“How heartbreaking,” Rupert commented. “I am so very sorry. To lose a son…well, it is must be excruciating.”
“Thank you,” Senhor Carvalho acknowledged. Though his voice trembled, it refused to crack. “Where heartbreak is concerned, what may be the most difficult for my family is the lack of closure. My dear granddaughter still believes her daddy is alive…somewhere…and how can I convince her otherwise?”
“But are you certain he isn’t still alive?” I asked.
“To be alive and not return to his family? That makes no sense at all,” the gentleman insisted, “and it has been far too long to think that he may have survived…down there.” As his gaze turned to me, it’s as though I felt the burden of his grief.
“Do the authorities believe the Divinios were involved?” Evan inquired.
“Very few know the Divinios even still exist. One doesn’t mention their name without fear of censure. It would be like saying that my granddaughter’s dragon comes alive at night, so no, they have no idea. I certainly would not introduce the subject. Instead, they believe Ricardo must have fallen down one of the fissures by accident, as if Ricardo would ever be so careless. No, the Divinios killed him, pushed him down one of those shafts, killed my son as if his life was of no consequence, and now they will come after the rest of my family.”
“My deepest sympathies, Senhor Carvalho,” Peaches said, “but why do you think they’ll come after your family?”
“Because shortly after Ricardo’s death I received an anonymous phone call threatening just that if I didn’t stop searching. I planned to stop—did stop for a time. How could I not when my son had gone missing and they threatened my family? Then Jose Balboa contacted me, followed by his recent murder, and here you are. Now it starts again.”
We fell silent for a few seconds. I glanced at Markus and found his gaze so fixed on that diagram that it was as if he hadn’t heard.
“Your condolences are appreciated. Now you must excuse me but I will retire for the night,” our host said with a sigh.
“Of course, you must be exhausted, sir,” Rupert said.
“It has been a longer day piled onto an even longer few months and I am too weary—weary in body, weary in soul. Besides, I must go to bed before my daughter-in-law scolds me.”
Leaning heavily on his cane, Senhor Carvalho stepped away from the cabinet, paused, and turned back to us. “Please consider this library your own. It will always remain open for your use. All of the material my son gathered on the Divinios is here, plus more besides. Do not worry about awaking me because I sleep far overhead in the main tower.” He pointed above, causing us all to look up at the ceiling. “Good night for now, my friends.”
We watched him shuffle toward a carved wooden door at the far end of the room and said our good-nights as the door clicked shut behind him.
“I believe I will retire for the evening, as well,” Rupert said wearily. “It has been a long day for all.”
I checked my watch, amazed to discover it was already 11:32. I had been stifling yawns for the past hour. “Yes, it’s definitely past my bedtime, too.”
We all agreed that we’d had enough for one day and made our way for the door. Just before exiting, I cast one look over my shoulder at Titian’s Queen Isabella. It was all I could do not to bow.
Rupert sidled up to me. “Magnificent, isn’t she? But I was dumbfounded to find two such royal portraits here, one being by Titian, since so few remain in private collections.”
“Apparently, both paintings have been in the family for centuries and the Aviz family will not let them go.”
“I cannot blame them, in truth. Had I a queen in my family lineage, you can be certain that I would want her likeness reigning over my household for eons.”
“Don’t you have an earl or two in the family tree?” I asked.
“Low-hanging fruit in comparison, Phoebe. Not the same at all,” he sighed.
Rupert’s late wife had been the daughter of a British earl, so his affinity to royalty was much stronger than mine. Nevertheless, since his own father had been an antiques dealer, he was much closer to the common man—and me—than he preferred to acknowledge.
We continued on our way, the five of us wending toward our quarters through the hushed house. This time we took an elegant main staircase that led three floors up to our wing.
By now, I was realizing the extent of my exhaustion, and the others must have been feeling the same since we barely spoke. All the other family portraits hanging on the staircase walls passed without comment.
The stairs ended at the top landing next to Rupert’s turret.
“I’m surprised there’s no elevator here,” Rupert huffed as he opened his door. “There is one, but it heads up the main tower from whence we came, a private one for Senhor Carvalho’s convenience, but I daresay another is required.”
I hid a yawn.
“Maybe we can ask for a tour of the house tomorrow?” Peaches suggested.
“As much as I’d enjoy seeing the entire castle,” Evan said, opening his door, “the subterranean chambers and the inverted tower interest me more.”
“You are such an on-task dude, Ev.” Peaches grinned at him.
He grinned back. “I try. Don’t forget to scan your rooms, friends,” he reminded us. “You never know who’s watching. There’s a scan app on your phones.”
“Oh, you mean for bugs. Right. Night, gentlemen,” Peaches said. “I suppose that’s his version of ‘sleep tight,’” she whispered as we strode down the hall. She pulled out her phone. “I’ve never used the bug app before. I presume it’s the feature with the green beetle icon?”
“Yes. Just tap the icon, hold down the volume button, and run your phone over every lamp and crevice. If the light remains green, you’re good. If it turns red, let me know and we’ll do the removal bit together. I doubt we’ll find anything but it’s best to be sure.”
“Cool.”
We passed a table with a bowl of flowers and a three-tiered painted lamp, also some small landscape paintings, and continued on to our respective rooms. I gave Peaches a little good-night wave and entered my turret.
Stepping inside, I paused. No matter how tired I was, I had an unwavering prebed ritual: first secure the door, then scan the room for surveillance bugs, next prepare a getaway outfit in case I needed to bolt. Yes, that had become my traveling life in a nutshell. All other basic nighty-night things like brushing teeth and washing my face had to wait.
Step one: I threw the antique brass bolt—rudimentary but presumably sufficient in a castle surrounded by guards, or so I hoped. Step two: I powered up my phone, skimmed the earlier text messages, and tapped the green bug app icon. In seconds, I was scanning every likely spot to plant a bug while awaiting a flashing red light alert on my phone. None came. All systems go in the surveillance department.
That done, I peeled off my clothes and pulled on my van Gogh sleep shirt, put my shoes next to the bed, and flung my jacket over the closest chair. There. My final task was to lay my phone faceup beside my bed with the detector app activated. This handy feature would alert me should it detect an intruder’s body heat. That done, I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and collapsed. Once my head hit the pillow, I was out.
But I never sleep well the first night in a new bed no matter how exhausted. The first few hours are deep and restful but then something inevitably wakes me up. Sometimes it’s an unfamiliar sound but mostly I end up blaming my internal anxiety meter.
That night I sprung to sitting, glanced at my phone, which detected no sign of intrusion, and sat there with my heart thumping at 3:25 a.m. Since I had turned out all the lights, the room was dark except for a thin bar of light under the door to the hall.
I flopped back against the pillows and lay with my eyes fixed on the darkness above. And tried to sleep. Twenty minutes later, I was still wide awake and feeling thirsty. I dragged myself from the bed and scouted my room for a water bottle, using my phone for a light
. My own empty water thermos had been stuffed in my backpack and I wasn’t sure that taking water from the taps was a good idea. Too much lead in these old pipes. Maybe I’d have to stay parched until dawn or find the kitchen.
Perching on the side of the bed, I skimmed my texts and messages again. Most were a flurry of questions about how I was getting along from Max and assorted friends, a request for a review from the Airbnb in Lisbon, plus confirmations of this and that. It was the message from Connie Collins that made me pause:
Phoebe, how goes the adventure? Be very careful over there, won’t you, and let me know if you need help from this end? And don’t permit my esteemed brother to drive you to distraction. He can be such a pain sometimes but his heart is always in the right place. Put me on speed dial using this number so we can stay in touch.—Connie
Connie wanted me to put her on speed dial? She knew about the Divinios, too, since Markus implied as much.
I responded with: All fine here so far but it seems that there may have been a few critical things you neglected to mention when you hired us.
I was just about to pocket my phone when an answer came back pronto: Mea culpa, Phoebe. Trust that I could not share the details. Surely now you understand why given the gravity of the situation? BTW, is your phone secure?
I trust this phone more than either of you, I answered before pocketing my phone and striding to the window.
Now I was not only wide awake but irritable as hell. Pulling back the curtains, I gazed out into the night.
A beautiful still early morning stretched before me and for a moment I savored the Moorish castle far on a hill to the right with its illuminated crenellated parapets before skimming over the village below. A quick glance and it could be an Alpine village with all those ornate roofs bathed in up-lit grander. Taking a deep breath, I attempted to still my twitching self.
I was about to raise the window to get some air when I caught a flash in the garden below. I stared. There it was again, just a burst of light quickly extinguished. Somebody in the garden with a flashlight?
Backing away, I pulled my jeans on under van Gogh, snatched my jacket and phone, shoved my feet into my sneakers, and tiptoed to the door. I simply intended a reconnaissance to see who might be up and about that early.
The lamp was on, the hall hushed and still, as I padded along heading toward the main staircase. At first I assumed that my companions were all asleep until I saw a light beaming from one door—Markus. Without hesitating, I knocked softly, expecting a moment of commiseration between the sleepless. When no one answered, I nudged the door open far enough to find the room empty.
Backing away, I picked up my pace and marched off down the hall. Could Markus be the one wandering the grounds by himself? Not likely since he hardly seemed the courageous sort, but maybe he’d seen somebody awake about the house.
In seconds, I had dashed down the four levels where the kitchen lay, where I paused. Everything was dark, not even a night-light. To my knowledge, nothing lay to the right except laundry and storage with a corridor leading to the main wing, while to my left lay the kitchens and back entrances. If Markus was in the kitchen, surely he’d turn on a light?
I was just about to head back upstairs when I heard whispering. Or at least I thought that dry scratchy hissing sound coming way back in the darkness was whispering. I listened, a chill running up my spine. Why would anyone be down in the dark whispering unless they were up to something?
I padded down the hall in the direction of the sound, using nothing to guide my steps but the memory of a wide straight corridor where I’d entered the day before. After five yards, the sound abruptly stopped. Now I couldn’t tell which way to turn, left or right? Then came a shuffling sound, followed by a click, followed by silence.
Turning on my phone light, I padded in that direction but there was no way I could tell exactly from which of the warren of rooms the sounds came. I spun around, hoping for something to go on, but nothing lay ahead except a long hall of endless rooms combined with mute silence. Turning, I headed back for the stairs.
I badly wanted to track down Markus. What were the chances that that was his light I’d seen outside or that he’d been one of the night prowlers on the bottom level?
When I reached the second floor, I paused, noticing a light about midway down the hall. Had I missed that on my way down? I’m certain I hadn’t. That would be the library. Taking a deep breath, I strode forward and burst through the door. There at one of the room’s numerous work tables sat a bedraggled Markus, head down over a spread of documents and printouts.
“Markus?” In the lamplight he looked as though he’d been dragged headfirst through a thorn bush.
He glanced up, shoving a strand of hair from his forehead. “Phoebe? Couldn’t sleep, either, I take it?”
I stepped forward, noting the half-empty teacup with the damp squeezed bag on the saucer rim, the crumpled biscuit wrapper, the little pocket flashlight on the side of the table. “Have you been to the kitchen?”
“Not necessary. Our hosts have kindly set up a carafe of hot water and snacks on the buffet against the wall.” He thumbed in that direction and, sure enough, an ewer of water and an electric kettle sat on the counter.
My gaze returned to the archaeologist. “I must have missed that announcement.”
“One of the employees set it all up earlier last night.”
“And you’re sure you haven’t been outside tonight?”
He laughed. “Are you serious? Do you really think I’d just walk out one of those doors and trot around that garden of earthly frights by myself?”
“Well, you are a forensic archaeologist, so if anyone has the stomach for ‘earthly frights’ it would be you.”
“Let me guess: you saw a light?” Something flickered behind his eyes.
“A light in the garden moving around.”
“Probably one of the night watchmen. Apparently, there are guard teams prowling the grounds. Wouldn’t that make more sense than accusing me of some pointless nocturnal ramble?” He sat back and crossed his arms. “You really don’t like me much, do you?”
“You haven’t given me much reason to.”
"I admit that I deceived you and accept all the blame and recriminations that I deserve, but I am not your enemy, Phoebe. I am not working with the Divinios to overturn life as we know it, but remain firmly on the side of the good guys attempting to prevent destruction. Look—” and he shoved a drawing toward me “—this is my latest theory.”
I picked it up and studied the notations printed out by hand on a photocopy of Ricardo’s tower diagram. “What’s this?”
“My assessment of where the crown may lie based on what we know now.”
“And what do we know now?”
“That the Divinios are likely here on this property and therefore so must be the crown. I theorize that it may be hidden below the altar at the bottom of this well that we will finally visit tomorrow.”
“But wouldn’t Ricardo have found it before now?” I was peering at the arrows pointing to the rectangular shape at the base of this unusual construction. Strange etchings appeared to be chiseled into the rock. “Are those hieroglyphs?”
“Roman numerals and a cross. Ricardo discovered the remains of at least two forms of ancient writing on the slab including what he hypothesized to be the Roman numeral I. The point is that multiple groups spanning many centuries have been using that altar for their purposes.”
“Making it the perfect place to bury a crown?”
“Exactly.”
“A bit obvious, isn’t it?”
The blue eyes magnified behind those glasses held a twinge of annoyance. “That was the area he was working on before he died and possibly the reason they killed him, Phoebe. Think.”
“I am thinking.”
“It’s the only thing we have to go on and the evidence speaks for itself.”
I made an effort to rein in my pique. “Depends on what language you use.”
I cast a quick glance toward Queen Isabella standing in the shadows. I turned back to the archaeologist. “Well, thanks for sharing, Markus.”
I couldn’t help but reach out and pluck a leaf tangled in his hair. “Been sleeping in the woods tonight, have you?”
And with that, I poured myself a glass of water and returned to my room, more convinced than ever that Markus was up to something.
10
The next day after lunch we assembled in the garden under the watchful gaze of Senhors Abreu and Afonso plus two other men to whom we were not introduced. Both of the new guys kept their heads down and made no eye contact.
“Please do not stray from the path,” Afonso said. “We take you by safest route. There must be no changes.”
Abreu nodded. “We take you to the well, down the stairs to see altar, then quickly back. No lingering.”
“Very dangerous,” Afonso added. “Stay behind me. Stay on path. Senhor Abreu, he follows last. Our men help you if needed.”
And so we set off through the garden, heading for the forest, traveling in single file like young children with their daycare teachers. Markus remained directly behind Afonso while Rupert, decked out in his safari jacket with a wide-brimmed hat and looking more prepared for a wildlife trek, followed behind him. Somehow I ended up dead center between Evan and Peaches with Abreu and the two men bringing up the rear.
For some reason I had pictured the entrance to the mysterious well to be closer to the castle but we left the gardens and headed for the forest instead.
It was, I realized as I gazed around, the epitome of the fairy-tale woodland. Tall trees shielded the forest floor from sunlight while a rich threading of white woodland flowers bloomed amid the ferns. The paths were wide and in places even manicured, with small pools opening up here and there to reveal swans floating in pale splendor on the calm surfaces. One such pond even had a little castle-shaped duck house on the center island.
“Even the ducks live well here,” Peaches remarked. “Many of these are specimen trees.”
The Crown that Lost its Head: A Historical Mystery Thriller (An Agency of the Ancient Lost & Found Mystery Thriller Book 2) Page 13