Beyond Compare

by Candace Camp

  “You jest, yes, I see,” the Frenchman said in a jolly tone. “’Owever, you will see. Eet ees true. Zere is a curse on “ooever possesses ze box.”

  “A curse.” A smile tugged at the corners of Rafe’s mouth. “That’s awful convenient, don’t you think?”

  “You may mock,” Brulatour continued without rancor, “but eet ees true. Ze box ees cursed; ’ooever takes eet from eets ’ome ees cursed.”

  “I did not take it,” Kyria pointed out reasonably.

  “Ah, but you received eet. Eet ees ze same. As regards ze curse…” He paused, then said significantly, “You saw what ’appened to ze man ’oo brought eet to you, no?”

  “Is that a threat?” Rafe asked, straightening.

  “Oh, no, mais non!” Brulatour exclaimed, waving his hands in an exculpatory gesture. “Ees no threat. Ees merely ze truth. ’E died, and before eem ze man ’oo sold eet to ’eem died.” He shook his head, clucking disparagingly. “And so on, back to ze one ’oo stole eet. Ze box ees cursed.”

  “Then why precisely are you willing to run the risk of owning it?” Kyria asked.

  “Ah, well you might ask!” Brulatour spoke with great cheer. “Eet ees because I ’ave promised to restore eet to ze church, where eet belongs.”

  He was, he was happy to explain, a most religious man, one who realized that all of the many blessings he had received during his career as owner of a munitions factory were, in point of fact, due to his deep religious convictions. Upon purchasing the reliquary, he would, he explained, install it with great pomp and ceremony in the Cathedral of Nantes.

  So carried away was he with his vision for the reliquary that he appeared not even to notice that Kyria had not yet agreed to sell it to him. Finally, Rafe had to take him by the elbow and haul him out of his seat, saying, “Mister, the lady isn’t interested in selling the box, so I think it’s time for you to go.”

  Brulatour, however, was undeterred. “My card, my lady,” he told her, whipping out a gold card case and extracting a calling card. “I ’ave written on eet zee ’otel where I am staying. Eef you change your mind…”

  “I will let you know,” Kyria assured him, and Rafe hustled the man out the door, turning him over to the butler in the hallway.

  Rafe came back into the drawing room and sat on the sofa Monsieur Brulatour had just vacated. “How many of these fellows are there?” he asked in amazement.

  “I don’t know. I can scarcely believe it.” Kyria popped up out of her chair and began to pace the room. “How does everyone know I have it? It is as though it has been posted somewhere.”

  Rafe shook his head. “I don’t know. They all seem to have better information that we do. I’d like to find out where that thing actually came from and why the hell this Kousoulous fellow had it.”

  “And what Theo has to do with it, if anything. I know he would never be involved in anything illegal. I am surprised that he was even willing to send the box out of the country, especially if he had any idea of its historical significance.”

  “Maybe he figured it was a way to keep it safe,” Rafe reasoned. “He probably didn’t count on these folks following it all the way to England.”

  Kyria sighed. “It’s absurd. Jennings seemed to think no one believed in it. Yet here are a multitude of people chasing after it.”

  “Well, maybe collectors and such believe in it. He just said that scholars don’t—except, of course, for Ashcombe.”

  “Which, I must say, makes me more eager than ever to interview him,” Kyria replied.

  * * *

  Three hours later she got her wish, as she and Rafe were shown by the same surly maid into Nelson Ashcombe’s study. As they entered, a man rose from his seat behind his desk, the expression on his face wary.

  He was tall and slender, with a gaunt, ascetic face. His hair, once blond, was swept through with white now; he wore it a trifle long and brushed back from his face, giving him a faintly leonine look emphasized by the pale golden color of his eyes.

  “My lady,” he said politely, and shook the hand Kyria offered him, but there was a distinct coolness in his tone that told Kyria that he was none too pleased to be talking to them.

  “Mr. Ashcombe. It is an honor to meet you. My father was friends with the late Lord Walford, and he spoke highly of you.”

  Ashcombe inclined his head rather regally and said, “His lordship was an excellent gentleman. I was sorry to see him go.”

  Kyria introduced Rafe, then said, “I appreciate your agreeing to see us.”

  Ashcombe gave a faint shrug and replied, “I am always happy to speak to friends of Lord Walford.” His carefully schooled face gave no hint of his real feelings.

  “The reason I want to talk to you is this.” Kyria saw no sense in leading up to the subject gradually. She wanted to get Ashcombe’s immediate and unprepared reaction to the reliquary.

  She opened the drawstring bag and pulled out the box, setting it down on the desk in front of the archaeologist.

  Ashcombe shot a perfunctory glance at the reliquary. Then his gaze sharpened, and he stared, his face paling. He reached out a tentative hand and touched the box.

  “It cannot…” He looked up at Kyria, stunned. “Do you know what this is?”

  “We were hoping you could confirm it. Dr. Jennings told us that it looked like a reliquary of legend.”

  “The Reliquary of the Holy Standard,” Ashcombe breathed. “I can scarcely believe…”

  His golden eyes glittered, and he picked up the box, peering closely at the black diamond. “Have you opened it?”

  “We could not at first, but one of my brothers figured out the trick of it.” The archaeologist’s eyes were so much that of a starving man facing a banquet that Kyria could not help but take the wires out of her reticule and use them as Con had shown her. There was a click, and she was able to open the lid, showing Ashcombe the faded cloth inside.

  “My God.” He stared at the reliquary for a long moment, and Kyria thought she saw the glint of tears in his eyes. “I didn’t think…I had given up.” He looked up at Kyria again. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Kyria closed the box and put it back into the bag, holding it securely in her lap. “We were hoping you could tell us a little more about the reliquary.”

  “I was unable to find it. I…” He stopped and collected himself, then continued in a more professorial manner, “I presume that Jennings told you the story of the banner and the reliquary.”

  Kyria nodded. “Yes, although we had not at that time discovered the latch to the box, so all he saw was the outside.”

  “It is enough. The Heart of Night—the black, uncut diamond on the front—is ample evidence that it is the Reliquary of the Holy Standard.” He looked at Kyria intently. “Where did you get it?”

  “That is the problem. It was brought to us, and we really don’t know where it was found or how it came to be in my brother’s hands. The man who delivered it to us, um, died without telling us anything about it. That is why we came to you. We were hoping that you could tell us where it came from and how…”

  Ashcombe shook his head reluctantly. “I wish I could. I excavated in three different places, each of which I thought might be the site. You see, through my research, I came to believe that the reliquary was not a legend, but had actually existed. I came across a manuscript written by an Italian monk in the fourteenth century, which described the flight of the holy men entrusted with the reliquary into the barren mountains of eastern Turkey. Through my contacts in the area, I learned that the three sites, high in the eastern cliffs, were possibilities. It is a desolate area, difficult to make one’s way through, a perfect place to hide.” He sighed. “However, they came to nothing. Either my information was wrong, or I was simply unable to find the right spot. There are other accounts, not entirely reliable, that the monks might have fled even into the southern part of what we now call Russia.”

  “Russia?” Kyria glanced at Rafe and saw mirrored there the same in
terest that had been piqued in her. “Really?”

  Ashcombe nodded. “It is certainly a possibility. Russia, after all, followed the Eastern Orthodox religion, the same one that was centered originally in Byzantium, and it lies close to Turkey. It would not be at all unlikely for the holy brothers to seek refuge among them, especially after the invasion of the Ottoman Turks and their conversion of the entire area to Islam. However, I have never found any reliable evidence that says so.”

  “You called the diamond by a name,” Rafe said.

  “Yes. The Heart of Night. It is also known as the Star of the Underworld. It is far older than the reliquary, you see, a sacred stone taken from an ancient temple. At some point, hundreds and hundreds of years later, it fell into Christian hands, and they, recognizing the mystic qualities of the stone, attached it to a religious artifact of their own.”

  They were all silent for a moment. Then Kyria asked, “Have you heard any rumors of the reliquary surfacing? In Turkey, perhaps?”

  Ashcombe shook his head. “No. I have been in England for the past year. It is different when I am on a dig. Then I would hear all the rumors of the area. But here…no, I have heard nothing.” He paused. “So you know nothing of its history or how it came to be in your possession?”

  “Beyond the fact that it was brought to us by a man who was murdered almost on our very doorstep. His name was Kousoulous. Have you heard of him?”

  Ashcombe frowned. “An antiquities dealer?”

  “Yes. In Istanbul.”

  “I may have. I am not sure. I do not really buy or sell artifacts. My interest lies in excavating them.”

  “We have been told that it was stolen—but everyone seems rather vague on exactly how or from where.”

  The archaeologist shrugged. “Typical. I know of no excavation that has turned up the reliquary. But it is possible that someone stumbled upon the remains of the refuge where the holy brothers took the reliquary. This person who happened on it could have simply taken whatever artifacts he found and sold them to a dealer—or, more likely, to some middleman, who then sold them to a dealer. It could even have wound up in an Istanbul bazaar without anyone involved even knowing exactly what they had on their hands. Most people would not. At best they might recognize it as a Byzantine reliquary.”

  “So someone could have seen it there, recognized it and bought it,” Kyria mused.

  “Or he could have bought it, not knowing what it was, just thinking that it was a lovely work of art and that you would like the stone, Kyria, and so he sent it to you,” Rafe said.

  “Who?” Ashcombe asked, looking puzzled. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Whoever sent the box to Lady Kyria,” Rafe replied. “We never learned who sent it or why.”

  Ashcombe nodded. “It could have happened that way, yes.”

  “But there were others who did know what it was, who saw it at some point in all this, and they pursued the man who carried it,” Kyria theorized. She looked at Ashcombe. “Do you know a French collector by the name of Brulatour? Or a Russian, Prince Dmitri Rostokov?”

  Ashcombe thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I am afraid not. As I told you, I have few dealings with collectors and such. They are collectors, I assume?”

  Rafe nodded. “Tell me, Mr. Ashcombe, in your opinion, how valuable is this reliquary?”

  “Valuable?” Ashcombe turned his pale eyes to Rafe. “Why, it is priceless. How could one put a price on such a piece of history? I imagine that there are those who would pay almost anything to possess it.”

  “Would they murder for it?” Rafe asked.

  Ashcombe shrugged, seemingly unsurprised by Rafe’s question. “My dear sir, there are men who will murder for a few shillings, let alone something like this. You are talking about a finding of vast significance to collectors, museums, churches, nations.” He gave Kyria a stern look. “You had best take care of it, young woman.”

  “I will, sir. I promise you.”

  Rafe was quiet on the way home, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. After they had returned the wrapped reliquary to its hiding place in the safe, he said, “I’ve been thinking…perhaps we ought to put that thing someplace safer.”

  Kyria looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, there seem to be a lot of people in this town who know or suspect we have the box with us. I have a few of the footmen up keeping watch at night, and I’ve tried to keep an eye on it. But someone could break in here, despite that.”

  “They would have to get into the safe,” Kyria pointed out.

  “Yes,” Rafe agreed, adding, “And do you think that if it came down to it, with a man holding a gun to Con’s or Alex’s head, that you wouldn’t give them the combination?”

  Kyria sighed. “Yes. If I could not get out of it, I would. But where do you suggest we put it?”

  “A bank?”

  “Still, if someone put a gun to Con’s or Alex’s head, I would go to the bank to retrieve it.”

  “It would give us more time and complications to use against the thief, though.”

  “Yes, no doubt you are right.” Kyria realized that she hated to let the box go, even if it was only to the bank. “We should get the twins back to Broughton Park. Perhaps Denby would be able to take them.” She brightened. “Or Reed. Reed must return soon, and then perhaps he will be able to return to the Park with Con and Alex.”

  Rafe nodded.

  “Even better,” Kyria went on, a gleam in her eye, “maybe tonight at the opium den, we will find the man we are looking for and put a stop to what he’s doing.”

  Rafe grinned. “Darlin’, I like the way you think.”

  * * *

  They left the house a little before midnight. Kyria had dressed as she planned in old clothes Theo had worn when he was not quite sixteen and had not yet grown to his full height. The trousers were a gray tweed, cut a little full and thereby concealing the very feminine swell of her hips. The combination of shirt, waistcoat and jacket effectively hid her breasts, but Kyria decided to wrap binding around her breasts to flatten them out, just to make sure. Her hair was the hardest part, for it was not only long and thick, but also curly, so that it was a great mass to stuff beneath a hat. Moreover, she was afraid that it would look odd for a man to wear his hat all the time he was indoors, and if she removed the hat, her piled-up hair would be revealed.

  However, Joan, with her usual skill, was able to braid most of Kyria’s hair into a single, thick braid, which she then wound flat against her head and pinned securely, covering it with shorter hair around Kyria’s face. It was not the most attractive style, but it would pass a cursory look if Kyria had to remove her bowler hat. She smoothed all of it over with pomade, which had the added benefit of darkening the distinctive red of Kyria’s hair.

  “What do you think?” Kyria asked Rafe when she descended the stairs to join him in the foyer. She turned around and plopped the hat on her head. “Will I pass for a boy?”

  Rafe’s eyes darkened in a way that made Kyria’s abdomen tighten. He took a step closer to her, and his voice dropped. “Do you think I would get arrested for kissing a boy?”

  Kyria smiled, heat snaking through her, as she looked up into his eyes. “I don’t know. Why don’t you try it?”

  His hands went to her waist, and he lowered his head toward hers. She stretched up toward him invitingly.

  The doorknocker thudded loudly just then, and the two of them sprang apart. Rafe grimaced and opened the door, waving off the footman who was hurrying into the foyer. Tom Quick stood on the doorstep.

  Quick grinned. “I can see you haven’t got the hang of being a gentleman yet. Don’t you know you aren’t supposed to open a door?”

  Rafe shrugged. “Bad habit. You know how Americans are.”

  Quick looked on past Rafe to Kyria, and his brows shot up as he let out a surprised whistle. “Well, look at you! I wouldn’t have known you, and that’s a fact.”

  “But would you think I
am a man?”

  “One of them tiresome artistic types, maybe,” Tom allowed.

  “I think a mustache would help,” Kyria mused. “I wish I had one of those stage mustaches. Do you suppose if we went by a theater…?”

  “No time,” Rafe said, taking her by the elbow. “Besides, it would just make you more noticeable. What we want, if you’ll remember, is for you to blend in.”

  He reached up and settled her hat at a better angle on her head. “Try to keep your face in shadow.”

  They took the carriage, and as they drove through the dark streets of London, Tom told them about his further investigations. “I found out a few things today after I talked to you. I checked with some of me former acquaintances…”

  “Of the criminal variety?” Kyria asked.

  Tom shrugged. “Some are still in the trade. Others are just, well, folks that would know about such things,” he replied vaguely. “Nobody seemed to know much about this particular shop. Only one or two even knew about opium dens at all. Gin’s cheaper and easier for them that ain’t got money.”

  “Who goes to such places, then?” Kyria asked.

  “Well, with the Englishmen and Americans and such, it’s mostly either sailors who picked up the habit on their travels, or it’s ones here who got some money and like to try something new and thrilling. Daring types. Some artists and writers and such who think it makes ’em creative, like.”

  “I see.”

  “What puzzled me, though, was the way it looked. I’d heard about opium dens, and, well, it was different from what I’d heard. Turns out there’s two types. More common is the Chinese shop.”

  “The opium comes from China?” Rafe asked.

  “No,” Kyria said. “China actually imports it from India. That’s what the Opium Wars were all about. It was scandalous, really. China was trying to shut down its importing of opium because of the damage to its citizens, and it was the British who wanted to keep them from doing so because it damaged our trade!”

  Tom nodded. “Seems the opium comes in from India and Turkey and places. The way the Chinese folks smoke it is they take the opium and put it into this pipe that looks pretty much like a regular pipe, except with a really long stem, like. They smoke it straight and it’s stronger. That’s the sort of opium den where the Chinese and most others go. But there’s another kind, the Turkish kind, and that’s the sort I saw last night. There, it seems, they mix it with tobacco and smoke it in their water pipes.”