The Obsidian Dagger (Horatio Lyle) Page 5

  Lyle turned and looked at the dark drop into the cargo hold, tight narrow stairs going down as close to vertical as possible without actually turning into a ladder, and heard again the creak of the dying ship. In a worried but conversational tone, he rubbed at his hairline nervously and, addressing the ship, announced, ‘I’ve got a sinking feeling about you.’ Then felt just a little embarrassed.

  Thomas Edward Elwick, only son and heir of Lord Thomas Henry Elwick (Order of the Magpie, Cross of the Sallow Oak, Knight of the Daffodil and devout believer in the quality of your hounds as a proof of intellectual and spiritual endeavour), was in culture shock. And had been for a number of months. How he had met Tess was obvious - where Lyle went, the short, wild-haired and frequently larcenous Tess was never far behind. How he had met Mister Lyle was more of a blur. He remembered something about strange men with a Plan; one of those Plans that wasn’t just any old mish-mash of vague aspirations and a decent railway timetable, but a real, heart-stopping Plan. He remembered something about a thunderstorm and a cathedral. He remembered seeing Mister Lyle fall. But there were other things which he remembered, and didn’t quite understand, things which, at the time, had seemed to make sense. But the more he tried to analyse them logically, the less plausible they became.

  He remembered a time after, too, when he’d looked up at his father and for the first time in his life, realized that his father didn’t understand. He remembered the moment when Lyle had turned round and said calmly, ‘Have you seen Da Vinci’s sketches working on the principle of forcing air downwards to create a lower area of pressure above the craft rather than below?’

  Which was an improvement on his father’s ‘If God had meant us to fly, he never would have invented the pheasant! Let that be a warning to you, m’boy!’

  Somehow, at the end of it all, he was here; following Teresa Hatch as she darted through the maze of toppling streets that made up the docks, all sprawled along the riverside as if some great god had got bored and just thrown them down with a shrug and a splatter. The roads, Thomas realized, weren’t roads at all, just gaps that houses hadn’t yet colonized, getting pressed tighter and tighter by the weight of human life in every possible form, but mostly a squalid, deprived, starving one, pushing down on the streets themselves. Tess seemed to know every alley, and Thomas wondered if it was his imagination that made her eyes gleam every time she saw a bulging pocket, or made the few loose coins on the smithy’s desk vanish as her hand passed within a foot or two. He knew that Tess was what his father would have called, ‘Not One of Us,’ or quite possibly, ‘Reprobate,’ or, if he was really pushing, ‘Socially undesirable,’ but at the same time ... she was very good at what she did. Thomas had heard Lyle say this in almost an embarrassed voice several times, usually with a warning not to let Tess know on pain of instant insufferability.

  So Thomas trailed along behind, senses overwhelmed by everything he saw, smelt, heard. He had never realized faces could come in such variety: not just a mixture of a dozen noses with a dozen chins all juggled up together to make a few hundred combinations, but each face stamped with its past as well as its biology, marked by the lines of its trade or seared by far-away sun; skins and colours and eyes and scowls and smiles - few of those indeed - in such diversity that Thomas almost wanted to touch his own face, just to feel what it was like, wondering if it too could look like that, had the potential to be so rough or scarred or burnt, or so black or pale, or so pinched or old.

  In the fog, there was no way of keeping track of where they were as they darted from place to place, getting everything that Mister Lyle wanted and, to Thomas’s quiet disapproval, a whole suet pudding too. (‘So as we don’t starve of neg . . . negl . . . of bein’ all starved.’)

  They ate the suet pudding quickly on one of the bollards by the riverside, and Thomas, to his guilt, enjoyed it immensely. Then the two of them walked up uneasily on to the crooked deck of the Pegasus.

  Lyle was nowhere to be seen. Thomas cleared his throat and opened his mouth to call out, when a voice drifted up from almost underneath his feet, echoing in the cold and gloom: ‘Did you leave me any pudding?’

  Thomas turned bright red, but Tess leant past him, peered down the tight stairs into the deck below and called out, one loud, deliberate word at a time, ‘It ain’t good for you, Mister Lyle. We had to eat it ’cos if we didn’t you might’ve made yourself ill an’ then how’d you’ve cooked supper?’

  ‘As always, Teresa,’ said Lyle, head rising up suddenly from the darkness of the deck, ‘your care for my well-being is heart-warming. ’ His eyes turned to Thomas, and he broke into a grin. ‘I see Teresa got you to carry everything.’

  ‘Yes, Mister Lyle. I mean, naturally, it was my duty to ensure that the lady -’

  Tess almost laughed. Lyle’s smile trembled round the edges with the effort of self-control. Thomas felt the tips of his ears burning. ‘- naturally . . . didn’t have to suffer any inconvenience . . .’

  Lyle clambered out of the deck and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Well done, lad. That was very thoughtful of you.’ Tess beamed. ‘Now, I don’t suppose you speak Italian?’

  ‘Erm . . . no, sir.’

  ‘How about Latin?’

  Thomas’s face lit up with excitement. ‘Oh, yes, sir. I have had the pleasure of studying the ancient and noble languages of the classics, and I must say I find them fascinating both for their development in various European languages and for their natural, even original -’

  ‘Good. You can come and help me translate a few things.’

  ‘What shall I do, Mister Lyle?’ demanded Tess with a pout.

  ‘Take all the tins, saltpetre and sulphur you have, and make me a torch.’ He dug into his pockets and came out holding a handful of small, frosted glass spheres, which he passed to Tess. ‘Add as much magnesium as you can, stir well and allow near no naked flame.’

  On Tess’s face, for a second Thomas saw a strange, thoughtful expression.

  ‘You are plannin’ on goin’ swimmin’, ain’t you, Mister Lyle? Only it seems to me you got this oxygen source an’ this rapid burner and initial combust . . . thing for startin’ the reaction an’ how you’re all containin’ it . . .’ She frowned suddenly. ‘What we really need is phosphorus, Mister Lyle.’

  Thomas looked at Lyle when he didn’t answer, and saw the older man’s face beaming with an almost childish expression of pleasure. His voice was as quiet as ever, but his eyes lit up proudly as he said, ‘Could be, lass. Definitely could be.’

  Lyle put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder, and guided him away, leaving Tess and Tate sitting together on the deck. Tess smiled, staring after their shadows in the fog, lost in her own contentment. At her side, Tate lay down, ears trailing across the deck. She scratched him idly behind the ears, head on one side, thinking. Really thinking; not the usual quiet thoughts of everyday life, but thoughts which had words she could almost hear, like a little voice in her mind, and pictures too: thoughts which felt bright and real. She could almost feel how things worked, almost stand up and announce to the fog and the lost sunlight, this is what will happen.

  She picked up one of Mister Lyle’s little glass balls, and knew that inside there was a slither of a magnesium compound that would burn for a few minutes with a bright, intense white light. She smiled, and kept smiling, as she picked up a tin and thought about fire and light. And for a second, just a second, Teresa Hatch heard something beneath normal hearing, something that drifted into her mind without consulting the ears, rising up from the old cobbles and the trapped water underneath the thin, transparent ice, to join the thoughts that had been slowly bubbling away ever since Mister Lyle sat her down, many months ago, and said, ‘Teresa, that letter is the letter “a”.’

  Tess realized she was humming.

  ‘Oranges and lemons,’ say the bells of St Clement’s.

  ‘You owe me five farthings,’ say the bells of St Martin’s.

  ‘When will you pay me?’ say the bells of Old Bailey.


  ‘When I grow rich,’ say the bells of Shoreditch.’

  Teresa Hatch almost laughed and, for a second utterly lost in thoughts beyond normal expression, began to hammer together a scientific marvel. It seemed perfectly obvious what had to be done, when she thought about it. Inexpressible, unutterable. Simply . . . perfect.

  CHAPTER 4

  Sinking

  The captain’s cabin was cold, grey and lit only by a couple of candles and whatever light managed to crawl through both the frost-covered glass and the fog outside. It was almost entirely bare. Not a picture hung on the wall nor a book lay on a table to suggest any personality inhabiting it. The only exception was a very large shiny gold crucifix hanging above the bed. Lyle’s eyes settled on it instantly, and his eyebrows went up.

  ‘It’s new.’ Cautiously he picked it up, and surprise widened his eyes even further. He weighed it carefully in his hands before turning it over and running his finger up the back until it found a tiny mark.

  ‘Good grief.’

  ‘Mister Lyle?’

  ‘It’s gold all the way through. Not fool’s gold - actual gold. With the mark of one of the Roman goldsmiths. It must be worth a fortune. This is the kind of thing a vain cardinal owns, not a hard-up cargo captain.’ And a whisper almost below hearing, ‘What a waste.’

  He sat down on the single bunk in a corner, head bent under the low roof. Frowning, he looked round at the sparse cabin. Thomas stood uncomfortably by the desk, waiting for an order. Finally Lyle said, ‘Thomas, tell me this. What kind of seaman sails a ship quite as old and dilapidated as this, probably one of the slowest, weakest vessels on the seas, and yet has a possession that would make King Solomon himself blush from kneecaps to earholes?’

  ‘A . . . very religious man?’

  Lyle sighed. ‘Captain Fabrio wasn’t wearing a crucifix.’

  ‘Not a very religious man, sir?’

  ‘Try to see through the fact that you’re standing next to an object that could . . . oh, I don’t know . . . buy a substantial part of Warwickshire.’

  ‘Actually, sir, I don’t think that Warwickshire is for sale, not after the affair with Lord and Lady Randl—’ He saw Lyle’s expression. ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Perhaps it is merely the equivalent of a portable financial supply?’

  ‘Then why hasn’t it been spent?’

  ‘You said it was new, sir.’

  ‘That I did,’ said Lyle, a grim little smile starting in the corner of his mouth. ‘Perhaps the cross was payment? For a service rendered. Which probably means shipping.’ He pointed with his chin at the desk just behind Thomas. ‘Have a look.’ Thomas looked uncomfortable. ‘Go on. There aren’t likely to be any traps or deadly spiders inside.’

  Thomas slid the top desk drawer open, and pulled out a map. Lyle stood up and walked across, peering over Thomas’s shoulder at the map spread out across the desk. The course last taken by the ship had been meticulously plotted as a thin black line across the feathery paper. Thomas traced it backwards from London, watching it shuffle round the Goodwin Sands, zigzag through the English Channel, then slip into Santander and out again. He saw it skirt the coast of Portugal and pass through the Strait of Gibraltar, blown briefly off course south of Malaga, before finally arriving at Venice.

  He leant closer. There was a stop between Gibraltar and Venice, marked meticulously on the map, but almost too small to see with the naked eye. Thomas felt a tug on his sleeve and glanced round to see Lyle holding out a magnifying glass.

  ‘Oh, thank you, sir.’

  Lyle just smiled faintly, as Thomas took the glass and peered closer. A tiny island, marked with a faint cross to one side of its wobbly shape, and labelled Isalia.

  Thomas stood back, frowning. The name seemed familiar. He tried to remember what little he knew about Italy and its islands. Though they were an increasingly popular tourist destination for the wealthy, for some there came a certain cap of wealth where anywhere overseas just wasn’t interesting enough, and Thomas’s family had passed that cap shortly after 1660. Uncivilized foreigners held no interest for members of the Elwick blood. Isalia, however, was a name that seemed to stick in his memory, though he had no idea why.

  Lyle was watching him, reading Thomas’s face as though his thoughts were written all over it. Finally, with a little smile and shake of his head, Lyle pushed the map to one side and opened the next drawer. A few loose coins, a handkerchief and a loaded revolver. He looked at the gun with an expression of dislike, and closed the drawer. The last drawer was locked. Thomas almost heard his excited intake of breath - locked drawers seemed to call to Lyle’s sense of a challenge - and he stepped quickly out of the way as Lyle knelt down in front of the desk and dug into his copious pockets. Finding nothing satisfactory in his left jacket pocket, he tried his right, then an inner pocket, then another below that. Finally he seemed to find what he was looking for, in a third inner pocket that Thomas hadn’t even realized was there, despite the way it had been meticulously sewn in with the wrong colour thread by someone who at least understood the principles behind sewing, if not the aesthetics.

  He brought out a long and familiar roll of tools, wrapped in blue fabric. Thomas looked down at them, and realized that, although the majority of strange bits of metal with various hooks and loops remained a mystery, he could guess at the uses of at least five more than he had been able to last month. Lyle chose a couple of thin tools and slid them into the lock, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. He seemed almost disappointed when the lock clicked within a few seconds. Scowling slightly, he packed away the tools and opened the drawer a cautious inch. Seeing nothing sharp inside, he opened it all the way and pulled out a bundle of papers.

  ‘Thomas?’ He held up a paper, then passed it to Thomas. It had once been closed at the bottom with an old-fashioned red wax seal, in which a somewhat crooked cross had been stamped. Its neat black lettering was recognizable as Latin.

  Thomas coughed, clearing his throat, and stood a little taller, pleased with his own importance. ‘“Captain Fabrio,”’ he began, ‘“Thou . . .’ well, “you” really, if you wish me to do a direct translation without -’

  ‘“Thou” will be fine,’ muttered Lyle, riffling through the other papers. He found one: a note written in English. ‘From his London housekeeper, wanting to know how long he needs the property. I wonder if he had time ...’ Lyle’s voice trailed off. He became aware of Thomas watching him, glanced up, smiled and said, ‘I apologize. Please, carry on.’

  ‘Well, then . . . “Thou art entrusted with a duty of most . . .” uh . . . “sacred” I think . . . “provenance, but heed the warnings of our brethren who have sent you unto our shores, for your passenger -”’

  Lyle’s head snapped up. ‘A passenger?’

  ‘Well, obviously it’s not a literal translation; the word is more derivative from the Greek -’

  ‘The ship is carrying a passenger?’

  ‘Sir?’

  Lyle’s eyes had settled on a distant thought. ‘The bare footprints weren’t made getting on the ship, Thomas. They came up from the cargo hold; their source had to be on board already.’

  ‘Bare footprints, sir?’

  ‘A man weighing at least sixteen stone by the depth of the impressions, and judging by his stride I’d say he was at least six foot three and horrendously strong - he had no shoes when he went up on deck and attacked the Captain and Stanlaw, the man with the interesting ring.’ Lyle’s hand was in his pocket, feeling the iron ring he’d pulled from Stanlaw’s finger. ‘It’s possible that the passenger and the killer are one and the same. What else does the letter say?’

  ‘Uh . . . “heed the warnings of our brethren who have sent you unto our shores, for your passenger, though not of the power he once was when first he did come unto our sanctuary, hath yet the skill of the stone and may be of much danger unto you and your crew if he leaves his berth. Do not break the seal unless the good father is with you . . .” Oh, I think it means Roman Cat
holic priest, sir . . .’ said Thomas, voice rising in a disapproving lilt of well-bred Anglican mistrust, ‘rather than ... a father, a . . . parent, sir . . .’

  ‘I think I understand, Thomas. What else?’

  ‘“God speed to your journey and may your passage be safe and undisturbed. Blessings . . .” I think this means priest or abbot or some such Popery equivalent . . .’

  ‘Who signed it, Thomas?’

  ‘Father Abbot Portare, sir. Oh, I say, I think if you literally translated the name it would mean Carrier, sir. I must say, it is ironic how the Roman Catholic Church has -’

  ‘Lad?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I don’t want to be the one to break many years of good Anglican upbringing, but you do realize that it’s all the worship of a theological uncertainty with just a few little tweaks here or there that’s led to centuries of bitter schism in Christianity?’

  ‘Erm ... yes, sir.’

  ‘Well then, let’s disparage the tragic decline of the Roman Catholic Church and the weakness of Popery when we’re feeling more religious and less pragmatic, shall we?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good lad. Now, what seal do you think it means?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  Lyle took the letter carefully and examined the seal at its bottom, with the slightly crooked cross. He frowned at an unspoken thought, then folded the letter again and put it on the desk. ‘So . . . the Pegasus sails to Isalia, picks up an unknown passenger from a father abbot on the island, who gives the captain a warning that this man “hath the skill of the stone” and may be dangerous. Oh yes, and the captain of a struggling, ancient ship suddenly finds himself in possession of a new, all-gold crucifix for his trouble. On reaching London, someone, possibly the same passenger, emerges out of the hold of the ship, kills with his bare hands the Captain and Mr Stanlaw, an agent sent by Lord Lincoln - you know, he didn’t tell me why he sent this Stanlaw; why doesn’t he ever tell me anything?’