#expert leather repairs in Dudley

[leatherrepairbirmingham]

You've found the ideal location in Birmingham if you're seeking leather repair services. In order to restore and revitalize your beloved leather products, we at Leather Repairs Birmingham are here to offer you top-notch leather repair services. All of our items are handled with the highest care and attention to detail by our highly qualified and committed team of professionals,

[imjustthemechanic]

Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace

I’m going to regret this, but this is the sequel to Natalie Jones and the Stone Knight.  The Committee for the Appraisal of Archaeological Peril are given their first proper job - looking after a possibly-cursed mummy.  As it turns out, though, the three-thousand-year-old corpse of Princess Sitamun is going to be the least of their problems...

It was a rainy day in September when the committee for the Appraisal of Archaeological Peril met for the second time at Buckingham Palace.

It was a very informal meeting, but then, their first official gathering, two months earlier, had been pretty informal, too.  They were an ad hoc department, with no regalia, no buildings, no documents, and no particular qualifications for membership other than having been at the Battle of the Tower and the Queen liking you.  There’d been some hints that this new meeting would resolve at least some of these deficiencies, but Natasha Romanov – who for the past few years had been calling herself Natalie Jones and saw no reason to stop now – hoped not too many.  The last thing she wanted was to be part of the pomp and bombast of proper British government.

A valet took her car at the end of the Mall, and two guards escorted her through the sea of tourists’ umbrellas and opened the gate for her.  There, she was just in time to meet a second member of the Committee – Dr. Sam Wilson, their medical expert.  He grinned and waved to her.

“Natalie!” he said.  “How’ve you been?”

“Not bad!”  Nat gave him a quick hug, and then both, with the guards, hurried across the sprawling pavement towards the palace steps.  “I’m still working in the archaeology department at Dundee,” she told him, raising her voice as thunder rumbled overhead.  “I’ve noticed my students are much more polite this year!” Her deeds at the Battle of the Tower, and her past as a Soviet spy, had been international news that summer.

Once on the palace porch the rain could no longer reach them.  Nat took down the hood of her jacket, and Sam pulled his hat off.

“What are you up to?” she asked, as the doormen let them inside.

“I’m working at Raptor Rescue near Eccleshall,” he replied.

“Good for you,” Nat nodded.  “Do the birds complain?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” said Sam.  “I thought people were whiny, but no – and the bigger the bird, the more of a baby they are.  There was this Golden Eagle, we named her Margo, who swore up and down that she was dying when all she had was an infected talon.  We amputated the toe and gave her some antibiotics, and she’s back in the wild now.”

“That’s wonderful,” Nat said, smiling warmly as she gave her wet jacket to a butler.  She would be the first to admit that her sense of empathy was badly stunted, but even to her there was something heartwarming about Sam not only getting to talk to birds like Sir Sigurd in the fairy tale, but finding a useful application for it.

The butler took their jackets away, and another man in a uniform entered the red-carpeted foyer.  “Sir Samuel? Lady Natalie?” he asked, startling two people who were more used to being addressed as ‘Doctor’.  “Her Majesty is waiting for you.  If you would come with me, please.”

They climbed a flight of stairs with an ornate, scrolling gilded railing, and followed a hallway lined with mirrors and elaborate candelabras.  Halfway down this they stopped outside a set of carved wooden doors, where three more Committee members were waiting.

These were good friends as far as Natasha and Sam were concerned, and there were more hugs and handshakes as everybody exchanged greetings.  Detective Inspector Sharon Carter was still working for the police in Inverness.  Sir Stephen of Rogsey spent most of his time there, too, in order to be close to Sharon while he took online courses to catch up on the science and history he’d missed while being turned to stone for a thousand years.  The third individual with them was a man in his sixties, short and a little overweight, with blue eyes and shaggy graying hair.   He smiled and raised a hand to greet Natasha first.

“Hi, Ginger Snap!” he said.

“Hi, Dad!”  Nat went up to hug him, too – he held her tight, and lifted her slightly off her feet. “Sorry I haven’t been emailing. It’s been very busy since the school year started.”

“I bet it has,” said Allen Jones, setting her down again.  “I hear you’re giving a talk on the Grail legend at Yale next year.”

“Yeah.  Apparently I’m an expert on it now or something.”  Nat rolled her eyes – the real thing had turned out to be very different from the stories.  “I still need to figure out what I’m going to say… I’ll probably do all the research and throw something together the night before.  How’s Blackpool?”  Allen was working there as an electrician.

“Damp,” he said, “but it’s actually nice to be back to work.  Retirement was getting boring.”

Sam looked around at everybody gathered.  Someone was missing.  “Where’s Francis?” he asked.  The sixth member of the Committee was Clint Francis from Barton-in-Fabis in Nottinghamshire, a man who’d briefly believed himself to be Robin Hood.  The delusion hadn’t lasted long, but when he got his memory back he’d been able to retain the legendary outlaw’s skill at archery.

“He texted,” said Sharon.  “Apparently he missed the train he was supposed to take and had to get a cab, so he’ll be here, just late.”

“That sounds about right,” Nat nodded.

“Guess what?”  Sharon looped her arm through Sir Stephen’s and smiled proudly.  “Steve got a job!”

“Good for him!” said Allen.  “What’s he doing?”

“There is a chapel in the city of Inverness with a very fine stained glass window depicting the martyrdom of Saint Andrew the Apostle,” Sir Stephen explained. “The window was damaged by some godless vandals and since I am familiar with the painting of glass, the city has engaged me to repair it, using as much of the original glass as possible and painting the new pieces to match.”

“That’s perfect,” said Nat.  Before the Lady of the Lake had made him a warrior, Sir Stephen had wanted to be a painter.  Restoring medieval windows was ideal, and would keep the restless man from getting bored.

The carved door opened, and two security men in elegantly tailored suits emerged to check everybody’s identification one last time.  Once they were satisfied, the taller one opened the door wide to show them in.  “Right this way,” he said.  “Her Majesty the Queen and his Grace the Earl of Dudley are inside.”

Beyond the doors was an immense drawing room with turquoise rugs, filled with gilded furniture and hung with portraits of people in wigs and fancy coats, many of them larger than life-sized.  General Fury, the recently-created Earl of Dudley, was waiting just inside.  He greeted them with a smile.  Fury was the head of the CAAP, although he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to do anything in that capacity and appeared to have hoped he never would.  He had also made it known that he hated the idea of having a title, which was perhaps why he was dressed in his military uniform, with an eyepatch.

“What happened to the glass eye?” asked Sam.

“My granddaughters like the patch better,” Fury replied.  “Apparently it makes me look like a pirate.  It’ll get old eventually and they’ll start to miss me popping the glass eye out and back in again.”

“Down here!” called a voice from the far end of the room.

There, on an elaborately carved and brocaded Louis the Fifteenth sofa with many embroidered cushions, was the Queen of England.  It was only ten AM, but she already had a drink in her hand, and was watching somebody feed pieces of haggis to one of her corgis on the seat beside her. She was dressed in a shade of fuchsia that clashed violently with the turquoise carpeting, and made it difficult to look directly at her.  From what Nat knew of the Queen, she’d done this on purpose.

“Nice to see you all looking well,” said the Queen, as they gathered around her – standing, since even knights and ladies didn’t sit in the presence of the monarch without special permission.  “Sir Stephen, you’re looking as offensively attractive as ever.  Where’s the sixth guy?”

“He missed the train,” said Sam.  “He’s on his way.”

“Figures,” said the Queen.  She tossed back the rest of her drink and held out the glass for one of her servants to refill.  “Well, I’ve a lot to do today.  I’m opening a women’s centre in Vauxhall at lunchtime, and then I’m heading up to Suffolk to look for a stud.”

There was a pause.  The Queen waited for one of them to say something, but nobody dared.

“For my stables,” she finally added, disappointed.  “So let’s get down to business.  I’ve got a surprise for you!  Stop looming over me like bloody Stonehenge and I’ll show you.”

The six present members of the CAAP murmured thanks and arranged themselves on the sofas and ottomans around her.  The corgi regarded them with suspicious eyes, but was soon distracted by the haggis again.

“First of all,” the Queen said, “We got these.  Michaels, come here.”

One of the men in suits – evidently Mr. Michaels – stepped forward to hand out leather-bound booklets the size of passports.  The black covers were undecorated, but when Natasha opened hers she found a photograph of herself with her name and an identification number on one side, and on the other a gold badge with a stylized depiction of the White Tower behind the image of Sir Stephen’s magical shield, with supporters. Instead of the traditional British lion and unicorn, these were a gorilla and a sabre-toothed tiger, two of the sculptures that had come to life in the Tower grounds.  The whole thing was surrounded by a wreath of ivy, and at the bottom was a banner that said Committee for the Appraisal of Archaeological Peril.

“The College of Heralds finally came up with something I didn’t hate,” the Queen said, “so we are pleased to present you with badges.  Museums and archaeological sites across the country and our remaining overseas territories have instructions to let you in if you’ve got one of these.  Promise me you won’t use them to rob anyone.”

“I’ll give Mr. Francis his, if and when he shows up,” said Natasha, taking Clint’s badge too.  She looked over at Allen, who was smiling and shaking his head as he looked at his own. He’d ever imagined he’d have anything like it.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” said Fury formally.  He tucked his into his breast pocket.

“Second,” the Queen went on, “we’ve got your first proper assignment.”

That made everyone look up.  Exactly what the CAAP was supposed to do was a little uncertain.  The Holy Grail and Kracness Circle had been some very perilous archaeology, but nobody was sure what else might be in that category.

“As you may have read in the news,” said the Queen, “the Victoria and Albert is giving the sarcophagus of Princess Sitamun back to Egypt, mummy and all.  It’s some sort of gesture of reconciliation, or something like that, although as I understand it, it was the French who stole the damned thing.  It’s being put on a train next week to go to Cairo, where a Dr. Mostafa will take charge of moving it to their museum.  The folks in charge are a bit worried about the whole affair and have requested that you go along.”

“In case the mummy gets up?” asked Sharon.

“Seems so.”  The Queen shrugged.  “It’s a mummy – there’s probably six different curses on the moldy old bitch and they’re taking no chances.”

Nat looked around at the others.  Babysitting a corpse wasn’t exactly the sort of thing they’d had in mind when they agreed to be a part of this organization, but there were probably far worse things they could have been asked to do.

“So we just drop the mummy off in Egypt and then we come home?” she asked.

“You can sightsee a bit.  I won’t stop you,” said the Queen.  “But that’s all the museum folks want, is you tagging along just in case.”

“We can do that,” Sharon decided.

“Absolutely,” Natasha agreed.

“I always wanted to see the pyramids,” said Allen.

“Wonderful!” said the Queen.  “I’ll let them know and they can give you the departure information.  Now, does anybody want a drink before I run off?”

They turned down alcohol, since it was still early in the morning, but did allow the butler to serve them tea and coffee.  The Queen puttered off with her corgi trotting behind her, but Fury stayed a bit to chat – and ten minutes after her Majesty had left, Clint Francis arrived.  He was soaking wet and carrying a Starbucks cup in one hand, and panting as he was escorted in by two guards who were jogging to keep up with him.

“Hi!” he said cheerfully.  “What did I miss?”