* * *
“What is it exactly that we do?” I asked the professor. He was showing me through the warehouse-like room, which seemed to comprise within it the entirety of the British Museum’s Division of Curious Devices and Remarkable Artifacts. “It is quite a grand title, but what does it mean?”
“It means that whenever anyone finds something extraordinary, something that can’t be catalogued or defies conventional wisdom, it is brought here,” the professor explained. “Antiquities and artifacts from every era and from every civilization are brought here, and Rebecca and myself do our best to sort, catalogue, and safeguard them. Some of them we are able to explain, and they go back to the main Museum. Others are far too, er, interesting, and we move them to a safer place, where they can do no harm.”
“What do you mean by ‘interesting?’” I asked. Rebecca had earlier mentioned several well-known but mythical (or so I had always thought) artifacts that had remarkable magical properties, and I was determined to know as much about this business as I could.
But Rebecca interrupted us, coming up behind the professor and tapping him on the shoulder. “Professor,” she said, “the guard has not made his customary hourly round. I think I shall go and see that everything is all right.”
“Should I come with you?” I asked. Given the night’s earlier attack, I thought it unwise for a young woman to wander about unescorted, even within the safety of the museum.
Rebecca knitted her brows. “I don’t know. Are you armed?”
This was not the response I had expected. “Well, no,” I replied defensively. “I am not accustomed to walking about London with a revolver in my pocket.”
“But you do know how to use a revolver?”
“I was an ensign in the Poona Horse during the war. I served in Africa and Mesopotamia.”
“That should do,” Rebecca said. I was actually quite proud of my service, and I was a little hurt that this student, no matter how smart or capable, should seem to dismiss it with a curt ‘that should do.’
But Rebecca did not seem to notice, for she had reached under her leather jacket and pulled out a beautiful pearl-handled Colt revolver, just the type I had always imagined an American cowboy would carry. “Put that in your pocket,” she said.
I did as instructed, and despite my long experience at hunting and my war service, the weight felt unfamiliar. I was more than a little surprised to find that Rebecca was carrying a firearm, and even more surprised to see another revolver, the twin of the one I held, peeking out from underneath her jacket.
“Well, while you two make sure that everything is secure in the museum, I shall return to the Atil artifact,” said the professor. “There is much to be done with that little treasure!”
I followed Rebecca out into the darkened hallway, where she switched on an electric torch, leaving the professor pottering away at his workbench, happy as a schoolboy on holiday. We made our way down the hall and toward the front office, where Rebecca said the guards usually rested between patrols.
As we passed the exhibits of priceless antiquities and rare works of art, briefly glimpsed in the light of Rebecca’s torch, I asked her: “Why should a graduate student carry two loaded revolvers about with her?”
“I might need them,” she answered simply.
This answer did not satisfy me, and she seemed to recognize it. She sighed. “Being Professor Penniweather’s graduate assistant entails far more excitement than one would normally expect for a graduate student,” she said. “As you saw tonight, the agents of the Thule Society, as well as others, sometimes pose a risk. After my first expedition with the professor, to Bukhara, I took to carrying my revolvers about with me.”
“You seem to accept all of this rather as a matter of course,” I commented. “Did the revelations about the Thule Society and the danger threatening the world not surprise you in the slightest? Or have you simply grown accustomed to it all?”
Rebecca shrugged, a dainty, feminine movement which seemed entirely out of place given the atmosphere in the museum and her rough coveralls. “My father was an officer in the 10th Cavalry, the Buffalo Soldiers, on the American frontier. I grew up with danger all around me. Above all, I see no reason why it should prevent me from achieving my doctorate.”
I could scarcely argue with her reasoning, but I rather imagined that the university would have granted her a request for a less dangerous assistantship. Perhaps she persevered because her rugged American spirit craved the adventure and excitement not typically found within the halls of academe. Or perhaps she had felt a sense of duty, just as I had, upon recognizing the threat posed to the world by the Thule Society.
While we had spoken, we had traveled the length of the museum and were approaching the office area near the front doors. Suddenly, the beam of Rebecca’s electric torch caught something in its bright glare. It was a human hand, lying on the floor next to a large pedestal bearing a Greco-Roman statue. I had served in Mesopotamia and Africa. I had survived bandit attacks on the Northwest Frontier and in the Caucasus. I had seen the horror of war with my own eyes, had faced death and danger. But nothing, not the fearsome wreckage caused by the German machine guns at Tanga, not the bodies I had seen splayed out at the Khyber Pass, nothing I had ever seen matched the sheer, naked horror of that hand lying bathed in electric light on the floor of the British Museum in the dead of night.
“Great Scott!” I cried.
“Quiet!” hissed Rebecca. She had drawn her pistol and was playing the beam of her electric torch up and down the hall, searching for movement. “See if he’s alright, won’t you?”
At first I didn’t understand, but after my wits had collected themselves, and the hair on the back of my neck had lain down in its proper place, I realized that the hand was attached to an arm, which was in turn attached to the slumped form of a museum guard, who lay behind the large pedestal.
I rushed over to him, feeling for a pulse and trying to find his wound. The man groaned, and I saw a little blood on his forehead where he had been struck with some blunt object. “He’s alive!” I called out.
“Would you keep your voice down?” Rebecca said in exasperation.
At that moment I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye, but as I turned to get a better look a heavy weight slammed into me from behind, bowling me over. I had half-drawn my pistol, and it went clattering over the marble floor of the hall. My head struck the marble as I fell, sending sparks dancing across my vision, while cold, strong hands felt for my throat. In a panic, I struck out with my arms and legs and I must have connected, for there was a pained grunt, and the weight fell away.
I scrambled to my feet, backing away, searching for Rebecca. My head was on fire and my vision still blurred from my impact with the floor. I no longer saw the beam from Rebecca’s torch. Where was she? Was she alright? Where was my pistol? I froze. Where was my attacker? I could see almost nothing in the darkness of the hall. The thick fog outside all but blotted out the light of the full moon, and without Rebecca’s torch I was very nearly blind.
I took a faltering step forward, and suddenly a thick, brawny arm closed over my throat from behind, stifling my cry of alarm. I felt a sharp point in my side, and a guttural, thick German accent hissed in my ear: “Do not move, or I shall empty your belly!”
I struggled for only the briefest of moments, for my attacker tightened his grip, cutting the air off from my lungs, and jabbed what I thought was a knife even closer to my side, until I thought it drew blood. “If you think that I will not kill you, you are horribly mistaken,” came the horrid voice again. “What have you done with the artifact?”
I was by no means going to tell this man where the artifact was. I could not bear to think what this powerful, dangerous man might do to the absent-minded Professor Penniweather, or to Rebecca. By way of stalling, I made a choking noise from deep in my th
roat, hoping against hope that he might release his grip enough that I could perhaps throw him off altogether.
But my assailant only gripped me more tightly, and pressed his blade ever deeper into my side. In terror I realized that I could no longer breathe, and I tore at his brawny arm as my vision began to swim. I was going to die, I thought with incredible clarity. And just when I thought I should lose consciousness, I heard a gruff, male voice call out: “There he is, lads! Get him!” There was a sudden bright beam of light, and several shots rang out.
My attacker cursed, and shoved me in the direction of the light. I stumbled forward and fell, gasping for air. In a trice Rebecca had appeared beside me, helping me up. It was her electric torch’s beam that I had seen. “Where are the others?” I choked out. “We’ve got to stop him before he gets to the professor!”
“There are no others,” Rebecca said. “I tried a ruse, and it seems to have been effective.” She handed me her torch as well as my revolver, which she had evidently found and recovered. “Get back to the professor as quickly as you can. You must protect him and the artifact at all costs. I shall sound the alarm and make my way back to you as soon as I can.”
Still panting, I nodded my assent. She really was a remarkably capable young woman, quite beyond any woman of my acquaintance. She headed into the gloom towards the front offices, and I trotted back towards Professor Penniweather and the artifact warehouse, unsure of what I should find. Were there more assailants in the museum? Had they found the professor? I remembered that I had locked the door to the warehouse when I left. Surely he would not let in an attacker?
My question was answered when I reached the door, which was standing open. Into the doorway I stepped, pistol drawn, to see a tall, cloaked figure ominously advancing on the stout little professor, who was backing away, clasping the Atil artifact to his chest.
“Clear off, I tell you!” the Prof said petulantly to the cloaked figure. “I shan’t give you a damned thing!”
“Put your hands up!” I shouted, advancing into the room, pistol leveled. The cloaked figure spun towards me, and I saw a glint of steel from the long, cruel-looking dagger he held in his hand. The figure barked out something in German, and then laughed. That was a rather ominous sign I was just thinking, when the door slammed closed behind me, and I felt the cool pressure of the barrel of a gun thrust into the center of my back. Confound it! I had been so caught up in rescuing the professor that I hadn’t thought to check the rest of the room!
“I should drop your pistol, if I were you,” purred a soft, cruel voice behind me. The accent was less pronounced, but it still sounded distinctly German. I let my revolver clatter to the floor. What were we to do now? Rebecca would be back with the police, but would she be in time? My mind was racing when suddenly a desperate plan occurred to me; it might at least buy us a little time.
“Professor Penniweather, why ever would you have unlocked the door for these miscreants?” I asked, putting as much annoyance into my voice as I could manage.
He looked quite taken aback. “Well,” he said shamefacedly, “they said they had a question about an ancient Mycenaean artifact.”
“And you let them in?” I cried. “Did it not occur to you that anyone coming to the British Museum in the middle of the night to ask about an extinct civilization is probably concealing their true motive?”
“I’ll have you know that I’m a world-class antiquarian, Mr. Westlake,” sniffed the Prof. “And experts travel far and wide and at all hours of the day and night to seek my counsel!”
The first cloaked figure was looking back and forth between us in some confusion. He did not know what to make of the little spat I had started with the professor. The man behind me with the gun asked him something in German, but I spoke above him: “Well I hope you’re happy, professor! This is all your confounded fault, you know!”
The man behind me took a half-step forward and tried to speak to his companion more loudly, and the pressure of the gun in my back momentarily eased. I seized my chance. Just as Professor Penniweather opened his mouth to reply to me I spun on my heel and, cocking back my fist, struck the tall, pale man behind me with as much force as I could muster.
I am no boxing champion, but in school I had played rugby, and I was no slacker. The force of my blow knocked my enemy clean off his feet. Before anyone could move, I dashed forward, bowling over the second cloaked man, grabbed the professor’s stout little arm, and pulled him after me deeper into the warehouse. I hoped the cloaked men would follow us, and we could somehow circle around and escape to meet up with Rebecca and (hopefully) the police. There were shouts behind us, angry voices crying out in German. I looked behind, and saw in horror that the tall, pale man had regained his feet, and was swinging his gun, which I instantly recognized as a Bergmann MP-18 submachine gun, directly towards us. I cried out and pushed the professor down the nearest walkway between the tall shelves, throwing myself in behind him just as the infernal weapon began its deadly chattering. The spray of bullets tore through wooden packing crates all around us, filling the air with splinters of wood and packing straw chaff.
Dropping to our hands and knees, the professor and I crawled along the narrow aisle until we came to the wall. It was a dead end. Heavy crates and the tall shelving completely blocked us in. “What are we to do?” I hissed. “They’ll be on us in a moment!”
But the professor had already pried open one of the large crates and was rummaging through its contents. “That was a good idea, Westlake,” he complimented me as he sorted through the crate, which was packed with the oddest assortment of bobs and bits that I had ever seen. “You distracted them just enough so that we could get away.”
“Fat lot of good that will do in a second,” I replied, cursing myself for not having a better plan.
“Never fear, we’ll think of something,” the professor said matter-of-factly. “Hold this.”
He held up a fusty old animal skin, so coated with dust and the grime of centuries that I could not even identify from what animal it had come. Nevertheless, I dutifully took it so that the professor could dig ever deeper into the crate. The skin was an awkward shape, as animal skins are, and I found myself holding only part of it while the rest trailed down to the cement floor.
A loud shout at the end of the aisle caused me to turn around and there, pointing their evil submachine gun directly at us, were the two cloaked men. The tall, pale man charged the bolt and gave me an evil grin, and I suddenly recognized my assailant from the train. It seemed that this was the end. With nowhere to go, nowhere to run, I closed my eyes, clutched the animal skin before me, and bid a silent goodbye to my friends and family.
There was a tearing roar of submachine gun fire. I flinched, expecting to feel the burning heat of the bullets punch through my body, but I felt nothing. Had they missed? I opened one eye. The two men still stood at the end of the aisle, the MP-18 smoking in the tall one’s hands, with looks of Teutonic puzzlement across their faces.
I shifted, and the motion caused a veritable rain of bullets to cascade out of the animal skin I was holding before me and patter onto the cement floor. I stared in amazement. The two men shouted at each other in German, and the tall one raised his weapon again. I flung up my animal skin, and once again the spray of bullets pattered harmlessly to the floor, quite repelled by the skin of the animal I held in my hand.
“Ah, here we are,” I heard the professor chirp behind me. I looked behind, and saw him holding a basket of shiny, ripe, golden apples.
“What are you doing, professor?” I was aghast. “What are the apples for? We’re in something of a jam here!”
“Just watch, my young fellow,” the Prof assured me and, seizing one of the apples, he tossed it high into the air toward the two cloaked men at the end of the aisle. They, and I, watched the slow, arcing flight of the apple in some confusion, until it suddenl
y burst apart with a thunderclap into multiple bolts of lighting, which streaked down towards the ground, striking all around our two assailants.
And as quickly as it had burst, it was gone. Static electricity fizzed between the metal shelves, and my hair stood all on end, but the two cloaked men were lying motionless on the floor.
“What in the name of Saint George just happened?!” I cried, shock and relief crowding out all other emotions.
I heard the door to the warehouse crash open and the sound of running, booted feet, and I hoisted my mysterious animal skin, fearing more cloaked men with submachine guns. “Hello, Rebecca,” said the professor calmly. “I wondered where you’d got to.”
I lowered the skin to see Rebecca Dare and four burly constables, who had already begun trussing up the dazed but apparently unharmed Germans. Rebecca walked down the aisle toward us. “That was quick thinking, Mr. Westlake,” she said. “Using the Nemean lion’s hide to shelter yourselves from their submachine gun.”
“The Nemean lion? The same one from the Labors of Hercules, said to be proof from all weapons?” I turned and looked at the professor, who was calmly putting his basket of apples back into the crate from which he’d got them. I suddenly had a new respect for him. Throughout the night he had seemed to be so absent-minded and forgetful that I had begun to question his sanity. But just now he had immediately divined my planned deception, found a way to protect both of us from our attackers’ bullets, and deployed some kind of exploding apple to save our lives. I was more than impressed, I was in awe.
“Oh goodness me!” exclaimed the professor. “The Nemean lion’s skin! I wondered where that had got to!”
My mind screeched to a halt. “Hold on there!” I cried. “You mean to say that you did not know that this skin was impermeable to all weapons?”
“Er, not exactly, no,” hemmed the professor. But he brightened immediately. “But what a stroke of luck, what?”
* * *
With the police arriving in force, three of the cloaked men were taken in for questioning concerning the assault. The fourth man that we had seen at the train station was never found, and I rather suspect that he made it back to Germany to report to the Thule Society. The Atil artifact was removed to a secret dungeon deep in the heart of London, a location which I shall keep to myself for the present. Professor Penniweather seems to think that it will take some time to unlock the secrets of the Atil Artifact, and then to use those secrets to decode the Voynich Manuscript. As for the strange exploding golden apple which Professor Penniweather threw at our adversaries, he tells me that they are the Golden Apples of Perun, who was a Slavic deity akin to the Norse Thor. Perun would ride across the sky in his chariot and throw out these apples, which is what ancient Slavic tribes believed caused thunder and lightning. I am still having difficulty convincing myself that all of the events of that night ever really happened, but one thing is certain: I have a great deal to learn about my new position at the British Museum’s Division of Curious Devices and Remarkable Artifacts.
####
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