WILLIAM DAVEY
The effects of Nour’s stolen time came to an end when we reached Alexandria—though the trip took almost four days by my perception, not even a single night passed. Nour had a boat at his disposal and mounts available at Suez, and the world remained in its unmoving state as we passed, unseen and unnoticed.
In the mind’s eye of my memory, however, the journey seemed like a dream in its entirety until well after we left Egypt and time returned to normal.. Indeed, the waking world seemed to return with a rush when we reached Trieste, making me aware of its presence.
Despite the civil conflicts in the Italian states, the course of life in Trieste seemed unaffected, and it was a simple matter to embark at Trieste Centrale and travel on the Südbahn up into the Alps toward Graz and then Vienna. My German was less practiced than my French, but I was in no particular mood to be communicative. I sent a second telegram to Jackson before I left Trieste—again instructing him to take no action until I arrived approximately five days hence—around the twentieth of February.
And during those days of travel I wondered what I would do when I arrived in my domain once more—and how I would coerce James Fergusson to tell me what he had done with the statue. It had been two years since the confrontation in the Crystal Palace: two years that had taught me enough to leave me more ignorant than before.
I crossed the Channel on the morning of the twentieth of February, 1861. The wind blowing eastward from the Atlantic was fierce, enough so that the packet’s captain was said to have considered turning back; I should have been very disappointed at the delay, and during a brief interview on the deck I imparted my urgency by a gentle use of the Art. Still, it was an uncomfortable passage, and I assumed the role of a proper clergyman in public, giving audible thanks when the vessel docked at Blackwell. The cold wind was fierce even there—the dockmen were trying to batten down everything they could, and there were two heavily laden barges at the pier that looked as if they might sink at any time.
I made my way by train into London, after directing my luggage to be sent on ahead to my lodgings, and made my way to Regent Street. Jackson lived in Southwark and I had rarely visited him there; I would be most likely to find him, or find word of him, at Vernon’s rooms. With the windstorm outside there were no idlers—and no sign of the Levantine. I was under no illusions that he was gone forever—Wood had not caused him to “lose contact with the earth”—but he was not there to trouble me.
A servant took my coat and I was ushered into Vernon’s drawing room, which was empty but for John Vernon himself. He looked troubled, and I immediately learned why: Carlyle entered from the library, his face past annoyance and falling just short of anger.
“The prodigal son returns,” the famous author said. “You might have let me know.”
“I like to be spontaneous. It’s good to see you too, Carlyle.”
“I suppose you let Jackson know that you were coming.”
“Yes. Where is he?”
“I haven’t any idea. I haven’t seen him since sometime yesterday.” Carlyle walked to the window and looked out at the lowering sky. The wind was gusting enough to half drive away the usual fog of London.
He turned to face me. “There is something wrong about this storm.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your travels in foreign countries have dulled your senses, Davey. Tell me what you feel.”
I paused and extended my senses. After a moment, I nodded.
“You’re right. It feels like a stoicheion. I’ve never sensed one like that.”
“A pneumic stoicheion. Here. Timed with your arrival.”
“I hardly think—”
Vernon cleared his throat at this point, and we both stopped and looked at him. Carlyle was clever and insightful enough to know that Vernon was not the fool he was often taken to be, but he demonstrated his usual disdain for anyone so forward as to interrupt him.
“I almost forgot,” Vernon said. “This was left for you.”
Carlyle stepped forward, but Vernon said with a mischievous smirk, “No, it was left for the Chairman.”
He extended a small, sealed envelope to me. Carlyle’s face reddened, but he said nothing.
I took the envelope and immediately recognized John Jackson’s spidery handwriting. I took a letter opener from an occasional table and slit it open.
Will:
Your messages indicated that Dr. Daniel might arrive at any time, and though he is not the most insightful, he might well have reached the conclusion that I have already done.
There is only one place that Fergusson could have concealed the statue—it is such an obvious location that I am amazed that we never considered it. He’s put it somewhere in the Palace. I confirmed his continuing interest by careful queries at his home and his office—he goes to Sydenham regularly.
By the time you return from your dances with the brown-skinned men with nasty sharp knives, I should be able to present you with the prize we have been seeking. I cannot wait to see the expression on Carlyle’s face when I do.
John
I folded the letter and tucked it inside my coat.
“The pneumic stoicheion isn’t here for me,” I said to Carlyle. “It’s here for the statue.”
By the time Carlyle and I were able to make our way to Sydenham—where the regular train had stopped running due to the storm—it was already dark. The wind had risen to a full force gale, and it took little effort on our part to sense the elemental presence of the thing bearing down on the countryside.
Our progress toward the Crystal Palace was hindered by all manner of obstacles: fallen tree branches, debris and even garden walls blown down by the fierceness of the wind. It was all we could manage to get up the hill, where the Palace was buffeted by gusts and driving rain.
The Palace was closed, of course, but we had little trouble entering “Joseph Paxton’s Tunnel” beneath the structure—the long rail line that was used to transport items to and from the exhibition halls. We disembarked and made our way up through a service entrance into the main nave, where the dark night was continually interrupted by flashes of lightning and the terrible noise of the wind hammering at the glass panels dozens of feet above our heads.
“I suppose,” Carlyle said, “you have some notion where to begin searching.”
“The Nineveh Court,” I answered. “It was Fergusson’s particular interest.”
Carlyle nodded and directed our steps toward the north transept. We made our way through the Alhambra Court; watch lights were in place in sconces for the night watchman, though I suspected that anyone answering to that title was huddled in his own home this night. In the daytime, it would have been quite magnificent—the Court of Lions, named for the great fountain borne up by four carved animals, from which water continued to pour. It partially drowned out the howl outside.
We made our way through this structure without pause. I found it mildly unsettling in the half-darkness, with my mesmeric senses dulled by the geometry of the Palace itself. Carlyle might have been experiencing the same, but he moved with his usual grim Scottish determination toward the far end. We emerged into a vestibule; to the left we could dimly make out Roman columns in another great hall; to the right there was a chamber filled with coats of arms and examples of Moorish armor. We then passed under a wide arch and found ourselves standing before the entrance to the Nineveh Court: a huge stonework façade consisting of winged lions with the bearded heads of men, upon which the bases of huge fluted pillars rose to the ceiling of the Palace. Beyond—between the lion bas-reliefs—was a round arch leading to the court’s interior.
As we stood there for a moment, stopped by the immensity of the architecture, we heard a sound that will remain with me until my final day: a screeching, groaning sound that drowned out even the howling of the wind.
“What in God’s name—” Carlyle began. It was coming from beyond the Nineveh Court—and it was growing louder by the moment.
A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the darkened arch beyond the lion figures and we saw as plain as day a young woman, dressed in colourful clothing but barefoot, a dagger held in her hand. She saw us—and turned and fled within the Court.
And just as suddenly, I sensed a distortion in the magnetic patterns around me, as if the Crystal Palace—in its mathematical exactitude—had just been twisted.
Carlyle did not hesitate further, but took off into the Nineveh Court at a run. I was a step behind.
It was completely dark within: no watch lights here. I had the sense that we were in a huge hall, and could dimly make out four huge pillars holding up some sort of large ceiling; but I could discern no features of any kind.
Carlyle reached within his jacket and drew out a match, which he struck to life on the sole of his boot. The illumination was faint, but by the dim, flickering light I could see a figure sprawled on the floor twenty or thirty feet away—and then, by virtue of a flash of lightning, I saw one of the great water towers that stood at the far end of the Crystal Palace through the glass roof beyond the north end of the Nineveh Court.
This great structure, several stories tall, swayed in the wind. It was the source of the hideous noise we had previously heard.
I hurried to the side of the sprawled figure and recognized it immediately from the extra-thick sole of the boot on his lame foot—it was John Jackson. He had been knocked to the floor and rendered unconscious by some falling pottery—he had a slight gash on his head. As I examined him, he awoke.
“Will?” he said softly.
“I’m here, Johnny.”
“So is she.”
“She?”
“She’s here,” he repeated. “She found her way out. It’s—”
“Davey,” Carlyle said. “Look.” He gestured toward the ceiling beyond the Court.
“Where?” I asked Jackson.
“I—I don’t know.”
The screeching sound grew louder and louder.
“Can you walk?”
“I don’t know. I—”
There was no more warning than the sight of that great tower, several stories tall, swaying and suddenly falling toward the roof of the Palace. I was trying to help Jackson to rise and follow: Carlyle was already backing away as fast as he could manage, the discarded match tossed aside.
Sometime later I felt water on my face, and heard the wind howling even louder than it had been before—but not quite as strong.
I opened my eyes and found myself lying on a stone bench. Carlyle was nearby, jacket off and sleeves rolled up; he had procured a cloth of some kind and had attended to a rather nasty wound on my head.
The Alhambra fountain continued to gently spill water from the bowl supported by stone lions.
“We will need to find better shelter,” he said. “Now that you’re awake.”
I tried to sit up and failed; then, with my teeth gritted, tried again and succeeded.
“Where’s John Jackson?”
He gestured toward the arch leading out of the Alhambra Court. “Somewhere out there. Buried under masonry, Davey. When the water tower fell, it destroyed most of the Nineveh Court. It’s a wonder it didn’t kill us too.”
I could not speak. John Jackson, my friend and partner for twenty years and more, was dead—and Carlyle spoke of it as if it were a mere annoyance.
“The statue—”
“I don’t know. But the Palace’s mesmeric properties have been disturbed. I think your statue was found: either by Jackson or someone or something else. But we need to leave now.”
“But what about—” I began. “No. It’s got to be here. We were so close—”
“We need to leave,” Carlyle said. He gathered his jacket and tossed the cloth onto the bench. He helped me to stand, and we made our way out into the main nave. Outside, the wind still howled, and it came in through the broken wall at the far end of the Palace.
Before we went outside, I stopped in what I perceived to be the center of the Palace. Carlyle looked at me curiously as I drew a coin from my wallet and set it down on the floor.
It rolled a short distance and landed, crown-side up.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s go.”