“What!” exclaimed Zoë and Helen.
“We can’t be certain. I felt it, and Viv smelled laurel and amaranth and decay,” said Merlin. “But Una and her team didn’t find anything, and Uncle Jake checked the wards, which were apparently intact.”
“Have Thurston and Merrihew been informed?”
“Una said she called Thurston; Merrihew’s probably still on her way back to Wooten.”
Helen and Zoë exchanged a look, which the others correctly interpreted as an indication of lack of confidence in the current leadership of the booksellers.
“We’ll make sure to follow this up,” said Helen.
“I wonder if they’ve told the Grail-Keeper,” mused Zoë. “I think under the circumstances that needs to be done.”
“I doubt it,” said Merlin bitterly. “Great-Uncle Thurston is in raptures over a library purchase, and Merrihew’s going after that giant carp in the old clay pit lake. Again.”
“Hmm,” said Helen.
“Besides,” continued Merlin. “If there was a Cauldron-Born, how was it made? Who has a cauldron besides us?”
Helen and Zoë shook their heads.
“No, Merlin,” they said together. “The Grail-Keeper would never allow it.”
“But—”
“No,” said the two older women together, very firmly.
“We will inform the Grail-Keeper, even if the Greats have not,” said Aunt Zoë. “I can nip into the Serpentine tomorrow.”
Susan looked at her blankly but didn’t have the opportunity to ask what on earth that meant as Helen asked her a question.
“Are you staying with Merlin at the Northumberland, Susan?”
“No,” said Susan. She could feel herself blushing.
“She’s at Mrs. London’s; you know, the place Special Branch keep for us to park the oddbods,” said Merlin. “Though they’ve been naughty and put in a couple of Soviet defectors and I’d say some sort of ex-peace group infiltrator who’s been found out as well.”
“Is that who they are?” asked Susan, who had been mystified by her housemates. Their desire to not discuss who they were or why they were there was even greater than her own.
“Is it sufficiently secure?” asked Zoë. “You mentioned a Kexa?”
“It has the usual wards,” said Vivien. “It’s on neutral ground. As much as you can get in London, anyway. No known entity of the Old World resides there, or claims it; it doesn’t fall under the suzerainty of any Ancient Sovereign.”
“And I’ll be there with Susan,” said Merlin.
“In the house, generally,” added Susan. “Not in my room or anything.”
Merlin nodded, as if nothing else had been implied. Maybe nothing else had been implied, Susan thought. She didn’t know what was worse. He wasn’t as self-obsessed and vain as she’d thought, but no less attractive. . . .
“While it is not uncommon for some of the lesser entities and minor human dabblers to also be criminals in the ordinary sense,” said Helen, “this sort of directed activity by goblins—who most certainly would not answer to any mere mortal instruction—in combination with gangsters is very unusual. It can’t be a coincidence. And you think this connects with what happened to your mother?”
“I don’t know, but I think it’s worth finding out,” said Merlin.
“It certainly is,” said Zoë. “If Jocelyn can’t do the photographs at the BM tomorrow, I’ll find someone who can. Either way, I’ll have the job done by midmorning. Call me.”
“I’ll drop in,” said Vivien. “I’ll be here anyway. I have a shift tomorrow, front counter.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Susan. “I have to work tomorrow, too. I’d forgotten, what with everything . . . but I guess I’ll be safe at the pub?”
“I’ll be with you,” said Merlin cheerily. “Like a remora stuck to a whale . . . no . . . something rather nicer, like a strawberry in champagne—”
He oofed as Vivien struck him sharply in the stomach, and subsided.
“Be careful, children,” said Helen. She spun her wheelchair around, back to her desk.
“Yeah, be very careful,” said Zoë. “And don’t eat the godawful pie they have downstairs!”
Chapter Twelve
Short stories are brill
Novels can thrill
A play’s just the thing
But poems can sing
SUSAN AND MERLIN FINALLY GOT BACK TO MRS. LONDON’S CLOSE TO seven, because after their very late lunch, which vehemently did not include stargazy pie, they had to go first to Northumberland House to drop off Vivien, who wanted to look at the wards there, and to wait for Merlin to pack and close a ridiculously large leather suitcase that boasted numerous straps. At Merlin’s insistence, aided by Vivien’s diplomacy to actually make it happen, they traveled in one of the bookseller’s cabs, this time driven by the very silent, focused Cousin Wendover, not Audrey.
Susan was exhausted, wanting only a bath and bed, but this was denied her, for as they walked in the hall, the door to what Mrs. London called the common room swung open to reveal Inspector Greene, wearing the identical clothes she’d been in the week before when she’d brought Susan from Highgate Police Station to this house. A definite look.
“About time you got here,” she grumbled, making a beckoning gesture. “Come on, then. Let’s be having you.”
“Can’t we talk tomorrow?” asked Susan. “I am totally knackered.”
“No, because I need to know what the hell is going on,” replied Greene, standing back to let them into the room. “As does my colleague from Organized Crime, who has graced us with his presence. Susan Arkshaw, Merlin St. Jacques, allow me to introduce Chief Superintendent Holly.”
“Reg Holly!” cried the older, heavily built, once-handsome ex-boxer type in a charcoal three-piece double-breasted suit, bright white shirt, club tie, and chunky silver-braceleted watch peeking out from under his French cuff, with gold yacht club links that made him look more like a banker than a police officer. “Call me Reg.”
Merlin looked from Holly to Greene.
“This is bookseller business,” he said. “No one outside of your unit is cleared, Greene. None of the regular police. You know that.”
“Don’t fret, lad,” said Reg. “I was in Greene’s job once upon a time, until I moved on to greener—ha ha—pastures, career-wise I mean, something I’ve suggested to young Mira here, because it’s a dead end working with you booksellers. And look at me now, chief super and in charge of what I like to call incompetently organized crime.”
“The chief superintendent has a historical clearance that has not been revoked,” said Greene evenly.
“And I called up Merrihew to make sure it was kosher for me to stick my head in,” said Reg. “Fine, she said. So here I am.”
Susan flopped down into an armchair. Merlin remained standing, looking at Holly suspiciously.
“So you must be Susan . . . Arkshaw,” said Holly, looking intently at Susan. He had small, cruel eyes, she thought, and looked away. “A newcomer to all the sort of things the booksellers get into.”