13
I strode down the hall thinking only that I could not let that child or her family come to harm. Yet everything was lining up for exactly that. Our exit would signal to the Divinios that they were winning, opening the way for them to charge through the doors and perhaps raze this castle to the ground, metaphorically speaking.
Hell, I may as well have fallen into a medieval historical drama, yet this was real, hideously real, with that same sense of the surreal that blew in on the winds of 2020.
Bursting into the library, I announced: “The Carvalhos received another call late last night.” I held up the house phone. “A man with a deep voice threatened to kidnap Ana Marie and swore that next time he would succeed. He said he would send her down the hole where they buried her father. Who would threaten a child like that?”
Evan swore under his breath. “Bloody terrorists,” he muttered.
“Here, Markus, tell me whether this is the same voice you heard the night the skull was stolen. I’ve brought the house phone so you can listen to the replay,” I said, holding out the phone.
My colleagues had been standing around the map cabinet. Suddenly Rupert sat down on the nearest chair, his face pale, while Peaches stood nearby looking ready to throttle somebody. Markus stepped forward while I hit the replay button. For a few breathless moments we all watched while he listened.
“Yes,” he whispered, his arm dropping to his side. “That’s him, that’s the one who threatened me. What a damn creepy voice, right? Makes me positively ill. I can’t believe it belongs to a real human. He must be altering it somehow.”
Evan took the phone and listened intently before passing it on to each the others. “He’s using a voice camouflage.”
Peaches had a theory: “Maybe that call was placed from inside the house?”
“Were you successful in convincing the castle’s chatelaine to permit us to stay?” Rupert asked from his seat.
“No,” I said. “Adriana wants us gone. She believes those threats absolutely.” I gazed toward the door through which our host had exited that first evening. “I have to talk to Senhor Carvalho. Maybe he’d understand that forcing us to leave is the last thing this family needs.” I moved toward the back door.
“We tried that,” Markus said behind me. “It leads to a locked elevator operated by a keycard. No amount of button-pushing activates the thing.”
I continued, anyway, while Peaches quickly caught up. “Adriana’s become like the ultimate gatekeeper but I totally get where’s she’s coming from. She’s not thinking straight.”
“I don’t care if she’s not thinking straight. She’s risking everyone.” We had entered a small marble-tiled alcove no bigger than a coat closet with a single-wide elevator door directly ahead and a smaller door to the left. I pushed the button directly beside the elevator doors, only half listening. “She’s clinging to what she has left—her only child—but capitulating to blackmailers never works.”
“Still, fear of losing a child can drive a woman mad,” Peaches said behind me. “I mean as in grip-your-gut-and-twist-until-you-break mad. You think your whole being is collapsing from the inside out. Losing a child has got to be the most heart-wrenching thing there is and it can leave you so broken you can’t hardly think straight.”
I swung around to face her, surprised to find her eyes moist. “Peaches?”
“Yeah, okay? So I lost my baby when I was eighteen. I was young and stupid and her father was just as young and ten times stupider. Kenyatta died while RayBoy was taking his baby daughter on a joyride through Kingston. Can you believe the idiocy? You protect your kids, not zoom around showing them off to your buds. Drug wars. Bastards shot up the car with my baby and then-boyfriend inside it. He survived, she didn’t. The drug-dealing bastard ended up in prison and good thing, too, or I would have killed him myself.”
For an instant, it all played before my eyes in a surge of pain and violence that my teenage self never had to experience in rural Nova Scotia. My friend’s grief felt so raw that it emanated from her in waves. “God, Peach, I’m so sorry,” I mumbled. “I always thought you grew up in the tropical paradise image I have of Jamaica and your parents—father a doctor, mother a teacher, life sunny and blissful.”
She laughed. “It was blissful until my teenage self grew bored and decided to strike out for the big city alone. Anyway, I’m just saying this so you’ll understand Adriana. She sees how it could all end up for her when she’s probably already hanging by a thread. A parent will do anything to protect her baby even if it makes no sense to anybody else. I didn’t do enough to protect mine and I’ll never forgive myself.” She leaned past me and pushed the elevator button again.
“You were just a kid,” I whispered.
“Just stop. I don’t want forgiveness. I want to make every bastard that hurts or threatens a child pay.”
I had the overwhelming urge to hug her but one look at her face told me this wasn’t the time. Turning back to the elevator, I stared at the elevator button, my heart reeling. How little we know about even the people closest to us, when it all comes down to it. I was so stunned by Peaches’s admission that I temporarily forgot what I was about to do.
“It’s not going to work, Phoebe. We tried multiple times,” I heard Evan say from the doorway.
I turned to walk toward him, squeezing Peaches’s hand in passing and poking my head in the closet for just a second. The art conservationist supply room. Shutting the door, I made my way back to the library, Evan stepping aside to let me pass.
“We have to do something,” I whispered.
“I absolutely agree,” he said softly. He took my arm to stop me in my tracks. I gazed up at him, seeing something in his tone, in his eyes. “We have the beginnings of a plan,” he said, leaning toward me. Then he abruptly straightened and said aloud, “But if our hosts insist we leave, then we must go.”
Had he discovered a new bug and wasn’t certain he had caught all the possible surveillance devices?
“Yes, of course,” I said cautiously. “But we don’t have to like it.”
“Certainly not.” He glanced back at Peaches, who still stood where I’d left her. “Is she all right?” he whispered.
“She just needs a moment.” I took his arm and led him over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the garden. A gray day had descended on the mountains bringing down a heavy blanket of fog and mist. “So, as you were saying, the Divinio crown is hidden on this property?” They must all be in on the ruse, including Markus, though in his case I was convinced he might actually believe the crown was here.”
“The best possible location given what we know to date, don’t you agree?”
“Probably, but we can’t continue Ricardo’s work if we’re being forced to leave.” My voice sounded plaintive even to myself.
“Sadly, no.”
Hopefully that little show would convince somebody, even though anyone who truly knew us would reach another conclusion.
After several minutes of flipping through the papers with Evan, I left him to study further while I excused myself and wandered back to stand by Titian’s Isabella portrait. Soon Peaches was beside me.
“She looks so thin and pale in her magnificent duds,” she remarked.
“Pallor was the preferred look of the day,” I said. “She may have even used powdered lead to whiten her skin, though in her case, I doubt that was necessary,” I replied. “According to the accounts, she worked herself to death traveling the land while her husband was away, keeping order and the economy healthy. Her pallor probably came naturally. By thirty-five when Prince Philip was still a boy, she was dead.”
Peaches appraised the portrait anew. “So being a queen in those days wasn’t all about wearing magnificent clothes and looking out of a turret?”
“Hardly. Being a queen in Spain was all about duty and obedience to God and King. She wouldn’t have had much of a life by today’s standards but she worked hard as her king’s
regent and was credited with keeping the land in order while he was off waging war.”
“Cool lady.”
“And those magnificent clothes you see were extraordinarily uncomfortable, more symbolic of her station than anything else. Her chest was constrained by a bodice designed to flatten her breasts as if negating her femininity. The men, on the other hand, got to prance around with their codpieces prominently displayed and their shapely legs revealed in silk hose. Being overtly male was celebrated, being overtly female never.”
“Peacocks,” she remarked. “Matron, virgin, or whore?”
“Something like that. Femininity, even of the queenly sort, was all about holding it in and stifling your true self. You never shook your tail feathers if you were a queen.”
“Hell,” she said, gazing up with a regal bearing all her own. “I can’t imagine stifling my tail feathers for a moment.”
Since her tail feathers at that moment were encased in violet stretch leggings, I laughed. I took a quick scan around us—no chairs, tables, or lamps nearby to house surveillance items and the fireplace still crackled loudly enough to mask conversation. I whispered: “How are you doing?”
“Fine. I just had a bit of a meltdown. Little Ana Marie is dredging stuff up.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. We all have our wounds. The key is to go through life without bleeding all over the place. I just dribbled a bit back there.”
I gave her a quick sideways hug.
“So tell me more about this painting,” she asked.
“Something’s up,” I whispered. “See that blob of sfumato?”
“That blob of what-o?”
“Sfumato. It means to blend like smoke, a technique the masters used to blend tones and colors together to create a realistic shading that recedes seamlessly into the background. It made their subjects shine.”
Peaches leaned closer to the painting. “I thought that might be dirt, old varnish or something.”
“Maybe it is.”
“Excuse me for interrupting,” a voice said at our backs. “Penelope, but would you mind terribly if Phoebe and I were to stroll the garden to take a spot of air?”
We turned to see Rupert looking as though he needed something— either coffee or a nap but probably not air.
“Does air even come in spots?” Peaches asked.
Rupert smiled wanly. “A figure of speech, Penelope, my dear, as well you know.”
She pursed her lips, then laughed. “Just funning with you, Rupe, honey. So will taking this spot of air involve just the two of you?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind terribly. We have had so little time to speak alone for many, many months.”
“Sure,” she said with a shrug.
“Excellent. We won’t go far,” Rupert assured her.
14
Moments later, Rupert and I strode into the hall. The quickest route outside would have been one floor down and out one of the many side entrances leading to the gardens.
We were just turning right toward the main stairs when a man stepped out in front of us. I recognized him from the day before—one of the men who had accompanied us to the well, the same man who’d threatened Rupert. Short, muscular with a bony forehead lunging over deep-set eyes, he flashed us an unconvincing smile. “I am Senhor Craca and I will be your escort. Where you go?”
“We were only planning to take a little stroll in the garden, if you don’t mind,” Rupert huffed.
Craca peeled his lips back from his teeth. “Where you go, I follow,” he said. “For your safety.”
“Our safety?” Rupert countered. “But we are only taking a brief walk in the garden in broad daylight, I said. Surely that won’t require an escort?”
“Very dangerous now. You need escort."
I nudged Rupert, who sighed and stifled his complaints. Together we followed the man without further protest down the central staircase toward the main hall. Once on that broad tiled boulevard, Craca turned right, as if heading for the formal entrance. A maid heading toward us suddenly ducked inside a room while another ladened with a tray of tea things stopped short at the sight of us and retreated quickly down an adjacent hall. Rupert and I exchanged glances.
And so we walked the entire grand central hall and for once none of the treasures on either side caught my attention. We were just approaching the main doors when I glimpsed something small and pink flash out of the corner of my eye. I blinked. It was Ana Marie crouched in a corner behind a potted palm. She was inching forward as if planning to dash out. Rupert motioned her back. She glanced toward Craca before shrinking into the shadows and disappearing.
I paused, trying to see where she had gone, but saw nothing but the wall and a cluster of greenery. Craca ordered to us to hurry, so we quickened our pace.
“There is barely a veil of civility,” Rupert muttered as we struggled to catch up. “It is most alarming.”
The front garden’s formal sweep of boulevards and fountains were shrouded in heavy mist when we descended the outer stairs, the damp pressing against our faces like a wet cloth. Still, I breathed in the moisture-ladened air with a strange sense of relief. It only then occurred to me how claustrophobic the interior had become.
“I fear that I may not have dressed appropriately for the day,” Rupert remarked, gazing ahead. His dapper linen jacket did seem a little thin for the day. “Best we keep our walk brief.”
“My feet are still a bit sore so that’s fine with me. Besides, we may have little choice. The Doberman seems restless,” I remarked.
As if he’d overheard, Craca stopped in his tracks and turned to wait for us to catch up. “You stay close. Easy to get lost in mist,” he said.
Rupert led me toward the edge of the path. “Surely we’re in no risk of becoming lost while on the main thoroughfare,” he protested. “If you don’t mind, senhor, I would rather not have you walking so close.” He flapped his hand at the man as if shooing flies. “Do step back.” The man stepped back. “More, more. There. At least three meters distance will suffice.”
Craca glowered but remained a distance behind us.
“A most unpleasant guard dog,” Rupert whispered as we strolled on ahead.
“Since when did we even have guard dogs?” I asked. “And the fact that he went through the main doors is meant to be a show of power—somebody’s, anyway.”
“As you’ve no doubt deduced, the Divinios have infiltrated the castle,” he whispered. “That one is proof. Evan is attempting to secure our communication channels just in case we are under surveillance. Since many have no doubt been on staff all along, they have doubtless won the family’s trust.” He brought his lips so close to my ear I could feel his breath. “We have devised a plan.”
“You have?”
“Thank you for accompanying me, Phoebe,” Rupert said loudly as we continued down the path. “I merely craved some air. In truth, I have not been feeling quite up to snuff.”
“No problem, Rupert,” I assured him, patting his arm. We were halfway down the first broad manicured path and Craca was walking only a few feet at our heels.
Rupert spoke more loudly. “What we saw yesterday must be one of the best preserved underground archaeological sites in existence. I have never seen such a thing. I am very glad to have had the opportunity to view it before we leave tomorrow.”
“Subtle,” I whispered.
He paused to dab his forehead with a hanky, one of the old-fashioned accessories he refused to relinquish. “Oh, my, but all this walking is quite laborious, isn’t it? I was feeling unwell in there and hoped fresh air would help.”
“Rupert, stop trying to fool me or yourself,” I said. “This entire trip has been too much for you given that you are still recovering.”
“Nonsense. You do know that the word ‘invalid’ can also be pronounced with the emphasis on the middle syllable as in in-VA-lid. I refuse to be rendered in-va-lid by a microorganism. There is only so much insult a man can bear. Besides, I l
ive for adventures such as this.” Then he dropped his voice again. “We must talk. No place is safe but this is the best opportunity we have.”
“Let’s rest,” I said loudly as I steered him over to one of the marble benches positioned between a troll-like topiary and a small leaping dolphin statue. “Senhor Craca,” I called. “My friend is exhausted. We’ll be along momentarily. Don’t feel the need to wait.”
The man’s blunted features seemed even more blurred in the mist as he gave us a curt nod. For a few aching seconds I feared that he’d come stand over us and nix any chances for privacy. Instead, he abruptly turned to talk into his phone, strolling far enough away to put us out of earshot.
“He will not be leaving us unaccompanied for long, believe me,” Rupert whispered. “That cur is one of them.”
I stared at the man’s back. “Okay, tell me what you need to say and please keep it brief.”
“Yes, indeed. Senhora Carvalho is merely playing into their hands but leaving the family alone with these monsters is most unadvisable, no matter where that blasted crown may lay.”
I leaned forward and lowered my voice further. “I agree that we can’t leave tomorrow. And?”
“We have formulated a plan. Truly I am not feeling up to snuff, which can be used to our advantage. Wait for the sign.”
“Who’s ‘we’? And the plan is?”
“Careful, here comes our pit bull.”
Senhor Craca was marching forward, his feet crunching on the gravel. “We go now,” he ordered. “Move, please.”
“Tell me your plan before it’s too late,” I whispered.
But it was already too late. Craca arrived to stand over us, glowering. Rupert heaved an exaggerated sigh and stood, the two of us making a slow measured progress behind the guard toward the house.
Rupert was perspiring so heavily that I knew his weariness wasn’t feigned. Without knowing the details of the plan, I had no idea how to play the situation from here on. Best to just follow his lead. “Rupert, you need to rest. You’re in no shape to go anywhere tomorrow,” I whispered.
The Crown that Lost its Head: A Historical Mystery Thriller (An Agency of the Ancient Lost & Found Mystery Thriller Book 2) Page 17
