“Mr. Flinders-Petrie, is it not, sir?”
“Indeed so.” He offered a bland smile to cover his annoyance at being recognised on this night of all nights. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage. I was not aware that my name would be common knowledge.”
The landlord chuckled. “No, I suppose not. But do you not recognise me, sir?”
Douglas looked more closely at him. There was a vague familiarity about the fellow, but… no, he could not place him.
“Cumberbatch, sir,” the landlord volunteered. “I worked for your father, I did. Oh, quite a few years ago.” At Douglas’ dubious expression, he said, “I was his footman-Silas.”
“Silas! Certainly, I remember you,” Douglas lied. “Do forgive me. Yes, of course, now that you remind me.”
“’Course, I was younger then, and you were away at school and university and whatnot.” The landlord wiped his hands on the towel around his waist and smoothed it out as if this put the matter to rest. “Happy days they were.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Douglas amiably. He was aware that the other patrons were watching them, and actually relieved now that the place was not more crowded. “Happy times, indeed.”
“Pardon my asking, sir,” said Cumberbatch, leaning nearer the table. He lowered his voice. “If you don’t mind, there’s something that I’ve always wanted to know. I’d be most obliged.”
“I’d be happy to help if I can, Silas. What is it?”
“Did they ever find the man who killed your father?”
To buy himself a little space to think, Douglas took a drink of his ale, then, placing the glass carefully on the table, said, “I am sorry to say they never did.”
“Oh dear, oh dear.” Cumberbatch shook his head. “That’s a right pity. Did they never have a suspicion, then?”
“Suspicions, yes,” replied Douglas, “but nothing more. The coroner’s verdict at the time of the inquest reads ‘unlawful killing by person or persons unknown.’ At this late date, I fear it is likely to remain a mystery.”
“Ah, dear me,” sighed Cumberbatch. “That is a shame, that is. He was a good man, your father-a very decent chap, if you don’t mind my saying. A solid and upright fellow-always treated me well, and that’s a fact, that is.”
“Yes, well, as you say it was all a long time ago. Perhaps it is best forgotten.”
“No doubt, sir. I’m with you there.” Cumberbatch brightened once more. “But it is good to see you, Mr. Flinders-Petrie. Here, now, can I get you another pint?”
“Thank you, but no, I-”
“On the house, sir-for old time’s sake. It would please me no end.”
“Very well, then. Thank you, Silas. I would enjoy that.”
“Coming right up, sir.”
The landlord beetled off to pull the pint. Douglas drew his pocket-watch from his waistcoat and flipped it open. It was half past nine. In another hour he would make his move. Until then, he had a warm place to wait and watch. The landlord returned with his pint and, after another brief exchange, he was left alone to finish it and his meal in peace.
It was after ten thirty when he finally rose and, promising to return for another visit next time he was in the neighbourhood, retrieved his black cape from the coatrack and went out into the mist and drizzle. The weather was perfect for his purposes-a miserable night meant fewer folk around to notice any peculiar comings and goings. The gas lamps hissed and fluttered, pale orbs that did little to cut the all-pervading fog. Perfect.
He smiled to himself as he walked to the corner of Montague Street, turned, and proceeded along the side of the museum to where the service alley joined the street at the rear of the building. There he paused to observe the street one last time; a lone hansom cab rattled away in the opposite direction, and two men in top hats staggered along-one in the gutter, the other on the pavement-oblivious of their surroundings, singing their way home from an evening’s celebration.
Satisfied, he ducked into the alleyway and hurried quickly and unerringly in the dark to the back of a town house opposite the rear of the museum. There, lying in the lane beside the house, was the wooden ladder. With swift efficiency, he placed it against the high iron railing, climbed to the top of the fence, balanced on the upper bar while he pulled over the ladder, then climbed down. Once on the ground, he hurried to a window near the corner of the enormous building where even the lowest windows were eight feet off the ground. Positioning the ladder, he climbed up and rapped on the glass, counted to ten, and then rapped again.
As he finished the second tap, the window slid open from inside and a pale face, round like a solemn little moon, appeared in the darkness of the opening.
“Well done, Snipe,” said Douglas. “Hand me in.”
The stocky boy reached out and, with strong arms, pulled his master through the open window.
“Now then,” said Douglas, drawing a small tin from his pocket. He flipped open the lid and shook out a few congreves, selected one, and swiped the head against the roughened top of the tin. The slender stick of soft pine erupted with a pop and spluttering red flame. “The lantern, Snipe.”
The youth held up a small paraffin lamp; Douglas raised the glass and touched the match to the wick, then lowered the glass and waved the spent stick in the air to cool it before placing it back in the tin. “Let us be about our business.”
By lantern’s glow they made their way through the darkened stacks of the Smirke Bequest-a small, shelf-lined chamber off the great cavernous hall of the Reading Room. This cosy enclave was given to certain exceptional volumes from the libraries of wealthy patrons who had donated or bequeathed their collections to the national archive for the general benefit of their fellow men. This ever-growing collection housed a particular volume that had long eluded Douglas Flinders-Petrie. It was this book he had come to acquire.
The Rare Books Room, as it was more commonly known, was strictly forbidden to all but the most eminent scholars, and then entry was granted only in the company of the Keeper of Antiquities or one of his assistants, who would unlock the chain at the doorway-there was no door, so that the books could be viewed from a distance even if they could not be perused-and usher the chosen one into the inner sanctum. White cotton gloves were to be worn at all times in the room, and no one was permitted to remain alone in the stacks at any time whatsoever. Douglas, having observed this exacting protocol on his survey trips to the museum, decided to forego the formalities and visit the room outside of public hours.
It had then been a matter of finding a place for Snipe to hide until well after closing: a storage cupboard in Room 55 on the upper floor was adequate to the purpose, and so, during a late-afternoon viewing of the Nineveh alabasters, Douglas had deposited his able servant in the closet with a cold pie and an apple to wait until the clock in Saint Bartholomew’s chimed eleven. At the appointed hour, Snipe had crawled out and made his way down to the Rare Books Room to let Douglas in through the window.
So far so good.
“Go to the door and keep watch,” Douglas commanded, directing the glow of the lantern towards the nearer stacks. As the servant moved to the doorway, Douglas began scanning the shelves. The books, he quickly discovered, were arranged in a loose chronological order-no doubt owing to their primary interest as artefacts rather than for the value of their contents. He found the proper historical period and started working down the line book by book. What should have been a task of moments, however, dragged on far longer than he planned, owing to the fact that many of the older books had no titles on their spines or covers and had to be drawn out, opened, and thumbed to their title pages before being placed back on the shelf.
He was only partway through the 1500s when he heard a sibilant hiss-like that of gas escaping from a leaky pipe. He stopped, held his breath… waited. The sound came again and was repeated. He quickly turned down the lantern wick and put the lamp on the floor, then hurried to the doorway, where Snipe stood behind the doorpost, peering out into the great hall of the main reading room.
“Someone coming?” Douglas whispered.
Snipe nodded and held up two fingers.
“Two of them. Right.” Douglas turned and retreated into the stacks. “Follow me.”
They crept off to the farthest corner of the room, placing the main body of stacks between themselves and the door.
“Get down,” whispered Douglas.
