Ark of Fire (38 page)

Caedmon 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, was the sketched drawing of the stained glass 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. “Prison is full of thieves and murderers.”

“No kidding. Your point?”

He smiled at what was fast becoming her familiar refrain. “Look for the obvious. Every link in the chain is somehow relevant.”

“Well, the two 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 of the other?”

Edie shrugged. “I have no idea. But the fact that Philippa purposely led us to Canterbury Cathedral makes me think she may have given the Ark to the church. Not to mention, the scene in question details the Holy Family inside the Temple of Jerusalem.”

For several seconds, he pondered the notion. Though 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 quatrains. “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 Air bag from the room’s one and only chair, a lumpy Marquise reproduction upholstered in the same pattern as the wallpaper. She removed a metal nail file from the zippered pocket.

“I broke a nail.”

Intuiting that she was in no mood to decipher the drawing, Caedmon moodily stared 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?”

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

“My father died some years back. But even when he was alive, we were never big on the holidays, and Christmas fell by the wayside when I was a young lad. I suspect the lack of holiday cheer came about because there was no woman in the household. My mother died in childbirth,” he added, anticipating her next question.

“This is the first you’ve made mention of your family.”

“My father and I had what you might call a strained relationship. A strict taskmaster, he eschewed frivolities of any sort.”
Such as “hanging the stockings by the chimney with care.”

“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, in retrospect there was a certain absurdity to our relationship.”

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

At hearing that, Caedmon derisively snorted. “Hardly. When I left Oxford, the shame of it killed him.”

“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a
weensy
bit?” With thumb and index finger, she indicated a “weensy” unit of measure.

Shoving the pine bench aside, he rose to his feet. There being few places to roam, he walked over to the fireplace. The act of confession an uncomfortable one, he turned his back to her.

“Within days of my Oxford debacle, I was summoned to St. Anselm’s 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 wore a light blue hospital gown; it was the first time I’d ever seen him in a garment that had not been properly pressed.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “A most dignified man, my father.”

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

“The morning sun was shining through the window adjacent to my father’s hospital bed, casting upon him a soft light, making him appear as a kindly older gentleman. An aged putti, I irreverently thought at the time.”

“So what happened?”

“Something that was 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, disavowing her of the notion. “No. In fact he never laid a hand on me, not in anger nor affection. His was an emotional abuse, a systematic shunting that left little doubt he rued the day that I was born. On those few occasions when he did take notice of me, it was always with a critical eye.”

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

Caedmon nodded. “No sooner did I arrive than my father informed me of precisely how much it had cost to support my studies at Oxford. He then point-blank told me that he expected due recompense. With interest, I might add.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Her stunned expression was near comical.

“I told the old bastard to bugger off. That said, I took my departure, perversely pleased with myself for finally standing up to him. Twelve hours later his doctor rang me up, notifying me that my father had unexpectedly died from an embolism.”

“How did you feel about that?”

The question was so typically American, their culture grounded in the visceral, that 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, admittedly, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time trying to understand my father’s motives.” He shrugged, indicating that it had been a futile endeavor. “All I know is that my father had a singular inability to love.”

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 toward 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?”

Caedmon stared at the threadbare carpet, the conversation having veered into uncomfortable territory, his unsavory past about to rear its ugly head. The ghost of his murdered lover, Juliana Howe, lurked in the near vicinity. If he told her about Jules, he’d also have to tell her about his murderous rampage 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 funerary gravitas.

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 that he’d been shoved into a tight corner, he moved away from her. “You’ll understand? Correct me if I’m wrong, but you first made my acquaintance four days ago. Barely enough time to know how I take my tea, let alone understand me.” He snatched his anorak from the nearby wall hook. “There’s a curry house several blocks down the street. I’m going to get some takeaway.”

Edie yanked the black turtleneck over her head, tossing it onto the wood toilet lid. Placing her hand into the claw-footed tub, 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 faucet was a whole heck of a lot better than dueling hot and cold water taps. But as she was quickly learning, the Brits were a strange and curious lot.

Unhooking her bra, she let it drop onto the linoleum floor. At seeing the small hickey next to her nipple, she smiled, remembering. Caedmon had surprised her with his passion, morphing into a lusty alpha male the moment he removed his wools and tweeds. A lot of things about Caedmon surprised her. The way he would dunk a cookie into his coffee cup 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 the steps. His sweetness. His tenderness. His unrelenting resolve when it came to the Ark.

God, 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. Enforce a
Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell
policy. When he was ready, when he felt more comfortable with the relationship, he would open up.

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

“Perfect,” she crooned, her tensed muscles finally relaxing. She stared at the pitched ceiling, the light from the adjoining room turning the surface a pretty shade of cotton-candy pink.

She reached for the washcloth 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. ’”

Belatedly realizing that it was one of those songs that wore better after a couple of glasses of eggnog, she switched gears, instead humming “The Little Drummer Boy” as she soaped up the washcloth.

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

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

“Getting all cleaned up to do the dirty, huh?”

At hearing that deep-throated voice, Edie swung her head toward the open bathroom door.

Stunned to find her Oxford assailant negligently leaning against the doorjamb, 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 guesthouse would be the wiser. Just like he’d 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 sutures after Caedmon hit him with the broken bottle. Like he wasn’t scary enough already; the little pieces of white tape made him look like a turbo-charged 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.”

Hearing that, Edie wanted to puke.

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