Artifact (9 page)

I instinctively backed away from the window.

“He’s not here now,” Lane said, watching my maneuver. “I lost him at another hotel before coming back here.”

“Did you see who it was?”

“I think so,” he said. “Normal-looking guy. Fair skin. Brown hair. Not especially tall. Nothing distinctive. He didn’t try to approach me. He hung back. Can you sit down? You’re making me nervous.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“If I’m right about who it was,” Lane said. “There’s a chair right here, you know.”

“I have too much energy to sit. What makes you think you can’t be sure?”

“He didn’t seem to know what he was doing,” Lane said. “It made me wonder if it was just some weirdo. I don’t think so, but—”

“See if he’s in here,” I said, handing him the stack of photos.

“Great picture,” he said, holding up an out-of-focus picture of a crooked phone booth.

“I couldn’t very well let him see I was taking pictures.”

“Hmm.”

“Do you see him?”

“How am I supposed to recognize anyone in these pictures?”

“It’s a lot better than what you got: ‘Average guy, average hair, average everything’.”

“I lost him, didn’t I?”

“So did I. It wasn’t hard to do.”

“Actually,” Lane said, “I don’t think you did. He only followed me after you came back to the library.”

It took me a moment to recover my voice. “But I caught that cab.”

“Twenty pounds says the first cabbie we ask has been given the order to follow another car at some point in his career.”

“But—”

“How else do you think he was back at the library to follow me?”

I sunk into the plush chair next to Lane. It was stiffer than it looked. At least my bruised knees didn’t feel as sore as I had feared they might.

“I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever figure this out,” I said, looking out the lobby window. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“One piece at a time,” Lane said, easing his lean body out of his chair. He offered me his hand. “I spotted a decent-looking pub down the street. I’ll buy you dinner and fill you in on the rest of what I found at the library.”

Slinking into back corner tables was becoming all too common. I didn’t think twice about it when Lane led us to the farthest table in the back room of the Prince Alfred pub. Probably because the pungent smell of hearty bar food made my knees weak.

“I found her,” Lane said, resting his elbows in satisfaction at the edge of the table.

“The woman in the painting?”

He nodded with that rare giddy look I was coming to recognize.

“It’s Nur Jahan,” he said.

The name was familiar.

Lane’s eyes were locked on mine. I could see the excitement in them. Searching through all the dead ends, he’d found what he was after. I understood, and he knew that I did.

A waitress stepped out from behind the bar and set two glasses down on our table with a clunk. The spell was broken.

Who was I kidding? It had probably never been there in the first place.

“Nur Jahan?” I said, studying the bubbles in my gin and tonic.

“She was Jahangir’s favorite wife.”

“Oh, his
favorite
wife.” I met his gaze. “Are you going to tell me another great Indian love story to supplement my underdeveloped appreciation for the love story of the Taj Mahal?”

“You have a lot of contemporary biases for a historian.”

“I don’t have to agree with what they did to understand it.”

“He’s in the history books as one of the most powerful rulers of all time,” Lane said. “And it’s widely accepted that he was addicted to drugs. To the point of incapacity. Nur Jahan did a lot of the ruling while Jahangir was in power. She was a great deal ahead of her time as a feminist. I’m surprised you don’t know more about her.”

“She wasn’t the one who signed the agreements with the East India Company. An unnamed woman in the corner of a painting couldn’t have come that far. Even if she did get to wear some jewels. But they both lived before things got really interesting. Ask me anything from the militarization of the Company at the Battle of Plassey in 1757 through the major turning point for British India at the Sepoy Uprising of 1857. I can answer the question blindfolded. I can also do pretty well with any information having to do with the British Raj leading up to Indian independence another century later, in 1947. Interesting about those dates, isn’t it?”

Two heavy plates, heaping with hot food, clanked down onto our table. The scent of beer batter and vinegar was heavenly.

“Everything the Mughals possessed had to go somewhere after they lost power,” Lane said. “Jahangir and Nur Jahan lived during the opulent height of the Mughal Empire. There are lots of more prominent paintings of Nur Jahan.”

“Then why wasn’t she identified in the painting you found today?”

“I’m getting to that,” Lane said. He paused to start on his meal.

He was enjoying the drama of his delivery, I could tell. He savored the mushy peas on his plate more than was necessary. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing my impatience. I turned back to my own fish and chips.

“This particular painting wasn’t well documented in general,” Lane said. “Remember, it’s not uncommon. Jahangir subsidized hundreds of artists during his reign. Some notes put together by a non-contemporary scholar suggested that the woman was Nur Mahal. I didn’t put it together right away. Not until I found the date attributed to the painting. 1611.”

“I don’t get it. What’s special about that year?”

“Nur Mahal didn’t become Nur Jahan until 1616.”

“Of course,” I murmured. “He changed her name.”

“You know how their names worked.”

“None of these names were their birth names. Jahangir means Great Conqueror of the World. His real name was something like Selim, right? What about Nur Mahal?”

“I had to look it up to find the details,” Lane said. “When they got married, Jahangir named her Nur Mahal, meaning Light of the Palace. As their love—and her power—grew, he renamed her Nur Jahan: Light of the World.”

“Those dates also explain why she wasn’t featured more prominently in that painting you found.”

“What’s especially interesting,” Lane said, “is that once she was married, and featured more prominently in paintings where she’s identified, I couldn’t find a single instance where she was wearing your rubies.”

“We already know they disappeared.”

“I wonder,” Lane said, “how your ex found it.”

“Same as you, I suppose,” I said. “An archaeologist could get access to the reading rooms.”

Lane pushed his plate away and lowered his voice. “He didn’t.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“The materials I requested,” Lane said. “None of them had been checked out in over a year. Whatever your ex was up to, it wasn’t scholarly Mughal research in the hallowed halls of the British Library.”

“You realize we can’t go back to the library,” Lane said.

I couldn’t meet his gaze. “I know. Whoever is following us now knows to look for us there. I’m sorry you’ll be in danger if you try to finish your article.”

“Jaya—”

“You’ll probably be able to go back soon. This was always only my first stop. I’m getting out of here tomorrow. It’s me they want, right?”

“You can’t—”

“Can’t what?”

“You’re going to the Scottish dig
by yourself
?”

“I know it’s hard to believe,” I said, “but archaeologists attend digs unchaperoned all the time. They’re no braver than historians. If they can do it, I can too.”

“You can drop the sarcasm,” Lane said. “Murders don’t happen at the average dig.”

“Then what do you propose?”

“I can’t go back to the library any more than you can,” Lane said. “I could go with you to Scotland.”

“You want to come with me?”

“Based on what’s going on, it makes the most sense. We should stick together.”

“In that case,” I said, “I have a plan. You’re my rich new boyfriend, who dabbles in archaeology. I’m bringing you to the dig to rub Rupert’s nose in it.”

“You are something,” he said, his lip curling in amusement. “You already thought this through. You want me to be your cover for showing up at the dig.”

“You’re the one who said you wanted to tag along.”

“It’s a good idea,” Lane said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “What was your story going to be on your own? Surely you weren’t going to walk in and say Rupert sent you a note saying one of them was going to murder him.”

“You’re the one who said you thought he sent me the bracelet to get back together with me. Who’s to say I wouldn’t follow him across the world to get back together?”

“Would his friend at the dig believe you’d do that?”

“Our plan is more believable.”

We walked back to the hotel in silence, glancing around nervously whenever the bushes rustled. As soon as we entered the hotel, I was suddenly so tired that I could have fallen asleep in one of the chairs in the lobby.

“My key doesn’t fit,” I grumbled through a yawn as I tried to open the door to my room.

“That’s because this is my room,” Lane said, pulling my hand back from the door handle.

His hand was gentle, but I felt his strength. He drew the key from my fingers. He led me over to my door and unlocked it for me. He pushed the door open and quickly scanned the room.

We stood close to each other. I could feel Lane’s breath on the top of my head. He hesitated in the doorway.

“Get some sleep, Jones,” he said.

I felt cool metal as he pressed the key back into my palm.

“We want to catch the early train,” I said, yawning again.

“Train? Shouldn’t we catch a flight? I know I’m not the biggest fan of flying, but I can handle it.”

“They’ll be out at the dig all day. We’ve got time.”

“Come get me in the morning when you’re ready to leave.”

I didn’t remember falling into bed, but I awoke to bright sunlight streaming across the bed, hitting my face.

I’d overslept.

I meant for us to catch the earliest departing train to Scotland from King’s Cross Station. That way we’d have time to examine our new surroundings. Even with our late departure, with the seven-hour train ride we’d still arrive in the late afternoon.

English train stations, full of hearty British food and interesting people from around the world, are some of my favorite places on earth.

The trains themselves fill me with much the same feeling, with the added benefit of scenic landscapes passing before my eyes. A romantic might think of
Murder on the Orient Express
or some other classic book involving intrigue on a foreign train. I, however, am not a romantic. It’s the meditative respite I appreciate.

Lane and I boarded the Scotland-bound train and found seats in a coach car. We dumped our luggage in the compartment at the end of the car and settled into our seats. We barely made it before the train pulled out of the station.

I hadn’t had time to buy food at the station. Since the train had both a dining car and a roving snack cart, I wasn’t worried about keeping properly nourished.

The engine hummed and we started moving. As we chugged along smoothly, I looked out the window. Lane was reading a book, but when I turned from the window he looked up at me.

“You like it here, don’t you?” he said.

It should have made me nervous that he was always able to read my mind. For some reason, it didn’t.

“It’s the perfect balance,” I said. “When I’m overseas in an English-speaking country, it’s similar yet different enough at the same time. It’s liberating.”

“I know,” he said. I had the feeling he wasn’t making small talk. That he did know what I meant.

“I’m not supposed to fit in here,” I said. “I’m a foreigner in India, where I was born, and to some extent I’m even a foreigner at home. But here, it feels much more natural being asked where I’m from since I’m not in one of the two countries I’m actually from. There aren’t the same expectations about who I’m supposed to be.”

“It gets tiring being an outsider in places where you’re not supposed to feel that way.”

I looked at him—really looked at him. Not his physical features, but at what the image he presented seemed to be hiding.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

A flash of emotion shone in his eyes for a moment. Indecision?

“Minnesota.”

“You don’t look like you’re from Minnesota.”

“I’m from Minnesota like you’re from India.”

He returned to reading his book. He stayed on the same page for an awfully long time, shifting in his seat.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Something.”

“What’s your favorite color?” he asked.

“That’s not what you wanted to say.”

“We have to get to know each other,” Lane said. “I’m supposed to be your significant other. We need to know the basics about each other.”

“Red,” I said.

“Figures.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I’m a good guesser.”

“What’s yours?”

“The same.”

“Favorite author?” I asked.

“Dostoyevsky.”

“Really?”

“And yours?”

“Borges.”

Lane’s left eyebrow arched. I was again struck by the gracefulness of the simplest of his body’s movements.

“Which grocery store do you go to?” he asked.

“That’s a good one,” I said. “This was a good idea. I don’t go to the grocery store.”

“How is that possible?”

“I listen to my body,” I said. “I never know in advance what I’m going to want to eat, so I wait until I’m hungry and then follow my gut. I’ve always lived in urban places, so it’s easy. My gut has a lot of options.”

“I cook,” Lane said. “In our pretend life together, I cook dinner for you all the time. And you like it, because we’re not fulfilling our proper gender roles. What? That’s funny, huh?”

He laughed along with me. His teeth were pristine. Interesting.

“How long have you smoked?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It’s one of those things you pick up in your youth.”

“How old are you, anyway?”

He shrugged again. “Let’s say I’m thirty-five.”

“How old are you really?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Oh, you’re a riot.”

“My turn,” Lane said. “How do we say we met?”

“Good question.” I thought about it for a moment. “I was doing research for an article. I needed the help of an art historian. The less we have to make up, the better.”

“Nice,” he said. “Sticking to real-life facts as much as possible. So I’m myself.”

“With a few extra million dollars lying about,” I added. “You certainly look the part in that tailored suit.”

“Let me get this straight in my mind,” Lane said. “I’m financing this romantic summer vacation, a whirlwind European tour, during which you drag me to Scotland. Your ex told you he was on this small, underfunded dig. He tells you he wants to see you, not knowing I’m in your life. You know that in addition to my interest in art history, which is something I do to pass the time, being independently wealthy and all, that I have a fondness for archaeology. So, you think you can do two things at once. One, you’ll give me a nice present by finding a dig that would be willing to let me help. Two, you get to rub your ex’s nose in my presence. We head up here before learning about his accident, which we accept as accidental.”

“You’re good,” I said. “Did you think that up on the spot?”

“Last night. But there are still some holes.”

Rain began to patter on the windows of the train. I hadn’t noticed that the blue sky had turned to gray.

“I know,” I said, looking out at the rain. We’d come far enough that urban London had given way to greenery. “Our story doesn’t matter if someone there already knows we know more than that. We’re in the impossible situation where we need to find out what they know. But if someone there does know something useful, then it means they probably know our story is a lie.”

“They might not know. Whoever is following us hasn’t remained at the dig. All we can do is try. Tell me about the dig.”

I went over the few facts I knew. Professor Malcolm Alpin’s underfunded Pictish dig in the middle of nowhere, the staff that included Rupert’s best friend Knox, and the Fog & Thistle Inn that Rupert had listed as his address.

“Damn,” I concluded.

“Damn?”

“The guy following us,” I said. “He doesn’t fit.”

“There’s nothing else we can figure out before we get there,” Lane said. “How long have you played the tablas? That’s what I saw in your apartment, wasn’t it?”

I opened my eyes. The rain was letting up.

“Technically,” I said, “it’s the tabla, singular, for the pair of drums.”

“So how long?”

“As long as I can remember. It’s the only other language I truly speak.”

He nodded, his eyes locked on mine.

“I studied classical tabla,” I said, “but when I listen to it, modern fusion is my favorite. The Asian Underground. Bhangra. I feel like....”

“Like you understand them.”

“No,” I said. “That’s not quite it. It’s like they understand me. It’s not the same thing. The music isn’t only straddling cultures or generations. At its center, something new had to grow out of the mix.”

Lane held my gaze for a second past when I stopped speaking. Some emotion flickered in his eyes, and he turned away.

I watched him for another moment before the mystery of him, on top of the mystery we were solving, became too oppressive for me to take.

“I’m hungry,” I said. “I’m going to the dining car.”

“I’m sure the food cart will get here soon.”

“Maybe, but who wants to chance it?”

The dining car was several cars down from where we were seated. The endless length of British trains never ceases to amaze me. I walked down the gently rocking corridors through at least five cars. I was passing through the sleeper car when it happened.

Two strong arms reached out of an open door and pulled me inside. The door shut behind me.

The arms twisted my body around until I was facing my attacker. As his arm reached across me to lock the door of the small compartment, I stood staring up into the eyes of Rupert Chadwick.