As the kettle boils, Megan recalls her brief meeting with Gideon and the strangely disturbing letter from his father. There’s no way this incident at Tollard Royal is just a burglary gone wrong.
No way on earth.
13
When Gideon opens his eyes it’s morning and he thinks he’s back at home in his own bed. In a blink he realises how wrong he is. He’s in hospital. There’d been a fire and a burglary at his dead father’s house and the doctors at Salisbury District had insisted he’d stayed the night, ‘for observation’.
He’s straining to sit up when the matronly form of ward sister Suzie Willoughby appears. ‘You’re awake, then. How are you feeling?’
He touches his head, now throbbing in protest. ‘Sore.’
She lifts a chart off the bottom rail of the bed, glances at it and inspects him more closely. ‘You got a bump on the head, a split lip and a nasty cut to your left cheek, but the X-rays say nothing’s broken.’
‘I should be thankful for small mercies.’
‘Something like that.’ She looks at his cut face. ‘It’s less angry than it was, but maybe we should put a couple of stitches in there.’
‘It’ll be okay, I’m a quick healer.’
She can see he’s squeamish. ‘They don’t hurt. Not like they used to. Have you had a recent tetanus injection?’
‘Not since I was a kid.’
‘We’ll give you one then and just check your blood for infection, better safe than sorry. How’s your throat?’
He feels as though he’s back in boarding school, being checked over by Sister to see if he’s trying to skive lessons. ‘It’s a bit rough, but I’m okay. Actually, I think I’m fine to go home, if that’s all right.’
She gives him a look that says it isn’t. ‘Doctor will be around in about twenty minutes. He’ll give you the once-over and if everything’s fine, then we’ll discharge you.’ She fusses with the thin blankets. ‘I’ll get you something for the headache and some water for the throat. Best you drink lots of water. Flush the system. The fire you got caught in gave off a lot of smoke and you sucked it down into your lungs. You’ll probably be very sore and coughy for a few days.’
He nods gratefully. ‘Thanks.’
As she waddles off, he thinks about what she said. The fire. He remembers everything now: the intruder in his father’s study, the blazing curtains, the fight in the hallway.
The nurse returns with a plastic cup of water and a couple of small tubs of pills. ‘Do you have allergy reactions to paracetamol or ibuprofen?’
‘No.’
She shakes out two paracetamol pills. ‘Take these and if they don’t work, the doctor will give you something stronger.’
He has to drink all the water to swallow them. Vicky — his ex — used to be able to pop pills, any kind, without even a sip of water, but he has to empty half the Thames down his neck to swallow just one. Funny he’s thinking about her today. It must be the whack to the head. It’s more than a year since they broke up. Queen Vic went back to Edinburgh after completing her doctorate, as she’d always threatened to do, and the separation made them both realise that it was the right time to move on. Shame, Gideon thinks, there are times when he still misses her. Like now.
Sister Willoughby is hovering.
‘Do you think you’re up to visitors?’ She sounds almost apologetic.
Gideon’s not sure how to answer. ‘What kind?’
‘The police. There’s a lady Detective Inspector just arrived in reception.’ A hint of mischief twinkles in her eyes. ‘You don’t have to see her if you don’t feel up to it. I can have her sent away.’
‘It’s fine. I’ll see her. Thanks.’ His head throbs out a protest. Megan Baker is emphatically not the kind of company he wants right now.
14
The Inner Circle assembles in one of the outer chambers of the Sanctuary. A waist-high ring of purest beeswax candles casts a spectral glow over the emergency gathering convened by the Keeper.
Musca stands in the centre, disgrace hanging like a stone around his neck.
‘You have failed.’ Draco’s voice cannons off the cavernous stone walls. ‘Failed your brothers, failed our Craft and endangered all we stand for.’
Musca knows better than to protest.
Draco’s voice grows cruel. ‘For the sake of us all, summarise the list of “gifts” you left for the police.’
Musca recites them blankly. ‘A tool bag. There was a crowbar, screwdriver, hammer, duct tape, wire cutters—’
Draco interrupts: ‘And enough DNA to convict you for burglary, arson and perhaps attempted murder.’
‘It’s not traceable to me.’
‘As yet.’
‘I have no criminal record,’ protests Musca. ‘My fingerprints or genetic fingerprints are not on file anywhere.’
Draco slaps him across the face. ‘Don’t add insolence to incompetence. Afford me the respect I deserve as Keeper of the Inner Circle.’
Musca puts a hand to his stinging cheek. ‘I apologise.’
Draco looks across the darkened room. ‘Grus, can we make this evidence go away?’
‘Have it lost?’
Draco nods.
‘Not yet. There is the small matter of the policeman he assaulted as well. But later, yes. I’m confident that can be done.’
‘Good.’ He turns back to Musca. ‘Did anyone see your face?’
‘Not the policeman, it was dark. But the son. I am certain he saw me.’
Draco bounces a question across the chamber: ‘Do we know how he is, where he is?’
The smallest among them, a red-haired brother known as Fornax, answers. ‘He’s in hospital in Salisbury, detained overnight, no serious injuries. He’ll be discharged tomorrow, perhaps even later today.’
Grus speaks out, his voice calm and mature: ‘The Lookers will keep tabs on him as he leaves.’
‘Good.’ Draco has another question for Musca. ‘To be clear, you found nothing inside the house that would alert the world to us?’
‘Nothing. I searched all the rooms. Upstairs and downstairs. There were hundreds — perhaps thousands — of books, but no records, no documentation and no letters that in any way mentioned the Sacreds or our Craft.’
Grus speaks again. ‘Perhaps he remained loyal until the end.’
Draco doesn’t think so. ‘We know of your affection for our lost brother, but it is misplaced. His suicide is more than untimely; it’s selfish and potentially disastrous. He knew what was planned and what was expected of him.’
The Keeper switches his attention back to Musca. ‘You are absolutely certain that there was nothing in that house that referred to us and our Craft?’
‘If there was, there isn’t now. I’m sure the fire destroyed the entire contents of the study.’
Draco’s anger and anxiety subside. Perhaps the mistake with the forgotten bag is the price that has to be paid for a cleansing fire that safeguards the secrecy of the Craft. But a bigger problem remains. Nathaniel Chase had a vital role to play in the Craft’s destiny. A key position in the second phase of the ceremony.
Now he’s gone, that role has to be filled.
And quickly.
15
Megan Baker smoothes out her charcoal-grey mid-length suit skirt and sits on the hard chair next to Gideon’s bed. ‘So, what on earth happened to you?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t remember much.’
She glances to the nurse now at her side. ‘Is there somewhere more private than this? A place he and I can talk?’
The nurse has to think for a second. ‘There’s an examination room down the corridor.’ She points. ‘Use that. Flip the sign on the door so you don’t get disturbed.’
Megan looks back towards Gideon. ‘Are you good to walk?’
‘Sure. I’m fine.’ He slowly swings his legs out of bed, taking care the ill-fitting pyjamas don’t reveal more of him than is acceptable. ‘Forgive my appearance.’ He gestures to the striped and faded flannels that finish way above his ankles.
They enter the room and the nurse leaves them.
Megan flips the sign to ‘Engaged’, shuts the door and pulls out two chairs, one from behind a desk. ‘So what happened after you left the police station?’
He feels stupid. ‘I hadn’t really thought things through. After I left you, I realised I didn’t have anywhere to stay. It seemed like a good idea to go to my father’s and sleep there. I suppose deep down I felt drawn to it.’
‘That’s natural enough.’
‘Maybe. Anyway, the back door had been broken open so I called 999 and went to have a look around.’
She laces one leg over the other. ‘You should have waited until the patrol car arrived. Didn’t they tell you to wait?’
He can’t remember if they did, but he doesn’t want to get anyone in trouble. ‘I suspect so. I just wanted to have a look inside and make sure I hadn’t raised a false alarm.’
‘Which you clearly hadn’t.’
‘No. I hadn’t. I saw this man in my father’s study. He was setting it on fire.’
‘How? What exactly was he doing?’
The image is clear in the archaeologist’s head. ‘He had one hand — his left — full of papers and he lit them with a cigarette lighter, one of those cheap little ones.’
‘Disposable. A BIC?’
‘Something like that. He lit the papers, then set the curtains on fire and was about to do the same with my father’s desk.’
‘When you confronted him?’
‘No, not exactly. At first I just pulled the door shut and locked him in. Then I realised I had to let him out, otherwise he’d have probably died.’
‘Some people might have been tempted to leave him in there.’
‘I was.’
‘Good job you didn’t. I’d be charging you with a criminal offence this morning if you had done.’
‘I know.’
She studies him. He’s an academic, not a fighter. One of those men who looks tall enough and fit enough to handle himself but evidently never learned how.
‘So you opened the door and he just starts laying into you?’
‘Virtually. He pushed me out of the way and I grabbed him around the waist, rugby-style. Only I didn’t take him down and he started punching and kicking me.’
She looks at the bruising. It’s unusual. ‘He cut your cheek quite badly. From the mark, I’d say he was wearing some jewellery on his right hand, maybe a signet ring.’
‘I didn’t notice. Just the pain.’
‘I imagine.’ She lifts her handbag from the floor. ‘You mind if I take a shot of this, the outline is really clear?’
‘I suppose not.’
She slides back the cover on the tiny Cyber-shot that she carries, then virtually blinds him with a camera flash. ‘Sorry,’ she says from behind the lens, ‘just one more.’
Another flash and she clicks it closed. ‘We may want SOCO to look at that.’ She drops the camera back in her bag. ‘If we can catch the guy that laid that ring on you, he should go down for assault, burglary and arson. A nice trio, he could get a good stretch for that.’
‘Could?’
‘Afraid so. The English judiciary will listen to any sob stor ies about him wetting the bed as a child, his father being an alcoholic or such like. They call it mitigating circumstances. Did you get a good look at him?’
Disappointment shows on Gideon’s face. ‘No, I’m afraid not. It all happened so quickly and it was really dark.’
Megan has a degree in psychology and spent two years working on secondment to one of Britain’s top profilers. She can see a lie coming before it’s even crossed a guy’s lips. She frowns and tries to look confused. ‘I don’t quite get it. You clearly noticed the lighter in his hand — the BIC. But you didn’t see his face.’
Gideon feels uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know. I guess my eyes were drawn to the flame.’
‘I can understand that. But despite all the light from the fire — from the papers in his hand and from the blazing curtains — you didn’t get at least enough of a look at him to give a rough description?’
He shrugs. ‘Sorry.’
‘Mr Chase, I want to help you. But you’re going to have to trust me.’
He looks surprised. ‘I do. Why wouldn’t I?’
She ignores the question. ‘Are you sure you can’t tell us anything about the man. His size? Weight? Hair colour? Clothing? Anything?’
He can feel her eyes boring through him but he’s staying silent. He has a photograph of the man, snapped on his mobile phone, just before he’d shut the door. The burglar must have been there in connection with his father’s secrets, and he intends to discover precisely what they are long before the police do.
Megan is still waiting for an answer.
He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. I just can’t help you.’
She flashes him a smile so bright he nearly flinches. ‘You will,’ she says with an icy coldness. ‘Believe me, you will.’