The Stolen Chalicel

by Kitty Pilgrim

  Holly almost didn’t realize what she was doing as she leaned into him. But suddenly she was in his arms. He let her come to him, pulling her to his chest. He seemed to expect it. She clung to him and breathed in his scent, linking her arms around him. His body was leaner than she remembered but still as muscular. It felt so right.

  And then she felt herself released, a kiss planted on top of her head. He stepped back.

  “So, take care of yourself,” he said gruffly.

  She nodded, flustered. Tried to collect her emotions. She hadn’t felt this way in years. Tears began to sting and she looked down.

  It was then she noticed the flashing message light on her cell phone in the outside pocket of her purse.

  “Excuse me while I check this, will you?”

  “Sure,” he said, looking off into the dark street.

  She took the phone out of her bag. Grateful for the diversion, she focused on the recorded message. The call log had come from the Brooklyn Museum. It was Carter Wallace. His voice was so strange. He was whispering, talking about some director of the Met. She punched voice mail and listened twice, just to make sure.

  The whole story sounded crazy to her: a director of the Met involved in art theft? That didn’t seem plausible. Besides, Carter had his information wrong. She wasn’t meeting Charlie Hannifin tomorrow. She had never even heard of him.

  By now, the hotel doorman had managed to get a cab and was waiting for them. Sinclair took her arm and walked her to the taxi.

  “Anything wrong?” he asked, noticing her expression.

  “Just a call from work. Nothing important. Good night, John. See you tomorrow.”

  As she got into the taxi, she kissed him on the cheek.

  In the town house on Grosvenor Street, the sun was streaming through the curtains and the grandfather clock was striking eight a.m. Cordelia woke up alone and stretched. Sinclair must be downstairs having breakfast already. He’d been sound asleep last night when she came in.

  Before she got out of bed, she took a moment to think over dinner with Jim Gardiner. As he had sat across from her in the restaurant last night, leaning over a dish of Thai chicken, she found herself thinking it was a miracle he was alive! Food was his salvation. Jim’s passion for gourmet cooking was helping with his mobility much more than any therapy could.

  It had been almost a year since the accident, and he really was improving. Paul Oakley was such a godsend. Paul had started as Jim’s doctor and was now his domestic partner. They were inseparable—an amazing couple.

  Cordelia looked over at the bedside alarm. She’d better get dressed quickly! The meeting at the British Museum was at ten o’clock. She leaped out of bed and pulled open the door of her walk-in closet.

  After the long summer months of scuba diving in Egypt, it took a real effort to dress like a London girl-about-town. She slid the hangers and selected a tailored suit. It was rather plain, but accessories would spice it up a bit.

  On the bureau was a jewelry box, a beautiful red Moroccan case from Asprey. Everything in it was a gift from Sinclair, and her collection of expensive baubles was growing rapidly.

  Cordelia’s hand went to her dress watch and then hesitated. Without really thinking about it, she picked up her diver’s watch. Bulky, with a luminescent dial and a digital GPS, this was the most familiar piece of jewelry she owned. She looked at it, holding it against her wrist, remembering what it was like to be on an expedition.

  Who was she really? She paused, looking at herself in the mirror—was she a chic young woman or a marine explorer? Tall, slender, with green eyes, her face a pale oval framed by long, dark hair, she still looked the same. Yet there had been so many changes: the inheritance, Sinclair’s whirlwind courtship, the decision to move to London.

  She looked away from the mirror and fastened the black nylon watch strap into place, then turned over her wrist to check the dial. It was so late!

  She was meeting Dr. Trentwell, a director she knew from previous visits. But the other person was someone from the board of the Metropolitan Museum in New York—Mr. Charles Hannifin.

  John Sinclair sat in the backseat of the taxi and watched the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Central London was awash with rain, and the drive to Bristol and Overton Solicitors was taking twice as long as usual. That was good. He needed time to think.

  This morning at breakfast, Cordelia had come in bright and happy. He’d had an awful moment of panic, remembering last night’s drink with Holly. Such god-awful guilt—but late-night cocktails with blondes will do that to you.

  To compensate for his perfidy, Sinclair had made an effort to discuss the Alexandria Harbor project with Cordelia. As he talked, she had sipped her coffee, her eyes trusting over the rim of the Minton china cup. Cordelia had absolutely no idea that Holly was in London. Apparently Jim Gardiner didn’t mention it. Now, that was pure luck!

  Sinclair told himself that last night was necessary. He needed to work things out with Holly. His intentions had been pure, and he had neither the talent nor inclination for infidelity.

  Sinclair pulled up to the stately offices of Bristol and Overton a half hour late. VerPlanck and Holly were outside waiting for him on the steps.

  “Sorry,” he said, slamming the taxi door. “Traffic was beastly.”

  He glanced over and checked Holly’s expression. For some reason, he half expected her to look as guilty as he felt. She didn’t—she looked worried instead.

  “He’s gone,” Holly said.

  “Who’s gone?” Sinclair asked.

  “Jim Gardiner,” VerPlanck clarified. “He left early this morning, for Scotland. Edinburgh. An emergency.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “What’s odder still,” Holly said, “he left an urgent message for us to meet him there.”

  British Museum, London

  JUST AS THE cab stopped on Great Russell Street, the skies opened up in a torrential downpour. Cordelia had to dash through the puddles, cold water seeping into her shoes.

  She stopped under the columned portico to shake her umbrella and fold it. Ten minutes late! If she remembered correctly, the administrative offices were on the right. She found them easily and the assistant looked up as she came in.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I have a meeting with Dr. Trentwell.”

  “Are you his ten o’clock?”

  “I believe so.”

  The girl squinted at the electronic calendar.

  “Some woman called this morning to cancel, but the temp took the message. Now I can’t figure out who it was.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “You’re the lady to see him about the Egyptian . . .”

  “Yes,” said Cordelia. “Sorry, but I’m a little late because of the traffic. Would you please tell Dr. Trentwell I’ve arrived?”

  “He’s already down in the Enlightenment Gallery with a Mr. Charles Hannifin. I can’t reach him.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “Down the corridor. Then a sharp left. Why don’t you leave your umbrella and raincoat on the rack.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Cordelia said, hanging up her coat. She turned on her heel and quickly went out.

  Cordelia had always loved the Enlightenment Gallery. The three-hundred-foot room had the appearance of a great private library, wood-paneled with towering bookcases. The collections were a celebration of the great Age of Discovery, from 1680 to 1820. During that time, there had been groundbreaking accomplishments in every field: the birth of archaeology, the deciphering of ancient manuscripts, the development of a botanical classification system.

  In the rush past the glass display cases, she caught a tantalizing glimpse of all kinds of exhibits, including journals from the great voyages of Captain James Cook, Alexander von Humboldt, and Charles Darwin.

  At the far end, Cordelia saw Dr. Trentwell walking slowly, gesturing emphatically, accompanied by a funny-looking little man in a rumpled raincoat. On this inclement morning, there
were no other museum visitors.

  “Ah, Miss Stapleton,” the director said, turning at the sound of her footsteps. “You’ve arrived.”

  “Sorry. Traffic was terrible.”

  “No worries. My eleven o’clock appointment canceled. May I present Charlie Hannifin. Charlie, Cordelia Stapleton is the chief diver on the marine archaeology project in Alexandria Harbor.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Hannifin said with little enthusiasm.

  He offered a limp, sweaty hand as his eyes darted around the room.

  “Is there somewhere . . . we can talk?” Hannifin asked the director.

  “Certainly, but first I want to show you artifacts from Cook’s voyage around the world in 1768 on HMB Endeavour.”

  “How interesting!” Cordelia exclaimed, leaning over the case.

  “I haven’t much time,” Hannifin said, walking away.

  “Oh, certainly,” the director said. “Why don’t we go to my office?”

  They started toward the administrative offices in the modern part of the building. As they walked along the corridor, Cordelia noticed a young man at the far end—he appeared lost, glancing furtively around. He was rough, unshaved, and seemed entirely out of place. Dr. Trentwell approached him.

  “I’m terribly sorry, sir, but this section of the museum is off-limits to visitors.”

  The man turned and scrutinized Dr. Trentwell.

  “Charlie Hannifin?” he asked.

  Hannifin began backing away, and the man turned to stare at him. “You’re Hannifin.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are,” the young man said, turning to Dr. Trentwell and Cordelia. “I’ve come for him. If you two get out of here, I won’t make trouble for you.”

  “What do you mean, ‘make trouble’?” the director demanded.

  That mere comment unleashed a cyclone of violence. The intruder whirled and slammed Dr. Trentwell violently into the wall, knocking him to the floor.

  “Guard!” Trentwell shouted as he went down. The man came after him, pumping three rapid punches to his stomach. The director curled up in agony.

  “Stop it!” Cordelia cried out.

  She had no effect. In a sudden, swift movement, the assailant aimed a martial-arts kick at the fallen curator, and there was a sickening crunch as Dr. Trentwell’s femur buckled. Then the intruder smashed him with the butt of a pistol. Dr. Trentwell slumped unconscious to the floor, his leg twisted at a horrific angle.

  The assailant, ignoring Cordelia, swung the dark muzzle back toward Hannifin.

  “Don’t,” Hannifin pleaded. “I didn’t . . . It’s not my fault. . . .” He cowered, his mouth working nervously, his small eyes darting around looking for a way to escape. The gunman walked up to him and put the tip of the weapon against his forehead. The muzzle dented the flesh between his eyebrows.

  “No!” Hannifin said, panicked.

  The gunman pushed hard, forcing Hannifin’s head against the wall.

  “They told me to come after you.”

  Was the man going to shoot Hannifin? A wave of dizziness hit Cordelia and her legs began to shake; her heart was beating violently. She looked at the exit a few steps away and decided to sprint toward it.

  “Hold it right there!”

  She saw the weapon now pointed directly at her!

  “Please, I don’t have anything to do with this,” she begged.

  “Too bad, lady. Wrong place. Wrong time.”

  Cordelia opened her mouth to argue and thought better of it. She was fully aware her life hung in the balance. There was an agonizing moment when she thought he would shoot her. But finally he slipped the pistol into his pocket and angled the muzzle toward Hannifin. With the tip of his head, he indicated which way they should walk.

  “We’re going out the main entrance, nice and casual. If you pull anything, you’re dead.”

  Cordelia walked stiffly through the museum courtyard, the gunman following closely behind. From time to time, she could feel the steel weapon poking her back. Charlie Hannifin was directly beside her, moving toward the street. Cordelia’s eyes scanned the area, looking for escape.

  The flagstone plaza was more crowded now. The rain had stopped and the sun was starting to break through the clouds. A few people were gathered in groups at the entrance to the museum: a couple of students, a trio of elderly ladies. There was no one she could signal to for help. They were all absorbed in their own activities.

  Cordelia’s mouth was dry, her pulse racing. Her best chance for escape was now, in the open. That much she knew.

  As she walked across the plaza, she surveyed the possibilities. There weren’t many. An ornate wrought-iron fence surrounded the enclosed courtyard. There was no way to get out except for a single, narrow gateway that led to the sidewalk.

  She scanned the bystanders again. No police officers. No young men who could give this man a good fight. Only school kids, moms, elderly couples.

  Suddenly, she noticed a group of Japanese tourists gathering near the gate. About thirty people were huddled close together to hear their guide. If she could get into the middle of the crowd, she might have some protection. The gunman would never risk firing into a cluster of innocent tourists. With any luck he’d just take Hannifin and leave her behind.

  She walked slowly by the group, then pivoted and darted into the middle. It was more difficult than she thought. They were packed closely together, listening intently. Cordelia shoved frantically, pushing against their wet raincoats to work her way into the center of the group.

  A young Japanese woman cried out, shocked at Cordelia’s behavior. But then, with a short bow, she stepped aside to let Cordelia through. Almost on cue, the entire group parted, waiting for her to pass by.

  Cordelia looked about in dismay. They had made a clear path right through the center. The gunman was on the other side, waiting for her. The outline of the muzzle protruded through the fabric of his pocket.

  “Don’t get funny now, or people will get hurt.”

  He laughed and shrugged at the tourists, as if it were a joke. They smiled back, unaware.

  A wave of disappointment and frustration washed over Cordelia. There was really no choice but to fall back in step beside Charlie Hannifin. Together they resumed their forced march to the gate.

  She looked over at Hannifin. He was sweating, breathing through his open mouth, staring straight ahead. He gave no indication he had even noticed what had just happened. His eyes were fixated on something across the street. She followed his gaze.

  That’s when she noticed the van. Motor running, lone driver. As they approached, an automatic panel door slid open.

  Her opportunities for escape were dwindling. Now they were outside the courtyard, on the sidewalk. Pedestrians were walking by, businessmen on their way to appointments. Surely someone could help her! Should she risk calling out?

  As if he had read her thoughts, the gunman prodded her back. She’d be dead before the word “help” left her lips. They crossed the street and Charlie Hannifin began to climb in the van.

  “Wait,” Cordelia pleaded, turning toward her captor. “Please, you don’t want—”

  “Get in!” the gunman said, pressing the weapon into her ribs. There was determination in his eyes. She closed her mouth and followed Charlie Hannifin.

  Biggin Hill Airport, London

  TED VERPLANCK’S GULFSTREAM G650 was waiting on the tarmac, wing tips elegantly curved upward as if it were alive and ready to take flight. Jim Gardiner had told them to come to Edinburgh as quickly as possible. The trip from London would take less than an hour in the private jet. Holly climbed the steps and the stewardess greeted her warmly.

  “Welcome back, Dr. Graham. Why don’t you take your usual seat.”

  Sinclair, bending his long frame to fit through the door, heard the remark and lifted his eyebrows in surprise. He started to make a crack but held back. VerPlanck was directly behind him. All three of them immediately sat down and buck
led their seat belts, and the plane began to move.

  Everyone seemed pensive during the flight. VerPlanck sipped ice water and steadily worked his way through a folder of documents, and Sinclair barricaded himself behind the salmon-colored pages of the Financial Times, drinking tomato juice with a wedge of lemon. Holly nursed her coffee, wondering how on earth she could have gotten mixed up in all of this!

  Both men were quiet, thinking their own private thoughts. She’d have liked to talk about it further, but she was stuck with not one but two strong silent types.

  In what seemed like twenty minutes, they were landing at a private airport outside Edinburgh. A stretch limo, sent by Jim Gardiner, started moving toward the plane as soon as they landed.

  Once seated inside the car, Holly summoned up the nerve to broach the topic.

  “I can’t even guess what this is all about,” she ventured as a conversation opener.

  “Jim called me late last night and left a message for me,” Sinclair revealed.

  “Really!” VerPlanck said. “Did you call him back?”

  “No, I was asleep and got the voice mail only this morning. The message said something important had turned up and I should go directly to his office to meet you and Holly.”

  “He left me a handwritten message at the hotel desk,” VerPlanck explained. “I received it when I came down this morning. But there wasn’t much information. Holly’s seen it already.”

  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the cream-colored Ritz Hotel stationery, unfolded it, and handed it over. Sinclair’s blue eyes scanned it worriedly:

  Dear Ted,

  New developments. Very serious. Please come to Edinburgh as soon as possible. Sinclair and Dr. Graham should come with you. I will be at the Balmoral Hotel in the Walter Scott Suite.

  —J. Gardiner

  “I can’t help wondering why Edinburgh. What an unusual place to meet,” Holly remarked.

  “It is,” VerPlanck agreed. “Why Scotland?”