realization loosened a tumble of thoughts in the Ghost’s mind.
Chalk circles? The witches of Godfrey Place had used chalk circles to enact their foul rituals. He supposed it might be a leap to imagine someone on this ship had been carrying out similar elaborate practices, but the ritualistic murder of Autumn Allen was still preying on his mind. The Egyptian connection just seemed too coincidental. And now he had discovered this, in the room directly connected to the one in which Ginny had supposedly been staying. He didn’t like the implication of that one bit.
Rising, he quickly checked over the rest of the room, but again, found nothing save for more vestiges of chalk dust, which the maid had obviously found difficult to properly remove.
The door to this cabin was also open to the passageway—as, he presumed, they all would be, until they became occupied again—and he stepped out, careful to leave the inner door pulled shut behind him.
He considered heading up to the bridge, but suspected he’d find nothing there but further log books and charts. If a conspiracy of some sort had taken place aboard this vessel, it was unlikely the captain would have known about it. More likely, the people involved would have had assistance from among the junior members of the crew.
The crew quarters, then, might be a place to look for answers, but as he’d already established, there would be hundreds of them aboard, and without any indication of whom or what he was looking for, it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. There was always the risk that one or two of them might still be onboard, too—while most had evidently taken the opportunity to explore the iniquitous speakeasies and jazz clubs of the city, some would inevitably have remained here, and he risked raising the alarm if he started rooting through cabins without any real sense of what he was looking for.
Better, he decided, that he take a look at the holds where the antiquities had been transported, to see if he could find anything that might connect the expedition with Autumn Allen. If so, he and Donovan would then be able to go after the expedition leader in search of answers.
The Ghost moved through the ship like a specter, swift and silent. He hurried through the passenger decks and down into the grubby engineering section of the ship, thick with the mingling scents of oil and rust. He’d been impressed by the scale of the vessel from the quayside, but the sight of the engines themselves left him feeling utterly dwarfed. Enormous furnaces, now cold, warmed pressurized water tanks, which in turn drove huge pistons, each the size of tree trunks, to turn the wheels that powered the ship’s rudders.
The hangar housing these engines spanned the entire girth of the ship, and was as tall as a small apartment building. Every footfall he made on the iron gangway as he passed through echoed like a ricocheting bullet.
He reached the first cargo hold ten minutes later to find it empty. There was evidence that heaps of crates had been stored here recently: loose strands of packing straw, scattered sand, splinters of wood. The crates themselves had all gone, carted off the ship and up to the museum. Large metal hooks dangled from chains overhead—used to secure expensive cargo or provide support to the cranes as they attempted to load and unload the crates from the ship.
He cast around, searching for anything at all that might help him to understand what had happened on the ship, but there was nothing. It was just an empty hangar, on an empty ship.
All he’d been able to find was a smattering of chalk dust, which might or might not indicate something untoward. It was tenuous at best.
He supposed he was going to have to call in a favor with Arthur over at the Met, see if he couldn’t get a look at the exhibition early, before it opened to the public. Maybe there was some clue in the artifacts themselves.
He crossed the hangar, ducking through a doorway
Chalk circles? The witches of Godfrey Place had used chalk circles to enact their foul rituals. He supposed it might be a leap to imagine someone on this ship had been carrying out similar elaborate practices, but the ritualistic murder of Autumn Allen was still preying on his mind. The Egyptian connection just seemed too coincidental. And now he had discovered this, in the room directly connected to the one in which Ginny had supposedly been staying. He didn’t like the implication of that one bit.
Rising, he quickly checked over the rest of the room, but again, found nothing save for more vestiges of chalk dust, which the maid had obviously found difficult to properly remove.
The door to this cabin was also open to the passageway—as, he presumed, they all would be, until they became occupied again—and he stepped out, careful to leave the inner door pulled shut behind him.
He considered heading up to the bridge, but suspected he’d find nothing there but further log books and charts. If a conspiracy of some sort had taken place aboard this vessel, it was unlikely the captain would have known about it. More likely, the people involved would have had assistance from among the junior members of the crew.
The crew quarters, then, might be a place to look for answers, but as he’d already established, there would be hundreds of them aboard, and without any indication of whom or what he was looking for, it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. There was always the risk that one or two of them might still be onboard, too—while most had evidently taken the opportunity to explore the iniquitous speakeasies and jazz clubs of the city, some would inevitably have remained here, and he risked raising the alarm if he started rooting through cabins without any real sense of what he was looking for.
Better, he decided, that he take a look at the holds where the antiquities had been transported, to see if he could find anything that might connect the expedition with Autumn Allen. If so, he and Donovan would then be able to go after the expedition leader in search of answers.
The Ghost moved through the ship like a specter, swift and silent. He hurried through the passenger decks and down into the grubby engineering section of the ship, thick with the mingling scents of oil and rust. He’d been impressed by the scale of the vessel from the quayside, but the sight of the engines themselves left him feeling utterly dwarfed. Enormous furnaces, now cold, warmed pressurized water tanks, which in turn drove huge pistons, each the size of tree trunks, to turn the wheels that powered the ship’s rudders.
The hangar housing these engines spanned the entire girth of the ship, and was as tall as a small apartment building. Every footfall he made on the iron gangway as he passed through echoed like a ricocheting bullet.
He reached the first cargo hold ten minutes later to find it empty. There was evidence that heaps of crates had been stored here recently: loose strands of packing straw, scattered sand, splinters of wood. The crates themselves had all gone, carted off the ship and up to the museum. Large metal hooks dangled from chains overhead—used to secure expensive cargo or provide support to the cranes as they attempted to load and unload the crates from the ship.
He cast around, searching for anything at all that might help him to understand what had happened on the ship, but there was nothing. It was just an empty hangar, on an empty ship.
All he’d been able to find was a smattering of chalk dust, which might or might not indicate something untoward. It was tenuous at best.
He supposed he was going to have to call in a favor with Arthur over at the Met, see if he couldn’t get a look at the exhibition early, before it opened to the public. Maybe there was some clue in the artifacts themselves.
He crossed the hangar, ducking through a doorway
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