.

  “What on earth… ” She stared at the unexpected communication. Cosimo! That was the name of the man Kit had met in the alley, his great-grandfather-the one Kit had tried to tell her about the day they made that fuddled jump.

  Wilhelmina made quick strides to the pub. The round-faced girl was still there, still behind the bar. “Was there something else?” she asked.

  “Yes. Are you Molly?”

  “Aye, I am.”

  “My name is Wilhelmina. I forgot to ask earlier, but did someone leave a letter for me-someone by the name of Cosimo?”

  Molly the barmaid disappeared into the room behind the bar and returned a moment later with a thick yellow envelope. “Ye be a friend o’ Cosimo’s?”

  “Yes, I think I am.”

  “What’s yer full name, then?”

  “Wilhelmina Klug,” replied Mina, then spelled out her last name so there would be no misunderstanding.

  Molly peered at the writing on the envelope, then passed it to Mina, who thanked her and went outside. She resumed her place on the bench and carefully tore open the envelope. Inside was a single, tightly folded page written in smudgy pencil. She opened it to find a handful of shillings, two guineas, and a large silver five-pound coin. She scooped up the money and quickly scanned the note.

  It read:

  My Dear Wilhelmina, I can well imagine how confused and frightened you must be. But take heart in the knowledge that we are looking for you. I urge you to stay here. Take a room at the Old Ship on my account, and remain in Sefton until we come for you. Kit is with me, and sends his greetings.

  Your servant,

  Cosimo Livingstone

  Pocketing the money, she read the message again, then turned the page over. On the back, scratched hastily in one corner of the page, was a little list of sorts-as if someone had been quickly jotting down ideas. There were six items, and three of those had lines drawn through them. The six were: Mansell Gamage, Sefton-on-Sea, Wern Derries, Much Markle Crosses, Black Mixen Tump, and Capel-y-Fin. They were place names-employing odd, old-timey words-and certainly none that Wilhelmina had ever heard before. The first three on the list had been crossed out-apparently considered and then discarded for whatever reasons the list maker had deemed appropriate. But why? Even as she considered the question, it occurred to her that if Kit and his great-grandfather were searching for her and, obviously, leaving messages for her in likely places, this might be a list of such places. The inclusion of Sefton clinched it in her opinion. The three crossed out were places already visited and, presumably, where messages had been left. The last three, then, were next on the list.

  The thought that they were worried about her and looking for her made her smile. Bless ’em, she thought. But they were not to know what she had been up to since she and Kit had parted company. The situation had changed, and she certainly did not need rescuing.

  Mina returned to the letter and list once more and noticed something else: beside three of the place names was a tiny equal sign, a simple = as found in mathematical equations-written in lighter pencil
as one might make when thinking on paper. Taking these additions into account, the list read Mansell Gamage = China… Wern Derries = Ireland… Black Mixen Tump = Egypt…

  “How very interesting,” she said to herself, tucking the note away. Rising from the bench, she went back to the Old Ship and inquired of Molly whether there might be a carriage or coach she could hire to take her to London. “Anything at all, really,” she added. “I don’t mind.”

  “Mail coach comes through at six,” the barmaid replied. “Going up t’London from Plymouth. It stops here for the driver to wet his whistle. Be in London by morning.”

  “Splendid,” said Wilhelmina. “I’ll just wait outside.”

  “Suit ye’self, m’lady,” said Molly, resuming her work of lining up clean jars for the evening’s custom.

  Mina returned to her bench in the sun to await her transport and determine how to make best use of her new information. By the time the mail coach arrived in a clatter of hooves, trailing plumes of dust, Wilhelmina had a new plan firmly in mind.

  Sorry, Cosimo, she said as the carriage came rattling down the street, but I’ve got a better idea.

  CHAPTER 17

  In Which an Unwanted Partnership Is Forged

  Burleigh’s fortuitous return to London after his disappearance in Italy meant different things to different people. To the winsome young socialite, Phillipa Harvey-Jones, his long-suffering fiancee, it meant heartbreak when the young lord eventually called off the wedding; to his clients, it meant a veritable treasure trove of rare and precious objets d’art, each more wondrous than the last; to his bank manager, it meant joy unbounded as the earl’s fortunes increased, swelling his coffers by leaps and bounds. For now that he had discovered ley travel, Burleigh was secretly employing his remarkable ability to amass a fortune through the acquisition of rare and precious artefacts. What better place to acquire invaluable antiques than directly from antiquity? His lordship’s early experiments with ley travel swiftly gave way to an all-consuming obsession; thus, he no longer had time for Phillipa. Who could blame him? If his newfound ability to leap into parallel worlds could result in something so mundane as obtaining expensive knickknacks to sell to a hungry clientele in latenineteenth-century London, what else could it do? Lord Archelaeus Burleigh, Earl of Sutherland, was on a quest to find out.

  “Lord Burleigh,” intoned His Lordship’s valet, “forgive the intrusion.”

  “What is it, Swain?”

  “A letter has arrived from Sotheby’s.” The gentleman’s gentleman extended a small silver tray with a cream-coloured envelope addressed to the Earl of Sutherland. There was no stamp; it had been hand delivered. “I thought you would rather be apprised sooner than later, sir.”

  “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.