The Broken Sun (4 page)

Downstairs, other traps had been set under every window, as well as the front and
back doors.

‘This is possibly taking security a little too seriously.' Mr Doyle chewed on some
cheese as he examined the front door. ‘There is a piece of string here that deactivates
the trap.'

Reaching a room lined with bookshelves without
books, Mr Doyle nodded in satisfaction.
‘Ah,' he said. ‘This is fortunate.'

‘I already feel fortunate,' Jack said, ‘to not have a hole in me.'

The detective pointed to the floor. ‘You see how the dust has been disturbed. There
was equipment in this room. I believe it was only recently removed.'

‘So whoever sent the watch has left,' Scarlet said, ‘and removed everything of importance?'

‘I think so.' Mr Doyle inhaled deeply. ‘There is a strange smell in the air.'

Jack and Scarlet breathed in. ‘Could it be cleaning fluid?' Scarlet asked.

‘I suspect they were doing more than engineering here.'

The next room was a windowless sitting room, containing a couple of chairs, a small
side table and lamp. It was a murky chamber, the only light entering through the
doorway.

Mr Doyle activated the gaslight and the interior brightened. Reaching into his pocket,
he pulled out a small bust of Napoleon. ‘Oh dear,' he said. ‘I was wondering where
that went.' Returning the bust, he dragged out his goggles and scanned the room.
‘This is
very
odd. Why would someone construct such a dark, dingy room? It looks
like it was once part of the library.'

Jack crouched. ‘There's a line running across here,' he said. ‘Actually, it looks
like—'

But that was as far as he got as the trapdoor gave
way and Jack found himself falling
through the air.

Thud!

Landing in a heap on the floor, he heard Scarlet and Mr Doyle cry out just as the
trapdoor sprang back into place.

‘Bazookas,' Jack groaned, rubbing his rump. ‘Wasn't expecting that.'

He had landed in a wine cellar, an enormous chamber packed with dozens of long racks.
Two aisles ran across the middle, with gaps at each end where the racks did not touch
the edges. Light cut like shards of broken crystal from tiny windows set high in
the walls. Cobwebs stretched across the ceiling, a startled spider racing away. Jack
doubted anyone had been down here in years.

He wrinkled his nose. There was a strange smell about. A bad smell.
What was it?
Rotting meat?

Thudding came from above, and Scarlet and Mr Doyle's voices reverberated through
the timber. Jack was about to shout back when something clattered on the far side
of the cellar.

Something else is down here.

‘Hello?' Jack asked. ‘Is anyone there?'

Jack crossed the cellar, scanning for movement. Surely no-one lived down here. Unless
they were a prisoner. Maybe the owner was keeping someone captive?

More movement at the far end of the aisle.

‘Hello?' Jack ventured.

He was halfway down the aisle when the figure
moved into a shaft of light. Jack gasped.
It wasn't a person at all. It was a bull, twice its normal size. Three sharp horns
protruded from its forehead, and below these a huge jaw lined with fangs.

Jack froze.
How is this possible?

The creature must be an illegal biological experiment. Were the Darwinist League
responsible? They worked at the cutting edge of natural science, and much of their
work was revered. They had created oak trees that grew in the shape of planks of
wood, fish that lived on land and domesticated elephants the size of house cats.
They were even engineering whales that could carry humans like submarines.

The creation of modified animals was strictly controlled, but some scientists carried
out illegal experiments. This deformed bull appeared to be such a creature. The
scientist who had created it had been far from successful: it had no eyes. Jack relaxed
slightly. The beast was enormous, but Jack would be all right as long as he was quiet.

Taking a step backwards, Jack's feet scraped against the stonework. The bull lifted
its head, sniffed the air and started down the aisle. Jack turned to run, but in
his panic tripped and fell.

Move
, a voice in his head screamed.
Move!

Jack scrambled to his feet and dived into the next aisle. The bull ploughed past.
How can such an enormous beast run so fast?
Jack tore down the aisle, darting sideways
again as it thundered by.

He could hear it sniffing and snorting, and then the bull emitted a roar like a deranged
lion. Jack's blood ran cold. He scanned the gloom for an exit. Nothing. The walls
were bare. There was no door.

But there has to be a way out of here!

He made for a break in the shelves halfway down the aisle as the beast made another
pass, closer this time. It had slowed to a trot, roaring in frustration. With those
teeth, it had to be a carnivore. Maybe it hadn't been fed in days. Or weeks…

I don't want to be its next meal
.

Jack watched the bull reach the end of the aisle, before tiptoeing towards the far
wall, praying he'd find a door in one of the murky corners. He quietly edged along,
peering into the shadows.

Nothing.

The bull was silent and unmoving—for the moment. Jack glimpsed something hanging
from the ceiling about twenty feet away. A thick strand of cobweb.
No
, he thought.
It's a length of rope.

Could it be a handle for a set of pull-down stairs?

Jack crossed another aisle…

…and fetid breath snorted directly into his face.

A piece of advice from Mr Doyle floated into his mind like a bubble rising to the
surface of a lake.

Your assumptions can kill you.

The great detective was correct. What on earth had made Jack think there was only
one
bull in the cellar?

The second bull grunted. It could smell him. Like its
brother, it had no eyes, but
would be on Jack in a flash if he made the slightest sound. The monster's head weaved
about in the air. Jack's scent was clearly driving it wild.

A sound came from the opposite end of the cellar. The other bull was getting closer
.
Jack imagined their reaction when they found him sandwiched between them.

Hello food!

Jack had to think fast.

Edging a hand into his pocket, he took out a coin and, clenching it tightly, raised
his shaking arm. The bull sucked in another deep breath, and its three horns moved
dangerously close to Jack's face.

Jack tossed the coin over the bull's head. It seemed to take an eternity to arc across
the aisle before it hit the floor and bounced away. The beasts roared, charging after
it. Jack ran towards the rope and, as if by magic, stairs folded down from the ceiling.

What the—?

Mr Doyle came down the steps.

‘No!' Jack screamed. ‘Run!'

He flew towards the stairs as something thudded behind him. A bull was only a few
feet away. Jack charged up the steps and past the detective as the creature started
clambering up.

‘Good heavens!' Scarlet cried.

Mr Doyle still held the lamp in his hand. He threw it down at the monster's head,
spreading flame and oil across its face.

‘Go!' Mr Doyle yelled. ‘Go!'

He pushed Jack and Scarlet out of the room, pulling the door shut just as the beast's
horns smashed through the timber.

Then Jack was outside.
Free!
But even as Mr Doyle pulled the front door closed Jack
could still hear the roar of the beasts—a rabid bellow, and the crash of falling
objects as they charged from room to room.

‘I think the building's on fire,' Mr Doyle said.

‘I don't care if the whole world's on fire!' Jack said, still shaking. ‘Just as long
as we're away from those… things.'

Within minutes smoke was seeping from the eaves. They started towards town with the
sound of breaking glass echoing after them. Jack looked back to see a column of smoke
rising into the clear sky.

‘Have you ever noticed how many buildings burn to the ground when we're around?'
Mr Doyle asked.

‘That happens to Brinkie all the time,' Scarlet replied. ‘In
The Adventure of the
Singing Book
, she is caught in a burning church, house, barn, rollerskating rink,
opera house and factory that produces xylophones.'

‘That makes me feel rather better, my dear,' Mr Doyle said. ‘One might even say it's
music to my ears
.'

Jack and Scarlet groaned.

‘How is that possible?' Jack asked Scarlet. ‘No-one can have such bad luck.'

‘Luck had nothing to do with it,' Scarlet said. ‘It turned out that Brinkie's cousin,
Abernathy Buckeridge, was a pyromaniac. He loved setting fires.'

‘I love fires too—as long as they're in a fireplace.'

Another enormous crash came from the distant house. Part of the roof had collapsed.
More smoke and burning embers flew up as a fire engine trundled over a distant hill,
siren blaring.

‘At least we can be certain of one thing,' Mr Doyle said. ‘We're on the right track.'

By now it was late in the day. They returned to their hotel, packed their belongings
and were shortly on a train travelling back to London. It seemed to Jack that weeks
had passed since they left Bee Street.

Settling back into his seat, he leafed through the book that Scarlet had given him,
opening to a section about Mozart.

‘Now this is interesting,' he said.

‘What is?' Scarlet asked.

‘It says here that Mozart died at the age of thirty-five. Foul play was suspected.
It looks like someone didn't like his music.'

‘That seems most unlikely,' Scarlet objected.

‘He's wearing a very funny wig in this picture,' Jack said. ‘Maybe someone didn't
like his hair.'

‘That's hardly a reason for murder!'

Mr Doyle spoke up. ‘Actually, people have been murdered for many strange reasons.
Lovers' tiffs. Smallminded prejudices. Quarrels. I investigated a crime where a
killer targeted women with messy hair.'

‘Really?' Scarlet said, tidying her locks. ‘Imagine that.'

Jack fell asleep, dreaming of bulls and roaring
monsters. He woke just as they pulled
into Liverpool Street Station. The streets were dark, lit only by gaslamps. A fog
had moved in, enveloping the streets.

After taking a horse-drawn buggy back to Bee Street, they found Gloria in the office,
updating Mr Doyle's files. The detective had two dozen filing cabinets crammed into
a coffin-shaped room in a corner of the apartment. Not only did he keep his case
files, but he also tracked several other occurrences here: geese migration patterns,
weather reports, the personal column from
The Times
, airship timetables, reports
of circus accidents. The list went on. Jack had asked him why he kept an eye on such
a strange assortment of things.

‘You never know when such knowledge may come in handy,' Mr Doyle had responded mysteriously.

‘Welcome back,' Gloria now said. ‘Anything exciting to report?'

‘Just the usual,' Scarlet said, grinning at Jack's look of incredulity.

After they freshened up, Jack and Scarlet returned to a meal of sausages and mash.
While they ate, Mr Doyle picked at his food, thumbing through a book on the history
of watchmaking.

Gloria raised her hand. ‘Did you hear that?' she asked.

‘What?'

She left the sitting room and returned a minute later with an envelope, handing it
to Mr Doyle.

He unfolded the letter.

‘Now this is interesting. A page of the calendar with next week marked through,'
he said. ‘And a place written across the page. Section Twelve of the British Museum.'

‘What does it mean?' Jack asked.

‘I don't know, but the handwriting is identical to that found on the envelope delivered
to Amelia. I believe someone wants us to be at the museum next week. Section Twelve
is the Ancient History department,' Mr Doyle mused. ‘I wonder what is slated to happen.'

‘Should we contact the police?'

‘They won't do anything based on such flimsy information, but I think having eyes
and ears on the inside may give us an advantage.'

‘Who were you thinking of?' Jack asked.

The detective smiled. ‘Who do you think?'

CHAPTER FOUR

‘And I'm sure you recognise this as being from Ancient Rome,' Doctor Charles Benson
said, smiling genially. ‘What period does it come from, Jack? Take a stab.'

Jack peered at the bowl with feigned interest. He glanced at Scarlet, but she simply
raised an eyebrow. Jack was certain she knew the answer—Scarlet knew the answer to
everything—but refused to give him any clues.

The British Museum had changed over the past ten years. The original building had
been remodelled and was now housed within a perfect bronze cube with a glass ceiling.
It had so many rooms that even the staff sometimes got lost.

Jack and Scarlet had been assisting an old friend of
Mr Doyle's, Doctor Benson, in
the research department. At first Jack had been excited, but his enthusiasm quickly
faded: rather than learning about suits of armour and battles and Egyptian mummies,
he had spent the week studying broken bowls, vases and pieces of pottery. When he
offered to throw one in the bin, the panicked professor snatched it from him. It
dated back to the second century BC, apparently.

‘Can't you just buy a new one?' Jack had asked.

Not often did Jack doubt the abilities of Ignatius Doyle, but this time he was sure
they were on the wrong track. Ancient History in the British Museum was enormous,
covering hundreds of square feet. The research department, three floors below ground,
contained pieces that had not yet been identified, or were too valuable for display.