Artifact (A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery)

by Pandian, Gigi

  “You’re amazing,” Lane said. He moved his hand as if he was about to grab mine. I moved away from him to avoid the touch and walked toward the car.

  “The car is this way,” I said. “I need full concentration to drive on the left side of the road at night. No more talking until we get out of here. Then you can tell me everything.” My voice was steady. The emotions bubbling inside me weren’t.

  “You’re not going back to the inn, are you?”

  “No. I don’t know where we’re going yet. Somewhere away from here.”

  My mind raced as I drove through the night. I’m sure my driving matched the speed of my thoughts but Lane obliged me by not saying a word. An idea was forming in my mind. It almost fit. A member of the Gregor family had a piece of the treasure, but not the whole thing. Pictish standing stones and a Pictish archaeological dig were close to the Gregor Estate, which was built by a man who made his fortune during the time of the British Empire in India. Something connected the Pictish dig and the Rajasthan Rubies to the Gregor family.

  I drove to the empty parking lot of the nearby Dunnottar Castle ruins. The ruins can only be accessed on foot, via the steep path that leads down to sea level and then back up the sea-bound cliff to the fortress.

  The parking lot is across the abyss, giving a view of the castle in all its ruinous glory atop the treacherous cliffs overlooking the ocean. In the faint moonlight, the stones appeared as a black silhouette in front of the sea.

  I pulled into the dirt lot, with the sliver of moon high above the ruins. I put the car into park and turned to face Lane, looking at the now-familiar shadows beneath his smooth hair on his angular face.

  I reached over and pulled him toward me, kissing him deeply. His lips were cold and smoky. And more than anything, wonderful. He didn’t resist or question me. His tension melted away as the powerful kiss lingered.

  My phone buzzed. Lane pulled away.

  It was a text message from Sanjay. You okay? Did it work?

  I couldn’t believe that less than twenty-four hours had passed since he suggested I leave a note under Knox’s door. A note that I hadn’t yet been able to follow up on.

  “My friend has the worst timing,” I said. “One second.”

  Worked great, I typed back. All is well! No sense in worrying Sanjay for no reason.

  “Are you sure he’s just a friend?” Lane asked.

  “Sanjay?” I laughed at the ridiculous idea that Sanjay was anything other than like a brother to me. “Yes.”

  I threw my phone back into my bag.

  “It’s time for you to tell me what you were talking about at the police station,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “I owe you an explanation.”

  With the dramatic castle as a backdrop, a small night animal scampered across the field, too small to spook me into thinking it was my bean nighe fairy.

  The bean nighe. The spirit of a dark-haired young woman who died in childbirth.

  The answer clicked into place.

  It was so simple. The British East India Company was the key all along. Just not in the way I thought it was.

  “Jaya?” Lane said. “Are you listening to me?”

  “I’ve got it,” I said. “I know what this is all about.”

  Lane might be up to no good. But I also knew I was safe with him. And that I wanted to be there with him. That was enough. I had a million questions, but there would be time for him to answer them later. We had something more pressing to attend to.

  “I trust you,” I said. “I need you to trust me now.”

  Chapter 38

  I started the car and pulled onto the small road leading to the inn for the second time that evening. I hoped Fergus and Angus hadn’t already started on their walk back home.

  “What are you doing?” Lane asked. “It looks like you’re headed back to the inn.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing. I need to ask Fergus and Angus one question. Then I’ll know if I’m right.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t think this is about Lug’s Spear instead of your Indian treasure. You were right.”

  “That’s not what I’m getting at,” Lane said. “You can’t expect me to walk in there. Someone set me up for a reason. It’ll be better if they don’t know I’m out of jail. I don’t know that it’s such a great idea for you to go back in there, either.”

  I swore.

  “Pull over,” Lane said.

  “We’re not close enough to the inn yet,” I said. “I’ll leave you with the car, but I’m still going back in. I have to ask them—”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. Look.”

  Sure enough, at a slight bend in the road the headlights bounced off Fergus and Angus, who were walking down the side of the road.

  I pulled over and turned to Lane. “You don’t think Fergus and Angus are involved, do you?”

  “Well, it’s too late anyway.” He pointed. “They’ve seen us.”

  I stepped out of the car. With the headlights off, the night was dark. Fergus and Angus walked without a flashlight. Without heavy coats either. Lane leaned up against the car and lit a cigarette as Fergus and Angus approached. He glanced at me with an inquisitive look, but didn’t speak. My eyes adjusted to the faint moonlight as the two dark figures drew near.

  “Break out then, did ye?” Fergus said to Lane with a crooked smile as the two men reached us.

  “Ye dunnae say,” Angus said. He took his pipe out from between his lips and looked Lane up and down.

  “All a misunderstanding,” Lane replied.

  “Told ye, Fergus,” Angus said.

  “Ach, ye’ll be winnin’ the wager.”

  “Can we give you a lift?” I asked.

  “Suppose it’s a bit nippy this evenin’,” Fergus said.

  Angus nodded, and we all climbed into the car. Fergus told me where to go.

  “I need to ask you a question,” I said.

  “Aye?” Fergus said from the backseat.

  “Fergus, when you thought I was a dark fairy when you first saw me, was it a specific bean nighe fairy you thought I was?”

  “O’course. Ye think I’m daft ‘n go ‘round seein’ fayries everywhere?”

  “Tell me about her,” I said.

  “Ach, it was the local lass down the way who died givin’ birth to a child. Makin’ her a bean nighe. A wee lass, lookin’ like ye.”

  “She means the story o’ the lass,” Angus said.

  “Ach, I ken. Ye think I’ll be daft as well, Angus?”

  “Well, yer not tellin’ the story to the lass, Fergus, are ye?”

  “Ach.”

  “Ye’ll need to turn off the road here,” Angus directed me. “Ye see,” he added, “it was a local lass, is why we have our local bean nighe legend.”

  “Legend,” Fergus scoffed.

  “Let me guess,” I said, stopping the car in front of a cottage that Angus indicated was his. “Was this shortly after 1857?”

  I turned toward the backseat and saw Fergus’ wild white eyebrows go up in consternation. “Ach,” he exclaimed, “it’s how I said. She’s one of ‘em! How else would she have figured the year?”

  “Tis an interestin’ question, Fergus,” Angus said thoughtfully.

  “Why did you think Jaya looked like her?” Lane cut in.

  “The portrait,” Fergus said.

  “A portrait of the lass was at the Rat & Parrot pub down the way,” Angus added. “They’ll be havin’ the details, Fergus.”

  “Ach.”

  “Jaya looks like the local woman in this portrait from a hundred and fifty years ago?” Lane asked.

  The two men nodded in agreement.

  “What was her surname?” I asked.

  “Was it McDonald, Angus?” Fergus asked his friend.

  “McDonnah.”

  “Close enough, eh?”

  My heart sank. I had been so sure. But neither McDonnah or McDonald fit my the
ory. It felt even worse to be let down after feeling as if I had figured it out.

  I pulled over where Angus indicated. Both of them stepped out. Fergus was grumbling about Americans not making any sense. He assured me his own home was close by, so there was no need for me to go to the bother of taking him a few yards down the road. I suspected he wasn’t sure he wanted to be in the car with me any longer.

  Angus walked up to the door of the charming small cottage, and Fergus started down the dirt road. Angus was turning his doorknob when the idea struck me.

  “Angus,” I called out, scrambling out of the car and running up to him. “She died giving birth to a child. So she was married?”

  “Aye,” he nodded.

  “So McDonnah was her married name.”

  Angus scratched his beard and looked me over.

  “Do you know her maiden name?” I continued.

  “That one I can be sure of. She was a Gregor. That’s why they took back her portrait from the pub, once they opened up that Gregor Estate.”

  That settled it. I was right. I rushed back to the car.

  “You’re driving,” I said to Lane, pushing him over to the driver’s side.

  “I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask why it matters that Fergus thinks you look like one of the Gregors from one hundred and fifty years ago who became part of a fairy legend?”

  “One hundred fifty years ago,” I said. “Don’t you see? 1857 was the Sepoy Uprising. That’s how the Rajasthan Rubies made it out of India undetected, and why the treasure hasn’t resurfaced. One of the Gregors did get his hands on the treasure and smuggle it out of the country. The one who built the estate. I know what we’re looking for now: An Indian treasure wrapped up in a Scottish legend.”

  Chapter 39

  The Gregor Estate was desolate in the dark night. A harsh wind rippled through the smattering of trees. The ravine that ran along one side of the large house was black in the darkness of the night, creating the ominous sensation that we were at the edge of a dark void.

  “It was Gregor family jewels that were supposedly stolen by you,” I said. “The police officers told me they received a fax from Sir Edward Gregor of London. This family is the key to the treasure after all.”

  I broke off. “I don’t suppose you can break us in?” I wasn’t sure if I was joking.

  Lane turned toward me with a mischievous glimmer in his eye.

  “Not without research,” he said. “There could be dogs, alarms, who knows what. You’ll have to wait until it opens. Now, are you going to tell me exactly what you’ve pieced together?”

  “I suppose you’re right that it doesn’t make sense to break in,” I consented. “But it doesn’t matter. I can tell you what’s going on. Think about what we learned when we first came here. Willoughby Gregor, the man who built this estate, was a Company man. His son Connor worked for the British Raj, not the Company. It was much more organized by then. Connor wasn’t the one who made the fortune that created this estate. His father did. And I know how he did it. By stealing the Rajasthan Rubies. Connor is portrayed in the role of patriarch in those portraits we saw at the estate because he was the one to make a big deal of the family’s wealth. His father Willoughby wouldn’t have wanted to show off his wealth because of how he created his fortune. We didn’t pay enough attention to the timing.”

  “But it wasn’t easy for the British to steal treasures of such significance just because they were in power,” Lane said.

  “I know,” I said. “But there was one period of time where it would have been possible. I cannot believe that I was so blind before. This estate was built in the late 1850s. That’s right after the Sepoy Uprising, India’s first battle for independence from Britain, in 1857. Rupert didn’t get the scope of my research wrong after all. This uprising was a huge deal in its implications, and led to the end of control of the British East India Company and the creation of the British Raj.

  “Sepoys were the Indian soldiers employed by the Company, and some foolish moves on the part of the British led to an uprising in Delhi. The British were entirely unprepared. The Sepoy soldiers were both Hindu and Muslim, and rumors began circulating that the new rifle cartridges, that had to be bitten before being inserted into the rifles, were greased with cow and pig fat, which was obviously unacceptable to the Hindus and Muslims. This was going on amidst the backdrop of rumors of forced conversion to Christianity, and the Doctrine of Lapse was in full swing—” I broke off as I noticed Lane’s face displayed a combination of amusement and impatience.

  “The history lesson is important,” I said. “Mass chaos broke out, too many people died, and property was destroyed and stolen. At the end of the uprising—also called The Great Mutiny, for obvious reasons—the Mughal Empire was finished, and the East India Company was abolished in favor of rule directly from the British Crown.”

  “A time of chaos,” Lane said. “A perfect time for looting a treasure.”

  “Exactly. You can see the importance of the turmoil. All sorts of people were displaced and treasures of all kinds were looted. That whole year, while the power structure was established, the meticulous record-keeping of the British fell apart.”

  “But what does that have to do with the bean nighe?” Lane asked.

  “The answer is inside the estate,” I said, “along with the answer to where the treasure is hidden.”

  “You’re not going to tell me how you suspect it was done and how it tells us where the rest of the treasure is?”

  “It sounds silly if I don’t show you. I can show you as soon as the estate opens. Relax. I know now that no one is going to break through the car window and yank me out—”

  “I really wish you would stop saying things like that.” Lane ran his fingers though his hair, looking nervously out of the car.

  “I got you out of jail,” I said. “You’ve been holding out on me a lot longer than I have on you. Now tell. And start at the beginning. I know it must be a long story. We have time. Talk.”

  Lane sighed, and though his face remained stoic his eyes smiled at me.

  “Jones, you have got to be the most exceptional woman I have ever met.”

  “Don’t you dare get sentimental on me, I liked you just fine before. And that’s not the beginning.”

  “Shall I start with my father?” Lane said. “Isn’t that where one is supposed to start?”

  “Only if I was going to psychoanalyze you.”

  “Please don’t. But it makes sense anyway. My father did business overseas, so I spent most of my childhood in the American schools in too many European and Asian countries to count.”

  “Your foreign languages,” I said. “And the cigarettes Nadia liked.”

  “That’s why I understand that feeling of yours about not quite fitting in, not like you’re supposed to.” He tapped an unlit cigarette against his leg nervously. “It’s strange, telling the story of my life—the real one, I mean—to anyone.”

  A gust of wind shook the car. The night sky was clear above us, but clouds loomed in the distance.

  “I had a natural aptitude for linguistics,” Lane continued, “along with a natural skepticism of everything my father did. All of his wealthy associates cared more about their vacation homes and mistresses than their wives and children.”

  He paused and looked out into the night instead of facing me, seeming to search for what he wanted to say.

  “Superficially, I fit in everywhere I went,” he said, “picking up the language easily. You’d think it was something I should have been happy about. But I wasn’t. They were so contented to play by their rules, using morally questionable business practices to keep their yachts and their caviar coming. No one even likes caviar. They think they’re supposed to savor it, so they buy it and pretend to.

  “It was a game. Imitating their mannerisms, their accents, their speech patterns. By the time I left for college in England, I didn’t have any grand dreams of what to do with my life. All I had was bitt
erness.”

  “So you just decided to become a jewel thief?”

  “It wasn’t a conscious choice.” He rubbed his eyes, his lean fingers bumping up against the thick frames of his glasses in the process. “This isn’t easy for me, you know. For all I know you could turn me in.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Do I have any right to think that you wouldn’t?” He cast his eyes downward. When I squeezed his hand, he looked back up at me.

  “It wasn’t a conscious choice,” he said. “I flitted around to various groups, always pretending to be someone I wasn’t. Then I met a man. John. I guess you could call him my mentor. He showed me something more productive I could do with my talents.

  “I’m not going to lie to you and say I was altruistic—fighting the system to change the world, or being Robin Hood, or any nonsense like that. But I never stole from anyone who couldn’t afford it, and I never used a weapon—John taught me that—so I never hurt anyone, either monetarily or physically. I just helped myself. And got even with them.”

  It all made perfect sense from everything that I had seen in him. I didn’t want to forgive him, or make excuses for him. But I didn’t want to judge him either.

  “It happened without me realizing how far I’d come,” he said. “I was good. Good enough that I wasn’t afraid of getting caught. I assumed a different persona and was a completely different person in every city.

  “You know what it feels like,” he said. “Fitting in on the surface, but wanting something more, even if you can’t grasp what that something is.”

  “What did you steal?” I asked him. But I thought I already knew the answer.

  “Mostly jewelry. Sometimes art. But jewelry is easiest to sneak out of the country.”

  “That’s why you knew about this treasure—and what it was called!”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s not quite as bad as you make it sound, though. I hadn’t put it together until you brought me the photograph. No one had. Not scholars, and not people with, ah, other ideas in mind, either. There were vague rumors in certain circles of a piece of the Rajasthan Rubies existing, like there was speculation in academic circles that artwork showing the jewels might have depicted real jewelry, but nothing concrete—no proof—so I had to piece things together.”