Burning Lamp (23 page)

But pleasure had transmuted into terror when he discovered why Luttrell had sent for him. He had never been so frightened in his life. His heart was pounding. His palms were ice cold. His intuition—the invariably infallible Harper intuition—had warned him against doing more business with Luttrell. So had his wife, for that matter. But, alas, the artist in him had been unable to resist the challenge. Luttrell demanded the best and Norwood prided himself on creating only the finest antiquities.

“I assure you, s-sir, the statue is an original,” he stammered. “Egyptian. Eighteenth dynasty. I obtained it from a most reliable source.”

“I’m sure you did.” Luttrell cocked a brow. “Your own workshop, I believe.”

“Just look at the hieroglyphs on the base, sir. Marvelous.”

“A nice touch,” Luttrell said.

“And you will note the elegant form of the piece,” Norwood added.

“The queen is a very attractive figure but that does not change the fact that it is a modern piece. I ordered a genuine Egyptian antiquity. That is what Harper Antiquities agreed to provide.”

Professional pride inspired a momentary flash of righteous indignation in Norwood. “See here, sir, given your occupation I doubt very much that you can claim to be an expert on antiquities. What makes you so certain that the statue is a fake?”

Luttrell smiled. “I may be a lowly, uneducated crime lord in your estimation, Mr. Harper. But you engage in the business of fraudulent antiquities. I’m not at all certain that you are in any position to cast aspersions on my profession.”

Horrified, Norwood flapped his hands. “I meant no offense, sir. I merely wondered how you acquired your, uh, expertise in antiquities.”

“Do you know anything about the physics of the paranormal?”

Norwood froze. The Harper family was a large one and virtually every member had a psychical talent for forgery. Indeed, some of Norwood’s own creations were currently on display in the British Museum, having been accepted as authentic antiquities by the foremost experts of the land. The fact that Luttrell had brought up the subject of the paranormal was more than a little ominous.

“I don’t understand,” Norwood said weakly.

“As it happens, Mr. Harper, I have a strong psychical talent that draws energy from the dreamlight end of the spectrum.”

Norwood felt faint. He had sold one of his finest fakes to a master criminal possessed of some form of dreamlight talent. He could almost see an unmarked grave opening beneath his feet.

“Mr. Luttrell, I can explain—”

“Most people would have no notion of what I am talking about, but I can tell that you comprehend me quite clearly,” Luttrell said. “Excellent. That will make things so much simpler.”

“Sir, if you will allow me—”

“As I’m sure you are aware, dreamlight talent takes a wide variety of forms. But even someone with a weak version of the ability is usually capable of discerning the approximate age of an artifact such as your pretty little queen. Creativity generates a tremendous amount of psychical energy. Such energy always leaves an impression on the object that is produced. Embedded in that impression is some sense of the time that has passed since the act of creation. It is obvious to me that your queen was crafted quite recently.”

Norwood knew then that his life depended on talking his way out of the horrific situation. He was a Harper. He had a great talent for deception. He drew himself up and assumed an air of offended dignity.

“Sir, if the statue is a fake, I promise you that I had no knowledge of it. As I told you I acquired it from a trusted source.”

“Enough.” Luttrell sat forward and pulled the black velvet bell cord that hung down the paneled wall. “Under other circumstances I would find it amusing to listen to what would no doubt be a very inventive piece of fiction. But I am rather pressed for time at the moment.”

“Sir, I can assure you—”

The door of the office opened. A large, heavily muscled man with the face of a bulldog entered the room. His shaved head gleamed in the light.

“Yes, Mr. Luttrell?” he said.

“Please escort Mr. Harper to the guest quarters.”

“Yes, sir.” The big man gripped Norwood’s arm and hauled him toward the door.

“One more thing,” Luttrell said.

The burly enforcer paused. “Yes, sir?”

“Inform Dr. Hulsey that there is now a human subject available for his experiments. I’m certain that Mr. Harper will be only too pleased to help advance the cause of paranormal research.”

 

 

 

ADELAIDE ADJUSTED HER VEIL TO MAKE CERTAIN THAT IT concealed her features. She contemplated the front window of the small, nondescript bookshop. The film of grime was so thick on the panes of glass that it was impossible to see the interior of the establishment.

“This is your office?” she asked, intrigued.

“One of several that I maintain throughout the city,” Griffin said. “I rarely use the same one twice in a row. In my line it never pays to become too predictable in one’s habits.”

“I must say I’m impressed that you have no difficulty conducting business as usual even though we are in hiding.”

“The Director or those who work for him must always appear to be omnipresent on the streets,” Griffin said. “It’s a vital aspect of my reputation.”

He opened the door. A bell tinkled somewhere in the shadows. Adelaide whisked up her skirts and walked into the shop. A gas lamp burned behind the counter but its glow did little to drive back the shadows.

The premises looked as if they had not been swept or dusted in a very long time. The shelves were laden with an untidy assortment of unimpressive volumes.

She opened her own senses. Layers of Griffin’s darkly iridescent dreamprints covered the dusty floor.

There were other tracks, as well. They formed a miasma of murky energy. What startled her was the strong emotion that burned in many of the tracks, almost all of it dark. She saw tendrils of fear, seething currents of desperation, the sad waves of despair and the acid-colored fluorescence indicative of dread.

Few people came to the bookshop to purchase the latest sensation novel, Adelaide thought. It was clear from the tumultuous energy on the floor that, for those who braved the nameless lane and the ominous shadows, the little shop was a place of last resort. Those who came here did so only when there was nowhere else to turn. She wondered what they hoped to find.

A gruff-looking gnome of a man appeared from the back room. He squinted at Griffin through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. He looked vaguely irritated. Evidently the sight of his employer standing there in the shop was not the highlight of his day.

“Eh, it’s you, sir.” The gnome adjusted his spectacles. “The Harpers are waiting.”

“Thank you, Charles.” Griffin looked at Adelaide. “Allow me to introduce you to Charles Pemberton. He is a scholar who does not like to be interrupted in his studies. But we have an arrangement. He manages this bookshop for me and, in turn, I see to it that his papers get published in a respectable journal.”

Adelaide looked at Charles. “What is your field of research, sir?”

Charles grunted. “The paranormal.”

Adelaide smiled. “I should have guessed.”

Charles sat down behind a rolltop desk. “As it happens, I have a paper coming out in the next quarterly issue of the
Journal of Paranormal and Psychical Research
.”

Adelaide stared at him, astonished. “That journal is published by the Arcane Society. Some of my father’s work appeared in it.”

“It is one of the very few legitimate publications in the field,” Charles said, his attitude warming now that he could see that she was impressed. “My paper is on the controversy surrounding D. D. Home.”

Adelaide nodded. “He was certainly a legend in the field. It was said that he was a man of great talent. Supposedly he could levitate and walk through fire, among other amazing feats.”

“Rubbish.” Charles snorted. “He was a complete fraud. In my paper I prove that all that levitating through the air and flying in and out of windows was just so much sleight-of-hand.
Bah.
The man was a charlatan to his fingertips.”

“A very successful charlatan,” Griffin said, amused. “He moved in the highest social circles. One must give him credit for carving out such an impressive career.”

Charles glowered ferociously over the rims of his spectacles. “It’s his sort that gives serious, legitimate paranormal research a bad name. My paper in the
Journal
will dispel the myths that surround his name.”

“Don’t count on it,” Griffin said. He took Adelaide’s arm and steered her toward the closed door of the back room. “In my experience, when given a choice between a good legend and a few boring facts, people will inevitably choose the legend.”

“Having spent a number of years in show business, I can testify to that piece of wisdom,” Adelaide said.

Charles snorted in disgust.

Adelaide glanced at Griffin. “How is it that you are able to get Mr. Pemberton published in the Society’s journal? I thought you avoided all connections to Arcane.”

“One of the current editors owes me a favor.”

“Yes, of course. I would be interested to know the nature of that particular debt.”

“Someday I’ll tell you. Meanwhile, I would like you to attend this meeting with my new clients with your senses open.”

She watched him through the veil. “Why?”

“Your talent may prove helpful.”

“Very well.”

She walked into the other room. Energy shivered in the air behind her. She did not have to look at Griffin to know that he had drawn his cloak of psychical shadows around himself.

Two men and a woman waited in the small space. They were seated on plain wooden chairs. Their anxiety was well concealed behind politely composed faces but Adelaide sensed the panic just beneath the surface.

When she slipped into her other vision she saw the hot tension that radiated in their prints. Another kind of energy illuminated their dreamlight tracks as well. The three individuals were clearly persons of talent.

At the sight of Adelaide and Griffin the men got to their feet.

“Sir,” the older of the two men said. He was silver-haired, well dressed and distinguished looking. He spoke in cultured tones. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Calvin Harper.” He nodded toward the woman. “My wife, Mrs. Harper, and my brother, Ingram Harper.”

They all looked expectantly at Adelaide but Griffin did not introduce her.

“We have not met but I know something of your extensive family,” Griffin said. “I believe we have brushed up against one another on occasion over the years. I congratulate you on the excellent vases in the Taggert Gallery. Taggert tried to sell one to me but I declined.”

Calvin Harper affected an air of grave distress. “My dear sir, please accept my apologies if there is any past misunderstanding between us.”

“None whatsoever,” Griffin said easily. “Those phony Etruscan vases are Taggert’s problem, not mine. As he appears to be content with them, I doubt that you have any need to be concerned.”

Mrs. Harper peered at Griffin closely. Adelaide knew that she was trying to bring his face into sharp focus. Griffin was not invisible by any means but he seemed to be drenched in shadows, as though he stood in a dark, unlit hallway rather than the center of the room.

“What makes you think that Taggert’s vases are fakes?” Mrs. Harper asked icily.

“I am aware that Taggert has acquired a number of his best pieces from the Harper family workshops,” Griffin said.

Ingram Harper bridled. “Now, see here, sir, if you are implying that our family is in any way connected to the disreputable trade in fraudulent antiquities—”

“Ingram, that’s enough,” Calvin said firmly. “We have business with the Director. We do not have time for this. Norwood’s very life is at stake.”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Harper said softly. She clutched a limp, damp handkerchief in her gloved fingers. “We can only hope that he is still alive. We came here today to plead with you to help us, Director. We don’t know where else to turn.”

Calvin squared his shoulders. “Rumor has it that you will occasionally assist those who find themselves in dire straits. We are prepared to pay whatever fee you ask.”

“I take my fees in the form of favors that I expect to be repaid when I send word that I am in need of information or a service,” Griffin said.

Calvin swallowed. “Yes, sir. We understand that.”

Griffin inclined his head in an encouraging manner. “Why don’t you start by telling me who Norwood is?”

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Harper composed herself. “Norwood is my nephew. Norwood’s wife would have accompanied us but she is in a state of complete shock and unable to leave her bed.”

“I am Norwood’s father,” Ingram added. “My son is an extremely talented sculptor. He is also the proprietor of a small antiquities shop.”

“Harper Antiquities, I believe,” Griffin said. “Yes, I have heard some rumors about the shop. Evidently some of Norwood’s work is sitting in a number of respected private collections here and in America.”

Ingram sighed. “In his defense, I can only say that it was Norwood’s confidence in his own great talent that persuaded him to take the risk of selling the queen to such a dangerous man.”

Griffin studied the Harpers’ anxious faces. “Are you saying that Norwood sold a fraudulent artifact to a collector who was displeased to discover that he’d been cheated?”

Calvin’s jaw tightened. “Evidently the collector concluded that the statue was not a genuine antiquity. It’s all just a terrible misunderstanding, of course.”

“Of course,” Griffin said.

“But now Norwood has disappeared. When he left his shop he told his clerk that he had been asked to consult with the collector who purchased the queen. Norwood never returned from that meeting.”