Tears of the Jaguar

by Hartley, A. J.

  Thou knowest—no one more than thou—how I have laboured to honour the trust you placed in me, the life and living you gave me when the world was sure to despise me as a thing sent forth marked by sin. If she—you know the she I mean—had never come to London, all might have been well, but God saw fit to bring her back into my life, and from that day forth the world which you and I had built could not endure. The King my sovereign did much to protect me but calumny will out. I am only sorry that my shame—her shame—erased all you had done for me.

  In the hurly-burly of the great unrest, the war and its aftermath, I dared to hope that all might be well, but memories in government are long, and I fear my very shape prevents forgetting. Even with the death of the King’s cause and the most barbaric treatment of his royal Highness, I had hoped to retain some place in the commonwealth, but now I see that this cannot be. I will not drag the names of those women dearest to me through the mud, though one be dead. For you to remain unscarred I fear I must vacate these climes forever, leaving behind, I hope, the cruelty and ignorance I have borne for the past thirty years. I enter my self-imposed banishment with hope that in leaving, I may improve what years you have left to you, though my future is unknown to me and full of terror. Where I will alight, I cannot say, though I have a mind to explore something of the lands recounted by our infamous countryman, Thomas Gage.

  I must aboard now, but I swear that—unless I perish on the journey—you will hear from me, howe’er infrequent, and unmatched to my love. Weep not for me. You have shed tears enough. For my part I—perhaps—am shedding my past like a snake its skin. Only those parts with you will I keep like the jewels I bear with me.

  I remain forever a debtor to your love and compassion.

  Edward Dev Clifford

  The year 1650, thought Deborah. One year after the central event of the English Civil War—the hurly-burly the letter writer alluded to—the trial and execution of Charles I: one of the few dates from British history still lodged in her head. If the thirty years the writer referred to meant his life to date, then he was born in 1620. Somehow the boy had come into contact with the king’s court, had perhaps been a servant or junior counselor. He would, like Lady Anne Clifford, have fought for the royalist cause during the Civil War and, on their defeat and the execution of the king, had decided to leave the country forever. It made a kind of sense, though what those words about his shape and the mark of sin meant, she couldn’t imagine.

  Suddenly the driver spoke up.

  “Well there’s a turn-up,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d find anywhere to stay out there, but it turns out that Malkin Tower Farm is a hotel. You want to go? It’s nearly ten miles.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But let’s stop in town first. I’ll need to get some warmer clothes. Can you meet me back in an hour?”

  “One hour, right here,” he said. “I’ll wait five minutes.”

  “Deal,” she said, unfolding herself out of the car.

  There was a department store called Rackhams on the main street, so Deborah went there first. In the men’s department, she grabbed a pair of 501s—always a safely unisex bet—and moved off in search of shirts and sweaters. What she found was on the baggy side, but it would do. She crossed to the women’s side and added some underwear to her cart, and checked out. Back outside on the street, she found an outdoor supplies store called David Goldie, where she bought a pair of low-end walking shoes, some thick socks, and a light waterproof jacket.

  Pleased with her haul and the efficiency with which she’d managed it, she met the taxi driver as planned. She realized as the cabbie drove out of town that she’d have to start watching her expenses so things didn’t get out of hand; Powel hadn’t exactly signed off on her little side trip.

  The thought raised other questions about what she was trying to achieve, other than not being either in a Mexican jail or within earshot of her mother and her plans to demolish all the memories of Deborah’s father.

  Come pick through Dad’s things...

  Identifying what the jewels were, where they had come from, and how they had reached Mexico would not, after all, tell her where they were now, and if they were still in Mexico it could be a long time before she could even return to find them. In a sense it helped that Bowerdale was in prison, since that meant the police might not be looking widely for other suspects, but that was, she instantly knew, a cowardly and disloyal thought. She would be going back soon, she knew. She didn’t especially like Martin Bowerdale, but she didn’t believe him capable of what had been done to Eustachio, and she had a duty to try and earn his release.

  As she waited for things in Mexico to cool down, she would learn what she could about what had been stolen from the tomb. She would spend the evening studying the video footage of the grave goods, but first she would call Steve Powel, her official link back to the site and whatever was going on there. She had never been able to set up the video conference call she had promised him. Maybe doing it now would mollify him a little.

  The cabbie pulled up to Malkin Tower Farm holiday cottages, and she was pleasantly surprised to see a series of converted stone farm buildings. In the distance, a dark, steep hill—almost a mountain—dominated the surrounding landscape. As they’d first driven west from Skipton, it had been picturesque, but as they got closer it seemed to loom, and Deborah felt its brooding presence whichever way she looked.

  “That’s Pendle Hill,” said the driver.

  He said it darkly, like the name should mean something to her, but offered no further explanation. Deborah was unaccountably relieved to find that when she stepped out of the cab, she couldn’t actually see Pendle from Malkin Tower Farm.

  She paid the driver and took her belongings to what looked like the main cottage. Deborah took the smallest room, quaintly named “the piggery”—which it almost certainly had once been—because it was cheap, clean, comfortable, and, since it was a separate building from the rest of the cottages, private. The ceiling was low, but not so much that she might actually bang her head. She unpacked quickly. It was getting late, though the light still held, and she realized with a shock just how far north she really was. In the winter it probably got dark not much later than midafternoon, but in summer—albeit a cold and rainy summer—the light would hold till nine or ten.

  She called Steve Powel, turning on her laptop’s built-in webcam. It was a strategy designed to make it harder for him to yell at her. People felt tougher when they couldn’t be seen. He answered quickly, agreed to the video conference with impatience, and then demanded to know where she was and what the hell she was doing. He looked distracted, sitting at his desk with the trophies and the pictures of his daughter on the shelves behind him.

  “I can’t search for the missing grave goods in Mexico so I’m trying to figure out what they were and how they got there,” she said. “Maybe that will help.”

  “Maybe,” he answered, looking skeptical. “Where exactly are you, Deborah? I want an address.”

  She gave it to him, explaining the link to the pale ruby-like stone that had been found at the farm, but he looked impatient.

  “I need you back in Mexico,” he said. “I need you looking for the stolen artifacts.”

  “And as soon as it’s safe to go back, I will,” she told him. “A few days is all I want, if you can assure me that I’m not going to be thrown into prison the moment I get there.”

  “I’m working on it,” he said. “But if you’re right about those grave goods being European, we need to prepare for an extradition battle. If they aren’t part of the indigenous culture, all bets are off and I want to be able to bring them back to the States.”

  “If they’re European, there’ll be Europeans who want them returned,” said Deborah.

  “That’s a lot grayer legally than taking Mayan goods from Mexico. Try to keep it out of the papers and we’ll have time to figure out what we have and how hard to fight for it. Maybe there’s a touring exhibit in it.”

  De
borah told him she would do what she could. “I’m sorry, Steve,” she said. “I’ll make this work.”

  “I hope so, Deborah. I really do.”

  “How are things there?” she said, trying to soften the tone of the conversation.

  “Hectic, Deborah. Stressful.”

  “And Angela?” she persisted, determined to find something that would take the edge out of his voice.

  He blinked and seemed to peer at his computer screen.

  “She’s fine,” he said. “No change. Why?”

  “Oh, I can see her pictures on the shelves behind you,” said Deborah, floundering. “No change?”

  “I just mean, yes,” he said. “She’s fine.”

  “Beautiful girl,” said Deborah, suddenly wishing she hadn’t set up the video connection after all. She knew she looked fake. She looked over Powel’s shoulder to the largest picture on the wall, a headshot of his daughter wearing the gold necklace she seemed to wear with all her costumes. A lucky charm, perhaps. Rachel’s had been pearl earrings their father had given her one Hanukkah before he died.

  “I’m sorry, Deborah,” said Powel, “but I really have to go. Keep me informed, OK?”

  Deborah hung up and sighed. It was too late to go snooping about the site where the crystal had been found, and she was hungry. Dinner, bed, and then an early start: hopefully in twenty-four hours she’d know if there was any reason to stay in Lancashire to investigate further.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Once the idea had occurred to her, it took her ten minutes of eyeing the phone sideways as she bustled about to call her mother. Just as she was about to lose her nerve and disconnect, her mother picked up. “So you’re finally calling,” said her mother. “Where are you?”

  “England,” said Deborah.

  “England? What do you know from England? I thought you were in Mexico.”

  “I was,” said Deborah, wearying fast, “but something came up.”

  “Quite the jetsetter these days. Too bad you can’t squeeze in a visit to Boston once in a while.”

  “To visit a house I’ve never seen before?”

  “I haven’t sold it yet. Our house, I mean, not Steve’s place. I don’t see the big deal. It’s just a house. It’s not like you ever visit.”

  “It’s where I grew up,” said Deborah, getting up and starting to pace. “It’s where we all lived together.”

  “With your father, you mean.”

  “Yes,” said Deborah, reproachfully. “It was our place.”

  “You wanna buy it? Make me an offer.”

  “Funny.”

  “I just don’t see the big deal.”

  “I know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You think I’m insensitive because I’m moving forward?”

  “No, Ma.”

  “Your father’s dead, Deborah.”

  “Who could ever think you insensitive?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  Deborah said nothing.

  “Steve is a good man,” said her mother. “You’d know that if you came by once in a while. He makes me happy.”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “You know, Debs, finding a man might make you happy, too.”

  “I’m perfectly happy, thanks,” said Deborah.

  “Yeah? All this charging around, digging up old things and dead people. You’re still young. You should be with the living. What do you care about all that dead stuff? I just don’t understand it.”

  “Clearly.”

  “And now you want to hold on to this huge old house like it’s your personal archaeological site, your little window into a past that died with your father.”

  “Don’t try to get inside my head,” Deborah cut in, hearing her mother’s voice hardening.

  “God forbid anyone should do that, right, Debs? God forbid anyone should give you a little perspective, a little insight from someone who’s been around the block a few times.”

  “You’ve not been around my block,” Deborah shot back.

  “How could I?” her mother said. “I couldn’t get near your intellectual level, could I? I’m not smart enough for you, not like your father. I was never good enough for you.”

  “You were never good enough for me?” Deborah said, incredulous. “How about putting it the other way round?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You would have done anything for Rachel. You did!”

  “Let’s keep your sister out of this. I treat you both the same.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “I get to see her more, is all. And sure,” she said, conceding the point but defiant in doing so, “I understand her. Her life. Her marriage. Her job. It all makes perfect sense to me. What I don’t understand is turning into a spinster surrounded by books and bits of old crap you dug out of the ground.”

  “Ma, I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this right now. I’m tired and stressed, and...I’ll call you back soon, OK?”

  She hung up. She gripped the phone tight in her fist, waiting for it to ring, feeling the strange discomfort of disappointment when it didn’t. She nearly called back to apologize, but she knew it wouldn’t be that simple, that she wouldn’t be permitted to say sorry and leave it at that. Her hanging up had been a reflex, like leaping out of the window of a burning building. She could call back, but the room would still be on fire. She turned the phone off and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans. Why had she thought calling her mother was a good idea? Everything had been so strange lately, so inconclusive. Perhaps she had hoped that if she could resolve something in her personal life then the rest of the stuff she was wrestling with would feel more manageable.

  Well, so much for that.

  Deborah checked with the landlady and then walked down the narrow farm road and back toward the town, inhaling the cool, damp air with its smell of grass and the tang of manure. As she walked she tried to make sense of the letter from Edward Clifford to his mother—it didn’t seem quite right. “My honoured mother, for so I ever will think of you.” Did that mean she would always be dear to him, or that he would continue to think of her as his mother even though she wasn’t? If she wasn’t, how did he come to bear her coat of arms, albeit so curiously modified? The letter gave Deborah the sense that Edward’s self-imposed banishment—presumably to Mexico—was done in part to spare his “mother” further hardship. She was most tantalized by the reference to “the jewels I bear with me.” Could they be what was found in the Mayan tomb? The dates would fit, and it was not inconceivable that an Englishman could find his way to Mexico, particularly if he went via Spain and came across with colonists or as part of a religious mission.

  She arrived at the Cross Gaits Inn and—feeling tired and in need of a little indulgence—ordered a Bombay Sapphire martini at the bar, very dry, two olives.

  “A lady who knows her mind,” said the barman. “Don’t get much call for martinis around here.” She watched him pull down the gin. He was a heavyset man, but strong and broad shouldered. His complexion was pinkish and mottled and his shirt was dotted with sweat, but he had a confident, forthright air that Deborah would have associated with blue-collar New York if he didn’t have that tough, teeth-baring Lancashire accent.

  Deborah took a menu and chose a table by the window, carefully cradling her drink, smiling as she heard the next customer order two pints of bitter. Cocktails, apparently, weren’t the norm in Lancashire pubs. The pub was quiet and only two other tables were occupied. She ordered Chicken Tikka Masala and when the barman returned with her cutlery and condiments he asked her where she was staying. She told him Malkin Tower Farm and he smirked.

  “Come to see the witches?” he said.

  Deborah just looked baffled.

  “Witches?” she said. “What witches?”

  The barman paused to consider her.

  “You serious?” he said. “The Pendle witches, of course.”

  “I�
��m sorry, I’m not familiar with them,” she said.

  “You didn’t know this was witch country?” He turned to the barmaid who had come to wipe off the table and said, “Chantelle, listen to this. She’s come all this way...America, right?”

  “Right,” said Deborah, starting to feel like an exhibit in her own museum.

  “All the way from America to Pendle, sightseeing, like, and has never heard of the Lancashire witches!”

  Chantelle, a pale, moon-faced girl with streakily-dyed blonde hair, raised her eyebrows.

  “Honest to God?” she asked.

  “Honest to God,” said Deborah, smiling.

  “We got witches all right,” said the barman, laughing. “Hold on, let me go get my wife.”

  This was apparently a joke, and Chantelle laughed, as did the party who had ordered the pints of bitter. Deborah was becoming a celebrity.

  “The year was 1612,” said the barman. “It started right here. Most famous witch trial in English history. Ten people executed in Lancaster for multiple murder by witchcraft, mainly on the testimony of a nine-year-old girl.”

  “Jennet Device,” said the man who had ordered the bitter. He was in his twenties and wore round glasses that made him look bookish.

  “Am I telling this story or are you, Neil?” said the barman to him.

  “Get on with it, then,” said the man, grinning.

  The barman took a seat opposite Deborah.

  “It all started just down the road,” he said, “right where you’re staying.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Nick Reese pressed the phone to his ear and squeezed his eyes shut. He had been dreading the call.

  “Why the hell did you take the painting?” said the crisp English voice.

  “Deborah Miller was in the building,” Nick answered, trying to sound composed. Trying to sound like he really believed that he hadn’t buggered the thing up. “She was clearly following a lead. She would have found her way to that room eventually. I thought that if I could prevent her from seeing the painting it would at least buy us some time.”