“Guess I’ll just have to deal with it this time.” As well as prove she was an investigator in her own right, and not just tagging along with hubby for the fun of it.
The plane landed and they disembarked, waded through customs and caught a black square-shaped taxi into town.
Miranda bolted upright when the driver swung into the lane and was about to shout, “Look out!” until she remembered they drove on the left side here.
Wait, he was also sitting on the right side of the front seat. That jet lag had really done a number on her. Scowling at Parker’s amused look, she settled back in the seat.
It was raining, as the view from the plane had indicated, and the windshield wipers swooshed back and forth monotonously while music and strange ads played softly on the radio.
The cab had the leathery smell of public transportation mixed with an exotic, foreign scent Miranda couldn’t place, and the scenery outside the windows was as monotonous as the wipers. Except for orange signs and flashing numbers she assumed were the speed limit, the curvy route looked a lot like the stretches of interstate around Atlanta in the rain. Concrete road barriers giving way to acres of tall brown grass dotted with trees along the highway.
Parker handed her the local newspaper he’d bought in the airport. “You might want to see this.”
She took it and unfolded it.
“Marc Antony Dagger Snatched from Museum.” The story had made the front page. An elderly gentleman with a head of neatly groomed, pure white hair stood gaping at the open crate before him. Surrounded by what she assumed were museum personnel, he wore a dark suit with an Ascot at the neck over a thin body that seemed a bit frail.
The look of shock and dismay and sheer mortification on his face instantly tore her heart out.
“So this is him?”
Parker nodded grimly. He was feeling the man’s pain, too. He glanced at the cabbie’s back.
Right. Not good to talk about business in front of a stranger.
She nodded and scanned the story. It didn’t say much they didn’t already know. The dagger had been recovered last year from the mausoleum of Cleopatra, which in turn had been discovered a few years earlier in northern Egypt. The artifact was said to be priceless but on the black market could fetch upwards of five million pounds.
No small potatoes. A figure some might kill for.
As the legend went, the dagger had been a gift from the Egyptian queen to the Roman leader. But when Cleopatra’s armies were defeated in battle against Antony’s rivals in Rome, and he heard a rumor that his lover was dead, he used the dagger to kill himself.
Still alive, he reached her sanctuary and died in her arms. Later the queen followed suit with an asp at her breast.
Pretty serious love affair, Miranda thought, closing the paper and handing it back to Parker. And it had seemed everyone wanted the dagger ever since it was uncovered. The Egyptian government, collectors, other museums. The mild-looking Sir Neville must have had to fight tooth and nail to keep it.
She thought of the lost look on the elderly gentleman’s face and felt that familiar resolve swell inside her. Well, Sir Neville Ravensdale, she decided. I don’t know if I can recover your dagger, but I’ll give all I have.
Miranda looked up to see Parker giving her a knowing look tinged with an air of victory. He’d read her mind again.
“Headin’ into town now, sir,” the cabbie announced as they came to a halt at a traffic light.
She peered out the window. Beyond the masses of other vehicles, they were surrounded by shiny moving billboards and towering structures made of shimmering glass looking like they were put up yesterday standing right beside huge buildings of ancient stone, broken out with windows and arches and parapets, as if they had a case of architectural hives. The gaudy structures seemed to ooze centuries of history. You could almost feel the past encased within its stones.
Before them a noisy hoard of pedestrians in coats and sweaters and boots swarmed the intersection. Three bicycles rolled past the front of the cab, one with a child on the back. There were more people and bicycles on the sidewalks on either side of them.
Miranda blinked in surprise. Atlanta could get crowded and the traffic was awful, but she’d forgotten what it was like in a really big city.
“Guess we’re here,” she exhaled. No turning back now.
“Just starting out, m’um,” the driver grinned, pointing out the window. “’Round the corner is Hyde Park. Beyond is Buckingham Palace. Then there’s Westminster Abbey, River Thames, the Tower—”
Parker leaned forward. “I’m sorry. We won’t have time for sightseeing just now. We’re in a bit of a hurry to get to our destination.” With his aristocratic southern accent, he almost sounded like he was born here.
“Of course, sir. Whatever you say.” The cabbie adjusted the black beret he had on, straightened his shoulders under a dark blue pullover, and turned his radio up a tad to hide his embarrassment or maybe his feelings toward foreigners who hadn’t come here to be awed by his town.
After an ad that was either about detergent or beer, the news came on. “Metropolitan police tell us they’re following up all leads in the case of the invaluable dagger stolen from the London Museum of Antiquity yesterday….”
The cabbie shook his head and muttered to himself. “Never ’eard of anything so cheeky in all me born days. Imagine stealin’ a priceless piece of antiquity right out from under the museum director’s nose. Terrible. Just terrible.”
Miranda shot Parker a troubled look. The news was all over town. And the police had been called in—of course. It wouldn’t be easy for a couple of American PIs to make any headway. Besides, the thief could be anybody. Any one of the thousands of pedestrians in any of the thousands of city streets. Or he could be outside London. Or in China. Or India.
They zigzagged through the traffic, past monuments and gardens and red double-decker buses and ended up at the Queensbury Hotel near Tottenham Court Road. At least that’s what the signs said.
Parker ran inside to check them in and get a bellhop to take their bags up while Miranda sat in the cab and studied a weathered fountain with a half-naked winged man atop it. He certainly wasn’t dressed for the weather.
After a few minutes Parker returned.
“Where to now, sir?” the cabbie asked brightly, having regained his hospitable spirit.
“The London Museum of Antiquity, please.”
“Oh, I am sorry, sir. The museum’s closed today. Due to the tragedy and the police investigation and all that.”
“I think they’ll let us in.”
The cabbie turned around, his eyes wide. “Are you two American reporters come to cover the story?”
Parker only smiled at the man. “Something like that.”
Chapter Five
The traffic was worse than Atlanta and New York put together, but after what seemed like another hour, they’d travelled the two kilometers—or whatever it was—and reached Guilford Street and the Museum.
Still not convinced they’d get in, the cabbie offered to wait for them but Parker waved him on.
Miranda got out and while the cab whooshed away behind her, she eyed the wide gray stairs, sitting like a giant stack of concrete pancakes before her. Above the stairs rose dozens of thick columns topped by a row of Greek figures along the roof staring down their noses at all who dared enter.
Friendly place. And downright huge. The size of the wings sprouting out from the main building promised plenty of walking. As she started the climb, she was wishing for her jeans instead of business attire. But at least she had on comfortable shoes and was back in pretty decent shape.
The rain had turned to a mist and by the time they reached the top, their skin and clothes were coated with moisture. Went right along with the chilly greeting awaiting them.
As they approached the huge entrance, a tall police officer, maybe in his late twenties, in white shirt, tie and jersey barred their way. “I’m sorry sir, m’um,
” he said, acknowledging Miranda with a curt nod. “The museum’s closed to visitors.”
Parker gave him his most patient smile. “We’re not visitors, officer. The director sent for us.”
The man’s thin blond brows rose to the brim of his peaked cap. “The director, you say? Sent for a pair of American tourists?”
Miranda eyed the short downy blond hair under his hat, his oversized ears, the badges on his shoulders. She couldn’t decipher his rank but he seemed too young to be more than a rookie. A rookie rule-follower. Her first inclination was to remind him they were guests, not colonists, maybe with the knuckles of her fist for emphasis. But she held back and let Parker handle it. Since he was in charge.
As if he were doling out a donation to the policeman’s ball, Parker pulled out a business card from his back pocket and handed it to the man. “We’re from the Parker Investigative Agency. We’re here to look into the matter of the missing dagger.”
The officer put one hand behind him and rolled back on his heels. “Really now? I’m sure Inspector Wample will be thrilled two American tourists have come to help him conduct his investigation.” He handed the card back without budging.
Miranda watched Parker’s jaw tightened. Then he smiled again and returned the card to the young man. “If you’ll speak to your inspector as well as to Sir Neville Ravensdale, I’m sure all will be made clear to you.”
Good one, she thought, stifling a grin.
Realizing they weren’t going away, the officer snatched the card, turned on his heel as if falling into formation, and disappeared inside.
Miranda pulled her jacket around her, glad Parker had picked out something on the warm side for her to wear. “Looks like this one’s gonna be a piece of cake.”
Parker’s dark brow rose and he regarded her, the battle with frustration written all over his handsome face. “Once we resolve the authority issues, we’ll be fine.”
If “fine” meant they’d reached the haystack they were to start looking for Marc Antony’s dagger in, she guessed he was right.
As they paced back and forth in the misty rain a loud bell clanged in the distance. It played a familiar ditty then went bong, bong.
“Is that what I think it is?” Miranda asked.
Parker nodded. “Big Ben. It rings every hour on the hour.”
“Nice.” Kind of a communal alarm clock for the entire city.
Big Ben stopped clanging and another ten minutes went by. No sign of Officer TightAss.
Miranda peered through the tall glass doors. “He might have gotten lost in there.”
“You could be right,” Parker said.
She put her hand on the tube-shaped handle and gave it a yank. It opened with ease. “Well, look at that. It isn’t even locked.”
His eyes twinkling with pride, Parker strode toward her and opened the door wide. He gave her a sly grin and a ladies-first gesture. “It is a public institution, after all.”
“It is, indeed.” She grinned back at him and stepped inside.
They stepped into a dark hall filled with squarish columns that led to a huge, wide-open white space flooded with light from a glass ceiling. It was good to be out of the rain, but the dampness from outside seemed to seep in through the walls. The air had a fresh, citrusy smell, probably from cleaners, and the entire area was silent except for the sound of their shoes on the tiled floor.
They strolled around the room, past thick stones covered with hieroglyphics, dramatic statues of nymphs and poets, busts of ancient pharaohs, mummified cats. They veered off into another hall where there were long cases filled with spears and arrowheads and pottery. The arched doorway at the end of it opened to another vast space. In the corner was the display that must have been intended for the dagger.
A golden rectangular structure covered in hieroglyphics sliced in half to give the illusion you were looking inside. A colorfully robed mannequin of the Egyptian Queen lay across a divan, a gold mesh headdress covering her long black hair, golden discs around her neck. The figure of a wounded Roman soldier in tunic and breastplate leaned against her, his head in her lap. His arm was raised as if he were about to stab himself. But of course his hand was empty.
“There,” Parker murmured.
Miranda watched him head for a tall marble staircase that wound around a wide circular pillar in the center of the room. She followed him to the foot of the steps and saw what he was going for.
About halfway up the stairs sat a lone figure in a rumpled dark suit, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. If he had been an exhibit, he would have been labeled “Despair.”
Parker reached the foot of the staircase. “Neville?”
The man raised his head, his eyes wide. “Russell? Is that you?”
Miranda was surprised the man called Parker by the same name his father used for him.
“Yes, we’re here.” Parker hurried up the steps.
Miranda followed.
“Oh, thank heavens.” The man rose and ran a hand over his white hair, then attempted to straighten his clothes. He seemed to have lost the tie he’d worn in the picture in the paper, but the suit was the same. He must have slept in it.
Parker reached him and the man took both of his hands. “Thank you so much for coming so quickly.”
“We left as soon as we could.”
“I do so appreciate it on such short notice.” He turned to her and reached for her hand, still holding onto one of Parker’s. “And this must be Miranda. I’m so glad you’re here, my dear. Both of you. Though I wish we could have met under happier circumstances.”
His touch was gentle, his skin soft and aristocratic. His face was round and almost childlike, a contrast to his thin body. His white hair had a faint angelic glow in the backlight, enhanced by the earnest expression of his well-groomed matching brows. His accent was posh, but warm and friendly. Not stiff and cold, like you might expect from a Brit.
And the look of kindness mixed with desperation in his crystal blue eyes melted her heart into a buttery pool.
“We’re here to help, sir,” Miranda told him. “We’ll do all we can.”
He closed his eyes, pain distorting his innocent expression. “And I need your help so desperately. I don’t know what to do. They’ve taken George.”
“George?” Parker asked.
“George Eames. My Chief Collections Manager. My friend and colleague. They took him in for questioning this morning. They think he’s a suspect in this horrible matter.”
Miranda looked at Parker. He seemed as bewildered as she was. “The police have already made an arrest?” she asked.
A door opened and footsteps echoed below. “There they are, sir.”
Miranda turned and saw three men scurrying toward the staircase. One tall and thin. One short and round. The third one was Officer TightAss. The other two were in gray slacks, ties, and long dark coats that billowed out as they ran.
The officer waved an arm their way. “Sir, I apologize these imposters have broken in and—”
Sir Neville’s whole body stiffened. Eyes flashing, he held out an arm in a protective gesture, looking like one of the mummified cats suddenly come to life to fight its captors. “They most certainly are not imposters, officer. And I’ll thank you to pay them their due respect. These are my friends from America. They’re private investigators. I’ve hired them.”
“You’ve what?” said the man in a coat who towered a good four inches over the officer.
Sir Neville started down the stairs. “I’ve hired them to help with this investigation, Inspector.”
“I haven’t authorized—”
“As director of this museum, I have the right to hire anyone I see fit to aid in this matter, Inspector. If you have a problem with that, perhaps I’ll have to speak to your superior.”
Miranda snuck Parker a look of surprise. The old gent wasn’t as helpless as he seemed.
Parker sauntered down the steps with his characteristic air of ease and extended
a hand. “Good morning, Inspector, gentlemen. As I told your officer here, I’m Wade Parker of the Parker Investigative Agency, and this is my associate, Miranda Steele.” He turned back and gestured to her as ingratiatingly as if he were introducing her at a dinner party. “We intend to give you our full cooperation.”
As if it took all the strength he had not to slap a pair of handcuffs onto Parker’s wrist, the inspector took his hand and gave it a single, curt shake. “I’m Special Inspector Clive Wample of the Metropolitan police, and these are Assistant Chief Officer Vincent Ives and Officer Tadsworth.” He waved his free hand toward Officer TightAss and the small, rotund man between them, the shortest one of the three.
Miranda scuttled down the steps and joined in the handshaking.
Wample and Ives. Sounded like a brand of bourbon. No, it was Wample, Ives and Tadsworth. More like a law firm or maybe a boy band.
Inspector Wample put a skinny finger under his thin crooked nose and sniffed. “I was about to tell Sir Neville we’ve almost finished our examination of the key areas on the premises. You should be able to open again in the morning.”
Sir Neville’s mouth opened in alarm.
Parker descended the last step. “Well, then, Inspector. You shouldn’t mind if we have a look at these key areas.”
The inspector’s eyes flashed, but one glance at Sir Neville told him he’d be in hot water if he didn’t comply. “Very well, Mr. Parker. However I insist we escort you.”
Chapter Six
Sir Neville led them back to the hall where the Antony and Cleopatra exhibit was. He explained what had happened that day, the same details Miranda had read in the newspaper. He’d used a cart to bring in the crate that was supposed to have held the dagger, and when he opened it up—it was empty.
His voice broke and his face went pale as he retold the story but since the crate, the cart, and of course the dagger had been removed, there wasn’t much to see there.
Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) Page 3
