The Spirit Well Page 18

  The erstwhile scholar put back his head and offered a tepid laugh. “Provenance, sir? Why, how you talk. I’ve never seen the trinkets in my life.”

  “We both know that is a lie,” Burleigh countered, keeping his voice level, his temper cool.

  “How dare you!” Charles began, but the objection lacked force. “I will have you know—”

  “Spare me, please,” interrupted the earl. “I have been dealing with antiquities of this sort longer than you have been alive, and I know whereof I speak.” Burleigh picked up the votive figure of the snake goddess and held it to the light. “These are genuine. What is more, they are in almost perfect condition—untouched by the ravages of time or the grave. In short, they were not dug out of the deserts of Egypt or Babylon, nor recovered from any tomb.” He fixed the young man with a stern gaze. “I will ask you in plain language—how did you come by them?”

  Charles threw back his drink, then poured himself another. He slouched further into his chair and with a forced nonchalance said, “That is none of your business.”

  “I have just told you that it is very much my business.” Burleigh’s voice, though calm, took on a steely note. “Why do you persist in this feeble attempt at dissembling? It is a waste of time.”

  The young man glared at his visitor, but remained silent.

  “Let us begin again.” Burleigh replaced the figurine and picked up the scarab. “I am happy to pay a fair price for this piece—and for the others as well. More than you would have made at auction.”

  At this Charles perked up. “How much more?”

  Burleigh gave him a sour smile. “Enough to give me the right to come here tonight with an offer—and a very handsome offer, I might add.”

  “Well then?”

  “I am prepared to buy all the pieces in your collection, singly or in a job lot—subject to examination, of course—at fair market value plus fifteen percent. No, let us make it twenty percent. An auction house would take at least that much in commission. You might as well have the benefit instead.”

  “Twenty percent above market value?” repeated Charles. “And who, might I ask, determines market value? You, I suppose?”

  “Anyone you like,” Burleigh answered. “But if you want my opinion, Catchmole at Sotheby’s will not steer you far wrong. I trust him.”

  The profligate young man frowned as he mulled over the offer.

  “There are conditions,” Burleigh continued after a moment. “You will tell me how you came by these objects—and any others I acquire through our arrangement. Further, you will agree never to sell any such artefacts to anyone else.”

  “Impudent rascal, see here—!”

  “From now on, I am your sole partner in the antiquities trade.” Burleigh gave him a cold smile. “Fair price plus twenty percent and a ready sale. You will never have to chance the whims of a fickle public.”

  “Don’t want much, do you?” sneered Charles. “Anything else?”

  “Only that you will not breathe a word of our partnership to another living soul.”

  Charles dashed down the rest of his drink. Then, arranging his features in an expression of defiance, he said, “I won’t do it. I refuse.”

  With the grace of a pouncing cat, Burleigh leapt from his chair. He snatched the young scholar by the throat and yanked him to his feet. “Listen to me, you prodigal prig. I know very well what you have been up to. I know about the gambling, the drinking, the whoring. I know the places you’ve been and the company you’ve been keeping.”

  “Unhand me, rogue,” began the frightened Charles in a somewhat strained voice.

  Burleigh tightened his grip and cut off any further protest. “You owe money all over town, and men have been sniffing around to collect your debts. It is only a matter of time before they catch you and you end up dead in a ditch with a broken head or a knife in the back.”

  Charles scrabbled at his attacker’s hand, but Burleigh held firm. “Listen very carefully. You will agree to the terms I have outlined, and you will keep your mouth shut. Nod your head if you understand.”

  Charles, his face growing red, gave a feeble nod.

  Burleigh released him then and threw him back into the leather chair. The young man bent forward, clutching his neck and gasping for air. In a moment his colour and breathing returned to normal.

  “No need to glare at me like that. You aren’t hurt,” Burleigh said, standing over him. “Tell me how you got these pieces.”

  “Private collection,” muttered Charles, still rubbing his neck. “Been in the family for donkey’s years.”

  “Who collected them?”

  “My grandfather—there’s a whole chest full of the stuff.”

  “Where did he get them?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest,” Charles began, then, seeing Burleigh flex his hands, quickly amended his reply. “He travelled a lot—spent most his time on ships to foreign parts. Had an eye for the odd trinket. He collected them.” He thrust out his chin. “Satisfied? Or are you going to choke me again?”

  “His name. This grandfather of yours—what was his name?”

  “Arthur,” answered the young reprobate. “Arthur Flinders-Petrie.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “You can’t.” Charles shook his head. “Died before I was born. Caught an ague or something on one of his travels. That’s all I know.”

  “And your father? What is his name? What does he say about you selling off the family heirlooms?”

  “My father passed away last year. But I doubt he would approve. He didn’t approve of much, my father—at least where I was concerned. His name was Benedict. Anything else?”

  “Arthur and Benedict Flinders-Petrie,” said Burleigh, making a mental note. “That’s all for now.” He stepped away. “I will contact you if I require anything more.”

  “What about the money?”

  “You will get your money. It has already been arranged through Catchmole at Sotheby’s. All we need do is agree on a price; I will tell him and he will do the rest. He is being paid for his silence and discretion. How much do you owe in gambling debts?”

  Charles frowned. “Fifty pounds, give or take.”

  “And your battles?”

  “Another twenty, perhaps.”

  “We’ll make it an even hundred, then,” decided Burleigh. “And don’t look so disappointed. It is more than any decent labourer earns in a year, and more than you would have made at auction. There, you see? I’ve saved you no end of trouble.”

  The young man frowned. “That’s it, then?”

  “Do cheer up. Think of it this way—you now have a new and supremely influential partner in business, and your pecuniary worries are over.” He moved towards the door. “Still, I wouldn’t go running up any more whacking great debts about town—I may not feel so generous next time.”

  “What if I don’t want a partner?”

  Burleigh put back his head and laughed. “Farewell, Charles.” He opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. “Until we meet again.”

  “How do I contact you?” asked Charles, following him onto the staircase.

  “You don’t. If I should need to see you, I will contact you.”

  “When I want to sell something,” suggested Charles, “how do I reach you?”

  “Whenever you wish to sell”—Burleigh started down the steps— “you will send to Catchmole. He will do the rest.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Charles called after his visitor’s disappearing form.

  “I already told you,” answered Burleigh, receding down the steps. “It is my business.”

  “Just business? Nothing more?”

  Burleigh gave a laugh as he disappeared into the shadows. “You have no idea how far my business interests take me.”

  CHAPTER 18

  In Which Kit Takes a Detour

  Cupping his hands to his eyes, Kit blinked at the black stretch of highway as it shimmered gently in the full sun of a blistering
summer day. The shock of seeing that road rocked him backwards a step. An image so drearily commonplace in his home world . . . in this world the sight jolted through him like lightning. It was a moment before he could properly frame his thoughts, and then the best he could manage was a feeble and ineffectual How . . . ?

  The narrow passage in the cave contained a ley line—that was the only explanation. He had unwittingly crossed over and was now . . . where? Judging solely by the highway, it was somewhere reasonably modern. In other words, a world about as far away from the Stone Age as Marylebone from Mars. Kit gazed at the asphalt artery as it curved through the valley, hugging the sinuous curve of the river, and the sight filled him with dread bordering on despair. Why? he wondered. Why now?

  There was a time when his first instinct would have been to run to that dusty band of tarmac, fall on his knees, and kiss it for everything it signified. But he was past that. Now he wanted nothing more than to dive back into the cave and take the leap back to rejoin his clansmen in the cave. His clansmen! Being part of River City Clan, learning their ways, discovering all the little mysteries of their existence, of another form of human life . . . this was his life, and he was not done with it yet, and he was in no way prepared to leave them without so much as a “So long, see ya later.”

  “No,” he muttered with a determined shake of his head. “Not now. Not like this.”

  He glimpsed a burst of motion far down on the slope below as the cave lion disappeared into the thick brush of the riverbank. “Byebye, Baby,” he murmured. “You go your way, and I’ll go mine.” With that, he turned right around and scrambled back into the cave.

  Kit fumbled his way along the interior of the cavern, leaving the world of air and light behind. It was a slow and nerve-wracking process, but stubborn resolve kept his feet moving. When it grew too dark to see anymore, he steadied himself with one hand on the near left wall and worked his way along until he felt the passage straighten out and reckoned that might be the end of the ley.

  Bracing himself for a blind leap, he started off. Trying to walk normally and with purpose in total darkness—one hand on the rough rock wall beside him and the other waving out in front—was more difficult than he expected. After a bit of practise he was able to achieve a respectable gait, but to no discernible effect.

  He stumbled over the uneven floor, willing the transition to happen. When he reached the end of the straight section, he turned around and hobbled back to start again. After two failed attempts to make the leap, he remembered Wilhelmina’s ley lamp in the inner pouch sewn into this shirt. He fished it out and waved it around. The little blue lights flashed, gave off a dying flicker, and winked out. Turning this way and that in the passage, he held the lamp before him, but could not raise another signal and was forced to conclude that any ley activity present in the cave was now dormant.

  With a grumble and grinding of his teeth, Kit turned on his heel and headed back to the cave entrance to wait until the ley grew active once more. The day outside was hot and bright; it took him awhile to get used to sunlight again, and heat. He was soon sweating in his furs and wishing he had something else to wear. He shed the long, heavy tunic shirt, rolling it up and stashing it carefully under a rock just inside the mouth of the cave; he would need it later.

  Returning to the hillside, he took the opportunity to more properly spy out the land. It was fairly arid hill country with a ridge of jagged grey mountains rising to the northwest, a river winding through a green valley below, and what appeared to be olive trees dotting the hillsides within view. The mountains looked vaguely familiar, but he could not place them. Aside from the olive trees, he might be almost anywhere—not that it mattered, because he did not plan on hanging around long enough to find out more. It irked him that he had been transferred to this place. Just his luck, he moaned; when he wanted to leave, the ley line he knew refused to open. Now that he had a reason to stay a little longer, he had been ejected by a ley he had not known was there.

  Consoling himself with the thought that knowing a way back to his clan was the main thing and he could return later, Kit sat down in the shadow of an overhanging rock to wait for the sun to go down. Even sitting in the shade, the heat began to wear on him— the abrupt change from winter to high summer was a shock to the system. He closed his eyes and was soon dozing. Sometime later, a distant sound roused him from a deep sleep. He opened his eyes and looked around; everything was as before, but now he was aware of a burning thirst.

  Looking down towards the river, he saw the gleam of shining water and decided that nothing would be gained by allowing himself to get dehydrated, so he rose and started down the hillside. He reached the riverbank and, keeping an eye out for the young cave lion, began searching for a place where he might be able to access the water, scrambling through the brush growing thick on the bank. He came to a flat stretch of pebbled shingle on the bank and, kneeling, scooped up handfuls of fresh water, still cool from the mountain springs.

  He drank his fill and was just about to rise when he heard a tremendous commotion in the brush behind him. Fearing that Baby had found him, Kit grabbed a good-sized stone from the strand and crouched, ready to fight. Out from the brush bounded two big hounds—lean, long-legged beasts; one grey, one brown—and both of them extremely surprised to see him.

  They halted in midchase and froze, heads low, ears flattened, hackles raised.

  “Easy, fellas,” said Kit, raising his free hand to show it empty. “Good boys. Stay.” At the sound of his voice, the brown dog raised his snout and gave a single long yowl. The other remained fixed on him, snarling gently.

  As if in answer to the first hound’s yelp, Kit heard a thrashing in the wood, and into the clearing stepped a man in a red shirt and leather hunting vest. He was wearing a black beret and carrying a double-barrelled shotgun. He took one look at Kit and breathed, “Madre de Dios!”

  Kit, still clutching the stone, said, “Okay, let’s not get excited. Let’s stay cool.”

  At this, the man in the black beret raised the shotgun and pointed it at Kit’s chest. “Qué?”

  “English?” countered Kit. “Anglais?”

  Neither word had any effect. The man, still goggle-eyed at the apparition before him, remained unmoved, the gun unwaveringly aimed at Kit’s chest. This standoff seemed to last an age, and then the man gestured with the gun barrel for Kit to throw down the rock. Kit complied without hesitation.

  “Don’t shoot, okay?” he said, raising his hands slowly. “I’m just a traveller. You can put the gun down. I won’t cause any trouble. See?”

  The man gestured for Kit to move away from the riverbank, which he did, and Kit was then led at gunpoint out of the brush and into the field beyond. Once in the open, the man gave out a long, rising whistle. It was answered by another in kind. A moment later, a second man appeared from out of the bushy scrub along the river. Like the first, he was dressed in a red shirt and black beret; he also had leather leggings on his trousers and wore a pouch for birds or rabbits or other small game slung over one shoulder.

  The second hunter took one look at Kit and said, “Santa María!”

  The first hunter nodded.

  The second hunter approached Kit cautiously. “Dónde consiguió usted eso?”

  “English?” said Kit. He thought for a moment how to frame the next question, but found that his own facility with English had all but dried up. After so long a time with River City Clan, he could barely make his mouth say the words. “Speak English?” was all he could manage.

  The two men looked at each other and then at Kit. The second hunter shrugged and said, “Padre Tadeo.”

  “Si,” agreed the other. “Padre Tadeo lo sabrá.”

  The first hunter motioned with the shotgun once more, and Kit was marched away with the two men behind him and a dog on either side. They followed the curve of the river around a wide bend and came to a bridge joining a dirt road to the highway. Parked at the side of the road was a tiny three-wheeled
vehicle of muddy green; it had a cab for the driver and an open bed for haulage. One of the men got into the driver’s seat and the other motioned Kit into the back. Then the man and hounds climbed in with him, the engine fired up, and they juntered off.

  They drove a few miles to a village just off the highway. The place was the centre for a small farming community, boasting a single main street lined with a few simple shops, a watering tank for livestock, a greengrocer, and a post office. The signs Kit saw on the sides of buildings and in the store windows were all in Spanish. The main street ended at a town square with a large stone church on one side and, facing it across the square, a rambling stucco edifice with white pillars and black doors. The town square had a large marble fountain, but the fountain was dry.

  The three-wheeled truck pulled up outside the church, and the driver beeped the horn and went on beeping it until a priest in a long black cassock emerged and stood on the steps. The driver got out and ran to the priest; the two exchanged a few words, and the clergyman approached the little pickup where Kit sat under guard in the back.

  A short man with heavy dark eyebrows above deep-set black eyes, the priest took one look at Kit and crossed himself.

  “Hello,” said Kit, having decided his best option was to remain calm and quiet and try not to alarm folk unnecessarily. “Do you speak English?”

  The priest’s eyebrows shot up. He glanced at the two holding the shotguns, who nodded knowingly, then said, “I speak English, yes.”

  “Good,” said Kit. He made to get out of the vehicle, then glanced again at the two men who still held their shotguns at the ready and decided to stay put for the moment.

  The priest hesitated, but the hunter who had discovered Kit nodded his encouragement. “This is El Bruc, señor,” replied the priest. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Christopher.” He considered asking where he was and the year, but decided those questions could wait until he knew his captors better. “You can call me Kit.” He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “Who are you?”