The Crown that Lost its Head: A Historical Mystery Thriller (An Agency of the Ancient Lost & Found Mystery Thriller Book 2)

by Jane Thornley

  The Crown that Lost its Head

  The Agency of the Ancient Lost & Found 2

  JANE THORNLEY

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by JANE THORNLEY

  Prologue

  Arévalo Castle, Spain

  12:45 a.m., July 24, 1568

  It was an unholy night when the man in the black velvet cloak, accompanied by a pair of soldiers and two priests, approached the tower. Despite the warm evening, a gusty wind blew across the plains, forcing the men to duck their heads as they approached the fortress walls.

  The gatekeeper recognized the man in black at once and bid the group to enter without a word. This was not the first visit the king’s secretary had paid to their special prisoner but he prayed it would be the last. Still, the presence of the two priests puzzled him. Surely it was still too soon to administer the last rites?

  The five men trod the torchlit halls without speaking, focused on the task ahead. One priest held a velvet pillow upon which rested a priceless object covered in a silken cloth while the other gripped a Bible as if the holy book was all that kept him on this side of the earth. Meanwhile, the soldiers kept their eyes fixed straight ahead, their faces expressionless as they left the corridor and trudged up the stone stairs to the very topmost floor of the tower. Only one prisoner was held here.

  The guard, dozing on his stool by the door, awoke with a start and leaped to his feet. Seeing the king’s secretary, he bowed deeply. “My lord, our prisoner d-does not rest this n-night,” he stuttered. “He flings himself against the window attempting to take flight and still refuses to eat or drink.” Straightening, he shot a nervous glance at the priests and bowed again.

  “Have you administered the draught as I have bid?” the man inquired.

  “Yes, my lord, though the prisoner drank but a small amount before throwing the goblet at the wall. He will not drink more. Says that he has been abandoned and desires only to die.”

  At that moment, a wail escaped the room, such a heart-wrenching reverberation of voice on stone that it was as if some poor creature had been dragged to hell while clinging by his nails to the walls. The sound echoed for a second longer before petering to a pitiful whimper.

  The king’s secretary closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, his handsome face was pained. “In the king’s name, I demand that you pay no heed to any sound that issues from this room this night. Should you disobey my orders and an alarm be called, you will pay with your life.”

  “Yes, my lord, of course, my lord. I hear nothing, nothing. The prisoner, he screams and cries most every hour. We hear nothing, nothing.”

  “Pass the keys and go,” the man commanded.

  The guard, daring not to raise his gaze another time, took the ring from his belt and made to insert the iron key but one of the soldiers intercepted—a cue for him to make his escape while he still could. The iron bar clanged overhead as he bolted down the steps.

  At last the wooden door flew open and the king’s secretary stepped into the room accompanied by the priests. He was accosted by a sight pitiful enough to give him pause even for one unused to pity. The well-appointed room, fitting for the status of its charge, lay in shambles. The red brocade bed curtains hung in shreds, the furniture tumbled over, food smeared on the floor. The crucifix that had been bolted to the wall now lay upside down on the floor, and the air reeked with excrement. The secretary forced himself not to visibly recoil. “Your Highness?”

  The heap of torn clothes in the middle of the soiled floor twitched and lifted its ravaged head. “Why has he forsaken me?” he whispered.

  The secretary fell to one knee. “You are not forsaken, my prince, but soon will be honored in the manner to which you were born. Your veins flow with royal blood and it is time to meet your destiny. Your Highness, your coronation day has arrived.”

  “My coronation?” The man stirred, for he was a man, after all, though one deformed by nature and left broken by those who knew not how to give him love.

  “Your Highness.” The secretary rose, bowed again, and smiled. “We have brought your crown.” He flicked his fingers and the two priests stepped forward, one unfurling a silk ermine-lined cloak, the other revealing a jeweled crown glimmering in the torchlight as it rested on the velvet pillow.

  The man stumbled to his feet. “Mine?”

  “Yours,” the secretary said with a nod.

  “Fine as my father’s, yes?”

  “More so—more beautiful, more sacred,” the secretary assured him.

  “Sacred?”

  “Sacred, yes. We shall crown you, my prince, and you will become Holy Roman Emperor of all that lies above and all that lies beyond—king of the realms. Your power will extend far beyond your father’s as you will be rendered immortal and rule forever more.”

  “Immortal?” the broken man asked. “But I have wished…only to die. My father has…forsaken me,” and he began to cry.

  One priest draped the ermine robe over the man’s shaking shoulders and stepped quickly away while the other held the crown aloft and began chanting in Latin. The king’s secretary retrieved an upended chair and set it in the center of the room. “Sit, my prince. You will live anew and we shall worship you forever more.”

  “The day has come?” the man asked, gazing at the man with his one good eye, the other now so infected it looked like a bloodied egg.

  “It has,” the king’s secretary stated. “And I have brought you wine to celebrate and to help us anoint you in this holy moment. Drink, Your Highness.” He passed the broken man a goblet into which he had poured a liquid from a silver vial. “Drink deeply this night so you will live again.”

  “Live again?” The man tried to smile as he took the goblet with his filthy hand and began to drink, the red liquid dribbling down his beard and onto the ermine robe.

  The priest holding the crown stepped before him and bowed. “Your Highness. I crown you King of the Holy Forever.”

  “Yes, yes, I will be king…king,” the broken man said, rocking back and forth as the crown was placed on his deformed head. “King…king…king!”

  The men watched in silence until the crowned man began to still, the priests crossing themselves and praying while the draught took hold. Moments later, the broken man’s eyes glazed over and his ruined head fell back against the chair. A priest rushed to brace him before he toppled, one hand keeping the crown in place. “Call the soldiers, my lord. It is time,” he whispered.

  The king’s secretary snapped his fingers and the soldiers entered, both holding mallets and fists full of bolts.

  “What we do tonight, we do in Your name,” one priest whispered, averting his gaze as a soldier too
k the first blow.

  1

  One evening early in September, I reluctantly agreed to take my first social foray outside my flat for a private function at the British Museum. The idea was to present my electronic business card for the Agency of the Ancient Lost and Found while pumping up the volume on my previous exploits like some TV host pushing season two—from six feet away.

  In case I lost my gumption, I brought along my extroverted friend and colleague Penelope Williams, aka Peaches, for moral support. Peaches didn’t do introversion. She just got on with things.

  A small cluster of guests and dignitaries had been brought in after hours to commemorate the repatriation of a beautifully preserved Roman slipper that our agency had located many months before. Since the slipper still bore its decorative leather tooling and was perhaps one of the earliest examples of fine Italian shoe design found in Britain, it had attracted lots of interest. I half expected Ferragamo to drop by, as if “dropping by” actually happened anymore.

  The museum gave the slipper prominence in Room 49: Roman Britain, where we now stood properly distanced in a semicircle around Dr. Wong. The director of Roman Antiquities was speaking on how the importance of the find helped to understand life in Roman-occupied Britain. The topic would normally interest me but I was edgy and fearing contagion everywhere.

  “Is that Sir Rupe I see standing on the other side?” Peaches leaned down to whisper, looking magnificent in a tailored rust Italian pantsuit with a matching patterned face covering. Somehow she even made virus avoidance look fashionable. My mask, on the other hand, was of the surgical variety and probably looked more like a diaper. It was testament to my state of mind that I didn’t yet care about the optics.

  I couldn’t see over the glass display case but Peaches, being taller than most humans, commanded the view. “Probably. He’d finagle a way into an event like this,” I said.

  “He looks thinner,” she whispered.

  “Thinner, as in sick?” I asked, stifling my concern. I might be annoyed with him but I’d always cared about the guy.

  “Maybe, but I presume he used lockdown to recover.”

  I nodded. He’d been under a doctor’s care for pneumonia the last I’d heard but admittedly we were out of touch. “Is he alone?”

  “Evan’s not with him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  That’s exactly what I was asking. I hadn’t seen either Sir Rupert or his supposed right-hand man since our last mission, which was followed by the global quarantine. Actually, I almost relished the distance since I had put my heart into self-isolation. I needed time to adjust to the new reality there, too. “Look, as soon as Dr. Wong stops talking, I’m bolting. I’ll leave you to do the promotion, if you don’t mind. I still don't feel up to socializing.”

  “You’ve got to meet with him sometime, Phoebe. May as well get it over with.”

  Dr. Collins, the stunningly photogenic professor of British History at Oxford, shot us a visual hush from her position across from me. A reporter stood equally spaced on her other side recording on his phone, while six feet to my left a masked Interpol agent was looking pleased with himself. I nodded at the man, who I’d worked with before. Interpol hadn’t had much of a role to play in this particular acquisition but somehow managed to take most of the credit. I didn’t care about that, either.

  At last, a chorus of polite clapping erupted in which I quickly joined while saying to Peaches, “Sorry to leave you holding the virtual cards but I’m out of here. You stay and do the well-spaced networking thing, if you want. I’ll see you back at the fort.”

  I successfully worked my way through the gathering without breaching the spacing protocols while easing my way toward the gallery door, thinking only of a speedy escape. I’d miscalculated: this was a museum of treasures. There were guards and rules, most taken seriously.

  “Sorry, madam,” said the uniformed masked man blocking the gallery door. “We ask that all guests remain in the designated area until such time as the event is over and we can escort you to the main entrance—for security reasons, you understand.”

  “Of course. You can never be too careful.” Trapped, then. I smiled as graciously as I could before remembering that I wore a mask. So how was I to communicate acquiescence now? I turned on my heels and walked straight into Rupert.

  “Really, Phoebe, you did not think you could avoid me forever, did you?” he asked, lifting his paisley silk mask.

  I stepped back. “Rupert. What a surprise. Put your mask back on right now. You of all people need to protect your health.”

  “I’m very well now, thank you. Actually, I was diagnosed with the dreaded pestilence almost six weeks ago but am recovering, albeit slowly, thank you. I consider myself among the lucky and, furthermore, feel quite secure in present company knowing that you have not left your facility for months.”

  “I hadn’t heard. I’m so sorry.”

  “Never mind. Let us not dwell. This blasted virus has devoured enough of our energy. My point is that we can now share a bubble together with impunity.” Definitely thinner but no less dapper in his Savile Row suit in a fashionably late-summer linen-and-silk weave the color of burnt sugar, he stepped toward me as I took another step back.

  “You knew I’d be here, as I did you,” he continued. “Indeed, I expressly inquired whether the Agency of the Ancient Lost and Found had received an invitation, seeing as you are responsible for this particular find. Isn’t it time that you emerged from the shadows? The Covid restrictions have loosened, which is our signal to rejoin the world, I say. May we speak in private?”

  I looked around. “We are speaking in private, Rupert. No one is paying us the least bit of attention.” In fact, they were still circling Dr. Wong to admire the new acquisition.

  He took my arm, leading me back into the gallery toward a far wall where a golden ceremonial helmet held center court in halogen-lit splendor.

  “Whatever happened to social distancing?” I muttered.

  “Phoebe, this cannot continue. We are colleagues now—not under usual circumstances, I realize, but colleagues nevertheless. Everything I hid from you in the past was absolutely necessary.”

  “Of course.” I moved back until I again stood six feet away. “I understand completely. I can’t deny how endlessly useful I’ve been to all concerned, thief and Interpol alike.” The fact that I had been leading my possibly deceased thieving ex-boyfriend to various priceless artifacts for years was beside the point. My only saving grace there was that I had finally nailed the bastard.

  “Phoebe, my friendship toward you has never been feigned—well, maybe in the beginning but not afterward. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  I was staring over his shoulder, straight into the glass case where the glided helmet gleamed coldly in the light. “Of course.”

  “I have tried to express myself in my letters and emails but I fear my attempts have been clumsy at best,” he continued.

  I sighed. “Rupert, please just get to the point.” He was never known for brevity.

  “Very well. Let us forge a new beginning. I have a case for us to crack.”

  New beginnings were fraught with possible failure, in my view. I found it easier to hide out on the tail end of a minor triumph. “Fine. Of course, we will proceed as colleagues, just not right away. Give it a few more months, maybe until the vaccine has been vetted.” I turned, hoping to make another bolt for the exit. “How do I get out of here?”

  Rupert snapped his fingers and a guard came dashing over. “Tell Dr. Wong that I must escort our esteemed guest from the gallery immediately as she feels unwell.”

  “Yes, sir, right away.”

  Taking my arm again, Rupert steered me into one of the adjoining galleries.

  “What, you can just command your way through the British Museum now?”

  “I am well known around here, Phoebe. Several pieces on display are here because of my efforts, too, so naturally they know I won’t be pilfering anything
. If you weren’t so modest, they would also recognize you as an asset,” Rupert continued.

  “I prefer to keep my assets to myself, thank you. Besides, I’m grieving, remember? Lockdown just allowed me to bury myself a little deeper.”

  “Well, do dig yourself out, Phoebe. If the Agency of the Ancient Lost and Found is to continue its success, you must get back in the game. I know this Noel business has delivered you a terrible blow but we must get on with it and all that.”

  “Is that the British stiff upper lip thing talking?”

  “Even delightful Canadians like yourself know the truth of that old saw. Get back to work, Phoebe, and let the healing begin.”

  We were now in Room 85, where bust after bust of Roman heads watched us proceed down the aisle.

  “Besides, it is not fame I wish for you so much as respect,” Rupert continued. “You deserve to be credited for your work in preserving history for posterity, which leads me to the matter at hand. Indeed, I have our first joint assignment, if you’ll agree to accept. In fact, it could be a paid assignment, hopefully the first of many to come.”

  I should have been more enthusiastic regarding the monetary part. Instead, I shook my head at a Roman glowering at me from the shelf. “I’m not ready to go back into the field. Maybe later.” I moved on down the row.

  “This is a matter of some importance, Phoebe, and time-sensitive. It must be handled speedily and with some delicacy.”

  “Sounds like a job for Interpol.”

  “But we are affiliated with Interpol. This is a job for us.”

  “What could possibly be that important?” I asked, stopping beside a terra-cotta woman from the late Roman Republic missing both hands and not looking too pleased about it.