by K C West
She hooted. “Oh, good one!” She rolled me onto my back, her hand making a slow, erotic journey down the length of my stomach, belly, and farther south.
It was my turn to moan.
Chapter 6
“I didn’t know that squash was a beverage, Kim. That’s why I gave Arwel that funny look.”
“Yeah, I must admit that one puzzled me, also.” I grinned at PJ as we pulled up to the entrance to the Morrison estate. As we made our way through the winding lanes and narrow side roads, our conversation had centered on the differences in British and American words. I stopped the Rover just outside the gate, and before we could push any buttons or ring any bells, the barrier swung open.
“Now, that’s service,” I said.
“Impressive.” PJ looked around, but stone walls and tall hedges obscured our view beyond the gatekeeper’s cottage.
I pulled to a stop as a short, rather stout man ambled out to greet us. He had a handlebar mustache and florid complexion. “Good day to you both,” he said, looking us over. “You’d be Dr. Curtis and her colleague, from America?”
“That we would,” PJ assured him.
His tweed shooting jacket and knickers were a bit overdone, in my estimation, but who was I to judge?
“Would you like us to show some identification?” I asked him.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, wheezing. “His lordship is expecting you.” With considerable effort, he walked to the side of the Rover and pointed out the direction to the main house.
“Tis a mite winding, but keep to your right once you round that bend and you can’t go wrong.”
We pulled away slowly, in second gear because of the loose gravel.
“So, where was I?” PJ ruffled her bangs. She seemed obsessed with the language differences, but I always enjoyed her enthusiastic and thorough observations. “Oh, yeah. Napkins are serviettes and panties are knickers. The trunk of a car is the boot, and the hood is the bonnet. A drug store is a chemist’s shop. And that fellow back there - the knickers he’s wearing are called plus fours. I’ll never get it straight. If I ask for a napkin, I’m liable to be handed a diaper. She gave me a weary sigh. “Life can be difficult.”
“Poor you,” I said, smiling at her flair for the dramatic. “But just think here you can ask the desk clerk to knock you up at seven in the morning and not encounter any embarrassing repercussions. Try that in the States.”
“Ha!” She gave my arm a poke. “Trust you to find a sexual reference in all of this.”
“Me? I was only contributing to the conversation.”
Our attention focused on the well-graded driveway, flanked on the left by lawns and flowerbeds. To the right of the driveway, a manicured privet hedge fronted well-tended fruit trees. In the distance, the spray from a fountain caught the late morning sunlight.
“Wow! Look at that,” I said.
“AH those chimneys.” PJ craned her neck. “They must have at least fifty fireplaces.”
“One for every room. Old houses like that are often cold and drafty.” I had stopped the car, giving us time to take our first view of the three-story, gray stone structure that must have covered at least two acres and appeared to grow out of the surrounding landscape.
“And I thought Windswept was something. It would fit into one wing of this place.”
“Add a couple of turrets and a moat, and it would qualify for a fortress.” I eased my foot off the brake and allowed the car to roll forward.
*
A pull chain off to the side of the massive front door operated the bell. We could hear it jangling from deep within the bowels of the structure. I was about to pull on the chain again when the door was opened and a dour, middle-aged woman, whom I suspected was the housekeeper, indicated that we should follow her. PJ and I glanced at each other as she led us down a long, mahogany-paneled hallway. Between doorways, trophy heads gave us baleful stares as we passed under them.
Everything smelled musty, as though it had been closed up for too long a time, like a tomb just opened. The hair on my neck prickled, and I looked over my shoulder, half expecting to see someone, but no one was there. PJ and the housekeeper were several yards ahead of me, however, so I hurried to catch up.
We were shown into a large drawing room, where more dead animals glared at us from walls covered with embossed maroon paper. Several overstuffed chairs, two sofas, a heavy, ornate coffee table, and a sofa table were arranged in haphazard fashion on a colorful East Indian rug. It alone saved the room from the monotony of maroon, gray, and navy blue. One of the overstuffed chairs, the only one upholstered in leather, appeared to be well-worn.
“Does this guy still have a wife?” PJ asked after the housekeeper had left.
“I think so, but you know more about the Morrisons than I do. They’re your father’s friends.”
“I don’t think I ever met them, although Dad said I did when I was very young. I don’t remember even hearing much about them.”
“You’re a lot of help.”
“What can I say? I doubt that Dad had seen or heard from them in thirty years or more. Until he got the letter asking for my help, that is.”
“Life sometimes forces people apart, and it’s easy to lose touch.”
She grasped my hand. “That’s not going to happen to us.”
“No way, my darling.” I gave her hand a squeeze. “You can count on that.”
PJ dropped into an overstuffed chair, almost disappearing into the folds of the cushions. She sneezed as gray dust rose around her, metamorphosing into bright, jeweled flecks. We watched them float about in the thin beams of sunshine that fought their way through gaps in the velvet drapes.
“This is a museum,” she said.
“That it is.” The man’s voice startled both of us and embarrassed my partner. Lord Morrison was a tall, well-muscled man with graying hair and a full mustache.
“I’m sorry,” PJ said. “I didn’t mean - ”
Morrison waved off her apology. “It is a museum, Dr. Curtis. Jenny and I live in the East wing when we’re here, but we prefer to be at our cottage in Conwy.”
“You know me? I mean, you know which of us is which?”
“Why, yes. Frederick talked about you all the time. He even sent the occasional picture.”
I frowned.
He turned to me. “And you must be Dr. Kimberly Blair. I wasn’t expecting to have the services of an archaeologist of your reputation. It is an honor.”
Now, I was uncomfortable. “Thank you.”
“You must forgive me if I stare,” Morrison said, turning again to PJ “but you are so much like your mother - a beautiful woman, if I may say so. You have her eyes, you know, so alive.”
“Thank you,” PJ said.
“Your parents were a most handsome couple. It was a terrible thing for all of us when we heard about your mother.”
PJ’s eyes glistened. “Thank you, again.”
“Sit down, please.” Morrison pulled the bell cord on the wall before settling his bulk into the leather chair. “I’m delighted you agreed to come.” He crossed his legs, revealing red, white, and blue Argyle socks. “I must explain my reason for asking you to come here, to Wales.”
“Yes.” PJ gave me a quick glance. “Your letter to my father didn’t give us much information.”
“I need your assistance in solving a mystery.”
“We’ll do what we can, of course,” I said, “but I’m not altogether sure that it’s archaeologists you need.” I perched on one end of the dusty sofa.
Morrison held up his hand. “Please hear me out before you decide.”
The door opened and a petite young woman in a dark dress and white, lace-edged apron appeared, bearing a tray with tea and a plate of plain and chocolate cookies, which the British called biscuits. We sat in silence while she poured the tea, handed us each a plate, and served us. She met my smile with a stony expression.
Morrison stood up, his back to the empty firepla
ce. He pulled at his thick mustache. “I don’t quite know where to start.”
“The beginning is good,” I said, seeing that PJ’s attention was focused elsewhere.
“Quite so.” Morrison cleared his throat. “As you know, this is my ancestral home. The house is twelfth century. Nothing much has changed through the years, except, of course, some of the furniture. I couldn’t stand to live here all the time.”
“Neither could I,” PJ said with a shudder. “All these animal heads. It’s criminal. What did they ever do to spend eternity in this mausoleum?”
“PJ, please, not now.”
“I suppose the brave hunter who shot him,” she continued, pointing to a Bengal tiger skin hanging on the wall, “was on the back of an elephant.” Her finger stabbed at a black bearskin rug. “And he was probably bagged from an airplane.”
“That’s not for us to judge.”
“The hell it isn’t. This man is so proud of his ancestors, and they were nothing but a bunch of - ”
“PJ, that is enough.” My tone must have registered. She turned to face Morrison. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Instead of appearing stricken, Morrison grinned. “By God, woman, you not only look like your mother, you have her fire as well. Frederick must be damned proud of you.”
“Lord Morrison,” I said, trying to steer the conversation back on track, “what exactly is it you want us to do?”
“First, you must call me John. This Lord business is a crock.”
“All right, I’m Kim. And, of course, you know that this young lady is the incomparable Priscilla, or PJ.”
She threw me her best “wait-until-I-get-you-alone” look.
“How about another cup of tea?” Morrison asked.
“Not for me, thank you.” The British regimen of serving tea at the slightest excuse was giving my bladder fits.
“You’ll have your work cut out for you.” Morrison poured another cup for himself and one for PJ.
“What do you want us to do?” she asked, reaching for another chocolate cookie. “We’re still a little fuzzy on the details.”
“You know, of course, that I’m a descendant of Owain Glyndwr, though as Americans, you may not have heard of him.”
“I believe my father mentioned your relationship,” PJ said, “but don’t underestimate us. Our schools may suffer from violence and lack of funds, but some of us still manage to learn something. If I remember correctly, Glyndwr led a rebellion around the year 1400. Unfortunately, Henry the Fourth of England forced his retreat. I guess that’s all I know about him, but it’s something.”
“You’re right.” Morrison paced slowly back and forth across the room. “What you don’t know is that he disappeared around 1412, leaving Wales in turmoil.”
I glanced at PJ. She met my gaze, but shared no hint of her thoughts, so I turned back to Morrison. “You want us to find out what happened to him?”
“Oh, no. I have another, very different project for you.”
“And what would that be?” I wondered what the discussion of Owain Glyndwr had to do with anything.
“Follow me.” Morrison turned and strode rapidly out of the room. I extended my hand to PJ and pulled her out of the deep chair in which she was foundering. She grabbed another cookie before following me, her hand cupped beneath it to catch the crumbs.
At the end of the hall, a low door opened to a flight of stairs that led down to the cellar. It was cold, a natural refrigerator. Racks of cobweb-covered wine bottles lined one wall. “You must take a couple of bottles with you,” Morrison said. “There are vintages in there that are over three hundred years old.”
“Wow! A glass of that would short circuit your bionics.” PJ winked at me. “Maybe we could crack one open for our anniversary,” she added, loud enough for me alone to hear.
“I’m a scotch man myself,” Morrison said. “Scotch on the rocks.”
He opened a door into a dark, windowless room. “There’s no electricity in here, but if you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll have some light for you.”
Four gas-fed torches flamed, a pair on both of the longest walls. Their flickering shadows enhanced the already spooky atmosphere. Dark soot marks on the ceiling indicated that the torches had burned often throughout the centuries, but that they had not always been gas-fed. In the center of the otherwise stark room, a marble pedestal held a glass case, the top slightly askew.
“Take a look and tell me what you think.”
PJ and I glanced at each other before circling what, on closer inspection, was a glass coffin. The padded, satin-covered bottom was imprinted with the shape of a body. I turned to Morrison. “Who was in here, and where is he or she now?”
“I believe the body was that of a Celtic chieftain.”
I heard PJ draw in a breath.
“As for his whereabouts at the moment, I don’t know. He was stolen.”
PJ’s eyes widened. “Stolen! By whom?”
“That’s why you’re here.”
I frowned. “We’re not detectives. This is a police matter.”
“I don’t want them involved.”
“May I ask why not?”
“The Welsh authorities wouldn’t approve of the interment of an important Celtic chieftain in a private home.”
“I’m inclined to agree with them,” PJ said. “Private ownership of historical treasures, human or otherwise, robs people of their history, the ability to reveal the past.”
“I disagree. Families like ours…” He stared at her. “We shouldn’t have to share everything with the unappreciative masses.”
I could see PJ’s jaw tighten, and I had to bite my own tongue.
“Please don’t include my family in your assessment, Lord Morrison.” Her voice was firm. “Neither I, nor my father, share your feelings on that subject.”
“Are you certain of that, my dear? Perhaps you’ve been estranged from Frederick too long to judge.”
“You know about that?”
Morrison gave her a confident smile. “Of course. Frederick and I are close friends.”
I watched and listened to the exchange while doing my best not to get caught up in a discussion that really was none of my business. My mind, though, was bursting with questions. I was building up a dislike for this man. Friends? What could he and Frederick still have in common? And what about his Welsh heritage? If his feelings for Wales were so strong, surely he would want to share such a treasure. Why was the Celt here in the first place? How had he gotten here? Then, I had a more scientific thought. “How well-preserved was the body?”
Morrison appeared surprised, as if for a moment he had forgotten I was in the room. “Uh… very well. The features were distinct. Hair, skin, even some bits of clothing were still intact.”
“That might not be true anymore,” PJ said.
He looked from one of us to the other, brows knit. His expression showed that he was in unfamiliar territory.
I pointed to the glass coffin. “This would have been airtight. If the remains were not immediately replaced in another airtight container, they probably would have disintegrated by now. They would have suffered damage just being removed from one container to another.” I shook my head. “Chances are the thieves weren’t experts in the preservation of human remains. That being the case, your Celt has been lost to everyone concerned, including the masses.”
“That’s my reason for wanting you two to take charge of this investigation.”
PJ and I looked at each other. She said nothing; her expression revealed even less.
“All right,” I agreed with reluctance, but questioned my decision when a vision of Marna appeared in front of me. She was standing, legs apart, with a drawn sword held crosswise and flat bladed across her chest. I shook my head to clear the vision, which faded quickly. “Uh - let’s just say that we’ll see what we can do. We won’t promise anything, though, until we have more information.”
Morrison appeared relieved. “T
hat’s all I ask.”
Despite my reservations, I was curious. “Where did the body come from originally?”
“My great, great grandfather’s man discovered it in Cors Caron, the Tregaron Bog. He, my ancestor, murdered his man to prevent the discovery from being revealed.”
“Nice ancestors,” PJ murmured.
I walked around the coffin, looking for smudges that might indicate fingerprints. The glass appeared to have been cleaned and the crime scene obliterated. “And you know for a fact that the remains were those of a Celtic warrior?”
“Yes, and according to my ancestor, an important one.”
“One more thing. Was the body filled out?”
“What do you mean?”
“If the bog was acidic, the bones would be poorly preserved, but the organic remains would survive very well.” I glanced at PJ. She seemed lost in thought and content to let me take the lead. “To be preserved as well as you say he was, he would have been treated with chemicals after he was removed from the bog.”
He stroked his mustache. “I’m afraid I still don’t follow you.”
For someone who supposedly dabbled in antiquities, he didn’t seem very well-informed.
PJ turned toward him. “Bodies have been discovered in bogs before, here and in Ireland. The last one, I believe, was discovered in Ireland in the seventies. These bodies are well-preserved and appear tanned like leather. The chemical makeup of the bog dictates the degree of preservation. One of the most famous was the Tollund Man, discovered in 1950 in a peat bog in Denmark. It was determined that he died two thousand years ago. He was so well-preserved that he appeared to be asleep. Because of limitations at the time, they were only able to preserve the head, that being soaked first in formalin and acetic acid, then alcohol, toluol, and wax.” She looked from him to me. “I doubt these thieves had knowledge of such techniques.”
“I can only tell you what I know,” Morrison said. “As for the condition of the bones, I never actually touched the body. It was always just there, in the case.”
PJ and I shared a look. She seemed to want me to make the final decision. “We’ll do what we can,” I said.