The Eterna Files Read Free

en route to Buckingham Palace on orders of Her Majesty Queen Victoria.”
    â€œIs there a problem?” Spire asked, maintaining a calm tone, relaxing his hand but offering up a silent prayer to whatever God was decent and good that the queen would not have interceded on the wretch’s behalf.…
    â€œNo, sir. You are being considered for an appointment. I can say nothing more.”
    â€œAn … appointment.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œI’m afraid I cannot attend to this great honor at present, sir.”
    The man arched a preened brow. “Beg your pardon?”
    â€œWith all due respect,” Spire continued, not bothering to hide the earnest desperation he felt, “I am a policeman at a critical juncture, awaiting receipt of vital material without which a vicious criminal might walk free—”
    â€œAnd what shall I tell Her Majesty? That you’re too busy for her?”
    Spire set his jaw, looking anxiously out the window, seeing that they were heading in the opposite direction from where he needed to be at precisely seven. “Please tell Her Majesty that I’m about to stop a ring of child murderers and resurrectionists. Burkes and Hares. Body snatchers—”
    â€œThat will have to wait. Mere police work does not come before Her Majesty.”
    â€œI think highly enough of Her Majesty to think she’d deem this important.”
    â€œI am under orders to take you to the palace regardless of prevarication—”
    â€œI wouldn’t dare lie about a thing like this!”
    â€œOnce Her Majesty has determined your suitability, you’ll be returned to your duties.”
    â€œYou’ll have to give the empress my sincere regrets. She may be able to live with one more child dead in her realm but I, sir, cannot .”
    With that, Spire opened the door of the moving carriage and cast himself onto flagstones slick with the foul mixture of the London streets. His heel turned slightly under him and he came down painfully; his elbow jarred against stone and his forearm cut against the brace that held his knife sheath. He jumped to his feet and ran—with a slight limp—veering onto a bridge across the busy, teeming, brown Thames and onward to a life-or-death rendezvous.
    He’d likely be arrested for his evasion, but his conscience was utterly clear.
    *   *   *
    Spire’s right hand hovered over his left forearm as he entered the damp brick alley, which was lit sporadically by gas jets whose light was dim behind blackened lantern glass. Even though the world was brightening with the gray of morning, sunlight didn’t penetrate into these drear, winding halls of sooty brick, London having its labyrinthine qualities. He made his tread soundless on the cobblestones, his eyes aware of every shadow and shape, his ears alert, his nostrils flared.
    While he doubted his informant was dangerous—it was all bookkeeping, really, he imagined the source was a bank clerk or the like—what the ledgers revealed was something else entirely. The proof itself was dangerous and many men would kill with far less provocation. If “Gazelle” proved trustworthy, Spire would recruit the man for his department.
    He palmed the key Gazelle had left in the drop location at Cleopatra’s Needle. If all had gone according to plan, Gazelle would have left enough evidence at this bookstore to prove without a shadow of a doubt that Francis Tourney was bankrupting charitable societies in a speculation racket that would make any betting man blush. That he was also involved in a child-trafficking ring of both living and dead young bodies was harder to prove, but far more damning.
    The key opened the rear-alley door of the bookshop. A small lantern was lit somewhere within, casting a wan yellow light over stacks of spines. Spire knocked on the wooden door frame: three taps, a pause, and two more.
    A quiet rap in response, from