Quinn turned to face Rhys and pulled a plastic baggie out of her pocket. “I found this. It’s a hair comb,” she explained when she saw Rhys peering at the contents in confusion.
“What is it made of?” Rhys asked. “Is that ivory?”
“No, I don’t think so. It’s more likely to be animal bone.”
Rhys reached for the bag and held it up. “Have you touched it with your bare hands?”
“No. And I won’t be examining it tonight. I’m not ready,” Quinn said.
She’d only just finished documenting her findings on her last case and turned the Fabergé necklace that had belonged to a Russian woman named Valentina Kalinina over to Rhys, who would return it to her granddaughter. Valentina had murdered a man who’d abused her and hidden his remains from the world for nearly one hundred years. Valentina’s story had been a dramatic one, but at least she had survived and managed to reclaim something of her life—unlike the poor woman in the coffin, who’d met one of the most gruesome ends Quinn could imagine. She would find out what had happened to her, in time, but tonight she’d try to put the horrific images out of her mind and get some rest. It’d been a long and emotionally wrenching day.
“How about we have an early dinner?” Rhys asked. “I promise, I won’t ask any more questions about our ‘coffin girl.’ Just two friends having a meal at the end of a workday.”
Quinn would have liked nothing more than to check into the hotel, run a hot bath, and soak for a while before calling room service, but she couldn’t say no to Rhys. It’d been less than a fortnight since she’d found him in his flat, unresponsive and cold to the touch, having chased a couple of sleeping tablets with Scotch after his girlfriend Hayley miscarried their baby and then walked out on him, casting doubt on the paternity of the child as a parting shot. Rhys no longer mentioned the incident, but he was still fragile, and heartbroken. He would get over the loss of Hayley, but the little unborn girl he’d seen sucking her thumb during the scan still gripped his heart with her tiny fingers and he mourned her every moment of every day, regardless of whether she’d been his. Rhys had wanted a family of his own more than anything, and the loss of both partner and child had nearly killed him.
“What are you in the mood for?” Rhys asked.
“I’d kill for a curry. I’ve been eating bland foods for the past month, since anything I eat seems to upset Alex’s tummy. I won’t be nursing tonight or tomorrow morning, so I can have anything I want.”
“Does that include wine?”
“Yes. I haven’t had a glass of wine since I found out I was pregnant.”
“I’ll get several bottles, then,” Rhys said, chuckling. “You can have a whole bottle to yourself.”
“Let’s get a takeaway and eat it in my room,” Quinn suggested. “I’m not in the mood for a noisy restaurant tonight.”
“Sounds good. Why don’t you go check in and I’ll get the food and wine and join you in about a half hour? You look like you could use a hot shower after spending all day in that damp cave.”
Quinn smiled. Rhys knew her a lot better than she imagined. “Okay, see you in a bit.”
**
“Mm. That was really good,” Quinn said as she pushed away the takeaway container and drained her wine glass.
Rhys poured her more wine and leaned back into the sofa, watching her. Something in his eyes made Quinn sit up and set down her glass.
“What is it? What are you not telling me?”
Rhys’s gaze slid away from her face, toward the darkness outside the window. “Quinn, I—”
“What? What’s wrong?” Quinn asked, now really worried. Rhys wasn’t an overly sentimental person. When he had something to say, he said it. The fact that he seemed worried about telling her frightened her more than anything he might spring on her.
“Quinn, I had a call from Rob Malone while you were bagging the bones.”
“The reporter?” she asked. She’d expected something of a personal nature, but she’d never met Rob Malone, and had only seen him on TV a handful of times. He was a handsome man in his mid-forties with thick sandy hair, blue eyes, and a ruddy complexion that was a testament to a life lived mostly outdoors. He had a trace of an Irish brogue, and a smile that lit up the screen. Quinn thought he was probably very popular with female viewers. Rob Malone reported from war zones and had a reputation for being fearless and tenacious when in pursuit of a story.
“Rob is in Afghanistan, covering the transition of power between the coalition forces led by NATO and Afghan National Security forces. The transition took place on January first.”
Quinn huddled deeper into the sofa and wrapped her arms around her middle. Rob Malone was in Afghanistan. Now she understood the significance of the phone call. For the past two weeks, everyone had kept reassuring her that her twin sister Quentin, now known as Jo, was just fine and would turn up any day after her stint in Kabul. A photojournalist, she’d traveled all over the world and taken photographs that not only touched hearts and souls, but had won several prestigious awards, which solidified her position at the top of her profession.
Jo hadn’t been heard from since September, but her agent, Charles Sutcliffe, didn’t seem to find it too concerning, assuring Quinn that Jo had gone without communicating with anyone for several months in the past. Jo and Quinn had yet to meet, having been separated at birth and adopted by different families, and Quinn had no idea if Jo knew of her existence or had ever received the letter Quinn had forwarded through Jo’s attorney, Louis Richards, who seemed to delight in putting obstacles in Quinn’s path. Her heart thundered with fear. What Rhys was about to tell her couldn’t be good, or he wouldn’t be wearing that expression of sorrow and concern.
“Rhys, please, just tell me,” Quinn pleaded.
“Quinn, I know Rob quite well, so I asked him to make some discreet inquiries into Jo’s whereabouts. I only wanted to reassure you that she’s all right. To put your mind at rest,” Rhys added.
“But she isn’t all right. Is she?”
“Quinn, no one has seen Jo in months. Rob actually had a drink with her at the beginning of October. He said she was in good spirits and was planning an expedition into the mountains to take photos of abandoned Taliban hideouts. She was due to leave the next day.”
“Are you telling me that my sister went off into the mountains of Afghanistan and hasn’t been heard from since? Did she go on her own? Did no one realize that she hadn’t come back? Why had no one has alerted the authorities or bothered to look for her?”
“Rob assumed Jo finished her assignment and returned home to London. As I’m sure everyone did.”
“But she hadn’t returned to London.” Quinn blinked away tears of helplessness as a mantle of dread settled over her shoulders.
“Quinn, just because no one in Kabul has seen Jo doesn’t mean anything. She could have moved on to another location that has spotty internet service. It’s very common in that part of the world.”
Quinn raised her eyes to meet Rhys’s concerned gaze. “Rhys, I know this doesn’t make any sense, but I just know something is wrong. I feel it in my bones. I’ve never met Jo, but I shared a womb with her. There’s a connection. I always felt like something was missing, even after I had finally found my birth parents. There was just something not quite right. When I discovered I was a twin, it all fell into place. Jo is a part of me, and no matter what anyone tells me, I can’t seem to shake this feeling of dread.”
“I do understand. I experienced something similar once,” Rhys replied.
“Tell me.”
“I was about nine at the time, and school was out for the summer holidays. My brother, Owain, and his friends went out to play football, but I wasn’t allowed to come because of my asthma. Mum went to work and left me at home with a ham sandwich and a library copy of Ivanhoe. I was content for about two hours, then something began to nag at me. I grew anxious and fearful. Thankfully, Mum had left my inhaler right on the table because the stress brought on a
n attack. Once I was breathing normally again, I called Mum at work. I told her something was wrong with Owain and she had to go find him. This was before mobile phones were a way of life, so Mum had no way of contacting Owain,” Rhys said, smiling at the memory.
“Let me tell you, she wasn’t very happy with me. She had several clients waiting for her to do their hair, and she couldn’t just leave on a whim. She became so agitated that the owner of the hair salon sent his son Sean out to look for Owain. Sean found him lying on the ground unconscious, his friends paralyzed with indecision. Seems they got tired of playing football and started wrestling. One of the boys, who was bigger and stronger than Owain, slammed him to the ground. Owain hit his head on a jagged stone that was hidden by the grass. Sean took Owain to the hospital. He had suffered severe head trauma and remained in the hospital for nearly a week.”
“So, if you hadn’t called your mother…”
“His friends wouldn’t have got him to the hospital in time. They just stood about, wasting precious time. So, I do understand, Quinn. I’m not dismissing what you’re feeling.”
“But what do I do?”
“Nothing,” Rhys replied. “Sometimes waiting is the hardest thing you can do, but you must accept that you have no control over this situation. Rob will ring me if he finds out anything more.”
Quinn nodded, but cold fingers of doubt closed around her heart and made it difficult to breathe. Jo Turing wasn’t okay; she knew that with unwavering certainty.
“I think I’d like to be alone now, if you don’t mind,” Quinn said. “I’m tired.”
“All right, but I’m just across the corridor if you need me.”
“Thanks, Rhys. I’ll be fine. I had too much wine and now I’m feeling maudlin and sorry for myself. I think I’ll just go to bed.”
“Goodnight, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Bright and early.”
Quinn climbed into bed and pulled the counterpane up to her chin. The room was chilly, despite the gas fire burning in the grate, and the wind moaned outside and rattled the decorative wooden shutters. It felt strange to be alone. She hadn’t realized how accustomed she’d become to sharing her bed with Gabe. She wished she could snuggle up against him and tell him about Jo. Quinn glanced at the clock on the bedside table. He was probably still awake, and she could ring him, but for some reason, she didn’t want to talk about Jo just then. She’d only get more upset, no matter how many times Gabe told her not to worry and assured her that Jo would return from her assignment safe and sound.
Quinn knew her mind wouldn’t be able to settle for hours, so despite what she’d said to Rhys earlier, she reached for the plastic bag lying on the bedside table. She’d seen combs like this before, and similar items could still be found today, only they’d be made of plastic rather than bone. Quinn gingerly opened the bag and reached for the comb. She hoped it had a story to tell and would show her the face of the poor woman who’d met with such an unspeakable end.
Chapter 3
April 1620
Plymouth, Devon
“Hurry up, ye lazy cow! The customers won’t serve themselves,” Uncle Swithin bellowed as he gave Mary a push toward a table of sailors who were calling raucously for a refill. She grabbed the jug with both hands so as not to spill the precious ale. Uncle Swithin would give her a hiding if she did, even though he was the one who caused her to stumble. Mary approached the table cautiously, making sure to keep her distance as she held out the jug and topped up the men’s tankards. The sailors had been drinking since early evening and were well soused and rowdy, their lewd comments making Mary’s cheeks flame with embarrassment.
A hand shot out and fastened onto her buttock, making her yelp in surprise. She wished she could slap it away, but Uncle Swithin wouldn’t let her get away with offending the customers. She’d have to deal with a lot worse than a hand on her arse if she were caught in the act of defending herself. He didn’t care if they offended her; he almost hoped they would. Having a fetching young woman serving the patrons was part of the appeal of the tavern, as her uncle told her time and again.
“No blowsy slatterns here. This is a fine establishment, not a brothel,” he’d announced to a new customer only last night. “Why, our Mary’s as pure as the Virgin. Aren’t you, my dove?” Uncle Swithin cooed in her direction, clearly pleased with his own wit.
Mary had cringed at his crude words and improper insinuations. Did he really think men came to his tavern to see her? They came to drink their troubles away and spend a few hours in a place where nothing was expected of them. They could be as base as they wished, and even after her years of slaving away at her uncle’s establishment, some of them still managed to shock her. Every morning found Mary on her knees, washing the floor some drunken sod had pissed on the previous evening because he was too drunk or too lazy to go out to the privy to do his business, but sometimes she had to wash away more than piss. Not a week went by that someone wasn’t sick all over the tables and floor, forcing Mary to scrub up the dried vomit the following morning, the smell making her eyes water as she cringed with disgust.
Mary shook off the offending hand and retreated to the back of the tavern, where she slipped out and rushed toward the privy. She didn’t really need to go, but going to relieve herself was the only way she could escape the tavern for a few minutes without being cursed at, or worse, slapped by her uncle. Mary slipped behind the privy and leaned against the rough wood of the tree that grew at the bottom of the yard. She was exhausted. She’d been up since dawn, fetching water, baking bread, making porridge for breakfast, and then starting on the stew and pies that she would later serve to the customers. It was close to midnight, but the men showed no signs of leaving, and she couldn’t begin to clear the tables or wipe up spilled ale until the tavern was empty.
Mary longed for her bed, but even sleep wasn’t restful these days. She shared a bed with Uncle Swithin’s three daughters, all under the age of ten. The girls did their bit to help during the day, or they’d get a beating from their father, but they didn’t sleep quietly, especially the youngest, Beth, who kicked like a donkey and often cried out for her mother in her sleep. Uncle Swithin’s wife, Agnes, had died only two months ago and the children were still coming to terms with their loss.
Mary had never really cared for Agnes, who’d been calculating and mean, but her death had meant greater responsibility and more work for Mary. Not only did she now have to look after the customers almost singlehandedly, but she had to take on the role of mother to the girls, who were still too young to fend for themselves. Her uncle, her mother’s brother, had taken her in seven years ago, when she was thirteen, and although he’d made a promise to his dying sister to be kind to her only child, he worked Mary to the bone and beat her regularly, just in case she forgot to be grateful for his kindness and charity.
Mary bore the beatings, the insults, and the hard work, but what she couldn’t bear was the lack of hope. She was twenty, a ripe age for marrying and having babies, but any man who so much as expressed an interest in her was driven off, told she’d been promised to another. Mary wasn’t promised to anyone other than her uncle, who meant to use her as free labor until the day she died. He’d never let her go, and he made sure no man would be fool enough to marry her.
She had nothing to her name, not even a change of clothes, much less a dowry. What man would want a woman who brought nothing to the marriage? Everyone was poor, so why settle for being even poorer? Mary had been told she was pretty, but a woman who had nothing to offer was fit for nothing more than a roll in the hay, not a place in the marriage bed. She rejected all advances, especially since most of them came from drunken sailors and sweat-soaked dock laborers who tried to take liberties with her every time she came too near them.
Having spent her five minutes of freedom behind the stinking privy, Mary headed back toward the tavern, hoping the men would finally leave and let her get on with the cleaning. She froze when she saw two men heading in
her direction. They were drunk, but not drunk enough to pass on the opportunity to harass a defenseless female. She shrank into the shadows in the hope they’d pass by without noticing her. She knew these men. She’d seen them at the tavern before. The older one was Captain Robeson of the Lady Grace, and the younger one was the quartermaster, Master Harrington. The men stopped just outside the door and looked up at the inky vastness of the nighttime sky.
“We’ll be sailing on the next tide, Master Harrington,” Captain Robeson said. “The cargo is loaded, the ship is provisioned, and the women are ready. We can’t afford to delay any longer. Reverend Gorman wasn’t able to inspire any more women of good character to join our venture.”
“But we have room for three more,” Master Harrington protested. “Shame to waste it.”
“Indeed, it is, but even if there are women who are interested, it’s not an easy decision, leaving everything you know behind. That kind of commitment takes some thinking. It would help if they were orphans, who have no family ties to hold them back. But if they are harlots or petty thieves, we’re duty-bound to turn them away.”
Master Harrington chuckled. “That we are, Captain.”
“Let’s continue this conversation later. I need a piss,” Captain Robeson said, his hand going to the laces of his breeches.
Captain Robeson strode toward the privy while Master Harrington stood staring up at the cloudless sky. Mary slipped into the back entrance of the tavern, glad he hadn’t noticed her. Master Harrington didn’t appear to be drunk, but she had no wish to take her chances.
The Condemned (Echoes from the Past Book 6) Page 2
