Excalibur Rising (10 page)

      “Do you think I’ll find it?” Ryan asked.
     The boy shook his head.
     “Do you know anything about it?” Ryan continued, although he knew it was ridiculous to think that, eight hundred years after the fact, the secret of the treasure would lie with this scruffy little boy.
     “The sea used to come all the way up to here,” Jenny volunteered.  “My class went on a logical dig.”
     “She means archeological,” her brother said loftily. “The whole school went, not just her class.  We had to dig up bits of the sea wall that used to be out there.”
      “And there were ships,” Jenny said. “Long time ago.  There’s nothing left now.”
     Viking ships, Ryan thought, and a sea wall.  What had happened?  Why had he seen what he had seen?  Had he even really seen it?  Maybe he had just had spent too much time with Violet Chambray.
     “No one’s going to find it,” the boy declared. “You’re wasting your time, mister. Come on Jenny, we’re supposed to go home.”
     Ryan wondered what exactly they had been taught in their local history lesson and on their dig. Was there anything hidden away in local knowledge that had never appeared in a written history?  He had found that to be the case in other places, so he made one last attempt to snare their interest.
     “What I’m really trying to do,” he said, “is to find clues to help me solve a murder.
       The boy whistled softly and his sister’s eyes grew wide with wonder.
     “So, “Ryan continued, “if you know anything about King John’s jewels, anything at all; local legends, superstitions__
     “The dagger,” said Jenny, tugging at her brother’s coat. “Michael, tell him about the dagger.”
     “I dunno,” said Michael. “I’d have to ask Dad.  He says we’re not supposed to talk to strangers.”
     “Very good advice, “Ryan assured him, “but you’ve already talked to me, haven’t you?”
     “I ain’t saying no more,” Michael announced. “You’ll have to talk to my Dad.”
     “He’s working in his office,” Jenny said. “He told us to go out and stop bothering him, but he won’t mind if we come back now.”
     “With someone famous,” Michael added.
     The children spoke together in a rush.
     “He’s the Vicar.”
     “We’ll go and get him.”
     “He’s got the keys.”
     “’Cause he’s the Vicar.”
     Ryan watched them race off across the churchyard in the direction of the gloomy Victorian mansion.  He heard the creaking of a rusted hinge and saw Crispin enter through the lych gate.  He strolled languidly towards Ryan along the church path, pausing to read the inscriptions on the tombstones.  Ryan looked back at the little tool shed.  There was no sign of the mist.  Perhaps he had simply given in to his imagination.  This was a strange place, and he was very tired.
     He waited for Crispin in the shelter of the church porch. As soon as Crispin arrived Ryan told him what he had discovered which wasn’t very much, except for the fact that there was. or had been, a dagger.
     Crispin was impressed. “Well done, old boy,” he said. “You’re quite the expert.”
      “I know a thing or two about daggers,” said Ryan, basking in the other man’s approval.
     The Vicar turned out to be a serious, round faced young man wearing blue jeans and an old overcoat opened at the neck to show his clerical collar.  He unlocked the church door with a massive key and led them inside.  They paused in the gloom just inside the doorway as the Vicar went forward to turn on the light.
     The inside of the building was cold, colder even than the air outside and the lights, when they finally came on, threw only faint rays down on the cold stone floor and upward into the  gloomy darkness of a vaulted ceiling.  A sea of empty pews stretched before them, gleaming dully with the sheen of hundreds of years of beeswax.  At the far end of the church a red light glowed above the distant altar.  The dusty silence of the ages seemed to envelope them and even the Vicar spoke in a whisper, and the two children reined in their boundless energy.
     “Come into the Vestry,” the Vicar said. 
     He withdrew another key from his pocket and opened a small door in the side wall. They climbed a couple of steps into a red carpeted room where the last rays of the afternoon light shone jewel-like through tiny stained glass windows.  The room was furnished with a desk, some battered armchairs and a couple of glass fronted display cases; empty display cases.
     The Vicar extended his hand, “Barry Marshall,” he said.
     “Marcus Ryan.”
     “I know,” said Marshall, “my son and I watch your program.” 
     He raised an inquiring eyebrow at Crispin. Ryan supplied the introduction.
     “Tell him about the dagger,” Michael said. “He’s looking for the treasure.”
     “Tell him about your treasure,” Jenny begged. “Go on, Dad.”
     “You’re my treasure,” Marshall said ruffling her bright brown hair. 
     She giggled. “You know what I mean, Dad.”
     “It’s not my treasure,” said Marshall. “It was never my treasure.” He smiled at Ryan apologetically, “But as Vicar of St. Mary’s, it was entrusted to my keeping.  I’m afraid I didn’t do a very good job.”
     “It wasn’t your fault, Dad,” said Michael.
      “There was no money you see, for burglar alarms,” the Vicar explained, “or a proper safe, and we liked to keep it on display.  I’m afraid we were too trusting.  The world is just not what it was.”
     Ryan wondered cynically whether the world had ever been what Rev. Marshall would like it to be.  Neither one of them was old enough to remember a world where treasures could be kept in unlocked cases, in an unlocked church.
     “I’m sure the Lord has his reasons,” Marshall said with a kind of desperate resignation.  He led them across to the empty display cases, where yellowing cardboard display cards marked the absent treasure.
      “What exactly was in here?” Crispin he asked.
     “Some gold coins, a chain, an ornate drinking goblet and a very unusual dagger,” said the Vicar.
     Ryan pricked up his ears.  A goblet and a dagger!
     “Do you really think these were part of King John’s treasure?” Crispin asked.
     Marshall shook his head. “No, I think that’s highly unlikely.  If anyone seriously thought they were part of King John’s treasure they wouldn’t have been left here.  They would have been surrendered to the Crown.”
     “Of course,” said Crispin.
     “So how did you get them?” Ryan asked.
      “I’m the one who lost them,” he said apologetically, “not the one who found them.  I’ve only been here for three years.  One of my predecessors acquired them.  That would have been 1952, the year of the bomb.”
     “What bomb?”
     “A left over from the War,” said Marshall. “We came in for some very heavy bombing around here.  Lots of Americans stationed here in 44. The Germans were after their airfields.  In 1952 when excavations began for the new elementary school at Upper Malden, an old bomb exploded and blew an enormous great crater in the school yard. Killed a couple of construction workers.”
     “It happened a lot,” Crispin said. “Thanks to Hitler, the whole country was full of unexploded bombs.”
     “They found the treasures in the bottom of the bomb crater,” said Marshall. “That’s what started the rumors.  You probably know that this was all marsh at one time, so of course everybody started speculating about King John’s treasure that was lost in the Wash.  Every kid in the country knows the story.  They had quite a little gold rush here for a while with people digging around in the bomb crater, and digging up the schoolyard.  They never found anything else and there was nothing to tie the few little pieces that were found to any historical records.  For all anyone knew they could have been someone’s personal possessions buried a few years earlier, to keep them safe.  They’re not really very valuable.  The stones on the goblet weren’t real. They were some kind of crystals, maybe garnets.”
      He looked at Ryan. “Are you alright, Dr. Ryan?” he asked.
     Ryan knew that his face had betrayed him.  He managed a tight smile.
     “I’m fine,” he said. “Just a little tired.”
     His mind was racing. Rubies, garnets, some kind of crystals? He slipped his hand into his pocket and felt the sharp edges of the remnant of jewelry.  In 1952 when the goblet had been uncovered there were no scientific instruments to measure the molecular structure of the red stones so they’d settled for calling them garnets. 
     “The treasure was handed over to the church for safekeeping and put in the display cases here,” Marshall concluded.
     “And when were they stolen?” asked Crispin.
     “Six months or so ago,” Marshall said. “Nice clean job.  No fingerprints.  I’m sorry, Dr. Ryan, but if you were hoping to include them in your program, you’re too late.”
     “That’s okay” Ryan said, feeling the weight of disappointment adding to his jet lag. 
     “He doesn’t want them for his program,” Michael said. “He’s trying to solve a murder.”
     Marshall gave Ryan a puzzled stare. 
     “He is, Dad,” said Michael. “Tell him, mister.”
     “Michael__” said Marshall in an ominous tone.
     “That’s what I told him,” Ryan interrupted before Michael could be accused of lying. “I’m looking into it for a friend.”
     “And it has something to do with our treasures?” asked Marshall.
     “Probably not,” Ryan said trying to sound dismissive, “but as a matter of interest, did the local police investigate?”
     Marshall shook his head sadly.  He seemed to be a rather despondent kind of man. “They don’t care,” he said. “It’s petty theft from church property. Most of them think the church is a waste of time, and stealing from the poor box is pretty common.  I know, I know, this wasn’t the poor box, but they really don’t care.  If I could convince them that someone had stolen the Communion wafers and was practicing Satanic rites in the Village Hall,  they might sit up and take notice, or maybe they’d join in.”
     “So you’re not on good terms with the local police?” Crispin asked.
     “My fault really,” said Marshall. “I mean, I couldn’t give them anything to go on.  I didn’t even know when the stuff had disappeared.  It could have been gone for weeks without me noticing.”
     Michael tugged Ryan’s sleeve. “Just before it happened,” he said, “there was a girl hanging around, acting suspicious. She talked to me.”
     “I saw her too,” Jenny said.
     “You did not,” said Michael. “You’re just copying me.”
     “Did too,” said Jenny.
     “Be quiet both of you,” Marshall said, rubbing a weary hand across his eyes.  Ryan wondered where their mother was.  So far she had not been mentioned by any of them.
     “I don’t think she was a thief,” said Michael.  “She didn’t look like a thief.  She was blonde and pretty.  She asked me what time my Dad was coming to open the church.”
     “But he wasn’t coming,” said Jenny, determined to stay in the conversation, “because it was his day off.”  She looked sideways at her brother.  “Girls can be thieves,” she said.
     “She gave me 50 pence for ice cream,” said Michael, offering the final proof that the blonde, pretty girl could not be a thief.
     “Why would she do that? “Ryan asked.
     “Cause the ice cream truck was on the Green,” said Michael.  “She gave me 50 pence to go and get an ice cream.
     “Did you see this girl, Vicar?” Crispin asked.
     He shook his head. “It was my day off.  I was at home.”
     “She was here again today,” Michael said.
     “Was not,” said Jenny.
     “She was,” Michael insisted.  “I was going to talk to her, but then she sort of vanished.”
     “People don’t vanish,” Jenny said.
     “Well she did,” Michael replied.
     Crispin took hold of Ryan’s arm. “You look exhausted, old boy,” he said. “Let’s get you back to London, and a comfortable bed at the Dorchester.  Everything will look better tomorrow.  Obviously there’s nothing to see here.”
     “I guess Violet was right,” Ryan said. “She told me I needed a hot bath and long nap.”
     “Then let’s take care of that,” said Crispin.
     The Vicar reached into his desk drawer and handed Ryan a small printed pamphlet. “It’s our church guide,” he said. “There are a couple of photos of the treasures; black and white I’m afraid, but they may be some use to you.  The dagger and the goblet were the most interesting pieces; especially the dagger.”
     “Really?”
     “It was made of Welsh gold, quite a rare commodity these days.  It’s what the royals use for their wedding rings, or so I’m told.”
     Crispin reached into his pocket.  Coins clinked and Michael and Jenny Marshall looked at him with interested anticipation.
     “So,” said Crispin,” I think the price of ice cream has gone up considerably, don’t you?”
     They nodded their heads in unison.
     Crispin handed each child a small brass coin. “Here’s a pound each,” he said.  “I know what it feels like when you don’t have any money.”
     The remark pierced through the mental fog in Ryan’s brain. Obviously Crispin Peacock had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, what would he know about being a child with no money?  Ryan filed the question away with all the other questions that still needed answers; the most important being; who was the blonde haired girl; what had she wanted to say to him at Heathrow;  had Michael really seen her in the graveyard; and  what had happened when the mist rose up on the path, and the world vanished?
     They drove back to London in silence. Crispin seemed to be deep in thought, and Ryan had given up thinking.  What he needed was sleep.
Crispin dropped Ryan off in front of the Dorchester.  “Get a good night’s sleep, old chap,” he said. “I’m tied up tomorrow, but I’d like it if you’d get yourself down to Griffinwood the day after.  There’s a train from Euston.  You can take a look around and see if I’ve missed anything.  I’m sure you have a better nose than I do for that sort of thing.  Bring your partner if you want to. ”
     Not if I can help it, Ryan thought, and he hurried through the front door of the hotel, hoping that Violet Chambray would be nowhere in sight.  Tomorrow would be soon enough to tell her that he had a solid lead.  Tomorrow would be soon enough to say “I told you so.”

The Little Chef Restaurant
Ipswich Norfolk
     The one-eyed man was enjoying a cup of tea.  Tea was not an available commodity in the world of his birth, but he had come to enjoy it while he was at boarding school.  He had especially enjoyed Sunday afternoon at the school when the tea was accompanied by ham and salmon sandwiches, and scones with jam.  Of course that was before he lost his eye, at a time when he had been a more pleasant being.  In those days he had been quite popular with the other boys, and his wild streak had only revealed itself on the rugby field and in the boxing ring. 
     He reflected on the joy of winning a well-matched contest.  Tonight would probably not be much of a match. 
     He poured some more tea from the white china pot. He would have a few miles to travel before his mission could be accomplished.  He planned to ditch the car he’d stolen in Brighton and get himself something different; something inconspicuous. He was under strict instructions with this one. Don’t make a mess. Don’t harm the children. Don’t take any souvenirs. Most importantly, make sure that the priest tells you everything he knows.  Don’t let him hold back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Marcus
    
 A ringing telephone woke him.  Ryan reached out an arm and groped around the nightstand.  The telephone continued to ring.  He couldn’t find it.  He forced his eyes to open and saw the gloomy shadows of a strange bedroom.  Heavy drapes covered the windows admitting almost no light. He looked at the clock on the nightstand.  11 o’clock, middle of the night. 
     He remembered falling into bed within minutes of Crispin dropping him off at the front entrance of the Dorchester Hotel in the heart of London.  That would have been at about six o’clock. He’d been asleep about five hours.  The telephone was still ringing.  Who on earth, he wondered, was calling him at this time of night?  He finally managed to locate both the reading lamp and the telephone, and then proceeded to knock the telephone onto the floor.
     He could hear a tinny voice, far away but quite angry. “Hello, hello, Marcus?”
     He picked up the phone and grunted, “Uhuh.”
     “This is Violet.”
     “I know.”
     “Time to get up.”
     “Go away.”
     “Get up, Marcus.”
     “Go to bed, Violet.”
     A long pause followed.  Finally Violet said, “Open the drapes, Marcus.”
     “Why?”
     “Just do it, please.”
     He responded to the “please” and opened the drapes. He was greeted by bright daylight and the view of a watery sun shining down on the rooftops of London.
     “It’s eleven in the morning,” he said with sudden comprehension. “Why did you let me sleep so long?  I have things to do.”
     “I’m not your mother,” Violet said. “You could have asked for a wake-up call.”
     He sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to collect his thoughts. However, even collected in one place, his thoughts were not worth sharing with Violet, especially his thoughts about a mysterious disappearing and reappearing young woman, and a walk-through mist into another world.
     “What did you find out yesterday?” Violet asked.
     “A few things,” he said.
     “Tell me over coffee,” Violet said.  I’ll meet you in the lobby at noon.”
     “Noon?” he queried. “I don’t need an hour to dress.”
     “I do,” she replied.
     He started to laugh. “You only just woke up, didn’t you?”
     She laughed with him.  Her laugh was attractive, full and rich with nothing held back, a generous laugh that matched her generous figure. He reminded himself, once again, that she was not what she appeared.  She was a fraud who had been forced upon him by his boss.  He would have to work with her, but it didn’t mean he had to like her.  He replaced the receiver and went to take a shower.
     He found Violet seated in a quiet corner of the lobby nursing a cup of coffee and a plate of cookies.  She stood up and brushed crumbs from her black skirt.
     “You look better,” she said.
     Ryan looked her up and down. “So do you, “he said.       
     It was the truth. She looked rested and considerably less frantic than she had been on the plane. Ryan could see how some men might even find Violet attractive, although he was determined not to be one of them.       
Violet waved a manicured hand and a waiter appeared with another coffee cup.
     “Well,” she said, “did you find anything?”
      Ryan nodded his head and sipped his coffee.
     “Really?” she asked. “You’re not just saying that to annoy me, are you?”
     “No,” he said. “I really found something.  Did you?”
     “No, nothing.  That’s ten points for you.”
     “Are we keeping score?” he asked.
     “We don’t have to,” she replied.
      She had made the first move.  With the image of an impatient Mandretti lurking in the back of his mind, Ryan knew that he would have to respond.  If Mandretti wanted him to work with this woman, that was what he would have to do.  He extended his hand. “Partners,” he said.
     “Okay.”
     They shook hands.  Her hand was very small and very soft. 
     “So?” she asked.
     He gave her an edited version of his adventures at the church of St. Mary, with no mention of the mist or the sea wall, or the Viking long ships.  “We got lucky,” he said, “by stopping at the church.  I don’t know what made me do it, but I’m pretty certain that’s where the dagger and the goblet came from.”
     “It wasn’t luck,” Violet said. “You had a hunch.”
     “Let’s not go into that,” said Ryan. “We agreed to start again so let’s forget all the other stuff.  I think we’re on the trail of something here.  We don’t need any more hunches, just solid research.”
      He hesitated, not wishing to do anything to upset Violet’s new found calm, but he had to ask. “Did you bring the message with you, the one from Carlton Lewis?”
     “Yes.”  She was completely calm.
     “We should try to find out___,” he started to say, but she interrupted him.
     “I’ve been thinking about that,” she said. “There are two leads in that message.  One is the mention of Professor Peacock cataloging the contents of a regimental museum, and the other one was something about a document found at his estate in Shropshire.  Do you think his next of kin could help us with that?”
     “Crispin Peacock, “Ryan said.
     She chuckled. “That’s quite a name,” she said. “I assume that Crispin     Peacock has inherited the house.”
     “I don’t think the document is at the house,” Ryan said. “Didn’t the letter say that they had sent the document to be translated?”
     “I think you’re right,” said Violet. “I believe it was sent to the Society of Arthurian Scholars for translation.”
     “We need to re-read the message and be sure,” Ryan told her.
     Violet paled. “I know you don’t understand this, Marcus, but I don’t want to touch that document again.”
     “Just give it to me,” he said. “I’ll read it.  Or better still, have Todd e-mail it to me.  I can get it on my Android.”
     “Android?”
     “Yes,” said Ryan. “I have it with me.  I assume it will work.”
     “I don’t do computers,” Violet declared, “or Androids, or whatever you’re talking about.”
     “Well,” said Ryan, “it’s about time you started.  It’ll be a whole new world for you.”
     Violet glanced at her watch. “I’ve made arrangements to go to Carlton’s funeral,” she said. “It will be at his house in Surrey.  I think it will be a good opportunity to talk to his widow. She may know something.  I find talking far more effective than e-mailing, or androiding or anything like that.”
     “Most people do both,” Ryan told her.
     “I have a limo and a driver,” she said. “You should come with me.”
     Ryan smiled.  The woman was a Luddite but she had her own way of getting things done.  He slipped his hand into the pocket of the tweed jacket that Todd had supplied him, and produced the pamphlet from Rev. Barry Marshall.
     “I got this from the Vicar at St. Mary’s, “he said. “It’s a description of the treasure they found in the bomb crater.”
     Violet took the pamphlet with her little white hand, smiled, opened it and seemed to stop breathing. She set her coffee cup down very carefully.  Ryan could see that she was struggling to control herself.  Her face had turned pale and she was pursing her lips as though fighting the urge to speak.
     “What?” he asked. “Spit it out.”
     “You won’t like it.”
     “Just say it before you pass out.”
     She took a deep breath. “Something has happened to the Vicar,” she said softly.
     “He’s a bit of a sad sack,” said Ryan, “but he’s perfectly fine. Come on, pull yourself together.  Just walk with me to the elevator, and we’ll go upstairs and get our things, and we’ll go to the funeral for Carlton Lewis, because something has most definitely happened to him, but nothing has happened to the Vicar.  Just stop doing this, Violet.  We are trying to conduct an investigation based on facts, not your wild imagining.”
     “I’m trying,” she said, in a small strangled voice. “I’m really trying not to feel it.”
          The elevator arrived and Violet stepped in beside Ryan.  The doors closed.  She stared down at the pamphlet for a long time. “Something happened at ten minutes past eleven last night,” she said in a carefully controlled voice. “He was in the church.”
     Ryan followed her out of the elevator and into her room.  He tried to relieve his frustration by slamming the door, but the door, as befitted a door in an expensive hotel, closed with nothing but a soft swishing sound. 
     “We’re putting an end to this nonsense,” Ryan said picking up the phone receiver. He consulted the phone number on the pamphlet.  “I’ll call him and you can speak to him yourself.”
     Violet watched him as he dialed.
     He let the phone ring for a long, long time.  There was no reply.
     He knew that Violet was the kind of woman who would sulk.  Her crimsoned lips set themselves into a tremendous pout and stayed that way as they departed the Dorchester in a chauffeur driven car.
     “He didn’t answer,” said Ryan. “What do you expect me to do?  Do you want me to drive up there, or do you want me to come to this funeral with you?”
     “I don’t think you understand,” said Violet.  “This isn’t about me___”
     “It’s always about you,” Ryan interjected.
      “I would expect you to be more upset,” she continued. “I haven’t even met the man and I’m upset.”
     “I’m not upset,” said Ryan, “because there is nothing to be upset about.  The fact that he didn’t answer his phone is neither here nor there.  He’s a busy man, and he has two children to look after.”
      Really, he thought, it was like talking to a sullen child.
     Violet looked at the dainty gold watch stretched around her plump little arm. “We’re going to be late,” she said.
     “Carlton’s not going anywhere,” said Ryan.
     “Thanks for pointing it out,” said Violet, shifting even further away from him on the soft leather seat.
     Ryan turned away from her to look out of the window. 
     Before long they had crossed the Thames leaving the great city behind and heading out into the leafy Surrey countryside.
     Violet broke the silence, leaning forward to ask the driver. “Are we nearly there?”
     “Just a couple of miles.”
     She looked at her watch again. “We’re going to be late.” she said.  It was a general complaint spoken to no one in particular, but Ryan felt that he was somehow being blamed.
     The driver brought the car to a sudden halt.
      “Are we there?” Ryan asked.
     The driver shook his head.  “Road block,” he said.
     Violet looked at her watch again.  The driver turned around and looked at them with an expression of strained patience on his Caribbean face.        When he spoke his accent was pure London.
      “Protesters,” he said. “Nothing I can do about it.  The police are directing traffic, and that just makes it worse.”
      Ryan leaned out of the car window.  He could see flashing lights ahead, and a mob of people carrying banners and placards. The mob was heading in their direction.
     Violet broke her sullen silence. “What is it?  What do they want?”
     “Well, if it’s the same ones I saw yesterday, they are protesting building a dam in Wales,” said Ryan “but this is not where they were yesterday.”
     “It can’t be the same group,” said Violet. “We’re nowhere near Wales.  Why would you think it’s the same group?”
     “I didn’t say it was the same group,” said Ryan, realizing that his conversation with Violet was beginning to resemble the kind of conversations he used to have with Veronica before the divorce.
     “Maybe it’s not the same group,” he said. “Maybe they’re protesting something else.  I don’t know who the hell they are.  Why would you expect me to know who they are?”
     “I don’t expect you to know,” Violet snapped. 
     She glared at the back of the driver’s head.  “They’re making us late,” she complained.
     ”I can’t go ahead,” the driver said. “I’m not allowed to run them down, and they won’t get out of the way.”
     “What do they want?” Violet asked.
     The driver wound down his window and looked ahead at the crowd, and then he turned back. “The gentleman is correct,” he said. “They are protesting the building of a dam in North Wales.”
     “But why are they here?” Violet whined.
     “They’re everywhere,” the driver said. “This has been a huge protest. The dam will flood a valley and drown several historic villages.  The people have been compensated, but still we have protesters.  That’s just Britain. We don’t like change, and we don’t like it when old things are destroyed. And to make matters worse there are wild horses in the valley.  We are a nation of animal lovers so you can imagine that doesn’t go down well.”
     The mob came closer and flowed around the car in a sea of denim jeans, down jackets, and creative headgear. Ryan wound up the window and sat back. With cars piling up ahead and behind  they were going nowhere until somebody got the protestors off the road, or until they had all passed by heading for whatever destination they had in mind.  So far as Ryan knew they were far from Wales, so maybe the protesters were marching on London.
     Someone thumped on the car roof. “Oh really,” said Violet, “as if we care about their protest.”
     The thumping ended but someone was now tapping on the car window, right next to Ryan’s head. He turned to look and saw a face pressed against the window, a face he recognized.  Somehow he was not surprised to find her there.  She was part of the story, part of the mystery. She had been at the airport, she had been in Norfolk, and now she was here.  Her hair was flowing free around her shoulders, and she was wearing a dark  jacket.  The chiffon scarf was tied around her neck.