wondered if Strand had also purchased an ancient cross here, with spikes thrown in to seal the deal? Jessica asked the question of Luc Sante who puzzled it out.
She followed with, “What about having a custom-made brand for the underside of the tongue made here?”
“There is a shop for every taste at this street bazaar,” he assured her. “No doubt there is a shop where this sort of branding is routine, like tattooing now! Or body piercing. Trust me, on this street, anything can be had for a price.”
Jessica could easily imagine it possible here from the evidence of her eyes. For here, staring from every tabletop and street vendor's booth, lay black market items from rhino homs to human skulls, ancient swords too heavy to lift to entire table and chair sets that appeared to have been taken from royal homes, the workmanship that fine and intricate. Here Jessica saw the arcane and archaic, the bizarre and fantastic, including a fellow whose entire stock comprised of branding tools Branding irons, both large and small, even miniature in size to create ready-made tattoos without the wait for those able to withstand the pain.
Jessica wondered if the tongue branding iron had not come from this collection of knockabout junk. Jessica saw real family crests for sale, stamps of office, royal seals, extraordinary candles, canes, boxes, paintings, artwork, and sculptures from around the globe; she saw mantels, clocks, children's toys, portmanteaus, chests, armoires, cast iron stoves, kitchenware, pirate ware, fantasy ware, warfare ware, and pinned insects of the most exotic nature, followed by an array of colorful African, handcarved coffins, and beside these, Old World headstones made to order, all this and more within walking distance of St. Albans, and all the variety of wares displayed within feet of one another. Many of the outdoor salespeople had covered ancient doorways, alleyways, and stairwells leading up this way, inviting down that way. The street vendors had built their makeshift booths, like any flea market, wherever they found space, and this section, where Jessica and Luc Sante found themselves, sat squarely in a run-down area of old warehouses that had fallen on hard times many years before, long since abandoned. In other districts, particularly along the Thames, property in ill repair had become fodder for real estate developers following the lead in America to build condominiums and time shares out of old buildings via judicious refurbishing. But this blighted area would have none of that.
So where had Strand disappeared to?
They came up blind at every turn. Every doorway locked, every alleyway empty, every stairwell leading to yet another locked door. Until Jessica found one stone causeway leading gently downward. “This could be where he disappeared to,” she suggested to Luc Sante.
“We should not attempt to go any further alone,” Luc Sante warned. “There's a dark side to Martin that I- forgive me- fell blind to. Me! Me, the so-called expert on evil, and yet I could not recognize it all this dme in my presence in its pleasing form,” lamented Father Luc Sante who suddenly looked old, frail, small, defeated, sunken.
“Exactly right. I saw a pay phone about a block back. Go there and call Sharpe and get the troops here. We may well be onto something.”
“I will not leave you alone here, and you cannot go any further, Jessica,” Luc Sante near ranted. “Do you understand?”
“I'll just wait here undl you get back, in case he shows up again.”
“If you're promising me you will stay put, then I'll make the call, otherwise…”
“I promise. Now, go!”
Jessica watched as Luc Sante disappeared into the crowd around the bazaar. She turned back to the stone walls and stairwell that so caught her attention and curiosity. It was remarkably old, these walls, this stairwell going down into a dark and gloomy place where there might be yet another locked door, but one she could not see. She lifted her penlight from her pocket, the same as she used in the tunnels with Sharpe. She had used it at St. Albans as well, and now here, but the light, as powerful as it was, revealed no door at the long, downward spiral below her feet. Instead, it appeared to be a bend, a cornering which meant the shaft continued onward in a zigzag fashion.
Luc Sante would be some time, she thought. He seemed as genuinely amazed at Strand's sudden disappearance in the area as she had been. He had been certain that this exact area had swallowed Strand up before when he had followed the man here yesterday.
Jessica wondered if she hadn't stumbled on a passage of Roman architecture in the city. She stepped down into the passage which led invitingly, hauntingly into a labyrinth of walls-still Roman in appearance. From here she located another passage going off in yet another direction with its own set of stairs. Strand could be anywhere among the dark corridors of this ancient place.
All the stone stairwells led downward into the bowels of this place. “Damn,” she swore at herself, “why didn't I have Sharpe come along with me?” She continued one step in front of the other, while at the same time thinking, “I've got to go back, let Father Luc Sante know I'm all right and that these walls and stairwells lead somewhere.”
She turned full around, taking a step back toward the direction from which she came, anxious to reenter the bustling world above, to return to street level and the life that abounded there, to see Father Luc Sante's kindly face searching the entryway for her, but a noise from behind distracted Jessica. It seemed the sound of a falling foot, followed by another. Strand? she wondered.
In the dark distance, she could barely make out the form of a man, his back to her, moving steadily onward, downward into this Stonehengelike place.
A rat scurried past, followed by another, each no doubt carrying enough fleas and disease to infect anyone they might bite. She returned to the lip of the opening where she had first stepped into the Roman walls, scanning for any sign of Luc Sante. On seeing the old man tottering back, his cane held high, she cautioned Father Luc Sante, pleading, “Please, remain aboveground and direct authorities when they arrive. Watch for Sharpe.”
“I could only locate Boulte. Sharpe and his partner were unavailable. Listen to me, young woman, you promised me you wouldn't trek down in there alone!” Luc Sante protested.
“No, I promised you I'd wait until you returned before I did anything else.” She whipped out her. 38 Smith amp; Wesson from her shoulder holster, and she felt the comfort of the more compact Browning automatic strapped to her ankle below her pants leg. The. 38 police special alone should be enough to assure Luc Sante of her safety. She said, “I'm not entirely alone!” as she hefted the. 38 between two fists for him to see. “I know what I'm doing. I'm a marksman.”
The gun made the old man start, as if he suddenly saw her in a new light. Perhaps he had never thought of her in relation to a weapon, despite the work she did.
“I'm going ahead with my investigation,” she declared. “Direct authorities when they arrive.” She could hear Luc Sante behind her, still cautioning her to wait, cursing her for being so stubborn and impertinent, a cute word to use under the circumstances, she thought and continued forward into the gaping darkness that rushed up to meet her.
The stairwell dropped incrementally below her feet as she went deeper into the recesses here, and then the stone floor began a sharper spiral, and the walls narrowed in and in, as if moving in on her, wanting to crush her. Soon-her flash signaling each new step-the walls began scratching at Jessica's shoulders like ghouls reaching from vaults to tear at her clothing.
She could no longer see Strand or what had in the blackness appeared to be Strand, but she continued to hear noises, peculiar, odd sounds: the swishing of a robe, the scratch of a heel, the hum of some sort of machine, perhaps the reverberating noise from aboveground traffic, traveling through the rock here. She heard the distinct sound of seeping water, and for the second time today, she saw walls that bled with moisture. Her clothing had long been stained with the mineral-rich water.
The odors assailing her nostrils were those of ancient crypts and dungeons, stagnant places where only things requiring no light grew and festered, died and decayed. Her thoughts continued worrying her with each new step. The noises coming from above and through the rock, like the pulse of electricity-like the blood fuel that drove all of London-calmed to silence now, but sounds rising from below her rose up like awakening gnomes. She imagined the walls coming to life; she imagined the stairwell turning to Jell-O, slick and thick and slimy. She imagined spiraling into an Alice in Wonderland world below her ankles or coming out on the moon and stars, finding herself inside a bell jar. But none of this happened. The walls and stairs held even as she slipped on the now slick surface.
