Chapter 18 - The Nursery Beneath the Stones
Arthur Turner let out a dry, rattling cough that ended in a bitter chuckle. He tapped the ash of his cheroot into an empty porcelain teacup.
"The Italians couldn't hit a cathedral from ten paces, nephew," Arthur said, turning his blind, milky eyes toward the direction of Vincent's voice. "Marcus hid me here. Just like he hid your little sister Victoria. Just like he hid the truth about who really owns the docks of London."
Vincent stepped into the room, his eyes scanning every shadow, every floorboard. "If you're alive, Arthur, then the tribunal in Mayfair is a farce. The bloodline clause requires all living brothers to sign over the trust."
"That's why Alistair Sterling kept me in an iron cage in the cellar for the last twelve years," Arthur said, lifting his chin to reveal thick, jagged scars around his neck where iron shackles had worn away the flesh. "He dragged me up here three days ago. Left me here with enough water for a week and a single message for you."
"Where is Lily?" Vincent demanded, crossing the distance between them in two strides, his hand clamping down on Arthur’s tweed collar. "Where did he take the child?"
Arthur didn't pull away. He reached up with withered, trembling fingers and touched Vincent’s cheek, his blind eyes softening for a fleeting second.
"You have your mother’s face, Vincent," the old man whispered. "And your father’s grip. Listen to me carefully. Sterling didn't take the girl to the Chancery vault."
Vincent froze. "What?"
"The Chancery was a feint," Arthur rasped, his breath smelling of bitter tobacco. "Sterling knew you would bring your soldiers, your guns, and your money to the Waterloo Basin. He has seventy armed mercenaries from the docks waiting to ambush you the moment you step foot on the pier."
"Then where is she?"
"The girl is beneath us," Arthur said, pointing a gnarled finger straight down through the floorboards. "Beneath the foundations of Blackwood. Beneath the old Roman crypts."
Vincent’s mind reeled. "The nursery schematics didn't show a lower crypt."
"Because Marcus built it during the Blitz," Arthur said. "When the German bombs were leveling the East End, Marcus didn't build a bunker to save human lives. He built a bunker to save his gold and his acoustic safe. The vault under Blackwood is the true master chamber. The London Chancery is merely the echo."
Suddenly, Vincent’s ears picked up a faint, metallic vibration from deep beneath his feet.
*Clang. Hiss.*
A high-pressure steam valve releasing.
Then, through the heating vents that ran through the manor's brickwork, came a voice. It was amplified through a vintage public address system, echoing up from the bowels of the earth with a chilling, theatrical clarity.
"Welcome home, Vincent," Lord Sterling’s voice echoed through the empty rooms. "I see you found your dear old uncle. How nostalgic. But I'm afraid your time is running terribly short."
Down in the car, Emily screamed.
Vincent lunged to the nursery window.
May you like
Below, on the gravel drive, four armored black vans had silently surrounded the two Jaguars. A dozen men in full black tactical gear, armed with assault rifles, had Joseph pinned to the ground and were dragging Emily out of the backseat of the sedan.
"You have ten minutes, Don Turner," Sterling’s voice purred through the manor's copper vents. "Leave your weapons in the nursery. Walk down the spiral stairs to the wine cellar. Pull the third iron cask from the left. Come to me alone. If I see a single gun in your hand, I will drop your lovely Emily into the lime pits first... and let your niece watch."
