“I’m Moira Kelly,” she said as they joined her. “My father is General Sir Ronan Kelly. We were warned of your coming, of the hardships endured—and what you carry with you.”
“Then you know about the book?” Sharyn asked.
“Saint-Germain’s journal, yes. I had thought never to set eyes upon it.”
Duncan frowned.
I wish I never had.
From everyone’s pinched expressions, they must be thinking the same. Throughout the train ride here, Duncan had questioned his decision to come along, reviewing events in his head, again and again. But he could not abandon Sharyn and the others. He cast blame not on them, but on their damnable professor, for forcing them down this path.
Contrary to Duncan’s misgiving, Archie showed no such hesitancy. Or at least, never voiced it. Duncan suspected it wasn’tfearthat drove Archie to accompany him, butfriendship.
Pray such loyalty doesn’t get you killed.
Still, Duncan knew his reason for coming wasn’t solely based on his concern for Sharyn or her friends. Nor was it the threat of being falsely accused of murder. Instead, during the train ride, he found himself dwelling on one aspect of the Frenchman’s story. On the book’s first revelation, its First Adage, and how it led to a cache of ancient coins unearthed in North Africa during World War II.
Where my grandad was stationed at the same time.
The coincidence had struck him then and weighed on him with every crossing mile of their flight. He could not dismiss this tingling sense of connection, of threads coming together.
Maybe this was meant to be . . .
Before going to Oxford, Duncan had briefly considered following in his grandad’s footsteps and serving a stint in the British army. His father had forbade it. Duncan might have gone behind his back, but his mother’s tears finally dissuaded him. Duncan’s older brother had died at eighteen in a car accident. His mother could not survive another such loss. Even the fear of it threatened to break her.
And now I’m in danger anyway.
Duncan stared over at Sharyn, who kept a tight hold on the strap of her bag with a determined set to her lips. He again felt that strange tingling, of hidden gears turning, of history bearing on the present.
Maybe here is where I was meant to serve.
“Over this way,” Moira said, drawing Duncan back, and guiding them down a white-plastered hallway. “The first floor below is mostly for ceremonial purposes and kept historically pristine. But Father and I live on the second, where we’re allowed a degree of relaxed accommodations.”
This became evident as the group passed a modernly appointed kitchen. A steaming kettle sat on the stove next to an open tin of biscuits. Duncan eyed them longingly, hoping for an afternoon cuppa.
Naomi merely gawked all around: at the age-darkened paintings on the walls, at the busts on pedestals, at the leaded windows that overlooked Tower Green. “I... I didn’t know anyone lived in the Tower. I wish I had my phone to record all of this. It would make a great post.” She glanced over to Moira. “How long have you been here?”
“My father for four years. Me, only a couple. Takes time to adjust. Like getting pizza delivered. Tell Dominos you live at the Tower of London, and they hang up on you. Still, at night, when the tourists are gone, when the grounds are empty and lamplit, the place turns magical.”
Sharyn shifted closer to the woman. “And you live alone with your father?”
Moira nodded. “After my mother died, my father needed help. I was happy to join him. Especially with my degree in art history. What better place to work on my dissertation. I’ll be sorry to leave next year when a new constable takes over.”
Tag searched ahead, crooking his neck. “Whereisyour father?”
Before Moira could answer, another shout erupted from a doorway ahead, repeating the same accusation. “Traitors! Traitors all.”
Despite the earlier reassurance, Duncan cringed at the anger in the voice, noting the deep baritone and northern accent.
Moira sighed and glanced at Tag. “It seems poor Hugh must be trying to answer your question, Mr. McKnight.”
Duncan shared a look with the others, uncomfortable that the woman knew all their names. Of course, the Frenchman must have informed her and her father about their identities. Still, he steeled himself for any surprises.
“My father awaits us in the dining hall.” Moira pointed to the doorway ahead. “The room where the traitor Guy Fawkes was interrogated after being tortured for his plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament.”
Again, the same resounding cry warned them off, sounding Shakespearean in its outrage. “Traitors all!”
Sharyn cast a suspicious glance toward Moira. “I thought you said you lived alone with your father.”
