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

by Jane Thornley

  6

  Convincing the team of my suitability was not easy. It was a tiresome argument that I’d had many times with Rupert and Evan but wasn’t in the mood for that night. I pointed out that brawn, height, and even MI6 training were probably not needed when meeting a “white-haired gentleman with a cane.” I didn’t even mention my own martial arts capabilities, of course—that would have been overkill. In all respects, I was perfect for the job.

  Admittedly, I’ve been known to be wrong.

  “Look, guys. Mr. Anonymous probably does his homework. He’ll know that Markus called in assistance when things turned dicey. He’ll do background checks on everyone involved. That’s what I’d do, anyway,” I said. “How do you think he’ll react when an ex-MI6 guy shows up instead of the scientist he expects? Wouldn’t that ring alarm bells? However, a female art historian is considerably less threatening.”

  “Unless it’s you,” Evan said under his breath.

  “You’ll be watched, Phoebe, doubtlessly followed,” Rupert grumbled. “A gray-haired man carrying a Hieronymus Bosch bag does not mean that he can’t be dangerous or accompanied by a posse of hidden thugs,” he said sternly.

  “I know that,” I said.

  “Who’s Hieronymus Bosch?” Peaches asked. “Sounds like a rock band—Hieronymus Bosch and the Bastardly Beaters.”

  “I’ll introduce you to him tomorrow,” I replied, “just before we head for the rendezvous because,” I added, turning to Rupert, “Peaches will accompany me, of course, and Evan will no doubt be close by.”

  That probably clinched the deal or at the very least saved me a few minutes of argument.

  “There’s no way I’d let you leave me behind,” Peaches said later as we readied for bed in our apartment. “As your bodyguard, I intend to follow you everywhere.”

  She had decided to be my bodyguard some time ago and took it very seriously. “I didn’t plan on leaving you behind, but we need to keep you hidden since he’s expecting Markus. Besides, he said to come alone.”

  “How will you approach him?”

  “I’ll probably walk up to him and say that Markus couldn’t make it.”

  Peaches pondered this for a moment. “That might work but you’ll have to be careful. This guy probably will have people watching him, too.”

  “So you’ll be nearby but staying out of sight.”

  “No worries. We’ll go separately and I’ll attempt to look inconspicuous.”

  Making a six-foot Amazon inconspicuous is not easy but there was time to worry about the details later.

  Just before heading to the bedroom, Peaches paused. “Do you seriously wear that thing to sleep?”

  I gazed down at my oversize van Gogh T-shirt with the self-portrait of the artist with a bandaged ear. “I picked it up in Amsterdam a million years ago and it’s comfy. I wore it all through lockdown. I consider it my Covid Couture.”

  “Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t let the tooth fairy see me in that. What happens if you have a romantic encounter? That getup will scare even the bravest of dudes away.”

  “Peaches, we’re in a pandemic, remember? Comfort rules, not romance, even if I wasn’t on a chastity diet.”

  She shook her head and sashayed into her bedroom. “You have to shake that attitude, girl, if you are ever going to mend that broken heart.” The door clicked shut behind her.

  Meanwhile, the coffee had left me wired, and while Peaches could sleep with jet fuel in her veins, I wasn’t so lucky. I spent the hours between twelve and two trawling the web on my laptop. Evan had provided me with a plug-in device that shielded my search from prying eyes, and I had no doubt that prying eyes were everywhere by now.

  First up, I scrutinized the available online portraits of Prince Carlos, knowing as I did that the royal painters were not likely to reveal the man’s deformities and, of course, none did. Presumably, neither king nor prince wanted anything to taint the image of the crown prince of Spain and Portugal. Portraits were the visible legacy of crown and country for all the centuries to come, the ultimate selfie. However, most portraitists had caught the sulky cruelty of the boy’s demeanor right down to the willful glint in the eyes.

  Prince Carlos hailed from the House of Hapsburg, notorious for the inbreeding in the royal lineage. Besides the complications Rupert had noted, his maternal grandmother and paternal grandfather were siblings, as were his maternal grandfather and paternal grandfather. The boy’s gene pool was an incestuous swamp all in the name of linking Europe’s ruling houses. These were marriages of alliances, a crucial component of royal marriages throughout history.

  One portrait by Jooris van der Straeten revealed Carlos in his early twenties wearing rich armor over a silken doublet and white hose. The stockings were designed to display a well-turned leg and artfully hid that one shortened limb. Here the artist had captured a sense of the boy’s desired potential and anticipated military prowess, which was only fitting as son to a mighty king. Entitlement nearly leaped off the page in every detail, from the extravagant ceremonial armor to the rich background. Portraiture as propaganda had always been a thing.

  Still, nothing I’d read or seen so far explained why someone would crown this prince, possibly posthumously, let alone steal that crown after the fact. It was all a curious boggle. Crowns were generally costly things and belonged to the monarchy, so why bury a prince with one in the first place? Furthermore, why this prince? He was so unhinged that his father finally locked him away and metaphorically threw away the key.

  Next, I moved on to a summary of the five-act play by Schiller upon which the Verdi opera was based. The plot was supposedly based on Carlos’s life but bore little resemblance to the boy’s real existence. The essence of the tale focused on the prince’s brief betrothal to Elizabeth of Valois, a beautiful young woman who his father, King Philip, ultimately decided to marry himself. That sort of thing could make any family dysfunctional.

  The play had the young betrotheds shattered over the broken engagement and mostly focused on the two thrashing around being miserable. I noted the play’s plot points, paying most attention to the list of characters, all of whom must have been based on real people in the court of King Philip of Spain. It was interesting to note that one other woman played a leading role: the Princess of Eboli, Ana de Mendoza, the princess with an eye patch. I vowed to check her out at some point.

  When my eyes wearied of screen time, I pulled my knitting from my satchel and cast on a row. At one level, I was brewing over the missing skull, and on another, I was trying to design something for Peaches. Knitting often helped me to work out issues while calming another part of my brain, a curious paradox that knitters understand. I’d even been known to unscramble tangled thinking with only two sticks and a ball of yarn.

  That night, however, that part of me trying to design something to capture my friend’s Jamaican spirit hit a wall. In order to catch the complexities of her personality, I needed her power color of choice—pink. I stared at my assembled colors—black, mahogany, chartreuse, and various shades of green. No pink. I had always considered the absence of pink to be a good thing but now reconsidered. If I was to continue this project, I needed a yarn store, which wasn’t on the immediate agenda.

  Leaving my needles on the table, I strolled to the window and peered out across the darkened roofs of Lisbon. Grand old buildings, winking lights across the broad sinuous river, and, below, the portico of a spot-lit church with a coat of arms above the arched central window. My gaze drew down to where a figure stood on the church steps staring up at our building. I backed away to turn off the light. Seconds later, I returned, keeping well behind the curtain. The figure had gone.

  Late the next morning, I returned to the research trail on my laptop, leaving Peaches to assess the neighborhood on her own after I told her about our night visitor.

  “Sure you don’t want to come out with me and get some air?”

  “No, because I have too much research to do. I’ve downloaded mate
rial that I need to cram-read,” I commented, my eyes not leaving the screen. “But if you need help or see anything interesting, text me.”

  “Sure, and I’ll also let you know if I see any interesting shops open. A little wardrobe renovation wouldn’t hurt you one bit,” she said on her way to the door.

  “I already brought one couture outfit with me, compliments of Nicolina a couple of years ago.”

  For some reason, my fashionable friends always wanted to give me a makeover or at least a seasonal reboot, especially my wealthy Italian one. On the other hand, I figured that if a piece cost a few thousand dollars to begin with, it should probably last longer than a couple of years. That morning I dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck, thinking to remain as inconspicuous for the day’s rendezvous. “I’m good, thanks.”

  Peaches may or may not have rolled her eyes. “Suit yourself. When are we leaving to meet Mr. Anonymous?”

  “Let’s go separately and meet at 2:00 p.m. in front of the painting entitled The Temptation of Saint Anthony. You’re going to love Hermy. Anyway, that should give us plenty of time to scope out the museum separately afterward.”

  “Right. I’ll be back before then, anyway. I’m heading down to the church steps to see if your guy last night left any evidence.” Besides reading a diet of bare-chested romance books, Peaches had taken a liking to police procedurals.

  I returned to work as she exited the apartment and a few solitary hours passed with me taking notes. By noon I had breakfasted on six Portuguese custard pastries and three mugs of coffee, scanned an ebook on Emperor Charles V of Spain and his wife, Queen Isabella, plus another on his son, Philip II, as well as brushed up on my Titian. I was revisiting online portraits of Crown Prince Carlos when a text came in from Evan on my secure phone.

  Have just delivered our package and am back at our lodging. Could we meet briefly to discuss our sightseeing plans?

  Secure phone or not, the man wasn’t taking any chances. In moments, I was knocking on the penthouse door. Evan stepped aside to let me in.

  “Phoebe, I trust you slept well?” Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt in his own version of tourist attire, he looked better than breakfast, better than coffee, just plain delicious. Sometimes it was all I could do to remind myself that men were not in my viewfinder at the moment.

  “I didn't actually.” My gaze landed on Markus sitting on the couch staring at the floor. “Good morning, Markus.”

  He lifted his puffy-eyed gaze. “It’s afternoon, Phoebe.”

  “So soon? Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Not dead yet, despite appearances,” he replied.

  “Death by hangover is not a thing,” Evan told him sternly as he locked the door behind us.

  “I’m not referring to the hangover. Since you have just dosed me with some kind of concoction that might be embalming fluid, I’m hoping the cure isn’t worse than the affliction.”

  I caught Evan’s gaze and smiled. “In that case, you’ll either be back to normal within the hour or preserved for antiquity. Since you’re into forensics, you should appreciate that. Did you two see anything suspicious when you went out?”

  “Three men are watching our building 24/7 and one tracked us all the way to Markus’s hotel and back,” Evan replied. “You’ll be followed to your appointment this afternoon, too, so be careful. We can’t even begin to determine who’s working for the anonymous friend and who is part of the thief’s gang.”

  “Do you think it is a gang?” I asked him.

  “I think it must be something of that ilk,” he remarked. “How extensive the group is left to be seen. Our thieves may simply have hired mercenaries to watch us every moment.”

  “Good afternoon, Phoebe,” Rupert greeted as he shuffled out of his room in his paisley silk dressing gown. “Has Evan offered you tea?”

  “No, actually, but I’m a bit overcaffeinated at the moment. I will take a tracking device if you have any lying around.”

  “Ah,” Evan said with a nod. “I always keep an assortment of tracking devices to serve with coffee. I have some ready for your perusal right here on the table. Come, I’ll show you.”

  The table we had used last night was now covered with various technical bits including electronic circuitry and chips plus a selection of small disc-like tracking devices. Three laptops were set up around the room and most every other available surface was covered in books or printouts. So they brought their own printer and possibly half a library plus a workshop, too? These men never traveled light.

  “Impressive as usual.” I turned to Evan. “Do you intend to track me while I track Mr. Anonymous?”

  “Of course. Your phone will keep me apprised of your movements. I won’t be far away and Rupert will be with you virtually at the apartment.”

  Rupert pointed to the laptop propped on the coffee table while Evan placed a tiny wafer into my palm. “Drop this into the gentleman’s pocket or even into his carrier bag so you can track his movements on your phone.” He paused, studying me. “You have read the itemized list of phone features I provided, I presume?”

  “Yes, I skimmed them this morning. Impressive.” Evan’s itemized cheat sheets were so detailed they required a good hour to peruse properly, preferably with a dictionary. I had only taken a fleeting glimpse that morning.

  Evan had more preparations to share including a map of the museum grounds and possible locations in the garden where he would wait. “I will never be far away,” he assured me.

  By the time Peaches arrived minutes later, I was in the process of refusing the gun Evan had manifested from somewhere. “Take it, please, Phoebe. You have no idea where this day will end and it’s best to be prepared,” he said.

  “Not yet.” I hated guns on principle. Even though my principles had taken a bit of a hit lately, I still wanted to avoid the inevitable. Besides, this appointment was in broad daylight and on the museum grounds. What could go wrong?

  “If she won’t take it, I will,” Peaches said, stepping forward with her hand extended.

  Lisbon’s famed museum of ancient art sits on top of a hill overlooking the Rio Tejo with views across the long wide river and beyond. It was another breathtaking vista in a city so full of them that visitors rarely get to put away their phones. Though I yearned to linger under the trees and take pictures with the handful of tourists, the museum was the bigger draw. Besides, I would be meeting Mr. Anonymous in a couple of hours in that very garden, but first I needed to connect with Peaches.

  But by 2:35 I was still standing transfixed before The Temptation of Saint Anthony by Hieronymus Bosch. It was a triptych I’d longed to view in person since my student days, but even so I didn’t expect the impact of those bizarre, almost whimsical figures dancing about a phantasmagorical world to be so intense. Bosch’s perverse imagery always made me smile. Every detail, from the cross-beaked bird with the funnel hat to the snout-nosed demons riding fish in the smoky air, struck me like a drug-induced dream. A horrible dreamscape of sin and temptation, yes, but wickedly humorous, too.

  I checked my watch. Peaches should have been there at 2:00 p.m. but was unusually late. An art historian in a museum of ancient art is worse than a starving kid in a candy store and I was itching to see more of the museum. Where was she? We had agreed to enter the museum separately and then go our own ways. I heard a rustle behind me and swung around.

  “This is…” My words died on my lips. A masked elderly man in a gray suit holding a cane in one hand and a Hieronymus Bosch shopping bag in the other had shuffled up behind me in the otherwise empty gallery.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. McCabe. My apologies for startling you but I thought it best that we meet in private.” Possibly in his early eighties with longish silver hair and deep blue eyes, his voice was surprisingly energetic considering the stooped frame that contained it.

  “You know who I am, sir?”

  “I make it a point of researching the identity of my appointments in advance, especially if they are otherw
ise uninvited. I am Senhor Silvio de Carvalho,” he said in well-modulated English touched faintly by a Portuguese accent. “A lawyer by profession but now semiretired with perhaps too much emphasis on the ‘semi’ part. You may address me as Senhor Carvalho for expediency sake.”

  “Well, Senhor Carvalho, you are early,” I said, pointing out the obvious.

  “Indeed I am, but it appears that my proposed meeting in the gardens has been garnering too much attention to be safe.” He waved one hand toward the door. “I have secured a more private location for our conversation. There are many spies about and I would rather not be overheard. Please be so kind as to follow me.” He began shuffling toward the door.

  I hesitated. This was not going the way I had planned. Maybe I should make an excuse to use the toilet in order to shoot a quick text to Peaches and Evan.

  Senhor Carvalho turned as if sensing my thoughts. “It is best that you come along immediately, Ms. McCabe. Your friend will not be able to meet you as arranged.”

  I stared hard. “Senhor, if you’ve harmed Peaches—”

  “Ms. Williams is currently being detained by museum security for entering the premises carrying a firearm, but I assure you that no harm will befall her as long as you cooperate. That is not a threat but a statement of fact. She will be released as soon as it is safe to do so.”

  “Safe for whom? I don’t understand, senhor.” I pulled the phone from my pocket thinking to send Evan a quick SOS.

  “And I have taken the added precaution of having your devices jammed—I do hope that is the correct term—to prevent any further communication or tracking.”

  I stared. No signal on my phone. That anything could disable one of Evan’s super-phones was shocking in itself. I narrowed my eyes at the man leaning on his cane. “What is going on here?”