by Gavin, Rohan
“I don’t know what you mean,” protested Beecham.
“I think you do,” said Darkus, moving aside some of the Far Eastern trinkets on the shelves overhead.
“Gently—” beseeched Knightley.
“Don’t worry, Dad.” Darkus took what appeared to be a small makeup compact from his inside pocket. He opened it and removed a miniature blusher brush, dipped it in a small amount of white powder, tapped it once, then ran it along the shelves, over the spines of the books, leaving a white residue.
“What’s he doing?” demanded Beecham.
“My line of reasoning began with the notes I discovered in the file room at your office,” said Darkus, blowing away the white powder to reveal a cluster of fingerprints centered on a large hardcover book entitled Secrets of the Ancients.
“What were you doing snooping around my office?” raged Beecham.
Darkus continued undeterred. “The handwriting was a perfect match for the signature on the title page of The Code that you donated to the auction. A foolish move on your part, but driven by good intentions, no doubt. They were what betrayed you.” Darkus reached for the hardcover book.
“Don’t touch that!” barked Beecham.
Darkus ignored him and removed the book from the shelf, which resulted in an audible click. Darkus looked to his father for permission. Knightley nodded encouragingly, a look of stunned pride spreading broadly across his face.
“My theory was confirmed rather simply by your monogrammed napkin, which contains the letters B.R.B. Which I assume stand for Bram . . . Ross . . . Beecham,” declared Darkus, then pulled on the bookcase, which swung open on hidden hinges to reveal a secret room with a desk, a chair, and a laptop computer stationed inside. “Or—if you rearrange the letters—should I say . . . Ambrose Chambers.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed Knightley.
“He is Chambers . . . ?” said Bill, pointing at Beecham. “How?”
“A monogram that led to an anagram,” said Knightley, nodding proudly.
“I rest my case,” said Darkus, looking at Beecham, or, as his pen name would have it, Ambrose Chambers.
“A’right, lads, we’ve got our man,” Bill said into his walkie-talkie.
The apartment doors opened and uniformed officers surrounded Beecham, who looked at Darkus with something approaching admiration—but not quite.
“You’re very good, son, but I’m afraid your reasoning is only half-sound,” Beecham announced. “You see, there really is no Ambrose Chambers. I didn’t write a word of it. I only transcribed it from an existing text, for someone—or something—else.”
“Who?” demanded Darkus.
“I’ve already made you my offer,” said Beecham, turning to the assembled members of law enforcement. “Grant me immunity, and I’ll tell you everything I know. Refuse it, and Chambers won’t say another word.”
“Save it for the station,” said Bill, and nodded to the officers, who took hold of Beecham’s arms and raised him to his feet.
“You’re making a big mistake,” he called out, struggling with the officers as they guided him out of the apartment toward the elevator. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with—” Beecham shouted as the elevator doors closed behind him.
Darkus calmly closed the compact and returned it to his inside pocket. He looked up at his father, who was now studying him more closely than ever.
“Impressive,” said Knightley.
Darkus shrugged. “It was the only explanation that would support the facts.”
Knightley nodded, suddenly feeling very old.
“Shall we continue Beecham’s interrogation at the station?” said Darkus.
“In the morning,” said Knightley. “First, I think it’s time you got some rest,” he added tenderly.
“As you wish.”
The gentle rhythm of the cab’s progress through London soon lulled Darkus to sleep in the backseat. Traffic lights and Belisha beacons blurred past the window as Knightley guided the Fairway toward Cherwell Place. Somewhere a clock struck one, and the stars were just visible above the neon shroud.
Knightley reflected that London was never calmer or more innocent than in the dead of night—and yet no time of day was more apt to be used for ill gain. In the years since he’d unwillingly gone to sleep, the city had changed and evolved, adding corporate insignias and chain outlets, without ever managing to lose its prehistoric skeleton of nonsensical but somehow interconnecting parts. It was a sort of ordered disorder, much like the inner workings of a brain: a brain that could be used for good or for bad; for dreaming or for nightmares.
Knightley glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Darkus slumped with his head resting against the window, his breath steaming up the glass. Knightley smiled privately to himself, then turned the wheel, pulling up outside number 27. He quietly got out of the driver’s seat, slowly opened the rear passenger door, and scooped up Darkus in his arms without waking him. He hadn’t done this for longer than he could remember, and it probably wasn’t advisable in his current state, but sometimes reason and common sense were irrelevant. Knightley crept across the sidewalk to the house, keeping his balance, inserted the key into the lock, and opened the front door.
He heard the rumbling, bronchial snores of Bogna emanating from the first-floor bedroom. Knightley carefully ascended the stairs, carrying his burden, trying to minimize the creaking sounds that were either coming from the staircase or his knee joints—he wasn’t sure which. He reached the top floor and crept into his office, lowering Darkus onto the chaise longue. He drew up, panting and holding his chest until his breathing slowed down.
“Are you okay, Dad?” Darkus whispered, looking up at him.
“How long have you been awake?”
“Just the last flight of stairs or so.”
“You could’ve told me.”
“I thought you were having . . . a moment.”
“I’m having a heart attack is what I’m having,” said Knightley, getting his breath back.
“Mom’s right,” said Darkus matter-of-factly. “For a detective, you can be pretty oblivious.”
Knightley shook his head. “There’s a distinction between ‘oblivious’ and ‘focused,’ Doc. Your mother never understood that. I require close to one hundred percent of my brain when I’m conducting an investigation.”
“I know,” replied Darkus. “And female counterparts are a distraction.” He quoted his father’s words back to him.
“I thought maybe you would understand that, seeing as how you’ve become an investigator in your own right. And a very good one,” Knightley said proudly, then frowned again. “Perhaps I wasn’t the most attentive father. But I never expected anything of you; I never tried to push you in any particular direction, to be a suit or a desk jockey, not like most parents.”
“That’s because you never took the time to get to know me,” said Darkus. “You never bothered to deduce what direction I might want to go in.”
Knightley took a moment to digest this. “I wanted you to be able to stand on your own two feet. And look how right I was,” he said, cheerfully unaware of the effect he was having. “Judging by your performance with Beecham—or should I say Chambers—I must have done something right.”
“On the contrary,” said Darkus. “In the absence of guidance, I took the only course that presented itself. I followed you.”
A wave of guilt crashed over Knightley. He took a deep breath and waited for it to pass. “If I left you in the dark, it was because I wanted to spare you the real darkness. The kind that you need more than a night-light to protect you from.” He took a blanket from a cupboard and unfolded it over Darkus on the chaise longue. “I see no point in revisiting past history. We have a case on the boil, and we need our minds in tip-top shape. Get some rest, and that’s an order.”
“Okay, Dad,” Darkus answered somberly.
As his son closed his weary eyes, Knightley retired to the armchair opposite, but found himself out
of sorts. He steadied his breathing and watched Darkus for several minutes. Knightley’s face was an indecipherable mask, caught between emotion and reason. His son was the one case he would never crack, a case that would go on long after his own demise. Perhaps someone would solve it: someone more deserving; someone better than him.
Knightley closed his eyes, hoping to sleep but knowing he wouldn’t manage a wink. He had already slept enough for a lifetime.
Chapter 15
Unforeseen Circumstances
Clive rolled over in bed, having a bad dream. In his nightmare, Knightley had stolen his car again and was driving it through a Norwegian fjord. Clive was swimming after it in vain, only to find he had left all his clothing behind on shore.
Clive let out a whimper and sat bolt upright, realizing where he was. Jackie was fast asleep beside him. Tilly was safely locked away at Cranston School under the supervision of her housemistress, just as he had threatened.
He crept out of bed in his pajamas and went to the window to check that the Jag was still in the driveway, which it was. He then padded into the bathroom and squinted as he switched on the light. He looked in the mirror and his face was bleary and tired. He released a heavy sigh and angled the mirrored cabinet door to observe his graying thatch of hair.
Clive had been having an increasing number of bad hair days, and even the Jag didn’t seem to get him noticed lately. But hopefully all that was about to change, thanks to something he’d overheard his colleagues and copresenters talking about—something that had changed their lives; something that would help him build a new improved Clive, Clive 2.0, the Clive GT, more successful in every way. He took his e-book reader from the top shelf of the bathroom cabinet and turned it on. The title page flashed up on the screen, along with a striking symbol: The Code. Clive examined it, giddy with pleasure at his little secret.
He sat on the toilet seat and began to read.
When it came to babysitting Bram Beecham (or Ambrose Chambers, depending on how you wanted to look at it), Uncle Bill decided to take no chances. He rested his prodigious weight on an office chair in a corridor directly outside the row of holding cells at Marylebone Police Station, one of the more high-tech stations in London.
The cells currently contained two vocal drunks, a sleeping vagrant, a sullen youth being held on assault charges, and one bestselling author who was now the prime suspect in a far-reaching criminal investigation. Aside from an occasional yell or belch—the latter of which admittedly came from Bill himself sometimes—the corridor was mostly quiet.
Behind a specially reinforced window, Beecham sat quietly on his bunk as if engaged in some form of meditation. For his own safety he had been deprived of his belt, his shoelaces, and anything else that could have posed a threat to himself or others.
Bill took it upon himself to rise from his seat and amble down the length of the corridor to check on Beecham once every fifteen minutes. He completed the circuit by rewarding himself with a treat or two from a rapidly diminishing packet of chocolate digestives positioned on a nearby desk. It was during the ninth or tenth repetition of this routine—Bill didn’t remember which, but he vaguely remembered thinking that he would soon require another packet of digestives—that a figure dressed in black appeared at the end of the corridor.
Having achieved access to the inner sanctum of the police station with a set of carefully forged documents and the assistance of several intercepted phone calls—which the duty officer believed were from his superiors at Scotland Yard—the figure now calmly approached the row of cells. Of course that age-old weapon, charm, had a lot to do with making the operation a success. And charm was something that the figure had to burn, so to speak.
Hearing footsteps, Uncle Bill turned away from the biscuits, recognizing the unexpected visitor.
“Chloy?” he said, butchering her name.
“Why, yes,” answered Chloe, flashing him a smile, still dressed in business attire but looking, according to witnesses, in their defense, like a runway model.
“We-e-ell,” Bill stuttered, overwhelmed by more questions than his brain could efficiently handle all at once. Why was she here? How did she get in? Would a girl like her ever look at an old runkle like him? Bill’s brain momentarily short-circuited. “What can I do ye for?” he managed.
“I’m here to see Mr. Beecham,” she replied calmly.
Bill began to wrestle back control of his senses. “I’m afraid that’s completely impossible,” he said apologetically.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she said, and took something resembling a lipstick tube from her handbag, then pointed it directly at his face.
“Ho ye!” exclaimed Bill, and moved with surprising speed to block whatever it was—but he was too late.
A pressurized burst of nerve gas exploded out of the end of the lipstick into Bill’s face. Chloe quickly reacted by pulling a gas mask from her handbag and fastening it over her face.
“Aye yer maw!” Bill shouted out, clawing at his stinging eyes while the other elements in the gas were working to relieve him of consciousness. He stumbled backward, pirouetted down the corridor past the cells, then, as if controlled by an invisible tractor beam, collided directly with the desk, lost control of his legs, and fell, headbutting the rest of the chocolate digestives and the tabletop on the way down. He was already unconscious before he hit the ground with a thud that detainees later described as resembling a king-size mattress dropped from a great height.
As the detainees fell asleep in their bunks one by one, Chloe approached the inert mound of Uncle Bill, knelt down, and systematically checked his pockets. Not relishing the job, she quickly located a digital key card in his rear trouser pocket. She then took a large stride over him, stepping out of the threat radius, and continued on toward Beecham’s cell, removing her gas mask.
Fully woken from his meditation, Beecham already had his face pressed against the glass to investigate the commotion.
“Chloe?” he said with a start as her face appeared at the window.
She swiped the key card and opened the cell door. Bram quickly retrieved his jacket from the bunk.
“Thank God you’re here,” he said. “Does this mean I’m being released?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” she replied, and pulled something else out of her handbag. The object flicked open, casting a sharp reflection across his face.
“Wait. . . What?” Beecham looked down at it, confused.
“You made a mistake, Bram. They don’t tolerate mistakes.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“You’re one of them . . .” Beecham backed off, a look of pure horror in his eyes.
Chloe paused a moment, then went after him.
Darkus stirred from an unusually deep sleep to find his father shaking him by the shoulders.
“Wake up, Doc.”
“Wh-what’s wrong?” Darkus leaned up.
“Uncle Bill’s had an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“He’s in one piece, just about. But Beecham—well, Beecham’s dead.”
Darkus raised himself from the chaise longue. “Incontrovertibly?”
“Categorically.”
Knightley drove with the glass divider open so they could advance theories en route. Clearly Beecham wasn’t working alone, and whoever had created the character of Ambrose Chambers obviously wasn’t happy with the way Beecham had played it. This was evidenced by the theft of the signed copy of The Code and confirmed by its author’s untimely demise. Beecham had not only used his Chambers alias to transcribe the contents of the book but also to raise money as a tribute to his daughter’s memory. His good intentions had indeed gotten the better of him. When he signed the first edition for the auction, he also signed his own death warrant. Whoever was holding Beecham’s puppet strings had not counted on the basic family loyalty that resides in even the most amoral of criminal hearts. Beecham had paid the ultimate price, and perhaps he�
��d always known he would, in order to spend the rest of eternity in the company of his daughter—if his soul was fortunate enough to find the same resting place.
Privately, it didn’t escape Darkus’s thought process that the stranger who had threatened him at the auction might be responsible for Beecham’s death; and sooner or later Darkus would have to inform his father of the threat, and face the consequences—if only to avoid them risking a similar fate.
The sun began to rise over the city, cauterizing the skyline and turning the fog blood-red. Knightley drove past King’s Cross station, using the taxi lane to bypass commuter traffic, and they soon found themselves outside the towering glass structure of University College Hospital.
A Scotland Yard liaison led them through the green tinted foyer and into an elevator to the thirteenth floor. The corridors were blue and deceptively cheery. The liaison took them to a large private room, where Uncle Bill was holding court surrounded by a bevy of young nurses taking notes and feeding him sips of water—which was essential, as Bill was entombed in a body cast and attached to several cables that suspended his right arm and left leg in full traction.
“Had a bit of a spill,” he wheezed with a weak smile. “Beecham’s assistant Chloy caught me by surprise.”
“So I see,” said Knightley, shaking his head.
“Aye,” said Bill sheepishly. “I might be laid up for a while.” His voice trailed off as a nurse attended to him.
“Evidently,” said Knightley.
“Where is Beecham now?” inquired Darkus.
Bill gestured down with his eyes. “In the basement down there. I wanted to keep him close.”
“You don’t think he’s planning to get up and walk away?” said Knightley.
“At this point, I don’t know what to believe, Alan. But I do know it’s up to ye two to find out.” Bill let out a long sigh.
A nurse interjected, “He needs his rest.”