“Well, I’m a queen,” she said, thumbing her ample chest. “I can trace my heritage so far back it’ll make your head spin. My aunt Rosemary was the pineapple queen in Kingston for decades and my uncle Jack was king of the Port Douglas Couch Festival for five years running. Can you beat that in the royalty stakes?”
I snorted. “No way. Your lineage beats mine hands down. My dad didn’t even win the Lunenburg herring festival when he tried twenty years ago. His haul was a good ten pounds too short. You absolutely deserve the turret room, not I.”
“Damn right I do!”
We burst into laughter. And quickly sobered.
“With all this talk about the Divine Right of Kings, what the hell happened to the divine right of queens?” I asked.
“I wondered the same thing.”
“History will say that the concept applied to both genders but unless you had steel and fire behind you, women had to fight ten times harder to keep their power. Most queens of the day remained in the background but there were famous exceptions. There are two portraits of Queen Isabella of Portugal here—that’s the later queen not the medieval edition who married Ferdinand—and one of them’s by Titian. How does she play into all this, or does she?”
Peaches shrugged. “Sorry, not my field.”
“No matter, let’s get down to the library in case the men try to solve the world’s problems without us.”
“And we know how well that’s worked out in the past.”
I stepped into the corridor. “But seriously, here we just joked about monarchy being won according to merit, but in the Divine Right of Kings mythos it’s bestowed by right of birth.” I shrugged. “That never made sense to me.”
“And it’s not going to make sense to you now that the supposed divine king is no more than a bag of bones and a crown.”
“True.”
On our way downstairs—and admittedly I got lost once or twice and needed reorientation from one of the staff—I explained my suspicions about Markus.
“I thought there was something fishy with that one,” Peaches remarked while studying a vaulted ceiling in one of the halls. “We’ll keep an eye on him. Did you say he was just wearing a towel?”
“I said that Evan was wearing a towel. Focus on the important bits, Peach.”
She grinned. “I was. Maybe it’s time you did. Speaking of bits, that good-looking black guy, Lino Abreu, told me there’s a child in the household who sometimes tries to go out at night when she shouldn’t. He said the house locks up with a security system like you wouldn’t believe but I talked him into letting me have the code. I’ve been locked up once today and I don’t need it a second time. Here, take a picture of the numbers with your phone.”
I pulled out my phone and quickly snapped a photo of the numbers she had typed out on hers. “Done. By the way, that child is Ana Marie,” I whispered back. “She’s our host’s granddaughter and believes her daddy is still out there. He’s been missing for months.”
“Poor little darling. Did you ever want kids?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Of course not at the moment. You haven’t even set yourself up with a man yet.”
“I mean, let’s not talk about this now.”
“Sure. Where is this place, anyway?”
A man approached us wearing what I recognized to be the house uniform and escorted us to the library. Minutes later we were comfortably ensconced with the gents, each having graciously welcomed Peaches and me into the inner sanctum as if we’d been invited all along. Based on the “pick your battles” concept, neither of us mentioned our uninvited status.
Senhor offered us a glass of port from the decanter on the other side of the room and we helped ourselves before settling down in the capacious main seating area. Across the semicircle from me, Evan sat looking somber (and clothed) while Rupert sat next to Peaches, frowning into his glass. Markus had yet to arrive.
“I was just bringing your companions up to speed on the Divinios,” Senhor Carvalho said, “and requesting that they leave Portugal before this goes further.” He sounded bone-weary and I couldn’t help but worry about him.
“Which we absolutely refused to do,” Evan remarked, glancing at me.
“We are in complete agreement there,” I said, meeting his eyes, which looked nearly hazel in that light.
“Indeed, we came here to find a headless client and to return him to his rightful resting place, which is exactly what we’ll do, regardless of the grandiose notions of a band of holy thugs,” Rupert added, looking resplendent in his paisley silk smoking jacket. Despite his usual blue-blood attire, he was still looking unusually weary and pale. I stifled a pang of worry there, too. “Where is his final resting place?”
“In the El Escorial Royal Monastery of San Lorenzo in Madrid,” Evan replied. “I checked. As far as anyone knows, he’s still there—complete.”
“But now we know otherwise,” I said.
“Yes,” Rupert agreed. “And we must endeavor to bring together the chap’s missing parts.”
“But the risks, Senhor Fox,” our host reminded him while rubbing his temples, “are not small and affect more than just you. I admit that stopping the Divinios is no longer my focus. Now I wish only to protect my family. Those ‘holy thugs’ have established a considerable network, some of whom are no doubt powerful in their own right, and they will kill anyone who gets in their way.”
“And yet now that we know what they intend we can’t let them get away with it,” Evan said.
“And yet we are hardly in the position to stop them. We don’t know the half of it. I have a friend in Spain who has a vested interest in our efforts, too, and is mustering additional resources as we speak, but it may all be for nothing. Let us never underestimate the power of the Divinios. They have killed two already and God knows how many in the past. Should they find the crown before we do, we may all be doomed.”
“Do you have any idea of where the crown could be located?” Evan asked.
“No,” Senhor Carvalho said. “We have been searching for years but for an intact skull and crown. At times we believed it must have been hidden on Spanish soil, but then a new clue would be found that sent us back here to Portugal. Then Jose and Markus located the skull without the crown in Lisbon—that was a shock, I can tell you. The fact that the two elements must have been buried separately or separated in later years complicates things immensely. Ricardo was convinced that something was buried here on this property and focused his search here until…the end. Many archaeologists and historians have been helping him.”
“Like Markus Collins?” I asked.
“Yes, including Dr. Collins. Where is he, may I ask?”
“Taking a shower, I believe,” Evan responded. “I dropped by to chat with him, which no doubt caused a delay.” He glanced at me. “I am certain he will be along directly.”
“He didn’t tell us that he knew Jose Balboa or your son, your identity, or even anything about the Divinios,” I said.
“Totally unacceptable,” Rupert grumbled. “To think that the man had asked us to assist without providing the full background detail is a breach of good faith, at the very least.”
“I had no idea,” Senhor Carvalho said. “In Collins’s defense, however, I had cautioned Jose to involve as few people as possible. I would not have agreed to your involvement had I known in advance that Markus planned to engage your services.”
And then as if on cue, Markus knocked and entered the room. “I apologize for being late.” Crossing the space, he briefly scanned the two royal portraits without meeting anyone’s eyes before proceeding directly to our host and extending his hand. “Senhor Carvalho, please don’t get up. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.”
“And I you, Senhor Collins,” the gentleman said, grasping his hand in two of his. “We were just discussing your involvement.”
“Call me Markus, please. Yes,” he said, turning around slowly, “and I apologize again to my compa
nions for not telling you about the Divinios. I was terribly conflicted—too many deaths, the threats. I didn’t know what to do. I hope we can get past this.”
“That will be left to be seen,” Evan stated mildly while pinioning the man with an icy stare. That warm green could chill in an instant apparently. Markus abruptly looked away.
“Help yourself to a glass of port, Markus,” Senhor Carvalho said, “and I shall proceed with my story. I was just about to tell your colleagues about my son, Ricardo, whom you knew, too.”
“Um, yes…Ricardo…” Markus turned as if looking for an escape route and aimed for the decanter, where he proceeded to pour himself a glass with trembling hands. “Fine fellow. Sorry for your loss, Senhor Carvalho. Yes, Ricardo and I worked on a dig together in Spain.” He took a swig.
“And you were hunting for the Divinios’ king even then,” I remarked after taking a sip from my own glass. Rich and delicious with a robust red color that was akin to the queen’s red dress, the liquid slid down as smoothly as silk-lined velvet. And zapped my brain. I was struck by the sudden effect it had on me. An intense warmth reached my toes immediately, accompanied by a wave of sudden sleepiness. Good but not good. I set the crystal glass on a nearby table and kept my attention focused on the archaeologist.
Markus had begun speaking quickly. “I didn’t know him well but I admit to being fired up about his quest for a crowned skeleton when he first told me. At the time we had been investigating crypts in Valencia and I thought that this sounded like a jolly good adventure—hunting for a crowned skull…why not? My work up until then had been dead boring—”
“Pun intended?” Peaches interrupted.
He stared at her uncomprehending. “Pardon? Oh, yes, pun intended.” Markus coughed and carried on. “Of course, I didn’t realize the extent of it—had no idea, really. Had I known, I might not have accepted the challenge. All this Divinio business was new to me, though my sister, who has more background on European history, gave me a quick education. In any case, we stopped investigating for a while due to Covid and there you have it.” He shrugged and took another sip.
I leaned forward. “It seems to me that you’re left out plenty, Markus, especially since a forensic archaeologist like yourself must be so methodical.”
He glanced at me before focusing on his glass. “Methodical, me? On the job, yes, but otherwise no, not really.”
“Let us move along, shall we?” Rupert urged. “About the Divinios, of course most of the modern world have always believed that this sect died out long ago.”
Senhor Carvalho nodded. “And for a while we had hoped so, too, but there were too many signs that they may have been operating for centuries. We should have heeded our instincts then and stopped the hunt long ago, but my son could not let go. To his mind, we had come too far to stop, but if we had, he might still be alive today.”
“And the Divinios knew you were on their tail?” Evan asked.
Senhor Carvalho wiped a hand over his eyes. “Not at first. To this day I have no idea how they discovered that we were researching their history. Perhaps we were more careless than we thought or there were spies, always spies. We had even engaged trusted help from the museum to shield our efforts. Regardless, Ricardo’s death was a warning, one which the Divinios believed I had heeded until I intervened following Jose Balboa’s murder.”
“Perhaps Jose tipped them off when Markus called you, Senhor Carvalho?” Markus said. “They must have been hacking him, too.”
“Possibly,” Peaches agreed, glancing at Markus, “but that doesn’t make you any less of a slimeball.” She stared at the archaeologist as if she wanted to slap him silly, prompting the man to take another gulp.
“Whatever the case, they now realize that everyone in this room knows that Prince Carlos is the Divinios’ crowned king. You all have been identified and will be targeted,” our host stated.
“And who knows how long they have been stalking me—us. Poor Ricardo, poor Jose,” Markus said, still standing. He took another swig of port and looked around for a seat. “We are all in this together.”
Evan pulled a chair out from against a wall of books and set it down beside him, patting the seat as if inviting a small dog. “The question remains why did they not kill you, too? They had the opportunity the night they stole the skull,” he remarked.
Markus half perched at the edge of the seat as if readying to bolt. “I wondered the same thing. Maybe they think I know something and will lead them to the crown.”
“And do you?” Evan asked, his tone mild but the tensile strength of his warning unmistakable.
A flash of panic crossed Markus's face. “Me? No, or at least not that I know of. I keep reviewing everything Ricardo and Jose discussed, everything we researched as a team in Spain, but nothing comes to mind. In fact, I often thought they were keeping things from me. I’d overhear them speaking in Portuguese, of which I know only a little. In any case, we all must keep up the search.”
“I suggest that you all reconsider. I cannot bear to see more people harmed.” Senhor Carvalho turned to Peaches. “And do you feel the same as your fellows, senhorita?”
“‘Senhorita’—I like that—but I’m with the others. We’re the Agency of the Ancient Lost and Found and we’ve come to get a head.”
“And I’ve already told you my position,” I said, turning to our host. “Do you believe this brotherhood will really come for you here?”
“They already have,” Senhor Carvalho said, setting his glass down on a side table. “The security around the property was strengthened long before Ricardo’s death and we put patrols in place even then, but it was still not enough. We believe they have found one of the ancient tunnels snaking under this land and have access to the property beyond my property lines.”
“And your staff?” Peaches asked.
“Most are like part of the family but I feel as though we are constantly watched,” Senhor Carvalho replied.
“Nevertheless, any security can weaken over time and every detail requires constant evaluation. I saw the fence when we entered—impressive but not foolproof,” Evan remarked.
“There lies the dilemma, Senhor Barrows. It is almost impossible to secure fifteen acres of property given the present circumstances, especially since the greatest security risk lies underground.”
“You say that there’s a network of tunnels below the property?” Peaches asked.
“An extensive one and that system extends all through Sintra. Many are impenetrable, others have been secured with gates and blockades, and many still remain undiscovered. Ricardo had been excavating one in particular that led him eventually to an underground tower—more of dry inverted well—where he met his death. It was quite a find archaeologically but we begged him not to continue, to leave it alone, to stop inviting this madness into our lives, but he could not let go.”
“A dry inverted well?” Rupert asked. “That would be a find indeed.”
“It is really more of a subterranean inverted tower used for long-ago ritualistic purposes. Ricardo used to tell us about it,” Markus remarked. “It is a fascinating find actually, one of great historical import, but would require a huge investment to excavate properly.”
“And Ricardo believed it has been in use by the Divinios for centuries and possibly even recently,” Senhor Carvalho continued. “The widest part lies on top with a circular stairway leading around and down to a narrow bottom platform that was most likely an altar of some kind. One access can be gained from under the site of my granddaughter’s dragon fountain, which leads to a network of tunnels, and the other entry point, which is far more direct, lies in the forest. That one we’ve gated.”
So that’s where Draggy fit in. “Where did Ricardo go missing exactly?” I asked.
Senhor Carvalho heaved himself to his feet and shuffled over to a large map cabinet, indicating for us to join him. “I will show you.”
Soon we all were gazing down on a large diagram of something th
at almost looked like a funnel-shaped tower with an open staircase twisting around and around and ending at a dizzying drop to the platform below. Worked in pen and ink, each aspect of the drawing was rendered with precision and labeled in Portuguese.
“This is Ricardo’s drawing and is, I believe, an accurate depiction of the site he was excavating at the time of his death. Most of the initial structure was intact and appears to have been repaired multiple times across the centuries by various civilizations and interests,” our host explained.
“Ricardo showed me a photo he had taken of the diagram back in Spain just before he returned here to begin his own excavations.” Markus leaned over and took a photo with his phone. “It will be thrilling to see it in person.”
“We will arrange for a tour tomorrow,” Senhor Carvalho said, “but I warn you, the area is treacherous and you cannot go in there without a guide.”
Peaches whistled between her teeth. “A disaster waiting to happen, no matter how you look at it.”
“And a disaster did. My son disappeared near this subterranean tower in April. There are deep fissures left over from the earthquakes all through that area and it appears as though he was thrown down one of them. Our staff searched everywhere but found no trace. A full rescue operation was not possible with lockdown in effect, but that may have made little difference. Even now the authorities believe the area too dangerous to risk a more invasive search.”
“Is there a possibility that he may have fallen by accident?” Evan asked.
“Absolutely none, in my opinion. He had roped or barricaded off every exposed treacherous crevasse. Besides, he was last seen by his workmen standing by the gate about to lock up for the night.”
“And were the workmen trustworthy?” Rupert asked.
“They have been in our employ for years. No, the Divinios tackled him when he was alone, dragged him back into the tunnels, and pushed him to his death. The fissures are so deep we may never retrieve his body, and with the area’s instability, the authorities will not even try. I have considered launching an excavation with my own resources now that lockdown has lifted, but the risk of the whole garden collapsing is too great.”
The Crown that Lost its Head: A Historical Mystery Thriller (An Agency of the Ancient Lost & Found Mystery Thriller Book 2) Page 12