‘Yes, and each discovery led you closer to where he wanted you to go and do what he wanted you to do… to open the tomb of Pharaoh’s Cradle and release the Eleventh Plague infection, don’t you see? He tried that once before, only Aloysius Bedford got wise to him! It cost him his life… and it will cost you yours.’
‘Cho-zen Li is just an antiquities collector!’ snapped Polly. ‘He’s not a murderer!’
‘And how would you know? Have you ever met him?’
‘No, have you?’ countered Polly.
‘Not yet,’ said Quaint. ‘But I plan to.’
‘What has happened to you, Cornelius?’ Polly looked at him, boring her eyes into his. ‘You were a good man when I first met you. A bit rough around the edges, but a good man nonetheless, willing to put his life at risk to stop the Nile from being poisoned. I find myself wondering where that man went.’
‘You’re right,’ said Quaint. ‘I am willing to risk my life if the need calls for it. I will do everything and anything to safeguard the Queen’s life… and yes, that includes shooting you.’ Quaint cocked the pistol’s hammer. ‘I was aboard the Silver Swan a few days back. I saw with my own eyes the damage that the Eleventh Plague did – the damage that you did. You might not have had a clue what festered within your body, but Cho-zen Li did. I’m sorry, Polly… but I won’t see that horror unleashed upon this country.’
Polly shifted in her seat nervously, looking of the window of her coach, praying for more options than what she presently had, which amounted to none. ‘If I refuse to go to the function tonight… what then? What will happen to me?’
‘You will die in agonising pain.’
‘So either this plague kills me, or you kill me. Not much of a choice, is there? At least let me go to my death with a bit of decency.’ Polly reached inside her reticule for her perfume pouch and sprayed behind her ears. ‘All the time that we spent together in Egypt, and here we are back in London with you holding all the cards… and not to mention, a gun. But there’s one thing you’re haven’t considered, Cornelius.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘You need to be able to see to shoot.’ Polly sprayed the perfume dispenser into Quaint’s eyes, blinding him. Picking up the heavy idol by her side, Polly brought it down onto Quaint’s skull. As he folded onto the coach floor, Polly kicked him out of the door and pounded her fist on the carriage roof.
‘Get this coach moving now!’
The members of the circus watched in stunned silence as Quaint tumbled from the carriage, just before it sped off in the direction of Buckingham Palace. The troupe didn’t know what to do – pursue the carriage, or run to their employer’s aid. In a confused muddle, they sort of did both at once. By the time they had disentangled themselves, the carriage was gone.
Quaint picked himself up off the road and cursed madly, kicking himself for lowering his guard. Blood seeped into his silver-white hair in the spot where Polly had struck him. He dabbed at it tentatively with his fingertips. ‘She hit me!’ he yelled. ‘The bloody cow actually hit me!’
‘Here, Mr Q, I think this belongs to you.’ Ruby handed Quaint his pistol and he tucked it back inside his coat. ‘You were really going to shoot her?’
‘If I had to.’ Quaint looked around frantically for something to punch. ‘But if I didn’t before, I do now. Of all the stupid—! Blindsided by a bloody woman!’
‘Pardon?’ simmered Ruby.
‘So what’s next, boss?’ asked Jeremiah. ‘There’s no way we can stop the Professor now. We’ve blown it. The Queen’s as good as dead!’
‘We’re not giving in yet,’ Quaint said. ‘We’ve still got Plan B… although I’m loathe to resort to it, because it was even more risky than Plan A. Let’s just hope this works out, because I’m running out of plans!’
Repositioned outside the east entrance to Buckingham Palace, the troupe crouched amongst the shadows as the last few remaining coaches waited in line.
‘Right, you all remember Plan B, yes?’ asked Quaint.
‘Is it the one where we use swans to fly up to the roof of the palace and then drop down the chimney and kidnap the Queen?’ asked Jeremiah.
‘I don’t remember that one,’ said Quaint.
‘Don’t be dense, Jerry!’ snapped Peregrine. ‘Plan B is the one where we dig a tunnel underneath the palace and sneak the Professor out before anyone notices!’
‘I don’t remember that one either,’ said Quaint. ‘Are you sure you two were paying attention at the briefing?’
‘I’ve got it, Mr Q,’ said Ruby. ‘It’s the one where we find the nearest royal guard and tell him everything that we know, because that would be the smart thing to do now that we’ve run out of luck!’
‘Not run out of it, my dear girl,’ corrected Quaint. ‘It’s merely in short supply. Now think! Plan B is the one where I infiltrate the palace and force the Professor to surrender, remember?’
‘That’s no more or no less impossible than my one,’ mumbled Jeremiah.
‘Nor mine,’ agreed Peregrine. ‘How on earth are you s’posed to get within ten feet of the palace, boss? It’s a safe bet that professor of yours has already blabbed to the guards about you!’
Prometheus cleared his throat, making everyone leap in shock. ‘Look, I know I don’t usually get asked to contribute to these sorts of discussions, but I think we should head to the back of the line of coaches and take one of them by force.’
‘And how would we get past the guards at the gate?’ asked Quaint. ‘Or into the dining hall itself? You need two different passes, remember? One for the gate and one for the palace itself.’
‘Both of which we’ll nick from whoever we rob. If he’s coming to the function, then he’s got an invitation, right? And it’s not as if the guards are going to know who any of these toffs are, is it?’ explained Prometheus, calmly. ‘It might be a bit on the rough side, but it’s the only plan we’ve got. Come on, Cornelius, what do you say?’
‘Duffing up some poor unfortunate and then stealing his carriage, his passes and his identity?’ Quaint asked.
‘Yeah, I know, boss… like I said, it’s a bit on the rough side.’
‘Don’t apologise, my capacious friend,’ grinned Quaint. ‘I like it!’
Chapter X
The Impostor in the Palace
Five minutes later, Cornelius Quaint was sat in the rear of a horse-drawn coach, patting the invitation in the breast pocket of his newly acquired dinner suit. Underneath it, he wore a wing-collared white shirt with a red silk cravat. The suit’s barathea was sumptuous indeed and it fitted him perfectly, if maybe a tad overlong in the sleeves. A three-quarter length black cloak with a red silk lining was draped over his shoulders and he looked like a lord. Prometheus was sat at the front of the carriage, garbed in the clothes of a coachman – albeit clothes that were straining at their seams trying to compensate for his gargantuan body. Far behind the coach, by the side of the road, the real coachman was lying unconscious and underdressed alongside a similarly unconscious, underdressed and unspecified dignitary.
Stood near the palace gates, Ruby and company watched anxiously as Quaint offered them a genteel wave through the window of the carriage.
‘Look at him! He’s enjoying it… he’s actually enjoying it,’ said Ruby.
‘This is not going to work out well,’ said Butter.
‘True, mate, but at least we’re out here and those two are in there,’ said Jeremiah.
‘If anyone’s going to get caught out, it’s Prometheus,’ said Peregrine. ‘The big lug can’t act for toffee!’
‘Mr Q will hold him together,’ said Yin. ‘If anyone can accomplish a ruse like this, surely it’s the greatest magician in all of Europe!’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Yang. ‘Anyone know where we can find him?’
‘Entry pass, please!’ demanded a a bearskin-wearing royal guard at the palace gates.
Just inside Buckingham Palace’s gates, comrades lined the procession path on horseb
ack. Once Quaint and Prometheus were past this guard they would have to go under the main archway and into the palace’s quadrangle, but first they had to put on a convincing act. Prometheus did his best to look innocent (which with a face like his was never easy) handing his stolen pass to the guard. The guard eyed the pass, and then Prometheus.
‘The uniform’s a little on the tight side, isn’t it?’ the guard asked.
‘Mine or yours?’ asked Prometheus.
‘Yours,’ said the guard.
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ Prometheus shrugged, causing a loud rip.
The guard peered through the carriage window. ‘Evening, sir. All’s well, I trust?’
‘Absolutely, Captain,’ Quaint chimed. ‘And how are you finding the weather this evening? Not too cold for you, I trust?’
‘No, it’s fine, sir,’ replied the guard. ‘We’ve been warned about a troublemaker harassing guests in their coaches, so that’s keeping us on our toes. You haven’t seen anything suspicious, have you?’
‘That depends,’ said Quaint. ‘What does this troublemaker of yours look like?’
‘Apparently, he’s quite tall...’
Quaint shrunk down in his seat. ‘Really?’
‘Broad-shouldered ...’
Quaint folded his arms and hunched his back. ‘Yes?’
‘With white hair… ’
‘It’s not white, it’s silver-white!’ snapped Quaint.
The guard frowned. ‘Anyway, sir… as long as you arrived in one piece, eh? Can I see your invitation, please?’ The guard’s eyes darted left and right across the invitation, and then he took a swift step back and saluted firmly. ‘That all seems to be in order. Have a pleasant evening, Your Excellency.’
‘Oh, I will, thank you, Captain,’ Quaint said to the guard as they were waved in through the gates.
‘What did he just call you?’ Prometheus said over his shoulder.
‘Your Excellency,’ said Quaint. ‘Although, I can’t imagine why. No, wait.’ He looked down at the invitation in his hand, and his eyes widened. ‘Oh, dear. Um… Prometheus, my old friend, what would you say if I told you that we’ve just robbed the Hungarian Premier and left him half-naked by the side of the road?’
‘You’ll be the bloody death of me, Cornelius Quaint, I swear you will!’
As their carriage approached the stone archway that led into the palace courtyard, Prometheus slouched down as best he could. His bulk was almost as large as the horse that pulled the coach, and there was an argument for them swapping places. Quaint tried his best to avoid eye contact with the guards on horseback. The coach was ordered to halt just inside the stone archway, and a suited attendant with a stony face appeared at Quaint’s right side and opened his door.
‘His Excellency, the Hungarian Premier Varga!’ announced the attendant. ‘Sir, if you wouldn’t mind following the red carpet through to the quadrangle, an attendant will show you to the Drawing Room.’
‘That’s fine. I ate before I came out,’ said Quaint.
As the attendant guided Quaint along the red carpet, Prometheus clambered ungracefully down from his perch atop the coach and began to follow. The attendant cleared his throat noisily.
‘Servants are not permitted inside the palace!’ the man snapped. ‘Appropriate lodgings are in the north wing over by the stables.’
Prometheus scowled. ‘You mean I don’t get to meet the Queen? That’s not fair!’
‘Grow up, Prom,’ hissed Quaint. ‘I promise we’ll do it another time when I’m not quite so busy trying to save hundreds of lives, all right?’
Another attendant approached Quaint from the wings and offered to take his hat and cloak. As the conjuror looked over his shoulder he saw Prometheus join a group of other coachmen, milling around by their respective transports. Quaint’s heart missed a beat as he spotted a coach with a broken window and a bright yellow splodge of paint on its side. A crowd had gathered around it and it was obviously a talking point.
Flaming torches were placed at intervals around the outside perimeter of the quadrangle, spaced along the length of the red carpet, and for a instant, Cornelius Quaint was lost in the moment. This was Buckingham Palace, after all. On any other occasion, he would have been excited and a little bit nervous. As it was, all he could think about was how he was going to keep Polly away from the Queen. He was ushered inside the palace entrance – a grand, double doorway decorated with flags and banners of tasteful Egyptian design. Once through, another attendant from a seemingly endless supply stepped out to guide him the rest of the way through a large, sumptuously decorated hallway, with opal and emerald motifs painted upon the walls. At the foot of a grand staircase, Quaint was requested to wait.
‘His Excellency Premier Varga!’ announced the attendant.
Quaint almost looked around, but then he remembered that he was His Excellency Premier Varga, and he assumed that the man was either not very well known or not very well liked, as no one seemed to bat an eyelid in his direction, but it was good for his ego to be announced when entering a room, so he made the most of it. He continued the charade, and soon he was led to the Drawing Room, and a rumble of gentle chatter filled his ears. This was Quaint’s chance to blend into the crowd, and he looked around at the room. Opulent did not even begin to describe it. The high ceiling was intricately decorated with spiralling circles from which glittering diamond candelabras were hanging. Black columns from floor to ceiling accentuated the reams of golden statues and resplendent treasures – on loan from the British Museum, and perfectly in keeping with the theme of the night – and a large painting of the Pharaoh’s Cradle (the treasure that had sealed not only Professor North’s celebrity, but also her fate) hung on the wall. Quaint was glad that the true artefact was nowhere to be seen, for it was mould spores from papyrus wrappings within the tomb that had spawned the deadly bacterium in the first place. He would have to ensure that it was destroyed once his work was done.
Snatching a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray, Quaint looked around at the roomful of people. Lords and Ladies, doctors, professors, scientists of all brands, men of influence and affluence, and upper class gentry. Professor North was not amongst them yet, but there were others that he recognised – and some that might even recognise him – so he kept a safe distance, idling at the back of the crowd. All around him, people were engrossed in polite conversation, and every so often he would pick up words such as ‘Umkaza’, ‘Pollyanna’ or ‘Pharaoh’s Cradle’ and his blood would curdle in his veins. This crowd had no idea how much danger they were in.
‘Jolly good turn out, what?’ spouted a blunderbuss of a man at Quaint’s side.
‘Yes, it certainly is,’ agreed Quaint, looking the broad-bulked man up and down.
He was clad in a long-tailed white dinner jacket, with gold braiding around the buttons and his rotund belly was just about restrained by a black waistcoat. Glittering rings decorated every one of his chubby fingers and he preened the waxed moustache that squatted on his top lip, hiding the entirety of his mouth.
‘A man could make a small fortune digging around in the desert unearthing lost treasures these days!’ the man said, spraying spittle into his champagne.
‘Or a woman, it seems,’ noted Quaint.
The man laughed haughtily. ‘What? Oh, I see, yes. Dear Pollyanna North. No, the woman’s not interested in money! It’s the respect of her peers that she craves, that one. She’ll be a Dame within the year, you mark my words!’ The man thrust a chubby hand in Quaint’s direction. ‘Professor Humphrey Higgenthorn.’
‘Corneli— um… I mean, Varga. I mean, Premier Varga,’ stuttered Quaint, attempting his best Hungarian accent, coming off more like German by way of a little Welsh. ‘I’m from Hungary.’
Higgenthorn scowled so deeply that his eyebrows almost met the tips of his moustache. ‘My word, old chap, I didn’t expect someone of your calibre at this little shindig! I didn’t realise you shared an interest in archaeology!’
�
��Oh, I get everywhere these days,’ said Quaint.
‘Well, it’s dashed good to see you, I must say!’ Higgenthorn patted Quaint’s chest with enough force to shift the conjuror’s footing. Just then, Higgenthorn’s eyes widened even more. ‘Here, now what’s all this then?’ he asked, patting Quaint’s chest again. He tugged at the conjuror’s jacket revealing the revolver tucked into its holster.
Quaint snatched his lapel back and fastened his buttons.
‘Look, Premier, I don’t know how your lot do things, but we British find it awfully uncouth to arrive at dinner armed to the teeth,’ said Higgenthorn. ‘This isn’t the Wild West of the Americas, you know. This is London, sir!’
‘Forgive me, Professor, I… I heard tales of a troublemaker attacking coaches as we were waiting in line, and I must have forgotten to give it to my driver for safekeeping,’ Quaint said, hoping the Professor’s suspicions would be allayed.
‘Hmm… well, if you don’t want any bother, I’d get rid of that thing, old boy! And quickly too – the show’s just about to start.’ Professor Higgenthorn pointed to the doors at the far end of the Drawing Room.
A footman dressed in a long red jacket with gold-braided cuffs, sugar-white gloves entered the room. ‘Her Majesty, Queen Victoria!’ he announced.
Quaint left Higgenthorn’s side and hid within the crowd of people as Queen Victoria made her entrance, shadowed by a lady-in-waiting on either side. The crowd parted in silence as she made her way up several steps to a raised podium at the far end of the Drawing Room. Every spectator held their breath, waiting to hear her speak – and one spectator held his breath a little bit more than others. Quaint ducked as Professor North stepped into view. She held the corners of her dress nimbly between her fingers as she followed the Queen’s path, joining her upon the podium. Quaint noticed that Polly was still wearing her gloves which, with any luck, meant that no physical contact had been made with anyone.
‘Honoured guests, thank you for your attendance this evening,’ began Queen Victoria, and a fresh blanket of hush fell on the room. ‘We are here to join in celebration of an archaeologist whose dedication has not only taken her to the very top of her profession, but paved the way for many new students to follow in her footsteps.’ A light smattering of applause echoed around the room.
The Lazarus Curse Page 7