by Julie Sarff
Croesus was the King of Lydia from 560 to 547 B.C. until his defeat by Cyrus the Great.
Hmm, I snicker, Sean used “was” in the very first sentence, what a boring verb. I’m sure every college student reading this would have immediately fallen asleep in a pool of their own drool.
I read on and remember to be respectful of the dead. After establishing who Croesus was, Sean immediately dives into the King’s lost treasure. This part is much more interesting. He’s written what I already know, namely that King Croesus was king of Lydia, which was the wealthiest country of its time. And the search for the King’s treasure has been stranger than fiction. About one hundred years ago, a huge fortune in treasure was found by tomb raiders in the tumuli outside Sardis. That treasure sparked an international feud when the Metropolitan Museum of Art bought it illegally and then mislabeled it, either knowingly or unknowingly, so that for a long time the Lydian Horde, as it was known, was effectively lost. Then one day, a Turkish reporter got a whiff that the Met may have purchased the treasure illegally. He went strolling through the museum until guess what he saw? The Lydian horde proudly on display under the title of “East Greek Treasures.”
There ensued a huge legal battle between the Turks and the Met. When the Turks won their treasure back, they built a museum in a tiny town outside Sardis. Fast forward one-hundred years and Tamara Bank’s team, using ultrasound and other advances in technology, locates a perfectly intact tomb chock-a-block full of coins and jewelry, pottery and objets d’arte. A tomb that may have belonged to a queen of Lydia, perhaps to Croesus’ wife herself. Like a shark smelling blood, Schnellings believed the time was right for a new biography of Croesus. They sent Sean and me to do research. They sent us to Sardis, where we got down and dirty and helped with Tamara’s excavations.
I flip to the next pages in the file. More facts about Croesus. I skip them and flip the page over. Then I gasp.
The next item in the folder is a picture of me and Sean together, arms around each other, at the Sardis dig site. Disturbingly, someone has cut my head out of the photo with a pair of scissors.
It immediately dawns on me how alone I am here in the Cotswolds, not knowing a single person.
I flip the photo over and read a very chilling message. “You’re better off without her” is scrawled across the top and the whole thing is signed, “Love, E.”
Who the heck is E.?
I sit still, feeling spooked and staring at the rain and fog out the window. A few minutes later, I return to flipping through the file. My jaw drops with each picture. There are photos of over one hundred different archeological objects in this file. Objects I don’t remember seeing when we were at the site. There are photos of golden urns with elaborate carvings, tiny broaches in the shapes of animals, and early gold coins with Croesus’ head stamped on them.
Still, these pictures shouldn’t really be all that shocking. It’s not a strange thing for someone working on a biography of King Croesus to have pictures of newly found archeological objects that shed light on what was happening during his reign. Yet the way the pictures are photographed disturbs me. It’s as if it was all done hastily, by someone using a cell phone.
My mind goes one step further—were these pictures snapped quickly and then sent to a third party —someone who deals in illegal antiquity sales? Could Sean and Tamara have been in cahoots? That would explain his ability to pay for this new cottage. Selling even a fraction of the pictured archeological items would pay for the walls that currently surround me.
I turn to the last picture in the file and gasp again. There’s a picture of a glorious wreath made up of hundreds of tiny gold flowers. That’s what Tatum’s creepy neighbor in 4B reported that Tamara dropped in the hall way outside Sean’s apartment. But what is this doing in a file marked Sardis? This crown appears to be a classic Macedonian funeral wreath. They are very rare and worth millions of dollars. And they are not connected to Croesus in any way.
I lean into the sofa. “Sean, Sean,” I mumble to myself, “If you did what I think you did, then I never really knew you at all.”
Sipping another pint of ale at the bar that evening, I think the logical thing to do would be to call Tamara Banks and clear up this whole mess. Quite obviously, I have jumped to conclusions.
I should also call Detective Puyn at the NYPD and tell him about Sean’s files here in Bourton. As it is, I could be tampering with evidence.
I run a hand through my hair in frustration. It’s all such a mess that I sit at the bar long after I have finished my drink. I need to get moving though. I need to make it an early night. Tomorrow I will be heading back to London. I rang up Alistair and he has agreed to show me the nursery in Kensington Palace, where Prince Alex spent much of his youth.
“You are welcome to see it, as long as you don’t describe it in too much detail. You mustn’t write exactly where it is located inside the Palace, as that could be a security risk for the royal family,” he explained. I agreed with him wholeheartedly and rang off.
After being chatted up by a large, balding man with horrible teeth for thirty minutes, I walk home from the pub in the chilly night air. I enter my cottage around back, walking through the garden and inserting my key in the conservatory door. Somewhere in the night, a dog gives an angry bark and I jump. A second later, I scoot through the door returning to the tranquility of my living room.
For some reason, I feel spooked. The hair on the back of my neck rises. I feel as if I’m being watched. As I switch on the lights to the stairway, I catch a glimpse of something moving, outside in the garden.
My heart stops. A figure with a dark hood strides comfortably passed the rear window, not the least bit concerned at being seen.
My mind reels. Someone is in my garden. What should I do? Should I call 999? Or should I fling open the front door and run for it.
A second later I hear a jiggling of the back door. I decide to run for it. I grab my cell phone out of my bag and race for the front door.
My feet fly as I head up High Street, dialing and shouting for help. In my panic, I run smack into that same large, balding man who was chatting me up at the pub.
“Help, help,” I scream, “Burglarin my house!” I point in alarm at the front door of my cottage which is flung wide open. For whatever reason—a misguided sense of chivalry, perhaps — the fat man shouts, “A burglar in our town?” and takes off towards my cottage like a hound after a fox.
Not me. I continue up the street, screaming at the top of lungs, watching as lights fly on in the cottages nearby. In such a sleepy place people become immediately alarmed at the sound of someone screaming bloody murder. I reach the pub where I just downed the pint in panic. A second later, I am connected to someone at 999.
“What’s the address of your emergency?” a voice comes on the line. “There’s a burglar in my cottage, no. 4 High Street,” I shriek and the handful of people in the pub turn to look at me with concern.
“Oh, you poor dear,” an elderly woman with heavily-scuffed shoes comes over to reassure me. “The police will nab him, I’m sure.”
Another man replies, “A burglar in Bourton? Preposterous.”
The general sentiment seems to be outrage that such a serious crime could be happening. Bourton, I am told by the barkeep, hasn’t seen any crime other than pickpocketing in ten years. But tonight, the tide is going to change, because tonight Bourton will see its first murder in more than a hundred years.
Chapter 13
The police detective tells me I can’t remain in the cottage. It’s an active crime scene. I shake from head to toe glancing down at the fat, balding man that is lying face down on the street outside my cottage.
Was that bullet that killed him meant for me? Or was the murderer searching for something else —perhaps the Croesus file — when the man from the pub confronted him? While the police are busy outside, taking gruesome photos of the poor, dead man from the pub, I glance about the living room. Everything seems intact. The
files look untouched.
A police woman enters and yells at me to hurry. “You need to pack up some things and clear out. You can’t stay here. The police will need access to the crime scene 24/7.” She finishes her speech by telling me that as soon as I’m done gathering up my things, I need to come down to the station for some questioning.
I do as she says. It doesn’t take long to pack all my belongings. At the station I tell the police everything I know. Their eyebrows shoot a mile high when I tell them how the property was bequeathed to me after Sean’s murder.
“Another murder?” the police woman asks. When I’m done relying the facts of Sean’s murder, I contemplate telling them my suspicions. Should I tell them I believe Sean may have been selling antiquities on the black market? I decide to stay quiet. I could be completely wrong. I have no proof. Anyway, the detectives will be combing through the cottage soon and will probably confiscate all of Sean’s files. I’ll wait and let the police come to their own conclusions about the pictures in the Croesus file.
Before I leave, I give the local police Detective Puyn’s phone number in New York. They look very somber and tell me they will be in touch with the NYPD as soon as it’s morning.
“Until then, you need to vacate the premises. Oh, and under the circumstances Ms. Rue, we have to ask you not to leave the country.”
I let out a hollow laugh. Who would have ever thought I would hear that same phrase in two different countries in less than a week?
Chapter 14
They say bad luck comes in threes. The next morning Meg calls me. I’m back at the Sheraton Park Lane after driving to London in the wee hours of the morning.
“The Palace pulled the plug on the project.”
For a moment, I yawn and stretch. Then I ask Meg what in the name of Sargon she is talking about.
“The biography of the Prince, it’s over, in light of that man being killed outside your cottage and all.”
I sit bolt upright. “What?”
“Listen, Trudy, I have no idea what is going on,” she pauses, sounding somewhat accusatory.
“I-I don’t either. Someone broke into the cottage and I barely got out in time. That man who was killed, he was just a neighbor, he thought he could stop the burglar and now he’s dead. That bullet that killed him may have been meant for me, I don’t know,” I hesitate, wondering if I should tell her my suspicions about Sean and Tamara. I wonder if I should tell her about the picture I found of me and Sean in Sardis, the one where my face was cut out.
Before I can respond, Meg spooks me further by saying, “Someone broke into my office last night as well.”
A chill runs down my spine.
“Look, Trudy, if you know something, you have to tell me. Sean’s dead, and now someone may have been trying to kill you… and at the same time on this side of the Atlantic, someone has broken into my office. It’s too much of a coincidence.”
“Honestly, Meg, I have no idea what is going on.”
“Perhaps you should hop on that Tube-Tube thing and head straight to Heathrow.”
“I can’t. The Cotswolds police have informed me that I’m not allowed to leave the country.”
Meg sighs. She sounds exasperated, as if she doesn’t know what to believe.
“Well, Schnellings won’t be paying your expenses anymore since the Palace has terminated your contract.”
“Wait a minute, that’s not fair. I have nowhere to go. I can’t afford a hotel room in London.”
“I’m sorry, Trudy. I really am. We’ll pay the bill till the end of the week. You need to return the rental car too. That’s costing a small fortune. Oh, and you might be happy to know, Tatum made bail. She’s out. She’s got another lawyer. A different one. She hired Nancy Chan, a very high profile attorney here in New York. So I’m sure Tatum will be fine.”
I do feel relieved to hear this. I may not care for Tatum, but I certainly don’t want her rotting away in jail for an act I’m sure she didn’t commit.
“Oh, and another thing; the mailman has been forwarding your mail to me at Schnellings, so I’ve put it all in one large envelope and forwarded it to the Park Lane. There wasn’t much, a few bills and something from the Goodwill store in Brooklyn. Take care of yourself, Trudy,” she adds ominously, “and watch your back.”
With nowhere to go and nothing to do, I return my rental car to the nearest office before heading out for a mind-clearing walk through Hyde Park, another place I used to visit with my parents.
How I love Hyde Park. It seems to stretch on forever. I stop by the small children’s playground and am swept back in time. I can remember vividly being pushed on the swings by my father. I can’t even enter the playground now. It is off limits to anyone without a child. Instead, I make my way slowly along the edge of the Serpentine. An hour later, I am busy purchasing an ice cream from a small vendor near the Lido Restaurant when someone calls my name.
“Ms. Rue?” After the events of the last few days I jump as if I’ve just heard gunfire. I turn around to find, Jack Preston, the man in tweed who chased down my papers in Green Park. He’s walking his bicycle.
“Hello,” I manage, not at all in the mood to talk. The clerk hands me my ice cream and my change. Ignoring Jack Preston completely, I turn to head off deep into the wilds of the park.
But Jack, acting as if we are best friends, catches up to walk along beside me. I glare daggers at him. He smiles back at me. He has a lovely lop-sided grin. For a moment, I am caught off-guard.
“Strolling through the park again? Luckily for you this outing won’t end with you being run over. Marianne is at work, and therefore, not currently a menace to pedestrians until”—he eyes his watch —“she leaves the Ministry of Public Works at five o’clock. You’ll want to be out of the park by then.” He lets out a cheery laugh.
I scowl at him.
“It’s just a joke. British humor, you know. Marianne’s a menace on a Schwinn.”
I still don’t laugh. Given everything that has happened lately, nothing amuses me.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Rue. I don’t mean to bother you. I’m just glad to see you looking right as rain, no longer scraped up or anything. I’m sure my sister Marianne will be happy to hear of your recovery.” He tilts his fedora. I stop walking and look him in the eyes. They are a lovely deep brown. Coupled with his nerdy professor appearance and five o’clock shadow, the man is definitely handsome.
What is wrong with me? I am being rude. Jack’s just being polite. In fact, I think he may be flirting. And I’m happy to hear that Marianne is his sister and not his girlfriend.
“I’m sorry, I was lost in thought. That’s all. I…I…” I just got a man murdered last night, I want to say, but I stop myself. “I just lost my job.”
“Dreadful. You must feel awful. I won’t bother you any longer,” he commiserates and places a leg over his bike as if getting ready to peddle off. “Actually, if you’ve lost your job, and you’re feeling a little blue, why not allow me take you out to dinner.”
“Th-that’s very kind of you, but…”
“But your boyfriend back home would mind,” he ventures with a teasing grin.
“No, no. I don’t have a boyfriend. It’s just I’m a little frazzled these days.”
“Then allow me to unfrazzle you. You are still at the Park Lane? Should I pick you up tonight around sevenish?”
“I’m not really sure that would be a good idea…”
“Nonsense, it’s a great idea.” He throws me another grin.
“I think I’ll just eat in.” I can’t go out to dinner with Jack. I can’t go out to dinner with anyone. How can I trust anyone after what happened to that poor man in front of my cottage last night?
“Fine, we’ll eat in, at your hotel. It’s not my favorite, but the Sheraton restaurant is,” he makes a face, “okay.”
I glance around nervously, unsure what to do. Jack beams at me confidently, then mounts his bike, ready to take off. “It’s a date, then. I’ll see
you at seven at the hotel?” He gives me a parting wave and then rides away in the opposite direction.
Left to my own devices, I wander deeper into Hyde Park, imagining potential threats behind every tree, under every shrub. As I walk, I begin to think about Sean. Unbidden, I see his light blue eyes before me. All of a sudden I am watching Sean smile with happiness. He has just received his first royalty check from Schnellings. He holds it up and laughs.
I walk on. My heart sinking a little with every step. Even though we broke up, I would never have wished any of this on Sean. Even though he left me for my best friend, there is still a part of me that wants to protect him. I want to protect the person of integrity that I thought he was. I suppose protecting his integrity is all blown to hell now. I think Sean was involved in something sordid;I think that is why I saw him change over the last year—watched him grow overly ambitious. Watched him leave me for another woman.
It occurs to me as I stare at the Diana, Princess of Wales Memorial Fountain, how tumultuous life can be. It can change overnight. I watch as the water cascades gently down one side of the oval ring, flowing free and clear. Yet on the other side of the oval, the water takes a twisted and tumultuous route, sometimes tricking the eye, and appearing as if it is going backwards. It’s a metaphor for life. How one part of us can seem calm and serene on the outside, but on the inside there is a darker side, a tempestuous side.
“Poor Princess Diana,” I sniff and a tear rolls down my cheek.
“Ah there, there,” mumbles an elderly woman standing beside me, “People barely even remember her. I was five when she died and that was what? Over 80 years ago now.”
I stop and stare at her. She has a tear in her eye too.