R. LaFevers - Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos

I went up the stairs, drawing a number of curious glances from the men who had business there at Somerset House (there didn’t seem to be any women about). When I reached the third floor, I saw a large brass sign announcing the Antiquaries Society. Almost there.

A young, rather prim-looking gentleman with wire spectacles stepped out of his office. “May I help you?” he asked in that tone of voice that lets you know he has no intention of helping, he’s just trying to shame you into stopping whatever it is that you’re doing.

Once again I assumed my best Grandmother Throckmorton stare, the one where she looks down her nose. (Things end up going a bit fuzzy and double sometimes, but it is a very effective look.) “I am here to see Wigmere, if you please.” Which, of course, did not mean please at all, but rather, if you get out of my blasted way.

The young man’s mouth pinched. “Have you an appointment with Lord Wigmere?” he asked, knowing full well I didn’t.

Oops. Hadn’t realized the fellow was a lord. “No. I’m afraid something rather sudden has come up. I’ve an important message for him.”

“Best give it to me and I’ll pass it along.”

I shook my head. “I was told to give it only to Lord Wigmere.”

The man was decidedly put off that I should know something he didn’t. “Well, I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

How was I going to get past this interfering watchdog? “How about if I write him a note, you take it to him, and then he can decide if he wants to see me or not.”

The fellow sighed. “You know, we are very busy here. We don’t have time for children’s games.”

“Excuse me, sir” — I let the slightest bit of contempt into my voice on the “sir” — “but I have no more time to waste on games than you do. This is a matter of gravest importance. Life and death, actually. Will you get me a piece of paper or should I try another office?”

That stopped him cold. His mouth tightened and he withdrew into his office and returned with a piece of paper, which he handed to me.

I looked up at him in annoyance. “What shall I write on it with? Blood?”

He looked appalled at that suggestion and went back to his office, returning with the most abused stub of a pencil I had ever seen. Ignoring the intended slight, I placed the paper against the wall and wrote my note.

Dear Lord Wigmere,

Man dying. ZMUst see you at once.

Sincerely,

Theodosia Elizabeth Throckmorton.

I carefully folded the paper twice, then began to hand over the note. The man’s eyes were fastened on it like a bloodhound on point, his eyes gleaming.

“Excuse me,” I said. “But may I have an envelope, please?”

He looked as if he’d like to box my ears. Instead, he marched back into his office, then came out to shove an envelope at me.

I carefully placed the note in the envelope, praying that all these horrid delays wouldn’t end up costing the injured man his life. I sealed it quite thoroughly so as to keep the man from peeking, then handed him the note. He took it (grabbed it, actually) and stormed off down the hall, walking so stiffly that I had to wonder if he had a steel rod attached to his spine.

Not wanting to go through this again, I kept a careful eye out as to which office door he knocked on. He entered, then quickly returned, his mouth all puckered up as if he’d been forced to take Gladwell’s Health and Liver Tonic.

“He will see you, miss.” He put a rather sarcastic emphasis on the “miss,” which I decided to ignore because, after all, I was in. When we finally arrived at Wigmere’s door, the annoying little man gave a single knock before opening it. “Miss Throckmorton to see you, sir.” I stepped inside the room and he closed the door behind me.

Lord Wigmere sat at his desk, his head bent over something he was writing. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said without looking up.

Cool as a cucumber, he was. If someone had written me a note announcing that a person was dying, I would have paid attention to them straight away.

He was also old, older than Father, with a shock of white hair and a luxurious white mustache. He had an intriguing gold and lapis ring on the third finger of his right hand. It was beveled, and had small hieroglyphs carved in it. It reminded me of one of Ramses II’s rings I’d seen in the British Museum.

“Now, Miss Throckmorton,” he said, making me jump. “What’s all this about a man dying?”

I looked up to meet his gaze and found myself staring into eyes that were as blue as the ocean and nearly twice as deep. His face was deeply wrinkled and he looked as if he carried the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.

“One of your men sent me, sir. I don’t know his name as he was stabbed in the ribs and found it difficult to speak. But he did say to tell you something about forces and chaos.”

Wigmere snapped to attention.

“Where did this happen?” he barked.

“In St. Paul’s churchyard. My brother Henry is staying with him until you send someone.”

Wigmere shoved to his feet and grabbed the cane that was leaning against his desk. He made his way to the door, flung it open, and called out, “Boythorpe!”

I heard steps hurrying down the hall and the annoying guard dog of a man appeared in front of Wigmere. (Although, I could almost forgive him his horrid personality, what with having a name like Boythorpe and all.) “Get me Thornleigh, right away. And Dodson and Bramfield too.” He started to turn back into the room and his eyes fell on me. “And bring Miss Throckmorton some refreshment, Boythorpe. She looks like she needs it.”

Wigmere thumped his way back over to the desk and sat down. “Now, Miss Throckmorton. If you would be so good as to start at the beginning.”

“Please call me Theodosia. Everyone does.”

He nodded his head.

What should I tell him? I had no idea who’s side he was on. Or even how many sides there were, come to think of it. How trustworthy could he be if one of his fellows had attacked a man and stolen a precious artifact?

“Ah,” Wigmere said, leaning back in his chair. “You’re no doubt wondering if you can trust me.”

“Well, something like that. Your friend did bash someone over the head and take something that didn’t belong to him.”

Wigmere stilled. “The Heart of Egypt? Did Stokes get it?”

“The Heart of Egypt! What do you know about it? And yes, Stokes got it, but the men who attacked him stole it.”

“I can assure you that my man Stokes was only trying to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. Now why don’t you tell me what you know about it?”

I was loath to give away the museum’s secrets or worse yet, have Wigmere think I was starkers. But I looked into his great, heavy eyes, stern with justice and strength, and found myself spilling the whole story.

When I had finished telling him of Snowthorpe’s visit to our museum that morning and the discovery that the Heart of Egypt was missing, there was a knock on the door. Without waiting, three gentlemen stepped in. Wigmere made the introductions. “Dodson, Thornleigh, Bramfield, this is Theodosia Throckmorton and she has come to tell us that Stokes is down, badly injured, perhaps dead, in the churchyard at St. Paul’s. Her brother Henry is with him. You are to go and fetch them both at once and bring them back here. Dodson, you and Bramfield take Stokes down to Level Six when you return. I’ll have a doctor waiting. Thornleigh, escort Master Throckmorton to my office when you get back.”

All three men took their instructions with no questions and left immediately.

“You may continue, Miss Theodosia.” Wigmere said it in a very kind voice, but there was iron in there as well. You knew if you didn’t do something the first time he asked, he would make you do it anyhow.