Chapter Seven
“Nefritiri, you naughty girl!”
The housekeeper’s admonishment rang out as the woman’s footsteps padded over the corridor outside Alex’s study. The shrill, aggravated tones tore her attention from the images she’d been studying. The photograph Benedict had left behind offered an adequate view of the symbols, but examining the cryptic message for clues had left her blurry-eyed and weary. While she took no pleasure at her typically unflappable housekeeper’s exasperation, she welcomed the momentary distraction from the task.
“Come back here, you little minx,” Mrs. Thomas called, nearing the study.
Alex smiled to herself. Somehow, she doubted the cat was listening to the matron’s commands. Had the mischievous feline launched another attack on the feather duster Mrs. Thomas wielded with precise efficiency?
The cat dashed through the doorway, a flash of black fur and golden eyes as it escaped its nemesis. Just as Alex had suspected, several feathers pilfered from the cleaning implement dangled from its mouth. Nefritiri leapt onto her desk, nimbly evading the reference volumes she’d stacked in one corner. Mrs. Thomas followed her into the study, halting her pursuit at the door.
“So sorry to disturb you.” Mrs. Thomas’s cheeks had flushed rosy red, whether from exertion or embarrassment, Alex could not be sure. “I see you’re hard at work again.”
“Think nothing of it. I see Nefritiri has been stalking the duster again.”
“At this rate, there won’t be much left of it,” Mrs. Thomas said with a defeated shrug.
Alex slanted the cat a glance. The little beast had taken refuge behind her desk, the incriminating feathers still in its mouth. “I trust your morning has been uneventful…other than this naughty girl’s mischief.”
“I cannot complain,” the older woman replied. “Though I suspect the cat may be the least of your worries. I spotted two men loitering outside your residence, a couple of serious gents, each trying to look as though they’re not watching the house. I’m questioning whether or not to alert a constable.”
Alex set the image aside. “They’re still here?”
Mrs. Thomas narrowed her eyes in confusion. “You know them?”
“Yes…well, not personally. I know who they are and their purpose for being here.”
The housekeeper’s mouth went taut. “Is something amiss… Is there something I should know?”
“Oh, dear, I suppose I should have explained this morning. I hadn’t anticipated they’d stay here so late.” Alex drummed her fingers against the desk, then quickly stopped herself. She detested the nervous habit. “Those men are security agents. Matthew Colton assigned them to watch over the residence last night. There was an incident… All in all, rather a mess. I’ll tell you more later. For now, I’m longing for a spot of tea.”
“Of course, miss,” Mrs. Thomas said with a crisp nod. “I’ll bring you a pot. By the way, you did say there was an incident…a violent incident?”
“The potential for bloodshed was definitely there.”
Mrs. Thomas’s mouth thinned. “I suppose that would explain the stain on the Aubusson.”
Alex nodded. Did the woman miss a thing?
“I believe it would.”
“I’ll be getting your tea now, Miss Quinn. Would you care for a piece of shortbread?”
“Yes, that would be marvelous. I’ve had little taste for food this morning, but that might be just the thing to whet my appetite. I never can resist anything you’ve baked.”
Mrs. Thomas flashed a beaming smile. “I’ll be back straight away.”
As the housekeeper bustled from the room, Alex’s gaze settled on the spots of blood marring the fine carpet. A little sound escaped her, a cross between a sigh and a groan. The blemishes were small, but the reminder of the night before roiled her stomach. She pictured Rooney’s cold eyes staring into hers as he put his rough hands on her. Perhaps the tea would help to quiet her nerves. Then again, perhaps only time would diminish the remnants of fear.
Nefritiri regarded her with her usual dispassionate gaze. She’d dropped the purloined feathers on a thick book, evidently trusting Alex with her newly acquired treasure. The cat strolled toward Alex, soliciting a rub behind the ears. A full-bodied purr rumbled through the creature’s plump body, tugging another smile to Alex’s mouth. Amazing, really, how the simple physical contact with the sweet-natured feline soothed her frayed emotions in a way no amount of well-reasoned logic ever could.
Allowing a few minutes to simply enjoy the moment, Alex stroked the fur ball. Her attention wandered to the neatly penned expedition journal Professor Stockwell had prepared on the discovery of the Pharaoh’s Sun. She’d intended to review the notes today, before Benedict’s unexpected arrival had shifted her priorities to deciphering the dead man’s message.
Stockwell had meticulously documented the details of the exploration. Pillaged many times over, the tomb of an obscure pharaoh from the fifteenth dynasty had yielded few artifacts. A scarce few items of pottery and nonprecious metals had escaped the raiders’ clutches. Only the amulet known as the Pharaoh’s Sun would have elicited a thief’s excitement. The bronze pendant would likely fetch a modest sum, but its historical significance was considerable. The professor had taken pride in recovering the piece before a less scrupulous explorer could get his hands on it.
And yet, Stockwell had summoned Benedict. How very ironic. The professor’s most accomplished student had shifted his focus from academic interest to the price an antiquity would fetch on the market. Professor Stockwell knew that better than most. Why had he called upon a man who could not be trusted to safeguard a precious relic?
Had the professor fabricated the tale of a map to some long-buried treasure in a desperate effort to stir Benedict’s interest and entice him to pursue Rooney to London?
Or had he told Benedict the truth?
Was it possible she unknowingly possessed the map?
Professor Stockwell would not have kept her in the dark. He’d trusted her implicitly. Unless…unless he believed he was somehow protecting her by withholding that crucial bit of information.
She picked up the professor’s journal and stared down at the cramped, precise script. Was it possible the aging scholar had concealed information in plain sight?
As a girl, she and her younger sister had often occupied themselves with games of intrigue. Jennie had written messages using juice she squeezed from lemons, advancing in sophistication as she concocted formulas that could be developed using a bit of sodium carbonate. Could the professor have used some sort of invisible ink to sketch out a map to some unknown archaeological find?
With the journal in hand, she rose from her desk, moved to the window, and opened the curtains. She held each page up to the light. The notes bore no trace of indentations where a pen might have left an imprint, nothing to indicate the professor’s journal contained anything other than rather tedious details of the excavation.
Mrs. Thomas returned with a pot of tea and shortbread on a silver tray. “Is there anything else you would like me to prepare for you?”
The biscuit’s rich, buttery aroma drifted to Alex, but at the moment, she had no taste for it. “No, thank you,” she said, peering down at the documents in her hand. Heat from the teapot wafted to her. If the professor had utilized a heat-responsive ink, would the warmth from the silver vessel be adequate to develop the notations?
She waited until Mrs. Thomas placed the platter on a side table and left the room, then tested her theory with each leaf in the notebook. Nothing. No change in the paper. No sign of a hidden symbol or map.
Pouring a cup of Earl Grey, she set the journal aside, took a sip, and resumed her examination of the message captured in the photographic image. Crudely drawn by a dying man, the symbols presented a challenge she had not anticipated. A pair of wavy lines. The letter V. Something that might have been meant to indicate the letter M. The icons bore little resemblance to Egyptian hieroglyphs. Was there a message to be found in the figures? Or were the faint letters and pictographs the product of a wounded man’s delirious thoughts?
Taking up her hand lens, she brought the emblems into keener focus. Not of Egyptian origin, she mused. She was certain of that. Could the symbols be derived from Greek?
“The post has arrived,” Mrs. Thomas said as she padded back into the study. “I’m quite sorry to disturb you, but I thought you might wish to see what’s come for you.”
The housekeeper held out an envelope addressed in Stockwell’s distinctive hand. Taking the letter in hand, she stared down at the script. Emotion swelled deep within her. This was likely the last correspondence she would ever receive from the professor. Scalding tears burned the back of her throat as she fought to hold them in. She had to maintain her composure.
“Is something wrong?” Mrs. Thomas asked, her voice soft with concern.
“No,” Alex said with a shake of her head.
The housekeeper furrowed her brow and gave a little shake of her head. Had she seen through the harmless little lie so easily? Not surprising, really. Deceit had never been Alex’s strong suit.
“Are you sure of that, dear?”
Alex sighed. “Is it so very obvious?”
Mrs. Thomas nodded. “Are you forgetting I’ve been with the Quinn family since you were scarcely past your father’s knee? I know when you’re upset. What’s happened?”
“I received word last night that Professor Stockwell has…died.” How very painful it was to utter that word.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Thomas cupped a hand over her mouth. “I’m so very sorry.”
“I am not entirely sure what happened. I shall let you know the details when I become apprised of the full circumstances.”
“I know how much the professor meant to you.” The housekeeper brushed away a tear of her own. “He was a good man.”
“Yes,” Alex said, choking back her grief. “He was an original.”
“I’ll give you a bit of privacy, my dear,” Mrs. Thomas said. “If you need me, I will be in the kitchen, preparing my order for the market.”
“Thank you,” Alex said as the housekeeper quietly walked away.
Taking up her pearl-handled letter opener, Alex neatly slit the envelope and removed the neatly folded missive. A tear slid down her cheek, and she swept it away with the heel of her hand.
How had everything changed so very quickly? Less than twenty-four hours had passed since Rooney had invaded her home.
As she perused the letter, her breath caught in her throat.
No. This cannot be.
Standing as if that might clear her head, she pressed her palms to the desk, steadying herself.
Again, she read the professor’s words—
My dearest Alexandra,
I regret that I must write to you with dire news. I am afraid it is too late for me. But I pray you will evade this treacherous web. It is not my intention to frighten you, but you must know the truth. You are in danger, and it is my fault. I deeply regret burdening you with the relic. It cannot be allowed to fall into the wrong hands—I fear its evil cannot be stopped. I no longer know whom I can trust. Take caution, my dear girl. The enemy is one of us.
Alex dragged in a harsh breath.
The enemy is one of us.
The words hammered in her thoughts. One of us.
Professor Stockwell would not have considered a hired thug like Rooney to be a member of his inner circle. The enemy was someone he’d viewed as a colleague. As a friend.
Someone he’d held in high regard.
But had Stockwell acted from a place of logic when he composed the missive? Or had fear gotten the better of him?
If the professor was right, someone he trusted had plotted against him and the others who’d been killed.
Dear God, Benedict had spoken the truth.
If he believed the menace came in the form of a stranger, Benedict might let down his guard. He was in true danger.
She had to warn him.
Bolting from behind her desk, she nearly collided with her housekeeper.
She met the woman’s surprised eyes. “Mrs. Thomas, I have to leave.”
The housekeeper looked her over in a quick appraisal. “I’ll prepare your shirtwaist and your skirt while you put a dab of cream on those dark circles under your eyes.”
“There’s no time for that.” Perhaps she did look a fright, wearing a comfortable but drab day dress while her features betrayed a lack of sleep, but that was of no consequence. She needed to tell him the message she’d worked out. She could not be certain she’d interpreted it correctly. But if she was right, it could be a matter of life—and death.
His.
Chimes rang out from the hall clock. Twelve in all.
Concern etched the matron’s features. Had she read the fear in Alex’s expression?
“Is something wrong?”
“Quite possibly. Keep the entryways locked. Do not open the door for anyone until I return.”
With Mrs. Thomas trailing after her, she hurried to leave. Slipping her cloak off the coat rack, she draped it over her shoulders.
A soft rapping upon the front door stopped Alex in her tracks. She gave a nod to the housekeeper. “Be sure to check the peep hole.”
“My, you are making me more than a bit skittish,” Mrs. Thomas murmured with a little frown.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to…but I’ve reason to believe we have greater need than usual for caution.”
Mrs. Thomas gave a nod and went to the door. When she turned back to Alex, the small lines marking her forehead had deepened with worry. “Your sister is here. I’ve seldom seen her look so grim.”
“Please, do let her in.” Alex let out a low breath as a wave of apprehension washed over her. “I wonder what has happened.”
Mrs. Thomas opened the door, and Jennie crossed the threshold. The housekeeper had not exaggerated. Her younger sister’s features were drawn and serious, her green eyes darkened to a mossy hue, as they tended to do when she was troubled.
“Hullo, Jennie. I suspect this is not a social call.”
“I’m afraid it is not.” Her sister’s eyes narrowed as she took note of Alex’s cloak. “You were going somewhere?”
“I have…an errand I must attend to.”
Jennie cocked a brow. “An errand?”
“Yes.” Alex swallowed hard. Evasion did not come easily. “Might we postpone this conversation until later, perhaps this evening?”
“I don’t believe that would be advisable.”
“Jennie, if this is about what happened last night, I assure you that Benedict—Lord Marlsbrook—and Matthew had the situation well in hand. The criminal they apprehended should pose no further threat.”
“Benedict, is it?” Jennie slanted the housekeeper a glance, then settled her gaze back on Alex. “Might we talk privately?”
Alex held back a sigh. It wasn’t like Jennie to cluck over her like a mother hen. She’d best humor her, at least for a few minutes, to reassure her. It went without saying that she’d save any mention of the professor’s letter for later, when there was more time for discussion.
“Of course.”
Alex turned, leading her sister to her study. “Shall I ask Mrs. Thomas to bring you a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you.” Jennie took a seat in an overstuffed chair. “Alex, I understand Lord Marlsbrook has requested that you join him in Egypt. He’s gone so far as to secure your passage.”
“That was indeed a bold move on his part. He wishes me to consult with him…on a rather specialized endeavor,” Alex said, sitting across from her sister.
An inverted vee etched itself between Jennie’s brows. “An endeavor. That’s one way of putting it.”
“Jennie, if you’ve come here to stop me from leaving with him, you’ve no worries. I have no intention of tossing aside my obligations to venture on a journey with him, now or ever.”
“Did Marlsbrook tell you why he is here…in London?”
“Yes,” Alex said. “Given what happened last night, I suspect you already know the gist of it.”
“He claims he came here to protect you.”
“He did come to my defense, making short work of a brute who had the brazen nerve to attack me. In my own residence, no less.”
“Did he tell you how he knew you would be facing a threat?”
Alex considered her words carefully. She’d no desire to alarm her sister. “Professor Stockwell was concerned for my safety. He asked Benedict to ensure I was not in danger.”
“Are you aware… Did he tell you the man is now deceased?”
Hearing the words again seemed a fresh dagger strike to her heart. Gulping a breath, Alex steadied herself against the rush of pain. “He did bring that horrible news.”
“What did he tell you of Stockwell’s death?” Jennie pressed on.
“Only that he’d been killed in the field. I do not believe Benedict was aware of the full circumstances.”
“My, that is convenient.” Jennie folded her hands primly in her lap. “Did he mention that the professor was killed the night before Marlsbrook left Egypt?”
“The night before…” The revelation crashed into Alex like a rogue wave. What in heaven was Jennie implying?
“Stockwell was found within his tent quarters when he failed to meet the members of the expedition the next morning. At first glance, it appeared he’d choked on a bite of food, but suspicious marks on his body point to suffocation.”
“Oh, dear. Benedict indicated he’d followed that horrible man who attacked me—Rooney—from Cairo. Is it possible that brute might be the killer?”
Jennie slowly shook her head. “Our sources indicate that Rooney was not in Egypt that night. He was well on his way to England. Alex, are you aware that five men have been killed in the last nine weeks? All were connected in some way to Stockwell’s expeditions.”
Alex pondered her words. “Five men? Are you quite sure? I was told that three men were killed before the professor’s death.”
“There has been another death. “I trust you read of Sir Clayton Finch’s death in the Herald.”
She pulled in a low breath. “Good heavens, how can this be?”
“The man had survived countless battles only to die in his own bath.”
“Could he have suffered an accident?”
“Highly unlikely. A postmortem examination revealed no sign of injury that would result from a fall. No fractures. No blunt trauma to his skull. Nothing that would explain how he ended up dead in his own tub with water in his lungs. Matthew’s contact at Scotland Yard believes he was drugged. Sir Clayton was known to consume a tumbler of whisky before he retired in the evening. His drink may have been dosed with a powerful sedative before he settled into the bath.”
Alex pressed her hand to her mouth as horrified understanding filled her. “Benedict warned me that we were in danger.”
“Are you aware that Marlsbrook arrived in London three days ago? Sir Clayton died that night.”
“A bizarre coincidence, I’m sure.”
“Can you be so certain?” Jennie’s mouth thinned with tension she did not try to hide. “Matthew and I share a deep concern regarding the many coincidences surrounding Lord Marlsbrook’s recent time in Egypt and his return to London.”
“I received a letter today from Professor Stockwell,” Alex offered, struggling to make sense of it all. “He feared my safety was at risk, even though I was far from Egypt. Benedict may also be in grave danger.”
“That is certainly a possibility,” Jennie said, her tones soft and measured. “But another explanation exists.”
“Another explanation?” Alex studied her sister’s face, searching for understanding. “Surely, you are not implying Benedict is a killer.”
“That’s not it, though I would be dishonest if I did not admit the possibility had entered my mind. Matthew instructed one of his agents to make inquiries regarding Lord Marlsbrook’s whereabouts since he arrived in London. Evidently, the night that Sir Clayton died, Marlsbrook was making his way through London’s underbelly. He was nowhere near the dead man’s residence.”
“He was searching for Rooney.” A peculiar sense of relief filled Alex. Benedict was many things—heaven knew she’d selected many a choice epithet to describe the man after he’d left her heart in tatters, but he was not evil. He was not a murderer.
“That would appear to be the case.”
“Could Rooney have killed Sir Clayton?”
“We don’t believe so,” Jennie said. “It does not appear that Alfred Rooney was in the city at the time. Our sources are confident that Rooney traveled through Rome and stayed in Paris for at least two nights before he arrived in London two days ago, shortly after Marlsbrook arrived by steamer.”
“Benedict had mentioned that Rooney’s trail had gone cold.”
“It appears he has been honest with you. But the fact remains—someone killed Sir Clayton before Rooney came to London. The danger is real, Alex. And it appears to be following Lord Marlsbrook.”