by Saint,Nic
The street was a dead end!
And it was then that she heard the roar of a powerful engine behind her.
She quickly dismounted the bike, fully prepared to break into a run and jump onto the hood of the car and make her escape that way, but the doors of the car swung open, and two men emerged. Light on her feet, she danced from one foot to the other, then dashed over to her bike and grabbed her bike pump. It was the only weapon she had and a very ineffectual one at that!
She swung the pump deftly, ready to defend herself dearly.
Oh, Buckley, she thought, where are you when I need you the most?!
She darted anxious looks from one man to the other. The one who’d stepped from the driver’s seat was stocky and sturdily built, his face inscrutable, his brown hair thinning. The one who’d emerged on the passenger’s side was lanky, tan, and fair-haired. Neither one looked like a Chinese immortal killer priest, but then looks could be deceiving, of course. She figured the stocky one was Jingoist, the scrawny one his new layperson.
And then the gangly one spoke in perfectly modulated English, as if fresh out of Oxford or Cambridge. “Say, are you by any chance Miss McCabre? Miss Henrietta McCabre?”
She wasn’t dumb enough to confirm or deny, but instead took a firmer grip on her bicycle pump and stared the man down. “So you must be Jingoist,” she said in the coolest tones she could muster, even as her heart was beating in her throat.
The man seemed taken aback. “Jingoist? Oh, no, Miss McCabre. I can assure you that I’m not related to that man at all. Far from it, in fact.”
She turned to the other one. “Then you must be Jingoist.”
He didn’t look particularly dangerous, though. On the contrary, judging from the expression on his face he seemed to be horrified at the accusation.
“My name is Deshawn Little, Miss McCabre,” he said in a soft, mellifluous voice, “and I’m this gentleman’s personal gentleman.”
“Deshawn is by way of being my valet of a species,” said the other man, screwing up his face into a smile. “He’s actually the one who found you.”
She regarded the two men guardedly. “Why would you want to find me?”
The thin man laughed. “I see that we’ve alarmed you, Miss McCabre, and I assure you that was not our intention. The fact of the matter is that we are in need of your assistance. You see, we are in search of a particular book, and it has come to our attention that you may know its whereabouts.”
“What book?” she asked suspiciously. “I don’t know anything about any book.”
“Well, it is my understanding that you do,” said the man gently. Then he lightly slapped his brow. “Oh, where are my manners. I totally neglected to introduce myself.” He thrust out a hand and approached her, causing her to move a few paces back, holding up the bicycle pump in a menacing manner.
“One more step and I’m going to smack you in the face,” she announced.
The man seemed taken aback by this, for he instantly halted his progress and his hand flew to his cranium in a protective gesture. She saw the back of his head was adorned with a rather large bandage. “Oh, well, if you’re going to take that view,” he muttered, now sounding a little peeved.
“Master Zephyr-Thornton merely wishes to inquire about the whereabouts of the book called the Clavicule Necroire,” said Deshawn. “We do not wish to cause you any harm,” he added slowly, as if speaking to a toddler.
“Then why were you following me? And chasing me down this alley?”
Zephyr-Thornton chuckled. “Oh, the quaint deceit. We weren’t following you, Miss McCabre. Well, technically we were, I suppose. But that’s merely because we weren’t certain you were, in fact, you.”
“We were informed you were staying at the home of Inspector Darian Watley of Scotland Yard,” Deshawn explained. “And when we didn’t find you there we thought we might find you at your own apartment.”
“And lo and behold, you showed up just when we did,” said the Zephyr guy. “Isn’t that the most wonderful bit of serendipity?”
“What do you want with the book?” she asked, still not convinced her assailants’ motives were entirely on the up and up.
Zephyr-Thornton emitted a chuckle. “That is such a long story. Why don’t you step in the car and join us for a spot of lunch? You see, I’ve just been discharged from the hospital, and I could do with a decent bit of grub.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I’m not getting into a car with two guys I don’t know,” she announced sternly.
“And rightly so,” muttered the spindly man. He gestured to Deshawn. “As my manservant has already indicated, my name is Zephyr-Thornton. Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton the Third, in fact.” He gave her a beaming smile. “There. Now that we’re not strangers anymore, I’m sure you’ll be only too delighted to accept my kind invitation, what?”
She thought for a moment. The name Zephyr-Thornton certainly rang a bell now that she came to think of it. If this guy was who he said he was, and she was starting to think that he was, then he was the scion of the richest family in England. Yes, as she studied his face, she thought she recognized him from the frequent insertion of it in the tabloid section of her newspaper. He was some sort of party animal, always being photographed leaving or entering the Chiltern Firehouse or some other popular celebrity hangout.
“Weren’t you, like, the first guy to send a bunch of celebrities in an orbit around the moon or something?” she asked, lowering her bike pump.
His face clouded. “Yes, well, that would have worked if only the members of Take This hadn’t had the bright idea to spray the contents of a few bottles of champagne over the dashboard, sending the aircraft into a tailspin.”
Of course. She remembered now. The aircraft, chock-full of celebrities, had crash-landed in Cornwall, and even though there hadn’t been any casualties, there had been a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth, for quite a few celebrity bones had been broken, and even a pair of silicone implants had exploded, bringing back memories of the chestburster scene from Alien.
Judging from the mournful expression on Jarrett’s face, the episode still rankled. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the experience, it is never to mix million-pound equipment with celebrities. It is a recipe for disaster.”
“Unless it’s a lip-sync machine, of course,” Harry shot back, starting to feel more at ease now that she knew she wasn’t about to die a gruesome death at the hands of Jingoist. “No pop star would survive a live concert without it.”
“Lip-sync machines don’t cost a million pounds, Miss McCabre,” Jarrett pointed out. “And I should know. I was a rock star for a couple of weeks.”
“Oh, that’s right!” she cried. “You were even on Celebrity Big Brother, weren’t you?”
“I might have been,” he said with a slight smirk.
“You were voted least popular celebrity after only a day in the house,” she said, the recollection enough to bring a smile to her face.
He frowned. “Only because I refused to canoodle with Miss London ’89.”
Harry now saw how wrong she’d been. This was Jarrett Zephyr and his trusty valet. He’d even wanted to insert Deshawn into the Big Brother house, claiming he couldn’t do without the man, but his request had been denied.
She cast a look at the expensive Rolls Royce. It probably wouldn’t hurt to get into a car with these guys, especially since one of them was as rich as Croesus, and apparently not interested in murdering her in cold blood.
“Just tell me, what do you want from me?”
“Well, like I said, it is quite a long story,” Jarrett began.
“What Mr. Zephyr-Thornton wants to convey,” Deshawn piped up after a deferential cough, “is that he is very interested to return the stolen book to its rightful owner as a way of furthering the healing process of his beloved mother, who is quite ill. The Absinthian Church’s Elder has agreed to do whatever he can to restore her to good health, but first he needs the book.”
&nb
sp; Instantly Harry dropped her reservations. “Oh, you want to help your mother?”
Jarrett gave his valet an approving glance. “Well put, Deshawn.”
Deshawn inclined his head slightly. “Thank you, sir. I merely endeavor to give satisfaction.”
“Yes, I want to save my mother,” Jarrett said. “And according to my dear old dad, who’s made some sort of arrangement with the Absinthians, we need this Clavicule Necroire to do it. And since the book was stolen and is now in the possession of a man intent to wreak havoc upon the world by making a lot of very nasty individuals live a long and healthy life, I’m interested in anything you can tell me that will further my quest.”
“Of course,” she said immediately, and when Deshawn opened the door for her, she gladly hopped in. “Anything I can do to help,” she said, deeply touched. As one who’d lost her own mother, she could see how important it was for Jarrett to find the book and make his mother well again.
Jarrett joined her in the back of the car while Deshawn stored her bicycle in the boot and she looked around, impressed. She’d never been inside such a nice vehicle before, and when she let her eyes roam over the cream-colored leather upholstery, the polished finish, and the mini-bar, she thought she might get used to this. There was even an overhead display built into the ceiling, currently playing a section of the BBC news about the capture of dangerous criminal Philo Bovine-Marks.
She pointed to the screen. “Hey, I know that guy.”
Jarrett, who’d slid in next to her, arched an eyebrow. “Is that something you do a lot, Miss McCabre? Mingle with elements of the criminal classes?”
“No, I helped catch him, actually,” she clarified. “He was trying to kill me, you see, and since I don’t, as a rule, like to be killed, I knocked him out.”
She decided not to mention the small detail that Buckley’s ghost had done the actual knocking out part, for she didn’t think this would go over well.
Jarrett pursed his slips. “Very well done, Miss McCabre.” He pointed at the screen. “This guy works for Master Edwards, and he’s the one who actually bought the book from you, is that correct?”
“That is correct.” She cringed a little at this. She still felt bad that she’d helped a man of Edwards’s caliber live a longer life and extend his reign of terror. “In my defense, I didn’t know who he was at the time,” she explained. “I didn’t even know he was the one who was buying the book, actually.”
“So…” Jarrett said, eyeing her expectantly. “Where is the book now?”
She gave him a sheepish look. “I have absolutely no idea.”
His face fell. “None?”
“Not a clue. Oh! But you know who might know?!”
He grimaced. “I do not, Miss McCabre.”
“Oh, for God’s sakes, just call me Harry already, will you?”
He frowned. “Harry as in Harry Potter?”
Now it was her turn to grimace. “Yes, Harry as in Harry Potter, though I can assure you I don’t do magic tricks or fly around on broomsticks.”
“If only you would,” he said a little wistfully. When she eyed him strangely, he added, “It’s been a long-harbored dream of mine to become a wizard. But unfortunately I’ve had to concede that no money in the world can grant me those particular powers. I have been to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter several times, though. Extremely enjoyable. Have you visited?”
A deferential cough sounded from the front of the car. “You were saying you knew who might know of the stolen tome, Miss McCabre?” Deshawn said in that soft voice of his. It sounded like audible honey, Harry decided.
“Well, apparently there’s a woman who used to turn pages at the Absinthian Church for the church’s priests and Elder. She stole the book and delivered it to Buckley, my employer. She was in cahoots with Jingoist, so she might be able to tell us where to find him. And the book, of course.”
Jarrett gave her a look of unabashed admiration. “You are quite the sleuth, Harry. I like the way your mind works. Now all we need to do is find out where this page-turning woman is holed up, and we’re back in business.”
“I think I can help you with that,” suddenly another voice piped up, and Harry saw that they’d been joined once again by Sir Geoffrey Buckley.
Chapter 22
Jarrett eyed the newcomer curiously. He was an elderly man with a shock of frizzy white hair, a kindly face and dressed in a suit that his expert eye recognized as hailing from Savile Row’s finest. A well-dressed man and therefore a man after his own heart. There was something curious about the stranger, however. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was the fact that he’d suddenly managed to enter a car whose doors were firmly closed and navigating London’s streets at considerable speed. It was, in fact, a trick he thought only the likes of David Copperfield could concoct.
And then there was the fact the man had a bright red spot on the back of his head, which looked a lot like blood, and which contrasted nicely with his chalky white pallor. If he didn’t know any better, he would have concluded that the man was quite… dead. Or at the very least extremely unhealthy.
“Hello there,” he said nonetheless, for his father had always taught him to be kind to strangers, even if they appeared out of thin air. “And you are…”
“Sir Geoffrey Buckley,” the man introduced himself with a genial smile.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Jarrett responded with equal geniality. “And what, if I may be so bold, are you doing in my car?”
“This is my former employer Buckley,” Harry explained. She seemed extremely pleased to see the old-timer. “He’s going to help us solve the case.”
Former employer? And it was then that his eyes were irrevocably drawn to the television, where the BBC newscaster was still waxing eloquently on the Philo Bovine-Marks arrest. A picture of a man had appeared in the upper right corner of the screen, accompanied by the caption, ‘Sir Geoffrey Buckley, murder victim.’ He now looked from the man in front of him to the man on TV and quickly came to the conclusion that they were one and the same. His jaw dropping, he pointed feebly at the screen. “B-b-but it says right there that you’re d-d-d—”
“That’s right,” said the old man with the same kindly smile still plastered on his pale face. “I’m quite dead, Mr. Zephyr-Thornton. Quite dead indeed.”
Jarrett hitched up his jaw with some effort, then he was shaking his head as if trying to negate the message his eyes were sending him. “But that’s…”
“Impossible?” asked the man. “Quite. And yet here I am.”
“So you’re a g-g-g—”
“Yes, Jarrett,” Harry interrupted him with an eye-roll. “Buckley is a ghost. Get over it already, will you? Have you never seen a ghost before?”
“Actually…” Jarrett began, but then his voice trailed off. Not only had he never seen a ghost before, but he was quite certain ghosts didn’t exist. The same way Harry Potter didn’t really exist. Or Santa Claus or a politician who slashed tax rates.
Furthermore, he didn’t like the dead. In fact, he abhorred death in all its gruesome facets and had made it a habit to steer clear of anything to do with the nasty affliction. His mother had once taken him to the funeral of some old aunt or other when he was ten, and he distinctly remembered being forced to touch the old crone’s wrinkly old hand. It had felt cold and clammy to the touch, and the experience had turned him off death for good.
The pallbearers, the smell of incense, the bombastic choral music… It simply wasn’t his cup of tea. He now took a quick whiff of the man, and was unpleasantly surprised that he didn’t merely look dead, he smelled dead too.
Deshawn didn’t seem to share his sentiments, however, for he now directed a glance over his shoulder, and said, “Oh, hello, Sir Buckley.”
“Deshawn,” Buckley acknowledged with a nod.
“Wait, you two know each other?” he asked. He shouldn’t be surprised, of course. Deshawn seemed to know everybody who was someb
ody and a lot of absolute nobodies as well.
“I was in the employ of Sir Buckley’s uncle at one time,” clarified Deshawn.
“Yes, that’s right,” confirmed Buckley. “Until he died, that is,” he added, indicating death was some kind of raging epidemic in the Buckley family.
“Buckley was killed by Jingoist,” Harry explained. “And now he’s helping me find the book so we can return it and undo the damage he’s done.”
“And, most of all, prevent him from coming after you, Harry,” Buckley pointed out.
In spite of the presence of a dead guy in his car, Jarrett’s curiosity was piqued. “You know about this book business, then?” he asked, intrigued.
“I am the book business,” said the old ghost. “I’m the one who bought the book and sold it to Master Edwards.”
“Oh, right,” said Jarrett. Buying and selling stuff was the Zephyr family’s stock in trade, ever since some ancient ancestor had made his fortune in the herbs and spices trade, back when the East India Company was the biggest ticket in town, subsequent Zephyr-Thorntons adding their little bit by expanding the family business into whatever goods traded for a premium on the pound. This part of Buckley’s story was the one part he understood, therefore. What he didn’t grasp was the fact that this man, even though murdered, still managed to add his peculiar aroma to his Rolls’s rich bouquet. “Erm, not that I want to sound impudent,” he began, “but why is it that you’re still hanging around with the living while you’re so obviously dead?”
Buckley gave a light shrug. “Beats me. I’m sure that most of the dead simply move on, and I figured that when my time had come, I’d follow the same route. Join my ancestors in the great big hereafter. But for some reason, I find myself quite stuck here on this earthly plane.”