It was most annoying, although she understood the need to take precautions.
The Palekmul dig had captured the nation’s imagination in a way far beyond the usual, causing a spectacular stir; all those mysterious ruins, hidden for centuries in the jungle!
What Cornelia found less palatable was the obsession with the expedition leader—one Ethan Burnell, citizen of the American state of Texas. The mania had reached almost hysterical proportions, much to Cornelia’s disgust. The newspapers were citing his arrival on British shores as ‘an occurrence guaranteed to set ladies swooning’—not least for his good looks, which were being compared to those of Lord Byron, but also for the family fortune he’d inherited.
Certainly, if she happened to meet Mr. Burnell, she’d have a hundred questions she’d like to ask, but the notion that he might think her flirting with him, as other ladies would inevitably do, was too distasteful to bear. Her interest was in his work, not in the man himself.
Not that she was likely to find herself alone with the lauded explorer.
Her interest was only in gaining access to the room in which the exhibits were being prepared. She might wait, viewing them with everyone else in due course, but there was something rousing in the idea of perusing the artefacts while they were fresh from their crates.
So far, her efforts had been rebuffed but there was nothing to stop her from trying again. She checked her pocket watch once more. By this time, most of the curating staff would have left, surely.
The exhibition room doors would probably be locked, of course, but there was only one way to find out.
Cornelia pulled at the ties of her work apron, then stopped. Better to keep it on, perhaps. That way, she’d look more ‘official’ if she were caught in the act. Picking up her lamp, she walked briskly through the service corridor towards the northern wing. The staircase further along would bring her out almost directly opposite where she wished to go.
Ordinarily, she disliked wandering the gloomy basement passageways alone but, tonight, she was relieved by their emptiness. The curating staff would have left some hours ago. There were always soirées and concerts to attend at this time of year. Some went skating in Hyde Park, others visited the shops, or enjoyed any number of festive pastimes. Unlike Cornelia, most of the staff had somewhere else they wished to be—even if it were only their own hearth.
Emerging through the door at the top of the stairs, Cornelia scanned the high-ceilinged lobby connecting the Americas rooms. As she’d hoped, all was silent. The galleries had closed to the public an hour ago, and only a handful of electric lights remained glowing. Lamps were still relied upon in the bowels of the building but expressly prohibited from the main galleries, for fear of fire. Turning hers low, she left it at the top of the stairs.
Though the far corners of the vestibule were in shadow, the illumination was sufficient to make out the glass case at the centre, containing sculptures from Isla de Sacrificios and Tikal.
On soft feet, she made her way to the double doors at the far end. With the curators finished for the day, the guards should have locked up the exhibition hall, but it was always possible someone had overlooked their duty. Pushing down upon the handle, she heard the mechanism release and slipped through, closing the door gently behind.
None of the wall lamps were lit but the moon swept through the large Eastern window. Dust motes floated in the silvered shaft of light. Cornelia caught her breath. Several large crates remained, but most of the artefacts appeared to have been unpacked, positioned at intervals around the circumference.
Coming further into the room, she wrinkled her nose. There was a strange odour in the air; not the usual mustiness but something more pungent—a preservative of some sort?
She’d have to watch where she stepped. It wouldn’t do to knock over a bottle of limewater, or whatever it was they were using.
Reverentially, Cornelia approached a sarcophagus, reaching for the curving serpent engraved thereon—symbol of rebirth and renewal through the shedding of its scales. What had the Maya believed? The snake was a conduit, was it not, between the physical world and the spirit realm.
The surface was cool to the touch but she imagined it in the place from whence it had come. There, the sun had warmed the hand that held the chisel; warmed this very stone.
She was the only living thing within the room; yet, she had the sense that each piece around her remembered what it had once been and to whom it had belonged.
Across the chamber, her eyes lit upon two towering columns spanned by a wide lintel. Stepping closer, she shivered to see what was carved there—a scene she’d studied some weeks before: ink drawn in a far-off place and reproduced for subscribers to The Geographic Journal. Now, the original was before her. The male figure was the ruler, Shield Jaguar, and the woman beside, his consort.
The depiction was starkly violent, bizarre and sadistic, but the woman’s pain was self-inflicted, for the weapon raked across her tongue—studded with razor points—was drawn by her own hand.
And then her breath froze in her chest, for there was a scraping sound and something moved at the shadowed base of the monolith.
Not something, but someone. A crouching figure—here, where no-one should be—rubbing at the stone, and so absorbed in his task that he’d failed to hear her footfall.
A thief? She needed to raise the alarm; to find a guard to arrest the intruder. But, the next moment, the trespasser stood and turned, moving into the moonlight. The man wore no jacket and had rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms tanned dark. His hair was tousled and his face bore unkempt stubble. A ruffian, without a doubt.
Seeing Cornelia, the brute let forth a growl of displeasure and took a stride toward her. How tall he was, and powerfully built; easily strong enough to overcome her.
Cornelia whimpered. Might she run? She sensed he’d catch her before she even reached the door.
On impulse, she delved into her apron pocket and pulled out her measuring rule, clutching it in her palm. She remained half in shadow. Gulping back her fear, Cornelia made herself shout. “Don’t move. I’m armed, and…and, I’ll fire if I have to!”
The man stilled but his voice was filled with threat. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but you’ve picked the wrong person to mess with. If you’ve plans to steal anything in this room, you’d better be prepared to fire that thing. Just know that, if you do, you’ll only get one attempt.”
Steal? Cornelia’s hands shook. What on earth did he mean? She wasn’t the one sneaking in to meddle with what wasn’t hers.
Well, perhaps she was, a little—but her intentions were harmless. She was only satisfying her curiosity. This cur, meanwhile, might have already caused irreparable damage.
Those of criminal bent, she’d heard, saw only black-heartedness in others. The fellow had brazenly entered to do his foul work, and must believe she planned the same.
A wave of anger fuelled her courage, so that her voice hardly quavered. “Lie down and don’t try anything foolish. I’m a… a crack shot.”
Though he scowled, to Cornelia’s relief, the man did as she asked, descending slowly to his knees, keeping his hands visible all the while.
Wasn’t there some Sherlock Holmes tale in which the detective had subdued the villain and then looped rope from wrists to ankles to keep him from escaping? There was string also in her apron pocket. Might it be strong enough? Cornelia felt doubtful but there didn’t seem to be anything else on hand and she could hardly leave him as he was. Her only hope was to restrain the scoundrel—and before he realized that her “gun” was no more than a sliver of wood.