by Paul Crilley
“Sit down.”
Octavia didn’t have a choice. She entered and sat down behind the table. It was metal, the surface scratched and stained. The two agents sat down opposite her. One of them dropped a thin cardboard folder onto the desk. Octavia couldn’t see what was in it.
“Why am I here?” she asked.
“You know why.”
“No,” said Octavia patiently. “I don’t. Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked.”
The two agents sat and stared at her. It made Octavia tremendously uncomfortable, but she’d be damned if she would show them that. Instead, she just stared back, waiting for them to make the first move.
“Why don’t you tell us where you were last night?” said the first agent, the one with the thin face.
Last night? Octavia thought furiously. Was this about the bank robberies? It couldn’t be, surely. That kind of thing wouldn’t involve the Ministry. And even if it was about the robberies, why all this secretive stuff? They should be getting medals.
No, it couldn’t be that.
Which only left Benedict Wilberforce. Or rather, Molock. That was his real name after all.
She wasn’t sure how to play this. As far as she was aware, they hadn’t done anything illegal. All they had done was follow the man to a warehouse. Obviously, something else was going on here. The two men—Sekhem and Molock—had certainly known each other, but what did that have to do with her? Had they trespassed where they shouldn’t have? Was Molock part of the Ministry? Was Sekhem part of the Ministry? She had no idea.
“Why don’t I refresh your memory?” said the thin man.
He opened the folder and spread a number of photographs out on the table. One showed Octavia and Tweed approaching the museum. Another showed them moving along the side wall, and another showed them entering the shed that led down into the factory.
Octavia looked up at the agents. “Yes?”
“What were you doing there?”
“Following someone.”
“Who?”
Octavia hesitated, then decided she might as well tell the truth. Or some of it, at least. “A man called Benedict Wilberforce. I’m doing an investigative piece for The Times, and have had his name flagged at the docks. He entered the country last night and my contact got in touch to let me know. We followed him.”
The thin-faced man leaned forward. “And what did you witness?”
“He…confronted another man. Someone who was waiting there. Someone called Sekhem. They fought each other, but Tweed and I…we were spotted. So they fled.”
The second man stared at her for a few moments longer, then leaned back. Then the first man pulled out more photographs.
“So when did you and your friend do this?”
The photographs were of men and woman, all of them dead. They lay sprawled on the ground with horrendous cuts and slashes to their bodies. Octavia’s stomach turned. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and averted her eyes.
“I’ve never seen these people before. Who are they?”
“Guards,” said the second agent.
“Posted around the museum,” said the first.
Octavia looked at the photographs again. “I didn’t see any guards.”
“You’re not supposed to. They’re Ministry trained. The best.”
“They’re obviously not the best,” said Octavia, gesturing to the photographs. “Or they’d still be alive.”
“What we want to know,” said the second agent, “is how you spotted them. How you surprised them.”
“We had nothing to do with that!” she protested. “I told you. We followed someone to the museum, we were spotted, they fled. End of story.”
The Ministry goons said nothing, just kept on staring at her. Octavia frowned and sat back in her chair. Realization was dawning. These agents had no idea what had happened last night. They were fishing, hoping she would have some nugget of information that would help explain whatever went on.
“It’s rather obvious to me that the first man, this…Sekhem, is the person who killed your guards. He was waiting inside. He fought Molock with a sword hidden in a cane. Those injuries look like sword wounds to me.”
“Strange thing is, we’ve no evidence of this mysterious Sekhem. There’s nothing on our security cameras.”
Octavia looked again at the photographs, at the horrific wounds. Those poor people. So much blood…
“Then he’s very good,” she said.
“Or you’re lying.”
“Why on earth would I want to slaughter your guards?” Octavia shouted, exasperated. Then she frowned. “Why were Ministry guards posted around the Museum of Natural History anyway? That’s not under your remit.”
“And what do you know of our remit, girl?” said the thin-faced man.
Octavia bristled. Something about the way he said “girl” irritated her vastly. She was sick of this. “How dare you. When I was sixteen years old I worked for The Times as a researcher. I’m now seventeen and am a fully paid reporter for the newspaper. I know much more than you seem to give me credit for, and I’ve achieved far more than you ever had by my age—probably more than you ever will. What are you? A bully in black, that’s all. You don’t know what happened last night. That’s obvious. You have no evidence against me. Nothing that links me to these murders. If you have footage of myself and Tweed going in, then you obviously have it of the man we were following. Plus you must have footage of us leaving not twenty minutes later. Not anywhere near time enough to dispatch your precious guards.”
Octavia broke off, suddenly realizing she was probably making a seriously bad move here. Yes, they didn’t have evidence, but they could still make her life very difficult. She forced herself to calm down.
“And I’ll remind you both that The Times knows I’m here, and will very likely be following up on my detention. So either charge me or let me go.”
The two agents didn’t get a chance to respond to this, because at that moment the door opened and a tall man in his late fifties entered, greying hair swept back from his face, beard neatly trimmed.
Octavia sagged, feeling an intense rush of relief when she saw him. Barnaby!
His eyes flicked over her and he focused his attention on the two agents.
“Why wasn’t I told about this interview?”
The thin-faced man stood up. “We didn’t think it concerned you. Sir.”
Something about the way he said “sir” told Octavia he didn’t have much respect for Barnaby.
Barnaby Tweed’s brow came together. “Didn’t think it concerned me? I’m the head of the Ministry!” he thundered. “Appointed by Her Majesty the Queen. Everything that happens here concerns me. Do you understand?”
The agents said nothing.
“I said do you understand?”
The thin-faced man paused, then said, “Understood.”
“Good. You,” said Barnaby, finally looking directly at Octavia. “Leave.”
The agent tried to protest. “She was at the museum—”
“I know where she was, you cretin. I also know that she had nothing to do with any of this. Something you would know as well if you had two brain cells to rub together. You should be out finding the real culprit. Not wasting time interviewing teenagers. “Go,” he said, jerking his head.
Octavia quickly stood and scurried out of the office before anyone had a chance to change their minds. She hurried through the winding corridors, handing her badge in at the door and practically running outside. She paused on the stairs and took a deep breath of the cold air. She hated that place.
“Did you confess?”
Octavia turned around to find Tweed lounging against the wall. “Confess to what?”
“To all your dastardly deeds.” He pointed at her. “Don’t think I don’t know what you get up to.”
“Oh, please. You wish you knew what I got up to.”
Tweed pushed himself away from the wall with his shoulders. He strolled over to join
her. “Barnaby get you out?”
Octavia nodded. “Were you taken in as well?”
“Early on this morning. I think they came for you after they let me go.”
“So what’s going on?” Octavia asked. “Why are the Ministry interested in this?”
“I’ve no idea. I couldn’t get Barnaby alone to talk to him. But I think we’re going to find out soon enough. We’ve been summoned to Ravenstone Manor.”
“When?”
Tweed reached into his longcoat and pulled out his fob watch. He flicked open the lid. “About an hour ago.”
They jounced along the busy road in Tweed’s steamcoach. He’d had it fixed up a bit since Octavia had every-so-slightly damaged it when trying to evade the Ministry, but it was still a pile of rubbish. The smoke it spewed into the air was dirty grey and stank of burning metal. The rear space, where he and Barnaby had once prepared for their fake séances, was even more cluttered now that they had stopped conning the rich and gone legitimate. Tweed now used it to refine and build more of his little inventions. For instance, he’d made his spiders—clockwork arachnids used to spy on people—even smaller, enabling them to be hidden in even more obscure locations.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Octavia.
“Oh oh,” said Tweed. “You should be careful with that. Everyone knows women shouldn’t think. Overheats their delicate brains.”
“Most amusing. I’ve been thinking about that symbol on the ring. It’s definitely hieroglyphics, agreed? So we should go to the British Museum and speak to one of their experts.”
Tweed didn’t answer. She glanced over and saw him frowning through the dirty glass window at the street ahead.
“Is there a particular reason you’re not responding?”
Still nothing.
“Have you lost the ability to talk? Are you thinking very hard? Are you contemplating my genius? Do you have a stomach ailment? Stop me when I’m close.”
“You ruined my fun,” said Tweed sourly.
“What fun? What are you talking about?” He didn’t say anything more, so Octavia sighed and stared out the window, watching the snow-covered hansom cabs, the streets covered with wet mud and slush, the people hunched away in their coats, faces cut in half by voluminous scarves. She frowned. “Where are we? This isn’t the way to Ravenstone.”
“I know that.”
Tweed turned the steamcoach to the left and stopped it up against the pavement. Octavia peered out of the window and saw the massive Greek pillared frontage of the British Museum.
“The museum?”
“Yes,” said Tweed. “To speak to the head of Egyptology. I was going to surprise you with my cleverness, but you had to go and think for yourself.”
Octavia smiled and patted his arm. “Don’t worry, Tweed, I’m always surprised when you show cleverness.”
“Ho ho,” muttered Tweed. “Hear that? That’s me laughing at your wit.” He shook his head sadly. “You really should learn to accept the fact that I’m the thinker in this partnership.”
He climbed out of the steamcoach, pulling his scarf over his mouth. Octavia followed and they hurried across the road.
“So if you’re the thinker, what am I?” asked Octavia as they jogged up the stairs and moved between the massive pillars, heading in through the wide doors of the Museum.
“Not really sure yet,” said Tweed, his voice muffled. “I mean, it’s not as if you even make a good cup of tea.”
Octavia punched him in the arm.
The office of the professor of Egyptology, a man called Cyril Bainbridge, was immaculately neat. Octavia could tell that Tweed didn’t approve. He ran his finger over the mantelpiece and held it up before her eyes.
“Look,” he said accusingly. “No dust.”
“So?”
“So how can you call yourself a professor of Egyptology and work from an office like this? Where are the papyrus fragments he’s translating? Where are the dusty books?” He waved his hand at the wall in disgust. “Not even a sarcophagus! Unacceptable. The man’s obviously a fraud.”
“Or just someone who likes things neat and tidy.”
Octavia turned. A small man—barely five foot three—was standing in the doorway.
Tweed took one look at him and blurted out, “Goodness, you’re short!”
A pained look flashed across the man’s face. He smoothed down his grey hair and sat down at his desk. Octavia noted the chair was specially raised.
“Yes, I am. Sorry about that.”
“Oh, no need to apologize,” said Tweed airily. “It’s not your fault.”
“First, let me apologize on my colleague’s behalf,” said Octavia, glaring at Tweed. “He has an unfortunate tendency to speak without thinking. You are Professor Bainbridge?” said Octavia.
“Indeed.” He smiled. “And no need to apologize. I’m used to it. Now, the curator said you wanted help with something?”
Octavia nudged Tweed.
“Oh. Yes.” He fished around in his pocket and handed over the ring.
“We were wondering if you could tell us what the symbols on this mean.”
Bainbridge plucked a pair of spectacles from his front pocket and tilted the ring, studying it in the grey light that filtered through the window. He frowned. “Where did you get this?”
“We found it.”
“You found it?” He looked at them suspiciously. “Do you know Dr. Stackpole?”
Octavia shook her head. “No. Who’s he?”
“Dr. Stackpole is an archeologist. Quite well thought of. At least, he used to be. He returned from Egypt recently with some rather…controversial claims and items. He came to me to have them authenticated.”
“What are you saying?” cut in Tweed. “That he brought you a ring like this? Because we didn’t steal it.”
“My boy, I’m not saying that at all. No, he didn’t bring me a ring like this. But he did bring me a drawing of this hieroglyph on the ring. He asked me if I’d ever seen it before.”
“Had you?” asked Octavia.
Bainbridge shook his head. “No. Never. I got in touch with some of my contacts. In fact…” He looked at the clock. “I’m having a meeting here at two this afternoon with Dr. Stackpole and a translator. Either he’s going to tell us what the symbol might mean, or…” He trailed off and looked briefly uncomfortable.
“Or?” prompted Tweed.
“Or if he thinks Dr. Stackpole forged it.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To get attention, funding. He claims to have found some…ancient map. On papyrus or some such. He says it points to what he calls ‘the find of the century.’ But he needs help deciphering it.”
“Have you seen this map?”
“Good lord, no. He nearly had a heart attack when I asked if I could have a look. He says he’s sent it somewhere safe. So they can’t get their hands on it.”
“Who are they?” asked Octavia.
“No idea,” said Bainbridge cheerfully. “He always was a bit paranoid.”
“So you don’t know anything about this find of his?”
“We know that it’s in Egypt, which, I think you’ll agree, is a rather safe bet. He’s keeping his cards very close to his chest, I’m afraid.”
“Would you mind at all if we came here at two? To ask your translator what it means?”
“Not at all. Always keen to encourage an interest in Egyptology.” Bainbridge stood. “Would you like a tour of the museum? Be happy to oblige.”
Octavia felt a stab of remorse. She’d love that. She’d always enjoyed the museum, coming here with her parents. And a behind the curtain tour would have been something special. But they didn’t have time. “Unfortunately not,” she said. “We have an appointment to keep. We can’t put it off any longer.”
“Much as we’d like to,” muttered Tweed.
“Well,” said Bainbridge. “Another time, perhaps. And I’ll see you this afternoon.”
Octavia smiled, th
en she and Tweed turned and left the office.
Time to face the music.
“What part of ‘keep out of trouble’ didn’t you understand?” shouted Chase.
They were back in the library at Ravenstone Lodge. Chase was pacing back and forth while Temple sat in a wing backed chair by the window, his hands steepled together.
“Just let them explain, Barrington,” Temple said mildly.
“I wish they would!”
“If you’d shut up for two seconds we might get a chance!” snapped Tweed. “Because although you seem to think we all love the sound of your voice just as much as you do, I’m afraid we don’t. It’s quite grating. Nasal.”
Octavia sighed. Temple smiled at her and rolled his eyes.
“Explain to me,” said Chase. “Make me understand. Why were you following this Benedict Wilberforce?”
“Because he is involved in Octavia’s mother’s disappearance.”
Chase looked at Octavia, a puzzled frown on his face. “When did your mother disappear?”
“Over a year ago,” said Temple disapprovingly. “You should know this. It’s in their files.”
Chase waved him away. “And how do you know this Wilberforce is involved?”
“His name was listed as the person responsible for moving my mother from the Ministry prison.”
“Why was she being kept there?” said Chase in astonishment.
“We think it’s because she was investigating Lucien and the Tsar of Russia.”
“So why did this Wilberforce take her out of the prison?”
“We don’t know,” said Octavia.
“Is he Ministry?”
“We don’t think so. At least, we’ve not been able to find any record of him. He vanished after my mother was moved. I sent his name around the docks and left instructions that I was to be notified if he tried to enter the country again. Last night he did.” She shrugged. “We followed him to the factory below the museum and witnessed him confronting another fellow—a person named Sekhem.”
Temple put his tea down with a heavy clink. “Sekhem, you say?”
Octavia nodded.
“Can you describe him?” asked Temple urgently.