Horatio Lyle Read online

  ‘I could think of . . .’

  ‘No! If you must know, I have a fondness for the fireplace and early nights.’ Glowering across the top of the sarcophagus, Lyle slid the hook between the lid and body, and carefully bent it side to side, until something clicked. The lid jerked slightly and he hastily turned the knife, pushing the lid up half an inch, when it would go no further. Wordlessly he passed the hook over to Tess, who slid it under the lid and wiggled it until, on her side of the sarcophagus, a like mechanism gave a similar click. The lid jerked slightly and Lyle slid his fingers under, pulling it up lightly and holding it open. The two of them looked down into the dark rectangle of the sarcophagus. Tess said thoughtfully, ‘Shouldn’t there be somethin’ there?’

  Lyle looked surprisingly cheerful, carefully putting down the wooden lid and brushing his hands clean, a severe expression mingling with an excited look in the eyes. ‘There should be a mummy.’

  ‘A . . .’

  ‘Dead person in bandages.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked utterly disinterested.

  Lyle sighed, disappointed that she wasn’t sharing his enthusiasm, and said almost reproachfully, ‘I think I know how it was done.’

  ‘Oh. So does that mean we can stop workin’ now and have lunch? I mean, not that I ain’t curious an’ all, but . . . lunch . . .’ Tess’s eyes bulged in what, on any other species from injured puppy to pining kitten, would have been a desperate cry for emotional support, and on her gave her young face a slightly gerbil-like quality.

  Lyle glowered and rolled up his bundle of tools, slipping them back into a pocket. He strode towards the door with the confidence of someone who knows what he expects to find and isn’t prepared to tolerate anything else. Tess followed dutifully. Tate yawned. At the door, Lyle paused to examine the hinged bolts that ran across it and towards the wall. The hinge ran, by a complicated series of bolts and turns, into an arm that extended into the iron door itself, and moved up and down in a carefully cut groove. Lyle peered inside, but with just the low lamplight, could see nothing but darkness, smelling of oil. He sighed again and dug in his pocket, pulling out a small globe of tinted glass that fitted easily in the palm of his hand. He said, businesslike, ‘Pass the lantern, please.’

  Tess handed him the lantern and watched in fascination as he held the globe carefully over the flame until the bottom started to blacken, and carefully slid a tiny glass shutter off the top of the globe, so that the top was open to the air. Almost immediately, it blossomed into burning white light, too bright to look at directly, and only slightly filtered by the tinted glass. Tess jumped away hastily. ‘What the holy hell is that!’

  ‘Language.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. What is it?’

  ‘Magnesium.’

  ‘Oh, you should’ve said it were magnesium, sir, that makes everything clearer. I mean, it were all we ever talked ’bout down at Shoreditch, sir, how they ain’t makin’ magnesium the way they used’a do, how it ain’t never blowin’ up and fizzin’ and goin’ all scary and bright without warnin’ like we always said it should. If you’d said it were magnesium, sir, I would never have lost five years of my life just then, sir.’

  He shot her a sideways look, and said nothing.

  Holding the globe carefully between thumb and forefinger, he peered into the groove once more, the white light falling on internal gears and bolts that lined the inside of the door in small armies. He said brightly, ‘Ah. There it is. Teresa?’ She took the lantern back and, with some trepidation, the burning globe, holding it at arm’s length while inside it the metal blazed white, occasionally sparking in the process and leaving a bright after-burn ingrained on her eyeballs. With a strained expression Lyle slid his knife into the small groove under the protruding metal arm and twiddled it. There was a click. Something inside the door went thunk in a loud, decisive manner. Lyle drew back his hand quickly as the arm slowly descended, sending the bolts shooting across the door. Tess jumped. Lyle grinned, and, reaching into the groove, turned the knife the opposite way. The arm lifted and the hinges retracted to the open position again. Looking smug, he wrapped the knife up. ‘I think I’m getting interested in this. The old brain has started to work once more. If we’re lucky, it’ll be over in time for Brahms at St Martin’s.’

  In Tess’s hand, the little sphere of burning light flickered and died. Lyle sighed and plucked it from her nerveless fingers, wrinkled his nose at the little wisp of smoke coming off it, wrapped it in a handkerchief and dropped it back into his pocket.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What the . . . uh . . . I mean, what ’s happenin’?’

  ‘I know how the thief got in. Actually, I know how the thief got out having got in, which is by far the trickier question. I’m just a little concerned that he came so well prepared. Come on, Teresa, let’s go and pester the aristocracy.’

  She brightened at this prospect. ‘I’ve never pestered a bigwig, sir.’

  ‘It’s a wonderful pastime.’

  They walked side by side up along the corridor, past the guard ’s room to the iron door just beyond. Tess said, ‘How’d he get past this?’

  ‘One of two methods. No - one of two rational methods.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Either he picked the lock, or the door was already unlocked.’

  She frowned. ‘The last one seems easiest.’

  ‘You are economical, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s my best quality, sir.’ She paused, then said, ‘So . . . how’d he do it?’

  ‘I’m afraid of telling you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re already far too good at what you do without me giving you ideas.’

  Tess beamed proudly, and nudged him, trying to look sly. ‘Go on, sir. You want me to help you with security, right?’

  They walked on through long dim corridors, until Lyle suddenly reached out and grabbed Tess by the arm. ‘Shush.’ At his feet Tate started growling.

  From the end of the corridor, they heard a voice, the same precise voice that Tess had been introduced to earlier. Lyle paled. ‘Damn,’ he muttered, eyebrows drawing together. The voice grew louder. Then the owner appeared round a corner, saw Lyle and stopped dead. Lyle’s face had contorted into something resembling a dentist’s smile, all teeth and pain.

  ‘Special Constable Lyle,’ said the man at the end of the corridor in a low, clipped voice. Tate ’s eyes narrowed, and his nose wrinkled in an expression of doggy dislike.

  ‘Inspector Vellum.’ Lyle’s voice could have announced a funeral.

  ‘I wasn’t aware that you were involved in this investigation.’

  ‘Well, you know, I don’t like to make a fuss . . .’

  ‘Do I know that?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I fear you will find me ignorant. I see you still have that pet of yours.’ Tate growled. Lyle very gently nudged him towards Tess with an ankle. Tess squatted down and scratched behind Tate’s huge ears.

  ‘And who is this individual you’re with?’

  ‘Uh, Teresa, this is . . .’

  Tess bounced forward hastily, held out her hand, and declared, ‘I am Lady Teresa of Prussia. In fact, of Russia and Spain.’ She saw his eyebrows go up and wondered if she’d pushed a little bit too far. ‘Only by marriage.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Yes. Indeed.’

  ‘And what, pray, does your ladyship feel she can bring to this undertaking?’

  She hesitated. ‘Uh . . .’

  Lyle’s hands fell very firmly on her shoulders and through gritted teeth he said, ‘Inspector Vellum, I trust your literary exploits are successful?’

  ‘Indeed, yes. I will reserve you a copy of my latest undertaking. Four shillings only, I believe.’

  ‘What journal is it published in?’

  ‘No journal, Constable Lyle. Published by the house of Hooker and Son.’

  ‘Mr Hooker is your publisher?’

  ‘That is correc
t.’

  ‘Isn’t he your wife’s brother?’

  Tess could see a slow darkness spreading behind Vellum’s bland expression, hear an edge entering his nasal voice. ‘Constable Lyle, I was always fascinated by the frontal lobe development of your skull, symbolic, I believe, of your whole engaging persona.’

  Lyle felt his forehead. ‘I can’t feel any kind of frontal development. ’

  ‘Quite.’

  He glared. ‘Inspector Vellum,’ he said, in a voice etched with steel, ‘perhaps you would like to oversee my commission. It comes from a certain Lord Lincoln, at the Palace. Perhaps, having seen my commission, you could be so kind as to find the security officer called Bray who was supposed to be on duty last night, as well as all documents appertaining to a certain sarcophagus in the vault.’

  Vellum started to turn beetroot. ‘I think,’ he growled, ‘you may find that I am the senior officer here and I say that . . .’

  ‘Inspector Vellum, I know how the crime was committed.’

  ‘Then I trust you can inform us.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then pray do.’

  Lyle put on a pensive expression. ‘No, thank you. I’d like to see Bray.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Body

  Bray was nowhere to be found. A messenger sent to his residence discovered that it didn’t exist. Confident people began to grow sheepish. Vellum became increasingly noisy, snapping at his constables like a sergeant major determined to keep order. Lyle just grew quieter and quieter, until Tess began to worry.

  ‘Mister Lyle?’

  ‘Um?’

  ‘You still know how it was done?’

  ‘Yes. Teresa, do you think you could have picked that lock down there, between the vault and the exit?’

  She screwed up her face. ‘Is this some kinda test?’

  ‘All I need is an honest answer.’

  ‘Uh . . . well . . .’

  ‘That’s a no, isn’t it?’

  ‘No! I didn’t say that!’

  ‘I couldn’t pick that lock,’ Lyle muttered, more to himself than to her, half-turning away and looking thoughtfully at the busy hall. ‘Which means there’s only one alternative.’

  ‘Genius?’

  ‘The door was already unlocked.’

  ‘See! Eco . . . econ . . .’

  ‘Economical.’

  ‘. . . is good!’ She shifted nervously. ‘Uh . . . and the open door.’

  ‘Must have been unlocked by whoever was on duty.’

  She grinned. ‘Bray, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  Bray wasn’t found. From Shadwell to Shoreditch the bobbies searched, knocking on doors and scrambling through markets, from Bethnal Green to Bloomsbury, in the darkest rookeries and under the bridges of the wide open marshlands that flanked the Lee Valley they searched.

  And Bray still wasn’t found.

  ‘So . . . if we know how it was done . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Who done it?’

  ‘I’m hoping Bray will know that.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘What?’ hissed Lyle finally.

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘You’re thinking. It ’s very distracting.’

  ‘I’m not thinking!’ Silence. ‘But . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘. . . why they dunnit?’

  Lyle seemed taken aback. ‘Well . . . money.’

  ‘And the Plate thing?’

  ‘Cultural curiosity?’

  Tess looked reproachful. Lyle put on a determined face and said, ‘Right. That’s it. We are going to . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We are going to . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ask someone for assistance.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  The man Lyle addressed was called Mr Sland, and despite an unfortunate taste in sideburns, whiskers and monocles, he wasn’t a particularly harmful individual, and couldn’t really cope with all the excitement taking place that day at his usually sedentary job in the Bank. ‘Mmm . . . yes?’

  ‘Special Constable Lyle,’ said Lyle in a rush, hoping that the ‘special’ would compensate for the ‘constable’ part of his address, and give him an authority which his general demeanour utterly failed to project. ‘I’d like to see your records.’

  ‘My records?’

  ‘Of valuable items placed in and removed from the vault within the last week.’

  ‘That is . . . mmm . . . special information.’

  Lyle faltered. ‘Erm, well . . .’

  ‘Mister Lyle!’ hissed Tess.

  Lyle hesitated, then reached a decision and blurted, ‘I see. Obstruction, is it? Do you know that your skull is precisely the same shape and size as Napoleon’s? I know that the Bailey doesn’t take kindly to Napos, as they’re known. Wouldn’t you agree, Te . . . Special Officer . . . Teresa?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she chimed, nodding enthusiastically.

  Mr Sland paled beneath his sideburns. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  They were given a small office of their own. The heavily studded doors and high, small windows made it feel cold and grey, and Tess itched to get out of it. The ledgers were put down on a large, polished table and Lyle flicked through the heavy pages with a frown drawing his eyebrows into one.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Yes, Teresa?’

  ‘What are we lookin’ for?’

  ‘Whoever deposited the sarcophagus must have been in on the scheme, because they would have known there was a thief handily hiding inside it. Since the vault is jointly used by the Elwick and Molyneux families, only one or the other of them could have issued the correct authority for an item to be deposited.’ He looked up at a sudden thought. ‘Perhaps they hate each other passionately and one hired a thief to get in and steal the other’s goods to annoy him . . .’ He hesitated. ‘No. No, that doesn’t work.’

  ‘At least you tried, Mister Lyle.’

  He glared. ‘Just keep looking for that sarcophagus.’

  ‘Erm . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This book . . . it ’s English, right?’

  He stared down at the ledger, then slowly back up at her, realizing. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh. All right, then.’ She studied the pages diligently. As she did so, she turned them from right to left. Lyle hesitated, and then said in a soft voice, ‘Teresa?’

  She looked up quickly, already starting to flush. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tate is probably lonely. Why don’t you see if he needs attention? ’

  ‘Is that an order, sir?’

  ‘Uh . . . yes. Yes, it definitely is.’ He took a deep breath. ‘That ’s right. It’s an order. Well done.’

  She bounded away, and didn’t look back.

  Time passes. In the streets of London, the early-morning cress-sellers and hawkers have sold the mass of their wares and are retreating to the inns to spend the day’s profits in relative luxury. Out at Deptford, the sailors are watching for the tide to change, in Westminster the two sides of the House are trying to outdo each other’s witticisms, down in the opium dens of St Giles smoky oblivion is crawling under the doors, and at Blackfriars something is about to be discovered. On the rackety wooden piers that hang precariously over the water’s edge by the crowded Blackfriars Bridge, Rosanna Doyle, sempstress, a basically well-meaning soul who hasn’t done anything to deserve the shock she is about to get, looks down at the muddy waters of the Thames where they lap against the thick pillars of the bridge, choked with traffic rattling across the old stones over the old river, and sees something floating in it, bulbous with trapped air beneath muddy cloth. At first she thinks it is a sack that has fallen off a barge shipping freight up from the deeper docks to the shallow western wharves. Only after she sees the contorted dead fingers tangled in the body’s own drifting hair does she start to scream.

  ‘Here it is.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The sarcophagus was deposited by “Mr C.R. W
ells, special aide to Lord Elwick”, yesterday afternoon. He came with a letter of reference, signed by Lord Elwick, written on paper engraved with Elwick’s monogram, and wearing, as ultimate proof, a ring bearing the Elwick family crest. He was then taken down to the vault by Mr Bray. The sarcophagus contained the thief and was locked in, then the plate was stolen and the vault door unlocked from the inside, and the thief escaped with the insider of the Bank, Bray.’

  ‘That’s not very interestin’,’ said Tess, sounding disappointed.

  ‘Tess, it’s a bank robbery. Making it interesting probably wasn’t a priority. But why the plate? Why steal the Fuyun Plate, and then why should Lord Lincoln want it back so urgently? It’s just a bit of stone.’

  ‘Cultural sig . . . signif . . . significa . . .’ Tess gave up. ‘Perhaps the thief weren’t seein’ straight after all that time hidin’ in the sar . . . sarcoph . . . the wooden box.’

  ‘Mr C.R. Wells,’ muttered Lyle, more to himself than her. ‘Perhaps we ought to talk to Lord Elwick. Yes, I think-’

  And the door opened.

  ‘You!’

  The voice had an imperious tone suggesting a lot of good breeding designed to obliterate any actual politeness that might have been inherent. Tess and Lyle turned. Tate lay down, paws over his nose.

  Lord Elwick swept into the room, Inspector Vellum looking smug at his side, and in the rear, Thomas Edward Elwick, trying to seem as if he knew what he was doing, though his glare fell far short of his father’s. Tess and Lyle stared at them with mute incomprehension, which darkened Elwick’s expression even further: he was used to being recognized and, more important still, acknowledged. It didn’t matter where he was: Lord Elwick would expect to be important in the smallest, most rural island community, and you’d better know it.

  ‘Are you Horatio Lyle?’ he barked.

  ‘Erm . . . yes.’

  ‘The Inspector informs me you are here on authority from the Palace.’

  Lyle shot a look at Vellum, who put on the determined expression of every jobsworth just doing his duty as he thought fit, and relishing it. ‘That ’s basically true.’