“He is very busy,” said Merlin. “Unpacking the personal library of Sir Anthony Blunt. Former sir, I guess, since they took away his knighthood.”
“The traitor? Are the Soviets connected—”
“No, of course not,” snapped Merlin. “Sorry. Thurston . . . irritates me as well. There’s no connection. It’s simply that Blunt had an amazing library, full of first editions and collectibles. They’re all going gaga over it at the New Bookshop and Thurston can’t spare a brain cell for anything else. I wish he’d retire.”
“Uh, will he ever?” asked Greene. “I only have very limited records and what I’ve been able to find out myself, on the job, but Thurston and Merrihew seem to have been running the St. Jacques operations since 1887.”
Susan started in surprise. “Eighteen eighty-seven?”
“Yeah, that’s about right,” said Merlin wearily. “For Thurston. Merrihew’s been in charge of the left-handed for even longer. Since 1815, a few months after Waterloo. Some of us live a long time. If we don’t get killed, that is. Look, it really is better if you don’t know what might be going on. I mean, despite the job and all, you’re still a mortal, and generally the more you know the more you are at risk.”
“That’s my line,” said Greene. “Is Ms. Arkshaw at risk?”
Merlin hesitated, then said, “I think so, though the Greats don’t. I’m going to bodyguard her for a while—I’ll stay here tonight—and the taxis are going to drive by regularly.”
“Mrs. London told me something tried the wards last night,” said Greene. “You apparently called it a Kexa. Unsurprisingly, my predecessor never mentioned one to me in what I laughably refer to as my training, and I couldn’t find any other reference. What is a Kexa?”
“Mrs. L has got very superior hearing,” complained Merlin. “A Kexa is a hemlock cat. And you could look it up in The Golden Bough . . . no, wait . . . you’re right, it’s not in the version that made it to print. Anyway, a Kexa is a summoned servant called from the sacred burial urn of a pharaonic cat; a few were brought here from Egypt by the Romans, but we’ve collected most of them over the years. Not all, clearly. A very dangerous creature, but it couldn’t get in, and it can only prowl at night, when it’s clear, and the moon is neither new nor full.”
“Like tonight,” said Greene. “Can a Kexa be shot? I mean, will bullets kill one?”
“Theoretically yes,” said Merlin. “But they’re very hard to hit, because they move between this world and somewhere else that isn’t . . . er . . . here. Though I suppose it might be easier than fighting urchins. . . .”
“Why?” asked Susan.
“You need something old to strike goblins. Cold iron or steel—and preindustrial steel at that—more than three hundred years old. Or stone or ancient wood. Like Audrey’s bog oak stick.”
“Are any members of the public likely to be at risk because of whatever or whoever is after Susan? Speaking of goblins, I understand there was some sort of unusual event in Mayfair this morning?”
“No members of the public were at risk,” said Merlin. “The urchins only wanted us; they took us out of time and clouded the minds of those nearby for the few seconds it took to do that.”
“Except for that one American tourist,” said Susan, with a yawn. “But I think she thought it was a kind of jet lag illusion or something.”
“Is the situation with Ms. Arkshaw—”
“Call me Susan. You did before.”
“Is the situation with Susan, whatever it is, likely to be resolved in the near future? The very near future?”
“I don’t know,” said Merlin. “But, as your lot like to say, inquiries are proceeding.”
“Maybe everything will settle down,” said Susan hopefully. “And I can look for my dad. . . . Anyway, I have to get upstairs. I can’t stay awake.”
“I’ll check in on you later,” said Merlin. “Uh, don’t forget your cricket bag.”
“Oh, right,” said Susan. She picked up the cricket bag with the swords and her clothes, ignoring Greene’s inquiring and somewhat disbelieving gaze, and left the room. She narrowly missed Mrs. London wielding a pink feather duster, where she was pretending to spruce up the hallway. Mister Nimbus was on the stairs, a very distinguished black cat with white socks. He looked at Susan with narrowed eyes. Not suspicious exactly, but wary, as if the cat thought she needed both eyes kept upon her, not one.
“Good night, Mrs. London,” said Susan. “I’m turning in early.”
“Very wise,” said Mrs. London. “Do you want me to bring you a cup of tea?”
“No, but thank you. I’ll have a quick bath and then go straight to bed. I reckon I’ll be asleep before my head hits the pillow.”
“Come sleep, O sleep, the certain knot of peace,” recited Mrs. London, surprising Susan.
Susan was in bed when Merlin knocked on the door.
“Susan? It’s me, Merlin. Can I come in?”
“Um, yes,” said Susan, a little flustered, and annoyed with herself for being flustered. “I’m in bed.”
Merlin opened the door and ran his hand along the edge, found the bolt, and slid it back and forth a few times. Not suggestively.
“Don’t lock your door unless I tell you to,” he said. “And keep your clothes and boots handy. In case we need to leave in a hurry.”
Susan, who’d been feeling nicely relaxed after her bath and perfectly safe in bed, struggled upright. She felt a brief pang at thus revealing she wasn’t sleeping in one of her cool band T-shirts but in a massively oversized one featuring a photo of the Wombles, furry suits and all, but told herself she wanted to put Merlin off anyway. Or did she? A small voice inside told her to take a chance; what was the worst that could happen? Her mother’s experiences with very handsome men did not have to be her own.
“What! You mean . . . you think more is going to happen? Here?”
“No, I want to be prepared,” said Merlin. “Baden-Powell and all that. And . . . and . . . uh . . . Vivien called. One of the wards at Northumberland House was compromised. Not a pipe or a sewer. A ward meant to stop evildoers entering a service door to the plant room for the air-conditioning. Someone poured fresh blood mixed with quicksilver—that’s mercury to you—under the door, which will dull a lesser ward—”
“Fresh blood!”
“Um, yes. Someone must have been killed minutes before and very close by, though we haven’t found a body yet. Anyway, the ward was breached, so someone with malevolent intent could get in. Which at first didn’t seem to be a problem because the plans showed no connection from the plant room into the hotel proper, but Viv found a crawl space inside that allowed access to the laundry, so . . .”
“There could have been a Cauldron-Born.”
Susan was out of bed in a flash, opening the cricket bag to get out the sword she already thought of as hers.
“Yes. That’s probably a good idea,” said Merlin, and took up his own sword.
Susan leaned the saber against the bed, the hilt close to hand, and got back under the covers. Her boots and discarded boiler suit, and embarrassingly the day’s underwear, were already in an untidy pile at the foot of the bed, easy enough to put on in a hurry if circumstances so required.