The Mystery Woman (7 page)

C
lement Lancing started the electricity machine and inserted the trailing end of the go
ld wire into the glass jar filled with the preservative formula. The rest of the long length of the wire was wrapped around the neck of the statue of Anubis that stood beside the workbench.

Small bubbles appeared in the preservative fluid. Clement was sure the chemicals were starting to change color. But when he looked at the statue he saw that the obsidian eyes of the jackal-headed god remained cold.

Still, he dared to hope. The Egyptian Water was frothing now. He watched the dead rat immersed in the chemicals. He was certain he saw small, spasmodic movements of the legs. For a brief moment he thought that he had finally succeeded and that the creature had awakened from the profound state of suspended animation induced by the formula.

It was frustrating to be forced to go back to conducting his experiments on rats but he dared not use humans again. That was what had led to the disaster a year ago. Gage had retired but it was likely that he still had his sources on the streets. If people began disappearing from the poorest neighborhoods again, word would reach him sooner or later. He would recognize the pattern. Gage was very, very good when it came to identifying patterns.

Clement kept the wire immersed in the fluid for a full two minutes, the longest time yet. But when he removed it from the jar the preservative became clear and colorless once more. The rat went limp; utterly motionless. To all intents and purposes it appeared dead.

But it was not dead, Clement thought. There was no evidence of decay. The creature was in a state of suspended animation. It was alive. It had to be alive. He could not bring himself to accept the alternative.

He stared at the rat for a long time before he raised his eyes to look at the other nine jars lined up on a nearby shelf. Each contained a motionless rat preserved in the Egyptian Water. He had prepared the formula with exquisite care, following the instructions on the ancient papyrus precisely, the instructions that Emma had translated.

There was no question but that the Water worked. The problem was with the power source—the damned statue. He had to find the woman with the talent to activate the energy locked in the obsidian eyes.

He looked at the Anubis figure and fought back the frustrated rage that threatened to eat him alive. It was all he could do not to smash the statue with a hammer. It had taken Emma months to find the eyes. As soon as she inserted the stones into the statue, they had both sensed the power locked in the figure.

But power that could not be released and channeled was useless. Emma had been strong but not quite strong enough. Nevertheless, they had been making progress when the disaster had struck.

In the past few months he had conducted innumerable experiments with electricity, hoping that the modern source of energy would overcome the last remaining obstacle. But it was evident now that there was no way around the instructions on the papyrus.
The sleeper can only be awakened by one who possesses the ability to ignite the jewels.

He had to find Miranda the Clairvoyant.

London was overflowing with paranormal practitioners who claimed to have psychical talents, but the vast majority were frauds or simply delusional. Locating a woman with true talent had been akin to searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Nevertheless, there had been a stroke of good fortune. Miranda the Clairvoyant was the genuine article, but she had slipped away and vanished into the streets of London.

Time was running out. According to the papyrus, the sleeper had to be revived before a full year had passed. Beyond that length of time the process was irreversible. There was no option. The paranormal practitioner had to be found, and there was only one sure way to accomplish that goal.

The risk was extraordinary but there was one man who could be counted on to find whatever he set out to find.

Clement pushed himself away from the workbench and crossed the stone floor of the laboratory to the quartz sarcophagus. The coffin had come from the tomb of a high-ranking priest of a small, ancient Egyptian cult. It was unlike any other that had been discovered in that the lid was not made of solid stone. Instead it was inset with a large piece of thick, transparent crystal.

The sarcophagus had been empty when he and Emma had discovered it. Initially they had believed that the mummy that had been encased in the stone box had been stolen by tomb raiders. It was only after Emma had deciphered the hieroglyphs etched into the sides that they had both understood the magnitude of their find.

He stood looking down through the crystal lid. The sarcophagus was no longer empty. Emma lay inside, locked in deep sleep. She was immersed in the Egyptian Water. Her eyes were closed. Her beautiful dark hair floated in the chemicals. There had been no room in the box for the voluminous skirts and petticoats that she had been wearing that terrible day. He had been forced to put her into the sarcophagus attired in her nightgown.

It was Gage’s fault that she had died. The bastard was responsible for everything that had gone wrong.

The rage inside welled up once more, threatening to choke him. He clenched his hands into fists.

“It is done, Emma. I have sent Gage to find her. He will not fail. He never fails. Soon she will be here. Until then, sleep, my beloved.”

He looked closer and noticed that the fluid level inside the sarcophagus was lower than it had been yesterday. The lid fit snugly but there was always some evaporation.

He went to the shelves on the far side of the room and took down the container that held his supply of the special salts. It was time to prepare some more of the Egyptian Water to refill the sarcophagus.

J
oshua sat on a hassock in front of the low, black lacquer table and concentrated on the
candle that burned in the holder. A small gong suspended from a wooden frame was positioned to one side of the candle. There were no other furnishings in the room that he had converted into his meditation chamber.

There was a time when he had performed the mental exercises while sitting cross-legged on the floor, but assuming such a position now was impossible because of the injury to his leg. In any event, his physical position did not matter. He had been practicing the meditation routine since he was in his teens. He could put himself into a light trance under almost any conditions.

Although he no longer required the flame or the gong to achieve the deepest state, he found comfort in the familiar rituals. This morning he had much to contemplate.

He picked up the small mallet and struck the gong lightly. The low sound resonated in the atmosphere. He slipped into the breathing exercises first. One of his mentor’s axioms whispered through him.

Control the breath and you control the rest.

He found the inhale-exhale rhythm and struck the gong again. This time he followed the tone down into the self-induced trance.

In this state his senses still functioned. He could smell the faint scent of the candle and hear the clatter of carriage wheels in the street, but it was as if he was in another dimension. An invisible wall kept the outside distractions from affecting his concentration. In this realm he could contemplate things in a different light; see patterns and connections that were not readily visible when he was in a normal state of awareness.

He meditated on Beatrice Lockwood. He knew that she was critical to the success of his plan. But what he did not understand was how she was connected to all the other factors in the case. She injected a discordant note of chaos into the otherwise clockwork precision of his scheme. As a rule he did all he could to control elements of uncertainty. But sometimes the currents of chaos were precisely what were required to unlock doors that would otherwise remain closed.

Chaos, however, was, by definition, unpredictable. Chaos was energy that, by its very nature, could not be channeled or controlled. It was raw power, and power was always potentially dangerous.

He picked up the mallet and struck the gong a third time. The sound hung in the atmosphere for several seconds before gradually fading.

He went deeper.

Beatrice Lockwood was important and not just because he needed her assistance to find the blackmailer and the killer.

She was important to him in ways that he did not yet fully comprehend.

He was trying to see the patterns in the chaos when he heard the discreet knock on the door. Chadwick would not have interrupted him during his exercises unless there was a compelling reason.

He came swiftly out of the trance and extinguished the flame. Wrapping his hand around the hilt of the cane, he pushed himself to his feet and made his way across the small, spare space.

He opened the door. Chadwick stood in the hall, immaculately turned out as usual. A thin, wiry man of indeterminate years, he wore his formal butler attire with the aplomb of a military officer in uniform. Under fire, he was far more unflappable than many officers Joshua had met. It was Chadwick who had taken on the task of nursing his employer back to health following the disaster that had nearly cost Joshua his leg and an eye. Chadwick had dealt with blood, fever, delirium and the periodic outbursts of his patient’s bad temper in a calm, dignified and efficient manner.

“My apologies for interrupting you during your morning meditation, sir,” Chadwick said. “But young Mr. Trafford is here. He says it’s urgent.”

“With Nelson everything is urgent.”

“Might I remind you that your nephew is eighteen years old, sir. Young men see no great virtue in patience.”

“They may have a point,” Joshua said. “Life is short, after all. Tell him I will be down in a few minutes. Perhaps you could find him something to eat? He always seems to be famished when he arrives on our doorstep.”

“He is devouring a muffin as we speak, sir.”

Footsteps pounded up the staircase. Nelson crested the stairs and bounded down the hall, moving with a lithe, athletic grace that made Joshua sigh. There had been a time when he had moved with such ease. Like Nelson, he had taken his excellent physical coordination and fast reflexes for granted. The poet was right, he reflected, youth was wasted on the young.

“Did Miss Lockwood agree to the plan, Uncle Josh?” Nelson demanded, shoveling the last bite of muffin into his mouth.

Nelson possessed the dark hair, sharp features and lean build that characterized the men of the Gage family. He was also brimming with a thirst for adventure that Joshua remembered all too well. When he had turned eighteen, he, too, had lusted after excitement, danger and a noble cause. That was before he had discovered that such thrills were too often accompanied by blood, death and betrayal.

But there was no use trying to warn young men like Nelson of the reality of what lay ahead. They would not heed the warnings. Nature made it impossible for them to do so.

I have become far too jaded,
Joshua thought. He knew there was no stopping Nelson. The best he could do was to try to keep his nephew from making the mistakes he had made. But just how did one go about instructing a young man on the dangers of trusting others? Some things had to be learned the hard way.

“Yes, Miss Lockwood did agree to assist us,” he said. “This morning I sent word to your mother to let her know that she will be attending Lord Alverstoke’s country-house party with a paid companion from the Flint and Marsh Agency.”

“Brilliant,” Nelson said. Then his face tightened with frustration. “I just wish I could go, too.”

“That is not possible. Neither of us can attend the affair as guests as we did not receive invitations.”

“Where will you stay?” Nelson asked.

“I have made arrangements to rent a cottage near the estate for the weekend. I’ll pose as a painter who has come to the country to do some landscapes.”

Nelson frowned. “You don’t paint.”

“There’s no great trick to smearing paint on a canvas as long as one doesn’t intend to complete the picture.”

“You must be close at hand in case the ladies need you. You cannot expect Miss Lockwood to deal with an extortionist by herself. She is just a professional companion.”

“Miss Lockwood has hidden depths,” Joshua said.
Not to mention a
hidden gun,
he added silently. “But you’re right. I certainly do not intend for her to take on the blackmailer alone. If my plan is carried out properly, neither Miss Lockwood nor your mother will come into contact with him. Don’t worry, Nelson, I will keep an eye on the women.”

“Mother is very worried about your scheme. She keeps talking about how you were nearly killed on your last case. She says your temperament is similar to that of the other men of the Gage bloodline. She worries that you will come to a bad end.”

“You know Hannah tends to fret.”

“True.” Nelson glanced at the cane and grimaced. “But she says she can’t forget that she had a terrible premonition shortly after you left London to investigate your last case.”

“This is a very different situation.”

There was nothing else he could say that was reassuring, Joshua thought. Hannah had good reason for her concerns. She was the one who, at seventeen, had been left to pick up the pieces and care for her younger brother when their recently widowed father, a thrill-seeker all of his life, had died while on a hunting trip in the American West. Edward Gage had been accidentally shot and fatally wounded by one of his companions.

On the heels of the telegram that had delivered the news of Edward Gage’s death, she had been forced to confront another disaster, one of a financial kind. After learning of his client’s death, Edward’s man of affairs had absconded with the Gage fortune.

With the very real threat of the workhouse looming before them, Hannah had taken the only respectable avenue available to her. She had accepted an offer of marriage from William Trafford, a wealthy man who had generously agreed to take his bride’s younger brother into his household.

Trafford had proved to be a decent, scholarly man who had treated Hannah and Joshua with kindness. He had been in his early sixties—old enough to be Hannah’s grandfather. A widower with no children of his own from his first marriage, he had been thrilled when Hannah had given him a son.

Trafford had succumbed to a heart attack a few years later but not before he had instructed Joshua on the proper management of the fortune that he had left to Hannah, Nelson and Joshua. Overseeing the family investments had proved to be a relatively simple, boring matter for Joshua. The men of the Gage line had a knack for making money.

By that time Joshua had “fallen into the clutches of that dreadful man,” as Hannah put it. The
dreadful
man
was Victor Hazelton, known in the shadows of the espionage world as Mr. Smith.

Hannah had devoted herself to Nelson, intent on making certain that he followed in William Trafford’s staid, scholarly footsteps and not those of his grandfather or his uncle on her side of the family tree. For a while all had been well. Until recently Nelson had been a dutiful son who had tried to please his mother.

But in the past year he had begun exhibiting what Hannah called the wild blood that tainted the Gage line. She feared that he would descend into the gaming hells and dark clubs of London’s underworld, just as his grandfather and great-grandfather had done. Just as Joshua had done for a time.

She was right to worry, Joshua thought. Two months ago when he had come to London on a rare visit to take care of some business affairs, he had been obliged to drag Nelson out of one of the worst hells in town. He had arrived just as the manager of the club was sending his enforcers to toss Nelson out into the street. Accusations of cheating were being leveled. Impending violence had simmered in the atmosphere.

A few nights ago he had found it necessary to take time out of his investigation of the blackmailer in order to repeat the exercise.

“Look at it this way, Uncle Josh,”
Nelson had said, his voice slurred by a great deal of cheap claret,
“I always win.”

“There is no great mystery in that,”
Joshua had said.
“You’ve got the Gage luck when it comes to cards. Unfortunately it doesn’t apply to much else.”

“Huh. Probably best not to mention this episode to my mother.”

“Agreed. I didn’t mention the last occasion, either.”

Hannah would be horrified if she discovered that Nelson was spending more and more of his nights seeking out the dark excitement and the darker pleasures of London’s most dangerous streets.

Joshua was well aware of what Nelson was going through because he had gone through the same restless, reckless stage at that age. It was as if a fire had been burning inside him. In search of a way to channel the fierce energy that threatened to consume him, he had been drawn out into the streets of London’s violent underworld.

Victor Hazelton had found him on those streets and forever changed his life. Victor had understood him. The man known as Mr. Smith had shown him how to control the tempestuous energy that seethed in his gut, taught him how to focus and control the wild forces of his nature. Victor had become his mentor, his father in every way save by blood.

Joshua now faced a lifetime of knowing he had failed Victor, the man who had saved him from himself.

“If all goes according to my strategy, this matter will be concluded within a day or two at Alverstoke Hall,” he said.

“Nevertheless, it might be useful to have me conveniently at hand,” Nelson pointed out, still hopeful.

What the hell,
Joshua thought. He had tried to keep Nelson out of the investigation as a favor to Hannah. She did not want him exposed to the world in which Joshua had once moved. But it was Nelson who had first realized that Hannah was being blackmailed. He had a right to assist.

“As it happens,” Joshua said, “I have another, very critical task that I would like you to undertake.”

Nelson’s excitement was palpable. He almost glowed with enthusiasm. “What is that?”

“I want you to look into Fleming’s murder. Several months ago it was a sensation in the press because of Fleming’s association with the paranormal. I want you to interview everyone you can find who was living or working near the building where the Academy of the Occult had rooms. Shopkeepers, servants, tenants, deliverymen, the local constable, the baked-potato man. Ask them if they noticed any strangers hanging about in the neighborhood in the days before the murder.”

Nelson frowned. “I don’t understand. I thought you said that the blackmailer was very likely the killer. You are off to Alverstoke’s country house to find him.”

“I examined the autopsy report this morning. There was information in it that leads me to believe that we may be dealing with a hired killer. It’s possible that he is also the blackmailer, but I am now inclined to think that it is more likely the blackmailer employed a professional. And blackmail may not have been the original goal.”