by Chloe Palov
She nodded her thanks, surprised by the admission. Although she barely knew him, Cædmon Aisquith seemed to have been born with the proverbial stiff upper lip. No deep breaths required.
‘Given the obviously well-planned attack, we must assume that there are more people involved and that our adversaries will attempt to track our movements via electronic transactions.’ Removing his wallet from a trouser pocket, Cædmon peered into the worn brown leather. ‘I’m afraid that my assets are somewhat paltry. Seventy-five dollars and three hundred euros. How much do you have?’ he bluntly enquired.
The question caught Edie off guard. Her eyes narrowing suspiciously, she said, ‘I have five thousand dollars. What’s it to you?’
‘I say! You must have cleaned out your bank account.’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ she mumbled, unwilling to elaborate.
‘Very well then. I suggest we assume aliases, Mr and Mrs Smythe-Jones or some such, and check into a hotel.’
‘The two of us? In a hotel?’ Edie had given no thought as to what would happen once they left the museum; if anything, she’d assumed they’d go their separate ways. She’d only come to the National Gallery of Art to warn him of the danger, not to hook up with him.
Although I suppose there might be some truth in the old adage about safety in numbers.
‘Yes, a hotel,’ Cædmon reiterated. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m in dire need of a soft bed and a stiff drink.’
‘Bed and booze. Okay, I’m in.’
Cædmon motioned to the throng exiting the museum. ‘Shall we join the multitude?’
As they approached the line of people being searched, Edie surveyed the crowd of visitors, most of whom were excitedly chatting about what they’d seen, what they knew or what they’d heard.
She nudged Cædmon in the arm. ‘Did you hear what that man just –’ She stopped suddenly, catching sight of a familiar face out of the corner of her eye.
The bent cop in the alley behind the Hopkins Museum.
‘To your left! It’s the killer’s cop buddy!’ she hissed out of the corner of her mouth.
Without so much as turning his head, Cædmon swivelled his gaze to the left. ‘The bloke with sandy blond hair?’ When she nodded, he said, ‘Did he catch sight of you at the Hopkins?’
‘No. But they have my driver’s licence photo. They know what I look like.’
‘Right.’
An absent-minded look on his face, Cædmon patted his breast pocket, giving every appearance of being a man searching for a pen or his reading glasses. It took a moment for Edie to realize that he was very carefully casing the joint, his eyes moving from left to right and back again.
‘In a few seconds there’s going to be a frightful stampede towards the door,’ he said in a low voice, taking her firmly by the upper arm as he spoke. ‘Be ready to run for your life.’
Edie nodded, knowing he spoke literally, not figuratively.
‘Good God!’ Cædmon suddenly boomed in a loud, forceful voice. ‘There’s the gunman! That man standing by the elevator doors!’
At Cædmon’s commanding voice – which sounded an awful lot like a Shakespearean actor bellowing about kingdoms and horses – every head in the lobby abruptly turned.
A second of shocked silence ensued, then the façade of order gave way. Those visitors closest to the doors rushed them. The four museum guards and every policeman in sight charged in the opposite direction towards the elevators.
That being their cue, Edie and Cædmon ran for the doors, elbowing their way to the head of the pack.
Several seconds later, they burst free of the building.
‘Hurry!’ Cædmon ordered, taking her by the hand as he descended the portico steps that fronted the museum. ‘I suspect we fooled everyone save the man searching for us. What’s that across the street?’ He pointed beyond the traffic jam of news vans and patrol cars to a grove of leafless trees on the other side of 7th Street.
‘That’s the outdoor Sculpture Garden.’
‘And in this direction?’ He pointed towards Constitution Avenue.
‘Federal Triangle.’
‘Am I correct in thinking there’s a tube station nearby?’
‘There’s a subway station a couple of blocks away. On the other side of the Archives.’
‘Right.’ Still holding her by the hand, Cædmon scurried past a line of cops attempting to hold back onlookers with a flimsy strand of yellow crime scene tape.
‘In case you’ve forgotten, my Jeep is parked –’
‘Not now!’
Knowing their priority was to escape the sandy-haired cop she’d seen in the lobby, Edie held her tongue. They could thrash out the specifics of the escape plan once they were free and clear of the museum.
Breaking into a run, they crossed 7th Street, Cædmon leading the way to the Sculpture Garden. Through the sparse foliage Edie spotted a steel form on the right and a bronze shape on the left. Ahead of them was an outdoor skating rink, a trio of skaters gracefully gliding across the smooth ice, apparently ignorant of the pandemonium on the other side of the street.
Still leading the way, Cædmon went to the right of the rink, turned right yet again then made a sharp left. For a man unfamiliar with the city, he was doing an excellent job of manoeuvring them through the garden. It wasn’t until they emerged onto Constitution Avenue, some two blocks from the 7th Street museum exit, that Cædmon slowed his pace.
Her lungs burning with the frigid December air, Edie came to a grinding halt, unable to catch her breath. When Cædmon put a steadying hand on her shoulder, she instinctively hurled herself at his chest.
‘That c-cop would have killed… If you hadn’t… We would be…’ She burrowed her head into his shoulder, fear causing her thoughts to collide incoherently together.
Cædmon wrapped his arms around her. ‘Ssshh. It’s all right. We’re out of danger,’ he murmured, his breath warm against her cheek.
It took a good half-minute before her breathing returned to something approximating normal. Embarrassed that she’d thrown herself at him, Edie pulled free from Cædmon’s embrace.
‘Better?’ he enquired solicitously. Other than the fact that his eyes had turned an iridescent shade of cobalt blue, he showed no outward sign of exertion.
Doing a good imitation of a bobble-head doll, she nodded warily. Warily because she could hear the blare of sirens in the near distance. A police net was being thrown around the National Gallery of Art. If the net was extended, they might yet be ensnared.
She glanced at her watch. Unbelievably, no more than fifteen minutes had passed since the three shots had been fired in the museum concourse. It seemed both longer and shorter, as though time had sped up and slowed down all at once.
‘I don’t know about you, but I feel like I just got sucked into a killer cyclone, houses, cows and farm fences spinning all around me.’
‘I feel much the same.’ One side of his mouth twitched up. ‘Certainly, this was not how I imagined spending my afternoon.’
‘I hear you.’ Still embarrassed by her show of weakness, she wiped several wet flakes from her eyelashes. The snow had slowed to a desultory smatter, wispy flakes blowing on a cold westerly wind.
From where they stood, diagonally opposite the National Archives, they had an excellent view in either direction along Constitution Avenue. Spread along the famous thoroughfare were familiar citadels of sanity – hot dog vendors, souvenir stands, T-shirt kiosks – tiny punctuation marks haphazardly placed between the ponderous block-like buildings.
Deciding to take charge, Edie turned to the right, intending to backtrack to her parked vehicle. She’d taken no more than a step when Cædmon grabbed her by the elbow.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘We discussed this already. I’m going to the Jeep. Are you in or are you out?’
‘While there are advantages to having a vehicle at our disposal, there are also certain disadvantages that must be consid
ered.’
Desperate to get back to the Jeep, that being the quickest means of escaping the madness, she straightened her shoulders. No easy feat given that she was bundled in a leather jacket and an oversized trench coat. ‘On the count of three: paper-rock-scissors.’
His copper-coloured brows drew together in the middle. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me. Since there’s just the two of us, we can’t put it to a vote. So instead we’ll use paper-rock-scissors to decide. You guys do that in England, don’t you?’
‘I am familiar with the hand game. In fact, it was invented in the mid-eighteenth century by the Comte de Rochambeau as a means to settle –’
Edie held up a hand, stopping him in mid-flow.
‘More information than I need to know.’ Tired of being the follower rather than the leader, she met his gaze head on. ‘On three.’
In unison, they each moved a balled right fist through the air.
20
A cold wet rain fell upon the heath.
A line straight out of a Victorian novel, Cædmon thought moodily as he pulled back the hotel curtain. Except it wasn’t a heath; it was an asphalt car park bounded by eight-foot-high brick walls and a twelve-storey office building directly opposite.
‘My, my, what style,’ he muttered, releasing the rubber-backed curtain and stepping away from the window. Since paper had beaten rock, they’d left Washington via the subway, checking into a Holiday Inn across the river in Arlington, Virginia. That was two hours ago, and he was still trying to muddle his way through the chain of events that had landed him in this monochromatic hotel room with its uninspiring view.
He glanced at Edie Miller, coiled in a ball on one of the double beds, her mouth slack, her eyes unfocused. His gaze lingered a few impolite moments, Cædmon thinking she looked like a dahlia curled in the frost.
In dire need of refreshment, he strolled over to the counter, the room equipped with a coffee pot, microwave oven and a diminutive refrigerator. He uncapped a bottle of Tanqueray purchased at the shop down the street.
‘What are you doing?’ A drowsy expression on her face, Edie lifted her head from the pillow.
‘I thought I’d make myself a G and T.’
The dahlia instantly revived. ‘Make mine a double.’
He obliged and, tumbler in hand, walked over to the bed. As though mocking their dismal plight, the ice cubes merrily clinked against the sides of the glass. ‘Sorry, but we’re out of lemons,’ he said, handing her the half-full tumbler.
Swinging her bare feet over the side of the bed, Edie levered herself into a seated position, the tumbler clasped between her hands. ‘AWOL lemons are the least of our worries.’
‘Indeed.’
Safe for the moment, Cædmon suspected that they were being hunted by very determined adversaries. And while their adversaries had possession of the prize, the Stones of Fire having been stolen from the Hopkins Museum, they also seemed very keen to erase all traces of the theft.
But why?
The question had been plaguing him for the last two hours. Neither he nor Edie Miller could guess the identity of Jonathan Padgham’s killer. Nor did they know the current location of the breastplate.
So why launch a bloodthirsty manhunt?
The manhunt implied that their foe did not want it made public that after several thousand years, the fabled Stones of Fire had been rediscovered. So, their foe had an ulterior purpose for stealing the breastplate, one that had nothing to do with plunder and profit.
Lost in thought, he belatedly realized he’d depleted his glass.
Careful, old boy. You’ve already slain that dragon.
Needing to pace himself, Cædmon set his tumbler on the dresser. Drink was a tempting mistress that beckoned when one least expected it.
Bare feet still dangling over the side of the bed, Edie looked at him, her expression forthrightly quizzical. At a loss for words, he returned the stare, enjoying the sight of the long brown curls framing her face and shoulders in a riotous halo. Admiring a woman’s attributes was one of those simple pleasures that made a man momentarily forget stress and strife. Like hat pegs, her nipples were visibly prominent through the thin fabric of her silk pullover, Edie having removed her bulky jumper.
‘Is something the matter?’
Caught with his hand in the biscuit tin, Cædmon quickly glanced at the television on the other side of the room. His cheeks warm with colour, he picked up his depleted G&T and made a big to-do of swirling the ice cubes in the bottom of the glass.
A sudden knock at the door broke the moment.
‘You don’t think… ?’
‘No, I do not,’ he replied, striding towards the locked door. A quick glance through the peephole confirmed what he already knew – the porter had arrived. A fortuitous interruption, the room awash with sexual tension.
What did you expect, checking into a hotel room with a lovely American woman?
Unlocking the door, he greeted the porter with a courteous nod, the young man handing him a paper bag emblazoned with the Holiday Inn logo. Before taking custody of the bag, Cædmon reached into his trouser pocket and removed several crumpled notes. The exchange made, he closed and locked the door.
Awkwardly smiling, still conscious of the tension, he hefted the white bag in the air. ‘I come bearing gifts, compliments of the establishment.’
Edie patted the mattress. ‘Sit yourself here and let’s see what’s in the gift sack.’
Uncertain what to make of the invitation, he obediently complied. He knew that in the aftermath of bum-clenching terror each person acted differently. Some turned to alcohol, some turned to drugs, and a good many turned to sex. Cædmon preferred the first, had never been interested in the second and wasn’t altogether certain how he felt about the latter. While he found Edie Miller attractive, he in no way wanted to take advantage of the situation.
He dumped the contents of the bag onto the bed. ‘One tube of toothpaste, two toothbrushes, hand lotion, shaving cream, razor and, alas, only one comb. I’m afraid we’ll have to share.’
‘I’m kinda getting used to sharing.’
Cædmon assumed the offhand remark had to do with the fact that the room had been paid for with a soggy hundred-dollar bill from her ‘spinach fund’. Concerned that electronic transactions would be traced, he had imposed a moratorium on all credit cards. Certain his room at the Churchill would also be monitored, he phoned the hotel and asked them to gather his belongings and put them in storage until such time as he could collect them. He’d also rung up his publicist, informing her that he was catching a late flight back to Paris. If asked, she would lead inquisitors astray.
‘Would you mind… ?’ Edie waggled her glass back and forth, indicating she needed a refill.
‘Not in the least.’ Getting up from the bed, Cædmon walked over to the makeshift bar on the other side of the room. Along the way he collected his own glass.
The silence unnerving, he busied himself with mixing the drinks. Concerned he might cross an invisible line and equally worried his companion might be receptive, he went easy on the gin. His fount of small talk dry, he wordlessly handed Edie a replenished glass.
‘Cheers,’ he said, clinking his tumbler to hers.
‘Actually, more like tears, don’t you think?’ Her demeanour glum, Edie listlessly raised the tumbler to her lips.
‘Myself, I prefer taking the glass-half-full approach.’
‘Don’t you care that your friend was murdered?’
‘Of course I care,’ he retorted, not wanting to have this conversation with a woman he barely knew. ‘However, experience has taught me that pain only worsens if one wallows in it.’
‘Is that what I’m doing, wallowing?’
‘No, you are not wallowing. Wallowing is when one forgoes the tonic water.’ As well he knew. Hoping to lighten the mood, he said, ‘His nickname for me was Mercuriophilus Anglicus.’
‘I assume you’re referring to Dr Padgham.
’
‘Padge could never recall anyone’s forename.’
‘Probably because he was too caught up in his own self-importance.’ No sooner did the words escape her lips than Edie slapped a hand over her mouth. ‘God, that was horrible! I’m sorry.’ Then, laughing, ‘Did I mention that I’m a mean drunk? So, what does Mercurio blabediblop mean?’
‘It means the English mercury lover.’
Still smiling, she lifted a brow. ‘Sounds kinky. Do I really want to know the story behind it?’
Enjoying the silly game, he feigned indignation. ‘I can assure you that the story is not nearly as racy as you presume. It so happens that alchemical mercury suffuses all creation. In ancient times it was thought to be the secret essence of the all in all things.’
She drew a long face. ‘Oh, puh-lease. There must be a class you guys take at Oxford where they teach you how to pontificate to us little people.’
‘Are you always so frank?’
‘Not always.’ Her brown eyes twinkled mischievously.‘I do have to sleep.’
Cædmon threw back his head and laughed, her humour growing on him.
‘You know, it’s crazy,’ Edie said, suddenly serious. ‘All of this murder and mayhem happening because of an old breastplate.’
He walked over to the striped wingback chair on the far side of the bed and sat down. ‘The Stones of Fire are much more than “an old breastplate”.’
‘You said something about the breastplate being designed by God and manufactured by Moses.’
‘So claim a good many biblical scholars.’
‘Come on. You don’t really think that the breastplate was divinely inspired?’
‘Actually, I think the breastplate has a far more –’ he paused, not wanting to offend her possible religious beliefs ‘– complex pedigree than that contained within the pages of the Old Testament.’
‘What exactly do you mean by “complex”?’ Drawing her legs onto the bed, she curled them beneath her bum. ‘I thought it was pretty straightforward: Moses would don the breastplate in order to control the… how did you phrase it? The “cosmic power” contained within the Ark of the Covenant.’
