FLIGHT OF THE SCARAB

The Monocled Raven

London, June 1885

Reed Harlowe fell forward onto the bar, propped himself up upon his elbows and produced an irreverent grin. “Hear me out.”

Julia Marston rolled her eyes and set aside the glass she was drying. Once, her pub had been filled with lively chatter and boisterous laughter. Evenings involved toasts with clinking glasses, music and song. And the occasional good-natured argument over a pint of ale. Now, her family’s pub was half empty. Sounds were reduced to the hiss of gas lamps, a faint clatter of dishes and soft murmurs of low-pitched conversations.

Most of her staff had left as well. She alone stood ready to serve patrons a pint. Not that there were many. She’d sent the bored cook home an hour past.

“What nonsense is it this time?” At best Harlowe was a nuisance. At worst, a source of marital discord. Why her husband tolerated his presence—as student or as employee—baffled her. Half the time, Marston looked ready to throttle the man. Especially of late. Perhaps it was a case of ‘keep your enemies close’?

Either way, the two men were the source of all her problems.

The pub, or rather the business it now fronted, was not turning the profit her husband expected. Or so she surmised. Marston had rebuffed her every inquiry. His mood could be likened to a gathering of overhead storm clouds. Lightning was bound to strike soon. Precisely where, when or who? Impossible to predict. But she didn’t wish to be caught standing in the open when the inevitable occurred.

“If someone crossed yeast with a fluorescent green jellyfish,” Harlowe began, “how much would such a will-o’-the-wisp yeast be worth to you if it could be used to produce a glow-in-the-dark beer?”

Her ears pricked as he spoke, wishing she could believe he did more than tease. She refused to take the bait. Every idea that fell from his lips in the guise of friendship focused on profit over scientific rigor.

Every single time.

Her eyes narrowed. She was tired of the constant battle to refute the increasingly nonsensical proposals he dropped before her like a cat with a dead mouse.

Worse, it was a constant reminder that some dreams must be abandoned. Her marriage was no longer even tolerable, making escape the best option. If only she could decide how.

Harlowe knew how much she valued her family’s pub, of her all-but-abandoned plans to improve and expand their offerings. He also knew that her marriage contract placed control of The Monocled Raven completely in her husband’s hands. A man who ignored her every suggestion to draw in new customers.

Rejections that had mystified her at first. Until she’d opened a crate in the back storeroom looking for a wheel of Stilton cheese and instead discovered a collection of Egyptian antiquities.

Suddenly everything made sense. The shift in clientele. The perfectly average, uninspired food and drink her husband insisted they serve. After all, gastronomic innovation would draw attention, an undesirable trait when one wished to keep a low profile.

Even worse, Harlowe was deeply embedded in Marston’s questionable enterprise, helping to identify and entice buyers into the pub which primarily served as a façade for his backroom deals. A business which had functioned smoothly until a few months ago. There’d been some kind of heated exchange that passed between them over a pub table. Eyes narrow, jawlines tight and hard, their words pitched low. Papers had changed hands. And Harlowe had carted a straw bee skep and other beekeeping essentials up the stairs, nestling his latest project among her small rooftop garden.

Determined to produce his own honey this month, he’d brought another straw skep into her kitchen today, promising to carry it to the rooftop later.

Though civil ever since, Harlowe’s old friends—unshaven, torc-wearing and mead-drinking—reappeared, joining him at a table far from where Marston gathered with his high society-minded customers.

Alas, much as she’d hoped, they’d not yet parted ways.

Which made the constant stream of bizarre ideas Harlowe carefully sculpted to suit her interests both pointless and exasperating. Any sort of friendship they’d once shared was long past its expiration date. But until her husband made a clear break, she endeavored to endure Harlowe’s company when he hung about the bar, soliciting her attention. Still, while she managed polite, she’d rather eat the mold off two-week-old bread than stand here pretending to think his “ideas” valid.

Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? 

Instead, he sat attentive, awaiting her answer.

“How much would it be worth?” She set down a final glass, tossed aside the damp dish towel. “Not so much as a single shilling.” Her inhale fought against reluctant ribs. Her reply passed over clenched teeth. “Such cross-kingdom chimeras are nothing but far-fetched fantasies.”

Perhaps someday science would find a way to lift a single hereditary trait from one organism and transfer it into another, but she doubted the code would be unlocked anytime soon.

“It made me think of you when I heard of such an idea. Green glowing beer.” Oblivious to her discomfort—or uncaring—he lifted a casual shoulder. Beneath the open collar of his shirt, a torc flashed silver around his neck. He’d taken to wearing the item recently, another way to insert himself among his scruffy friends. “Just so you know I’m always looking out for you.”

Harlowe might be indifferent to the sharp, cold needles of her husband’s stare. She, however, was not. Ever jealous, Marston envied anyone who possessed more than him. Academic influence. Personal wealth. Youthful vigor.

The last trait was impossible to maintain as time passed during the acquisition of the former two. Gray hairs. Reading glasses. A loosening of skin at the jowls. She’d caught him scowling at his image in the mirror more than once. And at Harlowe who, in his prime, was a clear favorite with their female customers. As such, Marston disapproved of their every interaction, resentful of his own hand-picked protégé.

An imagined threat, her husband’s worry about displacement. Especially as Harlowe rarely finished anything, including academic degrees or relationships. The word “commitment” was not in his vocabulary and he preferred to direct his efforts at projects that promised overnight success.

Still, of late her husband’s mood swirled about like a thick fog, clouding their every interaction and creating a tense atmosphere of jealousy.

There was little she could do to assuage her husband’s prickly ego on this point. Well, little she cared to do, in any case. Their arrangement was one of convenience, of business. And she had nothing of which to be ashamed. Ever since speaking her vows, her behavior had been beyond reproach.

“Julia?” Harlowe always demanded a response. “I know how much you wished to keep your mother’s dream alive.”

A busier pub would provide her with excuses to walk away, to turn her back on him and attend to other customers. But foot traffic tonight was at an all-time low.

“Plans change all the time.” A vague answer she hoped would convince him to return to his more interesting table companions.

As a young woman, her mother had arrived from Latvia with nothing save a paper packet of yeast and her ancestors’ knowledge of beer brewing. Skills she’d leveraged to lift herself out of poverty. While Julia’s sisters were interested only in leaving trade behind, Julia had begged her mother to teach her the “stone beer” brewing process, where hot rocks were added to beer mixtures in wooden casks, a process used when large metal kettles were expensive and scarce. It produced a lightly acidic and smokey beer and, upon occasion, Julia would make a cask or two, serving it under the name Senču, Latvian for ancestor.

Harlowe’s solicitous oversight had once been amusing. For about a month. As a female pursuing Mesopotamian studies within the walls of the British Museum, she’d certainly encountered her share of male attention, both positive and negative. Rarely had anyone of academic stature evaluated her research without first factoring in the length of her skirts, the circumference of her waist, the fullness of her bodice and then, finally, her marital status.

Once she’d married Angus Marston, professor of Egyptology, a man of considerable power in his spheres of influence, they became more deferential—a blessing—yet more reluctant to engage in cooperative work—a curse. All told, the balance had tipped against her.

Her mistake, or as her father would call it, salvation, had been knocking on Professor Marston’s office door. An innocent request for a letter of introduction to Georg Ebers, German Egyptologist and owner of a renowned medical papyrus reputed to have recorded a number of ancient remedies involving bread and beer.

From the very moment Marston laid eyes upon her, a certain acquisitiveness had brightened his visage. She’d been granted her letter of introduction, but at a steep price.

The very memory left a sour taste in her mouth.

Now here she was, struggling to maintain equilibrium while juggling three glass balls. A husband. The pub. Her Mesopotamian studies. A single wrong move and one—if not all three—was bound to slip from her grasp and shatter upon the floor. If only the three weren’t so inextricably linked, she’d be tempted to drop the first and pretend shock.

She poured Harlowe’s preferred drink, mead, into an old, abused pewter tankard. Set it down upon the time-worn wood. Shoved a plate of potted kraken on toast toward him and issued a blunt, direct order. “Chitinous hooks removed. Now scoot. Your overlord disapproves of your attentions.”

Harlowe barked a loud laugh of the variety that drew eyes. “Overlord.” He shook his head, making not the slightest effort to rise from his barstool. Instead, his voice dropped. “There’s a rumor, my dearest mycophile, that you’ve revived past interests in chasing after folkloric fungi.”

For the briefest of moments, her breath froze in her lungs.

True, she did cultivate a few mushrooms in a terrarium, one tucked into the dark recesses of the kitchen. But they were strictly culinary. No varieties could be called magical, medicinal or hallucinogenic. She’d been careful, so very careful. Such fungi could have no safe place inside a British pub.

Was her secret out? Was Marston aware? Not questions she dared ask. She’d confided her interest in folklore to Harlowe long ago when she’d thought their friendship would endure. So much for promises of secrecy. Better to ignore the implied question and instead address his inadvisable overfamiliarity. She forced her lips into a purse of disapproval and all but threw her dishtowel at him. “One of these days, Marston is going to wring your neck for spouting such endearments.”

“Not mine.” His grin widened. “Leyburn’s perhaps. If the traitor ever dares show his face.” His voice dropped. “Speaking of, have you heard from him?”

From the frying pan into the fire.

The details of the accusations against Graham Leyburn had been kept from her, but she found it impossible to believe he’d steal from the British Museum. Now, if someone had made the same claim against Harlowe, such allegations might have merit.

Once the three of them—as young, starry-eyed students whose studies had converged upon Egypt—had been fast friends. Or so she’d believed. There had been a few short blissful months of camaraderie before everything had gone sideways.

A knock upon Marston’s door. A shocking marriage proposal.

Graham’s suggestive wink. An ill-advised, brief affaire de coeur.

Regretful decisions and her world upturned.

Her—past—relationship with Graham was not a topic for discussion. Not here. Not anywhere.

“No.” She put a sharp bite into her one-word answer. Not a lie.

Nothing written. Nothing direct. Not the slightest communication to indicate they’d ever shared more than a casual friendship. A tangential offer voiced in an undertone by an interested party who identified himself as Mr. Black didn’t count. An offer she’d never share with anyone, let alone Harlowe, a man of questionable loyalties. Still, it appeared a whisper or two had reached his ear by grapevine. Academics would gossip among themselves.

An exit from her unhappy existence was on offer, a bribe to turn traitor. At first, she’d refused. But the possibility of escaping the circle of her husband’s influence called to her, a beckoning siren. Marston no longer showed any interest in visiting her bed. Perhaps he’d be happy to loose her leash, to let her set up a small household in Oxford?

Which meant magic and mushrooms were once again very much on the menu. But did she dare allow Harlowe to see her interest? There was always a price for accepting help from him. Akin to following foxfire into a dark swamp. All but destined to end badly.

She nudged the plate of kraken. “Your toast grows cold.”

“So it does.” He lifted the plate and, reaching for the tankard, spoke from the corner of his mouth. “Under a tall pine tree not too far from the Egyptian Avenue, there’s a glowing fairy ring in Highgate Cemetery. I’ve heard whispers about nighttime dances…”

As he returned to his scruffy friends, she stared after him, poleaxed. Not at his suggestion that mythological creatures might well exist, but that there was a fairy circle in Highgate Cemetery.

Exciting news all on its own. But the possibility of pine-mushrooms? That particular detail held much allure. Tricholoma. An edible mycorrhizal mushroom prized for its complex odor—fruity and spicy, but also musty—but primarily for its rumored health benefits. A mushroom that could be fermented to produce a mildly alcoholic beverage.

Damn him. Her weakness for all things yeast was well known. Her thesis did, after all, focus upon the role of beer and bread in early Egyptian and Mesopotamian civilizations. What she kept closer was her fascination with all things fermentable, specifically as applied to traditional foods. She could count on one hand the number of people who knew of her interest in folklore that could be tied to fungi.

A pine-mushroom fairy ring in London.

The perfect lure.

Not that she had any business running off to a cemetery, collecting mushrooms to set up in the stillroom. Nothing would come of it. Not unless she was prepared to commit to Oxford.

Was she?

With effort, she forced her arm to move, pushed a damp cloth across the bar top, wiping away spills. Her skin tingled, both an energizing and agitating sensation. Marston’s misplaced jealousy was suffocating. And her academic work was suffering. If she didn’t agree to help the Queen’s agents, would she be stuck in this miserable downward spiral, her life contracting until it was no larger than a black speck of mold on a discarded heel of bread, the onset of inevitable, all-encompassing decay?

There was no help for it. She would answer Mr. Black’s questions, provide him with lists of items that passed through the back room and the names of customers who carted it away. All in hopes he was as good as his word, that a new life awaited her in the history department of Oxford.

“Julia?” Marston’s hand cupped her elbow.

“Yes?” She stiffened. Lost in thought, she’d missed his approach. 

Icy gray eyes sparked with a light she’d not witnessed since their wedding day. Her stomach clenched. So much for hoping they’d settled into a mere business partnership, if an uneasy one.

They occupied separate rooms above the pub—and he’d not visited her bed for months. A relief, given his frustrated, angry efforts. Efforts that had never managed to end in consummation. Not that she’d dare suggest an annulment. So long as Marston continued to support her family financially, she’d been prepared to act as his wife and pretend the pub wasn’t a convenient façade for his antiquities trade.

Inwardly, she cringed. Had Harlowe’s unsolicited attention convinced Marston to try again?

Possibly. But that wasn’t the whole of it. Her husband’s dark mood had lifted a few days ago when the shipment of goods he’d expected finally arrived. Marston had become calm, more attentive. Friendly, even.

Worried he might suspect her contemplated betrayal, she’d worked to be ever more agreeable and above reproach. Perhaps, with new riches locked in the back room, he was relaxed enough to be amorous?

“I’ve a gift for you.” Marston leaned close. The warmth of his breath swept over her face, his words spoken with a suggestive lilt and laced with demand.

She swallowed. “A gift?”

He handed her a thin box and her heart sank. “Open it. I want you to wear it.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Your glances at the ladies here have not gone unnoticed.” He nodded, misinterpreting her disapproval. “As my wife, you should have one for yourself.”

So much for her surreptitious peeks at the jewelry recently sold to his female customers. Not that anyone would blame her for looking. Constructed from grave goods, the necklaces were modern interpretations of ancient styles, most consisting of re-strung beads and amulets plucked from mummy windings. All of them replete with symbolism. Ankhs. Falcons. Gods and goddesses. An Eye of Horus. Scarabs holding sun discs with their wings outstretched.

“They are remarkably beautiful.”

He nodded. “Only the best for customers of The Monocled Raven. But I’ve been remiss as a husband. This new line of old jewelry is turning heads—and quite the profit—yet my wife remains unadorned when she ought to be wearing the most stunning piece of them all.”

As an advertisement? Her husband’s enterprise was not hers. She wanted no part. And yet her family’s pub had become the brand name for his business venture. It was beyond vexing to witness The Monocled Raven’s reputation tarred with the same brush as his quasi-legal business. Enough was enough. This had to stop.

But for now, she would play along. She needed evidence for Mr. Black, verifiable proof that Marston had left behind the gray margins of unethical dealings and crossed into sales of stolen goods. To that end, this was no time to cause a fuss.

Forcing a smile, she cracked open the case. When her jaw dropped, her amazement was genuine. She stared at a pectoral depicting Isis and Nephthys on either side of a scarab, arms outstretched. Constructed of gold and inlaid with lapis lazuli, carnelian, and colored glass, the level of exquisite details worked into the features of the goddesses was stunning. An ancient piece recovered from the depths of a tomb and brought back into the light. Setting aside the fact that it belonged in a museum, such a necklace was utterly and completely inappropriate wear for someone who spent most of their public life acting as brewer, baker and bar maid.

Marston reached out, lifting the necklace from its black velvet, then indicated she should turn around with the twirl of a finger. Secured about her neck, the pectoral would serve both as an advertisement and as a reminder to all present, Harlowe included, that he and he alone possessed this woman.

Over her plain bodice, heavy metal suspended by beads fell against her breastbone. He fastened the clasp.

She pressed fingertips to the artifact and murmured the expected reply. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Words murmured into her ear. “I’ve neglected my bride’s needs. To that end, I have procured a stimulant that should ensure our efforts end with the desired outcome. Every woman longs for a child.”

They did not.

She cut off the sharp intake of her breath and bit her tongue. Object? Deflect? She could do neither without alienating her husband and delaying—or destroying—her plans for Oxford.

“That’s right,” he hummed. His fingers trailed down her spine and the heavy, possessive weight of his hand landed at the small of her back. “Wait for me tonight. Wear the necklace and nothing else.”