“And what are you going to do about it? Turn me in? Are you some kind of government snitch?” She turned her nose in disgust.
“On the contrary, miss, I’d like to help you.”
“Because you want something from me.”
“Of course.” He smiled shamelessly.
“Least you’re honest about it.”
Satisfied that he had convinced her to talk, Marlowe sat back calmly, waiting.
But all did not go according to plan. She slipped from her seat, whirled around, and raced off.
The girl was through the door before Marlowe had even digested the unexpected turn of events.
Making his way out of the crowded Cardinal’s Hat, Marlowe brushed past a very pale, well-dressed man with a pearl-encrusted sword. After a moment, he realized it was Ingram Frizer, whom he loathed. Frizer, Marlowe figured, must be Nick Skeres’ partner on the commodities deal. Like Skeres, Frizer was an extortionist, but one with even fewer scruples. Frizer would swindle food from a starving orphan.
Frizer also made no secret of the fact that he scorned the theater. He’d told Marlowe on more than one occasion that such bastions of idleness and lewd criminal behavior had brought the plague down upon them all. Frizer did business deals for Tom Walsingham from time to time, and whenever he and Marlowe crossed paths at Scadbury House, he would mumble some comment to that effect.
Glancing back, Marlowe saw Frizer sliding onto a bench across from Skeres. They were not looking in his direction, but he threw a scowl at them nonetheless.
“I did as you asked,” Nick Skeres began, speaking softly. “Found the perfect gull…a young gentleman from the country. Desperately short of money. He asked me for assistance this very morning.”
“Then we’re ready,” Ingram Frizer replied. “For our commodity is stored but a stone’s throw from here.”
“What is it?”
“A dozen German wheel-lock pistols.”
Skeres was impressed. “How did you…?”
“They were given to me, as a matter of fact.”
Standing atop a set of water steps on the south shore of the Thames, Marlowe was watching Lee Anderson being ferried over to the Isle of Dogs. She had hopped in the only available boat, and he was stranded. Looking down at his expensive doublet—black silk with silver buttons down the front and along the sleeves—he grimaced, then raced down the steps and dove in. He swam awkwardly, using one arm to hold his satchel above the surface.
After reaching the opposite shore and wiping the fetid water from his face, he dashed after the girl into the woods. Seconds later, he grabbed her arm.
“Rot in hell! Let me go!”
Abruptly he did, murmuring, “Lee Anderson…Leander…”
Lee narrowed her eyes at his dumbfounded smile.
“She’s awake!” he marveled. “How can I ever thank you?”
“Who?”
“My muse.” Phrases about the classical lovers Hero and Leander were tumbling through his head.
“What?”
“Does anything that just happened strike you as oddly familiar?”
“A sodden fool who reeks of the Thames?”
“No, my dear. A dashing swain braving treacherous waters to reach a fiery beauty.”
Playing along, she looked around, as if searching for something. “Dashing swain?”
He laughed. “Although the roles are reversed here,” Marlowe said. “Leander, you see, is the man in the story, whereas you’re…”
Hands pressed to his forehead, he looked at the ground, mumbling to himself. “A maid in man’s clothes…in man’s clothing…no, man’s attire…”
Looking back up, he said slowly, with pride, “Some swore he was a maid in man’s attire, for in his looks were all that men desire.”
Lee nodded. “Catchy.”
Marlowe rummaged through his bag, eager to put it to paper. But before he could find his quill, his breath caught in his throat. He felt something cold against his neck, something sharp. A knife.
“If you turn around and leave right now,” she hissed in his ear, “I just might let you live.”
Marlowe’s tone remained light. “But if I leave, how will you get what you need?”
“What?” She pressed the knife harder.
“You’re hiding out in this den of derelicts because you don’t have papers, am I right?” The Isle of Dogs was a notorious haven for fugitives.
“A fat bastard with three chins took them from me.”
Thank you, Fitz Fat.“Did I forget to mention that I’ve a friend who’s a forger?”
“Keep talking.”
“I don’t know who you are or what you’re afraid of, but I know we can help each other.”
She withdrew her blade.
Facing her, Marlowe gently set his hands on her shoulders. “My name’s Kit. I’m going to take you to the city and get you a set of papers. If you don’t want to trust me, trust the fact that I want information from you.”
Her bluster melting away, she nodded reluctantly. Slipping her knife back into her boot, she grabbed her things from a nook in a hollow tree. Marlowe took her hand and led her back to the river.
Moments later, they settled into a boat bound for London.
13
WESTLONDON—9:37A.M., THE PRESENT DAY
Stepping off a British Airways jetliner, Kate entered Heathrow airport, cleared passport control, and headed for the baggage claim area. The carousel was not yet moving. She checked her voice mail and listened to a message from Jack telling her to call him as soon as she landed.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Tired.”
“Couldn’t sleep, huh?”
“No.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“Actually, this case is exactly what I need. Absorbing. Light.”
“Anything I can do?”
“I’ll be fine. I’m working all day and seeing Adriana tonight.”
“Well, if there’s anyone who can get your mind off your troubles, it’s her,” Jack said wryly. It was true. Adriana was very different from Kate—a superficial party girl, in Jack’s opinion—but he could not deny that her infectious energy and perpetual dramatics made for a fun evening.
“I’ll let you get back to sleep,” Kate said, grabbing her suitcase. “But thanks for calling.”
She passed through the international arrivals gate and scanned the line of drivers for a sign with her name on it. Medina had said he would send a car for her.
“Kate.”
Recognizing Medina’s voice, she turned toward the sound, preparing to tease him for being overly eager to see her. His troubled expression startled her.
“The professor we spoke about?” Medina began. “He’s dead.”
For a moment Kate thought he might be playing games, might have finished their round ofClue without her, but the look on his face said otherwise. As much as she would have preferred it to be the case, Medina was definitely not referring to an imaginary wrench attack in a ballroom.
OXFORD—10:40A.M.
“Shot in the head while bent over his desk,” the stout gray-haired policeman said grimly. “Probably never knew what hit him.”
Kate looked at Medina. His jaw was tightly clenched, and a tiny muscle beneath his brow twitched. They were standing in the late Andrew Rutherford’s office, a cozyL -shaped affair overflowing with books. The policeman, Hugh Synclair, had called because he’d heard their messages on Rutherford’s answering machine.
Though all three windows were wide open, the stench of death lingered. Kate followed Medina’s gaze out to the Christ Church meadows—large swaths of close-cropped grass stretching to clusters of dark trees lining the Isis River. This place must bring back a lot of memories for him, she thought, glancing at the patched dark green velvet couch nestled at the foot of theL ’s smaller leg. Having studied briefly at Oxford herself, she knew how the system worked. Medina would have sat on that couch once a week, reading his essay al
oud to launch a discussion with his tutor.
“No gunshots reported,” Inspector Synclair continued. “So the killer had to’ve used a silencer.”
“Who found him?” Kate asked.
“A student. The night before last.”
“Did anyone report him missing?”
Synclair shook his head.
“He’s a widower,” Medina offered by way of explanation. “No children either…his daughter overdosed on heroin as a teenager.”
God, how sad, Kate thought. “What about the time of death, Inspector?”
“M.E. said three days ago.”
Kate looked at Medina. “So if they’re related—this shooting and the break-in at your place—both could have happened on the same day.”
Medina nodded.
“After you met with Rutherford,” she continued, “whoever learned of your discovery and decided to steal the manuscript probably didn’t know whether you took it with you or left it here. Maybe he dispatched the thief to your place and a second man here at the same time in order to avoid alerting either of you before he got what he wanted.”
“Sounds likely,” Medina said.
“Or maybe it was the same person. Maybe the thief came here first, realized Rutherford didn’t have it, then headed for your house.”
As she spoke, something about Rutherford’s desk caught Kate’s attention. With the exception of a laptop on the far left corner, the wooden surface was bare. Near pristine, in fact, but…“Has this room been cleaned?” she asked, her eyes traveling to the bullet holes and the droplets of blood splattered across the wall.
Synclair shook his head.
“So the killer must have taken the papers or books Rutherford was using when he was shot.”
Seeing Medina’s curious expression, she explained, “The blood on the wall is mostly lower than Rutherford’s head would have been, so the shots must have been fired at a downward angle. At least a little blood should be on the desk, but there’s barely a drop.”
Fishing in his pocket, Synclair withdrew a sheet of paper and handed it to them. “A scene-of-crime bloke sketched a diagram of what the splatter pattern should have been, figuring the type of slug and all. Should’ve been a fair amount of blood, actually.”
Rocking back on his heels, he added, “All day yesterday I was wondering what on earth a tutor could be working on that anyone would want to steal—other than the failing exam book of some spoiled little sod.”
Kate smiled grimly.
“You think he had notes about that manuscript you mentioned on his desk?” Synclair asked. “Copies of the pages?”
“Yeah,” she said slowly, “the timing seems too…much to be coincidence, but tokill him? An old man? It would’ve been just as easy to hit him over the head and take what he wanted.”
“Bloody heartless,” Synclair agreed. “He didn’t care either way.”
“Any leads from ballistics?” Kate asked.
“We’ve got the gun, I think. I expect a match. Not many silenced pistols pass through town. Unfortunately, though, it’s unregistered.”
“How did you…?”
“Some pissed punters were rowing on the Cherwell yesterday,” Synclair explained, “in a shallow section by the Magdalen Bridge. They tipped over, and a girl stepped on it with her bare foot.” Evidently not a fan of drunken Oxford undergraduates, he rolled his eyes.
“An unregistered Hämmerli 280,” he then told them. “Worth a fair whack, apparently.”
“More than a thousand pounds,” Kate said, nodding. The Swiss-made pistol with its custom-fitted walnut grip and adjustable trigger—a discontinued model—was one she’d practiced with on several occasions. “Did anyone you interviewed have any insights, Inspector? See any strangers around, hear anything unusual?”
“Nothing much. A few students remembered noticing his light on quite late three nights ago but didn’t see anyone enter the building. Vera Carstairs, the girl who found his body—it seems they were pretty close, but she hadn’t seen him in days.”
“Can I speak with her?”
“I’ll phone her just now,” Synclair said, flipping through his notepad for the number. After making the call, he added, “She’ll be over in a bit.”
“Would you mind if I look around till then?” Kate asked.
“Not at all. I’d like to see what you find.”
“Thank you.” Relieved, Kate smiled. When their work overlapped, police officers were not generally receptive to her input. Synclair’s willingness to involve her was refreshing.
“I’ll take you to his rooms, too, if you like.”
“That would be helpful,” Kate said. “By the way, did you find a Rolodex? Address book?”
“A diary, in his bedroom. Near blank this past week, though. Just a few tutorials marked in.”
“Do you mind if I borrow his university directory?”
“Go right ahead, but what do you…”
“Shortly before he was killed, Rutherford suggested to Cidro that he showed the manuscript to an ancient language specialist. I’d like to identify any in the area and see if my company can trace a call from Rutherford to one of them this past week. That scholar is the only person we know Rutherford contacted about it.”
Synclair nodded. “Just give me a shout when you’re finished here.”
Medina turned to leave as well. “I’ve got some calls to make, Kate. I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
Alone, Kate looked around the office. Where to start? Maybe Rutherford kept his contact information on his laptop. She lifted the screen and booted it up. Opening his address book program, she was disappointed to find that he didn’t seem to have used it at all, unless the killer had deleted its contents. Kate checked to see if it had been modified anytime in the past week.
It hadn’t.
Biting her lower lip, she skimmed through hundreds of documents, searching for personal notes of some kind—anything that might relate to the manuscript. Nothing.
No loose papers remained near the desk, she noticed, shutting down the computer. A stack of academic journals lay by her feet. She knelt on the floor and flipped through them, looking for any stray papers the killer might have overlooked—a name, a phone number, the time set for a meeting. Again nothing.
“Guess I’ll have to rely on phone records,” she mumbled, rising to her feet. Turning, she decided she might as well check Rutherford’s file cabinet. Most people left their schedule and contact information in more accessible places, but maybe Rutherford’s habits weren’t the norm, she thought. The top two drawers held photocopies of journal articles and other research materials related to his writing projects. Nothing relevant.
Opening the third and fourth drawers, she saw that each folder had a person’s name. Flipping through, she realized that all the names belonged to students. The folders were filled with fact sheets, plans of study, and copies of their essays.
As she pushed the bottom drawer shut, one of the names jumped out at her: Moor.It’s probably just a coincidence, but… Kate pulled out the folder and flipped it open. “Moor” had been Queen Elizabeth’s nickname for Francis Walsingham.
“Oh, my God,” she murmured, shocked to see translations of theAnatomy ’s first few reports along with microfilmed versions of the corresponding originals. So Rutherfordhad been able to identify them as coming from Walsingham’s files, she realized. But had he recognized them immediately—and lied to Medina—or had he studied the copies for a few days,then made his breakthrough? Was he the kind of person who would have hired a professional thief to steal something from a former student? He definitely was not the man calling himself Jade Dragon, because Jade Dragon had hired Bill Mazur to grab her purse two days after Rutherford’s death. Maybe Rutherford had colluded with Jade Dragon to orchestrate the theft at Medina’s home, then been double-crossed?
Hearing footsteps approach, Kate replaced the folder and turned around. A small pale girl with short
pixieish black hair and big bloodshot eyes stood in the doorway, a solemn expression on her face.
“Vera?”
The girl nodded. “Inspector Synclair said you’re a private investigator? That you’re…helping him?”
“Yeah. Thanks for coming. I’m Kate.”
“Dr. Rutherford just asked me to be his new research assistant. We were going to talk about it today…during my tutorial,” Vera said numbly. “I was so excited, I…I still can’t believe someone would hurt him.”
“It must have been awful to find him like that. I’m so sorry you had to face that.”
“Do you know why it happened?”
“I think whoever killed him stole the papers he was working on that night—”
“But he was just writing another history,” Vera interrupted, confused. “Why would…I mean, to me it would’ve been really interesting—a few hundred other people, too—but he only got started a month ago. There couldn’t have been much to nick—an outline, maybe—and it’s not as if selling that would fetch any money. Most people find history tedious, you know?”
“I do,” Kate said. “But I don’t think he was working on his book that night, Vera. He started in on another project this past week. He didn’t mention anything to you in your last session? Anything that sounded unusual? A discovery he’d made, a surprise he’d gotten?”
“I don’t think so. Let’s see…I read him my essay, we talked about it for a while—a couple of hours, actually. Then, as I was leaving, he mentioned the assistant job. I think that’s it.”
“Do you know who his friends were? Which other tutors he was close to?”
“I’ve seen him with the president of Christ Church a few times…a physics tutor called Mildred Archer, um…I can’t think of anyone else just now,” Vera said.
“All his students think he’s lovely, though,” she added, her lower lip quivering, eyes welling. “He’d never turn you away. If you had a few questions or just needed to talk about something. He made you feel…like what you had to say really mattered.”
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