Excalibur Rising (8 page)

     “42 long,” said Todd. “I’ll run down and see what we have.”
     “Let’s go tell Ryan,” said Mandretti.  “Where is he?”
     “In the sitting room,” said Violet.  She gave her corset one last determined tug, patted her hair into place and led the way to the sitting room.
      Ryan was talking on his cell phone.
     “I’ll let you know,” Ryan said, ending his call and slipping his phone into his pocket.
     “Veronica?” asked Mandretti.
     “No,” said Ryan, “that was Crispin Peacock, heir to the Peacock estate.”
     “They sure do have fancy names,” said Mandretti, “what kind of family are they?”
     “Old and full of history,” said Ryan.
     “So what did he want?” asked Mandretti.
     “He was returning my call,” said Ryan. “I left him a message about Taras and he called the Las Vegas police and then he called me.”
     “So what is he, son, brother, what?”
     “Distant relative,” said Ryan, “but there being no one else, he’s the heir. He’d never even met him.”
     Ryan paused for a moment. “He was offering to meet me in London.  I told him I wasn’t going to London, but he seemed to know more than I do”
     “How could he know that?” Violet asked. “We only just decided…”
     Ryan pulled the phone out of his pocket and held it out to her.  His face was set in an angry glare. “Here,” he said, “why don’t you touch it and see if it talks to you.  Perhaps it’ll tell you the whole conversation.  Might even tell you why he’s offering to go with me to Norfolk.”
     Violet stepped back, genuinely puzzled.  She knew that Ryan had been skeptical from the first moment they had met but now he was downright antagonistic.  Something had happened between the time she had left him in the summer house, and the moment he had returned from his shopping trip on Duvall Street.  What could he possibly have seen or heard in the shops and bars of the tourist district that would make him so angry, and so determined to prove her wrong?
     “He also knows about the sword,” said Ryan.  “Someone’s been talking.”
     “Not I,” said Todd. “I am the soul of discretion.”
     “I’m sure you do whatever you’re paid to do,” said Ryan, “including making a couple of phone calls.”
     “Okay, enough,” said Mandretti. “You two gonna work together and that’s all there is to it, so you’d better start talking civil.  You and Violet are on the next flight to London, so get your stuff together, Doc.  Do whatever you need to do.  You got your passport?”
     Ryan looks as though he would like to deny having his passport.  It was quite clear to Violet that he had no wish to go with her to England, just as she had no wish to go with him.
     “I have it,” said Ryan.
      “Right,” said Mandretti, “so first thing we have to find out is how this Crispie fellow found out you was going to London.”
      “Crispin,” said Ryan.
     “Whatever,” said Mandretti. 
     “He must have access to passenger reservation information,” said Todd, and then he stopped. “No,”he said, “Violet doesn’t even have a reservation yet.”
     “He must be yet another psychic,” said Ryan.  “The world is full of them.”
     “I told you to can it,” said Mandretti.   “Obviously I’m not the only person who wants the sword, and we got two dead bodies to prove it, so you’d better watch your backs, both of you, or you’re gonna end up with some fancy antique blade in your gut.  Capisce?”
     “Capisce,” said Ryan.
      At 5.00 p.m. with the bright Florida sun still baking the tarmac, Violet and Ryan wheeled their carryon bags into the first class cabin of the Miami to Heathrow flight.  The flight attendant relieved Violet of the lightweight Burberry raincoat that she rarely had occasion to use in Key West, and also took the somewhat rumpled London Fog trench coat that Todd had provided for Ryan.  Violet allowed herself a small, spiteful  moment of satisfaction knowing  that the clothes Todd had provided for the professor were well used and not quite clean.  Todd had taken the opportunity to dress Ryan as a tall thin Inspector Clouseau, or perhaps Colombo, not that Ryan seemed to care, or perhaps he had not yet noticed.
     They were seated together. Ryan was next to the window with Violet on the aisle beside him.  The seats, as befitted first class, were wide and well padded, but Violet already felt uncomfortable and, as the aircraft reached altitude and the seats could be reclined, she became even more uncomfortable.  Because her legs were too short for the seat, she had to sprawl in order to reach the footrest and sprawling was not the most flattering of positions for her.  She looked across the generous mound of her stomach and wished that she had followed her own instincts and worn pants instead of allowing Maria to squeeze her into yet another restricting skirt that rode up every time she moved. 
       The flight attendant brought champagne and Violet took the glass with relief.  Perhaps a couple of glasses of bubbly would relax her and allow her to set aside her feeling of impending doom, or at least help her to overcome her rapidly growing dislike of the partner that Mandretti had forced upon her.
     Ryan asked for a beer. There we go, Violet thought, we’re as different as chalk and cheese.  There was no way this partnership was going to last or produce fruit.
     Ryan reached down under his seat and brought out his brief case.  He smiled at Violet as he opened the case and produced a paper shopping bag from a store on Duvall Street.  “For you,” he said.
     “Me?”
     “Yes,” said Ryan, “I purchased this item for you, although I assume you have, in fact, already read it.”
     The tone of his voice was sufficient to make Violet wary as she held the bag on her lap and took a measured sip of champagne.  She thought over the things that Todd had discovered about Professor Marcus Ryan.  He had been a TV star at an early age, a handsome young academic with an Indiana Jones vibe, striding around exotic locations and introducing viewers to the forgotten treasures of ancient history.  His star had waned with the coming of edgier reality shows where everything was a competition and clothes were mostly optional.  At 45 he was a has-been with only Michael Mandretti’s personal lust for treasure to keep him solvent.  His ex-wife had remarried, he was estranged from his children, and his bank account was as precarious as her own. 
     Violet knew that any investigation Ryan might make into her own circumstances would come up empty.  Todd had spent a considerable amount of time making sure that Violet Chambray existed in cyber-space only as a finder of lost items, with hint that she might be of European origin, and a nod to a possibly Romany background.  Her age, place of birth, even her current address were hidden from the general public, and all clients were sworn to secrecy, on the theory that the best way to generate publicity was to create a cult of secrecy.  Violet had recently come to the conclusion that Todd’s secrecy gambit was not working, but so far she had not come up with any alternative.
     “Open it,” said Ryan.
     Violet took another sip of champagne, and then peeked inside the bag.  It contained a thin paperback book.  No, she thought, not a book, a journal or a calendar.  She brought the book out into the light of the reading lamp above her head.  The cover, garishly colored, showed a knight in dark armor, trampling on a dragon emblazoned banner.  Behind him flames engulfed a medieval castle, and dark thunder clouds gathered around his head.
     “What on earth…?” she said.
     “A Villain a Day,” said Ryan.  “I found it on the sale table at that new bookstore on Duvall.  Clever idea really, an evil deed for every day of the year, but apparently it didn’t sell well.  It’s written by your friend Carlton.”
     “Oh,” said Violet, “well that was thoughtful of you.”
     “Yes, it was,” said Ryan.  “I thought you would be especially interested in the entry for Bad King John, and how he lost his treasure.”
     “I already know how he lost his treasure,” said Violet.
     Ryan took the book from her hand and flipped through the pages. “Ah, here it is,” he said. “Allow me to read it for you.”
     “I can read it for myself,” she said.
     “No, I’ll read it,” said Ryan.  He cleared his throat theatrically. ““A cold wind sweeps across the bleak marshes that border the North Sea. The short winter afternoon draws to an end.  The sun sets behind leafless, stunted trees.  It will be dark soon and there will be no light of human habitation.  Not even the lowest peasant would dare to build a hut on the shifting sands of the Wash.”  Ryan paused. “Does it sound familiar?”
     Violet shifted in her seat.  Of course it sounded familiar; they were the very words she had used to describe King John’s journey across the marsh.
     “Same story, same words.” said Ryan,  “exactly the same words, right down to the part about the sun setting behind leafless stunted trees.”  He jabbed his finger at the offending words.
     Violet grabbed the book from his hand.  Had she read this book before?  No, she would have remembered.
     She read quickly, taking in the words and their sickening familiarity. The text was familiar and yet she was certain that she had never read the book.
     “That’s amazing,” she said. “I don’t always remember everything I say in a trance, but I do remember seeing the scene exactly as he describes it.  I even remember the shrieking of the carthorses and the cracking of the whips; just as he says.”
     “Oh balls, “said Ryan loudly.  “You’re no psychic.  You read this book before we arrived and then you played it all back for Mandretti.  You must really want this job.”
     So, Violet thought,  that was why Ryan had become so antagonistic.        
     “It’s possible that I was not actually channeling the goblet,” she said, “even though it was in my hands at the time.  After all we had been talking about Carlton and I had been in touch with him, so possibly I was channeling his thoughts and his____”
     “Nice try,” said Ryan.
     “It’s quite obvious now that I think about it,” Violet said.  She kept her voice steady and tried not to betray any of the doubt that was threatening to overcome her.
    “Nice try,” said Ryan again, “but don’t expect me to believe it.”
     He reached down beside the seat and pulled out the airline issue headphones.  Without saying another word he unwound the cord and planted the headphones on his head, and then he pulled up his personal video screen, pressed the power button and turned his head away from her as the screen brightened with the entertainment menu.
     Violet stared ahead, not seeing the cabin, not hearing the muffled roar of the engines, or the discreet movements of the cabin attendants.  How had this happened?  Had she read Carlton’s King John account in some other book?  Had anything come to her through the goblet?
     The plane droned on Eastward across the Atlantic towards the dawn.  Ryan watched a movie and ate a steak dinner, all the time ignoring Violet.  She, in turn, pecked at the food she was offered, and ignored the entertainment offerings.  The cabin lights were dimmed and beyond the window was nothing but darkness.  The flight attendants ceased their comings and goings.  Even the sound of crying babies in Economy Class came to an end.  Ryan slept. Everyone slept.
      Except Violet.
      She was still awake when a sinking feeling in her stomach told her that the plane was beginning its long descent into Heathrow.  The window blinds were closed but she imagined  they were somewhere over Ireland and  the sun had already risen across Western Europe.  She had spent the long hours of the night grappling with her feelings of inadequacy and insecurity.  Ryan’s scorn and his accusation that she was merely a parrot repeating what she had read in a book had hit her hard. 
     The flight attendant slipped through the cabin and gently raised the shades.  Sunlight streamed through the windows.  Of course, Violet thought, that was no indication that the sun was actually shining on England.  She wanted to lean across Ryan and look out of the window to see if land was visible or if the British Isles were wrapped in the blanket of cloud that had figured prominently in every book she had read about the United Kingdom. 
     The clinking of china in the galley disturbed Ryan and he stirred in his seat, blinked blearily out of the window, and then stretched his long arms and legs without regard to the fact that he was invading Violet’s personal space.  Just as she was about to protest he surprised her by smiling, and wishing her a good morning.
     “Oh, good morning.  You slept well?”
     “I did,” said Ryan, stretching his limbs again. “How about you?”
     “Nothing,” said Violet. “I don’t sleep on planes.”
     “Shame,” said Ryan.
     “Yes, it is,” said Violet. 
     She waited.  What would he say next?  Would he return to the subject of Carlton Lewis and his description of King John?
     “So,” said Ryan, “we’ll be landing in a couple of hours.”
     “Less than that,” said Violet.
     “Okay, if you say so.”
     The flight attendant appeared with trays of breakfast foods, and Violet concentrated on pulling out her tray table and arranging herself into a more upright position.
     “Crispin Peacock is meeting me at Heathrow,” Ryan said.
     “I didn’t know,” said Violet.  She felt as though she was walking on egg shells.  At any moment Ryan’s scorn might rear its ugly head. 
     “We’re going to Norfolk,” said Ryan.  He took a long gulp of the coffee on his tray. “Do you want to come?”
     “No.” The word was out of Violet’s mouth before she had time to think.
     “Why not?”
     Because you are rude and hostile, she wanted to say, but instead she said. “Because we don’t even know what we’re looking for yet.  What do you expect to find in Norfolk?
     “Leafless stunted trees,” said Ryan.  “The sun setting in a sullen red ball.”
     Violet forced herself to smile.  Somehow or another she had to work with this man if she intended to produce results.
      “Very funny,” she said.  “What do you really expect to find?”
     “I don’t know,” said Ryan, “but we have to start somewhere.  We’ll ask around.”
     “It was eight hundred years ago,” she protested.
     “I’m a treasure hunter,” he replied, “that’s what I do.  I follow clues, old writings, rumors, legends.  Haven’t you ever watched my television program?”
     “I watched a couple of episodes,” she admitted, “but in the ones I saw you were mostly underwater.”
     “Bingo,” Ryan replied. “The tide came in, remember that?  They’ll be under water.”