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

by Jane Thornley

  “A great deal more time is required than we have now to explain the details, but let it suffice to say that it concerns a client who has lost his head, quite literally.”

  He knew that would get my attention.

  “Oh, come on, a headless client?”

  “Truly. Please meet me at my gallery tomorrow afternoon at 1:00 p.m. and I will explain further.”

  He almost had me.

  “You didn’t need to wait,” I said to Peaches when I emerged from the museum to find her standing near the wrought-iron gates. “But I’m glad you did. Shall we take the tube?” I adjusted my mask, relieved to be back outside with enough fresh air to oxygenate myself.

  “Sure. Anyway, by the time I finished chatting and doing the electronic card transfer thing to every museum bigwig in there, I figured I may as well hang around. I was everybody’s token woman of color. They practically fell over themselves to introduce me to doctor this and director that and then waited around for me to spew my qualifications.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said I was a Jamaican gunslinging engineer who brings art thieves to their knees.”

  I laughed. “So modest.”

  “Modesty doesn’t cut it when you want to be remembered. I told them that if they needed an ancient item retrieved, we were the ones to do it.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then I grilled a few board members over what they intended to do about the museum’s looting in its colonial past. A significant number of objects in that collection were stolen in the name of imperialism, I said. I named a few from Africa. The Oduduwa helmet mask in particular gets my blood boiling. Did anyone even ask if Nigeria wanted it back? It’s not like it was taken with their permission. It belongs there, not in England.”

  “And you watched them squirm.”

  “Yeah, with pleasure. They all looked hemorrhoidal but that’s not going to stop me. This is a conversation we’ve got to keep on having. If Black Lives Matter, so does black culture. So what did Rupert say?”

  “He offered us a job that involves travel, money, and a headless client,” I told her as we strolled down Great Russell Street.

  “Headless? Fantastic—much less backtalk. I was wondering how long it was going to take before something interesting happened. When do we start?”

  “I said I’d have to think about it.”

  She stopped dead. “What’s there to think about, woman? We’ve been buried alive for months. Let’s do something that doesn’t involve a computer.”

  “There’s a pandemic in progress, remember? Do you really want to get on a plane right now? Besides, we have too much work to do,” I pointed out. “We’re only halfway through cataloging our brothers’ hoard.” Both of them had been art-heisting drug dealers, which had certainly helped us bond.

  “So? You’d choose cataloging over travel, funds, and a headless client—are you crazy? Cataloging can wait, headless clients can’t. As for the pandemic, we’ll take precautions. We are now free to move around the cabin, remember? I hear that plane travel is perfectly safe with precautions. Besides, you and Max need a break from one another.”

  Initially I didn’t see that last point. I’d become good at avoiding my partner/godfather, Max Baker, since our relationship had grown fraught. Our new facility provided lots of room and I tried to remain well-spaced until matters improved.

  “Focus, focus, Peaches. Let’s finish what we’ve started,” I said while marching on.

  At first Max had handled the fallout of the Morocco and Venice adventure rather well, considering. We continued to emotionally support one another through the weeks that followed. Then came Covid, which provided too much time for each of us to mull. After the third FaceTime session, things began to change.

  We both had wounds that needed healing. For me, the man I loved turned out to have been using me as a lost-art sniffer dog for years, but since he also happened to be Max’s biological son, matters were complicated. I guess we had both underestimated the toll the event had taken on us. Now we were back to working, socially distanced, side by side.

  “I have to ask you again, Phoebe: did you mean to kill him?”

  I looked up from where I had been scrolling through my emails. It was the morning after the museum event and we had all been busy at our computers cross-referencing artifacts and emailing experts.

  Max stood in the doorway of my temporary office wearing his checkered mask and gazing at me with what had become a familiar pained expression. We were about to have the discussion that had been playing over and over again between us for weeks. None of them had ended any better than I knew this one would.

  I lowered my phone. “Max, I know we’re both still trying to process what happened so I’m going to try to explain again: I didn’t deliberately set out to kill Noel but I wasn’t about to let him escape with the treasure, either. What I did, I did out of desperation—”

  “And anger.”

  “And anger, yes, and why not?” I was trying to keep the emotion from my voice. And failing. “Hadn’t I just watched him kill one man and attempt to assassinate another, not to mention threaten Peaches and steal a fortune of cultural significance? And that’s not even mentioning the way he used me. Yes, I was angry, damn angry, but that doesn’t mean I deliberately set out to kill him. That’s not who I am. Besides, we don’t know I even did kill him, remember? He was unconscious when I left him.”

  “You tasered him right over the heart and left him by the side of the road for dead!” Max rasped, the pain in his eyes fierce enough to twist my gut. “A man you said you loved, my son.”

  “The taser tool was all I had.” Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes. “I used it to disable him only. The thing was faulty so maybe it zapped too high a charge.” It was actually a super-smartphone with a taser app but that was beside the point. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard all this.

  “He was my son.”

  Here we go again. “And your son, the man we both thought we knew and loved, turned out to be a murderous, thieving, underground vulture. He’s not the man you thought he was, Max. He’s a man who has been using me for bait for years. Face it: life on the run has turned him into something else.”

  “He’s still my flesh and blood.”

  I swallowed hard, trying not to cry. I’d done enough crying in the past months to swamp a galleon. “I know, Max, and I’m sorry—sorry that the dream we shared of Noel didn’t come true, sorry that he left us both broken. But I absolutely am not sorry I tasered him. I did what I had to do and now all that’s left is for us is get past it.”

  “I just can’t, Phoebe, just can’t—not yet, anyway.” And he turned and walked away. Talk about the walking wounded.

  I grabbed a used surgical mask crumpled on the desk and blotted my eyes. Bad idea, I know.

  Minutes later, I walked up to Peaches as she stood inspecting the renovated lab and instructing workers to fix some detail. “I’m meeting Rupert this afternoon to discuss our next case. Do you want to come?”

  2

  I didn’t expect this visit to Sir Rupert Fox’s gallery to be easy. For one thing, there was Evan, whom I formerly believed to be Rupert’s assistant only to discover that both worked undercover for Interpol more or less as equals. That meant that the whole time I thought Rupert an unscrupulous but lovable art dealer accompanied by his bodyguard-cum-driver, he was actually operating undercover with a colleague. My brain needed time to recalibrate.

  As we rang the bell to Carpe Diem, Rupert’s Knightsbridge by-appointment-only gallery, that afternoon, I was fortifying my backbone with the starch of professionalism. “I’ll just remain friendly and courteous and shut down any effort either one of them makes to discuss their duplicity,” I said. “To avoid awkwardness, you understand.”

  “Sure,” Peaches remarked. “Why not shake hands while you’re at it?”

  I was going to say that shaking hands was not recommended given the pandemic but the door
flew open before I had a chance. There stood Evan, former MI6 agent, devastatingly handsome man of a million attributes, the least of which was the ability to look at me as if he had more than business on his mind. How a man can look sexy wearing a black face mask was beyond me.

  “Phoebe,” he said, his eyes alight. “I’m so happy to see you again at last. It’s been—”

  I extended my hand briefly before pulling it back. How soon we forget. “Too long, I know. Evan, what a pleasure. I trust you’ve been well?”

  I sensed he was smiling behind the mask. “Yes, I’ve been well. All bullet wounds are healing nicely, thank you.”

  “Excellent, and you received the Get Well Soon card I sent?”

  “A few months back, the one with the red balloons? Yes, duly received.” Amusement was definitely twinkling in those fine gray-green eyes. You may find me mentioning those eyes repeatedly.

  “The cards were all picked over,” I said in my defense.

  “Hey, Ev,” Peaches said behind me. “Nice to see you again. I read that book you recommended to me, by the way, the one about Renaissance architecture—great read.”

  She gently moved me aside and enveloped Evan in a big hug, which he returned with gusto. I stood staring, mildly offended by this open display of affection in the age of Covid, yet feeling strangely bereft. But I quickly got over it. Soon we were all strolling into the inner sanctum of the antique haven known as Carpe Diem.

  “Excuse me for one minute,” Evan said. “Must check on a few details, but Sir Rupert will be along directly.” Then he had disappeared.

  “‘Ev’? And I didn’t know you two were in touch,” I said.

  “So? Every time I brought up his name, you shut me down. By the way, I was only joking about the hand-shaking thing—are you kidding me? That man took a bullet for you.”

  “What else am I supposed to do—kiss him?”

  She would have had a comeback for that but luckily we had arrived at the salon door. Rupert was stepping out to greet us, complete with another interesting face accessory made of pleated silk. “Phoebe and Penelope, I’m so delighted you came. I was momentarily afraid you might decline.”

  “Thank Peaches,” I said. “She convinced me that a headless client was too good an opportunity to miss.”

  “And a very wise conclusion indeed,” he said with a nod. “Please come in. Dr. Collins will explain the details.”

  “Dr. Collins?” I gazed past him at the illustrious doctor of British Studies at Oxford waving at me from across the room in a red suit and a lovely patterned mask that could be genuine Jacobean.

  Rupert stepped aside to let me walk across the Persian carpet to meet her halfway. “Dr. Collins. Great to see you again even if the last time was only yesterday.” Her mask, I noted, was fashioned from a scrap of genuine Jacobean vintage fabric, probably dyed in woad that perfectly matched her blue eyes. This prompted my first serious twinge of mask envy.

  “Connie, please. Twice in one week—lucky us.” She was about to grasp my hands before pulling away and clapping with a delighted grin. “Oh, Phoebe, I’m such a fan. I’d wanted to tell you that but never had the opportunity. Rupert is always describing your exploits so I live in awe thinking how fabulous it would be to chase art criminals around the world and wrest treasures from their gnarly grasps.” She plucked the air as if snagging a bad guy midflight.

  I could only gape. The esteemed academic television personality was my fan? “I’m flattered,” I said. “Make that stunned.” I saw no need to mention that most of the bad guys I’d snagged had been either relatives or my ex. A woman needs to embrace kudos where she can.

  “You are such an inspiration. All I get to do is babble on about my passions, but you get to go out there and live them. I’d love it if someday you could make a guest appearance on the show, when things become more normal, of course.”

  Articulate and academic but never stuffy, Dr. Constance Collins was a media personality for a reason. Her popular British history television series delivered the past with doses of style and wit while she held down an esteemed Oxford seat and looked amazingly fetching while doing it. How she managed, I’ll never know, but I was as much a fan of her as she of me. “I can’t imagine being on TV but thanks, anyway.” I grinned back at her. “So what do you have to do with my headless client?”

  She slapped a hand to her blond bobbed head. “Oh, it’s such a mess, Phoebe. Come, ladies, and I’ll explain.” Taking Peaches by one arm and me by the other, she steered us over to one of Rupert’s clubby leather couches and bid us to sit.

  The spacing protocol had suddenly evaporated and I felt this crazy need for a hug, but of course I restrained myself. “Peaches, I champion you on tackling Dr. Wong and crew with your colonial looting statements yesterday. Time to shake up those stodgy male enclaves, right? Tea, anyone?”

  And she poured, leaving Rupert and Evan—esteemed members of the stodgy male enclaves—to twiddle their thumbs once deprived of their hosting roles. Both took seats at the opposite ends of a couch across from ours and looked on while Dr. Connie ran the show. Since we were about to take tea, we removed our masks with relief.

  “So, let me begin with my qualifier: nothing I disclose here has anything to do with Oxford University, my area of study, my television show, the museum, or even Britain, perish the thought. By necessity, I’m remaining very much behind the scenes.”

  “In other words, you’re not even here,” I said.

  Connie smiled and nodded her glossy golden head. “Exactly, but when Rupert suggested that you could help, I leaped at the chance. With you being on the covert side of Interpol, perhaps only you can.” She waved her phone, which was opened on our website. “He is truly looking for something ancient and lost here.”

  “He?”

  “Your prospective client.”

  We had a prospective client already? “We’re not actually a part of Interpol, only affiliated.” I always felt obliged to stress that point. The Agency of the Ancient Lost and Found was funded totally from my brother’s ill-gotten gains: I spent his thieving profits in the name of repatriation while he spent time in prison. Seemed a fair exchange given the damage he’d wreaked. Yes, you can love someone and still watch them suffer punishment, one of the unbearable truths I’d come to learn. Even so, that money couldn’t last forever.

  Connie slipped her phone back into her pocket. “That’s why you’re perfect for the mission. You can fly under the proverbial radar, the preferred approach right now.”

  “Okay, now that you’ve got our attention,” I said, “what’s going on?”

  “It concerns the client I referred to—my brother, as it happens,” Connie said.

  “Your brother?” Peaches asked.

  “Yes—”she clasped her hands “—my brother is the famed British forensic archaeologist Markus Collins. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  Neither Peaches nor I had.

  “Well, famed in other circles, then. In any case, his services were requested by an archaeological team in Lisbon recently to help process multiple remains found in an old crypt flooded by torrential rains. The crypt is part of a small chapel built in 1147 but last used for interments in the late fifteenth century. Still, that’s no less hallowed ground, you understand. The original church was destroyed in the Great Lisbon Earthquake of 1755 and rebuilt in 1784, but the crypt remained more or less intact until recent flooding. Even after all this time, it’s no small matter to disturb the dead.”

  I nodded sagely. I tried never to do it myself.

  “Considerable controversy surrounds the whole thing—disinterment, a forensic autopsy,” Connie continued. “The Catholic church doesn’t approve such things lightly. The remains had to be removed to an unused morgue for temporary safekeeping, so why not do a few tests while they were at it? They finally received approval to begin the disinterment. Perhaps you caught some of that on the news?” One look at our faces prompted her to hurry on. “Anyway, DNA samples were to be taken
to look for general health of the occupants, prevalent diseases during the years of the European Renaissance, and to trace the whole ancestry tangle.”

  “There is even DNA left after so long?” Peaches asked.

  “Oh, yes, where there are bones there is usually DNA.” Connie seemed unable to contain her enthusiasm. Death became her. “In 2012, archaeologists found the remains of an adult male under a car park in Leicester that turned out to be King Richard III. You might say he’d been missing in action for a while, seeing as he met his end at the Battle of Bosworth. His identity was only determined through DNA testing. Seems we’ve been driving over the poor man’s bones for decades.”

  “And he was just left there by his contemporaries?” I said. “I always wondered about that. I mean, a king is a king, right? Were they getting him back for the whole princes in the tower scandal?”

  “Which was never proven,” Evan said quietly. “What is ever proven to be true that far back in time? Everything is filtered through a combination of current prejudices combined with a contemporary rival’s viewpoint, not to mention hundreds of years of supposition.” He didn’t quite sound like the Evan I knew but more like a man in a suit with a big degree wearing a mask, all of which looked good on him, by the way.

  “Yes, exactly,” Connie said, sending a beatific smile in his direction. “But back to Markus and this particular situation. An X-ray revealed two skulls in one coffin and that captured everyone’s interest from the beginning.” We waited as the television host paused for perfect timing. “He—and it was presumed to be a he, by the way—was missing the rest of his skeleton. The other fellow was intact.”

  Peaches snapped her fingers. “I knew it! Our headless client reveals himself at last.”

  “Do we know who he is—was?” I asked, itching for the details.

  “Ah, there’s the rub,” our scholar added. “Markus has not yet had the opportunity to take DNA samples, but he’s since done enough research to present a working theory identifying the owner. The skull had certain contusions and abnormalities that made it somewhat easy to identify after a little preliminary research. If his assumption is correct, the bodiless skull may be related to the Spanish royal family at the time.”