Page 21 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

21

“Ha-ha! So the curse is real. I knew it!”

Ami took a scalding sip of breakfast tea to keep from rolling her eyes at Mr. Fletcher’s outburst. Across the table, her father fingered his chin—which was now freshly shaven. Despite his crooked bow tie and trademark explosion of hair shooting out in all directions atop his head, it appeared he’d slept well last night. She hadn’t. Her mind had run circles trying to figure out how to talk Mr. Khafra into meeting with Mr. Price when she rendezvoused with him.

“Tell me, Mr. Fletcher.” A twinkle danced in her father’s eyes.

She pressed her serviette to her lips, hiding a smirk. She knew that look. Father was on a fact-finding mission.

“What indications led you to believe the curse is genuine? Have you any tangible evidence?”

Edmund strolled over from the sideboard, a plate of toast and jam in hand. Forsaking the head of the table, he sat next to her. “I assure you, Professor, Gil has nothing but conjecture on which to base his assumptions.”

“Ha-ha! What does it matter, old man?” Mr. Fletcher slapped the table, rattling the flatware. “Harrison believes the curse is the cause for the workman breaking his leg, then the maid spooked by a black cat, the crack on my skull, and the continuing mystery of the moving statue.”

Her father angled his head. “What moving statue?”

“The ugly mug in the workroom. Ask your daughter about it.”

Her father arched a brow, silently indicting her as if she’d neglected to tell him about a lost manuscript detailing an ancient civilization. She set down her teacup with a sigh. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for it, but for the past few weeks, the statue of Anubis has turned slightly whenever I return to the workroom. Hasn’t happened for days now, though.”

“I’m not surprised.” Mr. Fletcher reached for the teapot, spilling dark liquid on the tablecloth as he sloppily poured a cup. “That curse was too busy frightening poor Miss Woolsey half out of her mind with a ghost, and let’s not forget the influenza outbreak. Harrison ate up those additions like a dish of fine caviar.”

Shoving away his plate, her father leaned back in his seat. “That seems like far too many coincidences to happen in such a short span of time.”

“I rest my case.” A smug smile curved Mr. Fletcher’s lips, taking his moustache along for a ride. “Don’t you think, Professor, that with such power tied to an artifact it ought to sell for quite a pretty penny?”

Her father shook his head. “Greed is the downfall of many a good man, Mr. Fletcher. Besides, that piece is valuable for its historical and social relevance, not for any supposed supernatural power.”

Edmund set down his jam knife. “So you don’t actually believe the griffin has caused any trouble?”

“What I believe or don’t believe about it doesn’t change the griffin’s worth.”

Mr. Fletcher lifted a finger. “But what others believe about it may.”

La! The idea of tying power into an inanimate object for the sake of profit curdled the milk in her belly. Just like her father, she pushed her own plate away. “The truth is, Mr. Fletcher, that good and bad things occur every minute of every day, yet God is sovereign over all. Nothing happens that is not by His design. You cannot increase or decrease the price of a relic by attaching make-believe occurrences to it.”

“The lady is correct.” Edmund smiled at her, then leveled a steely gaze at Mr. Fletcher. “And yet the fact remains that no matter what, I am not selling the griffin.”

Bosh. Could she and Mr. Khafra convince him to sell it? Would Mr. Khafra even be interested in the rest of the lot if the griffin wasn’t included?

Edmund’s gaze drifted to her father as he drained his cup. “Will you be going back to your dig now that you’ve confirmed the authenticity of the griffin?”

Her father shook his head. “By the time I got there, I’d have to turn right around and come back to Oxford. I thought, if you don’t mind, that Amisi and I could work together to finish valuing your cargo. I’d dearly love to see what’s in the rest of those crates.”

Ami glanced sideways at Edmund, curious as to how he’d answer.

He hesitated a moment, crisply folding his serviette, then setting it beside his empty plate. “I suppose with two of you on the job, the valuation will go much faster.”

Mr. Fletcher clapped his hands, the report of it sharp against the breakfast room’s walls. “Capital! The sooner we can sell, the better.”

“And the sooner you’ll be gone,” Edmund said under his breath.

She’d have missed it had he not been sitting so close. Interesting. Clearly he wasn’t happy with his partner. He really ought to let the man go despite his repeated assurances that Mr. Fletcher was a good businessman.

Her father shoved back his chair. “Well then, let’s have at it. Come along, Amisi.”

She rose, giving Edmund’s shoulder a light squeeze as she did so. “Try not to overdo it today. You’re still recovering, after all.”

“I shall take your words to heart.” He winked.

Which never failed to zing a thrill straight to her belly. She scurried away lest Edmund see the pink that was surely flushing her cheeks.

By the time she caught up with her father, he was already halfway across the front receiving hall. “I am curious about something, Father.”

“That’s my girl!” He smiled. “Curiosity is the compass that leads to unexplored worlds.”

“Yes, well, I haven’t found any uncharted territories quite yet, but I did discover one of your journals is missing in the college archives. I was looking for the collection dated 1866 to 1869. Did you know it was gone?”

“Of course I did.”

“Then where is it? Polly has no record of it being checked out.”

He pulled a folded wad of paper from his coat pocket. “Here it is, well, part of it, anyway. And if Polly wishes items to be recorded, then she ought not take such long lunch breaks.”

Ami crinkled her nose. “Why are you carrying part of your journal around?”

He tucked the papers back into his pocket as they swung into the workroom corridor. “Great-Grandmother Dalton’s recipe is written on the back of one of the pages. I knew I’d never remember it while in Egypt, so I took it along with me. It’s very helpful.”

Hmm. Segmenting information instead of giving a full lecture was a favorite evasion tactic of his—and one of hers.

“What is the recipe for?” She studied him as they walked, spying for a nonchalant touch to his earlobe.

“A special herbal concoction, that’s all.” His hand raised.

And there it was. A jiggle to his ear—a sure sign he was hiding something.

In two quick steps, she blocked his path. “All right, Father, what are you not telling me?”

His lips pursed slightly, then parted as a sigh whooshed out of him. “Very well. I suppose you should know I’ve been battling chronic joint pain for some time now. The strain of expeditions is taking a toll on this old body. Nothing to fret about, though.”

“Naturally I shall fret!” She popped her fists on her hips. “I am your daughter. I don’t wish to see you in pain.”

“For now, the recipe is doing its job.” He patted her cheek as he sidestepped her. “But we have more pressing matters to attend.”

Stubborn man. She followed behind him, this time intently studying his gait. Sure enough, his legs moved stiffer than she remembered. Either Great-Grandmother Dalton’s recipe wasn’t doing a nip of good, or that joint pain was too far advanced for it to help.

He entered the workroom ahead of her, and she nearly stumbled into him as he’d not gone more than two steps inside before stopping.

“Is this the position in which you last saw Anubis?” He swept his hand toward the long-snouted statue.

She glanced past his shoulders.

Oh dear.

Not again.

Meat hooks dangled overhead, the rank scent of blood so thick on the air Brudge could almost taste the metallic tang of it. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, more than pleased. Tucked away from the main thoroughfare, at the farthest end of the narrowest passage in the Covered Market, the butcher stall was the perfect setup. He’d be the one in the shadows this time.

Hunkering into the thin space between stalls, he took care not to bang his sore leg against the corner beam. He knew the woman’s ways now. How she operated. Her movements. Then again, she also knew him—which was exactly why he’d ordered Scupper to perch like an oversized duck atop the awning brace across the lane. She’d be expecting a grab from behind, not above.

A quick drop. A quicker capture. And that statue would be his.

Pulling out his pocket watch, he flipped open the dented cover and could just make out the minute hand slipping into position onto the twelve. Eight o’clock sharp. He ought to hear her footsteps any second now. Muffling the snap of the lid with the palm of his hand, he slid the watch into his pocket and flicked his gaze to look down the passage.

Then he startled to see the woman already there in front of the butcher stall. Ah, but she was a sly one. Were she not such a haughty wench, he’d consider making her his woman. Maybe even take her on as a partner. She’d certainly smell better than Scupper. Feel softer too. Maybe even be less whiny.

“Mr. Khafra?” Her voice echoed against the empty stalls.

Brudge’s gaze drifted over her, from a collar half-upturned, to a—stone the crows! Was that a man’s waistcoat over her blouse? Her skirt looked like she’d nipped it off a gypsy, and her shoes might be better suited to a dancer. Some sort of satin slippers. No wonder she’d glided in so quietly. But her hands were empty. She didn’t clutch a bag nor was there one on the ground at her feet. And there was no way she could have tucked that heavy figure into her waistband.

Fury burned up his neck. Another one of her little tricks? Stashing the item elsewhere in the market until she saw the money for it?

“Mr. Khafra?” Slowly she spun in a circle. “I am ready to discuss the purchase of the griffin if you would but show yourself.”

He licked his lips, coaxing out his best attempt at an Egyptian accent. “I prefer ze shadows, my friend. How much do you want for ze relic?”

She snapped her gaze toward where he hid, planting both fists on her hips. “You are no more Egyptian than my left stock ing. I demand to know who I am working with, or there will be no exchange.”

Blasted woman! Too smart for her own good. Ah well. She’d not outsmart him this time. He stepped from the shadows.

The whites of her eyes gleamed brightly, her surprise as pleasing as a frothy mug of ale. “Mr. Brudge! What are you doing here?”

“Where’s the statue?” he growled.

“How do you know about—” She lifted her chin. “Mr. Khafra hired you to do his dirty work, did he?”

“Stupid woman. I am Khafra.” He chuckled, triumphant in having outwitted her. “If you could see your face right now, love. Absolutely priceless. So where’s that piece?”

“Pish.” She snorted. “Surely you didn’t think I’d bring such a valuable artifact to a deserted market?”

“You would have done so for an Egyptian buyer, which clearly you thought I was.” He took a step closer, scanning the lane behind her in case she had brought company this time.

“You know nothing about me, Mr. Brudge, and I have nothing further to say to you. Good night.” She pivoted.

He snapped his fingers.

Scupper plummeted, landing like a big cat at her back. In one swift movement, he slung his arm around her chest, pulling her against him, the flash of a blade at her throat.

A rabid filly couldn’t have looked more feral than the woman’s wide eyes and flaring nostrils. To her credit, though, she didn’t cry out.

Brudge grinned. “And you know nothing about me, missy. I will have that flying lion, and I will have it now. Where is it?”

“I cannot speak,” she ground out, voice raspy, “with a knife to my throat.”

He glanced past her to Scupper. “Let her go, but don’t let her get away.”

“Ye sure, guv’ner?” The big oaf’s curled moustache twitched. “Me mum used to say better a loaf o’ bread on the table than a feast in the clouds.”

Brudge spit out a curse. “I’ve had enough of your mother’s blabberings. Do it!”

Scupper immediately loosened his hold, stepping back a pace, knife yet at the ready.

The woman gasped for air as she brushed herself off, ruffled as a peahen, then lifted her nose in the air. “The griffin is locked safely away, Mr. Brudge. Out of your hands and mine. I came here to tell the fictitious Mr. Khafra as much.”

“Claptrap! I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Neither do I believe that even if I had the relic with me, you’d have enough money to purchase it. So it appears we are at a stalemate. I suggest we all walk away disappointed and call it an evening.”

“Hah!” he barked. “You underestimate the lengths I am willing to go to get my hands on that moneymaker.”

“Then you will have to deal with Mr. Price, not me. He’s the only one with the combination to the safe.” Her lips flattened into a smug line.

Blast it all! This was not going the way he’d so carefully planned. He rubbed at the ache in his hip, yet another part of his body gone wrong from all the limping over the past fortnight. What to do? How to salvage this?

Wait. Why take on the work of it himself?

“You’re a crafty woman.” He aimed his finger at her. “Find a way to wheedle that statue out of Price, then send word to Dandrae.”

“It won’t work. Mr. Price is a man accustomed to having his own way. No amount of cajoling from me will part him from the griffin, for his mind is set on owning it. I only came here tonight to encourage Mr. Khafra to come to Price House and make Mr. Price an offer. Too bad he wasn’t a real man. Now then, if anything should happen to me as I walk out of here”—her gaze snapped to Scupper, then back to him—“Mr. Dandrae will hear about it. He doesn’t take kindly to any sort of violence during transactions. Your hired gorilla may be able to overpower me, but neither of you can stand against the forces of Mr. Dandrae. He plays by Jamaican rules, not English. And so once again, I bid you good night, gentlemen.”

She whirled, the slap of her hem hitting Scupper’s shins.

Saucy wench. Brudge raised his fist, shaking with rage. “This isn’t over, missy. You hear me? This is not over!”