The Osiris Curse (7 page)

“Then he's very good,” she said.

“Or you're lying.”

“Why on earth would I want to slaughter your guards?” Octavia shouted, exasperated. Then she frowned. “Why were Ministry guards posted around the Museum of Natural History anyway? That's not under your remit.”

“And what do you know of our remit, girl?” said the thin-faced man.

Octavia bristled. Something about the way he said “girl” irritated her vastly. She was sick of this. “How dare you. When I was sixteen years old I worked for
The Times
as a researcher. I'm now seventeen and am a fully paid reporter for the newspaper. I know much more than you seem to give me credit for, and I've achieved far more than you ever had by my age—probably more than you ever
will
. What are you? A bully in black, that's all. You don't know what happened last night. That's obvious. You have no evidence against me. Nothing that links me to
these murders. If you have footage of myself and Tweed going in, then you obviously have it of the man we were following. Plus you must have footage of us leaving not twenty minutes later. Not anywhere near time enough to dispatch your precious guards.”

Octavia broke off, suddenly realizing she was probably making a seriously bad move here. Yes, they didn't have evidence, but they could still make her life very difficult. She forced herself to calm down.

“And I'll remind you both that
The Times
knows I'm here, and will very likely be following up on my detention. So either charge me or let me go.”

The two agents didn't get a chance to respond to this, because at that moment the door opened and a tall man in his late fifties entered, greying hair swept back from his face, beard neatly trimmed.

Octavia sagged, feeling an intense rush of relief when she saw him. Barnaby!

His eyes flicked over her and he focused his attention on the two agents.

“Why wasn't I told about this interview?”

The thin-faced man stood up. “We didn't think it concerned you.
Sir
.”

Something about the way he said “sir” told Octavia he didn't have much respect for Barnaby.

Barnaby Tweed's brow came together. “Didn't think it
concerned
me? I'm the head of the Ministry!” he thundered. “Appointed by Her Majesty the Queen. Everything that happens here concerns me. Do you understand?”

The agents said nothing.

“I said
do you understand?
”

The thin-faced man paused, then said, “Understood.”

“Good. You,” said Barnaby, finally looking directly at Octavia. “Leave.”

The agent tried to protest. “She was at the museum—”

“I know where she was, you cretin. I also know that she had nothing to do with any of this. Something you would know as well if you had two brain cells to rub together. You should be out finding the real culprit. Not wasting time interviewing teenagers. “Go,” he said, jerking his head.

Octavia quickly stood and scurried out of the office before anyone had a chance to change their minds. She hurried through the winding corridors, handing her badge in at the door and practically running outside. She paused on the stairs and took a deep breath of the cold air. She hated that place.

“Did you confess?”

Octavia turned around to find Tweed lounging against the wall. “Confess to what?”

“To all your dastardly deeds.” He pointed at her. “Don't think I don't know what you get up to.”

“Oh,
please
. You
wish
you knew what I got up to.”

Tweed pushed himself away from the wall with his shoulders. He strolled over to join her. “Barnaby get you out?”

Octavia nodded. “Were you taken in as well?”

“Early on this morning. I think they came for you after they let me go.”

“So what's going on?” Octavia asked. “Why are the Ministry interested in this?”

“I've no idea. I couldn't get Barnaby alone to talk to him. But I think we're going to find out soon enough. We've been summoned to Ravenstone Manor.”

“When?”

Tweed reached into his longcoat and pulled out his fob watch. He flicked open the lid. “About an hour ago.”

They jounced along the busy road in Tweed's steamcoach. He'd had it fixed up a bit since Octavia had every-so-slightly damaged it when trying to evade the Ministry, but it was still a pile of rubbish. The smoke it spewed into the air was dirty grey and stank of burning metal. The rear space, where he and Barnaby had once prepared for their fake séances, was even more cluttered now that they had stopped conning the rich and gone legitimate. Tweed now used it to refine and build more of his little inventions. For instance, he'd made his spiders—clockwork arachnids used to spy on people—even smaller, enabling them to be hidden in even more obscure locations.

“I've been thinking,” said Octavia.

“Oh oh,” said Tweed. “You should be careful with that. Everyone knows women shouldn't think. Overheats their delicate brains.”

“Most amusing. I've been thinking about that symbol on the ring. It's definitely hieroglyphics, agreed? So we should go to the British Museum and speak to one of their experts.”

Tweed didn't answer. She glanced over and saw him frowning through the dirty glass window at the street ahead.

“Is there a particular reason you're not responding?”

Still nothing.

“Have you lost the ability to talk? Are you thinking very hard? Are you contemplating my genius? Do you have a stomach ailment? Stop me when I'm close.”

“You ruined my fun,” said Tweed sourly.

“What fun? What are you talking about?” He didn't say anything more, so Octavia sighed and stared out the window, watching the snow-covered hansom cabs, the streets covered with wet mud and slush, the people hunched away in their coats, faces cut in half by voluminous scarves. She frowned. “Where are we? This isn't the way to Ravenstone.”

“I know that.”

Tweed turned the steamcoach to the left and stopped it up against the pavement. Octavia peered out of the window and saw the massive Greek pillared frontage of the British Museum.

“The museum?”

“Yes,” said Tweed. “To speak to the head of Egyptology. I was going to surprise you with my cleverness, but you had to go and think for yourself.”

Octavia smiled and patted his arm. “Don't worry, Tweed, I'm
always
surprised when you show cleverness.”

“Ho ho,” muttered Tweed. “Hear that? That's me laughing at your wit.” He shook his head sadly. “You really should learn to accept the fact that I'm the thinker in this partnership.”

He climbed out of the steamcoach, pulling his scarf over his mouth. Octavia followed and they hurried across the road.

“So if you're the thinker, what am I?” asked Octavia as they jogged up the stairs and moved between the massive pillars, heading in through the wide doors of the Museum.

“Not really sure yet,” said Tweed, his voice muffled. “I mean, it's not as if you even make a good cup of tea.”

Octavia punched him in the arm.

The office of the professor of Egyptology, a man called Cyril Bainbridge, was immaculately neat. Octavia could tell that Tweed didn't approve. He ran his finger over the mantelpiece and held it up before her eyes.

“Look,” he said accusingly. “No dust.”

“So?”

“So how can you call yourself a professor of Egyptology and work from an office like this? Where are the papyrus fragments he's translating?
Where are the dusty books?” He waved his hand at the wall in disgust. “Not even a sarcophagus! Unacceptable. The man's obviously a fraud.”

“Or just someone who likes things neat and tidy.”

Octavia turned. A small man—barely five foot three—was standing in the doorway.

Tweed took one look at him and blurted out, “Goodness, you're short!”

A pained look flashed across the man's face. He smoothed down his grey hair and sat down at his desk. Octavia noted the chair was specially raised.

“Yes, I am. Sorry about that.”

“Oh, no need to apologize,” said Tweed airily. “It's not your fault.”

“First, let me apologize on my colleague's behalf,” said Octavia, glaring at Tweed. “He has an unfortunate tendency to speak without thinking. You
are
Professor Bainbridge?” said Octavia.

“Indeed.” He smiled. “And no need to apologize. I'm used to it. Now, the curator said you wanted help with something?”

Octavia nudged Tweed.

“Oh. Yes.” He fished around in his pocket and handed over the ring.

“We were wondering if you could tell us what the symbols on this mean.”

Bainbridge plucked a pair of spectacles from his front pocket and tilted the ring, studying it in the grey light that filtered through the window. He frowned. “Where did you get this?”

“We found it.”

“You found it?” He looked at them suspiciously. “Do you know Dr. Stackpole?”

Octavia shook her head. “No. Who's he?”

“Dr. Stackpole is an archeologist. Quite well thought of. At least, he used to be. He returned from Egypt recently with some rather…controversial claims and items. He came to me to have them authenticated.”

“What are you saying?” cut in Tweed. “That he brought you a ring like this? Because we didn't steal it.”

“My boy, I'm not saying that at all. No, he didn't bring me a ring like this. But he did bring me a drawing of this hieroglyph
on
the ring. He asked me if I'd ever seen it before.”

“Had you?” asked Octavia.

Bainbridge shook his head. “No. Never. I got in touch with some of my contacts. In fact…” He looked at the clock. “I'm having a meeting here at two this afternoon with Dr. Stackpole and a translator. Either he's going to tell us what the symbol might mean, or…” He trailed off and looked briefly uncomfortable.

“Or?” prompted Tweed.

“Or if he thinks Dr. Stackpole forged it.”

“Why would he do that?”

“To get attention, funding. He claims to have found some…ancient map. On papyrus or some such. He says it points to what he calls ‘the find of the century.' But he needs help deciphering it.”

“Have you seen this map?”

“Good lord, no. He nearly had a heart attack when I asked if I could have a look. He says he's sent it somewhere safe. So they can't get their hands on it.”

“Who are
they
?” asked Octavia.

“No idea,” said Bainbridge cheerfully. “He always was a bit paranoid.”

“So you don't know anything about this find of his?”

“We know that it's in Egypt, which, I think you'll agree, is a rather safe bet. He's keeping his cards very close to his chest, I'm afraid.”

“Would you mind at all if we came here at two? To ask your translator what it means?”

“Not at all. Always keen to encourage an interest in Egyptology.” Bainbridge stood. “Would you like a tour of the museum? Be happy to oblige.”

Octavia felt a stab of remorse. She'd love that. She'd always enjoyed the museum, coming here with her parents. And a behind the curtain tour would have been something special. But they didn't have time. “Unfortunately not,” she said. “We have an appointment to keep. We can't put it off any longer.”

“Much as we'd like to,” muttered Tweed.

“Well,” said Bainbridge. “Another time, perhaps. And I'll see you this afternoon.”

Octavia smiled, then she and Tweed turned and left the office.

Time to face the music.