He leaned closer and examined the ground. It had been dug up not too long ago. He picked up some soil. It was soft, and the dirt had pebbled a bit from moisture. But the topsoil had an entirely different look from that of all the other grave sites. Sinclair stood up and put a boot onto the corner of the grave site and pressed. His foot left a clear depression of about six inches in the soil. The other sites had hard-packed soil that had settled for many seasons. This one did not.
Oakley’s expedition was a year ago, wasn’t it? The ground would have settled by now. And Miles never got a chance to start excavating. But this grave had been dug up recently—certainly well after the snow had melted for the summer season.
Sinclair stood and looked around rapidly to make sure he was alone. As tempting as it was, he could not unearth the coffin at this moment. He would need permission. It had to be official. The deed had to be valid for Cordelia, and if he broke any laws acquiring it they might be tied up in court for years.
He started back to the truck, cradling his rifle in the crook of his arm. With any luck, he would find the town official in charge of this when the municipal offices opened.
He wanted to do it before Erin caught up with him. She must be stirring by now, and would come looking for him. Finding the deed this morning would shut down this whole cursed operation, and not a moment too soon.
Paris
The sun was streaming through the silk drapes in the bedroom at 40 rue de Vaugirard. Cordelia woke feeling as if she had been asleep for centuries. She stretched her limbs and felt new energy flow through her. She checked her watch—7:30 a.m.
Suddenly she was ravenously hungry—and it was the kind of hunger that would not be quelled. She needed some solid food. She showered and dressed in the charming little boudoir off the bedroom.
Cordelia opened her door and walked into the upstairs hall. All was silent. She felt like a stranger in this place, and didn’t know which way to turn. But then there was a voice. Charles was speaking farther down the long corridor, his voice echoing back to her.
She walked toward the sound—along elegant crimson carpet, past a hall table with fresh flowers. The corridor was softly lit. To her right was an elaborate private elevator that connected the two floors of the apartment. Charles could be heard clearly now farther along. A paneled door was partially open and she knocked.
“Entrez!” said Charles.
She pushed the door open wide and stood absolutely still. The room was a collage of fashion sketches and photos. Every surface was pasted with cuttings from magazines: fashion shoots, glossy magazine covers, clippings from catalogs and art books.
Then Cordelia saw Charles and a young woman with blond hair seated at a drawing board. They appeared to be looking at a sketch. The windows beyond framed them in a charming cameo, their heads together. Charles was medium blond, and the woman had the same coloring but slightly lighter. There was something similar about them, in the way they were seated, the postures identical. Charles stood immediately.
“Cordelia! You are up?” he said.
“Hi, Charles,” she said, hesitating. Surely she was interrupting.
“No, come on in,” he said, immediately drawing her forward by her hand. “Meet my sister, Clothilde.”
Cordelia looked at the young woman and was struck by her beautiful gray eyes and soft blond hair. She was very pale, almost ethereal. But what surprised Cordelia was the way the girl moved to greet her. She glided forward in a wheelchair.
The kitchen of 40 rue de Vaugirard faced the inner courtyard of the building. Looking down at the cobbled square from the kitchen window, Cordelia had the perfect vantage point to observe all the comings and goings. She watched a small European car zip into its spot in the enclosed parking area.
“Keep an eye out for a white Peugeot,” said Charles. “Maman is out; she hates us messing around in her kitchen.”
“Can you believe we are still scared of our mother?” Clothilde laughed.
Charles was slicing bread with a long serrated knife. Clothilde was wheeling expertly around the kitchen in her chair, collecting orange juice from the refrigerator and making coffee. The counters had all been built low to accommodate her.
“Maman wants Annette to do everything around the house, but Clothilde and I like to do things for ourselves,” Charles explained.
“Maman lives in another century,” added Clothilde.
Charles walked by and squeezed his sister’s shoulder in a gesture both conspiratorial and affectionate.
Charles began breaking eggs for an omelette. He cracked them with one hand, effortlessly, as he kept his other hand on Watson’s collar. The dog could reach anything on the low counters, but appeared to be content to stand by Charles as he cooked.
Cordelia surveyed him quietly. Charles did everything with such style. He was turning the simple preparation of breakfast into an art. She could see Clothilde was amused by his rebellion against the domestic dictums of Madame Bonnard. Cordelia suspected the whole exercise was Charles’s way of empowering Clothilde to be more self-sufficient.
Cordelia felt a great surge of warmth for him. Did he simply fly through life making it all better for everyone? Smoothing out the rough spots? He certainly had helped her without a qualm. She thought about the long trip on the train from London to Paris; sleeping in the shelter of Charles’s arms, she had felt so safe. He had such a gentle, caring nature.
Standing in this kitchen, she was conscious of something that had been pulling at her for many years. She suddenly knew that there was an intangible thing hovering in the room. Looking at Charles and Clothilde, she had a glimpse of what she had been missing since childhood. This was a real family. There was a closeness she had experienced only fleetingly, where each unspoken need was answered without the necessity for verbal exchange. That kind of interaction had eluded her ever since her parents died. Yet here in this kitchen they were treating her as one of their own.
Clothilde held out a cup of coffee to her.
“Try this. Charles makes the best café au lait in the world.”
Longyearbyen
The main street of Longyearbyen was lined with large barnlike structures. The roofs of the buildings sloped steeply, so in winter the snow would slide off the eaves. But now, in early fall, without the softening effect of snowdrifts, the architecture had a squat, hunkered-down appearance.
The commercial district of the town extended only about four blocks and then ended abruptly. From there on, the barren wilderness took over. But within the cozy confines of the main street, it was possible to envision a life of reasonable comfort and safety. The village had its own kind of rustic charm, with shops and offices to handle the necessary business of the community. There were also ornamental touches, such as sculptures commemorating Longyearbyen’s heritage: a lifesize bronze polar bear and a statue of the founder of the town, John Longyear.
Sinclair entered the first building—a massive shedlike structure, approximately the size of an airplane hangar. A sign read SVALBARDBUTIKKEN, which meant nothing to him. But when he entered through the sliding glass doors, it was immediately obvious it was a general store, stocked to the rafters with food, household goods, outdoor gear, clothing, toys, electronics, and every possible necessity for the climate. He noticed several aisles of whiskey, gin, vodka, brandies, and other kinds of alcohol—all staples to make polar night, or even polar summer, more enjoyable.
Sinclair turned and walked back out into the deserted street. A second official-looking building was across the way. This one seemed more promising.
He walked into the main hall and found a wall board listing various offices. The Office of the Director of Public Construction and Property was up a flight of steps on the mezzanine level. That seemed a likely place to start. Sinclair headed up.
The door was open, and a lovely young blond woman was seated at the reception desk. Her thick sweater did nothing to hide her spectacular figure, Sinclair noted.
“Is the director
in?” he asked.
She looked up and did a double take when she saw Sinclair.
“Yes, sir—who may I say is waiting for him?” She was instantly all smiles and attention.
“John Sinclair.”
“Please have a seat, Mr. Sinclair.”
She walked away, down a corridor and out of sight, to announce his arrival. Within moments, she returned, followed by a rotund fellow with a white beard and a big smile. The man’s resemblance to Father Christmas was striking, and rather amusing given the town’s proximity to the North Pole.
“Hello, I am Anders Olaussen. What can I do for you?” he asked, shaking Sinclair’s hand.
“Might we adjourn to your office?” Sinclair suggested. “I am afraid it’s a bit complicated.”
“Please.” Olaussen swept his arm back to indicate Sinclair should go first.
“The graveyard?” said Olaussen, rummaging through a paper file. “Sorry, some of the documents are not on computer yet.”
“No problem,” said Sinclair.
“Here we are,” he said, extracting a file from a metal cabinet next to his desk. “This is from the Historical Preservation Society. Let’s see . . .”
He was flipping through documents, and Sinclair noticed they were written in Norwegian.
“Here we are, just as I thought. There was a death there last month.”
“The polar bear attack,” said Sinclair.
Anders Olaussen’s head snapped up. “You heard?”
“Yes, the victim was a friend of a friend.”
“I’m terribly sorry.”
Sinclair nodded and said nothing.
Anders Olaussen looked down at the paper again.
“Well, I’m afraid I have bad news. The document is no longer there. It was removed from the coffin,” he said.
“You mean the Arctic Coal Mining Company deed?” asked Sinclair.
“Yes. I’m afraid someone has beaten you to it.”
Sinclair’s heart skipped a beat. “Who?”
“The curator of the Svalbard Museum. He dug up the deed to preserve it.”
“Where is it now?” asked Sinclair, not believing his ears.
“I assume he’s keeping it at the museum. If you follow Main Street, you’ll find it about halfway up the mountain.”
“Thank you,” said Sinclair, getting up. “I am very obliged for your help.”
“I wouldn’t run up there so fast,” said Olaussen.
“Why?”
“You can’t access that deed unless you have a legal right to it.”
“I see,” said Sinclair. “Well, that’s easily remedied. The owner of the document is coming to Longyearbyen.”
“Well, you’ll have to wait anyway. The museum is closed right now,” he added. “The curator is on the mainland until Thursday.”
“Are you sure?” asked Sinclair.
“Yes, I am. Nils Edgeland is in Tromsø, working at the Polar Museum. I’m taking care of his dog while he’s away.”
“So there is no way to get inside and see the deed?”
The man shook his head. “No. You will have to wait for Nils to come back.”
“I can’t wait that long.”
“It’s only two days from now,” he pointed out. The tone said it all: outsiders were in too much of a rush. And the rules could not be bent.
“Fine,” said Sinclair, summoning all his patience. “Here’s my card. Would you be kind enough to have Mr. Edgeland give me a call if you hear from him? I am staying at the Spitsbergen Hotel.”
“I would be most delighted,” Olaussen said, brightening and accepting the card. It was clear he did not want to argue about it.
Sinclair was on the verge of leaving, but then hesitated a moment. He thought about what he was going to say and then plunged ahead.
“This deed is the property of my fiancée,” he confided. “She is the great-great-granddaughter of Elliott Stapleton. For reasons of privacy, I would ask that you not discuss this with anyone.”
“Certainly,” Anders Olaussen assured him.
Sinclair shook his hand and walked out into the street. It was going to be two very long days. But that would give Cordelia time to come to Longyearbyen and claim her legacy.
Paris
Charles was singing a song in French and pushing Clothilde along the gravel path of the Luxembourg Garden. Clothilde was laughing, suggesting alternative lyrics in French, each of which sent Charles into peals of laughter. Cordelia understood little of what they were saying. She was walking Watson on a leash, looking out over the park.
They arrived in the central garden, just in front of the Luxembourg Palace. The formal flower beds edged by boxwood were bright against the blue sky, pink snapdragons in one bed, yellow and orange in another. Charles settled down on one of the park chairs and Cordelia drew one up next to Clothilde’s wheelchair. Watson remained standing, looking at Charles.
“OK, Watson, I get it,” Charles said, getting up again. He turned to the women. “I’m going to take Watson for a proper morning run. I’ll be right back. Will you be all right?”
Cordelia looked around at the empty paths of the park. “I’m sure it’s fine, Charles. No one is anywhere near us.”
“I’ll only be a second,” Charles said. “I give you full permission to gossip about me while I’m gone.”
“Good. We will,” Clothilde answered.
Charles and the dog headed off toward the symmetrical rows of chestnut trees. His sister watched him go.
“I’m so glad you’ve come to Paris. We never see Charles.”
“Thank you for having me. I’m enjoying myself so much, I almost forgot I’m supposed to be hiding.”
They sat for a moment in silence. Clothilde looked off at the trees. After a few moments, she turned back to Cordelia.
“Sorry, I was thinking of how funny life is,” she said. “It takes some interesting turns.”
“It certainly has,” agreed Cordelia. “I hardly recognize my own life at this point.”
Clothilde nodded in agreement and glanced down at her own legs. “I have been through quite a few changes myself,” she said quietly. A moment of understanding flashed between them.
“I love your necklace,” Clothilde said, changing the subject. She leaned closer to look at the evil-eye charm.
“Thank you. John bought it for me in Turkey. It’s supposed to protect me.”
“It’s so pretty,” Clothilde said. “I noticed it immediately when I met you.”
Cordelia touched the blond wig Charles had insisted she wear for the excursion.
“I feel ridiculous in this. It seems so long ago since they tried to kidnap me, but Charles and John insist I stay in disguise until the deed is found.”
“Charles told me about the attack.”
“Yes, it was terrifying.”
“Maman is worried about you,” Clothilde added, her eyes troubled.
“I am so touched by her concern. You have all made me feel like part of the family. I don’t have a family of my own.”
“Yes, Charles told me.”
“I’m sure you realize that you are very lucky to have each other,” Cordelia said, looking around the Luxembourg Garden, with its beautiful symmetry. The historic Palace of Marie de Médici stood behind them.
“. . . and to live in this beautiful place.”
“Yes,” Clothilde agreed. “I love it here. And it’s great for Watson; he needs the space.”
“Watson is so adorable. In fact, your whole family is wonderful,” Cordelia said. “Your mother is a great lady. I am in awe of her elegance. And Charles is so charming. I am quite smitten with him.”
“Are you?” wondered Clothilde speculatively. “And what about John Sinclair? Are you smitten with him also?”
Cordelia blushed. “I love John Sinclair,” she said simply.
Clothilde arranged the fringed cashmere shawl on her lap. She didn’t look up, but said, “You are so beautiful, it probably doesn’t matt
er to you about John Sinclair’s other women.”
Cordelia’s heart stood still.
“What other women?”
“The contessa Giorgiana Brindisi and Shari. I know there have been many others,” Clothilde said.
“I have read about his relationship with Shari,” admitted Cordelia.
“Shari made a spectacle of herself. That affair was in the papers all over Europe,” Clothilde added, shaking her head.
“He told me it ended,” Cordelia objected.
“Yes, it blew up. Did you see those pictures in Paris Match! Wasn’t that horrible?” Clothilde exclaimed. “That woman is detestable.”
“She is?”
“Completely. I hate her. Even when she’s drunk, she still looks fabulous.” Clothilde laughed, and Cordelia couldn’t help but laugh along with her.
“Who is the other woman you mentioned?”
Clothilde leaned forward. “They call her Brindy. The contessa Giorgiana Brindisi. She’s an Italian countess, and comes from a very distinguished family in Italy.”
“I’ve never heard of her,” said Cordelia.
“Sure you have. She’s the famous fashion designer. You’ve heard of Brindisi luggage, haven’t you?”
“Oh my goodness, of course I have! Also the clothes. I saw the shop on Fifth Avenue when I was in New York,” exclaimed Cordelia. “How long did they date?”
“About five years. It was very much the talk of Capri. She had a house there, and so does Charles. They all used to hang around together.”
“I supposed the contessa is beautiful too,” said Cordelia.
“She is much older than you are,” said Clothilde kindly.
“Do you know what happened with that relationship?” asked Cordelia.
“I really don’t know. I think it has been over for several years now.”
“I see,” said Cordelia with relief.
“Brindy was pretty bitter about the breakup. When she was trying to hang on to him, she invented a perfume just to drive him wild.”
“She did?”
“Yes. She named it after the ancient Greek goddess Aphrodite.”
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