The Obsidian Dagger (Horatio Lyle) by Catherine Webb Page B

knelt down in front of the desk and dug into his copious pockets. Finding nothing satisfactory in his left jacket pocket, he tried his right, then an inner pocket, then another below that. Finally he seemed to find what he was looking for, in a third inner pocket that Thomas hadn’t even realized was there, despite the way it had been meticulously sewn in with the wrong colour thread by someone who at least understood the principles behind sewing, if not the aesthetics.
    He brought out a long and familiar roll of tools, wrapped in blue fabric. Thomas looked down at them, and realized that, although the majority of strange bits of metal with various hooks and loops remained a mystery, he could guess at the uses of at least five more than he had been able to last month. Lyle chose a couple of thin tools and slid them into the lock, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. He seemed almost disappointed when the lock clicked within a few seconds. Scowling slightly, he packed away the tools and opened the drawer a cautious inch. Seeing nothing sharp inside, he opened it all the way and pulled out a bundle of papers.
    ‘Thomas?’ He held up a paper, then passed it to Thomas. It had once been closed at the bottom with an old-fashioned red wax seal, in which a somewhat crooked cross had been stamped. Its neat black lettering was recognizable as Latin.
    Thomas coughed, clearing his throat, and stood a little taller, pleased with his own importance. ‘“Captain Fabrio,”’ he began, ‘“Thou . . .’ well, “you” really, if you wish me to do a direct translation without -’
    ‘“Thou” will be fine,’ muttered Lyle, riffling through the other papers. He found one: a note written in English. ‘From his London housekeeper, wanting to know how long he needs the property. I wonder if he had time ...’ Lyle’s voice trailed off. He became aware of Thomas watching him, glanced up, smiled and said, ‘I apologize. Please, carry on.’
    ‘Well, then . . . “Thou art entrusted with a duty of most . . .” uh . . . “sacred” I think . . . “provenance, but heed the warnings of our brethren who have sent you unto our shores, for your passenger -”’
    Lyle’s head snapped up. ‘A passenger?’
    ‘Well, obviously it’s not a literal translation; the word is more derivative from the Greek -’
    ‘The ship is carrying a passenger?’
    ‘Sir?’
    Lyle’s eyes had settled on a distant thought. ‘The bare footprints weren’t made getting on the ship, Thomas. They came up from the cargo hold; their source had to be on board already.’
    ‘Bare footprints, sir?’
    ‘A man weighing at least sixteen stone by the depth of the impressions, and judging by his stride I’d say he was at least six foot three and horrendously strong - he had no shoes when he went up on deck and attacked the Captain and Stanlaw, the man with the interesting ring.’ Lyle’s hand was in his pocket, feeling the iron ring he’d pulled from Stanlaw’s finger. ‘It’s possible that the passenger and the killer are one and the same. What else does the letter say?’
    ‘Uh . . . “heed the warnings of our brethren who have sent you unto our shores, for your passenger, though not of the power he once was when first he did come unto our sanctuary, hath yet the skill of the stone and may be of much danger unto you and your crew if he leaves his berth. Do not break the seal unless the good father is with you . . .” Oh, I think it means Roman Catholic priest, sir . . .’ said Thomas, voice rising in a disapproving lilt of well-bred Anglican mistrust, ‘rather than ... a father, a . . . parent, sir . . .’
    ‘I think I understand, Thomas. What else?’
    ‘“God speed to your journey and may your passage be safe and undisturbed. Blessings . . .” I think this means priest or abbot or some such Popery equivalent . . .’
    ‘Who signed it, Thomas?’
    ‘Father Abbot Portare, sir. Oh, I say, I think if you literally translated the name it