The Anubis Gates

Aside from the old man and himself and the remains of ancient walls thrusting up through the grass, the walled-in lot was completely empty. The old man was blinking his one eye at him, surprised by the suddenness of Doyle’s entrance. “Close the door,” he said finally, and returned his attention to whatever he’d been grubbing at in the dirt.

Doyle closed the door without letting it lock and strode over to his peculiar guide. “Where’s the gate?” he asked impatiently.

“Look at these bones.” The old man had pulled a piece of canvas away from a pile of very old-looking bones, some of them blackened as if by fire. “Here’s a skull,” he said, holding up a battered ivory sphere on which the cheek and jaw bones clung tenuously.

“My God,” said Doyle, a little repelled, “who cares? Where’s the goddamn gate?”

“I bought this place many years ago,” said the old man reminiscently, speaking to the skull, “just so I could show you these bones.”

Doyle let his breath out in a long hiss. “There is no gate here, is there?” he said wearily.

The old man looked up at him, and if his scarred face bore any expression, it was unreadable. “You’ll find a gate here. I hope you’re as eager to pass through it then as you are now. Do you want to take this skull with you?”

Just a street lunatic after all, Doyle thought, with some knowledge of the magical hierarchy in London. “No, thank you.” He turned and plodded away over the unmowed grass.

“Look for me again under different circumstances!” called the old man.

* * *

When, promptly at noon on Saturday, Steerforth Benner strode in through the open doorway of Jonathen’s Coffee House, Doyle saw him and waved, and pointed at the empty chair on the other side of the table at which he’d been sitting for half an hour. Benner’s boot heels rapped on the wood floor as he crossed the room, pulled out the chair and sat down. He stared at Doyle with a belligerence that seemed to be masking uncertainty. “Were you early, Doyle, or did I misremember the hour of our appointment?”

Doyle caught the eye of a waiter and pointed at his coffee cup and then at Benner; the waiter nodded as he tapped up the three steps to the main floor. “I was early, Benner. You did say noon.” He looked more closely at his table mate—Benner’s eyes seemed to be a bit out of focus. “You all right? You look… hung over or something.”

Benner looked at him suspiciously. “Hung over, you say?”

“Right. Out late drinking last night, were you?”

“Ah! Yes.” The waiter arrived with his cup of steaming coffee, and Benner hastily ordered two kidney pies. “No better remedy for the effects of overindulgence than a bit of food, eh?”

“Sure,” said Doyle unenthusiastically. “You know, we’re both going to have some readjustment to do when we get back—you’ve not only picked up an accent, you’re using archaic phrasing, too.”

Benner laughed, but it seemed forced. “Well, of course. It’s been my intention to seem… indigenous to this ancient period.”

“I think you’re overdoing it, but never mind. Have you got it all set up?”

“Oh yes, yes of course, no problem at all.”

Doyle reflected that Benner must be very hungry, for he kept looking around impatiently for the waiter. “The girl will do it?” Doyle asked.

“Certes the girl will do it, she’ll do it splendid. Where in hell is that man with our pies?”

“Screw the goddamn pies,” said Doyle impatiently. “What’s the story? Has there been a hitch? How come you’re acting so strangely?”

“No no, no hitch,” said Benner. “I’m just hungry.”

“So when do I go see Darrow?” Doyle asked. “Today? Tomorrow?”

“Not so soon, must give it a few days. Ah, here are our pies! Thank you. Fall to, Doyle, don’t want to let it get cold.”

“You have mine,” said Doyle, who had never been able to stand the thought of eating kidneys. “So why do we have to wait a few days? Have you lost the hairy man?”

“You eat your damned pie. I ordered it for you.”

Doyle rolled his eyes impatiently. “Stop trying to change the subject. Why the wait?”

“Darrow’s going to be out of town until, uh, Tuesday night. Would you rather have some soup?”

“Not anything, thank you,” said Doyle very distinctly. “So let’s say I go see him Wednesday morning?”

“Yes. Oh, and also I was concerned about a man who seems to be following me. I can’t imagine who he is—a short man with a black beard. I think I eluded him when I came here, but I’d like to be certain. Would you go look outside and see if he’s hanging about? If he is, I don’t want him to know I’m aware of him.”

Doyle sighed, but got up and walked to the door and, stepping out onto the pavement, looked up and down the sunlit expanse of Threadneedle Street. The street was crowded, but Doyle, ducking and pardon me-ing and standing on tiptoe, couldn’t see any short, black-bearded man. Someone was hoarsely screaming up the street to his right, and heads were craning in that direction, but Doyle wasn’t interested in finding out what the commotion was about. He went back inside and returned to the table.