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

by Jane Thornley

  “I intend to explain all but only when it’s safe. Please do try to cooperate, Ms. McCabe. Given that it isn’t you that I invited to meet with me today and that your companion arrived armed, I have been very obliging.”

  He had a point—sort of. “Dr. Collins didn’t feel safe enough to come in person,” I said.

  “Understandable, but the more people involved in this situation, the more perilous it becomes. Already matters are spinning out of control. We are all in great danger and I urge you to cooperate. I may be in the only position to protect you for the moment.”

  “Protect me how?” I asked.

  “Later, Ms. McCabe. Trust me when I say that we must get away from here.”

  What choice did I have? I pocketed my phone. “Lead the way, senhor.”

  I half considered alerting security but the noticeable lack of people, let alone guards, in the hallway nixed that idea. “Where is everybody? I entered a busy gallery and now the place is deserted.”

  “Not deserted exactly,” the man said as we approached an elevator. “The museum is under emergency closure. It happens whenever suspicious activity is detected.” Was he referring to Peaches…or Evan, who must be somewhere on the grounds by now?

  “And yet you are permitted to walk around freely, sir?”

  “As a museum patron, I am afforded that privilege, yes.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Someplace safe,” he replied.

  Safe was the last thing I felt at that moment. On the other hand, I found myself believing the man. Stepping into the elevator beside him, I watched as he swiped a keycard and pushed the bottommost button.

  “Did you know that this museum was once a grand residence?” he asked. “The Palácio de Alvor-Pombal was built in the seventeenth century by the first Earl of Alvor and most of the museum has been constructed around the original building.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said, watching the buttons light up at every floor. “As a patron, do the staff here work for you?”

  “We cooperate, as only proper, under the circumstances. Indeed, I do wish I could take you on a special tour, but some other time, perhaps. We would need far more than a few hours to properly experience one of the foremost museums of ancient art in the world, as I am certain you are aware.” I sensed he could be smiling behind his surgical mask. “Still, I am very happy that you managed to see my old friend Hieronymus.”

  I was too agitated for conversation. We seemed to keep going down and down. Though I counted three floors from our original level to the supposed bottom button, we were dropping even farther. Just before my anxiety bubbled to the surface, the elevator doors flew open.

  “Ah, here we are. To the right and to the very end, please.”

  From a long hallway I could see glass rooms stretching away in both directions. Our progress was slow due to my companion’s halting gait, so I could observe the lab-coated workers in the sections in passing. Paintings propped on easels, ceramics being carefully restored, and at least one large Byzantine mosaic bathed in halogen caused me to pause. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “From the reign of Justinian I—a relatively new acquisition. Pity that I cannot take you in for a closer look but we must hurry.” He had pulled a phone from his pocket and was peering down at the screen. “Matters have grown more alarming by the moment.”

  “More alarming how?”

  “Hurry, please.”

  At the end of the hall we were buzzed into an empty room, a combination storage room/garage with crates lining two walls and three white vans parked on the other side of a large plate-glass window. A round table sat in the center, bare except for a laptop. A flat-screen monitor with loud speakers on either side was angled toward the table from the wall ahead. Various live camera views were visible on the screen but only one interested me: the one showing Peaches pacing a small room.

  “Where have you taken her?” I asked, turning to Senhor Carvalho.

  “I have taken her nowhere, but museum security object to guns being brought into their facility. She is in a room down the hall where she will stay until the area has been secured and it is safe for her to leave. I have instructed the guards not to have her arrested but to contain her for now.”

  “Let me see her,” I asked, making for the door.

  “If you choose to see her now, I will be unable to share the full story of the missing skull. After today, I must stay away from Lisbon and it would be wise if you and your friends followed my example.”

  I swung back to him. “What’s going on?” Evan must be alarmed now that my devices were dark. He’d know that something was up. “Senhor, I am just about jumping out of my skin here. You know my friends will come after me and then where will that get us?”

  “Exactly, Ms. McCabe, and what will that do—get somebody harmed unnecessarily? Your man has been seen on the museum grounds and will be arrested as soon as the police arrive, providing he should live that long. Arrest by the police is perhaps the best scenario given the situation, but I am certain he would prefer neither.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I will show you. Patience, Ms. McCabe.” He sat down before the laptop and removed his mask. “I cannot breathe in these blasted things.” He began tapping on the keyboard several times. Apparently frustrated that he couldn’t get it to do what he wanted, he barked something in Portuguese. There had to be a microphone somewhere.

  “Keep doing that and the computer may seize up in a sulk,” I said.

  He nodded at that. “Indeed, but I am no more patient than you are, it seems. Oh, here comes Manuel. He will wrest this beast into submission.”

  A masked young man dressed in a white shirt with a red insignia on the left pocket had dashed into the room, greeting me with a nod before taking over the laptop while the senhor looked on.

  “Regard the screen above, Ms. McCabe,” my host said. “Do you see those three men and the one over there? Manuel, are you able to zoom in on that fellow by the statue?”

  The screen had switched to show eight exterior views. We were staring at the garden from cameras fixed around the museum premises. Amid the swaths of flowers and the statuary, several men appeared to be lounging on the benches or snapping photos. There was nothing casually relaxed about any of them. Tourists don’t furtively study everyone around them while pretending to gaze at their phones. “Who are they?”

  “Our enemies—and make no mistake, they are armed and dangerous. Explosives have been detected on one and firearms on the other three. There are several such men around the grounds.”

  I looked at him in alarm. “Surely they wouldn’t attempt to blow up the museum?”

  “Not the museum, perhaps, but certainly you and your companions, and me, of course. They will stop at nothing to keep their secret safe and have little concern for who may get hurt in the process. One man has been seen waiting in a cab near the museum. I suspect he hopes to kidnap you should you hail a cab. These men are ruthless. They have killed already and will target everyone who knows about the skull, which now includes you and your companions. We are all in great danger.” He turned to Manuel and spoke in Portuguese. The man nodded and left the room.

  “Ms. McCabe, the police are on their way, and your Mr. Barrows, who is currently keeping out of sight, will be arrested if our enemies do not locate him first. You must tell him to leave the premises immediately. You and I will proceed to a safe location and Ms. Williams will be escorted back to your apartment once it is safe to do so. You in particular cannot risk being seen leaving the building. I have your phone unblocked long enough for you to text your friend. Do be quick about it and do not attempt anything foolish.”

  I didn’t hesitate. In seconds, I had the phone out of my pocket and typed out my text.

  Evan, leave the grounds immediately. Place is infested with men armed with explosives and the police are on their way. Peaches and I are fine. Will contact you later.

  I showed the scr
een to Senhor Carvalho, who nodded before I hit send.

  “Now we must leave,” he said, adding something in Portuguese as he pushed himself to his feet and grabbed his cane.

  “But to where?”

  He hobbled to the door to the garage. “I will explain on the way. Hurry, please.”

  Ask me if I thought that jumping into a vehicle with a strange man to drive to some undisclosed location was a good idea. On the other hand, leaving with no further information about this confounding situation seemed a worse one. Besides, I trusted Senhor Carvalho for reasons I couldn’t explain and could see no good reason why he would be making this stuff up.

  So I climbed into the back of a white panel van marked by the museum’s red MNAA insignia with Carvalho. Manuel helped the older man up until the two of us squeezed together on flip-down seats facing the van’s back door. The vehicle still bore the remains of packing-tape bits and straw so was clearly designed for transporting cargo not people. Manuel took the driver’s seat and soon we were winding through the cars and empty parking spaces on an upward curve.

  “Manuel says we must keep our heads down the moment…we reach street level,” Carvalho said a little breathlessly. “It is doubtful that we can be seen back here but just in case.”

  “Tell me where we are going now, senhor. No more excuses,” I said.

  “I am taking you to my quinta where I hope we will be safer than here in the city, at least for a time. Your friends will be given instructions to follow us when the confusion dies down. I simply cannot risk transporting more than one of you at this time. Let us hope that the police can restore order quickly.” He stared straight ahead as he spoke, both hands grasping the cane he clutched between his legs. I had the sense that the unfolding events were taking a toll on his health.

  The van began zooming through the underground garage, picking up speed as the tires peeled around the corners. Senhor Carvalho and I continually slid into one another, each one trying to brace against the centrifugal force.

  Manuel, clearly not trained in speeding through enclosed spaces in a panel van, muttered to himself and occasionally swore in two languages. Twice the van scraped against the wall in a screech of metal against concrete and once I feared we might smash into a parked car.

  Senhor Carvalho gripped the handhold, his gaze fixed ahead, while I tried to brace myself against sliding into him every two seconds. The lack of seat belts didn’t help.

  I turned and saw a garage door opening ahead at last—the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel—but before I could exclaim my relief, the van shook as if the ground beneath our wheels was shattering into a thousand pieces and then something heavy struck the roof. Both of us tumbled to the floor.

  7

  Earthquake, it had to be an earthquake! Lisbon had suffered many catastrophic shake-ups. Was this the next big one? I imagined crumbled buildings, devastating fires, massive tsunamis…

  “Stay down!” Senhor Carvalho cried as the two of us tumbled around against the back of the van. Manuel was shouting; we kept moving; and I could see sunshine blazing through the windshield.

  Manuel was talking to somebody on his car phone.

  “Manuel…says part of the garage was…blown up. He says stay…out of sight,” the senhor said.

  “The garage?” I asked, raising my head an inch off the floor. “Not an earthquake?”

  “Explosão! Explosão!” Manuel cried.

  Got it. I raised my head. Between the two front seats, I could see that we were now beetling down a busy street. I ducked back down. Several minutes of bumping along followed before I realized that my companion lay on his back breathing heavily.

  “Are you hurt, senhor?” I crawled over to him. Even in the shadowy light, I could see his pallor.

  “Do not worry,” he panted. “Just my…old bones. I will just lie here for a…few moments to catch my breath.”

  Without thinking, I squeezed his hand as if he were my father since he reminded me of my own dad long passed. “Is there something I can do? Here.” I took my jacket off and folded it under his head. “Manuel,” I cried. “Senhor Carvalho is injured!”

  Manuel called back. “Must stay down. Call for help!”

  The senhor spoke to him in Portuguese, something that sounded like instructions.

  “What did you just tell him to do?”

  “To keep on driving…not to stop…until we reach our destination.”

  “But, senhor…”

  He patted my arm. “No, Ms. McCabe, we are in…too much danger…but thank you for caring. My assumptions…as to your character…were correct.”

  And mine about him apparently. I settled my back against the wall, remaining near him while the van rolled on. “Senhor, what if my friends were hurt in the explosion? I must use my phone.”

  “Your phone is…free…now that we are away from the building. I confess…I tricked you. No service…on that floor. But—” he paused to catch his breath “—using it…is still…not wise.”

  Of course, he was afraid that we’d be tracked through my phone’s GPS. Could I be absolutely certain we wouldn’t once I switched it on? Evan’s antitracking devices had always worked but this enemy was clearly more technologically advanced than previous versions.

  “Please keep it…turned off just in case. Manuel says that…it appears Mr. Barrows escaped…safely but so…did most of the…Divinios.”

  “The Divinios?”

  “This group of hoodlums that insist…upon wreaking such havoc…on the modern…and ancient world.” He was practically gasping now. “Help me sit up, Ms. McCabe, please.”

  I helped him lean back against the wall, the two of us wedged side by side as the van continued rumbling along. After a few minutes, he appeared to have recovered somewhat, though his breathing remained ragged. “Emphysema,” he panted. “Neglected to bring…my puffer.”

  Several minutes passed before I asked the questions crowding onto my tongue. “Could you explain these Divinios?”

  “They call themselves…Los Divinios after…derecho divino de los reyes.”

  I recognized enough root syllables to figure that one out. “Oh, my God—the Divine Right of Kings? Surely that concept is dead?”

  “It should be. Indeed, few royal houses…would ever abide by such a thing today…and yet a small group of men—a brotherhood, if you will—have borne…its standard for centuries. It’s actually…a religious sect.”

  Manuel shouted something and I could feel the van slowing down. We were now bumping along what felt like a dirt road. “But these men can’t seriously intend to restore a monarchy?”

  “They seriously intend to restore their own power. It’s always about power. We must stop now…and change vehicles,” my companion said.

  The door slid back. Two men in green uniforms with matching masks stood outside with Manuel behind them, his ear pressed to his phone. One man helped me and the senhor out, giving me mere seconds to squint around at the surroundings. Nothing but bare rock and rough scrabble with Lisbon just visible over a bend far below. A narrow road wound through a hilly forest ahead. I turned back to see Senhor Carvalho shaking Manuel’s hand beside the battered museum van while the other men waited by the glossy truck.

  “Good luck, senhorita.” Manuel waved to me.

  “Thanks, Manuel. If you see my friends, please tell them I’m all right.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  Moments later, we were helped up a loading platform and into the back of a waiting truck, this one a deep forest green with flourishing gold signage to match the men’s uniforms.

  Now Senhor Carvalho and I sat opposite one another on the truck floor amid packaged laundry with racks of clear-plastic-covered clothes dangling from overhead. Between the cab and cargo area, a row of suits hung from a rack, letting in very little light and no opportunity for me to talk to the men even if I wanted to. Getaway by laundry truck.

  “Our enemies will…soon pick up our trail.” My companion sighed an
d rested his head against the wall as the vehicle rumbled forward. “They know where I live—have always known. The explosion caused more disruption…than they must have anticipated…but I have no doubt they will…come for us.”

  “And then?” I asked.

  “And then we will have to…work out another plan, Ms. McCabe,” he said grimly, closing his eyes.

  “Please call me Phoebe. After all, we are sharing the back of a laundry truck.”

  He smiled at that. “Phoebe, then.” He did not offer to have me call him by his first name and doing so would have seemed all wrong to me somehow.

  But he was fading fast. Rather than press him further about the Divinios, I swallowed my questions and focused on the clothes swaying above me on padded hangers.

  Even in the half-light I could see deep jewel-toned velvets, shimmering silks in every hue, and gentlemen’s suits in various textures and fibers. I longed to run my hand over those naps and silken folds, me being a shameless textile hedonist. In times of anxiety, I took comfort in soft wear. I snaked a hand up inside the plastic wrap and flipped a jacket label—Armani. All righty, then.

  We bumped along for several minutes before the wheels hit smooth pavement. Now I found myself sliding inches toward the rear door. Senhor Carvalho with his head lolling to one side was listing, too. I braced myself against the door to prevent him toppling over. I desperately hoped that he was only dozing and hadn’t lost consciousness.

  I so wanted to use my phone to ensure that everyone was all right back in Lisbon, but the phone remained shoved deep into my pocket. It felt like treason not to trust Evan’s technical prowess enough to fear tracking.

  I wasn’t certain how long we traveled but it seemed far too long on a road too steep, especially with Senhor Carvalho’s alarming pallor and shallow breathing. Finally the truck lurched to a halt. I heard shouting and the back doors flew open followed by a blast of crisp cool air. I squinted against the shards of sudden light. “Help me, please. Senhor Carvalho is not well,” I cried.

  Two men and one woman appeared from somewhere, calling in Portuguese, and soon I was standing in a tiny graveled courtyard watching as the men helped Senhor Carvalho toward an arched doorway, the woman dashing beside them murmuring something.