The Explorer's Code

by Kitty Pilgrim

  “Not unless you want to spend the next two weeks drowning in paperwork.”

  Sinclair sighed, defeated.

  “Look, I’ll keep you covered,” Frost assured. “Keep searching for the deed. Where are you going next? What are your plans?”

  “We are leaving tomorrow morning for a house called Cliffmere, in Oxfordshire.”

  “Why there?”

  “The owners of Cliffmere are old friends of the Stapleton family. They are mentioned in the journal. They may know something about the deed. It should only take a day or so to go up there and back.”

  “OK, I’ll put a detail on you for the trip. Are you staying at the house?”

  “Yes,” said Sinclair. “It’s enormous, with lots of land.”

  “Here’s what we will do—we’ll stake out the house from six a.m. to nine p.m. The night shift is yours. I’ll find a local inn and stay there myself. Does that make you happy?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Sinclair said. “What would make me happy is finding that damn deed and being finished with this business.”

  Cordelia was curled up on the dark red couch in her room at Claridge’s. The beautiful tartan drapes of the Mayfair Suite were drawn, and Jim Gardiner sat in a straight-backed chair, right next to her. Sinclair could tell the moment he entered that she had been crying. A wad of crumpled tissues was in her lap, and her face was puffy. But now she was composed. A bottle of brandy stood on the coffee table, and the two balloon snifters were empty.

  Gardiner turned to him with a look of relief.

  “Here you are. Glad you are back. Have a brandy,” he said.

  “I never mix grain and grape. Any whiskey about?” asked Sinclair. He tossed his crumpled suit jacket on the chair and went to pour himself a drink.

  “How’d your police report go?” asked Gardiner, pouring himself another brandy.

  Both Sinclair and Gardiner knew he had not gone to the police. They had agreed that Cordelia did not need to know he was meeting with Thad-deus Frost.

  “Good, I think we have things squared away,” Sinclair lied.

  Gardiner glanced up, and they exchanged a quick look. Sinclair walked back to the couch carrying his whiskey.

  “Have you two eaten anything yet? What about ordering something?” Sinclair asked.

  “I could use some dinner. What about you Cordelia?” said Gardiner.

  She shook her head.

  “Not really hungry,” she said.

  “Nonsense, you can’t skip dinner,” said Gardiner. “How about some soup and a nice grilled cheese?”

  She smiled at him and turned to Sinclair. “Jim thinks a grilled-cheese sandwich is always the antidote to anything bad,” she said.

  “Probably is,” agreed Sinclair. “Listen, Cordelia, I think we should still head out to Cliffmere tomorrow if you are up to it. The faster we get this deed, the faster we’ll be done with all this.”

  “Excellent plan,” said Gardiner.

  “I’m up for it,” she assured them.

  “You feel OK?” asked Sinclair.

  “I’m not really hurt, just a little bruised. And I would like to get out of town for a bit,” she admitted. “Especially with those people on the loose.”

  “I agree. We’ll call and confirm with Tom and Marian Skye Russell for tomorrow. They were expecting us sometime this week.”

  Sinclair moved over to the couch to sit next to Cordelia and hold her hand. Gardiner looked at the two of them and cleared his throat.

  “You know, I better be going. You kids make sure you eat something.”

  Sinclair nodded.

  “And make sure you lock that door. Call me anytime, day or night. And let me know what you turn up at Cliffmere.”

  At eight the following morning, Cordelia and Sinclair were huddled over a map at the main reception desk of the hotel.

  “It looks fairly straightforward. It’s only about ten miles north of Oxford,” said Cordelia.

  “Ms. Stapleton.” The desk clerk was before her. “Sorry to interrupt, but did Mrs. Jones get hold of you?”

  “Who is Mrs. Jones?”

  “Mrs. Jones was inquiring for you yesterday morning when you were out. I told her to leave a message for you on your room voice mail.”

  “I didn’t receive a message.”

  Sinclair was suddenly alert.

  “What did she look like?”

  The desk clerk began to look uncomfortable.

  “I couldn’t tell you. Average-looking woman. Middle-aged. Oh, yes, she was an American,” he said.

  “Did she say what she wanted?” asked Cordelia.

  “She said it was something to do with real estate and a town house in London.”

  “Oh, I see. Thanks,” said Cordelia, turning away.

  Sinclair looked at her but said nothing.

  Oxfordshire, England

  There were rain showers on and off, and then fields glowed far into the distance. The hills alternated green and yellow with a patchwork of crops, and little sheep with black feet and muzzles stood like toys in a play-school farmyard. Sinclair lowered the windows and breathed in the rich air.

  “It’s beautiful here.” He smiled. “I’m glad to get out of London.”

  “It’s gorgeous!” agreed Cordelia, looking down at the map. “Take the next right. We’re almost there.”

  After the turn, hedges on both sides of the lane obscured the view. They were in a narrow alley of green. Sinclair checked the rearview mirror. This was not a good place to be followed. They were all too visible, and vulnerable. But there had been nothing suspicious for the whole trip. Clearly they had escaped unnoticed.

  “What did Tom and Marian say?” asked Cordelia, folding up the map.

  “They said they’ve always wanted to meet you. They want us to stay for a day or two, to get to know you.”

  “Did they say anything about the Arctic Coal Mining Company?”

  “We didn’t talk about it,” said Sinclair, concentrating on passing a slow-moving car. “I just explained we were interested in meeting them. They reacted as if you were a long-lost daughter.”

  The hedges parted and Cordelia gasped. A beautiful stone house stood in the middle of acres and acres of green parkland. This had to be one of the loveliest country estates in England. Sinclair pulled up to the elaborate wrought-iron gates. A polished brass plaque read CLIFFMERE.

  “Here we are,” said Sinclair, turning into the drive. “Ready to meet them?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Cordelia. “Just look at all of this.”

  Sinclair drove slowly down the lane. Shaded by ancient oaks, it went on for at least half a mile.

  “My goodness, this is very grand,” said Cordelia. “I had no idea.”

  “Impressive,” agreed Sinclair.

  They pulled into the cobbled courtyard in front of the house. Several dogs came up to the car and began to sniff the tires and alert the household. Within moments the enormous front door opened and a couple in their late sixties came out to greet them. The woman carried a basket on her arm, as if she had just been in the garden.

  “You must be Miss Stapleton,” she said, putting her basket down on the step and coming forward. She kissed Cordelia on the cheek. Marian Skye Russell had beautiful, clear skin, light blue eyes, and snow-white hair pinned up in a loose chignon.

  Her distinguished husband stepped forward.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Stapleton,” he said. “Welcome to Cliff-mere. And you must be Mr. Sinclair. We spoke yesterday. Do come in.”

  Cliffmere, England

  The main salon of the house was sumptuous, the windows hung with heavy red silk damask. There were enormous oil paintings and mahogany doors with their original gilt bronze hardware.

  They all took seats on the formal settees facing one another near the central fireplace, where a small fire crackled. Marian began to pour coffee out of a silver pot into delicate Sèvres cups. It was chilly in the large room, and Cordelia snuggled deeper into Si
nclair’s vicuña coat she had borrowed and draped over her shoulders. Marian handed her the steaming coffee, indicating the cream and sugar on the low table next to her.

  “Thank you,” Cordelia said, taking the cup.

  “I didn’t get into this on the phone,” Sinclair said, “but we are looking for the land deed for the Arctic Coal Mining Company in Svalbard.”

  “Surely that was with the Stapleton papers,” said Tom.

  “I’m afraid it wasn’t,” said Cordelia. “But there was a mention in Elliott Stapleton’s diary saying it would be left with a Mr. Bradford.”

  Tom and Marian looked at each other, perplexed.

  “I’m afraid I’ve never seen any reference to a Mr. Bradford in any of Sir James’s papers,” Tom replied.

  “There were only two original partners, Sir James and Elliott Stapleton,” added Marian. “I don’t know of any Bradford.”

  “There is a lot of documentation about the land dispute for that period,” said Tom. “The rights clearly went to your great-great-grandfather and Sir James. But when Sir James died, in 1918, it was discovered there was another silent partner listed—a Mr. Percival Spence.”

  Tom stretched out his legs. He still wore his walking shoes, wet with morning dew.

  “It would be interesting to look at those documents,” said Cordelia. “My lawyer says we need the original deed to claim the land.”

  “Well, then, we have to find it,” said Marian. “We’ll search through everything again.”

  “I am pretty sure the original deed is not here, and there is no one named Bradford,” said Tom thoughtfully. He looked at the fire and appeared to search his memory. “None of the solicitors was named Bradford. And to my recollection there was no one with the first name of Bradford either.”

  Cordelia looked at the fire in the grate.

  “We’ll just have to keep looking,” she said. “I know we can find it.”

  “Of course we will, dear,” Marian said briskly. “We just have to put our minds to it.”

  Moscow

  The man in Moscow was angry. Why were they chasing an American girl all over the world for the deed to some godforsaken mine? In the old days he would have gotten the information out of her after ten minutes in a cold, dark cell. His country was full of women, old women. Nobody had the balls to do what was necessary anymore. The phone rang.

  “Hello.” The assassin didn’t need to identify himself. “I think I may have found the deed,” he said quietly.

  “Where?” The politician was immediately alert.

  “I am at a place called Cliffmere, in Oxfordshire. It’s a couple miles outside of London. I am staying at the local inn—the Golden Horn.”

  “And . . .”

  “There seems to be some of the girl’s family living at Cliffmere. She is visiting. I got into the house yesterday posing as a repairman and bugged the room. From what I am hearing, the deed may be here.”

  “Good, so get it.”

  “Not so easy. The house is huge. Ninety rooms. Too big to search. I’m going to keep the girl under surveillance and see what she turns up.”

  “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

  “Believe me, I won’t.”

  “By the way,” the politician said, “the package from Longyearbyen never turned up anything. It was medical supplies of some kind.”

  “I see.”

  “You shot that scientist for nothing.”

  “I assumed he had dug up the deed and was sending it to Paul Oakley.”

  “No, he sent something else.”

  “But he was standing over the grave. The clerk in Longyearbyen said they found documents in the coffin the last time it was excavated. He was digging them up.”

  “No, you idiot, he was digging for samples. He did some exhumations in Barentsburg the day before.”

  “Well, I made a mistake. But it’s no problem, dead men can’t talk.”

  “You were lucky the bears ate the evidence. The police never knew,” said the politician.

  “Must have been a polar bear from United Russia,” the assassin joked.

  Cliffmere

  The beautiful dining room was suffused with light. Cordelia admired the hand-painted china and the heavy silverware. The centerpiece, an antique Imari bowl, was filled with an arrangement of peonies and ranunculuses. There were cut-crystal finger bowls after the fish course, and beautifully monogrammed hand towels. It was all so elegant.

  Venetian mirrors surrounded the small room, and Cordelia surreptitiously looked at Sinclair’s reflection as he was talking to Tom. He looked younger, more relaxed than he had when she first met him. She knew the lines of his face now, and could read his moods by his changes of expression. She watched him sitting there, and loved him more than she had loved anyone in her life.

  She was absolutely sated by all the courses: the cream of broccoli soup with Stilton, lamb shanks with saffron mashed potatoes, and finally the apple-and-walnut phyllo pastry with fresh whipped cream. During coffee Cordelia felt her eyes grow heavy.

  “My dear, you look a bit fatigued,” said Marian. “Why don’t I show you to your room now for a bit of a rest before tea.”

  “I do need a rest, it has been a very stressful few days,” admitted Cordelia.

  “There is something we have to tell you,” said Sinclair, looking at Tom and Marian. “Some pretty shady characters have been trailing Cordelia, and they tried to kidnap her yesterday.”

  “Oh, my heavens!” exclaimed Marian, but her expression changed to determination. “You will be safe here, my dear. I will see to it.” Cordelia had never seen a bedroom so beautiful; it was like a museum. The furnishings were a mixture of French and English; a four-poster canopied bed was draped in pale blue damask silk that matched the color of two Wedgewood jasperware vases on the mantel. A pair of paintings, depicting cherubs, hung on the wall. Cordelia looked at the brass plates on the frames and read that the painter was François Boucher. The carpet was a blue-and-cream French Savonnerie, and a crystal chandelier hung overhead.

  Yet for all its formality the room was also luxuriously comfortable. An upholstered satin divan, draped with a cashmere throw, was placed near the window that looked out over the lawn. On the low table next to it were several British novels, some European fashion magazines, and a box of Belgian chocolates.

  The only thing missing was Sinclair. Tom and Marian had very decorously assigned them separate rooms. Neither she nor Sinclair had wanted to be rude by objecting to the sleeping arrangements. But as Marian was showing him the way down the hall, Sinclair had looked back at Cordelia and given her a wink that told her he would find her after they had retired for the night.

  After a brief tour of her new bedroom, Cordelia began to get sleepy. The bed had been turned down, and the sheets had the pearly sheen of the finest Egyptian cotton. Her body ached from the assault yesterday—her ribs were sore, and her shoulder where Sinclair had pulled was stiff.

  She wanted to sleep more than anything in the world. She took off her clothes and folded them neatly on the chair. Clad only in her bra and panties, she slipped between the silky sheets. The bed smelled of lavender. She smiled to herself and fell asleep.

  Golden Horn Inn, Oxfordshire

  The clerk at the desk of the inn was clearly not charmed by the gregariousness of the man checking in.

  “Your room key, sir,” he said as he handed over the key to room 116.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing a bit of the countryside around these here parts,” said Bob as he took the keys.

  “Thank you, sir. Have a nice stay.” The crisp British tones could not have been more chirpily dismissive.

  “Thanks, son, mighty kind of you.”

  Bob and Marlene headed to the lift.

  Room 117 of the Golden Horn Inn was a tangle of equipment. The Russian leaned over his computer and listened carefully to the bugs he had placed in the dining room, study, library, and kitchen of Cliffmere. This morning, it had taken on
ly a few moments to place them, and now conversations were recorded directly into his media source program. It looked like an electrocardiograph machine. He could see when people were speaking from the undulations on the screen. He scrolled through, looking for the vibration lines. It was going to take hours to listen to everything. But there was nothing else to do in this rainy British dump.

  Room 118 of the Golden Horn Inn was barely touched. The man who had checked in hadn’t stayed long. Neither had the man in 119. They had left together to “see the countryside.” They were now taking turns standing in the shrubbery on the property line of Cliffmere. One sat in the car while the other got soaked to the bone in the rain. Then they switched. Thaddeus Frost turned up the collar of his raincoat, longing for the sunny afternoons he had just enjoyed in Turkey.

  Cliffmere

  Cordelia came down the main staircase as the clock was chiming eight. She had slept through tea and felt completely refreshed.

  “Here you are. I thought you would never wake up.”

  Sinclair was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I ache all over from yesterday,” she admitted.

  “You poor darling. I’ll give you a massage later. That will help.”

  He took her hand and lightly lifted it to his lips. He brushed the back of her knuckles with a kiss, and then turned her hand over and kissed her wrist, looking into her eyes. The touch of his lips on her skin made her pulse race.

  “I missed you during my nap,” she said.

  “We can see each other tonight,” he assured her, taking her arm and moving toward the main wing. “My room is just down the hall.”

  The study was a cozy box of a room, off the library, paneled in the very dark carved oak of the Tudor era. The room was well worn, with high-backed armchairs grouped around the fireplace. Marian’s gardening catalogs were in a stack, along with several mystery novels. The fireplace had attracted a hunting dog and a large calico cat. The animals eyed Cordelia with curiosity when she came in. Sinclair walked over to pat the dog, who tilted its head so Sinclair could fondle its ears.