Born of Metal: Rings of the Inconquo Page 7

  “Dr Shelton, I … that is … I didn’t mean …”

  Dr Shelton’s features spread into a cold, humourless smile as I stuttered.

  Heat blossomed in my cheeks.

  “You didn’t mean to get caught, is that it?” He raised a thin brow. “No, I don’t imagine you did, but that is the odd thing about the lazy and irresponsible. They never believe their shirking will be noticed, even though it always is.” He smiled, grimly. “Eventually.”

  Lazy? Irresponsible? The words burned, and it took a considerable amount of self-control to keep my tone even.

  “I meant to say I didn’t intend to break protocol. The packaging was damaged and so I …”

  “Stop right there!” His eyes widened with incredulity. “I’ve heard enough.”

  My mouth clamped shut, the blood drained from my face. I realised only then Shelton had thought these were ‘my’ rings, but now …

  “Are you telling me those gaudy things on your fingers are artefacts?”

  I wanted to lie. But Shelton or not, I’d hedged on the truth enough with this business, and now was as good as any to come clean. It had been my plan to all along, so …

  “Yes, sir.” I took the rings off and set them on the desk.

  Shelton glared as though willing me to melt into a pool of tears, but I only stared back, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. My career was over before it had begun. The discovery of a lifetime would be snatched up by someone else. I would probably never see my uncle again, but I was not going to let the likes of Adrian Shelton break me. Not today. Not ever.

  “I had my doubts about you from the beginning Ms Bashir, but I never pegged you for a liar.”

  Liar?

  I blinked at him. “I don’t understand.”

  Shelton’s voice was a patronising sneer. “Of course you don’t. Come now, at least grant me the respect of dropping the act now that I’ve seen through your pathetic ruse.”

  He thought I was making this up?

  “Sir, you don’t understand —”

  “No!” Dr Shelton’s voice rose to a near shriek, so sudden and strident it shocked us both. For a moment, we only stared at one another. He with that acid glare, and me like a startled marsupial.

  He cleared his throat. “It is you who do not understand. Unlike you,” he said, hissing, “I take my job very seriously, and have done so for as long as you have been alive. That means I am familiar with all the exhibits and nearly all the artefacts.” He glanced at the rings and back at my face. “That thing does not belong in any of the exhibits. I can easily deduce it is not remotely consistent in make and material to any other piece whose period they are mimicking, and mimicking badly, I must say.”

  I was unable to believe what I was hearing. He truly thought I was trying to pass off costume jewellery as an artefact. For what purpose? To get noticed? Promoted, perhaps?

  But he wasn’t done.

  “I would bring this to your Proctor as well, but I’m certain you would only lie, because that is, apparently, what you do.” He flapped a hand towards the rings in disgust. “But make no mistake, Ms Bashir. I am watching you. Dishonesty in this field ruins careers and spoils the trust of donors and the public. I will not tolerate it. Tread very carefully, miss, very, very carefully.”

  He stood trembling with anger, nostrils flaring with outrage and contempt, then smartly turned on his heel. My mouth felt glued shut as my mind spun.

  “Get back to work,” he growled over his shoulder, and stalked away.

  It was some time before I did get back to work.

  I tried and failed to process the lashing Dr Shelton had delivered. He didn’t believe the rings were part of the collection, and — if Lowe’s ramblings were correct — then Shelton was actually right. This conveniently took nearly all the pressure off me. I didn’t need to return something that didn’t belong to the museum in the first place. I decided as soon as my shift was over, I would go to Professor Schottelkirk with the rings. She’d know what to do.

  I would hold off on the metal manipulating business, at least at first. The rings and their craftsmanship should prove enough of a discovery to get me out from under Shelton’s thumb. And the best part was, that after his little tantrum, Shelton would look a fool to question how I came across the rings. After all, I had tried to tell him about them, hadn’t I?

  There was still the matter of Professor Lowe though, and that matter came to the forefront when I booted up my computer.

  As I waited for the antiquated machine to awaken, I slipped the rings back on and breathed a sigh of relief as the hum of the metals around me became manageable.

  I was going through my usual routine of opening the database when the interdepartmental messaging system popped up with a notification. That in and of itself was odd, because the system was old, cumbersome and if museum staff needed to communicate, they usually sent emails.

  There was a single unopened message from the porter’s front desk. The time read 1:27am, which meant it had come from a night porter.

  Bemused, I clicked on the message and read:

  Ms Bashir,

  I’m not familiar with the types of games you like to play with the porters on the day shift, but in the future, I would appreciate it if you toned it down. I’ve got nothing against a good joke, but that went too far.

  I was very concerned for your safety so I searched the entire museum. I would’ve called the police if it weren’t for Charlie, who explained sometimes the scholarly staff like to take the mickey. You had me going, but please let me in on the joke before you leave.

  I heard you and Shelton had a go at it earlier, so I’ve made no formal report, and even Charlie doesn’t know it was you who told me. What I’m saying is that no one knows, and I’d like to keep it that way, but if you try this with someone else, they might not be so understanding.

  Be careful, Miss.

  Cheers, Marcus

  Conflicting feelings helixed around in my stomach at the messages, both overt and subtle. Marcus thought I’d played a trick on him. He hadn’t mentioned it to Shelton, thanks heavens, and — most interestingly of all — he hadn’t found Lowe.

  The museum was large, but points of access were closely monitored, and Marcus was not new to the job. He should have found Lowe, or at least been informed if someone tried to get out without swiping. Could he be exaggerating about his efforts to make me feel bad? I didn’t know Marcus that well, but he didn’t strike me as the type. Yet, how could Lowe have slipped past him? Had he stayed here all night?

  I felt a surge of paranoia and couldn’t resist another visual sweep.

  Who was this man? Some sort of master thief or spy, as though this were the movies? Had he gone back to Archives to search for what he misplaced? What would he do when he found it wasn’t there?

  Heart beating erratically, I made my way to the interoffice phone by the exit. The shadows between the shelves seemed to darken. I told myself to stop being silly as I punched in the extension for the porter’s desk.

  “Front desk,” McPhee drawled.

  “McPhee, it’s Ibby.”

  McPhee made a grunt of recognition.

  “Look, I know it is strange. But do you happen to have Marcus’s cell number up there?”

  There was a pause and a sigh. “Why?”

  “Because …” I said, scrambling, my attention still torn between the phone and keeping an eye out for some lurking assailant. “Because, last night I was rude to him, and … and I wanted to apologise.”

  Another wheezy noise after a pause. “Why don’t you tell him tonight?”

  I ground my teeth together in frustration. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  The building pressure slipped into my voice. “I just can’t. Are you going to give me the number or not?”

  A longer pause this time, then another windy sigh followed by a string of digits. I made him repeat them as I punched them into my phone.

  “No good, though,” Mc
Phee grunted.

  “What?” Then remembering my story, “Marcus is holding a grudge?”

  “Nope. Sleeping.”

  I looked to the ceiling in exasperation. Of course. Marcus was a ‘night’ porter. Duh.

  “I’ll just leave a message. Thanks, McPhee.”

  The line clicked to the dial tone.

  I hit call and stood with my back against the wall, drawing a sense of strength from the steel beams around me.

  The phone rang several times then bludgeoned my ear with the screams of badly distorted electric guitars. I winced, pulling the phone away several inches.

  “Hallo?”

  “Marcus?” Still holding the phone away as shredding rock music blasted on.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Ibby,” I said as someone started bellowing along with the raging instruments.

  “Who?”

  “IBBY BASHIR,” I shouted and then winced.

  The change in Marcus’s tone was instantaneous. “Oh, Ibby, I mean, Ms Bashir. Hey, how are you?”

  The music escalated into a sonic jackhammer.

  “Are you at a rock concert or something?”

  “What? Oh, the music, hold on.” He shouted a colourful phrase through the music, and a moment later it cut off. I heard several male voices raised in outrage before Marcus was back on the line.

  “Stuff it, mate. I’m on the phone.” He came back to the line. “Sorry, Miss Bashir.”

  “Call me Ibby.” I brought the phone back to my ear. “I’m glad I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, no worries. I hit the gym right after work.”

  I checked the clock on my phone. “Marcus, you’ve been at the gym for almost three hours?”

  An embarrassed silence, all the more deafening for the lack of the brutalising music.

  “Well, yeah … uh, you know … Is there something I could help you with, Ms Ibby.”

  I cleared my throat, suddenly self-conscious. “I got your note.”

  “Oh.” A thick pause. “I’m sorry if it came off as rude. I’m not mad. I just … well, if you tried it with someone else, you’d be in trouble, is all.”

  A sharp pang of guilt. “Did you really end up searching the whole museum?”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t nothing, I mean anything. Really, it wasn’t.”

  I bit my lip and fought the urge to smash my phone on the floor. How was this possible? Where was Lowe?

  I collected myself, realising the silence had stretched on again. The hair on my arms spindled to a stand, and I was gripped by a strong feeling that it would be best to just apologise and be on my merry way.

  “Ibby?”

  “I’m here,” I answered, forcing myself to sound calm and collected. “I just wanted to call and say I’m sorry, and to thank you for taking such good care of me, I mean us, well you know, the museum.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate that. I figured it out after I checked the cameras.”

  My gaze was roving the lanes between the shelves, but the mention of cameras brought me back hard.

  “You pulled up the cameras?”

  Marcus gave an embarrassed chuckle. “Yeah. Would’ve saved me a load of time if I’d checked those first.”

  A sense of cold unease deepened in the pit of my stomach. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I rewound the feed to try and find the guy. Charlie’d told me by then it was a prank, but I didn’t believe him until I watched you get off the elevator alone.”

  It felt like the floor had fallen out from underneath me, the walls spun in my periphery.

  “Alone?” I echoed hoarsely.

  Marcus chuckled again. “Yeah, you really had me chasin’ shadows, but when you strolled out of that elevator solo, I knew I’d been had.”

  Alone.

  My mind refused to wrap itself around that single word. I stared across Collections, feeling a fresh surge of fear.

  “Ibby?”

  I licked my lips with a dry tongue. “Thank you, Marcus. I appreciate it. See you later.”

  “Yeah, cheers. Actually —”

  Numbly, I hung up the phone.

  Chapter Eight

  I couldn’t process what Marcus had said, so I diverted myself with mechanical tasks. Read, type, scan, sort and repeat. By the time I came out of my blissfully absent haze to check the time, I’d finished all the pieces from the French Revolution exhibit. Looking at the stack of neatly arranged boxes on the trolley and checking the clock, I registered I had just enough time to take them back to storage before heading to university.

  Why was I going to uni again? I didn’t have lectures today. Oh, right … Professor Schottelkirk.

  A current of excitement pulled my brain up to speed.

  Alone. Marcus had seen me get off the elevator alone.

  I shook off the haunting thought. Mad or not, I was taking these rings to my adviser, and together, we would reveal them to the world.

  I practically sprinted my way to storage, threw the cart at the first bewildered staff member I saw and headed for the door, but I cursed and slid to a halt when I remembered I’d left my bag at my desk.

  I still had the rings on. There was no point in hiding them after Shelton’s tirade so I almost decided to leave it. Then I remembered the naked blade tucked inside. Knife crime is serious business in London. If someone happened upon my bag and spotted the blade …

  Muttering and cursing, I made my way back.

  My bag was on the work table where I’d left it, but a piece of brown cardstock lay on top. Bold Piccadilly script screamed a headline, set over a picturesque sepia-tinted photo of an old tube station with people lining up at its entrance.

  Picking it up, I held it before disbelieving eyes and read:

  GRAND OPENING

  BRITISH MUSEUM STATION

  COURTESY OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM

  AND THE UERL

  Est. 1912 A.D.

  I could barely keep my hands steady enough to unfold the thick stationery as it opened into a map of the London Underground framed by various images. At the centre of the map sat the British Museum Station, with connections branching out to the wider London Underground. I didn’t recognise any of the connecting stations until I found Covent Garden.

  Words delivered in a silvery, posh accent sprang to mind as I stared at the map.

  If you find anything, please stop by the British Museum Station. Oh, but you will need a map, wait right here, I’ll fetch you one.

  Lowe had said that, right before vanishing into the administration wing.

  Lowe — the man who did not exist.

  If he didn’t exist, then where did this map come from? Was this proof that I wasn’t mad or just my mind desperately clinging to its delusions? The texture of the heavy stock told me the map was real, but people who were insane saw and heard and even felt things that weren’t there. Didn’t they?

  “Bloody hell!” I mashed the panels of cardstock together before chucking it into my rubbish bin. I didn’t have time for this right now.

  Shouldering my bag, I went to meet Professor Schottelkirk.

  “Simply extraordinary!”

  Professor Schottelkirk’s reaction to my discovery was the best thing I’d heard in a long time. I beamed.

  I’d met her at one of the cataloguing labs where students practised the techniques we would one day use in museums and university labs. Standing there with a respected archaeologist as she exclaimed over my discovery was quickly becoming the best moment in my entire life.

  “I can’t believe you just stumbled across this in … where did you say it was?”

  It took me a second to stop basking and realise she’d asked me a question. “Oh, an archived container with some bits of early Hittite pottery. Shelton, erm, Dr Shelton thought I was playing some kind of trick.”

  My adviser held up one of the rings with a pair of rubber tipped tweezers.

  “I’m no Near East expert, but I only seen intricate metalwork like this is artefacts
that had the benefit of modern metallurgy. The apparent composition suggests early Bronze Age.” She took another few seconds to scrutinise them before setting them down on the table. She stepped back and pursed her lips. “Have you had a chance to put these under any tests?”

  The change in the mood was palpable. Or was that just me? “No, I haven’t. Use of the labs is only for those in the department. Dr Shelton would never give me access.”

  “No,” she said, musing absently, her eyes looking far away. “He wouldn’t.”

  I wanted to ask her what she was thinking, why she suddenly seemed so concerned, but I pulled back. If she wanted to say something, even something I didn’t want to hear, she would say it in her own time.

  Professor Schottelkirk paced around the table, her expression inscrutable.

  “And with it being misplaced like that, I don’t suppose you have any documentation or any clues to its provenance?”

  I opened my mouth, desperate to give justification to the suggestion I smelled behind the question, but then decided against it. I shut my mouth and shook my head.

  Schottelkirk mirrored my shaking head and then met my eyes. Her scrutinising scowl softened. “Ibby dear, please understand. I’m not doubting you, but we have to be cautious. Nothing appears out of thin air.”

  I felt a familiar weight settle over me. It took tremendous effort not to replay Meredith’s words. I watched Professor Schottelkirk, bracing myself. “What should we do?”

  She looked at the rings and then at me with that professorial potency which made her such a rock star in my eyes.

  “We need to run some tests. We can hypothesise all we want about cuneiform styles and alloy striations, but until we have test results, no one will take us seriously.”

  That was remarkably better than I had any right to hope for. She hadn’t dismissed them the way Shelton had, and — amazingly — was willing to invest resources. Sparks of hope burst anew in my chest.

  “Along with the usual tests for early Bronze Age finds,” Schottelkirk went on, “there is a new method pioneered by the University of Valencia: Voltammetric dating. It requires literal nanograms of material, so the rings will remain unscathed by it.”