“Many famous people have studied here,” Parker continued as they rode past another one of the colleges. “Scientists, poets, prime ministers, Nobel Prize winners.”
She stared at the gray stone statues of two lions perched in front of a building like little sphinxes. Was that a library or a dormitory? “You trying to intimidate me, Parker?”
“Hardly,” he chuckled and turned down another road.
Could have fooled her. But she shook off the discomfort and focus on the reason for their journey into the past.
Since it was Sunday Dr. Swift was at home, so they followed the River Cam over a winding path to a cozy, fenced-in house made of stucco and red brick with lots of cheery windows and a many-gabled roof.
Miranda got out of the car and marched alongside Parker up the quaint, flower-lined walkway.
He used the lion’s head knocker and after a moment a small woman with dark shoulder-length hair dressed in black slacks, top and sweater appeared.
She seemed confused to see two strangers at her door. “May I help you?”
“Mrs. Swift?” Parker asked.
“Yes.”
He extended a hand. “I’m Wade Parker of the Parker Investigative Agency in Atlanta, Georgia. We spoke on the phone?”
“Oh, yes. The American detective. I didn’t expect you so soon.” She took Parker’s hand and shook.
“This is my partner Miranda Steele.” Miranda shook the woman’s hand as well.
“Good morning, Ms. Steele. Come in, both of you, won’t you?” She opened the door and stepped aside. “I suppose you’d like to see Cedric straight away?”
Parker nodded. “If it’s not inconvenient.”
“Oh, no,” she sang out. “He’s back here in his study, as usual.” She led them through an airy hallway lined with family photos to a back room with the door closed.
She knocked on it softly. “Ceddy? The American detectives are here.”
A half-muffled voice came from inside. “Yes, yes. Show them in.”
She opened the door and Miranda and Parker stepped into a large, high-ceiling office painted in light creamy tones and lined with the requisite bookshelves of a scholar. But these weren’t the ancient history books of George Eames’ rooms or Sir Neville’s office at the museum. These were sleek technical books about advanced calculus and algorithms and computer languages.
The space smelled of tea and technology.
On the opposite side of the room near the window, hung a whiteboard covered with strange marks. Boxes and lines and angle brackets and words Miranda couldn’t understand. A large mug sat on a modern style desk with a big screen computer monitor. Behind the desk was a thin man with a face that, though he was Sir Neville’s age, glowed with youthful enthusiasm as he studied the screen. The only hair on his head grew around the edges in a distinguished light gray.
He leaned forward, took a sip from the mug, set it down again. He pointed at the screen with glee. “Now, there’s a bugger of a bug.”
His wife cleared her throat. “Ceddy?” she said in a gentle tone that told Miranda she’d been handling her husband’s eccentricities for many a year.
The professor looked up as if coming out of a pleasant dream. “Say what? Oh, yes. So sorry.” He laughed and gestured toward the screen. “I’m testing a video game one of my students turned in. It shows real promise. Still has some flaws though.” He turned back to the screen with a frown of concentration.
“Ceddy?” his wife said again. “These are the detectives? About Neville’s case?”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” He turned away from the screen, his face instantly somber, his receding hairline peppered with lines of concern. “Please. Have a seat. Both of you.” He gestured toward chairs.
They made the usual introductions and did another set of handshaking while the professor’s wife slipped quietly out, shutting the door behind her.
The professor frowned at Miranda. “Why do you look so familiar? Oh. The telly.”
“Really?” She gave Parker an awkward glance.
“The news yesterday about…” His voice went thin. “Dreadful business. Just dreadful. I can’t imagine…” Shaking his head, he stared out the window. “Poor Neville.”
Miranda felt her neck turning red. On the news? She’d been on the news? If she could find that reporter who’d buttonholed her yesterday, she’d put her shoe up her ass. No time for that now.
She sat forward. “Dr. Swift,” she began, eager to get to the chase. “We understand you and Sir Neville Ravensdale went to school together here?”
A wistful smile layered over the anguish on his face. “Yes, we did. A long time ago. We were—are—friends.”
“Are you still close?”
He tapped his fingertips together as if the answer took some thought. “Not really. Christmas cards, the occasional alumni function, that sort of thing. We spoke last night, of course. I rang Neville after we heard the news. Only briefly, though. He was inundated with calls…I suppose we’ll attend the funeral.”
He had that lost look she’d seen on Sir Neville’s face yesterday and her heart went out to him.
He shook himself out of his thoughts and sat up. “Oh, would either of you care for anything to drink? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten my manners.”
“No, thank you,” she said.
Parker sat back in his chair, crossed his legs and began a more leisurely approach. “Dr. Swift, tell us about your time as a student. Yours and Sir Neville’s.”
The professor frowned as if he found the question odd. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Parker shrugged. “Was Sir Neville a good student?”
“Well, of course. He was an excellent student. Rose to the top in his field. But he came from humble beginnings. Did you know he attended here on a full scholarship?”
“No. That’s very impressive.”
“It is indeed.”
“And were the two of you close to anyone else? Any other students?”
He nodded. “Why, yes. There were four of us. Trenton Jewell and George Eames were the others. We were all in Emma—Emmanuel College—together. Used to play on the cricket team twice a week. Great fun.” He grew quiet for a long moment, indulging himself in his thoughts of days gone by. Then his mouth opened as if he’d just found a set of lost car keys. “I heard George was arrested for the incident at the museum. Is that correct?”
“He’s been released,” Parker said.
The professor sank back in his chair. “That’s a relief to hear. George would never do such a thing. He was as honest as the day was long.”
Miranda slid Parker a sidelong glance. Maybe the four weren’t as close as the professor thought.
She picked up the next thread. “So you’re saying Sir Neville and Mr. Eames got along well?”
“Better than well. “Neville and Eames were fast friends.”
She let herself frown as if she was having a hard time understanding him. “But Eames didn’t do as well as Sir Neville. Academically, I mean.”
“George was still an above average student. And everyone knows the entrance requirements here are very arduous.”
“Yes, but all friends have a falling out at some time or another. Did Mr. Eames ever say anything to you about Sir Neville? Something that indicated anger perhaps?”
His eyes grew round. “What are you saying, Ms. Steele?”
“Was there ever any tension between them? Did they argue? Stop speaking to each other?”
He looked at her as if she were crazy. “No, never. Two peas in a pod, I always called them. Both of them mad for archaeology.”
She leaned in a little more. “Mr. Eames never had a reason to be jealous of Sir Neville?”
He blinked at her, completely stunned. “Jealous? No. I really don’t understand what this has to do with anything if George has been released.”
Miranda was silent, waiting for the impact to sink in.
Parker sat forward and studied the professor a long
moment. At last he threw the punch. “I understand one of Sir Neville’s teachers gave him a coin once.”
Dr. Swift’s brows drew together. He stared down at his keyboard. After a long moment the memory came to him. “Oh, yes. I’d forgotten about that. Professor Kent gave it to him. It was an old Roman coin.”
The one Sir Neville still carried in his pocket. The one he’d showed them at the polo match.
He lifted a shoulder. “It didn’t mean anything to me but Neville was absolutely thrilled.”
“How did Eames feel about that?”
The professor frowned. “He was very happy for Neville. I think they went out and celebrated. I think Trenton went with them. I didn’t go for some reason. Can’t remember now.”
Miranda scooted forward in her chair. “And Mr. Eames wasn’t the least bit jealous?”
“No.”
“Didn’t he love archaeology just as much as Sir Neville?”
“Of course, he did. But he wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t the type.”
“Mr. Eames didn’t think Professor Kent should have given the coin to him instead?”
Dr. Swift’s mouth opened in horror. “What on earth are you trying to say, Ms. Steele? Do you think I’m lying? I’ve told you…Oh.” He got that faraway look again.
Parker got to his feet. “What is it, Professor Swift?”
“I see. I’d forgotten that as well. There was an argument. Well, not a bad one. But afterwards he did say it wasn’t fair for Neville to get the coin.”
Miranda’s heart began to race. “Mr. Eames told you that?”
Slowly Dr. Swift shook his head. The minutes ticked by as he connected the memories like a logic problem. At last he spoke again, his voice more somber than before. “No, not George. Trenton. It was Trenton who was jealous.”
She sank back into her chair. Trenton Jewell?
“Are you sure it was Mr. Jewell?” Parker asked.
“Yes. He wanted to be in archaeology like George and Neville. Just didn’t have the mind for it. I didn’t either of course, but I never cared for the field…Come to think of it. That was when Trenton changed his course of study.”
“Changed? Wasn’t he a law student?”
“No. He started out in archaeology, too. He turned to law after Professor Kent gave Neville the coin. I suppose he thought it suited him better. Turns out it did. I hear he’s very successful as a barrister.”
Miranda’s head was spinning. She glanced over at Parker and saw him frozen in front of the desk, his jaw tight.
The professor blinked at both of them with a boyish expression very close to guilt. “Have I told you what you came here to learn? I hope I haven’t said anything I shouldn’t have.”
“No, you haven’t, Professor Swift.” Parker assured him, recovering with a polite smile and a final handshake. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Parker drove back to London breaking speed limits all the way. But the whole trip Miranda fidgeted and tore at her hair, wishing they had wings or a police copter or a supersonic jet.
“He lied to me. Right there on his floor bleeding all over me while I was saving his life, that bastard lied to me.”
Parker didn’t reply but she heard a low rumble from his chest while he scowled at the road ahead.
Couldn’t this car go any faster? “He has the dagger. He has to. Scorpion had been Jewell’s client. Jewell must have made some kind of deal with him and then tried to double-cross him.”
“But it didn’t work.”
She waved her hands in exasperation. “No. That’s why Shrivel left him alive. If Jewell didn’t give up the dagger, it would be worse next time, just like he threathened him. And here I thought Shrivel was just a lousy shot.”
Parker held the wheel steady as they sped around a long curve. “Scorpion’s not the type to trifle with. If Jewell doesn’t give him what he wants, he may not stay alive long.”
So they’d have to save his ass again to get the dagger back. That sucked. Her mind began to wander back to yesterday afternoon. “Did Shrivel kill Lady Gabrielle as a warning to Jewell?”
Parker considered that a long moment. “Perhaps. She said he was a friend of her family.”
“She said he’d gotten her off on DUIs. And she knew about the dagger’s security at the museum from Sir Neville.”
Parker’s eyes narrowed as it hit him the same time it did her. “She was in on it.”
“She passed the information about the code and the keycard to Jewell, who passed it to Shrivel.”
“Who threatened Toby Waverly for it.”
“Oh, God. That really was Shrivel who called Lady Gabrielle yesterday. He was trying to find out if she had the dagger. And when she said she didn’t know, he killed her.”
“Or he told her Jewell had it and then she was expendable and knew too much.”
Crazy, reckless young woman. If only they could have figured this much out before. If only they could have saved her.
Miranda chewed on her lower lip as her troubled thoughts chewed on her stomach lining all the way back to the city. It was afternoon when they reached the outskirts and Parker headed straight for the hospital where Jewell had been taken last night.
Parker had gotten the name from one of the paramedics and had called and checked on him before they left town this morning. The report was he’d come out of surgery all right and would live. Not if she could get her hands on him.
“They probably won’t let us in,” she moaned as they hurried through the front door.
“Not if I can help it.”
Inside the hospital, Parker worked his magic and got Jewell’s room number. But the nurse at the ICU station on the third floor was a different story.
She studied them with a weary gaze and shook her head. “I’m so sorry Mr. Parker, Ms. Steele, but—.”
“We’re here on official business,” Miranda said, resisting the urge to pound her fist on the counter.
The woman’s shoulders sagged. “I’m afraid it isn’t that.”
Miranda frowned. What new trick was this? “What is it then?”
The nurse pressed her hand to her face and Miranda saw the heavy shadows under her eyes. “Mr. Jewell’s dead.”
What? “We were told he came through surgery last night and would survive.”
“No, that’s not what happened. He must have woken up and…” Her gaze shifted to a small waiting area across the hall. She raised her arm and pointed with a ghostlike gesture at the television.
Miranda turned around, stepped across the floor and into the room to get a better look. On the screen the reporter that had attacked her yesterday was standing in a subway station, microphone in hand.
“According to tube officials, the tragedy occurred at 5:02 this morning, just as the first train passed through.”
The picture switched to a witness. A middle-aged man in street clothes wearing a look of terror. “It were awful. Bloody awful. The conductor tried to stop but there was no time. The man leapt off the platform right in front of him.”
Back to the reporter. “Paramedics tried to revive the man but his injuries were too great. Unfortunately, he expired on the spot. When police arrived on the scene, they identified the body as London barrister Trenton Jewell.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
They headed back to Scotland Yard. Where else could they go for answers?
Half an hour later they were again in Inspector Wample’s office, sitting across from the two haggard-looking officers of the Crown.
The tang of death and defeat hung in the air like the London fog.
“Inspector,” Parker began. “We have reason to believe Trenton Jewell was involved—”
Wample raised a hand. “We know, Mr. Parker.”
Miranda glared at the man.
He closed his eyes and exhaled, then opened a file on his desk. He took out a sheet of paper and handed it to Parker. “He left a suicide note.”
Parker scanned
it, passed it to Miranda.
Her breath growing rapid, her gut tense, she dared to look down on it. As she read the neat script-like handwriting and spoke the bone-chilling words out loud, her skin felt as cold as ice.
I, Trenton Bartholomew Jewell, being of sound mind and body—save for the pain from my recent gunshot wounds and surgery—do with this instrument confess my crimes against humanity, against the Crown, against my friends.
For these long decades, I have carried within me a deep, abiding resentment against my university friend, Sir Neville Ravensdale. I tried to deny it, contain it, wrestle with it, but to no avail. Over the years, the resentment grew to jealousy, the jealousy to envy, the envy to hatred.
Neville had everything I wanted. He was favored by professors at school. He was gifted in the profession I longed to follow but had no talent for. He took the woman I secretly loved as his bride. He was knighted for his accomplishments. With each success Neville had, the more my ire for him festered.
Miranda put her fingers to her lips suddenly remembering Lady Davinia said Jewell had proposed to her.
And when he discovered the priceless Marc Antony dagger, my loathing for him bubbled over and broke open like a cancerous boil on my heart.
When I heard Lady Gabrielle Eaton joke at a party that it would be funny if the dagger were stolen, I saw my opportunity.
Miranda looked at Parker. “She was involved.”
He nodded. She read on.
I knew Lady Gabrielle. I sought her out and told her if the dagger were to be stolen, Neville’s marriage to her mother-in-law would be over in a few months, and it would make her husband happy. And I secretly hoped Lady Davinia might turn to me again.
I knew of Lady Gabrielle’s husband’s dislike for Neville. Everyone in their circle did. I knew Lionel Halsing, Earl of Eaton had a wandering eye, and Lady Gabrielle would do anything to win back his affections.
But she turned me down. She said she couldn’t pull something like that off. I tried to reassure her she could, but she refused.
Miranda ground her teeth. That bastard. That dirty bastard.
Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) Page 17