Wicked (25 page)

“I don’t like leaving Mr. Mittleman.”

“You won’t be leaving him. Ralph and Tristan will look after him.”

Corwin mulled it over.

“I must get to confession!” she said, sounding desperate.

He nodded. “As you wish. And I’ll be waiting for you, you needn’t worry.”

She went to Tristan and found him in his room, playing chess with Ralph. He was up and dressed and looking very well.

She greeted him with a kiss on the cheek and whispered a possible move to him. Tristan’s eyes widened with delight. He made the move. Ralph scratched his head.

“Ah, Camie, that’s not at all fair! I’d have had his sorry hide, I would have!”

“Oh, Ralph! You’re right, I shouldn’t have helped. It’s just that he is a recuperating man, and we wouldn’t want him to feel as if he hadn’t all his senses going for him, would we?”

“Your friend, Alex, is doing well?” Tristan asked.

She nodded. “Tristan, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’d…I’d dearly like to get to church.”

“Church? It’s Saturday,” Tristan said.

Again, she sighed. “I know, but….” She was lying, and lying about church. That couldn’t be good. Still, it was important. “I’ve an appointment to talk, you know.”

“You can talk to me.”

“She wants to speak with someone a bit more holy than the likes of us!” Ralph said.

“I feel it’s important for the welfare of my soul.”

“I’d imagine, Camie, that your soul is in wondrous shape!” Ralph told her.

She smiled. “It’s troubled, I’m afraid. And you two have definitely put some of the trouble into my soul!” she told him, but without reprimand. “I’ve asked Corwin to get me into London, but I’m afraid to leave Alex alone. I mean—” She hesitated. “I mean that I don’t want him left alone for a minute, not a minute.”

Tristan looked at her gravely.

“I’ll see to him,” he swore gravely.

“Ralph, if Tristan leaves, you must see to him,” she said.

Ralph nodded to her solemnly, as well.

She thanked them both.

Now, all she had to do was get out of the house without Evelyn Prior being aware that she was leaving!

H
E KNEW,
as soon as he started down the street, despite the bustle around him as many hurried on to the Saturday market, that he was being followed.

He made a point of joining in the market rush, pausing to inspect vegetables. Fishmongers hawked their fresh catches, and farmers crowed about the taste of their crops. He inspected fruits that were advertised to have arrived just that morning from the south, and each time he paused, he noted the man behind him.

He bought a bag of oranges, fresh in from the Mediterranean if the fellow selling them was to be believed. The bag was heavy. Perfect.

He continued his way along the streets, then set forth through a string of alleys, stepping over a drunk here and there, tossing a few coins to children begging.

At last he found what he was seeking—an overgrown square, littered with gin bottles and debris, surrounded by houses with boarded-up windows.

And when he entered, the fellow followed.

“I
HAVE A GREAT DEAL
on my conscience,” Camille told Corwin. “If you wish to have a spot of tea or a pint of ale, I’ll be a good hour or so.”

“Whatever you wish, Miss Camille. I will be here,” he swore, leaving her at the entrance to St. Mary’s.

She quickly walked up the path to the great front doors. Once inside, she felt the guilt of her lie upon her. She wasn’t Catholic, but she crossed herself before the high altar, then hurried out through the cloister.

On a back street, she found a hansom. When she arrived
at the museum, crowds were all about in the street. The fiasco of the night before had not kept them away. Indeed, it appeared they were more fascinated than ever to view the remnants of ancient Egypt. The thrill of believing that there was a curse was like an aphrodisiac.

Camille caught bits and pieces of conversation as she hurried through the Saturday crowds, then through the area where the elegantly adorned tables had been placed just the night before. Everything was as it had been, as if the gala had never taken place. Except that the terrarium was gone.

She ran up the steps and came into the offices. Sir John was not there, but his coat rested on the back of his chair. Knowing where he was, Camille sped back down the stairs to the storage rooms.

To her surprise, the door was open. She stepped in. “Sir John?” There was no answer.

She walked on in, certain that he had to be in there somewhere. “Sir John!” Still, there was no answer. She began to move through the vast aisles of cartons, coming to the rear where the massive crates had held the sarcophagi of the dead found at the last expedition. Most crates now lay open.

There was a
ping!
The light, poor at best, faded as one of the few overhead bulbs exploded.

“Sir John?”

“Camille…!”
That voice again, calling out to her. Then, from within one of the crates, something slowly began to rise.

“Camille…!”

Dust from thousands of years formed a sudden haze. The mummy began to rise from the sarcophagus, then staggered to its feet and came jolting after her….

It was so dark. Her heart began to thunder as she backed away, her mind denying the possibility that such a thing could occur. And then, the cracked and terrible whisper again.

“Camille…”

A
S SOON AS HE SENSED
the man directly behind him, Brian spun around, planting his fingers around the fellow’s throat.

“Wait! Stop, for the love of God!”

Brian held tight, feeling the man’s fingers tearing at his hand in desperation. He quickly ascertained that the man wasn’t filthy, and though his clothing was poor it was not shabby. He didn’t seem the type to inhabit the pub.

“Start talking!” he commanded.

“I didn’t come to hurt you,” the man choked out.

“Why were you following me.”

The fellow hesitated.

“Let’s go to the police, shall we?” Brian said.

“What?”

“Let’s go to the police. Now!”

The man let out a long exhaust of air. “I am the police.”

It was Brian’s turn to be confused.
“What?”

“I’m Detective Clancy, Scotland Yard!” the man said quickly.

Not at all certain, Brian warily eased his hold. The fellow stepped back, rubbing his throat.

“You were at the pub,” Brian said.

“You were at the pub,” he said, and added nervously, “And you’re under arrest.”

“For…?”

“Robbery—and murder!”

C
AMILLE STARED
at the apparition, panic rising in her breast. She backed away, ready to turn and flee. And then, suddenly, sense and fury overrode terror. Mummies were nothing but the pathetic remains of people who had believed that their bodies would serve them in an afterlife. They did
not
come back to life. But someone willing to go to the lengths of playing a mummy might well be a murderer, though wrapped as they were, they could not do much harm. It was her chance.

She played the game, turning to run in terror. But as the creature stumbled after her, she looked for a weapon along the way.

She passed the crate she had delved into the other day. And, of course, she knew that the mummy’s arm was already broken off. She reached into the crate, came to a standstill and swung with all her might, catching the lumbering being hard in the ribs.

“Damnation!” a voice cried out in agony. The figure doubled over.

Camille gave it another hard smack on the head for good measure. The creature fell to the ground, clasping its head now with wrapped hands. The ancient arm had taken too much abuse, as well. It crumpled into pieces.

“Lord God!” the thing on the floor swore.

“Who the hell are you?” Camille raged in fury, no longer afraid in the least, though she might have used more common sense.

“It’s me, Camille. I was just trying to scare you.”

“Me who?”

The creature was already maneuvering around to sit up. Camille reached forward, grabbing hold of a loose piece of tattered linen and pulling.

“Ouch! Go slow, please!”

The man grabbed hold of her hand, then the wrapping.

“Hunter!” she gasped.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“You idiot! I could have killed you.”

In the darkness he looked at her dryly. “Not with a mummy’s arm, though I admit, you took me by surprise and you pack a strength that hurts abominably!”

“Hunter, what in God’s name are you doing?” she demanded.

“I told you! Trying to scare you.”

“Why?”

“So that you get away from Brian Stirling and the wretched curse he’s brought down on all of us again! Help me up, will you? And please, I beg of you, don’t let it get out that I was beat to the floor by a…a woman.”

“Beat to the floor! Hunter, this is far more serious than that!”

“Yes, it is. You’re living with the man. And you’re engaged to him.”

“Hunter, stand up. Let’s get the rest of these wrappings off you.”

“Yes, I guess we should hurry, before Sir John makes an appearance.”

“Where is he? His coat is in the office.”

As they finished taking off the wrappings—half real, from some poor naked mummy, and half, apparently, concocted from museum canvas—Camille was astounded that he had been able to fool her, even for a second.

“I saw him earlier, not since,” Hunter said.

“Well, you’re an idiot,” she told him flatly. “Sir John is somewhere. And how did you even know that I’d be in today?”

“I knew you’d be in. After last night.”

“That’s a ridiculous assumption. After last night, I shouldn’t be anywhere near the place today!”

He grew somber suddenly. “How is old Alex doing?”

“He was sound asleep when I left, but the doctor said that he was doing very well. Steady pulse, good respiratory. It’s a miracle.”

“Hmm.” Hunter wound all the wrappings together and set them in one of the cases. “How is my hair? Too much dust or dirt?”

“You look all right, for a grown man who played at
being a mummy,” she said. “Hunter, that was truly cruel! And what did you think you’d achieve?”

He sighed. “Camille, I cannot tell you just how concerned I am. Perhaps I can’t convince you that there is such a thing as a curse. But there is something very wrong at Carlyle Castle, and with Brian Stirling. He has stayed away from the museum and things have gone well. He appears, and Alex is bitten by an asp, Lord Wimbly is called before the Queen—”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes!”

“And it seems that Sir John has gone slightly mad. He doesn’t really hear anyone, he’s never at his desk…Camille, please. I swear, I am terrified for you.”

He was so sincere, it was touching. But she retained her anger and indignation. “You might have given me a heart attack, you know.”

“Hardly!” he protested. “You weren’t even out of here before you’d convinced yourself that a mummy couldn’t rise.”

“Perhaps we’d best leave now,” Camille said. Then she looked at him, puzzled. “How on earth did you manage to make the lightbulb break?” she demanded.

“I didn’t,” he admitted with a rueful grin. “It was simply rather convenient timing.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “Hunter, if you ever—”

“Camille, please, tell me that you’ll at least think about what I’m saying?” he begged.

“Hunter, you’re right. I don’t believe in curses. We shouldn’t have kept a cobra at the museum. Naturally Lord Wimbly has to face the music regarding what happened. However, I believe it will all work out.”

“There’s something evil afoot, whether it’s a curse or a madman,” he said.

She sighed, looking downward.

He stepped forward, catching her chin. “Why, you’re in love with the bastard, aren’t you?”

“Hunter—” she began to say, then froze.

They were both dead still as they heard the eerie sound of a groan in the near darkness.

B
RIAN SAT
in one of the few private offices at the Metropolitan police station with Detective Clancy and Sergeant Garth Vickford, the first one at the scene of the shooting yesterday.

Though he hadn’t shed his costume hair or beard, Brian had identified himself in the square. At first, Clancy had a bit of difficulty believing him or grasping the situation. But since Brian had been the one with the upper hand there, he’d been forced to listen.

Brian had been averse to continuing their discussion in the square, not certain if there had been others following him from the pub, as well. He did not care to have Clancy or himself shot down by a sniper on a distant roof or by bold ruffians simply running in from the alley, so he had insisted that they head for the station to further their conversation.

“We know that the fellow killed in the square was the man actually arranging the sales of black market items,” Detective Clancy explained to Brian. “His name, we know now, was William Green, or at least that’s as close as we’ll get to his true identity. That woman at McNally’s apparently changed her line of work during the days of Jack the Ripper, though I imagine she takes on a fellow now and then. But mainly she pretends to be a whore, and acts as a go-between for all manner of criminals. We knew there
was such a place, we just didn’t know where many of the illegal Egyptian transactions were taking place until Green was killed the other day and some bystanders mentioned that he’d come from McNally’s.”

“There have been those dealing in the black market forever,” Brian said. “What drew this sudden interest and determination from your department?”

Clancy flushed, looking at Vickford. “Well, it’s come down the line, you see.” He cleared his throat. “We all know that our good Queen Victoria once believed in mesmerism and the like. And as eager as she is for her Empire, for Britain’s stake in Egypt and the Commonwealth, it seems she might also believe in tombs being cursed and all that rot. But then she recently discovered that a number of treasures bound for Britain were winding up in France. There’s nothing to annoy her like the French taking a lead in anything, you know. She’s had warnings out with our superiors, Lord Stirling, since you returned from Egypt with…with your parents’ remains. We’ve gotten our hands on a few of the petty dealers, but there’s a Frenchman who has diplomatic immunity. The fellow’s name is Lacroisse, Henri Lacroisse. He’s frequently at court, and just as frequently taking trips home. We believe he’s looking to buy a very specific object that someone has promised him. When we found Green shot, we managed to bring in a few witnesses. Twice, when we showed them sketches, they recognized Henri Lacroisse as a man who had been seen on the streets with Green.”

“If you suspect him of murder, why don’t you bring him in?” Brian demanded.

“He is a French diplomat,” Vickford supplied, shaking his head. “It’s not an easy matter.” He frowned. “And we don’t believe he shot Green. He was at a tea at the time, or so a number of witnesses will swear. We did go so far as to discreetly ascertain his whereabouts.”

Brian looked at the two policemen. “The buyer is not going to kill his messenger,” he said.

“Of course,” Detective Clancy said with dignity. “But we still had to make sure. Naturally our assumption is that the person with the treasure either killed Mr. Green or had him killed. God knows why. Maybe he had threatened to talk to save his own skin. Anyway, he’s paid the ultimate price for his crimes, and like as not, with a fellow like him, the hangman has been saved some work.”

“Does the Queen or the Marquis of Salisbury know that you are suspicious of this man, Lacroisse?”

Clancy looked uncomfortable. “So far, all that I’ve been is suspicious. And you know Her Majesty. As fine and good as she is a ruler for a Constitutional Monarchy, she remains…well, she remains the Queen. The prime minister is far more pragmatic. Still, without proof, his hands are tied. And this moment Her Majesty is still deeply disturbed that there were whispers about the Royal House during the Ripper terror, and she is not going to allow us to accuse Lacroisse without evidence. But Lacroisse couldn’t be buying treasures if someone wasn’t selling them. I’m afraid, Lord Stirling, that I was delighted to think I had my man, or at least an involved culprit, when I followed you from the pub. Now I fear we are all but back to square one.”

“Maybe not,” Brian mused.

“How so?” Clancy asked.

Brian rose. “Perhaps, Detective Clancy, diplomatic protocol prevents you from questioning this Monsieur Lacroisse. But it does not prevent me from asking him to dine with curators and staff of the museum.”

C
AMILLE TURNED,
following the sound of the groan.

“Camille! Wait, you could be…hurt!” Hunter called after her. He followed quickly behind.

She didn’t fear being hurt. Whoever was groaning was in pain.

She went down one wrong row of cartons and boxes and sarcophagi, then turned and backtracked along the right row. She saw the body on the floor next to the boxes before recognizing the man.
Sir John.

“Oh!” she cried, falling to her knees at his side. He was struggling to sit up. She caught his shoulders. “Sir John…”

It would be inane to ask him if he was all right; he definitely wasn’t. But he was blinking, steadying himself. “What happened? Are you seriously hurt?” she said, looking at him anxiously.

He shook his head, swallowing, closing his eyes and frowning. “Help me up!” he said.

By then, Hunter was at her side. “Sir John, here, take my arm.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be getting up so fast! Take it easy. What happened?” she asked at last, seeing that he didn’t intend to heed her words of warning, and that he was rising.

“How long have I been…unconscious?” he asked in return.

Camille shook her head. Hunter’s eyes widened and he lifted his shoulders, assuring her he was as baffled as she.

“It, um, had to be a while,” he said, not admitting that he had been in the storeroom for some time.

“Sir John!” Camille said firmly. “What happened to you?”

“Let’s get him upstairs, get him some water,” Hunter suggested.

Camille glared at him. “Did someone attack you?” she demanded, taking his other arm, helping Hunter lead him toward the door.

“I—” He stopped walking. “I don’t know! I was down here, looking. It has to exist, you know.”

“What has to exist?” Hunter said.

“Why, the cobra, of course,” Sir John said, as if puzzled that Hunter shouldn’t understand.

“Sir John, I think we need to go to the police,” she said.

“What cobra?” Hunter asked.

“The police!” Sir John protested, alarmed. “No…no!” He shook his head, an emphatic no and another attempt to clear his mind. He pulled free from her hold and Hunter’s, backing away. “No. It was the lid of the packing carton. No one came after me. I was foolish, careless. And annoyed. The cleaning fellow had been around the place, and I wanted to be annoyed. I’m afraid I was rather sharp with the old man. And then I was impatient. It’s one of those lids that has hinges. I put it up but I didn’t secure it. It fell on my head!”

Camille didn’t believe him. And she was suddenly suspicious of the cleaning man. It was true that since the fellow had been hired, he did a lot more hovering than cleaning and sweeping!

“Arboc was here?” she said.

“Yes. Everything was in quite a state after last night, as you can imagine.”

“Sir John, maybe the fellow hit you,” Camille said.

“Camille, I have told you what happened.”

“What cobra?” Hunter said again.

Camille sighed, shaking her head. “There was mention of a golden, jeweled cobra in the work I’m transcribing, that’s all. And it isn’t in any of the catalogues or lists.”

“But I believe it exists!” Sir John said. “And it must be found. I must find it before…before it cannot be found.”

“Sir John, perhaps next week we should take a day where we bring in the police and the entire staff, and just go through everything here.”

He glanced at her, but he wasn’t really giving her his
attention. “It needs to be found.” He touched his forehead and closed his eyes. He looked as if he was about to faint again.

Camille reached out, touching the back of his head. She cried out. “Sir John! You’ve an enormous knot on your crown. You need a doctor—”

“No! It’s a bump, it will go down. I do not want a doctor. There will be no more attention drawn to this museum at the moment. There will be no more doctors brought in, and there will be no more talk about curses!” he said.

“Then you must get home,” she told him firmly.

“Yes, you must go home!” Hunter agreed.

He looked from one to the other and then sighed, seeming to lose strength. “All right, all right. I’ll go home immediately.” He managed to get the strength together to walk ahead of the two of them. “I’ll get one of the officers down here, have him watching. There are too many keys out. Too many keys.”

He stopped at the door and turned to them, his eyes suddenly suspicious. “Are you coming?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Camille murmured, looking worriedly at Hunter. Then she glanced at the watch locket she wore around her chest and winced. Good Lord, she must have been admitting to scores of sins!

“Hunter, I must…go,” she said. “Will you see to it, please, that Sir John actually gets into a hansom or a carriage. He must go home!”

“I’ll see to it,” Hunter swore.

She bid Sir John a safe and restful Sunday, left him with Hunter and hurried out of the building, eagerly seeking a cab at the entrance.

S
IR
J
OHN WAS IN AGONY,
and so rattled that he couldn’t think straight. Hunter was there, with him. They stood in one of
the exhibition halls, yet he couldn’t quite grasp where he was. He needed to stay, to finish what he had started. No, no…he needed to get home. To get rid of the pounding in his head.

“Come on, Sir John, I’ve got to see you out of here,” Hunter said. “I’ve promised Camille.”

“Yes…and she’ll be a countess now, soon, right?” Sir John murmured.

“Do you believe that? I don’t,” Hunter said harshly. “He’s using her. All he wants is revenge. Against us.”

“No…no…” Sir John said.

“She’ll see it soon enough. And I won’t let him continue to use her—against us.”

“What do you intend to do?” Sir John asked worriedly.

“Expose him.”

“You’ll ruin us all.”

“Oh, come, come, Sir John. He isn’t the only rich man in England! And he’s not sane, no matter what the pretense, the show. Come on, I’ve got to get you out of here.”

Despite the pain, Sir John shook his head. “I need a little time.”

“Sir John, I promised Camille that I’d see you home!”

“Then wait for me here. I have something to do first.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No!” Sir John said firmly. He looked at Hunter suspiciously. “You wait right here!”

“Right here, in the Old Kingdom exhibit, eh?” Hunter said.

“Just wait!” Sir John said, and he forced himself not to stagger as he hurried for the stairs.

C
AMILLE RETURNED TO THE CHURCH,
hurried through the cloisters, nearly knocked over a priest and stopped for a second to offer an abject apology.

Out on the street again, she felt her heart skip a few beats. She didn’t see Corwin in the crowds.

“Miss Camille!” he called her, and she turned, gratefully heading for the carriage. He helped her in, saying nothing about the amount of time she’d been gone.

The drive back to the castle seemed long and, indeed, with the traffic in the streets, it was. She wondered what business Brian had been about that day; she prayed she reached Carlyle Castle before he returned.

It was nearly dark when they came to the outer gates. As the carriage ventured in, she heard the wolves crying in the forest, foretelling the coming of night. The horses’ hooves clip-clopped over the drawbridge.

At the doorway to the castle proper, she thanked Corwin and hurried in. She went immediately to Alex’s room and was relieved to find him there with both Tristan and Ralph. They had brought their chess set in.

“How is he?” she asked anxiously.

“He wakes now and then. He has had a spot of tea, a bit of broth. I believe he’s doing well,” Tristan said.

“She
brought the broth,” Ralph said.

“But we sniffed it good, then tasted it,” Tristan told her. “And we’ve not dropped dead yet!”

Camille frowned. They were taking their guard duties very much to heart. Evelyn Prior might be suspicious, but she’d hardly dare poison anyone in the earl’s house!

“I’ll stay with him now, if you two have…well, anything to do,” she said. There was little they could do. Now that Tristan was well, they could leave the castle. Except that, at her own insistence, Alex was here now.

As the men stared at her, she found herself wondering what she would do if it weren’t for Alex. Tristan was obviously well enough for them to return home. But…did she want to return home?

It was one thing to be used by a nobleman who was passionately bitter, determined on the truth. It was another when he began announcing that they were engaged when they were not. And when…she was in love with him.

“We could take a bit of a walk,” Tristan told Ralph.

“A walk is good,” Ralph agreed. “Except for the wolves.”

“Well, the wolves aren’t this side of the bridge. We’ll stroll the courtyard. And then we’ll come back here. And I’ll trounce you again, Ralph!”

“Humph!” Ralph said indignantly. He looked at Camille. “When I was winning, Sir Tristan had the strangest tic in his leg. Toppled the board over, he did.”

“Tristan, I hope you conceded that game to Ralph,” she said.

Tristan smiled ruefully. “Aye, it was Ralph’s game! Well, shall we? Let’s see if the old Iron Maiden tries to stop us!”

“Let her try!” Ralph said.

The two men left, but Camille had the feeling that if they were to so much as see Evelyn Prior in the hall, they’d be running back.

She sat on the bed next to Alex, noting that his color was good indeed, and that his pulse was strong. As she held his wrist, he opened his eyes. He tried a weak smile.