A Study in Silks

setting this meeting.”

“Your secretary did so at my request.,” his visitor replied, sinking into one of the oxblood leather chairs without invitation.

“I recall that Lord Bancroft introduced us at his wife’s birthday party.”

“Indeed he did. And as I do not flatter myself that you recall every detail of the conversation, let me say again that I am a man of science recently arrived in London.”

Bully for you. “What can I do for you?” Keating took the other chair, doing his best to make the seating arrangements look like his idea.

“Seeing as we are both busy men, I thought perhaps a polite conversation could save us both a great deal of skulking and snarling, however recreational that prospect might seem.”

“Snarling about what?” Keating felt a moment of confusion. It usually took a few minutes to arrive at hostility, but this man seemed to have gone on without him.

Magnus waved an airy hand. “You had Herr Schliemann dig up Athena’s Casket and ship it to London. As soon as I had word that it had been located, I was on its trail.”

“How did you know that?” A wary feeling formed in the pit of the Gold King’s stomach. He had done everything possible to keep the discovery of the item a secret.

A hollow, almost ravenous look came over the man’s dark face. “I have my methods and my watchers within the archaeological community. I’ve been searching for the casket for a great many years.”

Wariness grew to worry. Keating shifted uncomfortably on the horsehair padding of the seat. “Indeed? Your interest must be great, if you traveled from—wherever you came from—to follow up on what must be a slender lead.”

The foreigner’s brows contracted. “Please, do not play me for a fool.”

Affronted, Keating pulled himself up in his seat. “I beg your pardon?”

“I know Schliemann found the casket and had it shipped to London, right to your warehouse. The archaeologist’s work has long been of interest to me. He has investigated many sites I thought long lost to memory. I have kept a member of Schliemann’s crew in my pay, well rewarded to notify me if anything of interest comes to light. He gave me every detail of the treasure found in Rhodes, down to the name of the ship it traveled on.”

Damn him. Keating would be having words with Schliemann via the next post. “Very well. What is your interest in the casket?”

“It is unique.”

“I would say it was large and gaudy.” Just like your tiepin. “That hardly makes it worth crossing oceans.”

“Again, you are needlessly coy.” The man gave a white and somehow carnivorous smile. “So let me say why it is of such interest, to spare us the dance. Only a handful of ancients knew how to harness an ambient spirit within a mechanical device. Athena’s Casket is the only surviving example of a lost art.”

It was all Keating could do not to flinch at the words. “I am well aware of the legends around the item.” And how it could destroy my fortune or make me master of the Empire. “That does not answer why you are sitting in my study.”

“For the obvious reason. I want the box.”

That surprised a laugh of the Gold King. “Do you, now?”

The foreigner leaned forward, his expression slightly mocking. “I do, if only to study its workings.”

Keating crossed his legs and bent a sliver of truth to fit the situation. “I do not have the casket here. The shipment was delayed.”

Keating had, of course, contacted Holmes as soon as a problem reared its head, but that hadn’t been the end of the story. A handful of the boxes had been separated from the rest, arriving late. The shipping manifest claimed those last few crates had been delivered days before Harriman was able to confirm their arrival. Keating had visited the owner of the shipping line with a most urgent request that his goods be found—but to no avail.

Keating’s frustration must have shown on his face. Magnus’s eyes narrowed. “Surely you did not let such a valuable object slip through your fingers?”

“That is not the case. There was merely a logistical difficulty.”

Harriman had looked into the matter, and eventually found the crates had gone to a different establishment down the street. Everything had been in order—except the casket. It was still missing. Keating’s men were quietly taking aside the owners of the other local warehouses for some very pointed questioning.

He’d sent an update to Holmes, but the detective wasn’t at Baker Street. No sooner had the detective accepted the case than the pompous idiot had rushed off to Bohemia on some other errand. He didn’t seem to understand that Keating needed him in London, now, finding out what happened to Schliemann’s shipment. If Keating did not see results soon, he would be obliged to yank Holmes’s leash.

“So you are admitting that it was lost,” Magnus said again in a soft voice.

Shame and anger crept up the sides of Keating’s neck. His fingers dug at the brass studs in the arm of the chair, as if to rip them out with his nails. Lost was further than Keating was willing to go. Surely Holmes would solve the case, when he troubled himself to get on with it. “No. I simply do not have the casket here.”

“Then send for it. Allow me to examine it.”“

“I think not.”

Magnus steepled his fingers, his brows furrowing with annoyance. “I can tell that you are hiding the truth from me. Either you are lying and you have lost it, or you are lying and you have it squirreled away for your own purposes. You prevaricate well enough that it is hard to tell which is reality.”

“Believe what you like. The casket is not here.”

“Then for today we are at an impasse.”

“As you wish.”

Magnus gave a small, dry smile. “I think you have it, sir. I shall make it my business to make you surrender it to me.”

Keating had put up with enough. He turned his words to ice. “I will not attempt to dissuade you. I can only warn you that I am a dangerous man to annoy.”

A moment of silence followed. Warm sunlight filtered between the heavy green drapes, gleaming on the brass fire screen. Keating saw their reflections ripple in the polished metal surface, one silver-haired and elegant, one dark and strange. Outside, a carriage clopped by.

Keating’s thoughts tangled: Alice, the Roth boy, Holmes, the casket. He was trying to weave a future with threads that kept breaking. Now there was this Magnus fellow, knotting everything still further. The doctor had to go, with as little fuss and bother as possible. One can only be at an impasse with equals. This posturing crow is beneath me.

Fury clutched at Keating. “I think it is time you left, sir.”

“Not yet. Two days ago, I visited the place where you house your treasure. Chinese workers, closely guarded, and your own cousin in charge of operations. There is no opportunity for a thief to worm through your security measures. They are, shall we say, extreme.”

How closely has he been studying me? And what does he mean by extreme? He left the operation of the warehouse to Harriman, who seemed competent enough at his job—until now. They weren’t expecting any further shipments, so Harriman had let the Chinese go back to their families for a week or so. But then yesterday someone had got into the warehouse after disabling the automaton at the door. The only blessing was that the pieces for the exhibit sat packed in crates in the gallery, so nothing more had been taken. Did Magnus have something to do with the break-in? If he had, would he be here? Keating just couldn’t tell.

His mouth twitch with ire. “What can I do to make you leave?”

Magnus gave an unpleasant chuckle. “Give me the box. Sooner or later, you will accept my viewpoint on the matter.”

The Gold King’s mouth twisted into a snarl. “And why should I do that?”

Magnus rose in a single graceful movement. “Because of who and what I am.”

Bancroft stood, not liking the sensation of Magnus looming over him. Unfortunately, the doctor was taller by