Fragments (Out of Time)

by Monique Martin

  “I’d like to begin her beguine,” Elizabeth mumbled as she watched them glide around the dance floor, effortlessly, like they were glued together. It was beautiful, graceful and slightly nauseating. Finally, the song ended and Glenn Miller’s In the Mood came on. Simon and Mrs. Abbott left the dance floor, heads together, whispering conspiratorially.

  The young American servicemen, no older than the incoming freshmen she’d seen every day, hooted and jumped onto the floor. One of them leapt up into the air and came down into a splits that looked so painful, Elizabeth’s hamstring twinged in sympathy. He popped right back up though and two of the men began the most raucous, athletic jitterbug she’d ever seen. The crowd parted to give them room and applauded after each wild flip.

  The beat was infectious and Elizabeth couldn’t stop herself from dancing in place. One of the soldiers saw her and grabbed onto her hand. Before she could protest, he’d pulled her onto the floor. She had no idea what she was doing, but the boys didn’t care. They twirled her, swung her around, picked her up and flipped her over their backs. One slung her into the air and another snatched her up. It was all she could do not to fly into the crowd in a wild spin. Somehow, the boys kept her upright and they jitterbugged and lindy hopped until Elizabeth was ready to pass out or the song ended, whichever happened first. Luckily, it was the song that ended and not Elizabeth.

  The boys from Company B helped keep her mind off Simon. They were loud and charming and hell-bent for fun. Whoever said US GIs were overpaid, oversexed and over here had it right. Except for the pay part. There wasn’t enough money on Earth to pay these boys for what they were about to do. It was horrifying to realize that most of these kids would never see their next birthday. Considering what they were facing, Elizabeth felt ashamed of her selfishness and pettiness earlier. Simon would be fine and they’d do what they had to do to find the Shard.

  ~~~

  For over an hour Simon endured Mrs. Abbott’s ceaseless innuendos. He’d had his fill of women like her. He had been expected, in fact, to marry a woman who had been very much like her, beautiful but cold and shallow, raised to care about herself above all. He’d given that up when he’d moved to America. Had given up, really, on love of any sort. Until Elizabeth. How he’d rather be holding her than Mrs. Abbott right now. However, circumstances dictated something else and Simon dutifully played his part as the willing lover. Judging from some of the looks he received, it seemed he wouldn’t be the only man who’d had the role. She was a rich widow, bored with war and looking for excitement, and, apparently, used to finding it.

  When Mrs. Abbott led him into the Aix-en-Provence room, Simon hoped she was going to show him the auction items, but she had something else in mind. It was all he could do to pry her off him and get to the table with the books.

  “Wonderful items,” he said, barely sidestepping her wandering hand.

  “Find anything interesting?” she asked seductively.

  “Yes.” The Book of Iona was there, but the box was gone. They were so close and still so far away. “This volume, there’s supposed to be an ornate case. Is it here somewhere?”

  “Mr. Watson took care of all the details,” she said, leaning against the table, palms flat on the surface, back arched seductively. “Are you really more interested in some stuffy old box than you are in me?”

  Simon had to tread carefully. “Of course not. It’s just a trifle, but I was hoping to add it to my collection.”

  “You like to collect things?” she said as she walked her fingers up his chest.

  He captured her hand and pulled her against his body. Her eyes went round with surprise and pleasure. “Some things. Is Mr. Watson here?”

  “No, he’s not one for parties. At home in Glastonbury, I’d imagine.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “But why are we wasting time talking about him when there are much more pleasurable pursuits to be had.”

  Simon whispered in her ear. “Yes, there are.” He let go of her and disentangled her arms from about his neck. “Goodnight, Mrs. Abbott.”

  He left the room without looking back. There was a small twinge of conscience, but nothing he couldn’t live with. She’d been playing just as much a game as he had, and they both knew it. Her recovery was certain.

  Simon searched the ballroom from end to end and Elizabeth was nowhere to be found. He was just getting worried when he heard her voice coming from an adjoining room.

  Kneeling on the floor with four American soldiers, Elizabeth scooped up a pair of dice. “Little Joe from Kokomo! The point is four!”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “Hi, Simon,” she said and pointed to a pile of money on the floor. “Look at all my simoleons. I’m a winnah!”

  The soldiers groaned and one even tossed a wad of paper at her.

  “Spoil sports,” she said with a laugh.

  “If you’re finished?” Simon said.

  “Husband,” she said, earning a round of boos from the men. She gathered up her winnings. “Thanks for the loot, boys. Take care of yourselves.”

  The men said their goodbyes and went back to their game. All Simon could do was shake his head. His dear Elizabeth. Give her lemons and she’d build an entire empire of lemon chiffon. To say that he admired her was the grossest of understatements.

  “What? Craps is good clean fun.”

  Simon ushered her back into the ballroom and Elizabeth stuffed her winnings into the donation jar.

  “Did you see the book?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I knew there was going to be a but.”

  “The box wasn’t there,” Simon said.

  “Because that would be too easy.”

  “I know where it is though,” Simon continued with a smile. “However, we can’t get there tonight. We’ll have to leave early in the morning.”

  “I guess that means we should hit the hay early too.”

  “Not quite yet,” Simon said. “There’s one thing I’ve been dying to do all evening.”

  “Pin the tail on Hitler is totally worth the 5p.”

  “I’m sure it is, but that isn’t what I meant.” He took her hand and led her to the dance floor. A beautiful slow instrumental started and Simon took Elizabeth into his arms. They easily fell into the rhythm of the music. He held her close, enjoying the feel of her hand in his and the perfect way their bodies eased together.

  “What’s this song?” she mumbled against his chest, her voice sweet.

  “Moonlight Serenade, I think.”

  She stopped swaying and gasped. Simon looked down his chin to see what was the matter.

  “The moon,” she said, looking up at him. “We missed the eclipse.”

  Simon nodded. “Two days ago.” He’d thought about reminding her of it, but there wasn’t really any point in it.

  Elizabeth narrowed her blue eyes and tilted her head at him. He could see her playing through all that had happened in those two days. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Would you have left if I had?”

  She shook her head. “Probably not, but what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You have a say in this, too.”

  “I do?” he said with a smile.

  “Yes. What you want matters.”

  The words almost came unbidden. Simon only wanted one thing, but this wasn’t the place to ask for it. Abruptly, he stopped dancing.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” He held out his hand to her. “Come with me?”

  She was clearly confused, but she took his hand. “Anywhere.”

  They retrieved their coats from the cloakroom and Simon led Elizabeth out of the hall and into the night. Most of Bath was asleep and the streets were quiet and empty. Their footsteps echoed along the pavement. He’d spent hours and hours trying to think of the perfect place and he’d been thwarted at every turn. Now he realized that it didn’t matter. Only one thing did.

  They were in the middle of
a bridge over the River Avon when he stopped. Elizabeth looked at him with patience and perhaps a little worry. All of the planning he’d done, the need for everything to be perfect was replaced with a singular truth.

  “I don’t want to take one more step alone,” he said.

  Elizabeth nodded. She understood. She always understood.

  “You asked me what I wanted,” he said. “And there’s only one thing in the world I want — to be with you for the rest of my life.”

  He took both of her hands in his. “Elizabeth West, will you marry me?”

  For a brief moment, the world stopped. He held his breath, waiting, hoping, and then Elizabeth nodded, her eyes glistening in the moonlight. “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  Simon pulled her body to his and kissed her. And it was as close to perfection as he could imagine. When he finally eased away, his heart filled for the first time, he caressed her cheek.

  She laughed happily and wiped at her tears. “I had something pithy planned to say when you asked and now I can’t remember it.”

  “Don’t worry,” Simon said. “You have a lifetime to try.”

  ~~~

  Neither got much sleep that night. They made love until the early morning and barely managed a few hours sleep before they had to leave. They got up in a dreamy haze and made love again before the real world forced them to join it.

  It was all Elizabeth could do not to break into song. Actual song. Her heart was bursting with the secret of their engagement. She’d dreamt so many times of what it would feel like and nothing came close to the reality. She felt lighter than air; if someone didn’t tie her down, she might just float away. Simon wasn’t as outwardly giddy, but she could tell he felt the same way. He had a happy smugness about him. His eyes sparked with the love and affection of a wonderful secret shared.

  The celebration would have to wait though. They were as close to the Shard as they’d ever been. If they could find it and destroy it, they could go back to Evan and then home.

  The bus from Bath that morning only took them as far as Wells. From there, they had to find alternative transportation for the final six miles to Glastonbury. Luckily, a local farmer who was returning from delivering his carrots and leeks to Bristol took pity on them and gave them a ride to the edge of town. He told them that Mr. Watson lived in an old estate not far from there.

  They walked up a narrow lane with tall hedgerows to the top of a small hill. Elizabeth’s shoes occasionally sank into the wet soil and it was slow going. The morning chill started to fade as the sun warmed things up. The occasional and repeated realization that she was engaged was overwhelming. Simon apologized for not having the ring. He’d bought her the diamond solitaire she’d admired in San Francisco, but worried he might lose it here, had left it at home. The big doodle. Elizabeth couldn’t have cared less. She was torn between feeling like she’d come out of a cocoon and somehow knowing this was how she’d always felt.

  A shaft of sunlight broke through the curtain of trees and hedges and she noticed something that looked like a large monument in the distance. “What’s that?”

  “Glastonbury Tor,” Simon said, “and the remnants of St. Michael’s Church.”

  The ruins didn’t look much like a church anymore; more like a single slice of what had been. All that was left was a medieval-looking tower set on the top of a barren hill. “Where the fairy king lives?”

  “Some believe so. There’s no dearth of legends about the Tor or the rest of Glastonbury, for that matter. From Joseph of Arimathea and the Holy Grail, to Avalon to Gwynn ap Nudd, Lord of the Underworld and King of the Fairies it’s a bit of a catchall for mythology.”

  Elizabeth caught his hand in hers. “Did I mention we are so coming back here when all of this is over?”

  “Agreed. A honeymoon perhaps?”

  He said it casually, but she saw his expression. He was as near to bursting with excitement as she was. Maybe they could sing a duet at the top of the hill?

  Elizabeth leaned into his side and daydreamed about honeymoon suites and hot monkey sex and they trudged up the rest of the hill to Watson’s manor house.

  Simon rang the bell. When no one came, they tried again. Still no answer.

  “His car’s here,” Elizabeth said.

  Simon followed her gaze. “A car is here.”

  Elizabeth hadn’t walked all the way up here for nothing. She raised her hand and pounded on the heavy oak door. “Hello?” she called and then turned to Simon. “Maybe he’s still asleep.”

  A few silent moments later, she edged around the side of the house with Simon close behind and peered in the window. What she saw made her heart stutter. “Simon, look.”

  The curtains to the study were drawn nearly shut, but there was just enough light to see a man tied to a chair that had been knocked over. “Mr. Watson!”

  When he didn’t move, she knew. They both knew. Mr. Watson was dead. They walked carefully around to the side of the house. The kitchen door was ajar. Elizabeth’s stomach tightened into a cold, lead ball.

  “Wait here,” Simon said.

  “Like hell.”

  Elizabeth followed him inside. The floorboards creaked under their feet. Of course, with all of the pounding on the door and yelling it was doubtful they’d sneak up on anyone now.

  The door to the study was wide open. They stopped and listened, but there were no sounds at all. Slowly, they inched toward the study. Simon peered behind the door to make sure no one was hiding there. The room was large. An imposing desk was on one side and the grand bay windows they’d looked through on the opposite side. The far wall was lined with shelves that were, or had been, filled with books. Now, they were just empty shelves, their contents strewn all over the oriental carpet. In the middle of it all was Mr. Watson, still lashed to the wooden kitchen chair toppled over on its side.

  The smell hit her before they’d even entered the room. It wasn’t something she’d ever forget. It was faint now, but she knew it the moment they crossed the threshold — the unmistakable odor of burned human flesh. Elizabeth’s mouth clenched shut as the bile rose in the back of her throat.

  There was a fireplace to the right of the desk that she hadn’t been able to see from the doorway. For a brief moment, she gave in to the hope that the odor was just the remnants of the fire in the hearth that had nearly burned itself out. The embers crackled softly, but she knew that wasn’t the case.

  “Dear God,” Simon whispered as he moved closer to Watson.

  When Elizabeth came to his side, she gasped.

  Watson’s fingers were twisted and broken. A thick pool of blood spread out from the gaping gash where his throat had been slit. And a red and black angry mark puckered on his cheek where he’d been burned. His face was frozen in a rictus of surprise and agony.

  Elizabeth felt a wave of nausea and had to turn away. Books and papers littered the floor. Cushions from the sofa were torn open, stuffing ripped out. The fire poker lay discarded on the hearth, tossed aside after it had done its work. What sort of person could do that to another human being?

  Simon stood and came to her side. “We need to get out of here.”

  He stepped toward the door, but Elizabeth’s voice stopped him. “No. It’s here. It’s still here.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  She couldn’t, but she did. She felt it with every part of her being. Mr. Watson had died keeping his secret; she was sure of it. “We have to look. We owe him that at least.”

  She watched Simon silently argue with himself. Finally, he strode forward. “Ten minutes. Not a moment longer.”

  Elizabeth nodded and cast another glance at Mr. Watson’s burned face. Her stomach lurched again. Would she have been so brave? She pushed down the revulsion and the fear that threatened to overwhelm her and began going through the remnants of the room. It had already been well-searched. All of the cabinets were open, the shelves empty; the contents strewn about the room. If the Shard was here, it wasn’t sitting on a shelf
.

  “What if he hid it somewhere else in the house?” Simon said as he searched the far side of the room.

  “Would you?” Something pricked at the back of her mind.

  “Probably not.”

  “Where would you hide it?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Assuming he hid it at all.”

  “He knew it was important; why else would he have taken it and left the book? If he hadn’t known what it was, he wouldn’t have been…tortured.” She tried not to look at the body. “He would have just given it to them.”

  Simon nodded and looked helplessly around the room. “Old houses like this have all sorts of secret hiding places. We don’t have time to search them all.”

  “Is this house old enough to have a priest hole?” Elizabeth asked. “Like Grey Hall?”

  “Yes,” Simon said. “I think so.” He went back to the bookshelves. “Feel for catches, anything that slides or unhooks.”

  Elizabeth felt around the edges of the cabinets. She ran her fingers along the seams of wood, working her way toward Simon. There was nothing in the small cabinet and she moved to the large wall. When she reached the middle one, she felt a small piece of wood that wasn’t there in the others. She slid it to the side and heard the latch click. Her heart went from a canter to gallop. “Simon?”

  He joined her and pushed. The back of the cabinet and the shelves swung inward as one unit into a dark hole in the wall.

  “Wow.”

  Simon found a kerosene lamp on the mantle, lit it and came back to peer into the hole. “Hold this.”

  She held the lamp as he pushed the cabinet back and put one leg inside the opening. He took the lamp from her and stepped fully inside. He propped the cabinet open and held out a hand to her. “Be careful. There are stairs immediately to my right.”

  Simon helped her into the priest hole and let the cabinet shut. The air was musty and stale. The lamp lit the cramped chamber in the wall. Simon had to work his shoulders up and down to turn around in the narrow space. “The stairs are just here,” he said. “Hold onto my hand.”