Adelaide grinned and went to admit Robin and Edwin.
“I thought this place had an underground feel, the first time, and I was right. This isn’t just the basement, it’s the under-basement,” said Robin. “If we sneeze, we might disturb the foundations of the whole place. Huzzah for Kitty and her secrets.”
“All clear?” said Edwin.
“All going to plan,” said Adelaide. “Here’s your record, Edwin. Get to work.”
Edwin used his string to build an involved cradle into which Robin placed a scrap of paper with Lady Enid’s full name. Then he directed the rest of them to stand clear of the huge ledger, splayed open on the table below the map.
Magic flowed forth and over the book like a breeze, lightly ruffling both the long black ribbon that lay in the open book and the very edges of the thick pages. The spell gathered and kept gathering: a whirlpool of rippling air now, tinged with stormy grey. Edwin was concentrating hard. This must have been taking a great deal of his magic.
The left-hand side of the book gave a sudden jerk. Edwin said, “Got it.” His small storm of a spell sank into the pages, which began to turn themselves backwards as if flicked by a giant and impatient hand. Back and back.
And then, sudden as snapped fingers, the air was still.
Edwin rushed forward, still disentangling his string, and ran a finger eagerly down the page. “Enid, Enid—there! Look at that. She did request her own box. She used her married name to request it, but it’s registered under her birth name.”
“How do you think she got in?” asked Adelaide. “She must have needed privacy, like us.”
“I could live to be a hundred and not know half of what the Forsythia Club could do,” said Edwin. “All right. Ugh, Robin, can you—thank you.”
Robin lifted a chunk of the pages in order to turn the book back to where the ribbon indicated the present day. It was unwieldy and looked heavy; the muscles in his forearms bunched where they emerged from his casually rolled-back sleeves.
“Show-off,” murmured Adelaide.
Robin winked at her and let the pages collapse into place. Edwin ran his fingers through the motions of another spell, rehearsing, and then began it in earnest. This one looked simpler. A pen that lay in a holder in one corner of the table lifted itself into the air and hovered over the first column.
“Edwin John Courcey,” said Edwin. There was no getting around someone’s name going in the book. All that mattered was that they found the box and got out.
The pen wrote his name, and then the name Enid Charlotte May Blackwood, and then Edwin’s hands glowed red and an answering red light sprang up, a ribbon reaching to the ceiling, in the gloom of the stacks.
“Your work, Edwin,” said Jack. “You do the honours.”
Edwin looked hectic with the pleasure of solving a puzzle. He muttered, “It still might—I might still be wrong,” but he hurried away between the shelves and returned shortly with a wooden box in his hands.
Robin gave Edwin’s arm a silent squeeze, and Adelaide made an impatient motion. Jack’s pulse surprised him by picking up. He wasn’t entirely immune to a good puzzle himself. He contented himself with leaning against the wall to give his leg a break—it had been grumbling these past few days—and saying, “Not to fault your sense of the theatric, Edwin, but we are under some time pressure here.”
“Shut up, Hawthorn,” said Edwin absently. He set the box on top of the open record book and removed the lid.
This box was not lined with velvet. It was lined with a familiar beige substance, subtly textured.
“Cork?” said Robin.
“The only wood that’s completely inert to magic. And I’d bet anything the outer box is rowan,” said Edwin. “That’s why it hasn’t been doing anything to the magic in this place. And why they haven’t managed to triangulate it yet.”
It lay innocently within its double prison of muffling woods. A silver hair comb, which looked as though it might be part of a set with the mirror and brush. But none of the other sets had included a comb. And the silver was as bright as if it had been polished just yesterday.
“Edwin.” Adelaide put a hand over his and squeezed briefly. Edwin, who seldom tolerated touch from anyone but Robin, gave her one of his small off-centre smiles.
“Rectification,” he said, and began the cradle.
The silver comb shivered under the rectification spell like the surface of a flicked teacup. When it stopped shivering, it was a small knife—a dagger, in fact—with a sharp-looking blade, and a hilt with a flat pommel. In the centre of the pommel was the simple design of a fern frond.
“Bother. Did anyone else remember to bring a sheath?” said Robin, entirely poker-faced, and Edwin began to laugh. Robin grinned and pulled both Edwin and Adelaide into a huzzah-we-won-the-match kind of hug. Jack appreciated that no attempt was made to involve him.
It did mean that he was checking his watch, about to make another pointed remark about the time, when the door to the Lockroom opened.
Jack looked over. “Violet? How did you…”
Violet looked him grimly in the eyes and stepped into the room. She looked like herself, not the redheaded disguise she’d been wearing earlier. Her hands were pressed together, palm to palm, in front of her body. She was followed by three men, one of whom was holding her firmly by the arm. That man was unfamiliar; so was the one who followed.
Both of them turned their heads, deferential, as the third man entered the Lockroom. He was tall and dark-haired, and dressed as if the world would end if a hair fell out of place or a speck of lint marred his grey suit. His neat footfalls whispered against the floor.
“Well, now,” said George Bastoke. “Once again, Courcey, you’re better than a bloodhound when left to your own devices. I can’t thank you enough. And you are, of course, all under arrest.”
15
“Priez-vous, Hartley,” George added crisply, before anyone else could speak. He pointed at Edwin. “On Courcey at least. And Blyth too, if he looks likely to punch anyone. And…” A flicker creased his brow as he looked at Jack, then cleared. “Ah. Hawthorn. Cousin, you’re not looking entirely yourself.”
The Cooper not restraining Violet was a wiry young chap with pale hair and the nervy air of a racing dog. He cradled the priez-vous and tossed it like a cup of water in Edwin’s direction. Edwin’s hands clapped together, palm to palm like Violet’s. Meanwhile, George cast a negation, with an unfamiliar clause attached at the end, and walked up close enough to Jack that it was impossible to dodge as it washed over him.
Jack smelled burning first. Then he saw the first curl of smoke rising, as if from a cigarette smouldering forgotten between his lips—and then he felt the crawling, piercing heat against the skin of his neck.