And the not-so-innocent, Kris thought, including the one who sat across from her now.
But why? What was the motive?
It had to be there, she told her assistants and the handful of authors she worked with. What was it that drove someone to kill?
Envy? The career he lost with that one decision, if that fictionalized story was only a thin disguise of real events? Something that had been rumored from the moment the book was released, but that Cate had always cleverly refused to discuss.
Greed?
What had he received in exchange for the story? A bigger story? Something that might have surpassed Cate's career at the time, and then never materialized?
Or had he simply taken a payoff to hold back his part of the story. After all, it was only supposed to be a small, regional conflict. Except that it had blown up into all-out war, and someone else found out what he had uncovered, too late to stop what was happening.
Revenge?
It was possible that it was always there, simmering beneath the surface—revenge for the career that abruptly ended as Cate's only continued to grow; the accolades and awards she received that he felt should have been his when the story that started it all hit the bestseller lists. Then the teaching position in England that quickly ended, followed by the position in Paris, and twobooks about Medieval military history…an authority in his own right, who received only brief attention, and then those books quickly ended up on dusty library shelves.
And Cate's part in it? The former lover who tried to help him all those years later, who used him as a source in each of her books with whole paragraphs written about his brilliant expertise and the value of his friendship.
Had he carried that envy and hatred all those years? Then Cate had gone to him with that photograph taken at the end of World War II, something she was trying to track down, possibly another book, and the tapestry. In a twisted, horrible way it was about the story.
“After the accident, I needed to find out what you knew,” Marcus explained. “How much Cate had told you.”
The last he almost spit out, anger and resentment. She was part of it too, Kris realized, probably from that first book. How had she missed it? The cool conversations that hid the resentment, the tone that she now realized had been condescending, resentful.
“The airport in Edinburgh,” she whispered, hoarse from the dryness of gag and that chemical.
He shrugged. “It should have been so simple—grab your bag, and find out what information you had, what Cate had sent you. But you refused to let go, refused to let it all go. Just like her.”
That's where Alyia Malik came into it. It was there in that video from the gallery, that sense of familiarity, then earlier in the van. But she had failed that day at the airport. By then they'd already ransacked the Tavern.
“What about the Blue Oyster in London?”
Was that meant to kill her? What was one more murder?
“That was unfortunate,” he said, again with a shrug of the shoulders, as if it was no more important than a missed call or appointment.
“Again, it was an attempt to frighten you, stop you. But you had a friend that night and unfortunately that reporter got in the way.”
There was that word again.Unfortunate—dismissive, like a piece of lint he brushed away. And the friend had been James Morgan, who saved her life that night.
And others?
Callish knew she would go to see Diana Jodion. She was an authority on medieval tapestries, but could tell them little about the Raveneau tapestry. If she knew where it was, she would have made that known herself. Cate had spoken to her. At that point, it was all they had—Cate's cell phone log. Something that Marcus didn't have. Not at first. Later?
“Brother Thomas?” she asked, the horrible scene at the abbey church flashing back, the blood on the stones, almost as if it was a ritual killing.
“An authority on the history of the abbey,” Marcus replied. “I had spoken with him in the past, very knowledgeable.” He smiled faintly before continuing.
“He contacted me. Cate had been to see him. I knew it was only a matter of time before you and your friend went to the abbey, that same curiosity, like her. He knew things about the tapestry from the abbey archive. His death was regrettable but necessary,” he explained. “But you didn't stop, even when your friend was injured.”
Regrettable? Murder?
“What about Faridani.”
He looked at her then. “Faridani, yes. He knew about the photograph.”
“From Jonathan Callish,” she replied. It was obvious now. Alyia Malik would have told him.
