Daedalus Krane and the Hand of God

Chapter 8

After resting for some time Daedalus, Flo and Mayhem (of course!) are back in the fray :0) 

 Like the author, having reread the previous chapters to all remind ourselves what was going on we pick up our adventurers story in back in London........  

 ''The British Museum is a safe as the Bank of England. I'd stake my hat on it.'' 

The Governor of the British Museum (recently resigned - and hatless.) 

 In London that night the rainclouds boiled and churned in the darkness above the city like overheated engine oil and threw out great blue-white bolts of lightning that made the ground tremble underfoot. The few policeman still walking the streets decided they were behind with their paperwork and headed back early to face the wrath of their sergeants and the soothing tones of copious cups of hot, sweet, milky tea. 

The rain fell so hard that a thick mist of water droplets formed three feet over the city streets. Great torrents of water ran down the gulley's and into the Victorian drains which coughed and choked so violently they threw up the iron manhole covers and spewed fountains of blackened fluid back on to the cobbled roads. In the air, steamships, like great bloated kraken, pulled and tugged like wild creatures to escape their tethers while ships arriving late from the Continent struggled to make their moorings in the raging storm. 

Two women, seemingly oblivious to the discord around them and the lateness of the hour, walked down the middle of a deserted Great Russell Street in the pouring rain, cackling with laughter. Arms linked, they pulled each other close under a battered grey umbrella. With faces painted gaudy colours, their bodice tops cut unfashionably low, they'd hitched their skirts up from the puddles exposing their laced ankle boots. Passing a bottle of gin between them shouted gleefully like small children as they kicked their way through the pools of water.  

Watching their antics with a wry smile from the cover of the entrance to the shop, 'Humbold and Burton. Fine Purveyors of Excellent Religious Artefacts,' stood a tall, top hatted gentleman savouring the delights of a small evil smelling cigar. Hoping to remain unnoticed he took a long draft of his cheroot before dropping it to the round and extinguishing it with the heel of his boot.  

'Here! There's a likely one! Doesn't like to get wet by the looks of it! 'Shouted the taller of the two women pulling her companion across the street toward the shop. 'I'd say he's out looking for some company.'  

They pulled up breathless as landed fish and crowded into the little porch area of the shop. The plumper of the two held up her bottle. 'Hello sir, fancy accompanying two fine young ladies to the Slaughtered Lamb for a drinkie and a little fun?'  

The gentleman slowly placed a new cheroot in his mouth, chewed it over in contemplation of their offer and then lit it. In the flare of his match they saw his face. Dark unflinching eyes, a ragged livid scar that ran across the side of his face and the red weal of a recent burn scarring his neck and chin. 

The women fell back from the shop entrance, dropping the bottle on the pavement with a crack of splintering glass. The umbrella flew up and snatched by the wind tumbled off down the street. Qusay stepped out after them, hand on top of his cane as they reeled back into the road. 

For a moment they stood staring at each other, listening to the rain hissing on the shield of the gas lamp above them. A handsome cab emerged like a phantom ship from the cloud of rain and looking for a fare slowly turned into the street toward them. Qusay looked warily at it then stepped back into the shop front. 'Be on your way,' he muttered angrily, 'you didn't see anything.'