by Cate Dean
***
A constable greeted Jamie as he and Martin entered the station. He halted at Jamie’s wave, and leaned on his cane while the constable spoke to Jamie, his voice too low for Martin to hear.
“Thank you, Will.” He clapped the constable on the shoulder and headed over to Martin. “That was good news. The victim is here, and she revised her statement.”
Martin swallowed. “What did she say?”
“That she doesn’t believe you attacked her.”
Relief had him gripping the cane, his knees weak. “Am I free to go?”
“After you sign some paperwork for me.” Jamie smiled. “Then I’ll be more than happy to drive you back over to your dig site.”
“Thank you,” Martin whispered. The last time he had faced charges, his accuser had been much less pleasant.
Jamie led him over to the counter. “It has been my distinct pleasure, Professor. Now, shall we get you cleared to go?”
Thirteen
“It all started with Clive.” Maggie sat on the sofa in the lounge, a notebook in her lap. Spencer was sprawled on the floor next to Kit, who solemnly watched Spencer as he moved the toys around on Kit’s blanket. “Are you paying attention?”
“I am—and I can give you more input on Clive. The Professor told me about him while we were at the museum.”
“And how long were you going to keep that to yourself?”
“Uh—until now?”
“Spill. All of it.”
She wrote down everything Spencer told her, not surprised by any of it.
“I was going to ask where it happened,” Spencer said, “but we were interrupted.” He pulled out his mobile. “I’m thinking it’s time to do that.”
“Use my laptop, Spence—it will be easier to search.”
He grabbed it off the small secretary and set it on the coffee table, typing furiously on the keyboard. “The first museum was outside York.” He tapped his fingers as he scanned the search results. “Here—an article about a theft from the Roman room, in the Arcade Museum. Martin didn’t mention names, but the dates fit.” After jotting down some details, he started typing again. “Here’s another one, at a museum just outside Canterbury.”
“Canterbury?” She swallowed, her fingers clutching the edge of the sofa cushion.
He didn’t seem to notice her reaction, his gaze on the screen as he read the search results. “This one I know, but I never heard about any theft. All artifacts from a special exhibit on Roman Britain...” His voice faded, and he looked at Maggie. “What is the name of that archaeologist Martin is working with?”
“Geoffrey Drummond-Doddington.” Dread settled in her gut as she asked her next question, afraid she already knew the answer. “What does he have to do with the thefts?”
Spencer swallowed, all humor gone. “He was the original owner of all the stolen items. From both museums.” He turned the laptop, showing Maggie a photo. Geoffrey Drummond-Doddington stood in what looked like a study, Roman artifacts on the desk behind him.
“Are those—”
“The missing items from each museum. The date on this photo is three years ago.” Spencer looked at her. “And those items, according to Martin, were never recovered.”
***
“You can’t rush straight into the unknown, Maggie.”
So angry she couldn’t see straight, Maggie stalked past Spencer, needing to warn Martin now. When he caught her arm to stop her, she yanked out of his grip and turned on him.
“He doesn’t know, Spencer. That bastard could be the one behind Clive’s death, the museum guide, that poor girl’s attack—and Martin doesn’t know—”
“Ring him.”
She whirled and snatched up the cordless phone, punching Martin’s number in.
“Come on—” It went straight to voicemail. “Damn it—he has his phone off. Martin, if you get this message, watch your back. I found some information on Geoffrey, and I think—just watch your back, and keep your phone on when you’re out there.”
She ended the call, her hand shaking so badly the phone rattled against the table when she tried to set it down. Spencer laid his hand over hers, gently taking the phone from her.
“He’ll be all right, Maggie. The Professor has his head on straight when it comes to judging people.”
“I need to be sure.”
“Ring the local station. There has to be a DI in charge of his case.”
“There is. Can you—” She shook out her hands, then took a deep breath. “Never mind. I’m okay.”
“And I’m right here, sweetheart.” He did a quick search on the laptop and wrote down a number, handing it to her, then wrapped his arm around her waist as she punched in the number.
A feminine, perky voice answered after the first ring. “Canterbury police, how may I be of service?”
“Hi, my name is Maggie Martin, and my husband was being held there for—”
“Professor Martin? He was released earlier today.” Relief swept through her, before the realization hit that Martin was probably back at the dig site.
Alone.
“Is it possible to speak to DI Chamberlain?”
“DI Chamberlain is not available at the moment, but I can ring you through to his voicemail.”
Not what she wanted, but at least she could leave the Inspector a message. “That would be great, thank you.”
“My pleasure. May I say, Mrs. Martin, that you did a brilliant job restoring the old manor house. That eyesore had been a blight on the landscape for too long.”
“I—thank you.”
“Please hold while I ring you through.”
Maggie leaned against Spencer, grateful for his presence, and his support.
Once the long beep finished, she started talking. “DI Chamberlain, this is Maggie Martin. I have information that might be important to the case. Can you please check on Martin for me—he may be in danger. Thank you.”
She ended the call and stared at the phone.
“You have to trust that Martin can look after himself, Mags.” Spencer gently squeezed her. “He wouldn’t want you to go haring off and land yourself in the middle of a dodgy situation.”
She lifted her head, amusement easing some of her dread. “Been reading Dickens lately?”
“How did you—oh.” He grinned. “I do tend to take on the vernacular, don’t I?”
“Yes, you do.” With a sigh, she wrapped her arms around him, gave in to her fear. “I’m scared for him, Spence, and I feel so helpless.” She looked at Kit, who had kept himself occupied while she panicked over his father. “What if—”
“Don’t, Maggie.” He cupped her chin and applied pressure until she met his eyes. “Don’t what if. It will drive you mad. You’ve done all you can. Now, you need to keep yourself and Kit safe. Understood?”
“Loud and clear.” He was right; Martin could take care of himself. He had spent most of his life on digs, both on his own and with his mother. If he hadn’t already been at a disadvantage with his leg, she probably wouldn’t be nearly as frantic about his welfare. “Let’s get something to eat. I need a distraction until I hear from Martin.”
Spencer kissed her forehead and let her go. “I will be happy to distract you, for hours on end.” He picked up Kit, lifting him over his head. “We can both distract you, right, sport?”
Kit’s laughter lightened some of the weight on her heart.
She followed them into the kitchen, grateful that Spencer was always there when she needed him.
Right now, she may need him more than ever.
***
After picking at the cheese and crackers on her plate, Maggie gave up and headed back to the lounge, ready to call DI Chamberlain again—or anyone who could tell her that Martin was safe.
She heard the latch on the front door—it sounded like it was sticking again. Relief left her shaky, and she headed for the foyer, wanting to be there when Martin opened the door.
Anthea appeared and flew pa
st her.
“Anthea—what are you—” The lounge door slammed shut—and Anthea blocked Maggie when she tried to go around. “What are you doing? Martin’s home, and I want to...” Her voice faded when Anthea shook her head. “It’s not Martin?”
“Maggie—what is—” Spencer stood in the hallway leading to the kitchen, Kit in his arms.
“Someone’s outside,” she said, glancing at Anthea. “Someone we don’t want to face, am I right?”
Anthea nodded, and held up both hands, waving Maggie away from the door.
“Spencer,” Maggie said, “take Kit upstairs and lock yourselves in the master bedroom. It has a bolt, so it will be stronger than the thumb lock on Kit’s door.”
“Maggie—”
“Go.” She ran over to them, kissed Kit’s cheek. “Keep him safe, Spencer.”
He looked like he wanted to grab her and take her with him, but he nodded instead. “You can count on me, Maggie.”
She watched him until he disappeared up the stairs, then searched the lounge for a weapon. Aunt Irene’s silver candlestick caught her eye. She headed over to the fireplace and picked it up off the hearth. The candlestick was solid silver, and would do some damage if she managed to put force behind her swing.
Just as she turned toward the lounge door it burst open.
Geoffrey Drummond-Doddington stood in the doorway, looking disheveled and angry.
“Maggie. How good to see you again.”
“Stay back.” She lifted the candlestick, keeping as much distance between them as she could.
“All I want is the Roman seal box, my dear. Then I will depart as quickly as I arrived.”
The box Clive had died over, trying to get it to Martin. “You stabbed Clive, didn’t you?”
“Regrettably. But the fool of a thief planned to double cross me. I had no choice.”
“There’s always a choice.”
Geoffrey’s smile chilled her. “Yes, there is. You have a choice now, dear girl. You can hand over the box, and I will leave you, unharmed.”
Her grip tightened on the candlestick. “What if I don’t know where it is?”
“Then I know you are lying to me.” He strode forward, one hand reaching for her. “Where is the box?”
“Nowhere you’ll find it.” Maggie backed away, ready to clobber him with the candlestick.
Anthea got to him first.
Geoffrey let out a terrified screech, stumbling away from the ghost, both hands raised.
“No—I never meant for you to die, Mary! Please, leave me in peace—leave me!”
He flailed his arms as Anthea shot forward, and tripped over the threshold. Maggie followed him, the candlestick raised. She didn’t need it—Geoffrey was already halfway down the sidewalk.
“I will have that box!” He shouted the last words at her, just before he let out another shriek when Anthea appeared directly in front of him.
With impressive speed, he scrambled into his car and took off.
Maggie spun toward the stairs, pausing long enough to set the candlestick on the floor before she ran up them—and almost slammed into Spencer.
He had Kit tucked against his side, but he caught her with his free hand.
“Maggie—are you all right?”
“Thanks to Anthea.” The ghost still hovered in the doorway, cold radiating from her. “It was Geoffrey. He wanted the box.”
“Bloody hell—sorry.” He glanced down at Kit, who was busy trying to get to Anthea.
Maggie knew he could see her. From what she’d read, most children had the ability and open mind to see ghosts. Very few of them kept that ability.
She had a feeling Kit would be one of the few.
“Martin still hasn’t returned my call,” she said. That silence scared her more than she let on. “I’m going to the dig site.”
“You’re not going alone, Mags.”
“Fine.” She picked up the phone and punched in a number. “Lilli? It’s Maggie.”
“Maggie—how can I help?”
Did she always call Lilli for a favor? Shaking her head, she resolved to do more than ask things of her in the future.
“Can you watch Kit for me?”
“It will be my pleasure. Bring him over to The Tea Caddy. I’ve been experimenting with new scone recipes.”
“Spencer will be thrilled.” Maggie headed upstairs as she talked, wanting to be ready as soon as she got off the phone. “Thank you—I know this is last minute.”
“Which means it must be important. You can tell me after, Maggie. I’ll wait for you out back.”
Maggie ended the call and threw the phone at the bed as she ran to the closet. She changed into her warmest pants and sweater, and grabbed the same for Martin, stuffing them in a small duffle.
Her hands shook, the need to get to Martin tearing at her. When she ran downstairs, Spencer met her at the bottom, Kit in his arms and a familiar, stubborn look on his face.
“Spence, I have to go—”
“Not without me.” He took the duffle and handed Kit to her. “I will drive, love.”
“Okay.” She knew she wouldn’t be able to focus on anything but Martin. “Let’s get out of here.”
Fourteen
After Jamie left, Martin settled into the main tent and started sorting through the latest finds. Since he had not been here to record them, he started the meticulous task of numbering each item, logging it into the inventory, and setting it in the correct bin. He would write up the summaries later.
The wind picked up outside, pressing against the side of the tent. Martin had forgotten to tie down the flap, and it snapped as the wind caught it.
“One minute,” he muttered. “As soon as I finish this batch.”
The sound faded as he became absorbed in his work, marveling over what the students had discovered. His leg finally broke through, the ache pulling his attention away from the artifact in his hand.
“I suppose we can take a short break,” he muttered. He set the artifact on the table and reached down to massage his thigh.
Something clanked against the tent pole behind him. He froze when that something landed on the ground next to his foot.
A knife.
“Bloody hell—” He snapped his head up—just in time to see Geoffrey lunge at him.
He pushed against the table, his leg buckling when he tried to stand. Geoffrey caught his right arm and slammed him against the tent pole. His free hand found Martin’s leg, his fingers digging in.
“Where is the box?”
Martin swallowed, fighting past the pain in his leg. “In a safe place.”
“I will find my own safe place, Pembroke.” He let go, and Martin caught the pole, his leg refusing to hold his weight. “That seal box is mine, and I will have it.”
Geoffrey twisted his fingers into the front of Martin’s jacket and yanked him off the pole, dragging him across the tent.
A car waited outside, and the fact that Martin didn’t hear it told him how distracted he got when he was working. Geoffrey all but threw him at the side of the car, following with his fist—directly into Martin’s leg. He doubled, clutching the door handle.
“Tell me where the box is, Pembroke.” He snarled when Martin didn’t answer, leaning in until his breath heated Martin’s cheek. “I visited your lovely American wife.”
Anger burst through the pain. Martin straightened enough to grab Geoffrey’s coat. “If you—touched her—”
“You are hardly in a position to threaten, Pembroke. I am, however.”
Before Martin could react, fresh pain flared in his right side. He gasped, spotting the knife in Geoffrey’s hand.
“Now, Pembroke, shall we try this again?” The knife slid in deeper, and Martin’s good leg gave under him. With an impatient growl, Geoffrey hauled him up and pinned him against the car. “I will happily return to that Victorian pile you call home and question your wife again.”
“No—please—” He fought to breathe past the
pain.
“Where is the box?”
“Museum,” Martin whispered. He closed his eyes, prayed that Spencer would not be there—or stand in Geoffrey’s way if he was. “At—Holmestead museum.”
“Very good.” He slid the knife free, and Martin nearly passed out. “Stay with me, Pembroke.” Careless hands hauled him off the car, pushed him into the passenger seat, and buckled him in. “Safety first.”
Martin would have laughed if it didn’t hurt to merely breathe. He pressed his hand to the wound in his side, sucking in a raw breath at the contact. When Geoffrey slammed the driver’s side door, Martin bit back a cry.
“You had best be telling the truth, Pembroke.” He started the car and jammed his foot on the gas pedal. “Or we will be visiting your wife. Together.”
Fifteen
“Faster, Spencer.”
“If I go any faster, we’ll fly off the road. We’re almost there, Mags.”
Maggie gripped the door handle, praying that Martin was okay. That he had gotten her message and would be watching for Geoffrey. That he was alive—
Her mobile rang, yanking her out of her thoughts. She didn’t recognize the number, but she answered, in case it was the local police.
“Mrs. Martin—this is DI Chamberlain. I received your message and am on my way now to your husband’s site. Where are you?”
“Almost there. You need to know that Geoffrey Drummond-Doddington came to my house and threatened me. I think he’s on his way to the site, to go after Martin.”
“Thank you for that. I am armed, and ready to defend your husband. You should know, in case he didn’t have the time to tell you, that he has been cleared of all charges.” Maggie closed her eyes, tears slipping free. “My turn is coming up. I will see you there.”
He ended the call, and Maggie lowered her phone, leaning her head against the window as she wiped her eyes.
“Mags? Is everything all right?”
“The Inspector from Canterbury is on his way to the dig site.” She took in a shaky breath, turned to him. “Martin’s been cleared, Spencer.”
“That’s brilliant—hold on.” He took a hard left, his van bouncing onto a dirt road. Just ahead, Maggie saw a small grouping of tents. He skidded to a halt in front of the first tent, grabbed her hand before she could leap out. “Do you want me to go in first?”