Agatha & the Scarlet Scarab Read online

  Agatha

  &

  The Scarlet Scarab

  Book 1 of The Cairo Chronicles

  Copyright © 2019 by K.A FISH

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the author and publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review

  Chapter 1

  The Thunder Machines

  The Thunder Machines were coming and with them the smoke and fire.

  The Thunder Machines were coming and that is how it all began.

  In the darkness of the attic, Great Aunt Florrie sat with her great-niece, Agatha, under the moth-eaten canvas that hung suspended from the rafters and shaped like a tent. Florrie’s unmistakable hair bun was silhouetted against the single candle as she spoke, exhaling a cold cloudy breath into the chill of the night air.

  ‘Shall we play the Thunder-and-Lightning game?’ Florrie whispered; her face lit up ghoulishly from the flickering flame below. ‘You know the one,’ she continued. ‘It starts when you hear that first clap of thunder and then you begin your count.’

  Of course, Aggie knew the game. It had been a consistent part of Florrie’s repertoire ever since the Luftwaffe and those ‘damn doodlebug strikes’ had blighted the capital. The twist in this version was that the counting started as, and only when, the Thunder Machines – or doodlebugs as most people called them – fell silent and paused, before erupting with an explosion.

  Great Aunt Florrie said that it was scientifically proven that each second counted out equated to a linear mile, ‘As the crow flies, of course’, and, therefore, you could accurately plot the distance of the bombs by counting in-between strikes and navigate, with reasonable accuracy, where those ‘damned’ devices would have deployed their destruction.

  On this clear autumn’s eve, the first strike was distant and barely audible, but wily old Florrie heard it nevertheless.

  ‘One…(one hundred). Two…(two hundred). Three…,’ Florrie began to count, beating the numbers onto her chest rhythmically, over-accentuating each number, and contorting her face to dissuade her young charge from fearing what was an unlikely strike on their home. ‘Remember, for every number you increase your count by–’ Florrie instructed, demonstrating the count on her outstretched fingers, ’the number of miles away the lightning will strike,’ Aggie interrupted, finishing the sentence for her.

  ‘SEVEN…EIGHT…NINE…TE–’ they continued, nodding together.

  Before reaching double figures, the distant sound of explosions ripped across the city.

  Aggie ran towards the part-opened window at the gable end of the attic where cobwebs danced through the draft. The most famous of London landmarks was perfectly framed in the window. Aggie peered through its panes, across the rooftops; its circular outer and wooden quadrants reminiscent to that of a sight scope on a fighter pilot’s plane. The city, which plunged into darkness during nightly air raids, offered distant views of firelight burning against the unmistakable silhouette of St Paul’s Cathedral.

  ‘It’s still there.’ Aggie said with delight.

  Great Aunt Florrie laughed, as she often did during these raids, professing her opinions on the bombing strategy and inefficiencies of the murderous enemy.

  ‘Of all the gigantic, come-blow-me-up Bull’s-eyes you could have in any city, the Fuhrer still fails to hit our beloved St Paul’s. And, therefore, I trust, both Parliament and the Palace?’

  The three Ps as Florrie so often referred to them.

  The Thunder Machines began to rumble again before extolling their silent anxiety across the London boroughs.

  In unison, both great aunt and niece initiated their count again. ‘ONE … (one hundred). TWO ... (two hundred). THREE ... (three hundred). FOUR … (four hundred). FIVE … (fi–)’.

  BOOM!!!

  An almighty explosion sent a cacophony of noise across the rooftops and through the alleyways. Light and fire lit up bursts of amber-framed yellow, sending shadows of houses into the night sky. The incendiaries were getting closer and were relentlessly indiscriminate in their pursuit of destruction.

  Great Aunt Florrie decided that five miles was close enough to warrant immediate evacuation from the precarious attic room, and to descend to the safer confines of their basement bunker.

  ‘Don’t forget your mask!’ Florrie said abruptly, pointing over Aggie’s shoulder.

  Aggie looked around and grabbed the wooden box. She opened it, but it was empty. She looked shocked at the vacant container before apologetically looking towards her great aunt.

  ‘How many times must I tell you, Agatha!’ Florrie announced, rolling her eyes in disbelief. ‘You’d better take mine,’ she continued, handing her gas mask over, and immediately, she led Aggie from the attic.

  Aggie detested being called Agatha. It was Florrie’s preferred method of chiding. Overhead, the Thunder Machines’ deathly murmurs were beginning again.

  ‘One, two…’ Aggie whispered beneath her breath as they descended the twisting flights of stairs. The basement had several gas masks in it. It was just a matter of minutes before Florrie could safely have a replacement.

  In normal circumstances, the descent was an awkward route. The narrow stairways, walls covered in an eclectic mix of mirrors, pictures, maps, and all manner of Florrie’s paraphernalia, simply cluttered the way. In blackout and Florrie not as agile as she liked to think she was, it was taking longer than expected.

  ‘Three–’

  BOOM!

  Although, according to the thunder-and-lightning method, the bomb had dropped three miles away, the tremors were felt throughout the house, shuddering its foundations. Chandeliers rattled, a shattering of glass volleyed its way up from the basement, and just a little more than a sprinkling of dust in the air caused them both to cough and wave their hands in the muted darkness.

  ‘Put that damned thing on!’ Florrie barked at Aggie, without even glancing back at her.

  The young teenager wilfully did as she was told. This was not a time for questioning anything, as she so often liked to. It was unlike her great aunt to be so forthright. They had been through this scenario dozens of times but this time Florrie was genuinely agitated.

  The Thunder Machines were coming closer, and it wasn’t long until their dull, deep whirring, sent a shiver through their home. They were hovering over the city and would soon, indiscriminately come to choose their next victims.

  Aggie began her count again. ‘One…Tw–’

  BOOM!!!!

  An earth-shattering explosion came from outside, shaking the house to its very foundations. Aggie lurched forward, stumbling down several flights of stairs. Great Aunt Florrie, slightly ahead of her, fell the last few stairs and hit the ground floor landing with force.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ Florrie cried out. It was rare indeed for her to cast such blasphemy. She clasped her head and managed to sit herself up.

  Smoke was already beginning to seep through the threshold of the front door. It filled the air with its acrid taste and began to pollute the dimly lit hallway. Florrie was beginning to wheeze and cough. Her eyes began to shut as the dust-filled room took its toll. Then, without warning, as if a marionette having had its strings cut away, she slumped forward, motionless.

  Aggie knelt down to her guardian and cradled her head. Removing the borrowed gas mask, Aggie placed it over Florrie, its rightful owner’s head, but even then, with little life in her body, the old lady managed to shake her head and refuse it.

  ‘Put it on, girl!’ Florrie slurred with as much energy as she could muster.

  ‘But, Aunt
ie, I can easily retrieve another from the bunker.’

  ‘Now! Put it on now!’ Florrie ordered, managing to raise her voice before she collapsed onto the floor.

  Aggie put the mask back on. The hallway had almost lost full visibility. This wasn’t like anything she had imagined. From beneath the front doorway, the smoke billowed in. She clutched Florrie’s hand. It had lost all grip.

  ‘Auntie! Auntie…!’ came Aggie’s muffled shouts as she shook Florrie’s shoulders hoping to revive her. There was little response.

  BANG! BANG!

  Two abrupt shots came from outside the front door. Startled, Aggie looked up, but could only peer into the smoky black pitch the hallway had now become. She heard glass smashing outside and several voices arguing. From the basement, it sounded as if the rear doorway had been blown in and a flapping door was now banging against the bunker walls. She was sure she heard footsteps too. The smoke began casting its cloudy veil, as her visibility was quickly lost. Her senses adjusted themselves, with her vision impaired by the dark, her hearing amplified everything around her.

  ‘Aunty, Aunty…’ she repeated, shaking Florrie to wake. ‘I think we’re being invaded. They’re here; the Nazis!’

  Florrie lay motionless. There was still no response. Aggie was petrified; she had always hated the dark. Luckily, she no longer heard footsteps from the basement, but the voices from outside the front of the house grew ever louder. They must be close to her home. She listened, intently. They had British accents for sure. Only one thing for it, she thought. She stood up, removed her mask and hollered for all her worth.

  ‘Help! Help us !’ Aggie cried.

  Although the acrid smoke continued to envelop her, she heard the footsteps approaching. Wheezing and coughing she struggled to breathe without the mask on even though it was the briefest of moments.

  ‘Heeeellppp!’ she bellowed one more time.

  It worked; the footsteps slowly ascended the stone steps leading to the front door.

  ‘We’re in he–’ Aggie moved to shout, but before she could finish her sentence a hand came over her right shoulder and clasped a tight grip across her mouth, its forefinger and thumb pinching her nose stopping her breathing.

  ‘Ssshhhhh,’ whispered a deep, rasping voice into Aggie’s ear. ‘Put on your mask!’ it came again, wheezing asthmatically.

  Muffled from behind its own gas mask, it was calm and direct, definitely belonging to a man. A man whose breathing was heavy and words were slurred. Aggie tried to wriggle herself around, but using his strength to hold her in a vice-like grip, he manipulated her like a puppet master, ushering her hands to place the gas mask back over her own head.

  Terrified, she duly complied.

  Thud! Thud!

  Two ham-fisted knocks came from the front door. The stranger released his left arm and moved it slowly down by his side.

  ‘Is there anyone there?’ came a muffled voice from outside.

  Sensing an opportunity, her left hand now free, Aggie reacted quickly, whipping off her mask and screaming out loud. The stranger could not react fast enough to stop her and before he knew it, the front door had come thundering in. Tightening his grip across her chest and grasping her mouth once again, he dragged Aggie back further into the darkness of the hallway, unseen from the front threshold. Aggie tried pinching the man but he didn’t react. His skin was not normal, not as Aggie knew it, but somewhere between scaly and smooth. His snakelike strength constricting, restricting Aggie’s breathing.

  The open doorway produced pockets of light, and Aggie could just make out the silhouettes of two men. A violet and blue hue lit them from behind, reflecting off of their rain-sodden clothes and hats. It wasn’t the fiery light from the usual incendiaries that felled the city. The two men wore standard home-guard fare; enamel hats, sou’westers, and protective gas masks that covered their faces.

  ‘Is there anybody in here? There’s been a gas leak,’ one of them said.

  That explained the strange light and why, on her count of two, the explosion had taken them by surprise because surely, as the crow flies, the Thunder Machines should have been two miles away.

  ‘We must evacuate everyone. We heard your voice, ma’am. Ma’am? Where are you, ma’am?’ the men continued.

  Aggie was still hidden back within the hallway’s darkness, beyond their visibility. Her assailant continued asserting his hold, breathing slowly and deeply, remaining calm.

  The two men, unaware they were being watched, spied the limp body of her Great Aunt Florrie laid out upon the floor.

  Aggie desperately tried to move, stamp on the stranger’s toe, or rake his shin; anything to give an inkling of a sign that she lurked in the shadows, captive. Her captor remained motionless and ever-increasingly tightened his grip to ensure she didn’t make a sound. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  The two men tentatively stepped across the threshold. Aggie watched from behind her misted mask, as from beneath their cloaks they each drew a pistol. ‘What on earth would the home guard do that for if it was a gas leak?’ she thought, or perhaps they knew there was an assailant in the vicinity? That was it. They knew her captor was dangerous and taking refuge. They couldn’t take any risks.

  From over Aggie’s left shoulder, the stranger slowly stretched out his arm. From the corner of her eye, Aggie saw a thin metal barrel reflect the light from the doorway. She knew he was taking aim at the two men. Dipping her shoulder she jolted forward, the would-be assassin stumbling as he lost his balance.

  The noise drew the two guards’ attention towards them. From his left hand, the intruder lit up a torch, not a firearm. It projected a brilliant beam, which temporarily blinded the guards. It was violet-coloured, not the white beam of a standard torch. It was reminiscent of the hue of the gas leak seeping through and around them. Releasing his right arm and systematically shoving Aggie to the ground, the assailant rapidly drew his own pistol, releasing two deft blasts. The sparks of light from the bullets fizzed over Aggie’s head and instantly found their mark. With just two shots, the home guards dropped where they had been standing, dead.

  ‘Noooo!’ Aggie screamed, stumbling towards the two bodies.

  Ripping off her mask, she crawled towards the motionless men splayed out on the floor. The assailant’s arm beat her to them as he pulled one of the guard’s masks away. Directing the violet torch beam over her, it highlighted symbols and markings across the guard’s face. There, in the middle of the forehead, an image of a brilliant blue eye was illuminated by the torch’s beam. The bullet hole had neatly penetrated it where the iris should be and it now wept blood down the guard’s face.

  Aggie dashed to run, but her legs would not work properly. She was too weak. She felt faint, giddy, and was struggling to breathe. Her sight began to move in and out of focus and what little she had been able to see was now just a terrible blur. The stranger extended his hand towards her, clasping a gas mask.

  ‘Put on your mask!’ he slurred as he breathed deeply through his own. The blurred outline of his dark presence moved slowly towards her. ‘Put on your mask, or you will die!’ he concluded.

  Chapter 2

  Morning at the Museum

  The morning after any sustained bombing campaign, the brave citizens of London rallied around as always, utilising any resources available to them. Their resilience could not be broken, unlike their homes, and their determination was second to none. Men, women, and children poured out from their air-raid shelters, underground stations, and any other places of refuge taken from those long, fearful nights. To observe them from the pigeon-eye-view of St Paul’s spire or the belfry of Big Ben they appeared insect-like, hurriedly scurrying about their business, working together as best they could to patch up their tumbledown city.

  For a dedicated few, those who were charged with protecting our heritage, great art, and scientific endeavours, their days were full of cataloguing works, hauling masterpieces, recording manuscripts, and ensuring that, when the t
ime would come and one stray Thunder Machine met its target of any of the great museums and academies, we would still have most of that knowledge and culture intact, and hopefully stored many miles away from the Luftwaffe’s bomb path.

  The National Museum of Science and Nature was an impressive and imposing building. Its monumental brick facade framed with yellowed sandstone and marble, it stood strong and proud in the centre of the city. The carved images of gargoyle primates and mammals protected it as much as they could from the fire and brimstone that so often rained down from above. Sabre-toothed tigers and the mystical Gryphons stood alongside modern-day Mammalia, all defiantly protecting the museum in their stony silence.

  The Museum had not been immune to air attacks but had survived almost intact apart from a severe explosion that targeted its Eastern Quarter.

  The Botanical Library & Entomology Department that had been based in the Eastern Quarter had lost many rare and irreplaceable works. Insects of all shapes and sizes, pinned meticulously in their teak and walnut exhibition cases, numbering in their thousands, were literally crushed and turned to dust the day that specific Thunder Machine came. Where once stood the world’s most extraordinary collection of ‘Plants and Bugs’, there was now a skeletal framework of ceiling joists and plaster that lay decimated and fallen as if a mighty wooden beast had collapsed from the imposing rooftop through the floors to the gallery below. Now, while this was an impressive and world-renowned research facility, insects and seeds stood little chance of much attention when the likes of a Blue Whale or the replicated Woolly Mammoths were in residence. The sheer scope and size of the collection were immense and to preserve the already preserved was a momentous undertaking.

  There was so much work to be done, yet so little time, and the man in charge of this huge operation was Sergeant Major Boyd Collingdale.

  Collingdale suffered neither fools nor had a terrible liking for creepy crawlies. A stout, bald-headed man who sported a large clamshell moustache, he now carried the burden of this huge operation to package, protect, and dispatch the Museum’s most valuable objects. A product of several wars, he was a soldier first and foremost; certainly, no diplomat or scientist. He would never deviate from a direct order and often exclaimed, ‘My orders are from Churchill himself!’