A Study in Silks (15 page)

Pompous idiot
. “You are quite right,” Keating said, gathering up his train of thought once more. The interruption had distracted him and inserted unwelcome memories where his tidy narrative had been a moment before. Thinking about his father was never pleasant. “As I said, I have an interest in archaeology. I funded an excavation in Rhodes recently. You have heard of Heinrich Schliemann?”

“Of course. He claims to have rediscovered Troy.”

“Among other sites. Like so many of his ilk, he is perpetually short of funds. I met the man some years ago. At the time, he had found another site, not so glorious as Troy, but of some interest. He petitioned me for financial assistance.”

“Where was this site?”

“On the Greek island of Rhodes.” Schliemann had found the site where Athena’s Casket was believed to be buried. He had promised to fund Schliemann if the archaeologist would hand over the casket. Of course, Holmes would get a slightly different version of the truth. “I gave him the cash to do his digging on the condition that I be allowed to sponsor an exhibit of his findings here in London. It was my intention to open a gallery, and this seemed the perfect opportunity for an initial show.”

Holmes smiled, looking too damned amused. “Ah, yes—the crowd of rich patrons, snowy-browed scholars, and all those reporters drinking far too much of the free wine. It would have been quite an evening.”

“Indeed.” That was, in fact, fairly close to how Keating had imagined it. There might have even been an accolade or two for his outstanding benevolence in the service of scholarship. Perhaps an honorary degree?

The abominable detective was chuckling. “How unfortunate it is that Dr. Watson is no longer resident here. I can almost see him coming down with writer’s cramp in his haste to get every word of this committed to paper.”

“This is entirely confidential!” Keating snapped.

Holmes sobered instantly. “As you wish. So tell me, Mr. Keating, what was to become of this treasure once the great reveal was accomplished?”

“My plan was to donate it to the British Museum.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “You did not intend to keep and sell the items?”

Keating fidgeted with a throw cushion on the settee, settling it so the edge was level with the pattern on the seat cover. “May I be entirely frank, Mr. Holmes?”

“I count on it.”

“I am first and foremost a businessman, but I have my ambitions. I also have a profound sense of what is the right and proper order of things. In this case, the two coincided perfectly. A generous donation to one of the Empire’s greatest cultural institutions would do more for my reputation than mere cash.”

Holmes nodded slowly. “I am inclined to agree with your assessment.”

The knot of tension in Keating’s gut eased a degree. Ridiculous that this man’s approbation should matter. “So there you have it.”

“Not quite. You have yet to tell me where this all went awry. Did Herr Schliemann cheat you?”

Keating plucked at a fleck of dust on his sleeve, feeling his anxiety rise once more as he contemplated the note he had received from Harriman this morning. “No. He packed up the treasure in Greece and shipped it in good order. I had trusted men present to ensure that all ran smoothly. They stayed with the crates all the way to London, but some of the articles never arrived.”

“Where were the crates delivered?”

“To a warehouse behind Bond Street. The workers there are Chinese, incorruptible and utterly loyal to my cousin, who is in charge of that operation.”

“And so?” For the first time, the detective looked truly interested.

“When the shipment arrived, several of the crates—including a large and valuable item—were missing. I only learned of it when my cousin sent word this morning.” Keating pulled a piece of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to Holmes. His hand shook slightly as he reached across the bear-skin rug. “This is the most valuable of the lost pieces.”

The detective unfolded the paper, studying the sketch. It showed an ornate cube, flanked by sculptured owls and crusted with a fortune in precious stones. It appeared to have many gears and levers and dials on every surface. “I have seen this picture before. I believe it is a navigational instrument, though no one is certain how it worked.”

Keating nodded. “Very good. It’s a somewhat obscure piece.”

Holmes gave a quick smile. “It has appeared in scholarly essays from time to time, often under the sobriquet of Athena’s Casket—note the owls and the fact that she was the patron
goddess of navigation—but it has not been seen since the first century.”

“Until Schliemann dug it up.”

Holmes actually looked impressed. “I had not heard that it had been found.”

Keating had insisted on secrecy. In some shadowy, secret circles—it paid to have a good spy network—the casket was reputed to be the one perfect blending of magic and machine known to humankind. It had the power to command flight and the unerring navigational power of a migratory bird. Rumors like that were worth paying attention to, especially for a man with an interest in military contracts. Keating had grown up in the north, where the country folk still remembered the old ways, so he knew magic was potent—even if it was something he publicly denounced.

And if magic
could
work a machine? That meant mechanical power with no need for fuel—not coal, wood, gas, oil, or anything else that men could sell for money. It was exactly the sort of thing that would put the steam industry and all its investors into the garbage bin. The moment he had heard Schliemann had found the possible location of the casket, Keating’s plan had been first to keep it from his rivals, and second to destroy it or harness its potential for himself. But now that the casket had vanished, it was an uncontrolled missile hurtling from the heavens straight toward his head.

And
uncontrolled
was not one of Keating’s favorite words. He had to find the thing, and fast. Whoever figured out how to use it would make Nellie Reynolds look like a choir girl.

“What are the dimensions?” asked Holmes.

Keating held up his hands, measuring the air. “The case was solid gold.”

Holmes frowned, letting the paper dangle from his fingers. “Are you telling me that a winged box the approximate size of a picnic basket, studded with gems and no doubt heavier than one man could carry, was stolen from the shipment and no one saw when or by whom?”

Keating sprang to his feet, the tension inside too fierce to
sit still. He paced to the window, glowering outside. “Precisely.”

Holmes huffed. “I suggest you question your employees.”

“They are loyal. I’ve guaranteed it.”

“No doubt you have, and no doubt that guarantee was arrived at in an unpleasant fashion.” But the detective sounded bored.

Keating wheeled away from the window and glared at Holmes, who was already folding up the sketch. “You must find me this device.”

“Who do you think took it?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Rebels, perhaps?”

Keating’s stomach clenched. He didn’t think much of the ragged bands of malcontents who broke into his factories and smashed the machines. “I doubt they concern themselves with archaeology. This is theft, and you must retrieve my goods. A great deal depends on it.”

Holmes twisted in his chair to regard Keating carefully, obviously considering the words as if they were dangling bait. “You sound as if the fate of nations were at stake.”

“Not nations, Mr. Holmes. Think larger. The pieces on the board are not just kings and queens, but industries and interests that cross conventional borders.”

“And an antique artifact matters to these mighty powers? How intriguing.”

Keating realized he’d said too much. “There is little more that I can tell you, Mr. Holmes, but let me say this. My opponents have little use for the social order you and I embrace. Others don’t value the niceties of civilized life. They are not gentlemen.”

“And you are.”

“I am, and I will keep order, by force if I must.”

“How very instructive.” The detective’s heavy-lidded eyes glinted with a speculative light. “I never took you for the defender of Sunday picnics and tea at five.”

“Mock if you must, but I beg you to take the case. The opening of my gallery is within the month. The casket must be there.” Actually, he had no intention of putting something
so valuable on public display, but the detective didn’t need to know that detail.

Holmes rose, tapping the folded paper against the side of his leg. His eager look faded, as if he were thinking twice. “Allow me to ponder this. I will send you a reply by tomorrow morning’s post.”

“I will make it worth your while.”

The detective gave a thin smile. “I shall give that all due consideration, Mr. Keating.”

Another very polite jab. He’d heard the man was a decent hand in the ring, but his verbal punches were lightning fast, too. Keating couldn’t resist pushing back. “You are too smart to alienate someone with my reach.”

“I said I will think about the case and write you in the morning. I wish to make some inquiries before I commit my energies to what might be a simple shipping error.”

“No.” Keating paced, stopping to straighten one of the candlesticks on the mantel so that it lined up evenly with its mate. “You are simply searching for an inoffensive way to refuse.”

“You are not used to refusal.” It was a flat statement. “Perhaps that is why I wish to do so.”

The man’s gall made Keating choke, as if a fistful of gritty mud were being jammed down his throat. His need to bring Holmes into line reached a screaming pitch. He changed tactics, going low to strike soft, vulnerable parts. “If you have no wish to gain my goodwill for yourself, think of those close to you. Yes, I like to know something about those with whom I do business. You have an elderly mother, I believe? A brother in the civil service? A niece barely out of school? I think she is the product of that sister of yours who left a stain on the family reputation.”

A look of something akin to hatred rippled over Holmes’s countenance. Perversely, it pleased Keating. That meant he finally had the man’s attention. “Your niece has been dealt an unfortunate hand, always destined to struggle against her mother’s legacy. It is the start of the Season, is it not? Think of what could happen if I spoke the right word in the
right place. It is nothing to me—a favor owed, a debt paid—but to her? Well it could make all the difference, yes?”

Holmes was silent. Keating could see him considering the flip side of his statement: if the right word could help the girl, what damage could the wrong word do?
Everyone is vulnerable somehow. This one hides his affections, but they are there, exposed nerves that quiver at a touch
.

Keating allowed himself a smile. “I hear she is a fetching creature. Can you, or even your illustrious brother, offer her as much assistance?”

The man looked like he had just downed one of his own chemical experiments. “You know I cannot.”

“Then help her by helping me find the casket.”

“I shall consider it.” The tone hadn’t altered, but now Holmes did not meet his eyes.

I have you
. It might take all night for the man to choke down his enormous pride, but surely the battle was won. Keating smirked inside, though he was careful to keep his face perfectly bland. “Then I shall expect results, Mr. Holmes. You have a reputation to uphold as well.”

Holmes finally gave him the full effect of his icy gray eyes. “I do not guarantee that you will like everything I find. I go where the evidence leads.”

A twist of anxiety spoiled Keating’s mood. He was taking a huge gamble, and he could only pray finding the casket was worth the trouble of managing Sherlock Holmes. “Then I rely on your professional discretion.”

“Truth has no discretion, but I shall keep what she says to myself.”

It was as much of a surrender as the detective was likely to give. Jasper Keating left, descending the stairs with a brisk tread. He gave Mrs. Hudson the barest nod as he gathered his coat, hat, and walking stick on his way out the door, almost triumphant.

LATER THAT MORNING, KEATING WAS BACK IN THE CARRIAGE
, his mind swinging from the aggravating topic of Holmes, to his displeasure with one Lord Bancroft, and then back again. His chest burned with the first fires of a dyspeptic attack, as if a miniature steam engine had lodged in his esophagus.

If Holmes was annoying, the affair with the Harter Engine Company was infuriating. Oh, Keating Utility had bought the firm and it would vanish without a trace; that was not the issue. It was the fact that someone had dared to oppose the steam barons so openly by attempting to build one of those alternative combustion engines. It was next door to treason.

Most of the investors had possessed the wits to use shell companies or false names, but not that thrice-damned fool Bancroft. Against all reason—as if anyone knew what the ongoing wealth and order of the nation required more than Keating himself—Bancroft had taken a public stand against the steam monopoly.

A fool? Certainly. A martyr? Keating was too smart for that. Bancroft was too important to beat to a pulp, but he would have to endure a cleverly crafted public lesson. No one thwarted the Steam Council. Harsh rules, but this harsh world demanded a strong hand.