Horatio Lyle (4 page)

As it turned out, she was absolutely right.

The dog got to the door first. He sat there barking, and when Lyle and Tess came up the stairs from the kitchen, he gave them a look of utter contempt that suggested, if they hadn’t heard him then they were deaf, and if they had, then why hadn’t they run?

‘Thank you, Tate,’ Lyle muttered, as he walked briskly to the door. The dog lay down very firmly in the corridor and stared at Tess with big, brown eyes in a long brown and white face, his ears sagging on to the floor. Tess stared back at him, keeping her distance. He didn’t blink. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen an expression of such intelligent despair at the stupidity of humankind.

Lyle opened the door a crack. Two men stood outside. They wore long black cloaks, tall black top hats, and the expressions of people with a very specific task who hadn’t even
considered
the possibility of not fulfilling their aims.

‘Mister Lyle?’

‘Yes?’ There was a suspicious edge to Lyle’s voice that immediately put Tess on guard, and made Tate sit up.

‘You must come with us, Mister Lyle.’

‘Why?’

‘The Palace wants to see you.’

Lyle looked surprised, then pained, then downright upset. ‘I’m a little busy. I’ve got an experiment all set up downstairs, and if I don’t do it soon the tubes will be completely useless
. . .
’

‘Sir,’ repeated the man in a tone of disbelief, ‘the
Palace
wants you.’

He hesitated. ‘Uh, well
. . .
’

‘
Sir
.’ The word took on a pained quality, suggesting that here was a man who, though about to break Lyle ’s legs, was at least polite enough to recommend a good doctor afterwards.

Lyle smiled tightly, seeing this, and said, ‘Ah.’ He raised his shoulders in defeat, put on a feeble attempt at an innocent expression and said, ‘May I bring a friend?’

 

Later, Tess, wearing a dress, sat in a carriage driven by two men wearing royal rings, next to a man whose house she had tried to break into. She tried to work out what she was doing. Next to her Lyle muttered, ‘Please don’t fidget.’

‘I’m nerv
. . .
nervy? That’s a word, right?’

‘No, and you’re making me nervous.’

‘You ain’t never been to the Palace before?’

‘Have
you
?’

He had a point. She shifted uncomfortably. ‘Uh
. . .
why am I coming?’

‘Because I’m not trusting you alone in my house.’

‘Can I have my lock picks back?’

‘In a week.’

‘Why am I in a dress?’

‘Because I’m not letting you go to the Palace looking like an East End thief.’

She thought about this. ‘But I
am
.’

His look cut her off, and she sat back in sullen silence. The carriage had blinds across the windows and she couldn’t see where they were, but the sound of the street was strange, with cobbles instead of dirt. She could hear voices calling out in unfamiliar accents and the hubbub of a distant market.

Finally she said, ‘Sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘Who is Miss Chaste?’

Lyle shifted uneasily. ‘A very
. . .
proper lady.’

‘Sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘Does she
. . .
you know
. . .
and you . . . ?’

‘Teresa, are you always this quick to dispose of respect and discretion?’

She thought about it. ‘Nah. Usually get there faster. But you had me scared for a second, sir.’

He looked slightly glassy-eyed as he intoned, ‘She and I are not engaged in any mutual bond.’

‘Oh. Thank you, sir.’

He shot her a sly glance and said, ‘You don’t know what any of that meant, do you?’

‘No, sir. But I thought how it might be best not to ask.’

‘Does the phrase “repressed vestal virgin” mean anything to you?’

She thought about it. ‘Nah.’

He let out a little sigh. ‘Thank goodness.’

‘You goin’ to explain, sir?’

‘Absolutely not.’

The carriage rattled through the streets of Mayfair, round the green-brown edge of Green Park where lovers walked in the cold autumnal air and the trees were coated with the soot of the city, towards a black iron gate tucked away in an endless yellow-brick wall, guarded by a pair of black iron dragons, and so across the smooth, worn cobbles of an inner courtyard towards the stables of Buckingham Palace.

They got out of the carriage and walked in silence through a tradesman’s door and up a plain stone staircase. Corridors grew wider, staircases became carpeted, pictures appeared on the walls. Beyond a mahogany door, they suddenly found themselves in the very heart of the Palace itself, following a butler who looked as if he ’d been mummified.

Tess stared, her eyes flickering from vase to clock to painting to silver candlestick to the butler’s gold buttons and back round again. Lyle too looked about him. He reflected on the apparent height of the royal family, that it needed such lofty rooms for its daily living, and whether they’d let him try some of his inventions on their doors and windows. Next to him, Tess had fallen into a suspiciously deep silence. He said mildly, not looking at her, ‘They probably change the patrol paths of the guards every month.’

‘Why do you say that, sir?’

He glanced down at her. She was trying to smile innocently, and in that neat blue dress - nothing too fine but nothing that would shame a lady - with her unruly hair curled away from her washed face, she
almost
got away with it.

‘And if you’re considering the rooftop approach, you’d require a stronger grappling hook and tougher gloves than you possess. I hope.’

‘Actually, sir, I was considering going to the back door with a basket of oranges and asking for the nicest cook in the place.’

He tried to hide his smile. ‘That might work too.’

The door ahead opened, and Lyle was announced by a man in a large white wig who had the expression of one who’d been shown a nit underneath a magnifying glass. There didn’t seem to be anyone there to announce them to. But if it made the man happy, Lyle wasn’t going to question his purpose in life.

The room beyond was poorly lit and hung with huge red curtains and further portraits, all wearing a Colonel-of-the-Empire-I-kill-barbarians-for-breakfast expression. Lyle squinted down its length as the door shut behind him, saw a grandfather clock clicking away in a corner and, in the absence of any other object of interest, went towards it, fumbling in his pocket for something.

Behind him Tess said thoughtfully, ‘Problem is, nothing much can be carried in a hurry, see?’ Lyle didn’t answer, and Tess walked up to his side to peer at the clock as well, trying to see whatever it was that fascinated him. He pulled out of his pocket a small object that looked like a cross between a compass, a pair of protractors and a fob watch, but like no watch she had ever seen. The needles, as far as she could tell, read ‘3.23 N 70’. Lyle squinted at it, then at the clock and sighed. ‘It ’s slow.’

He didn’t hear the sound behind him, wasn’t even aware that someone was standing there. Then when he thought about it, perhaps the man had been there, but so neatly folded away in a chair that he simply hadn’t noticed.

‘Good morning, Constable,’ said a quiet, precise voice. ‘Might I offer you coffee?’

They turned. Tess attempted a bob that might have been an illusion of a curtsey. Lyle tried a polite nod, not sure what else he was expected to do. The man nodded in acknowledgement, a tight smile across a tight, bony face. He was short, neat and grey-haired, wearing a black three-piece suit, with the chain of a silver fob watch threaded through his waistcoat. His eyes were so sunken into his pale face that Lyle wondered if there was room in his head for anything else. As the man’s gaze swept the two of them, Tess drew nearer Lyle, then realized what she was doing and straightened up to stare defiantly back.

The man looked at them for a long moment, seemed to reach a conclusion and gestured at the long table that ran the length of the room. ‘Will you both sit down?’

Lyle led the way to a place near the head of the table, and Tess scuttled round to sit by his side, furthest from the man. Sitting opposite Lyle, the man placed a file on the table and rang a small bell. The door opened, and a butler glided in holding a silver tray laden with coffee, rolls and jam, on a silver plate. Tess eyed this latter thoughtfully. Lyle, eyes not moving from the man, kicked her under the table. She said loudly, ‘Ow!’

The man turned an icy stare on her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Uh, nothing, sir. Cramp.’

‘Oh dear. I do wish you a speedy recovery.’ He sounded as if he was announcing an execution.

Lyle cleared his throat. ‘Forgive my bluntness, but why are we here, my lord?’

The man raised his eyebrows slightly, and a smile like canvas that didn’t want to be stretched tugged painfully at his white lips. ‘What gives you the impression that I’m a peer of the realm, Constable Lyle?’

‘Not a Constable, sir. Special Constable on a good day, which today isn’t.’

‘What do you believe to be the difference between a Constable and a Special Constable, Mister Lyle?’

There it was, thought Tess. Even this person - whoever he was - said
Mister
Lyle.

‘The hours and the pay, Lord Lincoln,’ Lyle replied, utterly deadpan. Tess wiped her own face clean. If Lyle wasn’t smiling there had to be a reason. She tried not to fidget.

Lord Lincoln nodded in acknowledgement. ‘You have me correctly, sir. May I enquire how?’

Lyle hesitated. Somehow ‘inspired guesswork’ didn’t sound as if it would appeal to Lincoln’s calculating mind. ‘A process of elimination? Your clothes are of the finest cut, there are inkstains on your right hand, a ring bearing the royal seal on your left hand, and your shoes, albeit well made, are worn down hard at the heel, though not the toe. Uh
. . .
you’re carrying a pair of reading glasses in your right-hand pocket and there are a series of slight abrasions on your jacket, suggesting that you frequently wear medals. Erm
. . .
anything else?
. . .
you are clearly highly decorated and honoured, yet involved in daily administration. You’re
here
and so are we, therefore you are Lord Lincoln, personal aide to Her Majesty.’ He smiled, looking nervous. ‘Is that right, my lord?’ Tess realized she was gaping, and quickly closed her mouth.

‘Perhaps. Although it equally may have been an inspired piece of guesswork.’

Lyle ’s smile grew thin. ‘We’ll never know, my lord.’

Silence. Then, ‘You are a man with a reputation, Mister Lyle. I have a proposition for you. In the Queen’s name. How would you feel about serving your country?’

Lyle’s expression became a little frantic. ‘Well, actually, and please don’t take offence, I’ve got this rack of test tubes waiting back home which will be ruined in a matter of minutes
. . .
’

Lord Lincoln cut him off with a look. ‘Then, Constable Lyle, I will be blunt. There has been a robbery, and an object very personal to Her Majesty has been taken. The circumstances are, to say the least, mysterious. The item which is our chief cause of concern was taken along with numerous other valuables from a theoretically impenetrable vault and is—’

‘Not the crown jewels?’ asked Tess eagerly. ‘Not again?’

‘No, madam. Not the crown jewels.’

‘Not India?’

‘What?’

Lyle tried to hide his grin. Tess said primly, ‘I was askin’ if someone pinched India, sir.’

‘Indeed no, India is very firmly locked in Her Majesty’s heart.’

She looked up at Lyle. ‘Is that possible?’

‘It ’s not healthy,’ he conceded.

‘Constable,’ said Lincoln, sounding exasperated, ‘the artefact—’

‘Is it the Fuyun Plate, sir?’ asked Lyle sharply.

Tess held her breath. In a voice that reminded her of the men in a darkened alley with garrotting wires explaining that you hadn’t seen nothing, Lincoln said, ‘Whatever gives you that impression?’

‘The file under your elbow, sir.’

‘I see. How much more do you know?’

‘Pass me the file and I’ll tell you.’

Lincoln’s voice could have made salt water freeze. ‘The Fuyun Plate is of immense cultural and historical value to Her Majesty. It was given to Her Majesty as a gesture of goodwill by the Chinese government, being a native artefact of Tibet. Legend around it abounds. Its loss is a cultural tragedy. I require that it is found again, and the thieves brought to my attention.’

‘Don’t you mean Her Majesty requires that it is found again, and the thieves brought to the law’s attention?’

‘Quite.’

Tess shifted uneasily. The two men were staring, trying to read each other. She wondered why Lyle didn’t just say yes, and then they could get out of there. But he didn’t even blink. Softly, Lord Lincoln said, ‘There is the matter of a salary.’

‘Money is of no interest to me. In fact, if it ’s all the same, I’ve got a lot of chemicals any minute now burning through a table of which I’m immensely fond, so if you don’t mind
. . .
’ Lyle made to stand up.

‘And membership of the Royal Institution.’

Lyle didn’t move. He looked as if someone had just hit him. At length he said, ‘
Lifetime
membership?’

‘Naturally.’

Silence. Then, ‘
Really?
’

Lincoln sighed. ‘Very much so.’

Lyle reached out for the file. Lincoln put it carefully into his hand and Lyle flicked through it without stopping to read, then said, ‘A pleasure to serve, sir. Might I ask - this impenetrable vault - where is it?’

Lincoln’s smile could have scared rattlesnakes. ‘Where you might expect, Constable. In the Bank of England.’

‘
Ah.
’

Taking the case was probably, Lyle would later admit, his first mistake.