“Thank you. If I can ever do you a favor in return.”
“I’ll keep in touch. Good to meet you, Clio.”
“Be safe,” Clio said.
She laid out the embroidery and photographed it carefully, including close-ups, then refolded it and tucked it back into the bra. She had no means to sew it back up, but she tucked the lining back into the underwire as best she could using her fingernail, though with gloves on, it wasn’t easy. She returned it to the evidence bag.
On the street, she wondered if she should call in. Her boss, Tim, might have heard by now that she was off the case.
Her phone rang with an unknown number.
“Clio Spicer,” she said.
“Oh hello, Detective, this is Mark Ward, Lady Arden’s butler from Sherston Hall. I have that name for you. The woman who came to us asking about the embroidery was called Zofia Danek.” Even over the phone he was smooth. She wondered what it cost to employ a man like him.
“And you said she worked for the University of St. Andrews?”
“That’s what she told me.”
Clio thanked him.
She could call in or she could eke out a few more minutes to work on this. She slipped into a café across the street, where she found a quiet booth in the back. She ordered food and a coffee, and hit the phone to make some discreet inquiries as to the whereabouts of Zofia Danek.
Chapter Twelve
Anya
Over breakfast, Sid told me he was going to spend the day at the computer science department. He sounded stilted, and so did I when I replied to say I hoped he had a nice day. It was impossible to remember what I would normally say, or how I normally behaved.
Sarabeth called me early. “I have some very difficult news to tell you. There’s no easy way to say this, but Diana died yesterday. She was mugged in London, and it seems to have gone wrong. She was found in a park in East London with a head injury and died in hospital without regaining consciousness. If it’s any consolation, the doctor said it would have been quick. I’m so sorry, Anya. Please take the day off if you want.”
She sounded terribly upset. I told her how sorry I was, too. The shock was intense. I wasn’t sure how I got the words out. It was hardly credible that Diana had died, especially as I’d been with her only a few days earlier. I felt as if this was something I could hardly process on top of everything else. My mind was stretched to breaking.
The car arrived to pick me up. Nobody had canceled it, and even though my brain was sludge, I decided to work. It felt better to be on autopilot doing what Magnus wanted me to do, doingwhat Iknew, than staying at the cottage, feeling watched or heard, feeling as if another cluster bomb had gone off in my head and not knowing how to reassemble the pieces. Sid stepped outside with me when I was leaving and told me to call him if I needed him, to come home if everything got too much.
I thought about Diana on the journey to the castle. How much I’d liked her at first, how charismatic she was, how the last time I’d made this trip was with her. It seemed impossible that she was gone. I watched the back of the driver’s head, too, and wondered who they really worked for. I was becoming as paranoid as Sid.
Rain fell in shards and the wipers were working overtime. As we drove up the long drive the castle looked gloomy and spectral ahead, here one moment, obliterated by the wipers the next. They scraped the windscreen, and the sound cut right through me.
Tracy’s housekeeper greeted me at the door and showed me in. The castle was busier than before, the atmosphere more alive. Florists were positioning an exuberant display on a table in the middle of the entrance hall, and there were staff working in the formal dining room, laying the table for what looked as if it would be a sumptuous dinner. Polished cutlery and elaborate candelabra gleamed. The room’s tall ceiling was intricately painted with medieval designs. Vast tapestries hung from the walls and chandeliers fashioned from deer antlers were suspended on long chains secured to the dark beams crisscrossing the ceiling. I could hear chatter and the sounds of work coming from the kitchen and the aromas drifting out smelled delicious.
The housekeeper led me away from the bustle and into the more private wing of the castle, where the tower was. She asked me to leave my bag and devices on a table outside the door like I had before. I did it but kept my burner phone on me, hidden in a pocket. Tracy was waiting in the room at the base of the tower, where I’d seen the manuscripts on my first visit.
She must have to hide when they had people in the castle, Ithought, and I wondered who the dinner was for. Perhaps there was a select group of people, like my father, who knew where she lived and could be trusted to keep it a secret.
I had no time to dwell, though. Focusing on the collection was what mattered and the sooner I started, the sooner I could deliver on my side of the deal I’d made with Magnus and guarantee the best treatment for Mum.
Tracy looked stressed and I wondered how close she’d been to Diana and whether grief was the reason, but I didn’t know whether to mention it to her. I wasn’t sure if she knew yet.
“Ready to get started?” she asked, and I told her I couldn’t wait. “Let’s go,” she said. I followed her up the spiral stairs; the room above was empty, a circular stone void, harboring echoes, its windows glazed arrow slits, with narrow views over the forest below and the hills beyond.
Tracy opened a wooden door that, curiously, led from the tower back into the main body of the castle, as if the tower had been constructed as an elaborate entranceway. The door was so thick and dark and worn that it had to be ancient. Tracy hit the lights and we entered a small, square chamber paneled from floor to ceiling. The paneling was inlaid with intricate patterns and pictures, trompe l’oeils, made with such skill that images seemed to leap out from the wall in 3D. I turned a full circle to take it all in. It was incredible. There were musical instruments, books, a dagger, a pipe, and more, all attributes of an educated gentleman from medieval Italy, all arranged in trompe l’oeil cabinets or displayed on trompe l’oeil shelves. I’d seen it before.
“Is this a copy of the study in the Ducal Palace in Gubbio, Italy?” I asked.
“Yes. The laird who built this place made a trip to Italy and fell so much in love with what he saw that he had his own version made here.”
This place was full of surprises. Using a key fob, Tracy unlockedyet another door, which I hadn’t noticed because it was hidden within the paneling. “This is where we keep your father’s manuscripts.”
