The Curse of the Silver Pharaoh

  The Curse of the Silver Pharaoh

  By

  Pip Ballantine and Tee Morris

  Book One of Verity Fitzroy and the Ministry Seven

  Pip Ballantine and Tee Morris

  Copyright 2017 Pip Ballantine and Tee Morris

  Smashwords edition

  Acknowledgments

  Jennifer Melzer our editor, who kept all our cats in a row. To our cover designer Starla Huchton of Designed by Starla, who always knows how to bring our imagery ideas to life.

  And to the fans of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. We hope you enjoy this journey with Verity and the Seven, and find a few familiar faces to make you smile.

  Chapter One

  Truth in Distress

  If Verity Fitzroy were to die unceremoniously on the dark streets of London it would be riding high speed on the back of the latest scientific innovation.

  She took comfort in that thought as she tightened her grip on the magnetic clamps attaching her to the ECC Mark 11. The East End whizzed past her at a dizzying forty miles an hour, the chilled rain pelting her face and biting the exposed fingertips sticking out from her gloves. Her hair was tied back, but ash blonde strands whipped at her eyes. Through all this, her grasp on the handles was becoming increasingly tenuous.

  She dared not lift herself up to the flat surface of the Mark 11’s baggage compartment, lest the driver or his passenger become aware they picked up a London street urchin along the way—though she was perhaps a little old for that term to be precisely true. Still, if she’d been younger than sixteen, she would have had a far easier time of it in such an awkward position, huddled against the back of the electric motorcar.

  Sure as eggs, if she let any part of her body show she would be caught. The passenger in the vehicle would undoubtedly turn around at just that moment and save her the bother of falling to her death by shooting her in the head. The thin black leather of the motorcar’s roof would not deflect bullets.

  Carriages, buses, and motorcars flew past Verity as the motorcar burst onto the main thoroughfare of Cheapside. She tried to conjure the image of a limpet and put herself into that mind-set. If they could bear the sea, then she could bear the wind.

  Bow Bells whizzed past to her right, and Verity heard the ticking of its clock, the winches running its chimes, and the newly-constructed photovoltaic vane all starting up in her head as a grand mechanical symphony. The bizarre connection between her and technology had been happening more and more frequently in the last few months. At that particular moment it was distracting, making her somewhat discombobulated.

  The Mark 11 lurched suddenly to the left, rounding a corner, but not without teetering to one side. Verity leaned to the right and the car slammed back onto all four wheels. The jostle disengaged the left clamp, and the young woman swung wildly out into the night. Her boot connected sharply with the road. When it scraped against the ground, the girl bit down on her lip or let a sharp word or two out. She might have come from a good family, but life on the streets since the age of eight taught her enough language to make her no different than one born within the sound of the church bells they’d just passed.

  Verity heaved herself once more up, placed the clamp back against the car’s metallic body, and primed its switch again. The clamp vibrated, and with a tug, she confirmed the magnet had taken hold.

  “Watch them corners!” The passenger was just upset enough to hear over the rush of winter air and hum of the Mark 11. “You’re drivin’ like you done escaped from Bedlam!”

  “Ah, put a sock in it, Floyd! I’m compensatin’. Car’s acting like it’s trapsin’ through mud, she is!”

  “We got a job ta’ do, so don’t muck it up by havin’ an accident! Bloody rain ain’t helpin’, to be sure, but neither’s your drivin’!”

  “What part of puttin’ a sock in it didya miss?” the driver growled.

  Hearing the man in the passenger seat, Floyd White, speak summoned her courage once more. He’d been her only lead in all these months holding any connection to the man she knew as Uncle Octavius, and Verity was damned if she was going to let White get away. What started as volunteering far too many hours working at Lady Bucket’s Hospital for War Veterans led to whatever caper she was involved with presently. The identity of the other man he’d met in the White Stallion pub remained a mystery, but he carried himself like a bruiser and definitely had a decent sized gun under his jacket.

  Floyd White, ne’er-do-well and confidence trickster, had not been easy to track down, but tenacity coupled with her own unique brand of stubbornness took her to casing London’s more questionable antiquities dealers. Many nights of misleading her mates on what they believed to be casing marks for a delightful score led to White as a connection to Uncle Octavius.

  That was why grabbing hold of the running board on the motorcar seemed like a grand idea outside the Stallion. Too much invested to let him slip out of her sights tonight.

  Now as Verity’s muscles began to cramp and the rain showed no signs of stopping, tonight felt more and more like a fool’s errand. She told none of the Ministry Seven where she was going, or what she was up to.

  “Right then, Oscar, pull over. You’re not blimmin’ driving anymore,” Floyd shouted into his colleague’s face. “It’s my Hummingbird and you don’t even know where Miss Lobelia’s house is! St Austell might as well be in hell for all you know.”

  Pushing aside her freezing hair, she tried to understand what a ‘Lobelia’ had to do with all this. It was such an out of place name, and it jammed in her head because of its oddness.

  Sparing a glance to her right, she saw immediately they were passing the British Museum. It was one of those places she adored; a bastion of science and knowledge her father had contributed to many times, thanks to the archaeological digs he and Uncle Octavius went on.

  “Should have grabbed him at the museum,” Floyd barked. “Octavius said to nab him there to make sure he had his papers with him.”

  Oscar let out a dismissive snort. “Too much attention at the museum. Too much chance of not getting away at all. It’s not like the professor has the Silver Pharaoh on him or anything...”

  Now Verity wished she had brought the Seven with her. Two men, even if one was armed, was a not an uncommon thing for them to deal with. Emma, the second oldest girl, had once been captured by a band of thugs with plenty of evil purposes to put her to. Though they were ‘only’ children, the way they dealt with those men was enough to warn off any further attempts by adult gangs.

  Yet that was not the case today—today there was only herself, and a belt full of her tools. Verity possessed the capacity of self-defence—she’d developed one over the many years she spent in the East End—but she was also intelligent enough to know attacking two grown men all on her own, without any preparation or devices, was bordering on suicidal.

  In her mind she heard the hum of the electric motor, and felt the prickle of warm goose flesh on her skin. Then without warning, the hum stopped, and their speed began to drop. They were coasting down the wet streets, the hiss of water kicking up from their tyres the only sound.

  “Right then, stop here—here—here!” barked Floyd.

  The car rolled forward and eventually stopped in front of one of the many impressive buildings of that part of London. Carefully, Verity eased herself down off her perch. Her body ached from the ride, but she still managed to hobble over to an adjoining alleyway, her new hiding place from which to observe their plan. The men she hitched her ride with were preparing for their grab, Floyd pouring liquid over a towel while Oscar reloaded a large calibre pistol.

  The fumes tickled her nose even in the alleyway. Ether.

&nbs
p; “Just keep them eyes peeled,” Oscar grumbled, snapping the hand cannon shut.

  “I am!” Floyd snapped back. “Not a crusher in sight.”

  “It’s not them I’m worried about.”

  Verity swallowed hard just as a thin, tall man in a top hat walked towards them from the direction of the museum. His gaze was cast on the ground, a briefcase swung leisurely from his left hand. Verity would have cried out to him, but her cry would have been for naught.

  The kidnappers burst from the Mark 11 like two lions emerging from the brush towards a gazelle. Floyd clamped the towel over the man’s mouth, as his colleague wrapped his gorilla arms around their prey. Verity felt her body flush with rage as she imagined her parents in place of this poor museum worker. Pushing through the soreness of her wild ride through London, she lunged forward to jab a thin knife into Oscar’s calf muscle. He howled in pain, but his own scream paled in comparison to Verity’s. Her bloodcurdling rage would have made any actress of the Grand Guignol green with envy.

  In the East End a scream might have been a fruitless call for help, but this was the type of London neighbourhood where a bobbie could be found at the drop of a kerchief. If a policeman appeared, then maybe this poor soul would have a chance.

  “Bloody hell!” Floyd stammered, the collapsed museum man threatening to topple him against the motorcar. “Where the hell did you come from?”

  Oscar turned on her, his hand clasped to his leg, and Verity realized she hadn’t in fact done much damage at all. She stabbed a man who must have outweighed her three times with what amounted to a vegetable peeler.

  The profile of his pistol gleamed dully in the gaslight. He was armed with a standard Bulldog. She was armed with science.

  Verity brought up one of the Spider’s Legs and flipped the switch. The magnet hummed to life, ripped the pistol out of the bruiser’s hand, and slammed hard into the device. Hard enough to knock her down.

  “You little bitch,” Oscar growled, bearing down on her.

  The flash blinded her for a moment. When the odd grey fog in front of her eyes receded, it was to see Oscar’s broad frame hit the ground, one hand grasping a small fire on his shoulder.

  Another bolt struck the Mark 11 where Floyd was stuffing the professor into the back seat. “Get in the car, ya’ great ox!” he yelled over his shoulder. “We got ‘im. Let’s go while the toff’s still breathin’ air!”

  The bruiser’s face twisted with anger as he locked eyes with Verity, but he grunted, pulled himself up to his feet and lumbered into the car.

  The rapid hum resumed in her head. The Mark 11 was powering up.

  Scrambling to her feet, Verity was just in time to see the car with its two men and one victim zipping down the street, threatening to disappear into the foggy night.

  With the whistle of the police sounding in her ears, she pounded after the car, but then skidded to a stop as the dark figure stepped out in front of her and fired two more rounds from the Enfield-Tesla Mark III. Rain dripped from his coat as he fired a fourth time before lowering his weapon.

  Verity looked up at her would be saviour...and glared angrily.

  “I would have caught them at the corner, Agent Thorne, if it weren’t for you!” she snapped.

  “Oh really, Little Verity,” Harrison Thorne, agent of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, replied with a grin. “Fancy yourself a Spring Heeled Jacqueline, do you?” The bobbie’s alarm echoed once more, and Harry thrust a hand to her. “Witty banter later. Running now.”

  With a moan of frustration, Verity took the grown-up’s hand and was reluctantly tugged into the shadows of London.

  Chapter Two

  Secrets Come Home

  Water splashed in all directions as Verity kept pace with the broad-shouldered agent of Her Majesty’s Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. The shrill screech of the policeman’s whistle faded behind them, replaced by the low pitter-patter of the steady rain.

  Verity hated winter rain, but it suited her current mood: rather annoyed. Whatever Harrison Thorne was on about, he had cost her much in time and effort. The one connection with her past had now disappeared into the night, and she just knew it would be some time before she could find Floyd White again.

  Thorne spun Verity around as they came to a sudden stop.

  “We’re going to need to warm you up,” Harry said, shaking his head. “This is not a night for you to be out and about.”

  “Agent Thorne,” Verity replied sternly, “you had no right getting into my business tonight.”

  “Your business?” he asked before shaking his head. He then took a moment to consider her. “Right then, you lot are gathering tonight at my flat.”

  Her green eyes went wide at seeing the small, wireless device in his palm. “No, the others don’t—” but the soft click of the call button snapped before she could finish.

  “We’ll have a fire and fresh clothes waiting for them. Now come along, Verity.”

  How she hated it when the agent addressed her as some petulant child. It tempted her to stomp her foot and stick her tongue out.

  Instead, she joined Harry in the hansom cab he called. Verity begrudgingly admitted the cab ride was far better than walking through the rain. Instead of glaring at the meddling adult across from her, Verity cast her gaze outside to the buildings passing their cab at a much more leisurely pace than the Mark 11. She caught a rather breathtaking glimpse of an evening party through grand windows of a stately mansion, the best and brightest of London society inside with cocktails and beautiful gowns.

  The cab shuddered to a stop at the rather impressive apartments of Agent Harrison Thorne. His dwelling was located at the top of the building, which glowed white against the rainy London evening. Handing a generous amount of coin to the driver, he attempted to cover Verity with one of the wide panels of his coat, but the young woman would have none of it. She was not some delicate porcelain doll from his many travels around the world, and she was still cross with him for coming to what he probably believed to be some sort of daring rescue.

  In silence they rode the lift to the top floor. He opened the right of the two double doors and immediately turned the top knob of the small control panel, bringing up the lights. He then flipped two switches, and both the fireplace in the main parlour and one she knew to be in the rather spacious room meant for cigars and brandy also flared to life.

  “Care to change out of those wet things, Little Verity?” Thorne asked as he took off his Inverness coat, snapping it hard before hanging it up on the coat rack.

  “Stop calling me that, Agent Thorne.”

  He stroked one of the thick, curled handlebars of his moustache. “You know where to find your clothes.”

  Thorne went into his own chambers and disappeared behind its doors. With a final huff, she stomped into the modest parlour, tossed Liam’s promising gadget on to the bedroll she would claim tonight, and stripped free of her wet clothes. Only when she took off her chemise and replaced it with a dry one, did she realise how cold she truly was. Suddenly, she was hungry, and could just murder for something hot to drink, be it soup, a simple meat broth, or...

  One sniff, and she knew immediately; Thorne was cooking something up.

  She padded lightly across the polished wood floor and came to a stop at the opposite archway leading to the kitchen. The agent was within, a pot boiling on the stove, while he set the table for eight.

  Verity stifled a smirk; his setting was one short. He had yet to discover the truth of the twins and how they hid one whenever dealing with adults. It was a failsafe they had never revealed to anyone. If anything bad happened, there would be one outside it all to come rescue them.

  “I decided hot cocoa would be in order,” Thorne said.

  “Be warned,” she informed him. “Christopher is trying not to enjoy things children take delight in.”

  “Fine,” he said, picking up the wide tray, “then more for everyone else.”

  Thorne tightened the sash around
his thick evening robe and poured himself a steaming cup of hot chocolate. He sampled the drink, nodded appreciatively, and took a seat in the plush, high back chair close to the hearth. “I don’t stand on ceremony here as you know, Miss Fitzroy. Do help yourself.”

  She couldn’t resist, even if she was still a little cross with him. Quick as you please, Verity poured herself a cup and snatched up several biscuits. She was famished.

  “Where’s your valet?” she asked through a mouthful of biscuit.

  “You really expect Bernard to be dawdling about at this late hour?” He paused, then shrugged. “Well, perhaps I would ask him to work late if I were casing a mark.”

  Verity frowned at him, remembered of her own night’s mission. “How did you find me tonight?” she asked. “You using a Ministry tracker on me?”

  “Actually, I wasn’t looking for you. I was on a case.” A knowing smile flicked across his lips as he took another sip of his drink. “For your information, Doctor Williams was my business. Which you stepped into.”

  Verity felt her stomach drop. This was not going at all how she imagined.

  Thorne’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What do you know about Pharaoh Psusennes the First?”

  “Psusennes? The Silver Pharaoh?” She smiled confidently “He was named that as his coffin was made with silver. Quite strange when you think how the Egyptians felt about the importance of gold.”

  “Quite unusual,” Thorne agreed. “Though Psusennes was quite different among pharaohs. While his empire covered all of Africa, he ruled from Tanis on the Nile delta, so many of the papyrus records of his rule have long ago rotted. Yet there are suggestions, Psusennes wanted more. So with his armies he crossed the Mediterranean, pushing north. The Ancient Greeks did not know what hit them. Then, according to the stone tablets we have, Psusennes’ advance stopped.”