The Pearl Dagger

by L. A. Chandlar

  Finn’s eyes were locked on hers, like there was no one else in the whole world. Lane slowly rose up on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, “You’re right. Let’s go. Come on.” She took his hand in hers and was about to lead him out the door, but before she could turn, his warm lips were on hers, briefly, but full of intensity.

  His mind fully cleared, he had a determined set to his jaw. Whatever fear his parents evoked in him, he hated it with every ounce of his being. It confused him, the unpredictable nature of it all.

  When they got to their hotel, they barely got to the door before Lane’s lips were on his, her fingers pulling at the buttons on his shirt. Somehow he managed to unlock the door and they stumbled into the room. The coldness and harshness of the whole situation made them crave each other. Their warmth and love was like going home after a long and tiresome journey.

  He slipped his hand into her blouse, caressing her soft breast as she softly moaned and found every button and zipper on him. There was an urgency and a tenderness that they needed to give each other. To remind them both of the goodness and trust in the world.

  She had his shirt off and her red fingernails stroked his chest as she kissed him lightly on his neck and then his chest. She then drew him to the bathroom and turned on the shower, the heat already steaming up the room. She stepped in and the water glistened off her smooth body. He thought he might just spontaneously combust right then and there.

  They held each other through the long night, their bodies perfectly intertwined. He’d never known such softness, such tenderness mixed with her burning desire that made him know beyond a doubt she craved him just as much as he craved her.

  In the middle of the night, he woke, his heart racing from a strange dream about Sean and an overwhelming sense that he was being sucked down into something like quicksand. In the dream, he’d looked over at Lane on the other side. She’d grabbed his hand to help, but instead, to his horror, he pulled her in with him.

  Now, not quite fully awake, with the remnants of the awful dream still pulling at him, he felt Lane’s hand gently smoothing the hair from his forehead. His breathing slowed and he focused on slowing his heartbeat. The nightmare began to dissolve. She kissed the side of his head as he nuzzled closer. She whispered, “It’s okay. I’m here. Go back to sleep. It’s all okay.”

  He was tired, but his desire rose and her softness pulled him to her, compelling and sensuous. They melded together both half-asleep, fully loving, fully enjoying, his nightmarish fears dissipating like a wisp of smoke.

  CHAPTER 21

  The next morning, we had a quick, early breakfast, then jumped into the car. The bumpy road jolted me as I hung on to the door handle, leaning into the turn. Oxford was about a two-hour drive. We decided on the car instead of the train, so we could get around on our own schedule.

  The drive took us out of bustling London and into countryside with rolling green hills, stark brown trees dotting the landscape with picturesque cows and sheep lazily walking about, tails twitching and grazing with contentment. England was much greener than New York during these winter months. It felt nice to see the green, grassy land, despite the fact that the trees had lost their leaves. There was something sprawling about this countryside that felt different from the open country around New York and even Michigan. The roads were so long, curving and empty in the midst of miles and miles of gently rolling green hills.

  Neither of us spoke much. There certainly was a lot going through my mind so I could only imagine what Finn was going through. There was the pinball affair in New York, Daphne was nowhere to be found, and we had to deal with Finn’s horrible family. It was a wonder that such a kind, generous, and healthy human being such as Finn could come from that crew.

  The doctors confirmed that Finn’s father had been poisoned, perhaps for some time, long before we arrived. But even with that empirical evidence, his stubborn mother remained convinced that Finn was at fault. For now, though, we had to put that on hold.

  As we entered into Oxford proper, I was looking forward to stretching my legs. Finn pulled over and parked. Miles gave us rather vague directions to meet his contact, who regularly had a meeting with a group of his cohorts on Tuesdays. Of course his contact was meeting us in a pub. I wondered if Miles ever frequented a place of business that wasn’t a pub. Finn held my hand as we walked down the street.

  “I don’t see any place called the Bird,” I said to Finn as my stomach growled.

  “Hungry, love?” he asked with a chuckle.

  “Always. Hey, let’s just ask at this little store.”

  We walked in and Finn asked the harried man behind the counter full of a hodgepodge of treats, medicines, and a variety of kitchenware.

  “Oh, you mean the Bird and the Baby!” I was about to interrupt that no, we were looking for just the Bird, but he quickly added, “See? It’s right there, mate. Across the street.” He directed us with a long finger pointing out the window.

  “Ah,” I said. “We should’ve known. The Eagle and Child Pub.”

  “Naturally,” said Finn with a wry grin. “The Bird.”

  We walked across the street to the cream-colored, three-story building with its sky-blue sign featuring an eagle carrying a baby wrapped in a blanket within its clutches. We walked in the dark wooden door and over in the back corner were several gentlemen in deep discussion. The place was surely like thousands of pubs around England, yet it also reminded me of my home in Rochester, Michigan. Warm brown paneling crept up the walls to about eye level, above that was more of the cream color from the outside, and a fire in the fireplace cast heat and friendliness around the little pub.

  The only thing out of place here . . . was me. I was the sole woman, and I happened to be wearing my red sweater coat with the fluffy fur collar. I definitely stood out. Everyone stopped and took a good look at me, making a blush creep up my face. Everyone, that is, except the group of gentlemen that we were meeting. Whatever that group was discussing, it had captured their imagination completely.

  As we walked up, one of them was in a friendly argument about a story one of them had shared with the group. “But I’m not sure you should use your Aunt Jane’s farm as that reference. Don’t you think it’s a rather tame moniker?”

  “Nonsense. It’s perfect. Aunt Jane always loved her Bag End, and I’m keeping it that way.”

  They suddenly noticed our appearance and the entire group swiveled their heads in our direction. A man probably in his mid-forties, with a thin face, broad forehead, and a full mustache, the one who wanted his aunt Jane’s farm in his story, stood up and said, “You must be my meeting. Mr. Finn Brodie and Miss Lane Sanders.”

  Finn held out his hand and said, “Indeed. It’s wonderful to meet you, Mr. Tolkien.”

  “John!” he interrupted. “Please, with this company and Lane here especially, you must call me John.” He looked at me with an intense stare, piercing my eyes with his. Am I supposed to know him?

  “Lane and Finn, let me introduce Mr. Lewis,” said John.

  “Call me Jack.”

  I shook his hand warmly, instantly liking this group. “Hello, Jack.”

  John continued around the circle. “Okay! Assume we are all on a first-name basis. We are a small group today. This is Jack’s brother, Warren Lewis, call him Warnie. And here we have Mr. Adam Fox and Mr. Owen Barfield.” It may have been a smaller group than usual, but the spark of intellect and something like potential mischief made the group very interesting indeed.

  Jack spoke up, “Lane, John here was filling us in a bit on your visit. Have a seat, let me order you a pint, and we’d love to hear more of your story.” I always liked the name Jack. And with this particular man, I now loved it even more. There was a glint of fire and humor in his eyes. I knew that Miles’s contact was a fellow at Oxford, but I was surprised at the energizing feeling of being in their presence. Their very essence seemed to have an abundance of imagination and creativity.

  We sat down and I gave them a qu
ick outline of my story involving an old crime network, my parents, and then Daphne heading to London. “Miles told us that you might have some information on my parents and what they were involved in during the war.”

  “This is the lady you were telling us about? Her parents?” asked Adam incredulously.

  John nodded and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Hmmm,” he said as he thought about how to share his information. “All right, then. Let me tell you a story.”

  Finn and I exchanged a glance and then sat back, eager for this story we had come so far to hear. John had the countenance of a masterful storyteller. He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. The rest of the group eased themselves into more comfortable positions, all of us readying ourselves for a good tale.

  “My family is from Saxony. We emigrated here in the eighteenth century. My grandfather, John Benjamin, was born in Birmingham and he had a small painting that had always been dear to him. It was a Baroque floral painting. I liked it, too. Anna Katharina Block. I remember loving it because it was of a beautiful flower, fresh like the spring. And so many paintings then were of fearsome, sad faces and very dark. Plus, this was by a woman. A bit of a rarity, you see.

  “One day, a professional group of art dealers came to our village and held a persuasive meeting about any art or jewelry we might have in our possession. It centered around finding treasure right beneath our own rooftops. It was thrilling. The potential of treasure, hidden in plain sight.

  “The group ran a professional meeting and they were extremely pleasant with cordial manners. Everyone came, brought their valuables. They appraised everything, then bought a few, but most people took their newfound treasures home, excited to have something to leave as a legacy or to keep for a rainy day.

  “The following morning, we discovered that almost everything of value that the villagers had brought to the group was stolen during the night. No one had realized that the professional, copious notes that the dealers had been taking so carefully, so politely, were to make note of who had what and where they lived. They also small-talked the unsuspecting people, so they knew who had a guard dog, who might be well armed, who might have well-muscled sons at home . . . in short, we were taken for a ride.”

  John drank the last of his pint with a quick toss and ordered another, slamming his glass down with a touch of fury.

  I nodded, impressed by the thoroughness of the con artists. “What was the name of the group? And when did that all occur?” I asked, having an inkling.

  “Well, this is where it starts to get interesting,” said John, making us lean forward in anticipation.

  Finn muttered, “Starts to get interesting?”

  “It was near the end of the war. Actually, a little after, I’m thinking early spring of 1919. I was fighting in the war, so I didn’t arrive home until quite some weeks had passed since the thefts. My grandparents were a little vague on exact dates.”

  “Okay,” I said, tracking with him. “And the name?”

  “When the few of us survivors came home, we heard about the con artists and of course were enraged. So we tried to track down the dealers. It turns out, their con on our village is what led to them being taken down. Up until then, from what we could find, every time they went to a village or town, they were careful to use a different title for the company, even different names and faces for the leaders, trading off in each region. But at our town, they called themselves Richthofen Art.”

  His eyes sparked, looking at us expectantly, waiting for us to get the significance.

  Finn took a sudden breath in and said, “Manfred von Richthofen.”

  “Cheers, mate,” said John, clinking Finn’s glass.

  “Who’s Manfred?” I asked.

  John replied, “The Red Baron. The famous German fighter pilot in the war.”

  “The Red Baron,” I echoed. “Red. That was their mistake.”

  John nodded sagely. “Miles and his crew were hunting down any group interested in art with the smallest ties to the Red Scroll, anything remotely with the moniker containing red, any possible clue to nail them. I’d heard about Miles Havalaar from another junior officer. Miles had contacts in all places.”

  “Sounds like Roarke,” I said with a smirk aimed at Finn.

  John continued, “So I finally found a way to get him the information and I guess it helped in their investigation.”

  “So how were my parents involved?” I asked, half afraid.

  “Well, Lane, I hate to say it, but they were definitely part of the con. At least in our village. But what I have to tell you about them actually happened a few years after all that.”

  “I’m going to need another pint,” I said just above a whisper. Adam jumped up muttering that he did, too.

  Finn looked at me, shaking his head. “Just when I thought my family was outrageous.”

  “Oh, they are . . .” I said.

  The barkeep brought an entire tray of fresh pints for us all. We grasped the handles and clinked all around. Our expressions were far from jovial, yet full of genuine companionship.

  “As I was saying,” said John, “I was contacted after the war. A friend of mine who had a note for me. It was pretty cryptic, but basically it came down to the fact that he made contact with someone who had our family’s painting by Anna Block. And they wanted to return it.”

  “Return it?” I said breathlessly, hopefully.

  John nodded. “Yes. I wish I had more details, but one day, I received a letter to set up a meeting. I soon met with your parents, Lane. And they had the painting!” He wasn’t an excitable man, but his expression turned eager, like a little child retelling the story of a great quest.

  “I just . . . I can’t tell you how much it meant to my family. It wasn’t that the painting was priceless, but it was valuable to us. And after the war had torn apart so much, to have something remain true. Unharmed. And . . . beautiful. It just meant so much.” His eyes grew glossy with emotion and of course mine did, too. Thinking of my family home in Rochester, I knew exactly what he meant.

  Jack, sitting next to me, also wiped at his eyes, whispering to himself, “Very beautiful indeed.”

  I cleared my throat and asked, “What did they say? How did they get it, to return it to you?”

  “We had a wonderful night regaling each other with stories. They apologized for being part of the con and they divulged that they’d been undercover and working to stop these thefts. Matthew said they wished they could return everything, but it was impossible. They said they decided it was time to get out. And that they could try to return at least one thing.”

  John stopped and fingered his mustache in thought. “Our painting had captured their imagination, I think. Charlotte said they were hoping to make things right, that this was the step that would redeem the darker parts of what they’d done. Yes, indeed. Matthew and Charlotte Lorian will definitely be friends whom I will never, ever forget.”

  Jack, Adam, and Owen as one spun their heads to look directly at John. Jack sputtered, “Lorian? In your book?”

  John got a sly look on his face with a one-sided smile and replied, “Yes. Lorian.”

  I didn’t know what that was all about, but I asked, “Do you have the name and whereabouts of your friend that was the liaison between you and my parents? I’d like to thank him, and I’d also like to ask a few questions about the whole thing.”

  “Sure, Lane. I haven’t spoken to him in years, he was more of an acquaintance. But his name is Alistair Huxbury. It’s not too far, maybe a forty-five-minute drive. But, um, a bit of advice. I’m going to send you to the only public house of the village . . .”

  “Another pub,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Of course, my friend was the owner and barkeep. Finn, mate, you, um . . . you fairly radiate Scotland Yard or bobby, at the least. I’d suggest going to the pub separately, at least not as a couple. I think Lane will have more luck questioning without making anyone nervous. Especially since it’
s about her parents, and she looks like Charlotte. So that helps. Just a suggestion.”

  Finn said, “Well, Lane specializes in disguises and such . . .”

  I gave him a disgusted look and turned to John. “Thank you so much. Could I see the painting sometime?” I wanted to see the piece that my parents went to such great lengths to return.

  “Actually, I brought it today. I thought you’d like to see it,” he said as he leaned over the edge of his chair to his beat-up, brown satchel briefcase. He unclipped the two clasps and pulled out a small paper-wrapped parcel. John’s long fingers lovingly, carefully unfolded the paper. He held out the small square frame to me.

  I took the little square in my hands. The painting was of a single flower, its soft pink petals curved upward, the stamen a bright yellow, its lower petals a gentle spring green. It looked fresh, full of the promise of spring and goodness. “Is it a lily?” I asked.

  “A lotus,” said John.

  “It’s lovely,” I whispered. “I feel like I’ve seen it before.”

  “Lane, you have,” said Finn, putting his hand on my knee. “It’s the flower that outlines that portrait of you at your parents’ house in Rochester.” I took a deep breath. He was right. It was the flower that created a beautiful frame around an old portrait of me, and the very same flower that was etched into the molding of my father’s study.

  “Right then,” said John. “You’d better get going to that pub. Before it gets too late.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said. “I’d love to get there today. Really, John, I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Well, truly, Lane, I can’t thank your parents enough. And I can tell you right now, you don’t even know half the story of what they did for me.”