Curse of the Purple Pearl

Hannah Delaronde has an unusual hobby. While her fellow students at Imperial College head home for the holidays Hannah Delaronde makes her way to Edgware Road to take up her post with Sir Reginald Derby in the Derby and Delaronde Time Travel Company.

Who killed Marcus Aurelius? Who plucked the purple pearl ring from his finger? How did someone get past the door locked from the inside? And which villain will rise to claim the Roman Empire?

The Derby and Delaronde Time Travel Company are employed to find out. But as Sir Reginald Derby and Hannah Delaronde dig through the courtly intrigue of Ancient Rome they find threads of darker mystery that will drag them from antiquity, to the roaring twenties and to the Lunar Colonies of the 23rd Century.

What is the Curse of the Purple Pearl?

Chapter I

By my third year in London I felt like any other Londoner. I had removed the tourist eyes that gaze in wonder at every landmark, and now strode through the street with the same jaded sense of detachment as anyone else who spends the majority of their life in the city. Looking at me you would see an ordinary girl. Too short to be called tall, too tall to be called short, with long blonde hair and pale skin wrapped up in a blue coat against the cold and clearly trying to get from one end of Hyde Park to another simply because it was the shortest route from Imperial College to Marble Arch.

No-one could tell I was a Canadian. No-one could tell I was a time traveller.

It wasn’t exactly a job I was heading for and it wasn’t exactly for fun either. You could possibly call it an internship, if you assumed there was no friendship between me and my senior associate. My English friends might call it a holiday job, and those who had been to a private school might have called it a secondment. My father would have called it a vocation while my grandfather would have called it a gadabout. I never called it anything. I simply knew that 8 months of the year I was an engineering student at Imperial College London and the rest of the year I was a detective with the Derby and Delaronde Time Travel Company.

If you had a mystery, the Derby and Delaronde Time Travel Company could step in to solve it, whether you were Ancient Greek or 24th-century Martian. You see it didn’t matter when you posted the letter or what language you wrote in, every letter posted to the Derby and Delaronde Time Travel Company found its way to us. Currently they found their way to the Spare Room, Above the Opticians, 173 Edgware Road, London. Papyrus reeds covered in hieroglyphs and rainbow coloured, trinary-coded data crystals alike fell through the letter box every day to the increasing confusion of the postman. The address was the home of my senior associate, Sir Reginald Derby III: The Time Traveller.

It was not so long ago that the company was all his alone, and most letters were still addressed to him. In truth, the case I am about to relate to you was the first under our new joint name. It is not the tale of my first mystery, or my first time travel, and when I went to meet Sir Reginald on that cold, March evening that began my Easter vacation I had no reason to suspect it would be any different from our other cases. I had no reason to suspect I would forever after regard my life as split into two halves; the before and the after.

This is the mystery of the Purple Pearl. This is the mystery where I truly became a Time Detective.

*****

Reaching the Edgware Road, I paused. The small shop squeezed in between McDonald’s and Starbucks could have been there for centuries. A sign above read 'Wilson and Sons' and the window was full of newspapers. I bit my lip for a moment. There was no escaping it. If I was going to check on Sir Reginald I would have to pay Amir a visit.

“Ah! You! The sane one!” Amir snapped at me the moment I was over the threshold.

“I’d prefer to be called Hannah,” I said. “Or Ms Delaronde.” Amir ignored me.

“You need to talk to him. He's not listening to reason!”

“How much does he owe?” I said quietly as I moved down the aisles of impulse shopping.

“Five hundred pounds for groceries and another hundred for arrears,” Amir glared. “You know what he did when I sent my lad up there last week? He tried to offer us a ten-pound note. Said we weren't charging a fair price.” Amir snorted.

“I'll make sure the debt is settled by the end of the day.” I spoke calmly as I reached the counter.

“There's only so much a body can stand, after all,” Amir growled. “I only keep the deliveries going because I promised my old Dad I would. The world's moved on, little corner shops haven't done weekly deliveries since my Dad was a nipper.”

“I know Amir,” I said and tried to smile. “Have you still been sending the deliveries?”

“Of course,” Amir threw up his hands. “If I stop he comes down here and raises hell. He's beyond control. If he doesn't pay up by the end of this month he might as well have come down here and robbed us blind. He's taking food out of my children's mouths!”

“I'll make sure it is sorted today, Amir,” I stressed, and, before Amir could open his mouth, “with the next three months paid in advance.”

“Miss, you can't be around to clean up after him forever,” Amir slouched over the counter. “Sooner or later he’s going to have to sort this out. I don't even carry half the stuff he orders. I just nip down to Tesco’s and double the price.”

“I know, Amir, Sir Reginald is...” I was about to say “an old-fashioned gentleman” but that wouldn't be quite right, “…a complicated individual. I’ll make sure it’s sorted.”

“If you taught him to use a computer he could order it all online,” Amir grumbled.

“Sir Reginald doesn't like computers. He doesn't trust calculations not made by himself,” I said. With a short nod I said goodbye to the shopkeeper and left. Amir didn't stir. He curled over his counter and watched me go.

I breathed a sigh of relief once I was out of the shop and tried to hide my irritation with Sir Reginald. My eyes turned to the distant sign of the opticians. I took another deep breath and headed north, towards the future.

The door was jammed. My key turned in the lock and my entire weight pushed against it but it wouldn't open more than a crack. I heaved and hauled and the crack widened another inch.

“Sir Reginald!” I called up the stairs inside. No answer. A few people who had been umming and ahhing over frames in the opticians stared at me. Like a lot of old shops there were two entrances: the storefront, a collection of glass plates held together with putty and a belief in capitalism, and the access door to the flats above the shop. As far as I knew, Sir Reginald was the only person living there.

My temper snapped. As adrenaline surged through me I kicked and shoved at the heavy Victorian door until it gave way with a shudder. I fell forward onto a soft pile of letters crammed against the stairs. The entire space between staircase and doorway was full of letters. And data crystals, I cursed as I peeled a rod of quartz off my skin.

I pulled myself upright, made sure none of the letters had escaped into the street, and shut the door on the gawpers outside. The letters had formed a drift knee-deep by the door. No wonder it wouldn’t open.

I pulled a voluminous silk bag out of my pocket, piled the most important-looking letters into it and hauled it upstairs. There was a flat on each floor. Only the spare room on the very top floor was occupied. A room wedged between the roof and the boiler would be the last choice on anyone's housing wish list. And yet, despite his wealth, Sir Reginald had lived there for as long as I’d known him.

“Sir Reginald?” I knocked at the door and turned the knob. It was unlocked. It would be a very unlucky burglar to chance upon Sir Reginald. “It's only me.” I stepped inside.

The room was sparsely furnished. Sir Reginald lived like a man on migration and travelled light. A travel clock stood on the mantelpiece, and a travel bureau that could be packed and unpacked on any other table in the world lay on the desk. A portable gas lamp hung above the bureau to add a little more light to the room that was otherwise lit by one 40-Watt bulb, and a wardrobe trunk of clothes stood at the end of an iron-framed bed. If the owner of this room wanted to, he could pack up all his things and be gone within an hour. Yet for the three years I’d known him, Sir Reginald had never shown any intentions of leaving, and I suspect he had been living here a lot longer than that.

“Ah, my dear Hannah!” Sir Reginald, a small man about the same height as me, stirred from his chair, catching at a book that nearly fell to the floor as he moved. He was about five years older than me, with a frame that could politely be called lithe, and more impolitely, skinny. He hid his small build under layers of clothing that would have been out of fashion a century before. Even relaxing alone he wore at least two shirts and a waistcoat of deepest red velvet. Copper-blond hair was kept hidden under a top hat when he was about town.

“What a pleasure to see you again. It feels like months since you last visited.”

“It has been months,” I reminded him, dropping the bag of letters by the door. “Remember? I had university classes?”

“Oh yes. University classes. Yes indeed, engineering wasn't it?”

“Mechanical engineering, yes,” I replied.

“My, my, women learning at university, what an age we live in.” He rested his hands on his hips and took a deep, happy breath. A smile was spreading across his face. “You've brought me some letters.”

“They've been piling up against the door,” I chided. “If you’d just go down to pick them up–”

“Oh, you know how it is.” Sir Reginald waved a hand at me and walked to his wardrobe. He withdrew a dark suit jacket and slid into it. “Enthralled in a book one doesn't think to venture outside one’s own head for days.”

“It's been months.”

“I have a great many books.”

“Amir needs you to settle your debt with him,” I changed the subject.

“The fellow who runs Wilson’s? Oh, he sent his lackey to see me last week.” Sir Reginald pulled a red silk cravat around his neck. “Five hundred pounds for groceries. Beyond ridiculous, Hannah. I offered him more than a fair price.”

“A ten-pound note?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Perfectly adequate compensation.”

“Well perhaps he’ll be more responsive to a woman's touch,” I offered. “I'll make the same offer again. Where's your coin purse?”

“In the bureau, top left drawer.” Sir Reginald pointed to the box stuffed with pens, papers and ink on his desk. I walked over and opened it up. The drawer slid open easily to reveal a small bag filled with gold. I counted out ten guineas stamped with the head of George III. Each one was worth a small fortune for the gold alone. As collector’s items they would raise enough to buy the entire shop.

“I think the sight of gold might open his eyes to the true value of what you are offering,” I said.

“Shrewd thinking,” Sir Reginald tapped his nose. “Small businessmen do like being able to hold their wealth in their hands.”

“I'll bring back some change.”

“Oh, you can keep it,” Sir Reginald waved a hand at me. “Students are always in want of money, I should know, I used to be one.”

“I'll go settle the debt now,” I said, turning to leave.

“Oh no, that won’t do, you've just arrived!” Sir Reginald moved quick as lightning to the door. “Tarry a while. There’s time later to settle debts, there's rarely enough time to catch up with friends.”

I stared at him. There was nothing but honesty behind his eyes.

“Oh, very well.” I slipped the coins into my own purse. “I should at least make sure you read some of the letters you've been sent.”

“Capital!” Sir Reginald clapped his hands together and beamed.

“How about a drink?” I said, pointing to the kettle resting on a small gas stove.

“Hmm, what time is it?” Sir Reginald spun on his heel to look at the clock, making his jacket flap.

“Coming up to five o'clock,” I said, managing to look at my watch faster.

“In the afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Then it's too late for tea and too early for brandy.” Sir Reginald's face faltered until he broke into another smile. “I'll take both.”

While I made the tea Sir Reginald asked about my studies. He sat in his arm chair in rapt attention as I detailed everything I had learnt and done. I mentioned I had joined the newspaper team; he demanded a copy of my first article. I talked about an interview for an internship with Rolls-Royce; he insisted on writing a letter of recommendation. When he heard I was taking classes in kendo he pressed me to a friendly duel, “to test the ancient Nipponese sword arts against the noble lineage of fencing!” Talking with Sir Reginald was like talking with a child and an elderly relative at the same time. Not until he had a cup of tea in one hand and a snifter of brandy resting on the table next to his other was I allowed to turn the subject back to his letters.

“Pepi II Neferkare of Egypt would like you to investigate the death of his father, Merenre,” I read from a papyrus scroll, following the hieroglyphs’ unfamiliar shapes slowly. “Although this letter is written by the Pharaoh's vizier.”

“No, I don't think so.” Sir Reginald took a sip of tea. “The vizier killed Merenre to gain control of the kingdom by controlling young Pepi. The vizier just wants me to make an investigation to shore up their claim to the throne because he assumes I will find no evidence of wrong doing.”

“So you don't want to expose the vizier?”

Sir Reginald shrugged. “Assassination is a risk you face when you enter the kinging business. A pharaoh should know better than to ever trust his vizier, especially when requesting a sleeping draught.”

“How could you possibly know he has been killed by a sleeping draught overdose?” I said.

“I solved the mystery of the disappearing pyramid for him five years ago – that's five of my years – and he was swallowing enough quicksilver and arsenic to help him sleep that he would have passed away even if the vizier had not intended his death,” Sir Reginald put a finger to his lips as he remembered. “That case was quite a tough chestnut to crack.”

“So how did it disappear?”

“Quicksand,” he said amiably. “Not a wizard at all, no matter what Merenre thought. A storm rolled in, shifted the foundations and it sank into the slurry that formed. We rebuilt it again on rock. Good thing too, the last thing the Old Kingdom needed was a pharaoh's curse in its final days.”

I shuffled some papers looking for another promising letter. A Martian post mark. Holographic letters glittered in the air.

“King Keith XIX of Mars requests you find the Keeler Crown which went missing on the twenty-first of October 2878,” I paraphrased from the rather more flowery writing of the King of Mars.

“Not worth the trip.” Sir Reginald shook his head. “His wife has it. She intends to ransom it back to him under the guise of a terrorist organisation or some such, and then use the money to run away with her lover the Duke of Albor Tholus to a new life on Alpha Centauri.”

“Don't you think the king should be told?” I waved the letter at him.

“I was able to deduce this from the scantest mentions of his wife in previous letters. If a man cannot figure out when his own wife stole his crown he deserves neither.” Sir Reginald leaned in conspiratorially. “And I don't mind saying, King Keith XIX is a bit of a twit. Twenty-seven generations of marrying cousins in an already meagre gene pool creates a very odd fellow.”

I cast aside the holograph and picked up a piece of parchment.

“Henry Tudor requests you discover what happened to the Princes in the Tower–”

“Ah, I'll stop you there, Hannah.” He held up a hand. “Every schoolboy knows the Princes in the Tower is an unsolved mystery, and they were probably murdered by Richard III. Although that could be Tudor propaganda, I'm not going to interfere in what I know of as history. It would make a paradox.”

“And that would destroy the universe?”

“No, they give me a headache.” He tapped his temple. “Next letter.”

“A little girl called Ren Song asks you to find her doll,” My finger traced a Hong Kong postmark dated 1935. “She has been unable to find it for three weeks.”

“Ah, she has written to me before. This time her brother has gone too far. Instead of just hiding the doll I believe he has destroyed it,” Sir Reginald frowned, “as little boys are wont to do. A doll doesn't go missing for that long if it is still there to be found. Do you remember the last time we found her doll?”

“Her brother had buried it in the garden in a cardboard coffin,” I scowled.

“A truly beastly boy,” agreed Sir Reginald. “There is a fine doll-maker in Camden, I believe. Make a note to put in a commission. I may not be able to recover her poor doll but I can endeavour to replace it.”

“Noted.” I flipped out my phone and tapped in a message.

“You shouldn't trust to a computer what you can trust more securely to pen and paper, my dear,” he chastised.

“You have your methods, I have mine.”

Sir Reginald drained his teacup and stared at the pile of letters. “You have yet to find me a decent mystery. Is there not a single case worth my time today?”

“General Quintinius Cassius wants you to investigate the death of Emperor Marcus Aurelius,” I ran my eyes over the raw, two-thousand-year-old Latin.

“No mystery there, the emperor was in his old age and a plague was ravaging the country,” he muttered.

“…who was found dead this morning, in a locked room untouched save for one thing. The emperor's favoured Purple Pearl ring is missing,” I finished, ignoring the interruption. “Before we can allow the emperor his eternal rest we request an investigation by the fabled Tribune of Truth to clear the succession of any hint of foul play.”

“Purple Pearl?” Sir Reginald launched himself forward in his seat and turned his ear to me. “Did I hear you clear?”

“Yes. Purple Pearl. Apparently he liked it quite a lot.”

“Now that rings a bell,” he muttered. “Why does it ring a bell? Purple Pearl, Purple Pearl.” He tapped his teeth. “They're devilishly rare you know. There can only be a handful of naturally occurring pearls of that colour in the entire world.” Possessed by sudden animation he leapt to his feet and drained his glass of brandy in a single swig. “Well then, that is our mystery.”

“The death of Marcus Aurelius?”

“No, my dear.” He smiled, snatched up his cane from against the wardrobe and rammed his top hat down upon his brow. “The mystery of the Purple Pearl.”

Chapter II

The smell of coal hung in the air; coal and engine oil and flames. I shoved the shovel into the coal heap with a scrape and hauled another load into the raging inferno of the boiler. It glowed red hot inside and the heat was like a wall on the cold March afternoon.

“You know, I've said it before, but I'll say it again. I really thought time travel would be something more exciting than a steam engine,” I said when I paused to mop my brow. Coal dust mingled with sweat ran grainy rivulets down my skin. “Anti-matter reactors, nuclear fusion; I would have thought electricity at the very least.”

“A chrononaut sails the oceans of time,” Sir Reginald said as he manipulated levers at the control panel. “There are many unsafe ports. How will an anti-matter reactor avail you if it should break in ancient Sumeria? Will you teach particle theory to gentlemen who have only recently realised the benefits of mixing together straw and mud to make bricks? No, my dear, a chrononaut must be self-sufficient in and of himself. Even if we travel as far back as the age of the dinosaurs we will still find fuel for our engines. Should any component break, it is a day's work with a hammer and forge to fix it. Though you may struggle to breathe in the Cambrian period, a body can still mine for iron ore, smelt it on the sands and rebuild the time-machine within weeks.” He paused and blinked at the memory. “Although I really cannot recommend doing that more than once.”

We stood in the yard behind the shop, where Sir Reginald kept his time-machine, hidden from prying eyes by high walls and an ageing ash tree. A boiler nine feet long sat riveted to an iron base fifteen feet square. Plates of brass embossed with “Derby and Delaronde Time Travel Company” on one side and “Swindon Steamworks Company” on the other were riveted to the scarlet and black boiler. It would not have looked out of place on an old-fashioned traction engine. A metal wheel, as tall as the steam engine was long, rose above the engine and connected to the boiler by a network of gears and pistons. At the firebox end was a gap in which I stood, resting my arms on the shovel, in front of a tinder-box loaded with coal.

To the left of the boiler was the machinery that I knew to be the real time-machine. Taking power from the boiler and the great wheel, a collection of gears and glass sprouted like the branches of a tree all along the other side of the time-machine. Controlling them was a table-length board of levers, buttons and switches. This is where Sir Reginald stood, watching the needles quiver inside glass dials and adjusting the levers as he saw fit. I watched whenever I got the chance.

Over the top of it all was a metal canopy painted scarlet and gold to match the boiler. It covered the entire machine from the elements, leaving only a hole through which the chimney belched smoke. Hooks all around the edge of the canopy and the base plate allowed canvases to hang down and protect the machine in bad weather. They sat rolled up in a trunk for now, with the emergency supplies. Finally, closing off the last side was a bookshelf laden with dictionaries and grammar aids. The ability to travel freely in time did not allow one to magically learn the language. In my three years with Sir Reginald, I had been forced to cram ancient Egyptian, slightly less ancient Egyptian, Latin, Ancient Greek, Old English, Cantonese and French into my already over-stuffed head.

“I appreciate,” I said between breaths as I returned to shovelling coal, “that you don't want to be abandoned in one of the more horrible parts of human history.” I shoved another load into the firebox and watched the coal almost instantly change from black, to red, to white hot. “But it wouldn't take so long to get up to pressure if you at least put in an anti-matter reactor and used the steam engine for back-up.”

“Almost there.” Sir Reginald tapped the pressure gauge. “You may stop shovelling.”

“Thank goodness,” I drove the shovel into the coal, closed up the firebox and took off my heatproof gloves.

“Now then, Vindobona, military fort on the borders of the Roman Empire and last home to Marcus Aurelius.” Sir Reginald's hands rested on the controls. “Vienna, as it is currently known. Let's see, the spatial coordinates should be...” I watched his hands carefully to memorise his movements. Every time I thought I understood how he piloted the time-machine he seemed to change it. “And to arrive on 17th of March 180AD, early morning, we should give ourselves time to ride into camp as well. It wouldn't do to arrive in the time-machine. You can ride I presume?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.” Once satisfied, Sir Reginald pulled on one of two brass levers in the centre of the machine, and with a click the controls locked into place.

“Now my dear, do you speak Latin?”

“I'm better at reading it.”

“Then we must create a cover story for you.” He picked up his cane from where it rested against the controls and rolled it in his hands. It was an unusual design, jet black, with a silver pommel at its hilt, a grip like a hiking pole and slightly longer than one would expect a cane to be. “We will say you are a Briton; no, my mistake, no-one will believe that with your blonde hair. You are a German, my assistant, a freed slave. That will allow us to speak English and explain your unusual name. And, I am afraid to say, your wild ways.”

“I'm not wild–” I began.

“A woman wearing trousers with her hair loose?” He pointed a cane at my jeans. “My dear, the Romans will think you an Amazon of legend at best, and at worst, well, let’s simply say that as a freed German slave you’ll seem less out of place.”

“As long as you're not trying to keep me away from the case.”

“Heaven forbid I even try.” Sir Reginald bowed his head in humility. “I will ensure you have every freedom I enjoy amongst them. We must simply construct an illusion of lies that will allow the Romans to slot you into their pre-existing understanding of the universe. If Roman women wore trousers it would scandalise them, but barbarians do barbarous things by their nature.”

“Anything else I should add to this web of lies?” I glared. “Maybe that I can read and write because of the divine intervention of Athena?”

“While we're there you must call me Regulus.” He ignored my interruption. “That is the name the Romans know me by.”

“As you wish, Regulus,” I said, trying out the name in my mouth.

“Other than that we will be allowed near-total freedom.” He turned to the controls. “And our methods will not be questioned. They value my abilities. Our abilities. Do not feel the need to hold back. They are expecting something paranormal.”

“Yes, Regulus,” I said, trying to get into the habit. It really didn't sound right.

A tiny bell rang and we both peered at the pressure dial. The boiler was ready.

“Very well then.” Sir Reginald tapped his hat on with his cane and moved a lever on the controls. Slowly the great wheel began to move. Gears ground and steam sang in its pipes. I watched it get faster and faster until the entire machinery was clicking like a sewing machine. “Anything you need before we depart?”

“No, I'm ready.”

“Then by your leave…” He grasped the second brass lever and hauled on it. The time-machine lurched into life as power from the boiler flowed into the other half of the time-engine. Sparks struck the air around the machine. I clung to the edge of the tinder-box as I felt my digestive system being pulled apart like a piece of toffee. The sparks exploded into flames, every colour of the rainbow bursting into life around the time-machine. London, the hum of the Edgware Road, the most boring, normal place in the universe, blurred and distorted. The firebox blazed and the gears and pistons clicked against each other, but there was no roar of engines, no scream of tearing time; it was as haunting as a ghost. The flames crackled with lightning and grew until they covered the entire time-machine, and with a faint pop the entire machine vanished; only a trail of coal smoke showed we had ever been there at all.

Chapter III

Dawn crept over the world in 180AD. On the furthest edge of the Roman Empire Vindobona squatted on the southern side of the river Danube. To the south lay refinement, elocution, indoor plumbing and the height of Rome's majesty and power. To the north lay the Germans, for whom indoor plumbing would remain an alien concept until well into the eighteenth century. Six thousand legionaries called Vindobona home, protecting Italy and Cisalpine Gaul from German invasion, and their number had swelled to thirty thousand with the legions of Marcus Aurelius. The late emperor had come to bring indoor plumbing to the German people, but alas, that dream died with him.

The fort had been a complete rectangle once, but the river had its own ideas and had washed one corner away in a flood. A stone wall stood on top of an earthen rampart, visible for several miles around. Braziers lit the walls and rapidly became unnecessary as white morning light broke over the world. Six granaries stood larger than the outer walls, housing the weight of grain needed to feed a legion. Barrack rooms one floor high were full to bursting and a city of tents had grown up along the roadways of the fort. In the centre a modest palace, the principia, held all the officers and served as home whenever the emperor visited. A few soldiers stood guard, and some slaves stirred to start the day for their masters, but other than a few worried faces, the rest of the world was still asleep and unaware their beloved emperor lay dead.

“Salve!” Sir Reginald called up in vernacular Latin to the guard on top of the gatehouse. He drew his horse up in front of the gate. I just about managed to rein mine in, whereupon it angrily pawed at the ground.

“Salve,” said the legionary at the top of the gate. His eyes widened in surprise at the figure all in black in front of him, and his extraordinary companion. “W-what business do you have in Vindobona, traveller?” he stammered. His voice cracked in a way that hadn't happened since he was a teenager.

“I am Regulus, and this is my associate, Hannah,” Sir Reginald called back, waving a hand at me, ignoring the troubles I was having with my horse. “My presence was requested by your General Quintinius Cassius. I have his letter here.” He withdrew the parchment scroll and waved it at the guard.

“I’ll fetch the General,” the legionary stammered and disappeared, replaced by a similar man in armour.

“My dear,” Sir Reginald said, “you said you could ride.”

“I can ride,” I growled and pulled on the reins of my horse. “But I learnt to ride back in the twenty-first century when we had stirrups and a proper saddle, not just some leather on a blanket.” I finally managed to calm my animal down. “And I had a horse that wasn't the most ill-tempered animal in Europe.” I paused. “Although I did learn to ride in Canada, so it would be almost impossible to have the most ill-tempered animal in Europe.”

The sound of running feet brought their attention back to the gatehouse. The red plume of the General came into view.

“By Juno,” the General breathed. “The legends were true. Salve, Regulus.”

“Salve, Quintinius,” Sir Reginald waved.

“I scarcely sent the courier an hour ago.” Quintinius stared in disbelief. “I never thought it would work!”

“Quintinius my friend, if that is the least astounding thing you see today I won't have done my job properly.” Sir Reginald tipped his hat to the General.

“Open the gates,” the General ordered. “And take their horses. Our guests have work to do.”

“Yes sir.” The legionary who first greeted us saluted in the Roman fashion and disappeared again. The wooden gates of the fort opened with a creak. As we passed through I stared up at the neatly dressed stone of the gatehouse stamped with the mark of the legion.

Men waited to take our horses. Cursing the lack of any damn stirrups I slid off ungainly, tripped over my own legs and struggled for balance on just one toe. I just about managed to stop myself falling into the mud head first and pulled myself straight.

“The legends always said, when you have a mystery to solve if you write to–” the General was babbling in front of Sir Reginald. “But for it to actually work–”

Sir Reginald held up a hand for silence. “I am here to help, Quintinius. I understand the emperor–”

“Not yet, not here,” The General waved a hand for us to follow him. “We don't want the news spreading – yet, if we can help it.” The General eyed his own men suspiciously. “Not until we know.”

Sir Reginald bowed in the direction of the General's outstretched hand and followed him. “Come along Hannah,” he said in English to me while I regained my composure. “This is my associate,” he said to the General. “German. Freed slave. You understand.”

“Regulus,” I said, staring in wonder at the fort, “you said this place was a fort. It looks more like a city!”

“The soldiers of Rome bring the comforts of home with them,” he said as we passed under the shadow of one of the barracks buildings. A dome in the distance rose above it all, the principia building. “What point is there in going north to ravage the Germanic lands if they are not also taught the superiority of the Roman way of life?”

Quintinius Cassius led us through the fort past the numerous barracks, past the palatial principia, and along to an open paved space. A stone staircase led down into the earth, wide enough for two men to pass, and at the bottom a guard straightened to attention when the General arrived. He guarded an empty doorway. Empty because the door sat in pieces on the floor inside, smashed off its hinges.

“Here…is where...the event...took place,” Quintinius Cassius ushered us down the stairs, around the splintered door, and into a buried stone room. “This is the paymaster's vault,” Quintinius explained. “The emperor requested a space to work in solitude, and with the fort filled to bursting this was the only space.”

The room was shadowy, lit only by the dawn coming through the doorway. It was about twenty feet wide on each edge, gloomy, and lined everywhere with stone. Shelving filled the room and locked boxes filled the shelves. I knew every single strong-box there would be a fortune of silver, enough money to last a man for a lifetime. Someone had moved the shelves aside in the centre to make room for a desk and chair. Slumped over it lay the body of Marcus Aurelius. He almost looked asleep, but sleeping people breathe. The papyrus scrolls by his mouth didn't stir. A small bronze oil lamp that had been providing light sat extinguished on top of a wood-lined wax tablet. The bronze stylus for writing in the wax was still in the emperor's hand.

“An hour and a half ago the emperor's personal slave went to wake him, he liked to be woken early,” Quintinius said from the doorway. His shadow darkened everything in the room in the early morning light. “When he could not be found in the principia the slave searched here, to find the door locked from inside and no answer from within. He roused the guards, the guards roused me and I had the door broken down. At first we thought he was asleep,” the General trailed away. “We...I...went to wake him up, and he wouldn't.” The General's voice went very soft. When it returned it had the authority of a man trying very hard to stay in control of his emotions. “We would not have written to you except for the ring. It was a fool's hope at best, to find some villain who could have done this, but only Regulus, the Truth Tribune of legend, could–”

“I understand.” Sir Reginald nodded. “Other than breaking the door down, has the room been disturbed in any way?”

“I tried to shake him awake, but I didn't move him,” Quintinius said. “His stylus is still in his hand, look.”

“When did the emperor retire here?”

“Late evening, after supper.”

“Was anyone in here with him, or did anyone enter here?”

“A scribe came in and out a few times, we're interrogating him,” Quintinius said. “But the guard said the scribe left about an hour before the moon reached its zenith, and didn't return.”

“And the guard saw the emperor alive at that time?”

“Saw him and heard him talk, thanking the scribe for his hard work.”

“Is there any way in or out of this room other than the door?”

“Not unless you want to dig through twenty feet of earth and then drive a pick through the wall.”

“I understand,” Sir Reginald said. “Then would you mind if we begin our inspection?”

Quintinius nodded. “Please do. I’ll be outside if you need anything.” The General made to leave. “If you could please hurry, Regulus? The army will wake soon. They will want an emperor. I don't want us to proclaim his killer as the new emperor.”

“We will see what we will see.” Sir Reginald stepped towards the emperor. “Although we would see more if we had some light.”

“Of course, I will have a lamp brought down.”

I, on cue, brought out my phone. Bright white LED torch burst into life and shone into the dark crevices of the room.

“By the gods!” Quintinius's eyes nearly burst out of his head.

“I would still like an oil lamp,” Sir Reginald said. “Not all of us have German magic at our disposal.”

“I...yes. Yes. Of course.” The General disappeared.

“Please don't do that again, Hannah.”

“Sorry,” I said, but I didn’t extinguish the light. Instead I stepped carefully towards the emperor, making sure with every step I did not disturb some important piece of evidence.

Marcus Aurelius was a tall man for the time, and taller than both me and Sir Reginald. He had a long beard that was, like his hair, starting to turn grey. I thought he dressed comparatively simply in a blue tunic with a purple sash, not at all as extravagantly or as garishly as I’d have expected from a Roman emperor, the most powerful man in the world.

I ran my phone light over him and inspected him as closely as I could without touching him. His skin was clean. His throat was free of any bruising or marks of any kind, no blood or skin under his fingernails, none on his clothes. If the emperor had been attacked it could only have been by a ghost.

“Recall he was in a locked and supposedly empty room,” Sir Reginald replied in English, as if he could read my mind. “Whatever killed Marcus Aurelius is still in the room. If a person, he would have been found by the guards.”

“I’m just being thorough,” I said.

Sir Reginald shrugged. “There was no rebuke in my statement.”

I turned back to the emperor. He was not as pale as I expected. There was still a red blush in his cheeks. He had a darker skin tone in death than I have in life. I could see where the ring was missing. On his left hand there were still three rings, with a gap on the middle finger. All the remaining rings were heavy pieces of gold, thick in every direction and square or oval on the top. Jet, sapphire and other precious gems were set into them. Each one was worth a fortune, so why steal just the pearl?

I peered closer at the middle finger. The skin bulged close to the hand and at the end of the finger but was tight where the ring had once been. The ring had almost carved a groove into the emperor's skin, like a river cutting a canyon.

“Look here,” I pointed to the gap. “That ring was practically part of the emperor. If someone had ripped it off after he died they would have taken most of the finger with them.”

“The same if they had taken it from him in a struggle,” said Sir Reginald. “Marcus must have deliberately removed it.” He looked at the dead emperor. “Although perhaps under coercion.” He turned his gaze back to the hand. “Nevertheless, that is clearly where it used to lie. That mystery pearl.”

“What do you make time of death?” I asked.

“Well Quintinius said he was able to shake him an hour and a half ago,” Sir Reginald sighed and touched the dead emperor. He was ice-cold. “And he is hard as stone now. Rigor mortis. That puts death about eight to twelve hours ago.”

“If we trust the General's word,” I said.

“Aye, and that's the rub,” he replied. “Can we trust anyone's word?”

The General returned. “Your oil lamp, Regulus.” A slave carried in an oil lamp with two wicks dangling from it. It shed much less light than my phone, but was warmer, more natural than the bright flash-bulb.

“Thank you,” Sir Reginald said to the slave.

“My pleasure, anything to help,” the General said. “Was that, er, German you two were speaking?”

“My associate's skill with Latin is much worse than my skill with her language.”

“I can speak Latin perfectly well!” I snapped.

The General squinted one eye at me and then spoke very slowly drawing out each word. “You speak it very well,” the General agreed with an insincere smile. “Considering how late you started learning.”

The General nodded to Sir Reginald and disappeared.

“What was that about?” I asked. “What did I say?”

“‘I to speak Latin greatly well’ would not be an unfair translation.” Sir Reginald turned away to hide a chuckle.

“Surely I did better than that,” I started and felt a blush form around my cheeks.

“My dear, considering your school never provided you with any instruction in Latin, you did far better than anyone could expect,” he soothed. “Now, I suggest that as the emperor has no more secrets to tell us, we should inspect the room.”

An investigation of the room revealed no escape tunnels, or hidden assassins. It was empty of all save a few lost spiders and the copious quantities of silver. There not even much dust. People came down here too infrequently to make it.

“The key is not in the lock,” Sir Reginald noted while he inspected the door. The large baulks of timber were cracked, but only a few shards had broken off. The iron hinges had given way in the end. It held together like broken shell on a boiled egg.

“It's on the desk,” I pointed to it. It was state of the art, by Roman standards, but looked old-fashioned to my 21st-century eyes. It had a large and intricate design that corresponded to slots in the lock.

“That doesn't mean it was locked from the inside,” he said, tapping his cane against the tiles. “Someone could have placed the key there in the confusion when they broke down the door, or at any time since.”

“The same would be true if it was in the lock,” I said.

“No, see how the door fell.” Sir Reginald waved his cane at the broken door. “Nothing out of place, just as it fell. It's like a game of pick-up sticks. If our killer had tried to put the key into the lock they would have lifted the door and the splinters would have rolled off.”

“Pick-up sticks?”

“You never played pick-up sticks? The game, with the sticks, and you pick them up?”

“Are you sure it wasn't just an attempt to make you tidy up?”

“It's a real game!” Sir Reginald threw up his hands and stood up. “It's a travesty you’ve never played. Regardless, my dear, if this door had moved we would know for certain.” He thrust his cane point at the desk. “That key we have no assurances about.”

“As you say,” I inclined my head in agreement. Then I paused. Something had caught my eye under one of the shelves. “Oh, hello–”

I knelt down. A bundle of papers lay hidden. Papyrus scrolls, by the look of them. I pulled them out. They were covered in the small, neat handwriting of the emperor, some of it in Latin and some in Greek. They looked like rough notes, not as neat as the rest.

“Why would anyone put these down here?” I wondered as I read them. Bits of it looked like lines of poetry; other parts were musings on the nature of existence. “It's not as if they're important.”

“Unless they weren't put down there.” Sir Reginald strode over, the metal tip of his cane clacking on the stone.

“What do you mean?”

“They could have been dropped,” he suggested. “Regard,” the cane point darted to one of the last lines on the page. “A smudge.”

“So? People smudge ink. That's why we switched to computers.”

“None of the other pages are smudged. They were all left patiently to dry, or sanded with the care of an emperor who is used to doing everything in his life with military precision. The only reason these pages would be smudged is if he gave them to someone else to read while the ink was still wet.”

“Then they dropped them? Why would they drop them and not pick them up? Or the emperor not pick them up?”

“Perhaps because at the moment they dropped those papers, or shortly before or after, the emperor collapsed and breathed his last?”

“Someone was in here!” I shot upright, clutching the papers in shaking hands. “Someone was in here when he died! But who?”

“I think, Hannah, it is time to begin our interrogations.”

~~~~~

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