A Study in Silks (41 page)

And he clearly understood machines.

But Keating planned to eventually ruin the father for that Harter’s debacle. Bancroft was obedient now, but that was only because he knew he was under scrutiny. He’d try something the moment Keating’s attention wandered.

And yet—ruin wasn’t the only means of revenge. Perhaps he could be inventive and steal the heir to Bancroft’s imagined
legacy right out from under his aristocratic nose. He savored the idea, cataloguing the nuances of its flavor as if it were a fine wine.

He did so like to please his daughter.

KEATING WAS STILL
mulling over the idea as he settled into his study on the main floor of his Mayfair address. The London house was not as large as his town house in Bath or even the estate he had purchased near Truro, but it had the smell of old aristocracy about it. It was the perfume of age and money, as if the pedigree of its former owners had seeped into the brick and timbers.

The rooms had high ceilings and gilt, with delicately painted panels in the bedchambers and marquetry on the floors. The fireplaces were framed in porphyry and the enormous paned windows were draped with velvet so heavy that it took two strong men to remove each panel for spring cleaning. The house had once belonged to a duke’s mistress, but she’d been old and ill and Keating had seen his opportunity to drive a hard bargain.

He’d added modern conveniences, of course—like the pneumatic tracks that ran like a narrow shelf all along the wainscoting. Tiny silver cars ran along it, much like a toy railway. They allowed food, drink, or any small item to be delivered at the touch of a button without the annoyance of intruding servants. If one really wished privacy, one had merely to place one’s order to the butler’s pantry through a speaking tube, then wait for the requested item to appear via the Lilliputian railway. It was the finishing touch on a house that was no more than the founder of Keating Utility deserved, and one that he would be proud to settle on Alice someday.

But how did he feel about the Roth boy putting his feet up on the fender? Keating expected his daughter to marry high up the social ladder, and it was worth noting that Tobias would inherit his father’s title.
Alice could be the next Lady Bancroft
. Not bad, though the next Duchess of Westlake sounded even better.

And Keating wasn’t sure that he approved of her ideas about marrying a man with brains.
Too much intellect could be problematic in a son-in-law
.

He’d barely finished the thought when the dark paneled door swung open, and his first appointment strolled in with the air of a man on a scenic tour. Keating studied his visitor. Tall, wearing a black suit tailored with a Continental flair. Goatee. An emerald the size of Keating’s fingernail flashing in his stickpin.
Flashy, verging on tasteless
.

“Dr. Magnus, I presume,” Keating said. “I saw your name in my appointment book, but I do not recall 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 out 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 he 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 twitched 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 inches, and leaned down into his face.

Magnus grinned, and it wasn’t pleasant. “Eventually, it shall be a relief to place the casket in my hands, because that is the price—the only means—of obtaining peace.”

He touched the green gem that pinned his necktie. The sun leached out of the room, leaving it cold and dank and dark. Shadows crept from the corners, leaving all in shades of mildewed gray. Keating felt a chill move up his legs, as if cold hands were reaching up from graves hidden beneath the carpet. Keating felt a sudden, craven urge to beg the doctor to let the light back in. He bit the inside of his cheek, refusing to let his teeth chatter. “This is magic. The use of magic is illegal in the Empire. Punishable by death.”

The doctor waved a finger. “Oh, tut. You are credulous, for a man of business. I am merely a mesmerist.”

“Mesmerist?” Keating’s voice sounded shrill. “This is more than tricks of the mind, sir.”

“Are you so certain of that?” Magnus laughed softly.

Fear lanced through Keating at the sound. He jerked back, as if Magnus were poisonous to the touch. “You will regret this.”

Magnus turned his eyes to the ceiling in a gesture of exaggerated patience. “Please, threatening me is unwise in the extreme. Don’t force me to fall back on the obvious blustering tropes of penny-dreadful adventures.”

Keating was a brave man, but there was something in the darkness that recalled every boyhood terror. “All men bleed. Is that a trope?”

Magnus pulled a face. “But not all men have daughters, Mr. Keating. And yours is so lovely. Think on her while you ponder my request.”

There was a moment of stunned silence while Keating’s breath choked in his throat.

“Good day, Mr. Keating. I shall be seeing you about town. Often.” Magnus gracefully bowed from the room.

Keating fell backward into his chair, glad of the light that came rushing back through the window glass, but not feeling one bit warmer.

Until his rage breached like a furious kraken.

THE ONLY ANTIDOTE TO DR. MAGNUS WAS ACTION. AND THE
Gold King had resources for this kind of thing. He had Striker.

South of Marlborough and East of Regent Street lay one of the poorest parts of the Gold district. St. James Workhouse formed one corner of a neighborhood made up of people surviving on a few shillings a week. For a few shillings more, Keating had bought himself an army of Yellowbacks.