by C. M. Palov
Sir Kenneth always protested the dressing of the tree, claiming it a strange ritual for a woman who professed to be a devout Catholic. Marta simply turned a deaf ear. After twenty-seven years in Sir Kenneth’s employ, she was no longer affected by his condescension. She’d built a wall around her heart. Brick by brick, the mortar so thick as to be impenetrable.
When she first arrived in Oxford, she believed Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown to be a kind and generous man. Although many intellectuals professed sympathy for the dissident movement, few were willing to take in a Polish refugee who spoke but a few words of English. Sir Kenneth had no such qualms. He pointed; she cleaned. For the first year they had no verbal communication whatsoever. And then one day she awoke to find handwritten signs taped to nearly every piece of furniture. Her grace period having abruptly expired, the lord of Rose Chapel expected her to master the English language. At first, it had been nothing more than a silly game of butchered phrases and garbled sentences. Then it went from game to something deeper, more complex; Marta was determined to prove her worth to the man who’d plucked her from the ashes of fear and uncertainty.
She had been one of the lucky few who managed to escape Poland, having paid an exorbitant fee to a “guide” who smuggled her out of Gdansk in the hull of a fishing vessel. Her husband, Witold, had not been so fortunate. Ensnared in the crackdown imposed by the Communist bosses, he’d been sent to prison for crimes against the state. He was a bricklayer by trade; his only crime had been to dream of a Poland free of Communist rule. Sentenced to ten years of hard labor, he lasted but three. Marta did not receive word of his death until he’d already been dead and buried sixteen months. She spoke of his death to no one. Not even Sir Kenneth, obeying what was an unspoken rule in Rose Chapel: Never speak of matters of the heart.
She supposed the rule came about because Sir Kenneth did not possess a heart. Or if he did, it was in rare evidence. In twenty-seven years, there were only two occasions when Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown exhibited any sort of tender regard. The first occasion was when, having read of her plight in a local newspaper, he rang up the Catholic charity that had sponsored her when she first arrived in England, informing them that he would provide gainful employment for as long as need be. Nearly ten years would pass before the second occasion.
Although there were countless incidents in between—incidents that bespoke a decadent and depraved existence. Many nights Sir Kenneth did not return to Rose Chapel. Many nights were spent in drunken revelry. One such night she happened upon two naked, giggling girls in the kitchen smearing butter on each other’s bare breasts. Another night she went to turn down the bed, only to discover Sir Kenneth and a muscular black man committing an unspeakable act. Some nights she thought him the devil incarnate. Other nights, a beautiful Bacchus.
He’d certainly been beautiful that long-ago December eve, attired in a crisply tailored black tuxedo, his gray curls gleaming like polished pewter. He’d returned early from a party, claiming that it had been a “ghastly bore.” Marta offered him a cup of mulled wine and asked if he would like to help trim the Christmas tree. He laughed at the invitation, but loosened his bow tie and helped nonetheless. He’d even steadied a chair so she could place a twinkling star atop the tree. But the chair wobbled and she accidentally fell into his arms. Before she knew it, they were rolling together on the recently vacuumed carpet, pulling at each other’s garments like two crazed animals. She had not lain with a man in the ten years since she’d left her native Poland. In that impassioned instant, Sir Kenneth ceased to be the master of Rose Chapel. He was simply a man. Forceful. Hard. Commanding. She’d cried out, the pain so exquisite, she thought she would be torn asunder.
The next morning silence returned to Rose Chapel. Not unlike the first year of her tenure, Sir Kenneth did little but point and mutter. She did nothing but sweep and vacuum. No mention was made of the previous night’s passion. Had it not been for the crystal angel smashed beneath the tree and Sir Kenneth’s bow tie entangled in a tree limb, she could almost believe it had never happened. The broken angel went into the dustbin; the satin tie into her keepsake box.
One week later, on Boxing Day, when masters traditionally gave gifts to their servants, a small box wrapped in plain brown paper mysteriously appeared on her dresser. Inside was a handblown crystal angel. There was no card attached to the gift.
Each year the mystery angel was the first to be unwrapped. And each year, despite his protests and complaints, Marta trimmed a Christmas tree, forcing the master of Rose Chapel to remember their night of passion.
She’d long since given up any hope that Sir Kenneth’s soul could be saved. For to have a soul, one must first have a heart. Heartless man that he was, she feared the day would come when she would be replaced with a younger woman. A woman whose hair had not turned gray, whose body had not gone flaccid. Marta feared what would become of her if she were made to face the wolves, penniless and pensionless.
But there was a way to avoid the wolves.
An American angel had come to deliver her from that which she most feared. She could now leave Rose Chapel on her own terms, her gray head held high.
It required but one phone call.
Reaching into her apron pocket, Marta removed the scrap of paper with the scrawled mobile phone number. For two days she’d carried the slip of paper in her pocket.
Staring at the mobile number, she hesitated. Uncertain what to do. Assailed with the memories of that long-ago December eve.
Like a woman lost in a dazzling white blizzard, Marta turned her gaze to the neat line of Christmas ornaments waiting to be placed upon the tree. In the kitchen, a buzzer noisily pealed. Time to take the buns out of the oven.
Marta turned away from the table with the neat line of ornaments. As she did, her hip jostled the edge of the table. One hideous blue-and-green Santa rolled to the edge, falling to the stone floor.
Marta stared at the broken bits of porcelain.
No longer uncertain.
CHAPTER 38
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking,” Edie said in a lowered voice, “that the Harvard ‘chap’ stole the quatrains from Sir Kenneth?”
“Indeed, we are of like mind,” Caedmon replied, the missing quatrains proof positive that Stanford MacFarlane believed Galen of Godmersham uncovered the Ark of the Covenant. It also proved that MacFarlane believed the Ark’s whereabouts were contained within the lines of those archaic verses. A poetic treasure map, as it were. He and Edie had to move quickly.
“Sir, did you not say that Galen’s poetry is housed at the Bod?”
Still shuffling through various piles of paper on top of his desk, Sir Kenneth glanced up. “What’s that? Er, yes. The original copy of the quatrains is kept at Duke Humfrey’s Library.”
Duke Humfrey’s Library was one of fourteen various libraries in the Bodleian system. Unless things had greatly changed, only matriculated students and researchers who’d obtained written permission could gain entry to Duke Humfrey’s Library; the premises were strictly off limits to visitors. To circumvent the restrictions, MacFarlane’s man had stolen a copy of the quatrains from Sir Kenneth.
“Is there any possibility that I might be able to examine the original quatrains?”
Sir Kenneth stopped in midshuffle. For several long seconds the older man stared at him from across the paper-strewn desk. Caedmon felt very much like a child expectantly awaiting a parent’s decision about attending an upcoming football match.
“I could call the head librarian and ask that the two of you be granted a special dispensation to view the library’s collection. But I warn you, Galen’s quatrains are a linguistic puzzle tied with an encrypted knot.”
Having assumed no less, Caedmon respectfully bowed his head. “I am in your debt, Sir Kenneth.”
“Did you know, my dear, that young Aisquith graduated with First Honors?” Sir Kenneth remarked, abruptly changing the subject.
About to raise a tankard to her lips, Edie stopped in
midmotion. “Um, no. Guess that makes Caedmon a really smart cookie, huh?”
“Indeed, it does. The smart cookie then went on to write a brilliant master’s thesis on St. Bernard of Clairvaux and the founding of the Knights Templar. Later, when he went off to Jerusalem to conduct his dissertation research, I had every expectation that he would submit an equally brilliant dissertation.”
The knot in Caedmon’s belly painfully tightened.
Bloody hell.
This was the old man’s price for granting the favor: to stuff his entrails with red-hot coals.
“As you have no doubt guessed, I was not up to the challenge. Nor did I meet Sir Kenneth’s high standard for brilliance,” he openly confessed, refusing to let his estranged mentor deliver the coup de grâce. Better a self-inflicted wound than to meekly be led to the scaffold.
“It didn’t have to go that way. If you had come to me and discussed your plans before embarking half-cocked, I could have—”
“Is that what angered you, that I left the bloody nest without your consent, failing to obtain your highly esteemed academic opinion?” Or were you angered that the son had deserted the father?
Able to see that the sparks were about to catch fire, Edie jumped to her feet. “We’ve sort of veered a little off track, don’t you think?” Then, acting as though nothing untoward had occurred, she calmly walked over to the serving tray and snatched a pecan tart off the bone china plate. “Now, let me make sure I’ve got this straight, Sir Kenneth. You said that Galen of Godmersham had no children.”
“That is correct.”
“But since he left the Hospitallers when he returned to England, I assume that he was married.” Holding the tart between thumb and forefinger, she slightly waved it to and fro as she spoke.
“Galen went to the altar not once, but thrice. No sooner did a spouse depart for the heavenly realm than Galen would find himself a young replacement. His last bride, Philippa Whitcombe, had been the daughter of the justice of the peace for Canterbury. When Galen died, Philippa promptly joined a cloistered order of nuns. One can assume that she did not suit to the married state.”
About to take a bite of her sweet, Edie lowered the tart. “So who inherited the gold chest?”
“Ah! An excellent question, my dear.” Walking over to the tray, Sir Kenneth plucked a mince tart from the near-empty plate. “Since the gold chest does not appear in any Feet of Fines record after 1348, one can infer that the gold chest was never uncovered. Not altogether surprising, given that there wasn’t a single inhabitant of the godforsaken Godmersham who survived the plague.”
“Meaning no one was left who had any recollection of ever seeing Galen’s magnificent treasures,” Caedmon murmured. For all intents and purposes, it was as though Galen’s gold chest had never existed once the plague struck. With no Feet of Fines record for the intervening centuries, the mystery would be that much more difficult to solve.
“Okay, but what about the quatrains? How did they come to be discovered?” Edie asked, clearly as determined as he to glean information.
“Galen’s estates remained in a state of ruin until the reign of the virgin queen Elizabeth. The new owner, a wealthy wine merchant by the name of Tynsdale, had the old chapel demolished to make way for a hammer-beamed monstrosity. It was during the demolition that the quatrains were discovered beneath the altar stone. Sir Walter Raleigh, a close acquaintance of the merchant, was the first to conjecture that the arca mentioned in Galen’s poetry might refer to the Ark of the Covenant. He and Tynsdale scoured every inch of the property. To no avail, I might add. Not a century passed that some addlebrained treasure hunter didn’t attempt to find—” Catching sight of his housekeeper poking her head through the study door, he stopped in midstream. “Yes, what is it?”
“A call, sir. From the provost’s office.”
Clearly annoyed by the intrusion, he waved her off. “The blasted relic’s not working,” he said by way of explanation, gesturing to an antique black telephone on the edge of his desk. “There’s a telephone in the foyer. I won’t be but a moment.”
Caedmon rose to his feet. “The time has come for us to depart.”
He wasn’t certain, but he thought he detected a disappointed glimmer in the older man’s eyes. Suddenly uncomfortable, he glanced at his wristwatch. “Duke Humfrey’s Library is open until seven. If you could call ahead and make the necessary arrangements, we would be most appreciative.”
“Yes, of course. My pleasure.” As he spoke, Sir Kenneth escorted them to the foyer.
Out of the corner of his eye, Caedmon caught a glimmer of color. Turning his head, he could see that the once-bare Norway spruce now sparkled, richly colored glass ornaments glowing jewel-like among the dark foliage.
“Did you know that it was Queen Victoria’s husband, the bewhiskered Albert, who introduced the Christmas tree to these shores? He had them all done up with edible fruit and little wax fairies.” Sir Kenneth fingered a glossy green limb, a wistful look in his eye. “I told her to get a Scots pine, not a spruce. Blasted woman.”
“I think it’s absolutely gorgeous,” Edie remarked.
“Yes, it always is.” Turning his back on the tree, Sir Kenneth cleared his throat. “The Choral Society is singing Handel’s Messiah at seven thirty. Perhaps you and Miss Miller would care to join me? There is nothing that compares to the sound of crystal voices lifted to the heavens. Quite moving. Even if one does not believe in the Christmas myth that’s been spoon-fed to us by power hungry Church fathers, eh?”
Having obtained all that he needed from his old mentor, Caedmon shook his head. He’d had enough strained conversation for one day. “Thank you, Sir Kenneth. Unfortunately, we—”
“Yes, yes, I understand.” Then, his right index finger pointing heavenward, like a man struck with an inspired idea, he said, “I’ve got just the thing. The crate arrived only this morning.” Turning his back, he searched the boxes piled high on the console table. “Where is the blasted—Ah! There it is!” Reaching into a wooden crate, he removed a bottle.
“Merry Christmas, young Aisquith.”
Caedmon hesitated a moment, instantly recognizing the label on the bottle of Queen’s College port that the older man offered to him. Collegii Reginae. He well recalled the port decanter being passed between the senior fellow and his small band of favorites long years ago. Those were fond memories, unsullied by the later rupture.
With a brusque nod, he accepted the bottle. “And a Merry Christmas to you, Sir Kenneth.”
The other man patted his stomach. “I don’t know about ‘merry,’ but it shall certainly be filling, what with Mrs. Janus stuffing me with Christmas gâteau and pecan tarts.”
Uncomfortable with the pleasantries, knowing they hid the bitter feelings that had earlier bubbled to the surface, Caedmon took Edie by the elbow. “Come. We must be on our way.”
To his surprise, she disengaged herself from his grasp, stepped over to Sir Kenneth, and kissed him on his withered right cheek. “I hope you have a very Merry Christmas!”
Grinning like a besotted fool, Sir Kenneth followed them to the door. “And, in turn, I hope that you and young Aisquith uncover Galen’s blasted box. If the gold chest is to be found, you are the man to find it.” This last remark was directed to Caedmon.
Surprised by his old mentor’s show of support, Caedmon said the first thing that came to mind.
“Thank you, sir. That means a great deal to me.”
CHAPTER 39
Enraged, Stan MacFarlane snapped shut his cell phone.
Aisquith and the woman were in Oxford.
Although the how of it eluded him, the why was plainly evident. Somehow they’d managed to find out that the medieval knight Galen of Godmersham had uncovered the Ark of the Covenant while on crusade in the Holy Land. The museum director, Eliot Hopkins, must have passed that information on to Aisquith before his death.
“Do you want me to take care of it, sir?”
Stan glanced over h
is shoulder. He knew that former gunnery sergeant Boyd Braxton was anxious to make amends for the debacle in Washington.
“Sometimes it’s in one’s best interest to be merciful.”
It took a few moments for the other man’s befuddled expression to morph into an amused grin. “Oh, I get it, Colonel. Like Tony Soprano, you want to keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.”
That being as good an answer as any, Stan tersely nodded. “Tell Sanchez to put a tail on Aisquith. I want to know the Brit’s every move.”
Turning on his heel, he strode down the low-ceilinged hall, his booted footfall muffled by the well-worn Persian runner. On either side of him hung gilt-framed landscape paintings.
A tastefully appointed house for the discriminating traveler.
When he leased the house on the website, he hadn’t given a rat’s ass about the décor. He only cared that the manor house was located midway between London and Oxford at the end of a half-mile oak-lined driveway. He needed a base camp to set up operations. Oakdale Manor fit the bill.
Brusquely nodding, he acknowledged the armed sentry standing ramrod straight beside the upholstered chair. The Heckler & Koch MP5 clutched to the sentry’s chest came courtesy of a sergeant major in the Royal Marines who routinely padded his retirement account with illegal small-arms sales.
Passing the age-blackened doors that led to the formal dining room, he gave a quick, cursory inspection, verifying that his highly paid contract worker was busy deciphering Galen of Godmersham’s archaic poetry. A postgraduate student enrolled in Harvard’s medieval studies program, the scraggly-haired twenty-nine-year-old had jumped at the chance to pay off the nearly seventy thousand dollars in student loans that hung over him like a well-honed ax blade. Soft-spoken and effeminate, the man put Stan in mind of a loose bowel movement. If not for the fact that he possessed the arcane body of knowledge necessary to decipher the fourteenth-century quatrains, he would have cut the stoop-shouldered pencil dick after yesterday’s meeting with the Oxford highbrow. For the moment, however, he served a purpose.