Precious Bones Page 5

  “Yes, you were a pompous ass.” I just stood there waiting for him to leave.

  “Please allow me to make it up to you. Let me take you to dinner, restaurant of your choice.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Turner. Thank you for the flowers.” I made a move toward the door, but he stopped me.

  “Cassandra, please. It’s only a meal. It will give us a chance to get to know each other.” I would have preferred for him to leave, but I didn’t want to be churlish, so I relented. “All right. There is a good Indian place a few blocks from here. We can go there. I’m in the mood for a curry. Would that suit?”

  “Perfectly. Lead the way.” I reluctantly put on my coat and followed him out of the door. Maybe he could explain what he had been doing here the day I came to look at the house, and what he meant by his strange comment.

  Punjab House was a small Indian restaurant located around the corner from St. Paul’s Cathedral. The storefront was not very impressive, but once you passed through the beaded curtain into the dining room the impression was of walking into a Hindu temple. There were ornate wooden carvings on the walls depicting scenes from the lives of Hindu gods and colorful candles burned around the shrine to the goddess Lakshmi, who sat cross-legged on a lotus flower situated on a carved chest of rose-colored wood. She had two arms out in front of her, palms up, and two arms raised behind her holding a flower in each hand. A mural of the snow-capped Grand Pavilions was painted on the back wall, while soft Indian music warbled in the background. Our waiter placed our entrees on the table and departed after bowing subserviently.

  Adrian poured me another glass of wine and then topped up his own glass before inhaling the aroma from his plate of lamb vindaloo.

  “This smells divine. I love this place. Well done.” He took an experimental bite and rolled his eyes in mock ecstasy. I took a bite of my own food and studied Adrian over my wine glass. He was as handsome as I remembered, with those slanted eyes that made me think of being watched in a dark wood by a ruthless predator. His hair fell onto his face and his skin was tanned a golden brown, which was odd for London in April, unless he was a frequent patron of tanning salons. He probably spent his days working out at some gym and then working on his tan.

  So far, our conversation had been mostly about me. Adrian Turner had asked me a lot of questions about my life, and I was beginning to feel that he was strangely fascinated by me. His scrutiny was starting to make me uncomfortable, so I decided it was time to turn the tables on him.

  “Mr. Turner, what did you do before you took over your grandfather’s publishing house?” He had to be at least thirty, and I wondered what kind of privileged existence he led at the expense of his wealthy family.

  “Please, call me Adrian. I’m a photographer,” he took another bite, chewing thoughtfully as he seemed to debate whether to tell me something.

  “Do you take portraits or photographs of nature?” I inquired, hoping to provoke him into telling me more about himself. He seemed to make up his mind and put down his fork.

  “Neither, actually. I graduated from Christ Church College with a degree in Political Science before going off to pursue my real interest. I spent the better part of the last eight years in the Middle East, where I worked as a freelance war photographer, going wherever there was conflict, and stories of human suffering to be told. I spent time in Iraq and Afghanistan, crossing over into Pakistan over the mountains. I was actually in Kurdistan when my granddad summoned me home. “

  “I had no idea,” I mumbled, feeling ashamed of myself. I had assumed that Adrian Turner lived a pampered and easy life, and I found it hard to picture him going native in places I’d only seen on television.

  “Will you remain in London?’

  “For now. My grandfather built his company from the ground up, and I have to make sure that his life’s work is not wasted, so I’ll stay as long as I’m needed and then I’ll see. It’s a little strange being back here and sleeping in a nice clean bed, while out there children are stepping on land mines and fanatical young men are blowing themselves up in crowded squares.”

  “Is it a relief to be back at home?”

  “No,” he answered thoughtfully, “it’s not. After living for years in places torn by war, where innocent civilians are desperately trying to survive and keep their children from getting caught in the crossfire, it’s surreal coming back home and finding people passionately discussing Kate Middleton’s new hat, or David Beckham’s penchant for wearing nail polish. No one really wants to know what’s going on out there beyond the occasional picture in the paper or a brief report on the BBC. It interferes too much with their enjoyment of the finer things in life.”

  I was taken aback by his intensity, and despite my previous decision not to like him, was moved by his passion.

  “So what have you been doing since you got back, besides orchestrating a shake-down at the company?”

  Adrian gave me a sheepish smile. “I’ve been an absolute terror, I’m afraid. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to play at corporate politics, and I’ve managed to step on a number of important toes. Now I’m trying to make amends, starting with our star author. Aside from that, I’ve tried reconnecting with a few old mates from school. Those few get-togethers were scarier than anything I saw in the Middle East. Intense discussions of day schools for their toddlers, and horror stories of waspish mothers-in-law, left me craving some good old Taliban fighters armed with the latest hardware from the Russians. I have become depressingly anti-social.”

  “What of your parents or siblings?”

  “I’m an only child. My father died a few years ago of a heart attack, and Mum is currently living in Miami with her new husband, who made a killing selling knock-off iPod accessories. She has no interest in running the company. I’m the only candidate,” he said with a sigh. “Now tell me about you. Have you been writing?”

  I should have resented the question, but I found myself telling him about my new book. I didn’t mention the candlelit shapes I saw in the house, but told him about the inspiration for my heroine. He asked to see the locket, and I went to unfasten it, handing it to him across the table. He took it carefully and examined the intricate design on the cover for a long time before finally opening the locket. Something came over his face as he looked intently at the picture within, and then at the initials engraved inside. Did he recognize the woman? That’s impossible, I thought to myself. How could he?

  “Where did you get this?” his gaze was intense as he handed the necklace back to me.

  “I found it at a stall in the Portobello Road flea market. It was in a box full of rubbish. I couldn’t believe my luck.”

  “Luck indeed,” he said, looking thoughtful, “what an amazing find.” He gave the locket back to me and turned his attention to the waiter who materialized silently by our table.

  “Would you like some dessert, Cassandra? They have sticky balls,” he added with a wicked grin.

  “Thank you, Adrian, but I think I’ll pass on the balls this time around.”

  Chapter 16

  April 1586

  It was still dark and bitterly cold when Tom, Pippa and Constance left the house on Sunday morning. Thick, yellow, fog swirled around them making it almost impossible to see where they were going, but they knew the way by heart and walked briskly, without speaking. There were very few people about at this time of the morning, but they still took precautions not to be recognized. Tom had his hat pulled down low over his eyes and the girls wore their hoods, making it impossible to see their faces from a distance. They reached their destination and knocked on a low, wooden door. A square peephole opened up, and then the sleepy servant opened the door and let them in. Lady Devon was already waiting for them in the hall, and after wishing them a good morrow, bid them to follow.

  She took them down to the kitchens where the shadows from the hearth flickered on the vaulted stone ceiling. The maids were already hard at work, but they ignored the small procession and we
nt about their tasks. Lady Devon passed through a dusty wine cellar, then led them down a narrow corridor which ended in a low, arched door. She didn’t bother knocking and just walked in. The chamber was narrow, with a low stone ceiling and no windows. It was dominated by a carved altar at the end, adorned with an altar cloth and a large, silver crucifix; flanked on either side by a tall, white candle in a silver candlestick. There was a statue of the Virgin Mary in the corner, and several candles had been lit at her feet.

  Jane’s family was already there and Tom went over to pay his respects, while Constance turned to Lady Devon. “Where is Father Francis?” she asked anxiously.

  “Don’t worry, my dear. He is safe. We thought it best for him not to stay at any one house too long, so he is currently lodging with the Hortons.” Constance took a seat next to Pippa on a wooden bench and took out her prayer book. Lady Devon left the chamber and returned a few minutes later followed by the Horton family and their footman. The Horton children looked sleepy as they took their places on the last bench, and the footman donned a cassock over his clothing transforming himself into Father Francis. The priest was very young, with a fresh, round face and rosy cheeks more suitable to a farm hand than a priest of Rome, but he was very devout, his sermons passionate and rousing.

  Father Francis began Mass without further delay, and they all rose to their feet opening their prayer books. They could not afford to waste time since they had to go to Sunday Mass at their parish Anglican Church immediately after. Appearances had to be kept up, and everyone began to disperse after taking their communion. Father Francis was once again the footman, and the Thornes waited for their turn to leave. It would be unseemly for everyone to come trooping out of Lady Devon’s house together, so they hung back allowing the Hortons and Simms to leave first.

  Lady Devon looked anxious as she spoke to Tom. “The other priest who came over with Father Francis has been arrested by Norris. We hear he is being held in the Tower. Lord only knows what they are doing to the poor man. If he confesses that he didn’t come alone, we are all in danger. He stayed here with Father Francis. He might lead them to us.”

  “He won’t talk,” Tom reassured her. “He would never betray us.”

  “You have never been tortured, dear boy,” she said softly, no doubt thinking of her husband. Lord Devon had been accused of being part of a conspiracy to put Mary, Queen of Scots, on the throne, and had been arrested and held in the Tower for over a year. He currently lay upstairs, unable to move his arms or legs since being stretched on the rack, incapable of speech. Norris had his tongue cut out when he refused to talk and returned him to his wife broken and mad. He would never improve, and death would be a welcome mercy both for Devon and his wife.

  Chapter 17

  April 2010

  “Where are you going?” I called after Tristan as he rolled off me and walked out of the room into the adjoining bathroom. I heard the sound of the shower and pulled up the covers to keep myself warm. It wasn’t like Tristan to just jump out of bed like this, but he’d been distracted the whole evening, and our lovemaking had been quick and not very satisfying, at least for me. Tristan seemed perfectly content. I knew he was still annoyed with me about the house, but I secretly felt it was time he got over that. He hadn’t stayed over even once, which was just as well since I was doing all of my writing at night.

  In the past, I always discussed my characters and plot twists with Tristan, but this time, I was less forthcoming. Tristan was a man of numbers and formulas, and I found it hard to bring up my strange kinship with the past inhabitants of the house. I could hardly tell him that every night I surrounded myself with lit candles, and waited for my characters to come to me and reveal the next part of the story.

  At first, I was only able to see what they did in the house, but after a few nights, I was able to mentally follow them as they went about their lives. Normally, I was the one who decided what happened to my characters, but this time, I felt as if they were telling me. It almost felt as if I was remembering their lives rather than creating them. Of course, that was absurd. How could I remember the life of someone who lived five hundred years ago? But, there was that time when I saw the story on the news. I knew exactly who the young woman had been and how she got there. At this point I knew the beginning and the end, but I was still waiting to find out what happened in-between.

  Tristan emerged from the bathroom with his hair damp and a towel wrapped around his waist. I thought of how gorgeous he looked with his hair tousled and his body glistening with moisture, but he didn’t seem to share the sentiment as he looked at me.

  “Aren’t you getting up? You’re welcome to stay, but I have some work to do.”

  “What, now?”

  “The Nikkei and Wall Street aren’t on our time, remember sweetheart?” He walked into the den and sat down in front of his computer.

  “I have another trip coming up in a week or two. Going to the States.”

  “For how long this time?” I tried to hide my annoyance. The business trips were part of Tristan’s job, but they seemed to be getting more frequent and he was away for longer periods of time. I would just have to use that time to finish my novel so that we could spend more time together when he got back. Summer was around the corner, and I hoped we might be able to get away to the south of Spain or to Amalfi for a week or two. We haven’t had a holiday since last summer, and I was longing to get out of London for a while.

  I reluctantly got out of bed and got dressed. If Tristan had to work, I might as well go home and work too. I kissed the top of Tristan’s head as I headed out, and he waved absentmindedly, already engrossed in the figures on the screen.

  Chapter 18

  April 1586

  Constance and Pippa sat companionably sewing by the fire. The logs crackled merrily in the fireplace driving out the dampness of the early evening and enveloping them in pleasant warmth. Tom had just left to go call on Jane, and the two girls felt pleasantly relaxed and full after their Sunday dinner. Pippa was embroidering a handkerchief, and Connie was mending Tom’s hose. He was constantly snagging them on jagged edges of granite and limestone while working. Connie wanted to tell Pippa about her afternoon with Richard Carlisle, but suddenly changed her mind. Richard was not one of them, and even if he developed any feelings for her, she would never be able to reciprocate them. Connie sighed as she bent over the stocking and looked over at Pippa.

  Pippa’s blue eyes had a faraway look in them as she looked toward the window, a secret smile playing about her lips.

  “You look like a cat that’s been at the cream, sister,” Connie chuckled. “What are you smiling about?”

  Pippa turned her gaze to Constance and gave her a radiant smile. “I’ve met someone, Connie.” That was the last thing Constance expected since Phillipa had just started her employment with the Miltons. How could she have met someone while teaching little girls to read and write? “Who is he?”

  “His name is Sir Anthony Babington and he is so handsome. He came to visit Master Milton and I just happened to be walking into the library as he was walking out. He saw me and instantly demanded an introduction, saying that the library no longer needed candles since my beauty lit up the room.” Pippa giggled prettily and blushed.

  “Good looks and a honeyed tongue. Sounds dangerous,” Connie smiled at her sister. She hoped that Mr. Babington would stay away from Pippa in the future, but her hopes were immediately dashed.

  “As he was leaving, he asked if I would be willing to take a stroll with him in the gardens on Saturday. I told him I would be delighted.”

  “Does Master Milton approve of you strolling in the gardens with strange men while you are meant to be teaching his daughters?” Connie knew she sounded disapproving, but Pippa was only sixteen and still needed guidance, especially when it came to would-be suitors.

  “Oh, I have loads of free time. I work with the girls in the morning after they break their fast, and then again later in the afternoon after luncheo
n. I can certainly make time for a walk with a handsome young man.”

  Connie sighed with exasperation. Pippa made sure to dance around her true meaning, which was that she shouldn’t be spending time with a young man unchaperoned. She knew that mentioning it to Tom would be betraying Pippa’s confidence and felt torn between her obligations to her siblings.

  “Be careful, Pip. How old is the gentleman?”

  “Early twenties, I’d say. Looks to be well off too, judging by his clothes and diamond pin.” Pippa giggled again. Nothing would ruin her good mood, and Constance hoped this Anthony Babington was an honorable man, who would not make ill use of her foolish sister.

  “Does he have a residence here in London? Is he much at Court?” Connie thought it would be best to learn as much as possible about this man.

  “He is the master of Dethick Manor in Derbyshire, but he is in London very frequently on important business. He is much admired at Court.”

  “What type of important business brings him here?” Connie wondered if perhaps Babington was one of the Queen’s advisors coming from a titled and wealthy family.

  “Oh, I do not know about that. I am not interested in all that. Oh Connie, would it not be divine to be invited to Court and mingle with all the ladies and lords? I would wear a splendid gown of peacock blue decorated with diamonds and sapphires, and a tiara to match. I would look so beautiful I would rival the Queen herself.” Pippa smiled at the thought of herself being the center of attention at Court and Connie couldn’t help but laugh. She was still such a child.

  “Pippa, if you want to keep your pretty head on your shoulders, you should never dream of trying to rival the Queen.”

  “I was only dreaming, Connie. No harm in that.” Pippa pouted and went back to her sewing, the subject of her beau and the Court closed for the time being.