I followed, jumping over Aunt Rosemary on my way out.
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Chapter Twenty-five
During the drive into London, Miles drove fast without sacrificing safety. He told me Petra was staying in an apartment opposite to Harrods. We left the car at West Hounslow Station on the Piccadilly Line and took the underground, in case the streets were choked with Friday evening traffic.
A uniformed doorman confronted us in the lobby and asked about our business. I glanced at Miles, who looked haggard and drawn, mud streaking his clothes, his hair in wild disarray. One of the plastic bags he was hauling seemed ready to burst open and scatter its dirty contents on the granite floor.
Miles ignored the doorman and stalked to the lift. I scurried after him. Angry shouts chased our footsteps, but Miles paid no attention.
“Which floor?” My hand hovered over the row of buttons.
“Second.”
I glanced at him. “I thought you said Petra brushed you off when she cancelled your trip to Salisbury.”
His face pulled into a grimace. “Not until after I’d helped her move in.”
I couldn’t help but smile. I liked Petra, and I was fairly certain that only her ego had been dented, leaving her heart unhurt.
When we emerged from the lift, I followed Miles down the corridor. He came to a halt by a door. “Ring the bell.” The plastic bag swung as he raised his arm to point.
I pressed the button. No one came.
“Again,” Miles said.
I pressed, this time keeping my finger on the button. Then I bent down and lined my ear against the pale wood panel of the door. “I can hear music inside,” I whispered to Miles over my shoulder.
He dropped one of the plastic bags on the brown carpet and pummeled with his fist. After he stopped, we stood still and listened. When there was still no reply, he raised his hand again and kept hammering at the door. I glanced around, worried that the neighbors might report the noise to the police.
Finally, the lock clicked and the door yielded. Petra stood in the opening, dressed in nothing but a loose white T-shirt. Beneath the hem, her bare legs were a pair of endless slim columns tanned to golden honey.
She glanced at both of us, finally homing in on Miles. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought I told you not to bother coming round again.” Although her face pulled into an angry frown, an amused lilt played in her voice. For an instant, I froze in confusion, as I thought she’d winked at me.
“I’ve got something for you.” Miles hefted up one of the plastic bags.
“What?” Petra took a step back. “Is this another weird superstition? That when you get dumped, you have to dump a bag of shit on the girl’s doorstep?” This time there was no doubt about it. She did wink at me.
I stole a look at Miles, expecting him to get angry at being taunted, but he didn’t even seem to notice. “We’ve found it. Francis Layton’s diamonds. This is your share.” He held one of the muddy bags up to Petra.
“What?” she cried, and opened the door wider. I heard the thud of footsteps behind her, and saw a man wearing nothing but gray sweatpants walk into the hall.
“Petra? Is everything all right?” My eyes widened in surprise as I stared at the muscled chest and ridged abdomen masculine charm of Simon Crosland. When he reached Petra, he draped one arm protectively over her shoulders.
I cleared my throat and slid my gaze back to Petra. “I guess your legal affairs are in good hands now,” I said slowly.
She broke into a dazzling smile and twisted sideways to plant a quick kiss on Simon’s lips. “Thanks for the recommendation.” Her eyes flicked back to Miles and then to me. The challenge in them softened into a twinkle. “I guess things have worked out all right for everyone, huh?”
“Simon Crosland?” Miles cut in. “You’re the lawyer I’ve been exchanging emails with?”
Simon nodded. His expression remained wary as he assessed the situation.
Miles extended a muddy hand at him. “You don’t know how glad it makes me to see you here.”
I threw Miles a puzzled glance, and then it dawned on me. I whirled to face Petra. “I sent you to Simon,” I told her, my words tumbling out in a rush. “I’ve brought you love. The curse is over.” I crossed the doorstep and hurried up to Petra to hug her. “We’ve got the diamonds,” I continued, almost beside myself with relief. “We can make proper amends now, and I’ve brought you love.”
Petra beamed back at me. “Diamonds?” she said eagerly. “Show me.”
I dug in my pocket, where I had emptied the transparent pebbles from the bowl, but my hands were unsteady, and the diamonds slipped through my fingers. I listened in horror as they scattered around the parquet floor in the hall. Petra and I squatted down on all fours, frantically chasing after the stones.
“Heavens,” Petra said, holding up an uncut diamond. “This bugger looks flawless, and it has to be at least five carats.”
I crawled past Simon’s bare toes. “How do you know?” I asked Petra.
She crawled to the left, her face lowered to the floorboards, like a bloodhound on a scent. “I model for a couple of jewelry companies. When there’s slack time during the shoots, I talk to people. I like to learn stuff.”
“Would someone mind explaining what’s going on?” Simon asked.
I stood up, diamonds clasped in my clenched fist. “Well,” I said slowly. “Do you remember the Layton Prophecy? You scoffed about it, calling it children’s tales?”
His eyes narrowed. When three earnest pairs of eyes met his gaze, the tension in his body slackened. “We’d better sit down and talk,” he said, taking charge.
“In the kitchen,” Petra said, rising up to her feet. “I’m borrowing this apartment from a friend, and I won’t have Miles smearing mud on the sofa.”
****
Miles and I said goodbye to Simon and Petra just over an hour later. It had been useful having a lawyer around. Simon had drawn up an agreement to divide the loot into three equal shares, one for Cleo, one for Petra, and one for me. I’d pointed out that it should be half each for Petra and Cleo. I wasn’t entitled to anything.
Petra told me not to be an idiot. Simon assured me that a three-way split didn’t breach the spirit of the trust, and Miles scolded me for wasting time, when every second counted. So, I scrawled my signature on a piece of paper torn from a notepad, and at the stroke of a pen, I became a wealthy woman.
When we got down to the street crowded with pedestrians and cars and double-decker buses, city noises filling the air around us, Miles insisted on pausing to call the hospital once more before we took the escalator down to the underground. I watched him as he waited to be connected. Then I saw the color draining from his face.
He jammed the phone back into his pocket, looking distraught. “They almost lost Cleo thirty minutes ago.” His voice was hoarse with anguish. “Her heart stopped, but they were able to resuscitate.”
I stared at him. “It will be all right. Just give it a little longer. Maybe it takes a while for the curse to be cancelled. We’ll call again when we get to the car.” I felt stupid saying those things, but I’d have said anything to banish that hollow look of defeat from his eyes.
While we waited for the underground train to arrive, I could feel Miles mentally withdrawing from me. He stood half a pace away, his face rigid, arms stiff down his sides, his fists clenched in an effort to contain his grief.
I heard the rumble of the arriving train. The crowd began to jostle for position. Suddenly, there was jolt at the back of my knees, and I toppled forward. The edge of the platform slipped from beneath my feet. Although the tracks were only a short distance below, it felt as if I was flying through the air forever.
I screamed, and heard an answering cry from Miles.
Electricity.
That was the first thought in my head. The train tracks carry a live current. I landed on my hands and knees, with a jolt that jarred every bone in my body
and knifed through my tender wrist. As soon as I regained control of my movements, I surged upright. I tried to balance on one foot, like a stork, not moving, not lowering my other foot to touch the ground.
Twisting my torso, I raised my arms, reaching above the edge of the platform. As the train approached, the ground started shaking beneath me. The headlights shone out of the tunnel, like the eyes of a hungry monster intent on devouring me.
Then I was hauled up by countless fingers curled around my hands and arms. Someone gripped the collar of my parka. My ribcage bashed hard against the edge of the platform, choking the air from my lungs. I scrambled to my feet, a hard gust of wind blowing behind me as the train roared into the station.
Miles clutched me to his chest. He murmured my name over and over again. I buried my face against the folds of his sweatshirt, breathing in the smell of mud. Around us, voices swirled, but life didn’t stop. It didn’t even slow down. People rushed into the carriages, and before I knew it, Miles had steered me along the platform.
Then we were on the train, and the doors slid shut behind us.
“Are you all right?” Miles asked. He was hanging from a strap with one hand, his free hand wound tight around my waist as he inspected my face with frantic eyes.
“No,” I told him in a shaky whisper. “I’m petrified. I wasn’t sure about the curse before, not truly. I was just a bunch of coincidences, accidents and near misses...but this...” I shook my head in a mix of terror and defeat. “Why isn’t it over?”
Miles steadied me over a jolt in the tracks. “I don’t know.”
“Cleo.” I stared up at him. “She’s dying, isn’t she?”
He didn’t say anything, but grief flickered across his face.
“Go to her.” I fisted my hands in his sweatshirt, yanking at the fabric to add force to my words. The train slowed for a station, and gravity flung me against Miles. “You need to be there for her. She doesn’t have anyone else.” As much as I resented the prospect of letting him go, I couldn’t deny the truth. I had family and friends around me, and if I was careful, if I kept out of danger...
“Do you have your passport with you?” Miles asked.
“No.”
His arm tightened around me as the train gathered speed. More people had got on, crowding us. “We’ll have to drive past Heathrow.” Miles raised his voice to carry over the thundering noise of the train. “I want to fly out, but I don’t want to leave you behind.”
“Go,” I urged him. “I’ll be fine.” I don’t know how I found the courage to tell him to fly an ocean away from me, considering I dreaded the moment when I’d have to step out of the safe circle of his arms.
His lips drew into a tight line. “We could go and get your passport.”
“No.” I shook my head. “Come back when you can. I’ll be waiting. I don’t want to travel, put myself in unnecessary danger, and you’ll be able to focus on Cleo. I’ll read the diaries again. I’ll ask Steven and Aunt Rosemary to help...” I fell silent, knowing how empty those words were, how slim the chances were that we might discover something new that would help us to end the curse.
“Are you sure?” Miles said.
“Yes,” I told him, and prayed for strength to let him leave.
****
When we got to the car, Miles called AVIS and arranged to put me on the rental agreement as a second driver. It took a few minutes of arguing, but eventually the lady on the phone relented, and I didn’t have to go into the AVIS office to show my driving license.
I dropped Miles off outside Terminal Four. He had nothing but the muddy clothes he wore, and his passport, and a battered leather wallet in his pocket. He paused for one brief moment to cup my face in his hands, telling me to be careful.
Then he was gone.
I’d never driven a car with such care. The roads were quiet, but it was already past midnight when I pulled up outside Mill Cottage. I didn’t want to wake up Aunt Rosemary, so I took care not to make noise as I crept into Rose Cottage and made myself a cup of tea.
I could tell there was something wrong with me as I waited for the kettle to boil. I couldn’t breathe properly. It was as if my lungs were already full when I tried to draw a breath. As if I was drowning, despite being on dry land.
I took deep breaths, but the sensation didn’t leave. Pain tore at my chest. I could feel myself growing weak. I decided to go next door and wake up Aunt Rosemary. If the symptoms got worse, she could call an ambulance. It had to be some kind of post traumatic reaction to the shock that I’d experienced at the underground station.
I’d only taken a few steps on the outside path when it struck me. Everything was supposed to be twice now. That’s what the fortuneteller in South Africa had insisted upon. Every single line of the prophecy—including the last. If they fail, don’t make amends, the Layton line, there it ends.
We needed to make amends twice.
Two people had been wronged.
Daniel Wheatley had been killed.
The writer ancestor of Brandon Hastings had not been paid for his work.
I got into my car, tried to find a comfortable position behind the wheel as I drove down the street. I knew what I had to do. Nothing had been a coincidence. Every new friend I’d made in the last few months had somehow been connected to the Layton family and the prophecy.
There were no lights on in Grace’s apartment. Her parents lived in one of the big Victorian houses around the village green, but she’d moved out a couple of years ago, when a new development with starter homes had been built near the health centre.
By now, my breathing had reduced into a labored wheeze. The edges of my vision were starting to blur. Whatever was wrong with me, it was escalating fast. With a surprising calmness, I accepted that I might die. If Brandon wasn’t with Grace, it was unlikely that I’d be strong enough to drive to Salisbury, even if I got his address from Grace.
I might not even make it back to Mill Cottage, and Aunt Rosemary.
I’d never see Miles again.
Tears stung my eyes, blurring my vision as I parked the car askew outside the main entrance of Grace’s apartment block. I got out, went to the front door, and clamped my finger on the button of the buzzer to apartment number eight.
“Who is it?” I recognized Grace’s sleepy voice.
“It’s Alexandria. Can you let me in?”
The buzzer droned. With the last of my strength, I shoved the door open and climbed the stairs up to the second floor. Grace was standing at the apartment door, wrapped in a pale yellow blanket. Only her toes peeked out at the bottom. I assumed she was naked underneath.
“Is Brandon with you?” I asked.
“What’s wrong?” Grace tried to rush up to me, but the tightly wrapped blanket forced her to take tiny, hobbling steps.
“Quick! Is he here?” I pressed.
“Yes,” Grace blurted out. “He’s in bed.”
I pushed past her, staggering toward the bedroom. I could hear Grace muttering curses as she made her awkward way behind me.
“Brandon,” I called out from the bedroom doorstep.
He twisted around on the bed. When he saw me, he fumbled for the covers and pulled them up to his chin, surveying me with an alarmed expression on his lean face.
“The book about your ancestor, the one who wrote the Layton family history,” I rasped at him. “I’ll pay for you to get it published.”
He wriggled to sit up against the headboard, clutching the covers against his bare chest. “That’s cool,” he said. “Can we talk about it in the morning?”
“No.” I stepped into the room and stood by the bedside. “It’s got to be now.”
He shrank back, watching me with anxious eyes. “Can’t it wait?”
“No,” I said, my voice brusque. I struggled to keep breathing. “I’ll give you ten thousand pounds and pay the printing costs. Do you accept?”
“Well, yeah, sure. That’s cool.”
“Grace,” I yelled. “Did y
ou hear that?”
She hobbled in behind me. “What the hell is going on?”
“Write it down and I’ll sign it,” I told her.
“Write down what?” Grace asked, sounding petulant.
“A contract for me to pay for Brandon’s book to be published.”
“I can’t draw up a publishing contact,” Grace said. “I’m a veterinary nurse.”
“I, Alexandria Holt, hereby agree to pay ten thousand pounds plus printing costs to publish a book by Brandon Hastings on his ancestor, a writer who was wronged by the Layton family in 1658.” I reeled out the string of words. My voice was getting hoarse, and when my legs failed to support my weight, I sank to sit on the edge of the bed.
Grace pulled a pen and a notepad from the drawer beneath the night table. “Can you repeat that?” she asked.
“I’ll do it.” Brandon finally came alive. Grace passed the pad and pen to him and he began to scribble.
“Hurry,” I urged him. The room spun around me. Nausea clogged my throat. I knew that if my hunch about Brandon being the last link in breaking the curse was wrong, I’d never see Miles or Aunt Rosemary again. Forgotten images of my childhood flashed in front of my eyes. My father bouncing me in the air and catching me as I squealed with joy. Aunt Rosemary taking me to the National Gallery, where we’d studied impressionist paintings. My mother clipping pictures of my father out of a sailing magazine and pasting them into a book.
“Is this all right?” Brandon handed me a page with a few lines of neat writing.
I was too weak to move my arm, let alone read. I barely managed to scrawl my name at the bottom. “Sign it,” I croaked, and I watched as he carefully drew his ornate signature underneath mine.
When he put the pen down, my breathing freed up, as if a stone had lifted from my chest.
Then I knew it really was over.
“Thank you,” I said in a wheezy whisper. “I’m sorry I barged in on you.”
Grace wouldn’t let me go home on my own. She settled me on the living room sofa with pillows and blankets. I lay back, savoring the air that pumped freely in and out of my lungs. When my mobile phone rang, I picked it up, my hands unsteady as I pressed the button to connect the call.
The Layton Prophecy Page 26
