Stones of Fire

by Chloe Palov

  Turning away from the panel, he watched as Edie returned with a bespectacled, long-haired young man in tow. ‘This is William. He’s agreed to do a quick line drawing of the window.’

  A man of few words, William removed an artist’s sketch pad from his satchel. Ignoring them, he negligently leaned against a nine-hundred-year-old column and began to draw.

  ‘I earlier noticed him sketching the St Thomas memorial inside the transept,’ Edie explained.

  ‘A budding artist then.’

  ‘More like a budding con artist,’ she replied, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘He refused to put pencil to paper for less than fifty bucks. Since we need an image in order to decipher the window, I agreed.’

  The silent seconds ticked past. Cædmon anxiously checked his watch, hoping the young artist completed his masterpiece before the attendants herded them out.

  ‘What happens if we actually find the Ark?’ Edie asked, staring at the four-sided gold box in the glass panel.

  That question again.

  And still he didn’t have an answer. Only a mounting sense of excitement.

  The Ark of the Covenant.

  Truly the stuff of dreams.

  Having yet to utter a word, the artist ripped the sheet from his pad. Paper in hand, he walked over to where they stood and silently handed Edie the drawing he’d made. She in turn handed him a small wad of American bills. Transaction concluded, she politely thanked him for his services.

  ‘This better be worth fifty dollars,’ she muttered under her breath as William wordlessly took his leave.

  Cædmon examined the drawing, pleased with the result. ‘I’d say it’s bang on.’ Thrilled that all was going so well, he unthinkingly said the first thing that came into his mind. ‘Fancy a quick bonk?’

  Her eyes opened wide. ‘What? Here? In the middle of Canterbury cathedral?’

  ‘We passed a dimly lit niche on the other side of the choir earlier on.’

  ‘Are you crazy? In case you haven’t noticed, O horny one, we’re in a church.’

  This being the stuff of fantasies, he smiled. ‘Nothing the Almighty hasn’t seen countless times before. Come on, Edie. Surely you can spare me a moment of your time?’

  ‘Not with all the angels and saints watching from on high, I can’t.’ She glanced pointedly at a haloed figure in a nearby stained-glass panel. ‘But just so you don’t think me a complete killjoy, I might be amenable to a bonk in a hotel room.’

  Cædmon grabbed her by the hand and dragged her towards the nearest exit. ‘We passed a guest house on Mercery Lane. If we hurry, we can be between the sheets within the half-hour.’

  55

  ‘It’s not the Savoy. But then again it’s not the almshouse,’ he’d remarked drolly, surveying the modest accommodation.

  Edie glanced at the iron bedstead. ‘What now?’

  ‘A drink, I think. No, let’s skip the pleasantries and get right down to it, shall we? In the prone or upright position? Your choice, love.’

  After a moment’s thought, she picked the latter…

  Trousers refastened, Cædmon bent down and retrieved a pair of lacy knickers from the threadbare carpet. Somewhat sheepishly, he handed them to Edie. His embarrassment stemming from a decided lack of finesse, he glanced at the undisturbed bed.

  He could do better. He would do better.

  He’d always considered himself a considerate lover, but for some inexplicable reason he’d acted on his animal urges, behaving like a testosterone-driven oaf.

  ‘I just need to, um, you know, freshen up.’ Her cheeks flushed, Edie pointed to the adjoining bathroom.

  ‘Er, right.’

  A few moments later there was the sound of a running tap, followed by a muttered complaint about the lack of hot water. Unable to find a vacant room at an accredited B & B, they’d been forced to take a room at a small guest house, the only available one an attic. In an attempt to add some charm to the claustrophobic space, the walls and the steeply pitched ceiling had been papered with prancing maids in farthingales and sad-faced Pierrots straight out of a Watteau canvas.

  ‘Shall we have a go at the stained-glass window?’ he enquired when Edie returned.

  ‘Sounds like a plan. Since there’s no table, how about we pull that pine bench over to the side of the bed?’

  Cædmon obediently fetched the bench in question, the two of them sitting side by side on the mattress, their shoulders lightly touching. In front of them, spread across the bench, Edie placed the sketch of the window, the handwritten copy of Philippa’s quatrains, a blank sheet of paper and two sharpened pencils.

  ‘When deciphering code, no stone unturned is the best rule of thumb,’ he instructed. ‘Prisons are full of thieves and murderers.’

  ‘No kidding. Your point?’

  He smiled at what was fast becoming a familiar refrain. ‘Look for the obvious. Every link in the chain is somehow relevant.’

  ‘Well the geese in the basket are pretty obvious, don’t you think?’

  ‘Indeed. But what is the significance of the pair? We know that one of the geese represents the good housewife Philippa. But what about the other?’

  Edie shrugged. ‘I have no idea. But the fact that Philippa has led us to Canterbury makes me think she may have given the Ark to the cathedral. The scene in question does show the Holy Family inside the Temple of Jerusalem.’

  For several seconds he pondered the notion. While the idea had merit, something about it didn’t ring true.

  ‘“I know not how the world be served by such adversity,”’ he said, reading aloud from the fourth quatrain. ‘It’s clear that Philippa attributed the plague to her husband’s ill-gotten treasure. Good Catholic woman that she was, Philippa would not have burdened the Church with that same adversity.’

  Getting up from the bed, Edie walked over and retrieved the Virgin bag from the room’s one and only chair, a lumpy reproduction antique upholstered in the same pattern as the wallpaper. She removed a metal nail file from the zippered pocket and sat down.

  ‘I broke a nail.’

  Realizing that she was in no mood to decipher the drawing, Cædmon stared moodily at the pine bench. In truth, he wasn’t at all surprised by her lack of enthusiasm, the day’s events having no doubt taken a heavy toll on her.

  ‘Will you be spending Christmas with your family?’

  Cædmon’s head jerked, caught off guard by Edie’s unexpected query. Although he knew she’d eventually ask about his private life, he’d foolishly hoped it wouldn’t happen soon.

  ‘My father died some years ago. But even when he was alive, we were never big on family events, Christmas falling by the wayside when I was young. My mother died in childbirth,’ he added, anticipating her next question.

  ‘This is the first time you’ve mentioned your family.’

  ‘My father and I had what you might call a strained relationship. He was strict and had no time for frivolity.’

  ‘He sounds like a real hard-ass.’

  ‘Actually, he was a solicitor.’

  Edie laughed aloud. ‘Sorry. It’s just the way it came out. It sounded…’

  ‘Absurd?’ The old wounds not nearly as painful as they’d once been, he managed a half-smile. ‘Yes, there was a certain absurdity to our relationship.’

  ‘Absurdity aside, I bet your father was proud of you. Going to Oxford and everything.’

  Cædmon snorted. ‘Maybe. Certainly when I left Oxford, the shame killed him.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a weensy bit?’ With thumb and index finger, she mimed ‘weensy’.

  Shoving the bench aside, he rose to his feet. There being little room to pace, he walked over to the fireplace. The act of confession an uncomfortable one, he turned his back to her.

  ‘Within days of my Oxford débacle, I was summoned to a hospital where my father was undergoing tests for an intestinal complaint.’ Able to see the sterile white room in his mind’s eye, he frowned, the vividness of
the recollection unnerving. ‘My father was wearing a light blue hospital gown. It was the first time I’d ever seen him in clothes that hadn’t been properly pressed.’ He glanced over his shoulder at her. ‘A very dignified man, my father.’

  Although she made no reply, he could see that he had a captive audience, Edie leaning forward in the chair.

  ‘The morning sun was shining through the window by my father’s bed. He looked like a kindly old gentleman. An aged putto, I irreverently thought at the time.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Something that had been years in the making.’ He turned and faced his confessor. ‘At this juncture I should mention that I spent the first thirteen years of my life fearing the bastard and the next thirteen loathing him because of that fear.’

  ‘Did he physically abuse you?’

  He tersely shook his head. ‘No. In fact he never laid a hand on me, not in anger nor affection. It was emotional abuse, a systematic shutting-out that left little doubt he rued the day I had been born. On those few occasions he did take notice of me, it was always to criticize.’

  ‘I’m guessing it all came to a head when you went to visit him in the hospital.’

  Cædmon nodded. ‘No sooner did I arrive than he told me precisely how much it had cost him to support me at Oxford. He then point blank said that he expected me to pay it back. With interest.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’ Her stunned expression was almost comical.

  ‘I told the old bastard to bugger off and left, perversely pleased with myself for finally standing up to him. Twelve hours later the hospital rang to tell me that my father had unexpectedly died from an embolism.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  The question was so typically American, he should have anticipated it. Should have, but didn’t.

  ‘If you’re asking if I felt complicit in my father’s death, I did not. Although I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time trying to understand his motives.’ He shrugged, indicating this had been a futile endeavour. ‘All I know is that my father lacked the ability to love.’

  Good God! Did I really just say that?

  Horrified, he self-consciously cleared his throat, refusing to meet Edie’s disarmingly direct gaze.

  ‘Maybe he did love you; he just didn’t know how to express it.’

  ‘To know the man was to know better.’

  Getting up from her chair, Edie walked towards him. ‘I think your father was an idiot for wasting his life the way he did. It’s what Herman Melville referred to as the “horror of the half-lived life”. So, what about the rest of your life? Have you ever been married? Do you have any kids?’

  Cædmon stared at the threadbare carpet, the conversation having veered into uncomfortable territory. The ghost of his dead lover was close. If he told Edie about Juliana, he’d also have to tell her about his murderous revenge in the streets of Belfast.

  Arms crossed over his chest, he listened as the mantel clock relentlessly ticked off each passing second with an air of funereal inevitability.

  Edie placed a hand on his forearm. ‘Look, whatever it is that you’re afraid to tell me, I’ll understand. Really, I will.’

  Angry at being cornered, he moved away from her. ‘You’ll understand? Correct me if I’m wrong, but we first met four days ago. Barely enough time to know how I take my tea, let alone understand me.’ He snatched his anorak from the nearby hook. ‘There’s a curry house down the road. I’m going to get a takeaway.’

  56

  Edie yanked the black turtleneck over her head and threw it onto the wooden toilet lid. Reaching her hand into the claw-footed bathtub, she swirled the sudsy water, testing to make sure she had the right mix of hot and cold. Evidently, it had yet to occur to the Brits that a single spout was a whole heck of a lot better than duelling taps. But as she was quickly learning, the Brits were a curious lot.

  She unhooked her bra and let it drop onto the linoleum floor. Seeing the small mark next to her nipple, she smiled. Cædmon had surprised her with his passion, morphing into a lusty alpha male the moment he removed his woollens and tweeds. A lot of things about Cædmon surprised her. The way he would dunk a cookie in his coffee then immediately apologize as though he’d committed the gravest of sins. His almost boyish exuberance when it came to anything even remotely esoteric. His insistence on opening doors and preceding her down steps. His sweetness. His tenderness. His unrelenting resolve when it came to the Ark.

  God, but he could be a hard-ass. She suspected that he took after his father more than he realized. Yeah, she’d pushed him. But he’d pushed back even harder. Short of killing a man in cold blood, she’d understand whatever deep, dark secret he kept under lock and key. She was certainly no saint.

  What she needed to do was back off. When he was ready, when he felt more comfortable with the relationship, he would open up.

  Clothes removed, she walked over and turned off the taps. Tentatively, she stuck a big toe into the water. Then, a hand braced on either side of the claw-footed bath, she slowly sank into the frothy water, having found a half-used bottle of lemon-scented bubble bath.

  ‘Perfect,’ she crooned, her tense muscles finally relaxing. She stared at the pitched ceiling, the light from the adjoining room turning the surface a pretty shade of candy-floss pink.

  She reached for the flannel she’d earlier draped over the curved lip of the tub.

  ‘Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la-la, la-la-la-la-la.’

  Realizing it was one of those songs that sounded better after a couple of drinks, she switched tunes, instead humming ‘The Little Drummer Boy’ as she soaped up the flannel.

  Raising her right leg out of the water, she washed it from toe to knee.

  Again, her thoughts turned to Cædmon. Christmas had to be a difficult time of year for him given that his father –

  ‘Getting all cleaned up to do the dirty, huh?’

  Hearing the deep-throated voice, Edie swung her head towards the open bathroom door.

  O, God. It was him.

  57

  Stunned to find her Oxford assailant negligently leaning against the door jamb, Edie thought her heart would explode. Overcome with fear, she helplessly gripped the sides of the tub.

  ‘And in case you got any notions about screaming or hollering or complaining to the management, you might want to reconsider,’ the intruder drawled, slowly pulling a gun from the waistband of his military-style cargo pants. ‘The two of us are gonna do this nice and quiet.’

  Edie stared at the dark lump of steel clutched in his meaty hand. She didn’t know much about firearms, but she knew a silencer when she saw one. He could kill her in cold blood and no one in the guest house would be the wiser. Just like he had killed Dr Padgham at the museum. Just like he’d probably killed God knows how many people.

  Gun in hand, he strolled over and retrieved her bra from the floor. As he did, Edie noticed the surgical tape on the side of his head. Evidently, he’d had to have stitches after Cædmon hit him with the bottle. Like he wasn’t scary enough already, the little pieces of white tape made him look like a turbocharged Frankenstein.

  Holding her bra up to his face, the behemoth read the inside tag. ‘Thirty-four C. Nice. They ought to fit my hands just perfect.’

  Edie wanted to puke.

  ‘H-how d-did you find me?’ she stammered, hoping that if she changed the subject, she could somehow change his intentions.

  Grinning, he dropped the bra. ‘Amazing how you can hunt down a person anywhere in the world with a microdot tracking device and a PalmPilot. And the beauty of it? It don’t cost more than two hundred dollars. That’s the good thing about them Chinks and how they mass-produce everything on God’s green planet. Keeps down the cost of surveillance.’

  ‘You attacked me in Oxford, so you could plant a tracking device?’

  ‘Aren’t you the clever bitch?’ His gaze slowly moved down her soap-covered body, stopping at her quivering breasts
.

  Edie sank deeper into the bubbles, her head the only thing that remained above water. If she could, she would have squeezed herself right down the drain.

  ‘He’s going to be back. Any minute now. So you better leave while you still have the chance.’ She glanced pointedly at his sutured skull, hoping to drive home her point.

  ‘Ooh, I’m quaking in my boots. Besides, I’ve got my doubts about your red-headed honey returning any time soon. Last I saw, he was sitting at the corner bar, downing a cold one. So, it looks like it’s gonna be just me and you, sweet tits. But after what I saw last night, I think you can handle it.’ He winked lewdly at her. ‘I got last night’s fuck fest on video. Hot. Real, real hot.’ Reaching down, he cupped his crotch with his free hand, pursing his thick lips in an exaggerated air kiss.

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ Edie moaned, leaning over the side of the tub, gagging.

  ‘The fuck you are!’

  Charging forward, her would-be rapist grabbed her by the hair. Lemon-scented water splashed onto the floor as he yanked her up and out of the tub. Arms flailing, Edie reflexively slammed her fist into the wound on the side of his head.

  ‘Fucking shit!’ he bellowed, instantly releasing his hold.

  Edie seized her chance, running into the bedroom.

  A weapon. She had to find a weapon.

  Her eyes darted from the standard lamp to the bed to the lumpy chair.

  The nail file.

  Oblivious to the fact that she was stark naked, she lunged towards the chair.

  That’s where I was sitting when I was filing down my nail.

  From behind her, she heard the thud of his boots.

  Where the hell was the nail file?

  She shoved her hand down the side of the seat cushion, her search coming to an abrupt end when a muscled arm snaked around her waist, yanking her away from the chair. Frantic, she tried to twist free, but it was as though she had a giant vice clamped around her midsection.