Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena

by A. D. Phillips

  “Who was a woman?” asks Rodgers.

  “The thief.”

  I think he understood the first time, but wanted to make a fuss. He doesn’t believe me. None of them do. Even my tomboy sister looks shocked. They’re treating me like I’m a child. All right… I am a child, but I know what I saw.

  “So you’re saying that the man— The person,” Rodgers’ slip of the tongue says it all. “That took out a trained policeman with no weapon… was a lady? Did you see her face?”

  “No, but—”

  The injured bobby - the one the thief beat up - interrupts. “She’s wrong, sir. I couldn’t identify him, but it was a man.”

  He’s just protecting his honour, but his opinion’s enough to satisfy the inspector.

  “I know that,” Rodgers says. “This all started when we gave them the vote. Now girls growing up think ladies can do anything. Keep this madness up, and they’ll be fighting in the next war.”

  More laughter from the police. Talking down women? There’s no way my little sister’s going to ignore that.

  “You’re wrong,” she says, thumping Rodgers in the chest. “Girls can fight.”

  He coughs, trying to pretend it didn’t hurt. Having been punched by Irene myself, I know it does. “Back to matters at hand,” he says, shuffling across to my side of the couch. “Your German friend said the intruder left empty handed.”

  “He’s not my friend,” I say. “Go and ask Father if you want to know.”

  “It was a magic ball!” Irene shouts out.

  “Thank you, ladies.” Something tells me Rodgers doesn’t believe her. “You’ve been very helpful. Gentlemen! I have a few more questions.”

  He takes Father and Gustav aside.

  “Why did you tell him?” I whisper to Irene. “We’re trying to keep it secret.” I wasn’t that bothered a minute ago, but after Rodgers’ patronising questions, I don’t want him to find out.

  My sister folds her arms and stares down at the floor. Since she’s not in the mood for talking, I watch Rodgers interview Gustav. They both appear relaxed, but he’ll soon find out the truth. Gustav might keep calm, but Father won’t.

  “Inspector!” a woman shouts from the entrance.

  “Lydia!” I exclaim, relieved to see her safe.

  Her hat’s bent, but other than that everything seems fine. Lydia walks to Rodgers, pulls something from her coat pocket, and hands it over.

  “I found this outside,” she says. “The thief must have dropped it.”

  Rodgers twists the object round in his hand. Is that a frog? No. It’s metal, and has six legs.

  “That’s a golden beetle,” Father says. “From the Middle Kingdom. We unearthed it on an archaeological dig outside Cairo.” His voice is shaky. It’s obvious he’s nervous.

  “So, this is what he was after,” muses Rodgers. “It doesn’t look very valuable.”

  “In its current condition, it is not,” Gustav says. “That is why we brought the artefact to the restoration laboratory.”

  What’s going on? Is Lydia helping my father? An hour ago she hated the man, and now she’s lying to protect him. Why? I look to her for guidance. She discreetly places a finger to her lips.

  Rodgers walks over to Irene, beetle laid flat on his hand. I see slivers of gold, but the rest is encased in hard sand. “You said he stole a metal ball,” the inspector says, watching my sister closely.

  “She,” I remind him. “I said she stole it.” Why does he find that so hard to believe?

  “I’d advise you to stop lying.” Rodgers tosses the beetle on a display case. Lucky for him the glass remains intact.

  “Inspector,” Lydia says, coming across to the couch. “It’s getting late. I should take the girls home to their mother. Lord Clayton and Doctor Ernst can show you the laboratory.”

  “Yes, I think that would be best.” Rodgers nods, signalling a bobby to show us out.

  Lydia helps my sister up. I take the lead, happy to get away from the police and their stupid questions. A breeze is picking up outside, but it seems tame after the gale we survived in the laboratory.

  Lydia walks round the museum, past the right wing. There’s a car waiting at the side, with its engine running. It’s an Austin Seven like Father’s, except it’s painted cream instead of red. I open the passenger side door, fold the seat forward, and climb into the back. Lydia takes Irene round to the driver’s side.

  I freeze. Lydia’s wearing a black cloth top rolled up to her elbow. Until now her dress had concealed it, but a gust of wind blew her sleeve up when she reached for the door. There’s only one explanation. The thief - the woman I chased - is Lydia. It doesn’t make sense. She was in the laboratory with us. How did she change her clothes so quickly?

  There’s no time to think about it now. I’ve got to warn Irene. “It’s her,” I whisper. “The thief.” I nod toward the exposed sleeve, trying to draw my sister’s attention to it.

  Irene doesn’t hear me. She’s about to get in the car, and then we’ll both be trapped.

  I try again. “She’s the one who stole the ball,” I say a little louder.

  This time it works, and Irene notices the black cloth.

  “Run!” I yell.

  My sister stamps on Lydia’s foot. The surprise attack catches her off guard, but she reacts quickly. Lydia grabs my sister’s wrist, twists her arm behind her back, and throws her head against the bonnet. The force of the impact knocks Irene out. Her limp body slides off the Austin.

  I clamber over the seat, making it to the door. A man’s outside. It’s Bushy Beard, the taxicab driver. He removes a long, curved knife from his coat pocket. My terrified face is reflected on its wide, mirror-like blade. I want to scream, but nothing comes out.

  Lydia grabs me from behind. She clamps a hand over my mouth, and forces me against the driver’s seat cushion. “You’re two very brave girls,” she says. “You should have let me go. Now we have to go on a trip to the countryside. I’m only interested in what your father found, but if you cause me any more trouble, I’ll kill you.”

  Chapter Four: The Vessel

  I do what she tells me. That’s all I can do. Lydia - the helpful lady that greeted us this afternoon, the woman who was so sweet to Irene - is a thief and kidnapper. Is she a child murderer too? I’m not eager to find out.

  Lydia drives while Bushy Beard watches from behind. I can feel his warm breath on my neck. He’s scary up close: black-as-death eyes, hairy hands, smelly clothing. Every so often he jabs his knife into my ribs. He’s made three holes in my dress already, and that’s a fourth.

  “Keep mouth closed.” It’s the first time he’s spoken. His accent is Eastern European like Lydia’s, except a lot thicker. “Tell police, I kill your sister.”

  Broken English, but I understand perfectly. To make certain of it, Bushy Beard holds his curved blade around Irene’s neck. She’s still asleep, propped upright on the back seat, and blissfully unaware there’s a madman sat beside her.

  Lydia drives the Austin Seven round the front of the museum. Bushy Beard lowers his knife as we approach the gate, hiding it below the seat cushion. One of the policemen waves goodbye. The others don’t even look as we leave. These fools can’t help me, so I stay quiet. It’s getting dark, and the streets are mostly free of traffic. The motor vehicle quickly picks up speed.

  “You’re wasting your time,” I tell Lydia. “We don’t have the ball.”

  “No. Gustav does,” she says. “He recovered it after you fell. That man is clever, and dangerous. He solves problems. Now that he’s seen the power the vessel holds, he won’t rest until he discovers its secret.”

  Vessel? What does she mean? The ball’s not a ship. Unless the word has another meaning I don’t know. I’m more interested in the last part.

  “Secret?” I probe.

  “Think of the vessel as a treasure chest,” Lydia says. “And us as guardians. We’ll do anything to protect what’s inside.”

  She knows what the
metal ball is. She always did. That must mean…

  “You knew what would happen,” I accuse her. “When you poured the acid on it. You knew the storm would come.”

  Lydia keeps her eyes on the road and stays silent. So she did know. There’s a question I’m scared to ask, but I muster the courage.

  “Did you want us to die?”

  No answer. I look through the window. The buildings are becoming smaller and further apart, and the roads rougher. We’re driving out of London. Are they planning to kill us? Bury our bodies out in the country? I glance back at my sister. She hasn’t moved. Bushy Beard glares back at me, knife gripped tight.

  “It happened before with another vessel,” Lydia says. “When someone tried to blow it up. But the storm wasn’t as severe. I only wanted to create a distraction, to put the lights out. I didn’t expect it to be so dangerous.” Is that her excuse? It’s pathetic.

  Bushy Beard grabs my hair. He tilts my head back and swipes the knife before my face. “I killed man last year,” he grunts. “Slit throat. He ask many questions. You the same. Very easy to kill child.”

  Lydia made the same threat earlier, but Bushy Beard says it with a black-toothed grin. He means it. But maybe Lydia’s only acting pleasant so I’ll stay in a good mood. She’s no less ruthless, just better at hiding it. Bushy Beard gives Lydia a warning glance – as if she’s said too much – and lets me go.

  I shut up and watch the fields pass by. There aren’t many street lamps - or lights at all – out here, but I recognise the stone cottage with the tiled roof and red lion sign.

  “You’re taking us home,” I say.

  “That’s where I arranged to meet your father,” says Lydia. “If he brings the vessel, and is sensible enough to return it, we’ll let you go.”

  Bushy Beard pokes another hole in my dress. “And if not, we kill you.”

  Irene groans, her eyes still half shut. She jerks awake, sees Bushy Beard, and grabs his arm. They struggle for the short while it takes him to break loose. The man grabs her kicking legs, and presses his knife against her throat. My sister stops moving. Is she actually frightened for once?

  “Kostis!” shouts Lydia. “Don’t harm them. Not yet.”

  Kostis - I know his name now – eases off. He keeps the knife pointed Irene’s way. In spite of her smaller size, Kostis sees my sister as his biggest threat. He’s right. I’m too scared to try what she did.

  “Father won’t come,” I say. “He won’t trade his precious ball for us.”

  “He doesn’t know that we have you,” says Lydia. “Or that I’m the one who tried to steal it. Your father and I made a deal. I bring an old relic to get the police off his back, and keep quiet about the vessel. In return, he brings it to his house, where we study it together. I expect Doctor Ernst will be with him. And me and my friends will be waiting.”

  Friends. The plural. Meaning there are at least two others in this criminal gang. Lydia glances in the Austin’s driver side mirror. What’s back there? I turn to look through the rear windscreen. On the country lane - some distance behind in the murky fog - are a pair of white circles. Motor vehicle headlamps. We’re being followed.

  We turn up the path to Clayton Manor, our Victorian home in Buckinghamshire. It’s nowhere near as impressive as it sounds. Ivy creepers have grown over the crumbling brickwork, and the latticed windows haven’t been cleaned for months. Our butler was drafted to fight in the Great War and never returned, the gardener got a better paid job in London, and the maid only works on Tuesdays and Fridays. Today is a Wednesday. We’re alone out here, and there are no other houses for miles.

  Lydia parks on the front driveway. The other car stops a few yards back. Two men get out: bearded, serious-faced brutes wearing dark raincoats, thick-soled Wellington boots, and flat caps. One carries a double-barrelled shotgun under his arm. I can’t see the other man’s weapon, but he’ll have one.

  “Out,” orders Kostis.

  He only has to tell me once. Lydia watches closely as I exit the vehicle. Kostis drags my sister along. I expect her to start another fight, but she’s acting sensible… for now. Jazz music plays behind a lit, first floor window. The faded grey – silver once upon a time – ring-patterned curtains are drawn, blocking the view of Mother’s bedroom.

  Kostis grabs the neck of my dress. “Who up there?” he growls.

  “Lady Clayton,” Lydia says. “She likes to listen to her radio before going to sleep. Don’t worry. She’s sick with pneumonia.”

  Lydia knows everything about my family. Was that why she came here so often? To watch us?

  “Don’t hurt her,” I plea.

  “We won’t,” says Lydia. “Not if you do as you’re told.”

  She speaks to the men that followed us in a foreign language. Greek? That’s where Lydia said she was from. If she was telling the truth. The men return to their car, and drive round the back of the manor.

  Lydia takes out a brass key - a copy she must have made - and unlocks the front door. She goes in first. Kostis prods me and my sister along, herding us like cows on a farm. I trip over the weather-beaten doorstep. Irene helps me regain my footing, but I make quite a racket.

  “Stephen?” Mother calls from upstairs. “Is that you?”

  Kostis sticks his knife under my chin. “No sound,” he warns me.

  Lydia grabs Irene, covering her mouth. “Go see your mother,” she says quietly. “Tell her I brought you home, and you enjoyed your trip to the exhibition. Kostis, go with her. If she says one wrong word, kill them both.”

  Does she mean that? She sounded serious, and I lack the courage to test her. Kostis nods, pushing me toward the stairs. Trembling with fear, I flip the light switch. I make my way up, holding the oak banister to stabilise my shaky knees. We pass five empty frames on the wall. The oil paintings were auctioned off to fund Father’s trip to Egypt. All the antique weapons went in the sale, too. There’s nothing to use against Kostis, even if I was brave enough.

  Mother’s bedroom is the first door on the right. Kostis waits outside, but I know he’s watching my every move. I put on a happy face, and run to the armchair.

  “Mother!” I shout excitedly.

  We give each other a hug. Her grip is weak, but I pretend nothing’s wrong. It’s hard to look Mother in the eye. Wrinkles, grey hair, sleepy eyes, bowed head… she’s seriously ill. I pull the thick, chequered blanket up over her chest. Father doesn’t have the money to afford a good doctor. All I can do is make her comfortable.

  “How was the fairground?” Mother asks. The pneumonia started to affect her mind a week ago, and she’s been forgetting things ever since.

  “The Empire Exhibition,” I correct her. “It was wonderful.”

  “I’m glad. Where’s your sister?”

  Irene’s always been her favourite. I think she reminds Mother of her rebellious youth. I don’t know if it’s true, but she claims she chained herself to railings to help women get the vote. Not very ladylike, but we need that spirit now. Sadly Mother’s in no condition to help.

  “She’s with Lydia.” I’ve never lied to Mother in my life. I stick to the truth, however painful.

  “Lydia? Oh, you mean Stephen’s assistant. She’s such a nice lady. Tell Irene to come and see me later.”

  How can I make that promise? These people could kill us the minute they get what they’re after. I turn away. This time I have to lie, but I can’t do it to Mother’s face.

  “I will,” I say, unable to watch myself in the mirror.

  Jewellery is neatly laid out on the dresser below: beaded necklaces, bronze bracelets, pendants. They’re from Father’s digs, poor quality finds he wasn’t able to sell to collectors. He gave them Mother as gifts. When was the last time Father bought her anything new? I can’t worry about his shortcomings now.

  I look at Kostis’ reflection in the mirror. He watches me through the ajar door, twisting his knife. I need to make sure Mother doesn’t hear what’s going on downstairs. Better to keep
her out of this. But how? The radio on her bedside table… Yes, I can make the music louder. Her wireless is a big, wooden speaker box with lots of dials and switches. I have no idea how it works, so I turn the largest knob I see. At first only static comes through, but after some fine tuning, I hear a man’s voice.

  “—afternoon in London,” the announcer says. “His Majesty, King George the Fifth, declared the British Empire Exhibition open.”

  A crackly recording follows. Is that the speech I heard before we left the stadium? I wish we’d stayed there. Why did Irene have to run off? But it’s my fault too. I’m the one who took her to the museum. And now Lydia…

  That nail file next to the wireless! It’s thin, sharp as a butcher’s knife, and should be easy to hide. I could use it as a weapon. I’m far enough inside the bedroom - and away from the dusty-shaded wall lamp - that Kostis won’t see. The shiny file lies there, tempting me to take it.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I mutter to myself.

  “Did you say something?” Mother asks.

  “I’ll find that radio station you like.” I shout loudly so Kostis will overhear. He’ll be wondering what’s taking so long, and I need an excuse.

  I turn the knob back to where it was, and try a different one. This time I choose right, and jazz music booms through the speakers.

  My idea seems silly the more I think about it, but I have to do something. Mother’s too weak. Lydia’s watching Irene. Soon she’ll have Father and Gustav too. I’m fourteen years old, not a little girl any more. I need to be fearless, like my sister. I take a deep breath, and grab the nail file. Kostis opens the door an inch further. He’ll see me! With my back facing him, I slide the file into my left glove, and push it all the way in. Its sharp point pricks my palm.

  “Goodnight, mother,” I shout on the way out, closing the door behind me.

  Kostis waves me along the landing. The banister’s on my left. Why didn’t I put the file in my other glove? Now I have to walk downstairs with my hands on my dress. If Kostis spots the bulky material, he’ll know I took something. I don’t look back, taking it one steady step at a time. Luckily Kostis eases off the prodding, and it’s a relatively straightforward descent. He directs me with his knife, shepherding me along the hall to where Lydia waits.