by Davis Bunn
“They’ll drop all their plans in an instant,” Trevor declared ecstatically. “They’d have to, because such a monument would be untouchable.”
“They’d never be permitted to place a lab on the grounds of Castle Keep,” Arthur announced. “Not in a thousand years.”
“With the discovery of that chapel,” Gerald excitedly agreed, “having this place declared a grade-one listed building will be an utter cinch.”
“I say, old chap, that’s positively brilliant,” Percy said. “My hat is off to you.”
“The critical issue here is one of timing,” Arthur warned.
“Quite right. We don’t have a moment to lose.” Percy rose to his feet. “Gerald, our car.”
“Right away.” The young man nodded a farewell to the room and vanished.
“You arrange for the museum muckety-mucks to write up what we need,” Arthur said, already moving for the front door. “Brian here will drive us to the ministry, and we’ll await you on their doorstep.”
“Just one minute!” Gladys cried.
“Not now, dear, this is important—”
“I’ll tell you what it is, it’s an outrage!” She planted herself in her husband’s path. “If you think I’m letting any man of mine make a journey to the ministry in muddy trousers and galoshes, then you’ve got another think coming!”
“She’s right,” Brian agreed. “I feel like my hair is cemented to my head.”
“We’ll stop by the hotel for a quick cleanup, then fly off to process the photographs and assemble the allies,” Percy said, sliding around the table. “You meet us at the ministry.”
“I’ll go lay out your blazer with all the nice medals,” Gladys said, somewhat mollified. “You’ve always said nothing could move the bureaucrats to action faster than a bit of spit and polish.”
Thirty-four
THE ROAD FROM KNIGHTSBRIDGE TO LONDON WOUND ITS way across the Chiltern Hills, rising and falling through forested hilltops and carefully tilled valleys. Over the rumble of the MGA’s deep-throated engine, Brian could hear the calls of cattle and sheep, urging him to ever-greater haste. From some long-forgotten box, Gladys had located a pair of Arthur’s old leather flying helmets. Their interiors were lined in wool, and even with the earflaps unlashed, Brian’s head remained toasty. Traffic was light, trees caused the sunlight to play flickering games overhead, and the wind sang a merry tune. They arrived at the foot of the steepest hill of all; Brian downshifted, the motor’s drumbeat took on a deeper boom, and not even Arthur could resist the urge to laugh out loud.
The hilltop was heavily forested, and the car crested the ridge and drilled a noisy hole down a long straightaway. The walls and roof of their living tunnel tossed the motor’s growl back at them, until it seemed that all the world was shouting with them to fly, to hurry, to reach their goal.
The first indication Brian had of anything amiss was when a second roar joined his own. In the rearview mirror he spotted a battered truck bearing down on them. He watched in disbelief as the distance between them closed, and it was only when he recognized the face behind the steering wheel that he shouted, “Hang on!”
“What’s that?”
But the truck answered for him, as it ground its gears and the motor hit a shrieking high-pitched note, then struck.
Brian floored it at the last moment, pulling away enough so the truck pounded his rear fender and not the side door as Joe Eaves had planned. The MGA slewed violently, but Brian managed to keep hold of the road and not wrap the car around a tree. The closeness of fleeting death raised his voice a full two octaves as he yelled, “What is he doing?”
Arthur swiveled about just as Joe barreled in for a second try. He gripped the top of the windscreen and the doorjamb and yelled back, “It’s that idiot gardener!”
“Hold tight!” Brian’s foot was pressed down so hard it threatened to ram the gas pedal through the floorboard. But the truck was both newer and more powerful, and it roared forward like a shrieking metal beast with hoes for horns.
At the very last moment, Brian swerved as much as the narrow lane allowed. Once more he saved the car from enduring a full-on strike. Even so, the impact was enough to send him careening off the side of the road and onto the cramped ribbon of grass. Tree trunks hurtled by, the bare limbs reaching out to claw them to oblivion.
Finally the tires caught hold, and he slithered back onto the pavement. Immediately the truck’s motor roared, and a snarling Joe Eaves drew up parallel to the much smaller MGA. He took careful aim through the side window, deathly determined that this would be the killing strike.
“Don’t just hang about,” Arthur howled. “Here he comes!”
At the last possible instant, Brian slipped his foot from the gas and hammered both feet down on the brake. The four wheels locked in a smoky scream of burning rubber, and the car slewed sideways. But the sudden change in acceleration was enough to jerk them back out of reach.
Joe Eaves caught the action, but not in time. He whipped his wheel about, but his acceleration was so great that the top-heavy truck whipped up on two wheels. He hit the leaf-strewn verge just as his two near-side tires returned to earth. The truck disappeared between two large trees and vanished into the forest. Over the sound of their own idling motor, they heard the noise of rending metal and shrieking blows and finally a vastly satisfying crash.
Brian’s legs were shaking so hard he found it difficult to remove them from the brakes. Arthur asked hoarsely, “Are you able to drive?”
“I—I think so.”
“Let’s see if you locked the brakes. Put it into first gear and ease down on the throttle.”
It took a long moment to fit his hand around the gearshift and work the clutch. Arthur pretended not to notice Brian’s trembling motions. The old man seemed utterly unfazed by the attack. The motor purred and the car moved forward as though nothing untoward had ever happened.
Brian found he had no choice but to drive over to the side of the road, pull on the brake, and open his door. Arthur asked in genuine astonishment, “Where on earth are you off to?”
“I have to make sure he’s okay.”
Arthur cast a soldier’s disdainful glance back to where the deep furrows plowed across the grass and into the forest. “Joe Eaves received precisely what he deserved, wouldn’t you say?”
Brian answered by walking back on shaky legs and entering the woodland’s cool depths.
He could have followed this particular trail on a moonless night. The truck had uprooted three young saplings, scraped the bark off several trees, and in so doing had clearly slowed itself to a safer speed. For when Brian finally found the attacker, the motor was idling quietly, the truck wedged between two mammoth oaks. Joe Eaves had swiveled himself up on the seat and was using both feet to push with savage fury at the front windscreen. When he spotted Brian’s approach, he redoubled his efforts. The sight was enough to turn Brian around and hasten him back to the car.
Arthur greeted him with, “Well?”
“He’s alive and kicking,” Brian said, climbing in. “Let’s go.”
Thirty-five
TREVOR MET THEM AT THE ENTRANCE TO CASTLE KEEP WITH a strident, “What in the name of all under heaven kept you so long?”
“You try rushing a bureaucrat,” Arthur replied querulously.
“But the auction begins in less than an hour!”
Arthur extended his arm. “Hold off on the complaining and help me out of this motorcar. You’re worse than Gladys.”
“I’ve been twice to the mayor’s, saying you were on your way.” He eased the old man erect, then spotted Brian’s side of the car and demanded, “What happened to your lovely machine?”
The pair of journeyers responded together, “Joe Eaves.”
Trevor walked around for a closer look. “You had an accident with the gardener?”
“Never mind that,” Arthur snapped, brandishing his folder. “That battle’s over, but victory still hangs in the balance!”
Brian matched his stride to that of the gentleman, whose medals glittered magnificently in the light. Ever since Joe Eaves’s futile attack, he had felt utterly protected, sheltered even from the tense moments with the ministry bureaucrat. For a time Arthur had looked as though he would explode from the frustration of dealing with a recalcitrant official. Even though Brian knew full well his occupation of Castle Keep and the future he saw unfolding was edging ever closer to the cliff of abandon, he remained disconnected from the swirl of argument and tension.
Percival Atkins had finally lost patience with the bureaucrat’s endless objections, and strode off in search of the minister himself, who happened to be a frequent visitor to Christie’s hallowed chambers. Brian had sat and watched as if from a great distance while their meeting had then been moved to a vast and ornate conference room. There, two crusty historians on annuity from Christie’s gave unequivocal backing to Percy’s strident demand for immediate action. Over the objections of his own underling, the minister agreed to extend a temporary reclassification of Castle Keep, pending a final decision to elevate the property to grade-one historical significance.
As they raced down the cobblestone lane toward the council offices, Brian began to have swift glimpses of a future beyond this moment and this day. The jolting surges of hope left him feeling as though he were seeing Knightsbridge anew. Not even his rising excitement and the pressure of time could keep him from appreciating what they passed. Their way took them along a medieval estate wall so old it billowed like brick-and-flint sails. Beyond that were centuries-old homes of Cotswold stone, held up by metal stays connected to iron cables that ran through the house. It was only when he passed beneath a row of ancient willows forming a tunnel of light-flecked green that Brian realized what caused him to see everything anew. For the first time since his arrival, he was seeing the village as home.
They halted at the entrance to the council offices for a quick breath. “Steady on, chaps,” Arthur puffed. “Who’s to do the talking here?”
“You are,” Brian directed.
“Give them both barrels,” Trevor agreed.
“Right you are.” Arthur squared his shoulders, pressed through the door, and said, “Once more into the breach, dear friends.”
It was the final word that cast a glow over their passage down the hall and into the mayor’s outer office. Friends. Even when there was the thunder of footsteps behind them, and Brian turned to confront a furious Hardy Seade, the glow remained. It was true, so genuine that not even the man’s boiling wrath could diminish the realization. He was not alone. He was flanked by friends, and this was home.
Seade demanded,“What’s this claptrap about delaying the auction?”
Arthur waited for the mayor to rise from his desk and join them to declare, “Today a temporary injunction has been issued against both the auction and any possible development of the property.”
The county finance manager stomped up alongside Hardy Seade and screeched, “By whom?”
“The Minister of the Interior himself,” Arthur announced smugly.
“That’s a bald-faced lie!” Hardy roared. “The auction is going ahead as scheduled!”
“Afraid not, old chap.” Arthur presented the papers to the mayor. “You’ll see the minister’s chop down at the bottom of the page.”
Hardy Seade pushed Arthur aside. “Let me have that!”
The old man would have gone down had Brian not been there to catch him. “I say, steady on,” Arthur protested.
“Yes, do get a hold on yourself.” The mayor used his body to fend off Hardy’s clawing for the papers.
“But my buyers are already arranged! The deal is finalized!”
“Not according to these papers.” The mayor read aloud, “‘Any intended disposal of said property is hereby postponed until after a review of its historical significance and appropriate heritage classification can be assigned.’”
The tax woman cried, “That is absolutely preposterous!”
Hardy Seade added, “A government survey could take years!”
“Indeed so.” The mayor looked up and offered Brian a genuine smile. “Well, Mr. Blackstone, it appears that you are now an official resident of our little town.”
“But he can’t be!” The tax woman appeared on the verge of coming undone. “This man is a vile, treacherous, irresponsible—”
The mayor revealed a hard edge to both his gaze and his voice. “Perhaps you could tell me why you seem so personally involved in this matter.”
“I . . . He . . .” The tax woman foundered, then gave Hardy Seade a glance of desperate appeal. “Hardy, dear . . .”
“I asked you, not Mr. Seade,” The mayor barked.
She could only manage, “That man owes us back taxes.”
“Which he is now in a position to pay,” Arthur proclaimed. “With interest.”
“Then our involvement in this matter must be strictly limited to upholding the minister’s ruling,” the mayor grated. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I . . . That is . . .”
“You can’t do this!” Hardy Seade waved his fist within an inch of Brian’s nose. “I had enough of this treachery from Heather Harding!”
“You accuse us of treachery?” Arthur’s laugh rang out as strong as the afternoon sunlight. “My dear chap, after the tricks you’ve pulled with Joe Eaves, that goes beyond the pale.”
“Eaves? What does the ruddy gardener have to do with anything?” Seade’s hair sprouted wildly, his eyes bulged. The man looked on the verge of exploding. “We’re talking about Heather Harding and her vile tactics. And now yours! Well, you won’t get away with it, I can tell you that! I’ll—”
The mayor glanced behind their little throng and said, “Ah, bailiff, there you are. Please be so kind as to escort Mr. Seade from the building.”
“Come along, sir.”
“You haven’t heard the last of this!” Hardy Seade attempted to grip the doorjamb as he was pulled from the room, but the bailiff was ready and blocked him neatly. As he vanished down the hallway, he shrieked, “Castle Keep is mine!”
The mayor waited until the outer doors had shut to offer Brian his hand. “Mr. Blackstone, allow me to welcome you to Knightsbridge.”
Thirty-six
THEIR DINNER THAT NIGHT WAS A SUBDUED AFFAIR. CECILIA sat across from Brian, stunned to immobility by the sudden reversal. The old couple were clearly exhausted. Trevor and Molly tried gamely to keep the conversation going, but the effort was too much even for them. Brian sat and marveled at his growing sense of belonging somewhere. He studied the faces about Gladys’s dining table, cast by the overhead light into softly wearied lines. Brian looked from one face to the next, indulging in the joy of knowing that here indeed were friends. Here were family.
The phone’s ring seemed to jangle them all. Arthur returned to the dining room to announce, “That was Percy. His in-house experts have passed tentative judgment over both volumes. The Bible is in sad shape, but he thinks many of the illuminated pages can be restored and mounted as individual prints. The Book of Hours, on the other hand, has the entire house agog. It appears, Brian, that you are now a wealthy man.” He waved his hand across the table and announced grandly, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the new master of Castle Keep.”
“Here, here,” Trevor said.
“You know, something continues to niggle at me,” Arthur went on, fumbling his way back into his chair. “Why on earth would Joe Eaves attack us after the book was safely stowed away?”
“Revenge,” Cecilia suggested.
“Doubtful,” Arthur murmured. “Hardy Seade must have mentioned our excitement this morning, and he could well have followed us out of town. No doubt he sought what we might have been carrying with us.”
“Who’s to understand the workings of such a mind,” Gladys said.
“I for one will sleep better when I hear the police have him under lock and key.”
“There’s something els
e,” Brian said, releasing the doubts he had found surfacing all day. “You know how Percy said the chapel had been untouched for centuries?”
Trevor nodded thoughtfully. “If so, how did Heather know about those tomes?”
Arthur fiddled with his coffee spoon. “Percy’s not the sort of chap to make such a declaration unless he was absolutely certain.”
“I’ve found myself wondering about that as well,” Gladys added reluctantly. “It wouldn’t be like Heather to find such a glorious book and just leave it sitting there in the gloom for years and years.”
“Quite right,” her husband agreed.
Cecilia looked from one face to the next. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Trevor shared her disbelief. “You mean there’s more?”
Arthur demanded, “Search on your knees in the depths, isn’t that what the riddle said?”
“In the manor’s oldest part,” Brian agreed.
“Well, barring the cellar,” Gladys observed, “our kitchen is the oldest portion of the house itself.”
Trevor stared at her. “I don’t recall hearing anything of the sort.”
“Heather told me that on several occasions, I remember it distinctly,” Gladys countered. “Our kitchen was at one time the original scullery of the first Castle Keep.”
Arthur surveyed the gathering, and gave one and all a grand smile. “I suppose you know what that means.”
“Shouldn’t we leave off until tomorrow, dear?”
“Nonsense.” The old gentleman was already struggling to his feet. “The tide of events and all that rot. Come along, let’s get to work.”
Thirty-seven
AN HOUR LATER, ALL THE POTS AND PANS HAD BEEN PLUCKED from Gladys’s shelves, all the cupboards laid bare, all the stains and age revealed. Gladys alternated between helping them stack and standing in the middle of the floor, wringing her hands over the dust and the decline.