Perhaps whatever secret she hid was so dangerous she didn’t feel she could tell anyone, not even him, and she might have buried herself so deeply that she felt at odds with digging her way out. He’d play it quiet: mention the artifact and a man with a gun, assume the police would know if this was a pattern of looting. Maybe get them to tell him what Diana would not.
She was secret after secret, and he hated getting foolishly played to trip into churches with her. But some semblance of his pride made way for the fact that she wouldn’t be deceiving him unless she truly had to. If she was in danger, he needed to know. He also needed to be smarter than to lug a priceless relic around the city with him.
He turned the relic over in his hand. Oleum medicina: holy medicine. He could use some medicine right now. Preferably the kind that would switch off the part of his brain that painted the entirety of King’s College with Diana’s memory. All of the churches too.
In front of St. Martin Church, Ludgate, Brent had realized he wanted her for the rest of his life. While light had flickered through the dozens of windows in Wren’s Lantern—St. James Garlickhythe—Brent first reached for her hand. At All Hallows-by-the-Tower, the crypt below the cold stones witnessed the first time he had pressed his lips to the soft skin of her wrist. He had learned that her mother had died at her birth and her father was a professor at Cambridge as the mournful chords of Stephen Walbrook’s organ ascended to the famous coffered dome. Under the great bell of Mary-le-Bow she had told him she loved him. She said it first. It spilled out just as rain pounded the arched windows and he tucked his sketching pencil behind his ear.
They also talked about languages. The romantic ones she spoke on account of her boarding school background and her determined father had roots so different from those in the languages familiar to him. While there was poetry in ancient rhythm, she found it difficult to wrap her head around some of the characters Brent showed her. But he promised her that every word he pointed out in a dictionary she could not read was one of the Greek words of love, and she adored him for it.
She had become a fixture at King’s beyond the faculty parties she accompanied him to.
Silas Henderson had hired her as a tutor in a part-time position. Had counseled her on finding a tenure track. “It was Rick’s recommendation, of course.” Neither mentioned it was also because young men in their early twenties were being served their orders far from the laurels and halls of King’s.
There was a lot of Rick in those days. Even if Brent didn’t count him a true rival, Mariner was continually persistent. Brent smoothed his finger over the artifact. The man was a cad, but he never had Diana’s heart. Still didn’t. Brent did. He hoped he did.
Five weeks. A favor for a friend.
Brent shook his head. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more than a little odd that it was just sitting out there in the open. Workers tramped in and out of the grounds at All Hallows almost daily. That it was priceless enough that someone might kill for it. That it must have been noticed by the many archaeologists and planners circling the grounds.
Brent rubbed his bleary eyes, grabbed the vial, and headed to Rick Mariner’s office a short stroll down the corridor. Desperate times. He growled as he knocked on Mariner’s door.
“Two days in a row, Somerville. You must have missed me something fierce. Still planning on keeping that relic?”
“I was wondering if you knew an archaeologist. One who might work with the wrecked churches who might know why a civilian could so easily find a valuable artifact.”
Rick didn’t meet Brent’s eyes. “You want a second opinion?”
“No. I don’t doubt your assessment. But I want to know what is the best course of action.”
“A compliment. I’m flattered.” Mariner shrugged. “Try Margaret Reed. She’s been heading some digs around the old walls.”
Brent smiled briefly at the telephone number Mariner gave him and turned toward the door.
“Diana sure took her time getting back to you, Somerville.”
Brent stalled in the doorway. “Well, it took all of us time to get back. Those who served.” They both knew Rick hadn’t on account of his eyesight. Brent thought of adding another jab that pointed to what was surely his rich father’s influence but decided against it. “Chaos, wasn’t it? For everyone.”
Brent returned to his office to find a letter under the door advising him to begin publishing again. Treatises and books and guest lecturing. They’d press on as if nothing had happened. He had always been a bright mind and an asset to the scholarship and affluent reputation of the college. He shuffled a few papers, opened a nearby book, and closed it again.
Brent’s relationship to his field of study had changed drastically. Little help his mate Ross had been when he and the bloke pushed blindly through a maze of mud, smoke, and consistent artillery, not hearing Ross’s directions over his own yelled responses. The hope Brent found in the enthusiasm in Paul’s letters, the surrounding culture, the apostle’s ability to speak in the languages of the countries and regions he was visiting to be best understood had waned with the death Brent saw daily. Sometimes he felt so different—especially since his weeks back behind the podium—speaking on topics as familiar as breathing but weighted with the history of his new perception.
A new perception now shadowed by Diana’s return.
He closed his folder, rolled his pen over the blotter, and made up his mind on two immediate courses of action that had little to do with his professorial job and all to do with his personal life. First he would call Margaret Reed, then he would go to the police. A man with a gun had been roaming a churchyard. Brent at least deserved to know if this was a pattern or the center of a larger investigation. He had heard of looters during the war. Perhaps this was something he and Diana would encounter again if she continued to consult on churches. He wouldn’t risk it. He had lost too much already.
Brent took a deep breath and dialed Margaret Reed’s number.
They exchanged pleasantries and he mentioned Rick Mariner’s referral.
“Smart man, Mariner.”
“Yes,” Brent said. Among other things.
Margaret continued to list zones and blockades, a background on the work that had already been done and that was in process. Brent provided the necessary “mm-hmms” and “rights” in agreement, even as his mind trailed.
What had Diana been looking for? Or was it possible she anticipated meeting someone? Then why take him with her? He knew her interest in the churches was genuine and beginning at All Hallows made sentimental sense, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was far calmer than he had been at the sight of a gun.
Was there a pattern in the churches she took him to? Walbrook was a Wren. Diana was a Wren scholar. Why not find an architectural historian with a stronger knowledge of Roman London to see to the former?
“What I have is a fairly priceless artifact according to Dr. Mariner’s assessment,” Brent said.
“People were looting churches even while the bombs went off. Just as they were houses. Though I don’t recall pillaging churches being slated a capital offense. A good treasure hunter would have gone through immediately. Especially the buildings in and around the gates where items would arguably hold more value. That and the riverside where the Romans would first have docked on the banks. A team of archaeologists has been quite dedicated and quite careful. You never know when there is an undetonated explosive. They rained like Noah’s flood itself, did they not?” Margaret stopped a moment. “Most of what we found is around the wall. Cripplegate. That neighborhood will never look the same.”
Brent grimaced. Clerkenwell’s priories and arches were equally desecrated. Christ Church Greyfriars was overrun with rubble in nearby High Holborn. The city had released a series of commemorative postcards, owning their losses and capturing the world they intended to rebuild.
Brent sighed. “So the most valuable artifacts? At All Hallows perhaps? Stephen Walbrook?”
“It’s been a hard balance as the city crews have had to clear the rubble without destroying anything of great significance.”
“So I couldn’t just wander into a bombed churchyard like the amateur I am and stumble onto something?”
“I suppose you could, but it is unlikely. Men have been working for several years now, ever since the Blitz started. Tell me more about your found artifact.”
“Rick Mariner said it’s oleum medicina. But why would All Hallows have a relic? I thought relics were interred only in cathedrals.”
“There is some scholarship, though not widely known, that says this returned to London with Prior Rahere.”
“The fellow who built Great St. Bart’s? The hospital?”
“Yes, he went on a pilgrimage. He had a regular Saul of Tarsus moment. If true, it would account for how it got to St. Bart’s. There are a lot of black-market relics around. If it is what you say, it is worth a fortune. Sure you’re not going to pawn it?”
“I guarantee you I am not. It is just one clue leading to something far more valuable.” Brent gingerly put the vial back in his pocket. “And it’s rather odd I have it at all.”
“And where at All Hallows did you find it?”
“By the wall. Well, what remained of the wall.” How had the workers missed the vial he found? Was it a mistake or an oversight or something contributing to every mystery following Diana? Could it be bait?
The long static silence on the line and Margaret’s asking if he was still there drew him back. “You love history, like my wife. And the Germans did their best to erase ours from right under us.”
“History without fallen kingdoms is just a fairy tale, Professor Somerville. The true beauty is in resilience. We’ll see the cracks in our façades, but we will know what went into their creation. London will be more beautiful because it was torn apart but didn’t stay so.” She paused a moment. “If you like, I can give you a contact at Scotland Yard. They’ve been very helpful at distributing artifacts as best as possible. His name is Wright. Martin Wright.”
Two birds with one stone. “That would be very helpful. Thank you.” Brent scribbled the man’s name before he thanked her again and hung up.
Brent collected a breath. You’re calling Scotland Yard. About your wife. And she doesn’t know. His hand hovered over the receiver. He could so easily ring Diana and tell her exactly what he was doing. Involve her. The danger was equally hers.
But before he could think or stop himself, the operator transferred him to Martin Wright’s secretary and Brent was answering a list of questions and arranging a meeting time less than an hour hence.
The cab ride to Westminster and Scotland Yard seemed too long and too short in turn. When he stepped through the doors, the same young woman who spoke to him on the phone met him in a long corridor and ushered him into Inspector Martin Wright’s office on the second floor.
“A Professor Somerville to see you, sir,” the secretary said after a rap on the door and a gruff, “Come in.”
Brent smiled at her and removed his hat.
“Don’t see a lot of civilians here, especially not with missing trinkets,” Wright said by way of greeting. He took a long drag of his cigarette without rising to shake Brent’s hand. He motioned for Brent to sit. “But it’s slow going and since you sounded so earnest on the phone, my secretary wanted me to help you.”
“You mean crime has decreased since the war?”
“Oh no. Not at all. I just can’t do a lot about it.” Wright stretched one leg out from behind his desk and tapped it. “It’s aluminum now. Can’t exactly cat-and-mouse baddies through Islington.”
“I suppose not.”
“Lucky to have work at all. Mostly paperwork. But I had some time and Nancy said something about a professor and a relic and I thought I needed a little culture, Somerville.”
“Yes.”
“And you say that someone pursued you with a gun at All Hallows?”
“Yes.”
“And you were followed at All Hallows?”
“I don’t know if I was followed, but a man had a gun.”
“Or if I could look into who might want something of your wife?”
“Oh heavens, yes.”
“But I can’t.”
Brent shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Wright butted out his cigarette and lit another one. “I can’t look into your wife’s files without military clearance.”
Brent startled. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t have the level of clearance to work on files of that level. What did your wife do during the war?”
How did Brent fashion what he knew was a lie into something enough for the policeman? “She wrote me about her translation work with the Foreign Office. You’re sure you have the right Diana Somerville?” His heart thrummed loudly. “Try Foyle. We had just married before I shipped off.”
Wright shifted a few papers, but Brent knew this was just for show. “I’m sorry.”
“You could check out Sophie Villiers.” He warmed to this idea. “Diana had a friend. She wrote me about her. Her father had some sort of title.”
“I did,” Wright said. “Mentioned in association with your wife. Villiers. Military classified. Is it possible this has nothing to do with a stolen artifact? This is out of my jurisdiction, Professor.”
They both knew the question was rhetorical, but even so, Wright looked concerned when Brent didn’t answer. He couldn’t make his mouth move. Frozen to his chair, Brent tried to imagine four years of Diana’s life a blank slate.
“It’s clear you had no idea.” Wright’s brow furrowed. “We underestimate them, don’t we? Think they’ll come home and just blab everything like a church social. But it is clear they have secrets too. And your wife is a locked vault. A good secret keeper.”
Diana, who muttered all of the gates over and over and who woke up with a new slice of information about Wren. Who was never really comfortable in groups but chatted incessantly with him. Who had all the grace of a pigeon at their first dance. Who couldn’t hold a tune to save her life.
“So . . . you can’t help us, then.” Brent matted his hair down over the scar on his temple.
“There’s a lot about this situation that is out of my hands, Professor Somerville. Not a lot you can do either. In cases like these if a file requires military clearance, it is almost certain the subject signed the Official Secrets Act. In which case there is a severe chance that if your wife did divulge her wartime activities, she could be penalized by imprisonment or, worse yet, tried for treason.”
Brent felt the room swim. It was too hot and close all of a sudden. He couldn’t sit here and think about Diana and treason in the same sentence.
Brent held out the vial to Wright, who waved it away. “I have no evidence that this was connected to a crime.”
Brent turned it ruefully. Maybe it would turn out to be a hint. A clue.
“Where did you serve?” Wright asked.
“Ortona. Ghent. A lot of small villages in Belgium.”
“If you decide to pawn that dusty thing for a small fortune, you’ve earned it.”
Brent pressed his lips together in a sad smile. “You’re sure the file is Di . . . is my wife’s?”
“Couldn’t get anywhere with it. Even if I wanted to. I’m sorry.”
“Well, thank you for your time.” Brent collected his hat and made for the doorway.
“Hold on one moment,” Wright said and Brent halted. “It’s likely not her fault.”
“I know that.”
He patted his prosthetic leg. “We were all asked to do something or other, weren’t we? For the war effort.”
Brent focused on the door handle. “For the war effort.”
He strode from Westminster along the Thames, the boats bopping over murky water rippling in the sun. He couldn’t catch his breath, and as soon as he found it, it left again in a ragged gulp. He was living with a stranger. She had rescinded her marrie
d name. Brent couldn’t fathom the apparent love in her eyes was a ruse. She’d fallen into him with such relief as if a four-year-long exhale rushed through her the moment he came into view. She couldn’t be such a wonderful actress. He had held her. Touched her. Loved her. Laughed with her and told secrets in the dark with her. They had plotted a future and now, living it, they were passing by each other.
Brent felt nauseous. He waved away the kind ministrations of a stopping passerby and straightened his shoulders while he shoved his injured hand into his trouser pocket. As if in mockery, St. Paul’s began to chime. The bell friends Diana so loved. Great Tom and Great Paul cast in Whitechapel.
Once Brent reached Fleet Street, he changed his course and walked not to Farringdon and Cowcross in the direction home but to the opposite side of Smithfield Market . . . or what remained of it. He paced quickly through Cloth Fair and set into the church courtyard where he had first seen Diana: green hat askew, smile wide, talking about Prior Rahere. His heart had turned over and then been new that day. All hers forevermore. But all whose?
Inside the dark, echoing stones of Great St. Bart’s, he found a chair and scraped it over the cracked tile, removing his hat. A lone congregant lit a candle in the chapel behind him, the sunlight catching the few medieval prisms of glass that had withstood the fire and the Great War. Funny, Great St. Bart’s was untouched by the recent one. Still intact. Looked about the same. Unscarred.
How could he face her now? What would he say?
There was something in the din and acoustics of a hollow church of rock and brick that welcomed an exhale. You could hide yourself in here. Safe in its boundaries. He let his gaze roam over the room. Inlaid checkered tiles and thousand-year-old stone had been blighted by footprints. Candelabras flickered unevenly, wax melted into blob statues where they met their pewter holders, nearly snuffed out by prayers.
The London Restoration Page 10
