‘England!’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Glorious England!’
It seemed like a hundred years had passed since they had left. Now the sun creased the horizon as they neared the coastline.
Mr Doyle prepared a small meal of tinned kippers and vegetables while Phoebe Carfax made tea. At first, Jack had thought Phoebe to be bad-tempered, but he soon realised that what appeared to be a difficult personality was in fact a wicked sense of humour.
‘We’ll need to work on that hair now we’re returning to civilisation,’ Phoebe told Jack, producing a comb from nowhere. ‘I’ve seen bird’s nests that are more orderly.’
‘I’m always talking to Jack about his hair,’ Scarlet grinned. As usual, her own was brushed, flowing as smoothly as a stream in spring. ‘I check it occasionally for insects. There was a preying mantis in there once.’
Phoebe wrestled Jack’s hair into submission. ‘That’s not true,’ he protested. ‘It was a grasshopper—and a small one at that!’
When they were sitting around the dining table to eat, Phoebe told them she looked forward to trying to crack the code contained within the Broken Sun.
Mr Doyle made a harrump, spearing a kipper with his fork.
‘Mock me all you want, Ignatius,’ Phoebe said. ‘All the evidence points to it.’
‘Rumours do not count as evidence.’
‘Place a blind man in a room with a vase and he is able to determine it is pottery.’
‘But a blind man may also mistake the tail of an elephant for a snake.’
Phoebe placed the pieces of the Broken Sun on a bench. It was strange seeing them together, three golden batons with turning dials decorated with a myriad of pictures.
‘That’s neither a snake nor an elephant,’ she said. ‘It’s the most highly advanced piece of technology ever to come out of the ancient world—and it’s evidence that Atlantis existed. It will lead us to New Atlantis.’
They continued towards London. Mr Doyle veered the Lion’s Mane into a lane of city-bound airships, and soon the ship was descending to the roof of 221 Bee Street.
Gloria greeted them as they climbed down to the balcony. They introduced Phoebe and the women shook hands cordially.
‘You’re in charge of looking after Ignatius, are you?’ Phoebe said. ‘That must be quite a challenge.’
‘Mostly I keep him under control by hitting him with a stick.’
‘Has anything of a pressing nature arisen?’ Mr Doyle asked Gloria.
‘Just the usual range of murders, muggings and thefts.’
‘Good.’ When Mr Doyle asked for an update on the condition of Professor Clarke, it turned out the man had still not arisen from his sleep.
‘Would you be so kind as to put up the out-of-office sign?’ Mr Doyle asked. ‘And locking the front door?’
‘Are we expecting trouble?’ Gloria asked.
‘Possibly.’
Jack showed Phoebe to the guest bedroom and gave her a tour of the apartment. It took longer than expected as there were some places he had never been to himself. Phoebe was both bemused and amazed by the mayhem.
‘Ignatius hasn’t changed,’ she said. ‘Still as messy as ever.’
Jack felt defensive. ‘He has solved many mysteries.’
‘I would imagine a good detective would want to find Atlantis.’
‘I think he’s more interested in finding his son.’ As soon as the words were out of Jack’s mouth, he regretted them.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’
But the horse had already bolted. Jack explained briefly what had brought them to this point in the investigation.
‘He was certain Phillip had been killed in the war,’ Jack concluded. ‘Until now.’
Phoebe swallowed. ‘That’s so distressing,’ she said. ‘I’ve watched and admired Ignatius’ achievements from afar, but I didn’t know about his son. It must be terrible not knowing if he’s alive or dead.’
‘Mr Doyle’s a great man,’ Jack said. ‘And a brilliant detective.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ Phoebe said, gently. ‘Mind you, he probably would have been a better archaeologist.’
An archaeologist? Jack tried to imagine Mr Doyle poking about an ancient ruin in a foreign country. It was not that strange an idea. They returned to the dining room where cups of Mr Doyle’s famous hot chocolate were waiting on the table.
The room was the only place in the apartment that contained any free space. A twelve-seat table was in the middle. It was an ancient, solid oak construction that Mr Doyle had said once belonged to Alfred the Great. The room had no windows, only a skylight directly over the table.
Stacked against the walls were Mr Doyle’s collections of tin cans, framed bus tickets, wind-up toys, comic books and prosthetic limbs.
‘Nice to see you’ve finally found a place for those wooden legs,’ Phoebe said.
‘Have you always collected things, Mr Doyle?’ Jack asked.
The detective smiled. ‘I don’t think of myself as a collector,’ he said, checking his revolver as the others drank. ‘Things just look better grouped together.’
‘Are you worried they’ll try to steal the Broken Sun again?’ Scarlet asked, eyeing the weapon.
‘I’m planning on it. Their capture will lead us to their employer and to whoever sent Amelia the watch.’
‘The watch?’ Phoebe asked.
‘I will explain later,’ he said. ‘I suggest we turn in for the night. An addled brain will not function.’
After Scarlet had retired, Jack lingered for one last look at the Broken Sun. The pieces still made no sense. As he left to weave through the mounds of odd possessions, he turned to see Phoebe sitting across from the detective. She placed a gentle hand on Mr Doyle’s arm.
‘Tell me about your son,’ she said.
Back in his room, Jack dressed for bed. Bertha’s cage was in his chamber. Jack fed her, turned out his light and settled in to stare at the ceiling. The last few days had been exhausting. They had travelled halfway around the world and were still no closer to discovering the truth about Mr Doyle’s son.
How does this whole mystery fit together?
It had begun with the watch being delivered to Amelia Doyle. Then the warning note about the British Museum. Professor Clarke—the real man—had been assaulted with a sleeping poison. And all this had led them on a search for the Broken Sun.
But what was the connection between the Broken Sun and the watch? And how did Phillip Doyle fit into all this?
The next morning, Jack woke to a knock. Mr Doyle’s head appeared in the doorway.
‘Rise and shine, my boy,’ he said. ‘We’re out here unravelling the mysteries of the universe.’
‘Really?’ Jack said, struggling out of bed.
‘No. Actually, I’m about to make breakfast. Food for the body provides energy for the mind!’
Jack had eaten Mr Doyle’s cooking on a few occasions. While the great detective had many abilities, cooking was not one of them. As Jack wandered into the kitchen, Mr Doyle was already rummaging through one of the cabinets.
‘Oh dear,’ he said, after a minute. ‘We seem to be down to half a loaf of mouldy bread and a piece of cheese so hard you could write with it.’
‘I did mention that we needed to shop,’ Gloria said, arching an eyebrow. ‘Once a month is not nearly enough.’
‘Possibly we should delay breakfast and we’ll spend some time examining the Broken Sun.’ Dust exploded as he closed the cupboard. ‘Gloria, would you be so kind as to retrieve it from the safe?’
Gloria disappeared in the direction of the library. The safe was built into a space behind one of its many bookcases.
‘I must remember to buy food more frequently,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘I once survived for a year solely on marmalade and gherkins. It was while I was investigating a case involving a rubber brain, a hairdresser and a singing turtle—’
A scream echoed through the apartment.
‘Good Lord!’ Mr Doyle cried.
‘That was Gloria!’ Scarlet said.
They tore along the hallway to find her lying facedown on the floor with a purple thorn beside her.
‘No!’ Jack said. ‘She’s been poisoned!’
A sound came from the balcony. Jack charged towards it with Mr Doyle close behind, and they saw a small, dark-haired man disappearing over the railing. In his hand was the bag containing the pieces of the Broken Sun.