Stones of Fire

by Chloe Palov

  Like Jonathan Padgham, he had a cultured English accent.

  ‘I’m curious. How did you recognize me? There must be a hundred people milling about.’

  ‘Lucky guess,’ she replied, shrugging. ‘That and the fact that you have the same British I’m-so-superior air about you that Dr Padgham had.’

  One side of the man’s mouth twitched up. ‘Had? I can’t imagine old Padge has changed all that much.’

  Edie swallowed, the moment of truth having arrived much too abruptly.

  ‘I said “had” for a reason. He’s dead. Jonathan Padgham was killed a little over an hour ago. And just my luck, I’m the only witness to the murder.’

  9

  ‘… and if they find us, we’re both going to wish we’d had the foresight to pre-purchase a headstone and burial plot.’

  For several moments Cædmon Aisquith stared at the paranoid, Pre-Raphaelite beauty standing before him. Like a mad maestro, she used her hands to punctuate the nonsensical words issuing from her chapped lips.

  ‘Why contact me? Why not go to the authorities?’ He spoke calmly, not wanting to tip the scales from mad to stark raving mad.

  ‘Because the authorities were in on the kill, that’s why. And they mistakenly believe that Dr Padgham sent you an email right before he died,’ she answered, clearly unable to speak in coherent sentences. ‘That’s why they want to kill you. And trust me, killing you would be child’s play for these guys. Like the grim reaper pulling that battery bunny right out of a top hat.’

  ‘Mmmm.’ He wondered if she had taken some sort of hallucinatory drug.

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘I could say that you have a penchant for mixed metaphors.’

  ‘Look, I’m dead serious. Emphasis on dead just in case you’re too dense to get the message. You still don’t believe me? Fine. I’ve got the proof right here.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  She began to rummage through the bag hanging off her leather-clad shoulder. Peering inside, Cædmon caught sight of what looked like a Manila file folder and a box of frozen vegetables.

  It was plain as a pikestaff: the woman was absolutely bonkers.

  A determined look on her face, she removed a khaki-coloured waistcoat from the bag. Clutching it in her hand, she brandished the garment in front of his face. ‘I was wearing this when Dr Padgham was murdered. Then I had to crawl over his body…’ Her chest visibly heaved. ‘That’s his blood smeared on the front.’

  ‘May I?’ Cædmon touched the bloodstain, surprised to discover that it was damp.

  Were it not for the still-tacky bloodstain and the faint smell of vomit, he would have dismissed the woman outright. Instead, he removed his mobile phone from his breast pocket.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Edie Miller frantically grabbed him by the arm, preventing him from raising the mobile to his ear. ‘If you call the police, we’re as good as dead.’

  ‘If you would be so kind as to unhand me, I’m going to ring Padgham.’ And hopefully get to the bottom of this lunacy.

  ‘Be my guest,’ she muttered, releasing her grip.

  Having earlier programmed Padge’s mobile number into his phone, he quickly made the call. He let it ring five times, disconnecting when an automated message began to play.

  ‘It appears that the old boy has turned off his mobile.’

  ‘Wrong!’ Edie Miller screeched at him, earning several sideways glances from passers-by. ‘The old boy is lying under his desk in a pool of his own blood.’

  Worried she might continue to attract unwanted attention, he motioned to the nearby tables. ‘I’m willing to hear you out provided you keep calm. Understood?’

  She nodded, actually managing to look contrite.

  ‘Very well then. Do be seated while I get us some coffee. Unless, of course, you prefer tea.’

  ‘No. Coffee is fine.’ She glanced at the nearby Espresso Bar. ‘A cappuccino would be better.’

  ‘Duly noted. I won’t be a moment.’

  Aisquith watched her as, like an obedient child, she shuffled over to a small table adjacent to the Espresso Bar. Seating herself, she removed her bag from her shoulder and clutched it to her breast. While the mass of dark brown corkscrew curls was her crowning glory, it was the deep-set brown eyes that drew and held his attention. Accentuated by straight brows, the combination gave her a sombre air wholly at odds with her forceful personality. And wholly at odds with her eccentric attire – a black leather motorcycle jacket, clunky black boots and a long purple and red tartan skirt.

  ‘God help me for coming to a crazed damsel’s rescue,’ he muttered under his breath.

  The order placed for a cappuccino and a hazelnut coffee, he paid the cashier. Collecting the coffees, he grabbed sugar packets, dairy creamers, plastic stirrers and paper napkins, stuffing them into his jacket pocket. A few seconds later, a coffee cup clutched in each hand, he made his way to the table.

  ‘Not knowing how you take your coffee, I rather overdid it.’ He plonked everything onto the middle of the round table.

  His noticeably subdued companion reached for two sugar packets. ‘I always sweeten the deal with a couple of sugars,’ she remarked, snapping the packets to and fro as she spoke. Ripping them open she poured the contents into her cup. ‘You know, it’s just occurred to me that I don’t even know your first name.’

  ‘Cædmon,’ he replied, watching her brow wrinkle when she heard the Old English moniker, the unusual name his father’s way of making a man of him, forcing him to face up to the bullies at a tender age.

  ‘I thought the English were all tea drinkers.’

  ‘Rumour has it I’m something of an iconoclast.’ Opening a creamer, he poured a dollop into his cup. That done, he began the inquisition. ‘How is it that you came to witness this supposed murder?’

  ‘You’re a hard sell, aren’t you? Although I suppose if the boot were on the other foot, I would be as well. To answer your question, I’m a freelance photographer at the Hopkins Museum. That’s how I came to witness the murder.’ About to raise the cup to her lips, she suddenly lowered it to the table. ‘Before I tell you what happened, I need to know in what capacity you knew Dr Padgham,’ she abruptly demanded, her lack of subtlety disarming.

  ‘We played cricket together at Oxford. As so often happens with youthful friendships, we eventually lost touch with one another. When Padge learned that I was in Washington on the last leg of a book tour, he rang me up. Suggested we meet for drinks. Talk over old times, that sort of thing. Satisfied?’ When she nodded, he said, ‘It’s now your turn, Miss Miller.’

  ‘A month ago I was hired by Eliot Hopkins to photograph and digitally archive the entire museum collection. I work on Mondays because that’s when the museum is closed to the public.’

  ‘Enabling you to take your photographs unimpeded,’ he intuited.

  ‘Exactly. But today was unusual.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Dr Padgham was in his office. He’s never in the office on Mondays.’

  ‘Was there anyone else in the museum?’

  ‘As usual, there were two guards downstairs in the main lobby.’ She shot him a penetrating glance from deep-set brown eyes. ‘You’re following all this, right?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he assured her. ‘Please continue.’

  ‘Around one thirty, Dr Padgham called and asked if I would come upstairs to the administration offices.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘He wanted me to take some photographs for him. I got the idea that he was working on some kind of special project. That’s why he was in the office on his day off. Obedient minion that I am, I went up to the fourth floor and took the pics. I was about to leave his office when a cable came loose on his computer. Dr Padgham conned me into climbing under the desk to fix the connection.’

  Cædmon nodded. ‘Now that sounds like the Padge I know and love.’

  ‘You knew and loved. I told you he’s –’

  ‘I
know. No need to labour the point.’

  ‘No need to be so crabby,’ she countered, proving she was no shrinking violet. ‘Anyway, I was still under the desk when a man walked into Dr Padgham’s office and shot him in the head point blank.’ As she spoke, her hands began to tremble. She wrapped both of them round her cup. ‘He was killed instantly. The killer had no idea that I was under the desk… that I witnessed the whole thing.’

  Cædmon stared at the curly-haired beauty sitting across from him, resisting the urge to pull her to him, to calm the fearful quiver that had travelled from her hands to her entire upper body.

  ‘How did you get away?’

  ‘I climbed down the fire escape. I was hiding in the alley when I saw the killer approach a DC cop. And this is where the story takes a turn for the worse.’ She looked him in the eye, her gaze disturbingly direct. ‘The killer and the cop were in cahoots.’

  ‘Did they see you in the alley?’

  ‘No. But it didn’t much matter because the killer had already accessed the museum security logs. That’s how they found out I was in the building at the time of the murder. That’s why they’re looking for me.’

  ‘Would you be able to identify the man?’

  ‘Murderer,’ she corrected. ‘For starters he had a military-style buzz cut. And he was big. Really, really big. Steroid big,’ she added, using her hands to indicate height and width. If her gestures were to be believed, the killer had an improbable shoulder span of some four and a half feet. ‘That’s all I can remember.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Wait!’ she exclaimed, cappuccino spilling over the brim of her cup as she excitedly jogged the table. ‘He wore an unusual silver ring on his right hand.’ She hunted around in her bag and pulled out a creased sheet of paper. ‘Do you have a pen?’

  He wordlessly reached into his breast pocket. Taking his pen, she drew an intricate pattern. Tilting her head to one side, she reviewed her handiwork before sliding the sheet of paper in his direction.

  ‘Sorry, I’m a photographer not an artist.’

  Cædmon examined the drawing, instantly recognizing the pattern.

  ‘How interesting… it’s a Jerusalem cross. Also known as the crusader’s cross. The four tau crosses represent the Old Testament. That’s these T shapes.’ He pointed to the arms of the larger cross at the centre. ‘And the four smaller Greek crosses are the New Testament. You’re certain this is the symbol that was on the, er, killer’s ring?’

  She nodded. ‘Is that significant?’

  ‘It was to the medieval knights who conquered the Holy Land,’ he informed her, well acquainted with the topic having developed an interest in the Knights Templar when he was at Oxford. An obsessive interest, as it turned out, one that ultimately cost him his academic career. ‘In the twelfth century this particular cross served as the coat of arms for the short-lived kingdom of Jerusalem. Although the European knights…’ He self-consciously cleared his throat. ‘I apologize. I’m rambling. Do you recall anything else?’

  Edie Miller sucked her lower lip between her teeth, enabling him to see that she had slightly crooked front teeth. And plump beautiful lips.

  ‘No, sorry. But you do believe me, don’t you? About Dr Padgham being murdered?’

  He shook his head, uncertain what to make of her fantastical tale. ‘Why in God’s name would this masked man kill Jonathan Padgham? Padge was as harmless as the proverbial fly. Annoying, at times, I admit, but utterly harmless.’

  She stared at him long and hard. As though he’d just asked a fool’s question.

  ‘He was killed on account of the relic.’

  ‘Relic? This is the first that you’ve made mention of a relic.’

  A confused look crept into her eyes. A second later, shaking her head, she said, ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. So much has happened. I’m getting everything mixed up. Like my brain is starting to short-circuit.’

  Again, he was tempted to pull her into his arms. While her travails may be imaginary, her panic seemed real enough.

  ‘Drink some more coffee.’

  She gulped down the last of her cappuccino. Seeing a faint brown smear on her upper lip, he unthinkingly picked up a paper napkin and wiped the smudge clean. Then, guiltily aware of the trespass, he crumbled the napkin into a ball, tossing it onto the table.

  ‘Dr Padgham was in the process of sending you a digital photo of the relic when he was killed. When the killer left he took the relic.’

  ‘A digital photo? Why would he have done that?’

  Opening her bag, she removed a camera. ‘He didn’t say. As a backup, I saved a photograph on the camera’s internal memory. Here.’ She shoved the camera at him. ‘That’s the relic.’

  Holding the camera within a few inches of his face, Cædmon examined the digital image as through a glass darkly. His breath caught in his throat, her outlandish story suddenly making perfect sense.

  ‘Bloody hell… I don’t believe it. I absolutely don’t believe it,’ he whispered, unable to draw his gaze from the photo.

  ‘I take it from your stupefied expression that the relic is valuable enough to steal.’

  ‘Most assuredly.’

  ‘And how about killing? Is it valuable enough for someone to kill for it?’

  He lowered the camera, keenly aware that Edie Miller was in very grave danger.

  ‘Oh, I think a great many people would kill to obtain the fabled Stones of Fire.’

  10

  ‘There will be in these last days many deceivers and false prophets and many who will follow them: For many deceivers are entered into the world.’

  With reverential care Boyd Braxton closed the book and replaced it in the glove compartment. The Warrior’s Bible, leather bound and gilt-embossed with the Rosemont Security Consultants emblem, had been personally given to him by Colonel Stanford MacFarlane. And though Boyd was in a tearing hurry, the colonel always said that it was important to give the Almighty his due.

  Reaching under the Bible, Boyd removed an official police permit and placed it on the dash of the Ford. The permit gave him the right to park anywhere in the city. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t on the force. He looked like a cop. And he drove a cop car. No one would think twice.

  Parked directly in front of him, covered in a light layer of newly fallen snow, was a black Jeep Wrangler. Just as he had figured, no sooner had he left her pad than the bitch had crept out of her hidey-hole.

  ‘Stupid cunt,’ he muttered, getting out of the Ford. Walking over to the Jeep, he crouched down and slapped a magnetic tracking device on its metal underbelly. He could now monitor the vehicle’s every move on his mobile.

  ‘You, bitch, damned near cost me my job,’ he muttered as he walked towards the museum.

  And being Colonel Stan MacFarlane’s right-hand man at Rosemont Security Consultants was a job he took real seriously. Just like he’d taken his stint in the US Marine Corps real seriously. He still wore his hair high and tight, having served fifteen years in the Green Machine. Now he served Stan MacFarlane. If it hadn’t been for the colonel, he’d be eating institutional slop and lifting weights alongside the brothers in the state penitentiary. No chance of parole.

  Juries don’t look kindly upon gunnery sergeants who murder their wife and child.

  A lot like that dark day four years ago, he’d fucked up royally today at the Hopkins Museum.

  But soon he’d make it right, proving to the colonel that he was still a hard charger. That he was still worthy of his trust. That he was still a holy warrior.

  Swinging open the glass door that fronted the 4th Street Entrance, Boyd entered the National Gallery of Art.

  Beautiful. Not a metal detector in sight. The Ka-Bar knife and Heckler & Koch Mark 23 pistol would pass undetected.

  Like he was on official business, he strode over to the desk. Security didn’t amount to much more than a cloth-covered table manned by a pair of rent-a-cops. Opening the flap of his leather coat, he revealed a very official-looking p
olice badge.

  ‘Is there a problem, Detective Wilson?’ the grey-haired guard enquired, straightening his shoulders as he spoke.

  ‘I’m looking for someone. Have you seen this woman?’ Boyd held up a photograph of one Eloise Darlene Miller.

  The guard reached for the pair of reading glasses hanging from his neck. After several seconds of careful scrutiny, he said, ‘Yeah, not too long ago, as a matter of fact. If I’m not mistaken, she headed down to the concourse.’

  Never having been inside the National Gallery of Art before, Boyd glanced around the cavernous marble-walled lobby. ‘Where’s the concourse?’

  ‘At the bottom of the escalator,’ the guard said, pointing to the other side of the hall. ‘You want me to alert the museum security team?’

  ‘No need. She’s not dangerous,’ he assured the guard. ‘We just need to ask her a few questions.’ Returning the photo to his coat pocket, Boyd headed towards the escalator.

  At the bottom of the escalator, he took note of the white sculpture, unimpressed.

  ‘If that’s art, I’m Pablo Pick-my-ass Picasso,’ he muttered, the sculpture looking a lot like the molar he once knocked out of a drunken swabbie’s head. For years he’d kept that tooth as a good luck charm, that being his first bar fight of any real note.

  Entering a dimly lit gift shop, Boyd saw that the place was overrun with people pushing wheelchairs, people dragging toddlers, people yakking on mobiles. Everywhere he looked there were people meandering about like so many lost sheep. Perfect. No one would later be able to recall who did what when, large crowds being the best camouflage a hunter could have.

  As he passed a display of cards showing a Nativity scene, he made a mental note that this might be a classy place to do his Christmas shopping. Not that these godless people would even know the meaning of Christmas. Or any other event described in the Bible. Nowadays people put a ‘popular’ spin on the Word of God, forgetting that biblical text was not subject to New Age feel-good interpretations.