The artifact in question was a curious onyx statuette of a many-armed man, a faceless pharaoh of some sort. In its hands, it supposedly held various weapons and tools, while the base was apparently decorated with untranslated hieroglyphs. This statuette was also discovered to have been encrusted with rubies and gold; it was supposedly created in the 2nd dynasty of Ancient Egypt and must have had some religious significance. It's little wonder that someone would seek to steal it, and a true tragedy to have lost such a marvel. Mr. Gavigan, my boss, was just as upset when he learned of its disappearance, perhaps more so than anyone else here. From my research, it was a truly one of a kind piece, a rare artifact hinting at the theorized worship of an obscure deity believed to be representative of entropy or change. Stranger yet, the artifact showed similarities to similar pieces found in other cultures of such deities representing a force of change. Could it be that this Egyptian deity hinted at some more primal belief, and that the pharaohs had erased it from history so as to quash revived worship of it?
I had little time to consider these thoughts as I completed my paperwork and moved downstairs to tell Mr. Gavigan of what I had discovered. It was there, in the waiting room outside of Mr. Gavigan's office, that I ran into one of the Americans I now know well, one Mr. Clayton Byrd. Being well-read, I of course was excited when I heard the name of the man that Elias chap had written about in The God of Mitnal - to think, a famous explorer would have come here on their journey, and that I would meet him! Mr. Byrd explained he and his friends had been looking into an interesting case - apparently, the Elias bloke they were friends with had uncovered something globally massive, and unfortunately the author passed away before he could complete the work. To that end, Mr. Byrd had come to London with his friends to ask Mr. Gavigan what he knew about it.
I didn't get much further beyond that, sadly, before Mr. Byrd was called in to speak with Mr. Gavigan... but I'll admit, I grew quite curious, and listened in through the oak doors of the office. What I overheard was more than enough to make me reconsider what I knew about Mr. Gavigan and the Penhew Foundation, and I will do my best to recreate the discussion here.
"So, Clayton," Mr. Gavigan replied jovially as the American sat down. "Please tell me, what brings you back here?"
"Well..." A pause from the American. "How much influence do you have around London's historical monuments and such?"
"Quite a bit of influence, actually. The Foundation often donates to several of London's museums and historical locations. Why do you ask?"
"I was wondering if I could get access into the Salisbury Cathedral?"
"Of course, but why do you want to go there?"
A pause, and a slight sigh, before the American spoke once more. "It's a long story," he said, "But... Listen, can you get them to loan me their copy of the Magna Carta?"
I raised an eyebrow at that. What was this bloke on about? He wasn't after that old chestnut story about there being a map on the Magna Carta, was he? That was just part of the hazing rituals at Oxford, and I should know, being a graduate. Crazy Americans... I put the question out of my mind, and continued to listen in.
"Never mind," Mr. Byrd said, probably sensing Mr. Gavigan's confusion. "The other thing I wanted to talk to you about was more important, anyway. You see, I noticed you didn't seem fond of Elias, and to be honest he always rubbed me the wrong way, too. Somewhat pushy... I understand if you don't want to tell me anything about the Carlyle Expedition or Sir Aubrey Penhew, but I'd appreciate it."
I instantly recognized what the American was doing, and I think Mr. Gavigan did too, because a slight silence fell over the room then. I perceived the chill there, and then Mr. Gavigan spoke, giving information as he could about the Expedition. All stuff everyone knew of course, but I guess Mr. Byrd didn't. Then he said something, something that rubbed me the wrong way, something that wasn't like the Edward Gavigan I knew...
"So, Mr. Byrd, why is it you're looking into such a cold case, hmm?"
His tone shocked me. Not only was the American prying for information, but Mr. Gavigan was doing the very same! I'd never known him to be so manipulative... Then the American explained his friends were on some crazy quest to learn about the fate of the Carlyle Expedition...
Something in my gut told me to look away from the door for a second, and thank goodness I did, because I noticed the receptionist dutifully taking notes on what Mr. Byrd was saying. Now, I knew that wasn't like her, she would never do that... unless Mr. Gavigan asked her to. Unless Mr. Gavigan had expected Mr. Byrd to return, and meant to cause him damage somehow. The whole thing struck me as fishy, so on my way in to drop my work off at Mr. Gavigan's desk, I nudged Mr. Byrd.
"The receptionist," I whispered harshly, hoping he heard me. "She's been eavesdropping..."
Mr. Byrd nodded, and presumably left as I took to explaining the kind of work I had done involving the statue to Mr. Gavigan. He was so pleased he gave me the entire week off for vacation! Well, that wasn't like him, either, and when I asked him why, he merely insisted I take a holiday. Call it intuition, but none of it seemed right to me. Doubly so when I left the building, bumped back into Mr. Byrd, and he told me he'd been listening in on the whole conversation, just as I had listened in on him. Seems he was there when the statuette I'd been researching was stolen. Now, I don't believe in fate, but something like that is a bit more than just random chance, I think. It was as if I was meant to be there at that particular moment... In fact, I certainly was, because from the corner of my eye, I saw movement - a black robe, a silhouette in an alley watching Mr. Byrd... and then, the gleam of what appeared to be some sort of gold mask.
My blood chilled. I had heard all about the Egyptian Murders, as the papers were calling them, and I feared this was the person responsible for it. I didn't waste time, trusting my gut instinct over everything else and grabbing Mr. Byrd's hand immediately.
"This way, now!" I hissed, pulling him across the street and towards a nearby diner. Fortunately, I don't believe the man in the gold mask noticed us, because the person made no attempt to follow... but as it should so happen, Mr. Byrd's friends happened to be eating in the same diner. Somehow, I think that God must have quite the strange sense of humour, causing so many coincidences at once...
Together, I explained the situation and introduced myself, learning that the others were Mr. Hemlock, Mr. Donovan, and Mr. Bates. There was some confusion that Mr. Byrd and I were dating, which we cleared up quickly, and I explained what had happened. For good or ill... they quickly decided I was worth trusting, and explained they were investigating Mr. Gavigan. They felt he was hiding something, and I voiced my own concerns that he had not been quite right ever since Sir Aubrey passed away. I offered to help however I could, and gave them my address just in case something went wrong.
I didn't expect to be taken up on the offer quite so soon, but I suppose I'll never know precisely why they came to me tonight. All I do know is that they said something about being threatened in their hotel room and not feeling safe. They are strange, but what sort of person could possibly deny people in need and concerned they are being attacked, even if they are visitors to the British Isles?
- Bridget Atwater, Antiquarian (24 February, 1928)
After the diner incident, we decided it may be for the best to lie low and seek other leads. Bridget, intrigued, asked to tag along, so we obliged. We turned to one Miles Shipley, a surrealist artist known for his shocking paintings, in that regard. It only made sense, after all - Hugh Tylesman had bought a painting from him, one that didn't burn, so maybe there was a connection there. And if there was, and Gavigan targeted Tylesman, perhaps he would also target Shipley...
Shipley's home was a modest brownstone building in downtown Soho, off Holbein Mews. Its shuttered, barred windows certainly didn't look too friendly, but we bit the bullet and shoved our paranoia aside, knocking on the door. Imagine our shock when a young girl, maybe 8 or 9 at the most with mousy hair tied in green ribbons, answered.
"Oh, hullo," she responded, hazel eyes blinking curiously. "Have you come to buy a painting from my daddy?"
"Well, actually, we need to talk with your daddy," Ralph explained, his eyes fixed on her green ribbons and a slight nervousness to his gaze. "Mr. Miles Shipley?"
The girl affirmed that was her father's name, and brought us inside. It wasn't long before we found our man, thin and sleepless-looking as he sat on his couch and sketched finely on a stretched canvas. He murmured to himself, eyes flicking about wildly as his hand danced over the canvas, unknowing of our presence until his daughter drew his attention to us.
"Ah, good morning!" He answered in an unsteady tone, eyes flicking between us nervously. "Welcome... heh, have you come to look at the paintings, then?"
There was no doubt about it - Miles Shipley was an unhinged man, perhaps even totally insane, and he did nothing to hide it. Instantly Ralph's face crinkled into gentle worry as the rest of us proceeded to carefully ask questions about his work, the paints he used, his tricks of the trade. Only I noticed when Ralph broke away from the group to bother the child, who was sitting in an armchair and swinging her legs while watching the rest of us. Her eyes... they had a strange cast to them, an intelligent one, far beyond her years. Ralph was worried that living with Shipley hadn't been good for her mental health, and wanted to be sure she was alright. But the more he spoke with her, the more worried I noticed he looked, until he finally rejoined us and I learned what had spooked him.
"The child," he whispered, stealing a glance at the girl. "Something's not right about the child... I think she might be deranged... or might not be human. We need to get out of here as soon as possible."
I understood instantly. Best not to worry the others yet... we needed to keep the facade of wanting to buy a portrait, so as not to arouse any suspicion. And so, Shipley led us to his gallery, a menagerie of bizarre and shocking surrealistic portraits so strange we all felt instant discomfort. There were images of dead women murdered by snakes, of strange creatures so alien they couldn't possibly exist with the realism depicted, of hellish landscapes and bizarre realms of dream. The best comparison I have is to the works of Hieronymus Bosch or that Salvador Dali guy, maybe mixed with a little M. C. Escher. They were beautifully done, but even looking too close made us nervous... especially Bridget, who drew away from one portrait of serpents in disgust and horror.
"Ugh, how horrid... those snakes!" she murmured. "They look... alive..."
It took us a few moments to calm her down, and we kept asking questions of Shipley. He became more and more nervous, looking like he thought we would kill him. Then Ted, mastermind he is, decided to test whether or not the canvases were flammable since the one in Tylesman's house didn't burn. He took out a lighter and immediately tried to scorch the nearest one - an all-black portrait of one of the draconic creatures, the creature itself reflected in a glossy paint while the rest was matte. Yeah, Miles Shipley wasn't too happy about that one. He exploded in rage, and nearly threw us out until Ted and Ralph managed to convince him that Ted was only taking a closer look at how the paint reflected the light of his lighter. It seemed to work for the moment... until Miles spoke again.
"Ah... if none of those are to your liking, would you like to see my masterpiece? It's just over here, in this walk-in closet..."
We all exchanged nervous glances, suspecting a sneak attack and worried we had offended the madman. But instead, he opened the closet and unveiled a strange painting, one of a primordial altar in a swamp, snakes writhing about it. It was done in such detail that it appeared three dimensional, as if one could walk into the portrait. The more I studied it, the more we realized it was alive, moving... and the more mesmerized I became, as if the portrait was sucking us into itself. If... if only I could step into it, go there, observe this land forgotten by time for myself...
I don't know what snapped me out of it, but when I realized how close I was to touching the painting, I shuddered. One glance at the others confirmed that they felt the same sensation, and had also managed to save themselves from the portrait's bizarre pull. None of us felt safe after that, and Miles seemed oddly disappointed...
"Well," he said, covering the portrait again, his eyes flicking to the group. "If that doesn't interest you... perhaps you ought to leave..."
"Now, wait a second," Ted replied, stepping forward. "I kind of liked that small all-black one, nice technique on it... we'll take it."
"Ted, what are you talking about?" Clayton protested, but the rest of us understood the severity and we pooled our resources to buy the strange portrait. Besides, it was well done, and in the right light almost looked rather stately. Shipley was overjoyed, reacting as if he dodged a bullet, and even more ominously we nearly ran into the child standing in the doorway as we left the room. How long had she been watching us with her strangely intelligent, reptilian eyes?
We wasted no time in leaving after that, only to notice that the girl was watching us drive away in the rented cab. Something wasn't right about that child... and Ralph felt the same. His theory was that maybe, one of those dragon things like the one from Erica's safe-house possessed the child, he even said her shadow looked like a reptile and the house itself smelled like a snake pit. We assumed, for the sake of not jumping to conclusions, that the girl was just as deranged as her father and the house had a snake problem.
We were in for quite the shock when we got back to the hotel and settled in, new portrait in tow. Ted did test it to see if it burned, by the way, by scorching it with his lighter - it did, though he quickly put the flame out before the portrait was destroyed. That didn't explain what had kept the portrait in Tylesman's house from burning, though... For the sake of our sanity, I dare not question it, not even now. Said serpentine portrait is planned to be placed in the care of Bridget Atwater. Perhaps she could hang it above her couch like a strange, silent guardian... We feel it's best if she keeps an eye on it.
As we hemmed and hawed over the portrait, there came a knock at the hotel room door. "Room service," the voice replied, and we recognized it as Mohamed the concierge. Letting him in, we saw he was carrying a fine silver tray, covered with a domed lid like before when we'd had tea our first day here. "No need to tip, sirs, a friend of Mr. Gavigan's was asking for you, and was kind enough to pay for dinner for you all."
"That's lovely, Mahmuhd," Clayton replied, a strong concern in his gaze. "Thank you."
The concierge left, and we gathered around the lidded tray nervously. Gavigan's friend had given us this? Why would he be looking for us? Did it have to do with the strange masked figure Clayton had seen following us? Nobody wanted to lift the lid, but someone had to... someone had to. If it was a bomb or some other device that could kill, the whole hotel could be in danger... Clayton, ever brave, opened the lid and peeked first, but just as quickly slammed it down again.
"Uh... nobody here is a dog person, right?" He murmured nervously.
We soon figured out why he was so upset when Ted lifted the lid on the tray. There, in the center of the silver plate, was a headless, mutilated grey-striped tabby cat, a thin slip of paper tied with black ribbon stuffed into its mouth and its blood staining the tray like ink. I don't think I've ever seen Ralph vomit before, but he did - violently, and shook like a leaf in the wind. Everyone realized instantly what this finding meant, but only Clayton thought to open the slip of paper and read it. Written was a chilling message in a red, spidery hand, as if scribed by a fountain pen dipped in the cat's blood for ink.
Of The Pharaoh
Is Watching
We needed another place to stay, and fast - and the only place in London we could think of to go was Bridget's. She was unassuming, she wouldn't tell, we trusted her, and besides... she had inside information on the Penhew Foundation, which we planned to look into immediately. A friend of Gavigan's sent us a warning... a warning from this shady "Brotherhood of the Pharaoh". That could only mean he was hiding something, something dangerous and devious... and we needed to find out what it was.