Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties #2)(41)

Hadley bit down on the mint and rapidly crunched it into dust as they made their way over to the real estate agent.

“Looks like a small storage room,” the man said. “Electricity’s out, so it’s hard to see in the dark, but might be five by ten feet, I’d guess.”

A distant knock turned their heads toward the stairs, from which floated up a tentative, “Hello?”

“Now, who could that be?” Mr. Farnsworth said. Clearly it was the real Davidsons, but Hadley wasn’t going to offer this up. “I’ll just be a moment,” he said as he hurried toward the stairs. “Wait until you catch the view from the tower. Can see straight over to Angel Island and Alcatraz.”

“Nothing quite like the pastoral elegance of a prison yard and an ill-managed immigration station,” Lowe mumbled. “Help me. Hurry, before we’re caught.”

Hadley stumbled behind Lowe, practically running into him. “What?”

“Can’t you feel it? The damned thing’s practically screaming at me. Somewhere in here, I’d wager.” He retrieved a small brass flashlight from his coat and flicked it on, shining it down the length of her coat. “Always prepared to explore small, dark places.”

Dear God. Was he flirting with her? Now?

As Farnsworth’s patent leather shoes tapped across the foyer, Lowe flicked the flashlight’s beam into the closet and disappeared behind it. “Christ, this room is packed,” he complained.

He wasn’t wrong. Old crates, hatboxes, and stacked chairs lined one wall. They didn’t have enough time to riffle through all this junk. But maybe they didn’t have to.

“You feel it?” Lowe asked.

Maybe stronger than she had ever felt the base. “Right here.” It was emanating from one of three crates sitting in front of her. “They’re nailed shut.”

Lowe handed her the flashlight. “Hold this. Let me just . . .” A charming syncopation of Swedish and English curses filled the closet as he wiggled the corner of the middle crate. A second later, the shrill whine of wood pulling away from nails made Hadley wince.

“Come on, come on . . .” Lowe dug through excelsior wood wool packaging until he uncovered two things at once: an old Victrola and the sand-colored matte glaze of Duamutef, the jackal-headed son of Horus.

Her mother’s canopic jar! It was lovely. Long, clean lines and perfectly painted details. Modern, yet ancient.

The front door squeaked closed on the floor below.

“Hurry!” Hadley said.

“Hurrying,” he answered, hefting the urn out of the crate.

She flicked off his flashlight and pocketed it. “The real Davidsons sound confused. How are we getting this out of here? Back door?”

“Rule number one: never take the back door,” he said, cradling the urn under one arm. “Better to talk your way out of a bind than run. Come on.”

They bounded down the stairs. Mr. Farnsworth met them at the bottom, a stern look on his face. “Sir,” he said sharply, as a middle-aged couple ghosted into the foyer behind him.

“Cousin!” Lowe announced, with a supremely joyous smile stretching his cheeks.

The cousin in question looked startled and confused.

“I see you’ve met the real estate agent. I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it today and didn’t want to miss a chance to make an offer.”

“Richard,” the man’s wife mumbled. “What’s going on?”

Lowe clapped Mr. Davidson on the shoulder and walked him toward the front door. “Now that you’re here, old man, I’ll let you handle it. I wouldn’t take the missus through the main floor, though. Our dear agent here gave my wife quite a shock with all the lewd drawings scribbled on the walls.”

“Now, you see here, sir—” Mr. Farnsworth started.

Lowe leaned closer to Mr. Davidson. “Looks like there’s been some occult business going on here as well. Probably devil worship.”

“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Davidson said as she rushed to keep up.

“True,” Lowe said conspiratorially.

The real estate agent’s face reddened. “It absolutely is not true.”

Lowe stopped near the open door. “Occultists, perverts, drinking—God only knows what kind of wicked debauchery has been conducted in this house. And that’s not to mention the ghost. Call me crazy, but I felt something cold upstairs in that closet.” He nudged Hadley and held out his hand. “What do you think, darling?”

Hadley popped the proffered mint into her mouth. A funny sort of reserved panic made her head feel bright and empty. “I think that’s why the neighbors call this place Gloom Manor.”

A warm weight fell across her shoulders. Hadley looked up as Lowe tugged her against his hip. “Exactly right,” he praised with the briefest of twinkling in his con artist eyes. “Gloom Manor, indeed. Now, we won’t take up any more of your time. But it was good to see you. Please call your uncle. He’s a lonely old man.”

Lowe hurried Hadley around the murmuring couple and headed through the open door.

“Wait!” Mr. Farnsworth called. “What do you think you’re doing with that?”

Lowe glanced at the urn under his arm. “This?”

“You can’t just take whatever you please from this house. It belongs to the bank.” In a startling show of nimbleness, the real estate agent lunged and grabbed the sculpted lid of the canopic jar. The scrawny man was outmatched by Lowe in every possible way: size, strength, age. But, unfortunately, he had the element of surprise.