‘Then tell them they’ll have to go over the entire building again,’ Jellaby was saying to Jacob, in the slow loud voice he reserved for dealing with the very old, the rather deaf, and foreigners. ‘If it’s not the drains, then something has got into the wainscoting and died there. No, I don’t care if they have to finish late. I tell you, it’s getting worse, and it’s got to be found. The upstairs gentlemen are all complaining about the awful smell.’ As he spoke, this elaborate speech was rendered into rapid Ostermarkan by Jacob. The two charwomen looked resentful, and they occasionally interjected sullenly; but now that she was inside the building and the door was shut, Sally could tell what Jellaby was annoyed about. The smell in the hallway was indeed awful. It was something between burned feathers and mouldy books; acrid, yet musty, and so strong it almost made her want to gag. Sally did not think it smelled like a dead animal at all, but it was not something she would have cared to work with, and she did not blame the upstairs gentlemen for complaining.
‘Tell them that in England this would not be tolerated,’ said Jellaby. ‘A real London housemaid would lose her place if she couldn’t do better. Now, hurry along and find it. I’ve the mail to sort, and it’s almost seven o’clock.’
‘Good morning, Mr Jellaby,’ said Sally, as the women moved off. She spoke nervously, for she did not really know him, unlike his kindly equivalent at the Washington mission, who had given her sweets whenever she had visited until long after she was too old to appreciate the favour. ‘It seems you are having trouble with the drains?’
‘Good morning, Miss Taverner; and to be honest, I couldn’t rightly say what the trouble is.’ If he was surprised by her arrival, alone, and at such an unusual hour, Jellaby showed no sign of it. He seemed merely harassed. ‘The smell moves around, you see, and comes and goes. We can’t pin it down long enough to find the cause. Young Mr Sinclair reckons it’s a rat that’s got into the wainscoting and died there, but I don’t think that can be right either.’
‘It’s certainly horrible at the moment,’ said Sally, wrinkling her nose. Jellaby immediately concurred.
‘About as bad as it’s been so far, and this is the third day by my count. Thank you for visiting, Miss Taverner. I hope you find what you’re looking for.’ As he spoke, there was a jingling at his belt, and to Sally’s astonishment, he pressed a bunch of keys into her hand. A moment later he turned on his heel and walked off.
Sally stood for a moment looking stupidly at the keys in her hand. The sound of the cleaners clattering their buckets in the basement brought her to her senses. She picked up her skirts, and, with a backwards glance to make sure Jellaby had really left her, ran on tiptoe up the stairs.
The British Legation at Starberg occupied three floors of a converted town house. The lower levels were taken up by reception rooms and a library. The chancery—the legation offices—occupied the whole of the top floor. Two large bedrooms had been knocked together to make one large, long room running from the front to the back of the building, while a third bedroom, at the front of the house, had been converted into a private office for Melhuish. This office could be entered from either the landing or through the main office, and it had an annexe, formerly a dressing room, where sensitive papers, cipher books and assorted valuables were kept in the legation safe. As Sally had expected, the doors to Melhuish’s room and the main chancery were locked. It was only a moment’s work to find the right key and let herself in. The interior of the room was still quite dark, for the windows were covered with wooden shutters and the fires, though laid in the English style grates at either end of the room, had not yet been lit. Sally resisted the temptation to light the gas. Instead, she unhooked the catch on one of the shutters and cracked it open a few inches. She let her eyes stray around the room. The desks were clear of papers, and the drawers, she knew, would be locked; but she was not interested in the day-to-day operations of the mission, far less in anything of political importance. What she was looking for would be somewhere obvious: the register of births, deaths and marriages of all British citizens in Ostermark.
A few minutes sufficed to locate the books on a shelf behind Pritchard’s desk. They were reasonably slim volumes. Starberg was not a particularly big legation, and there were few British nationals in the city. A quick glance showed Sally what she needed to know: that the register of births began in 1867, five years before her own birth. She turned to the correct year and began leafing through the pages.
There were only a few entries, and none for December 1872 or January 1873. Sally, who had been half expecting this, drew in a breath and began leafing backwards. On August 27th, she found what she was looking for. An entry under the surname Taverner. Clive Robert and Emily Mary were registered as the parents of Robert James, a stillborn son.
Sally felt her chest convulse. Whatever she had been expecting to find, it had not been this. Robert James, her baby brother—or rather, her not-brother—proved, beyond any doubt, that Emily Taverner could not have given birth to her in December of 1872. Her eyes burned, and she put her hand to her mouth, but it was too late to stop the tears which flowed suddenly down her cheeks and dropped onto the pristine pages of the register. Sally slammed the cover shut and shoved it back into its place on the shelf behind the desk. As she did, she heard, unmistakeably from the floor above her, the tinkle of breaking glass.
‘Be careful!’ hissed Stephen. ‘You’re making too much noise!’
‘You said there would be nobody here yet.’ Michael put away the knife whose hilt he had used to break the pane of the legation skylight and reached in to undo the catch. ‘What’s the problem? Lost your nerve?’
‘I said, the chancery staff came in between nine and ten. That’s not the same as there being nobody in the building.’ Like chimney sweeps or cat burglars, they had come over the roof from the apartment building next door. Michael was so casual about it, walking along the steeply sloping slates as if he were strolling up a gentle hill, that it had occurred to Stephen he must have done this before. He himself was both less nimble and far less sanguine about the prospect of being taken up for a burglar, but it was hard to say so without appearing completely spineless.
‘Looks safe enough to me.’ Michael glanced swiftly through the skylight, then swung his legs through the gap and dropped lightly down onto the attic landing, leaving Stephen no choice but to follow. ‘You’d make a poor housebreaker, Melhuish. You’ve already said the charwomen will be downstairs. No telegrams, no diplomatic bag today and no minister: who’s to interrupt us? All the same, let me get rid of this.’ He stooped and gathered the broken bits of glass. ‘It’s the sort of detail people notice. Pity I can’t do anything about the draught.’
‘My uncle’s office is on the next floor down,’ said Stephen. ‘Come on. Let’s get it over and done with.’
He peered over the railing to check there was no one in sight, then crept downstairs. Three months of helping out at the legation had given him a reasonably accurate working knowledge of how the place was run; he knew, for example, that only Jellaby actually lived in the building, and that at this hour of the morning the local charwomen would be busy at work. If it had been left to him, he would have let himself in through the front door with his uncle’s keys, which had been left in their usual place in the drawer of his desk at home. But Michael had insisted on coming with him, and he had not been able to think of a way to smuggle him in past Jellaby and the charwomen. By the time they reached his uncle’s office, he found that his blood was coursing unpleasantly through his veins. He did not feel safe until they had let themselves in off the landing with his uncle’s key.
The legation had a policy of clearing desks and locking away papers at the end of the day, so the desk was neat and tidy as it should be. All the same, Stephen could tell that Clive Taverner had been using it, for the paperweight was in the wrong place, and his uncle’s elaborate desk set had been pushed to one side. It was an unpleasant reminder of what had happened, and for a few seconds he stood s
taring at it while Michael bolted the door behind them. He came up to Stephen’s shoulder and sniffed suspiciously.
‘What’s been happening here?’
‘I believe there’s been trouble with the drains,’ said Stephen, but even as he spoke, he knew with certainty he was wrong, for he had smelled this scent before, and very recently. Michael, more experienced than he, immediately enlightened him.
‘Drains? That’s not drains, it’s magic. Didn’t you know working magic leaves a smell?’
‘No,’ said Stephen, nettled. ‘I can’t say I did. In fact, until yesterday I doubt I’d even thought about its existence.’
‘Multiple spells, over two or three days. If someone’s working magic in here, it means that Greitz or one of his followers has somehow gained power from someone in a position of authority.’
‘My uncle?’
‘Or the Taverner girl’s father. A magician can’t attack someone with magic without having been given the power to do it first. He has to trick you into sharing food with him, or giving him the power of your name. In this case, I’d say someone in authority has invited a magician over the building’s threshold.’
‘A kind of magical extra-territoriality,’ murmured Stephen. Michael looked at him, and Stephen explained, ‘Diplomatic missions function as if they’re physically part of the home country. Local laws don’t operate there. Any representative of the host country can only enter at the invitation of the diplomat in charge of the mission.’
‘It’s a reasonable analogy,’ said Michael. ‘I’d be curious to check over your recent correspondence. I’d be expecting to find a lot of pro-Greitz reports being sent back to London. The other possibility is that Greitz, like us, is looking for the other half of that locket, and using magic to do it.’
‘In that case, we’d better hurry up and find it,’ said Stephen. ‘Come on. The safe’s through here.’
The office opened onto the chancery on one side, and an annexe on the other. Stephen opened the annexe door with his key, and they entered a small room. The safe stood against the far wall, a large free-standing Chubb key and combination set. The key was on the bunch in Stephen’s hand. Unfortunately, he had not expected the combination.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I didn’t realise there was a combination.’ Stephen jangled through the bunch of keys until he found the key to the safe. He inserted it in the lock and turned it hopefully, but of course, the combination dial had been reset the last time the safe had been closed, and the handle would not budge.
‘Hell and damnation.’ Michael kicked the safe with his steel-capped boot. The noise was frightful. Stephen started to protest, but Michael paid no attention, and in another moment produced a jemmy from under his shirt.
‘What are you doing? You’ll never get it open with that.’ Aghast, Stephen watched Michael force the edge of the jemmy into the crack around the door. For a moment, there came the sound of metal working against metal. There was a dull crash, and a muffled thump as the jemmy slipped out of the gap and bounced off the metal side. ‘Barker, for God’s sake, you’d need to blast it open with dynamite. You’ll never do it. Someone will hear us, you’re making too much noise.’
‘Not half as much noise as you are.’ Michael was smashing at the safe with his jemmy. ‘Whose side are you on, anyway?’
‘Barker. Barker, someone will hear, stop it!’ Stephen was frantic. He became aware that the door was opening behind him, and that a female shape was standing there.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Estée—I mean, Miss Taverner.’ Stephen gaped at Sally, standing in the doorway. She in turn scarcely looked at him. Her eyes were on Michael Barker, poised by the safe with the jemmy still in his hand. Before Stephen had a chance to utter another word she shoved him aside and flung herself at Michael.
‘You’re trying to steal my locket! That’s it, isn’t it? Stop it! Help. Help!’
‘What the hell is she doing here?’ shouted Michael. ‘Get her off. Get her off!’
Alarmed, Stephen tried to haul Sally off Michael. The three of them scuffled for a moment, and then Sally lost her grip and they went sprawling on the floor. A small handbag flew from her wrist and its contents sprayed over the carpet: coins, a handkerchief, a folded paper. Sally gave a cry of horror, released her grip on Michael and started clawing her way towards the paper. Before she could reach it, Michael pounced on it. Sally, really frightened, screamed at the top of her voice.
‘Jellaby! Jellaby!’
‘For God’s sake, shut her up.’
Stephen had finally grabbed hold of her. He clapped his hand over her mouth and flung his whole weight on top of her, only to be savagely bitten for his pains. It was too late, in any case, for the alarm had already been raised. There was a sound of running footsteps in the outside office. Unfortunately, the new arrival was Francis Sinclair.
‘Get your hands off her!’
‘Sinclair, you don’t understand.’ It was hard for Stephen to blame Francis, for the scene on the floor must have suggested at the very least a prelude to ravishment, but that fact did not make it feel any better when the fellow’s boot connected with his ribs. In another moment, Francis had grabbed Stephen by the collar and hauled him to his feet. He drew back his fist and started indiscriminately hitting at him. Fortunately, Stephen had the advantage of height and weight, and there was less science than savagery in Francis’s attack. At first, Stephen tried not to hit him, but he soon realised he had no choice in the matter. Every time he knocked Francis down, he bounced back in an instant, nose bloodied, eyes filled with fury, looking as if he were possessed. Meanwhile, Michael was doing his best to open the safe, twirling the dial furiously back and forth while Sally shook and punched him and tried to take the paper from his hand.
‘Give it back to me. It’s mine, give it back!’
‘It’s not here.’ Michael had finally opened the safe and was tipping its contents—cipher books, papers, money, jewellery—from the shelves and a drawer at the bottom. He shoved Sally away from him, hard, and she fell over. Francis Sinclair let go of Stephen and ran at him. Michael instantly brought the jemmy down across his arm. Francis gave a wrenching cry and fell, cracking his head against the safe and landing in a slumped huddle on the floor.
‘You’ve killed him.’
Stephen knelt swiftly beside Francis. Fortunately he was still breathing, but his arm was clearly broken where the jemmy had struck it, and there was blood on his head where he had hit the safe. He was a horrible colour. Oh God, please don’t let his skull be fractured. If he dies…oh, God, it will be murder, what will happen to us? He saw Michael, standing by the safe, the jemmy still in his hand, and turned on him furiously.
‘You didn’t have to do that. You could have killed him!’
‘And he could have killed me.’
‘You can look after yourself. He was unarmed—’
‘Listen to me.’ Michael grabbed his arm and almost snarled into his ear. ‘Have you ever seen a man fight like that before? He was under a spell, you fool. It was the only way to stop him, short of killing him. And look at her. Is that normal behaviour?’ He pointed to Sally, who had crawled to the pile of jewellery on the floor and was desperately going through it, with no apparent concern for Sinclair’s fate. At the sound of Michael’s voice, she looked up with a wail.
‘What have you done with it?’
‘Nothing. We haven’t touched it,’ said Stephen, and took an automatic step towards her. He intended no wrong, being merely concerned that she was all right, but whether through enchantment or shock, Sally was now beyond sensible behaviour. With a cry she jumped up and ran from the room. A moment later they heard her clattering down the polished wooden stairs that led to the legation foyer. With a distant echo, the heavy front door swung open and then slammed shut.
‘Where’s she going?’ asked Stephen. ‘Why has she left the building?’
‘I don’t know, but I can guess,’ said Michael
grimly. ‘I’m going after her. Do you what can for this fellow, then get back to Young Devil Yard as quickly as you can. Unless I’m very much mistaken, that girl’s on her way to Richard Greitz.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Stephen would not have credited that he would remember the location of the house in Young Devil Yard. On his arrival the night before he had been in no state to notice anything, and when he and Michael had left that morning it had still been dark. He must, however, have known the streets of the Old City around the cathedral better than he had realised, for he made only one or two wrong turns on the way back and reached the house without mishap. He went around to the back and rapped loudly on the yard door. It seemed an eternity before it was finally opened by Bridget.
‘Where is my husband?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Stephen shortly. He pushed into the hallway and went straight to the parlour. Anna was there alone, sitting at the table, a pair of reading glasses on the very end of her thin nose. Several large books like ledgers were open on the table in front of her and she was sorting through a mound of clippings that had been cut from newspapers in several languages.
‘The death of Nordernay. The papers are starting to come in from other countries, now. There is a very interesting article in The Times.’ She laid a finger on a long, narrow column of newsprint, which she had freshly pasted into one of the books. The margins surrounding it were filled with comments in a firm black hand, cross-referencing it to other clippings, government gazettes, the court circular. It was impossible not to be impressed by such meticulous research, though hard to divine precisely what she was going to do with the information.
Star Locket Page 13