Vanished (31 page)

“Why does a silversmith need a vault?” I asked as the platform continued down into a cold stone cellar.

“Before the rise of the great banks,” said Mrs. Jabril, pausing to raise the platform’s gates as we bumped to a halt, “goldsmiths were often the bankers and moneylenders of the day. But there was no place to store your valuables outside your own home or to get a small amount of cash for a short term. Silversmiths would occasionally act as . . . pawnbrokers of a sort to the gentry. It was not unusual for a bachelor to put the family silver into storage with a silversmith until he married and had a use for it again. If his pockets were to let, he might borrow against the weight value of the silver and pay it back when he was in brass again. The British pound sterling was tied to the value per weight of silver at the time, of course, so it was like you were trading commodities for cash. Not a word of gossip would attach to a gentleman, or lady, who paused on occasion to visit their family silversmith.”

She stepped down from the platform and made a directing wave at the stone-walled room and its ranks of metal-doored lockers of all sizes, lit by dim electric bulbs that were strung somewhat sloppily from the ceiling. “The first owner of the shop built these to store his patrons’ articles. Steel doors were fitted to replace the old iron ones in the nineteen thirties. They withstood the Blitz without so much as a buckle.”

“It’s impressive.”

“I shall not say it is as secure as the Bank of England, but unlike the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, we have never been robbed.” When she smiled, her teeth gleamed like sharp pearls.

I could see why any thief assaying this place might think twice. The stone walls supported a collection of mechanical contrivances that looked, at first glance, like a fantastic Rube Goldberg device for catching mice or fetching objects from the tops of the vaults. But as I studied the brass gears and levers and trails of tubes and wiring, the shape of the machine emerged as a gigantic, moving guillotine that could probably make a party of robbers into hash in seconds—after securing all the vault doors with supplementary grids and bars, of course.

The rather grim mechanical marvel glinted with polish and oil, but even looking as deep into the Grey as I dared, I saw no sign it had ever fulfilled its deadly purpose. The vault was remarkably quiet in the Grey, except for the occasional flicker of Percy the poltergeist, though I supposed that shouldn’t have surprised me: Magic and technology have an uncomfortable relationship.

Mrs. Jabril smiled again as she saw me figure it out. “Mr. Jabril was fascinated with mechanics and clockworks. Had his father not been a silversmith, he would no doubt have become a watchmaker. Come along,” she added, walking forward into the stone embrace of the vaults.

I wondered exactly how distant was the relation between Mrs. Jabril and her mechanically inclined namesake. Given the sinister oddities I’d already encountered in London, I thought it might be healthier not to inquire.

“When was the last time anyone accessed this vault?” I asked as she stopped before one of the larger doors.

There was a tiny pause before she spoke again.

“You have all the right papers and you do not appear to be . . . malign in any way. You are not like Mr. Purcell and Mr. Kammerling, but I can see you are not . . . like other people.” She paused again before she added, “I shall answer your questions.”

She went still as she thought about my query, her eyes looking off to the side and I imagined—no, I was sure—I could hear the muted whirring of minuscule gears. “Just over three weeks ago, Mr. Purcell sent his assistant, Jakob, to place a few things in the vault. An unpleasant creature, that one. He also left a letter for me which asked that I open the vault for him later that week at half an hour before closing time. I did so. Mr. Purcell arrived exactly on time and replaced several objects as well as adding a box of papers and a letter that I believe is intended for you.”

“Me?”

Mrs. Jabril nodded. “For whoever might come to open the vault after him, that is. He said that he might not return to open it again. And he forbade me to open it to Jakob without his presence.”

Purcell had been twisted to Alice’s purposes, but he hadn’t been entirely in the dark about the dangers. He had anticipated trouble and done what he could. I hoped the letter would give some indication of why he hadn’t spoken directly to Edward about it, though with the asetem in the picture, that may have been enough.

Mrs. Jabril cut short my mental wandering by opening the iron grille in front of the vault door. It looked too heavy for such a tiny woman to move, but I was becoming quite sure she wasn’t at all a normal person. She pointed to one of two keyholes—there was one on the top and one on the bottom of the door, an uncomfortable span for anyone other than an ape—and told me to put my key into the one on top. She slid hers into the keyhole on the bottom and we turned them together. The door loosened in its frame and sighed a little as a gust of air cooler than the air in the cellar leaked out. Mrs. Jabril took hold of the door’s handle and turned it with the sound of metal rolling on metal. The hinges made a whisper of protest as she opened the door.

Given the production of opening it, I expected the treasure of King Solomon’s mines, but the interior of the small vault was packed with various crates and wooden cases with a pile of plastic file boxes near the front. A large envelope had been taped to the top of the nearest file box and an open carton sat beside it.

“I shall return to the office above, if you like,” Mrs. Jabril offered. “There is a bell near the lift which you can ring for me.”

There was no way I had the time or temptation to go through the whole vault. I suspected that Purcell had left everything I needed in the box on top, and I was certain I could trust Mrs. Jabril. “I don’t think that’s necessary. If you don’t mind waiting while I read the letter, I’m sure I won’t be much longer than that,” I said, looking into the vault.

Mrs. Jabril said nothing and stood silently by as I reached for the envelope, which was addressed, “Edward, or his Agent.” A curious little symbol near the bottom of the address glowed red and then blue as I picked up the letter, and I thought it was probably some kind of ward. I wondered what would have happened to the letter if I wasn’t in possession of Edward’s power of attorney. Bursting into flames seemed likely. A gold wafer and two small blobs of blue wax held the flap closed. A little nervous, I broke them and opened the letter.

I have done what I can to mitigate your losses, converted as much as possible to negotiable forms, made transfers of deed and title, and moved assets as swiftly as possible to those safe places of which we spoke long ago. I have collected copies of those papers into the boxes attached to this letter as well as certain articles which I know to be of great importance to you. I have left them to the care of the clockwork, she, of all things, being unassailable. Once the proper forms are filed, your property will be restored, as much as it can be, but the power that held St. James’s is gone, taken by that abomination that called herself Alice and that black monster, Simeon.

Beware of them and even of your own shadow. There is a traitor among your close circle who comes from the Pharaohn himself and will be dangerous beyond description and subtle as a serpent. You must be most careful if you are to escape the Pharaohn’s machinations. More so than I have been.

I regret that my foolishness has cost you so much and that I shall not see you again to say that I am sorry.

The sheer volume of paper was staggering for such a small container. Packed into the box were records of stock transactions, transfers of title to dozens of properties, records of deed and incor porations, bank account records, recordings of probate, and dozens of other legal documents. From the dates, it appeared Purcell had done it all himself in a whirlwind of activity during the shortening spring twilight of the two weeks before he was taken by Alice’s minions. No wonder he hadn’t replied to Edward’s messages; he’d spent all the available time trying to fix what had gone wrong and he didn’t trust anyone to make replies for him—not once he’d realized that Jakob was tainted by the asetem, as he must have been. I put the letter into the front of the file case and picked up both that and the small carton of odds and ends. Then I carried them out of the vault and shut the door.

“I’m ready to go,” I said to the patient Mrs. Jabril.

She hadn’t moved or complained while I looked through the boxes. Now she stepped forward and helped me relock the door before closing the grille back over it.

I watched her through the deepest layer of the Grey as she finished her job. Her eyes really were emeralds and her teeth truly were pearls: she was “the clockwork” that Purcell had mentioned, a thing of metal and machinery beneath her sagging skin, animated by that pure golden magic I had observed in her corona and by a spark of something human tangled at the heart of her gears and pinions. But beyond that, the only sign of humanity was the lingering trace of the man who’d built her, though she faked it well.

I surmised it was her job to care for the vault—maybe it always had been—and her charge to answer if asked the right questions. Jabril, the silversmith who’d wanted to be a clockmaker, must have built her. I’d never seen anything like her before, but she was a thing of laws and mechanisms, and one thing I knew was that creatures like her did not lie or deviate from their programming. She must have been nearly two hundred years old, but she would mind the shop and the vault and carry out her maker’s intentions until she fell to bits, however long she lasted.

She turned and looked at me as she finished. “Is there anything else?”

“Only that you shouldn’t allow anyone access to that vault except Edward Kammerling or his agent.”

“You?”

“Gods, I hope not,” I replied, shuddering at the thought.

“Shall I see Mr. Purcell again?”

“I don’t know.”

She nodded and started back to the lift. I caught up to her in a few strides.

“Mrs. Jabril,” I started, a little reluctant to ask but compelled to the question and knowing she would be equally compelled to answer, “have you ever met a man called Simeon? A . . . wizard?”

“A sorcerer,” she corrected. “I met him once, when Mr. Jabril was still alive. An evil man. He had raised up an apprentice of great talent—a distant cousin of Mr. Jabril’s named Ezra—nurtured his power, and used him to learn great things. Then he slew him and drank Ezra’s soul. Only I knew, and I could say nothing against him. I do not care to see Simeon bin Salah again. Has he something to do with Mr. Purcell’s going away?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” She said not another word until I was leaving the shop, and then she shook my hand with her cold, hard one in which I felt the cables and cogs moving under the skin. She said, “I shall look after the vault. As we always have.” She had a significant gleam in her emerald eyes as she nodded to me. I pitied anyone or anything fool enough to try to get past Mrs. Jabril and her mechanical cousin below.

On my way back down the arcade, Percy tried to trip me, giggling in a chorus of ghostly voices. I stumbled and caught myself, muttering, “Damn you. Don’t make me come after you, you pain in the butt.”

The collective mean spirit of Percy whispered in my ear, “It wasn’t at all what you thought, was it, little girl?”

“What?” I barked, turning in a circle to catch a glimpse of the poltergeist.

“It’s not over,” the chorus whispered.

One of the beadles strolled over and steadied me by the elbow. “Are you all right, madam?”

“I’m fine. I slipped but I’m OK.” It wasn’t just what the poltergeist had said but how that flipped me out. “Little girl,” it had called me—my father’s pet term, again. I’d always supposed that he’d have continued to call me that, had he lived to see me at my current five foot ten, and I was shaken by the poltergeist’s use of it. Had all these communications really been from my father? Was Dad somehow reaching through the wards around him? Why—or how—after so much time . . . unless he was making a desperate effort to help me before it was too late. . . . The thought added urgency to my plans and a terrible weight to the future.

“Do you require assistance?” the beadle asked.

I started to refuse but thought I’d be better off without another visit from Percy. “Yes, please. I seem to be managing poorly with these boxes.” With a very good grace, he took the biggest box from me and escorted me to the nearest street door to hail a cab and wave me on my way. There were no other little tricks from the resident poltergeist.

I asked for the nearest place I could pack and ship the boxes, and the cabby obliged with alacrity while I worried at the question of what the poltergeist meant. It was obvious this was a continuation of the messages I’d been getting since this whole kerfuffle started, but they’d dropped off once I’d left the States and I’d been happy to be shut of them for a while. Now here was another message and much clearer than before. The question I’d started out with had been answered to a degree: I was a Greywalker because my father had dumped the job and Wygan, the Pharaohn of the asetem-ankh-astet, had a purpose for one, a special one, so he’d pushed us to be that tool. But, as the ghosts had warned, that answer wasn’t the answer at all. The real question wasn’t so much “why” as “what next?” and the answers seemed to be coming, in a way, from my dad, if the telltale endearment meant anything. Obviously, I had a lot of unfinished business back in Seattle, which included finding out what had become of my killer and what Wygan was doing with the ghost of my father. Yet another reason to get home as soon as possible. The job I’d come for was almost done and the one remaining loomed like a tidal wave.