Sword- Part Two Page 7

  CHAPTER FIVE

  No! No! No! It was the worst timing ever!

  I thought I would never forgive the inconsiderate person who was at our door for this interruption if it cost me my chance of gaining my parents’ approval to go to Italy. Though, if I were honest, I was intent on going with or without my parents’ permission. But I didn’t really want to go behind their backs and deceive them, especially as I had never betrayed their trust or so cunningly lied to them before we moved to London, and I felt terribly guilty every time I had been forced to do it since.

  But then my attention was drawn to the open windows of Dad’s study, with its sweeping views of the Manor House lawns, by the sounds of Indy’s aggressive, insistent barking and the equally aggressive, rumbling engines of a motorcade.

  Shocked, I observed four unmarked black sedans with blacked-out windows, similar to the rehearsal cortege of the reinterred King Richard III at Leicester Cathedral, driving quickly round the blind corner of the Manor House from the edge of the circular driveway, their tyres churning up the trimmed grassy patch to leave behind deep grooves of mud, and coming to an abrupt halt. The car doors swung open in unison as if choreographed.

  Then, almost like a scene from a film, a small army of uniformed men, sombre, commanding, alighted onto our lawn. They stood about – quietly exchanging nods and deep conversation, some keeping a watchful stance and staring steadfastly at the woods in the distance, gathering near the cars like wasps buzzing round a nest as if waiting for some signal from their superiors – and put an end to my younger siblings’ boisterous game of football as Mum, suddenly appearing from her studio in response to their unexpected arrival and acting like a mother hen with her chicks, quickly ushered a wide-eyed Jasmine and Alex down the side of the house and out of view, simultaneously catching hold of Indy’s collar in the act to force him to quit growling and follow them inside.

  I felt the ground shift beneath me as I was suddenly unanchored from my earlier moment of happiness.

  ‘What’s the hell’s going on? Don’t tell me it’s that bloody Frenchman with his accusations again. Doesn’t he realise that it’s a public holiday and he’s trespassing on my property?’ my father demanded, his eyes fixed on the garden beyond where the men gathered.

  It was as if Dad had poured ice water over me with his reminder of the continuing investigation into the stolen artefact and Ellen Jacobi. Awareness of the time and trials that lay ahead pressed like a stone upon my soul, and feeling stifled by the weight of it, I acknowledged that I couldn’t escape the questions and real-world demands that vied for my attention and needed answering. But I grimly gathered strength from my father’s anger.

  Within seconds, the doorbell chimed demandingly again and running footsteps could be heard as my twin sister hurried to answer whomever was waiting impatiently at our front door.

  There seemed to be some commotion. I could just imagine Fi’s astonishment – beyond any normal expectation – as a visit from the authorities was a rare event, particularly on a public holiday, and my sister wasn’t too well disposed to the authorities since her interrogation in Lyon. Distractedly, I wondered who actually worked on the Easter break apart from emergency services, but then raised voices could be heard demanding entry before Dad threw open the door to the study and we both could see into the entrance hall, noting the arrival of our guests.

  No, not guests. Guests were always welcome.

  At the far end of a short chain of almost identical black-suited and uniformed officers appeared two older gentlemen.

  Almost instinctively, I let the curtain of my chestnut hair fall forward to shield me from their view as I stepped back in dismay. This was something I did not need. And certainly not at this point in time when I was hoping to depart soon for Rome.

  Yet, even as I shrank outwardly, a cold calmness came to me with the knowledge that I was the Wise One and I bore responsibilities to protect humanity and especially those I loved. And without the Keeper of the Seed, Fi and I would have to shoulder the additional burden of the duties he was unable, at this time, to perform. The time for the Wise Ones had come.

  Raising my head, I faced my foes directly, giving little away in my cool expression.

  The first gentleman was tall and lean, in his early sixties, with a hawkish face and a prominent Roman nose upon which balanced a pair of thick, steel-rimmed glasses. His neatly-coiffed silver hair and bespoke, stylish, pressed pinstripe three-piece suit – coupled with a sterling silver watch chain snaking from his waistcoat pocket and a shiny silver tie pin bearing the insignia from his alumni year at Cambridge – held not a ruffle, wrinkle or crease, and emphasised his fastidiousness.

  The other man, however, was now almost unrecognisable and unknown to me – his looks had changed so vastly, he had degenerated so much, he could now only be likened to the monsters and chimeras of a Bosch painting, reminding me of the wasted, crumbling figure of the morphine addict, Mrs Dubose, from one of my favourite novels.

  So then ... not a police motorcade either, but Sir William, Jacques Renauld, and several members of the joint task force from New Scotland Yard and Interpol.

  Sir William stepped forward into the entrance hall and fixed his gaze on my sister. His eyes weighed her, and dismissed her. Behind him, Renauld entered my home with a more than usually uncivil air, made no reply to Fi’s hesitant greeting and, having spied my father and me standing in the open doorway, strode towards us without saying a word.

  At that precise moment, my mother stepped into the hallway, having entered from the rear of the house, and approached the official party, behaving as if such unwanted but unavoidable guests arrived on our doorstep all the time. She may have been inwardly flustered – after all, she was still dressed in her paint-splattered overalls and her favourite pair of old hiking boots caked with oil paint at the toes – and I wouldn’t have blamed her in the least, as these stern-looking men were perfectly unknown to her, but she made it evident that they were in her home and only on sufferance at her hospitality.

  I supposed she must have guessed who these high-ranking officials were, receiving them with the utmost politeness, even going so far as to engage Renauld in conversation in his native tongue – as if her painting clothes were of little consequence and she might have been dressed in a cashmere twin-set and pearls. After a moment of silence, Renauld very stiffly engaged in a few minutes of conversation with my mother – and it was clear by the end of those few minutes exactly who had the upper hand.

  Sir William, however, in his low, throaty voice, greeted my mother with a restrained show of manners. ‘Good afternoon, Ma’am. You would be the infamous Rose Woods, I believe.’

  Well, Sir William was observant! I thought rather meanly. I didn’t know many people who dressed up in paint-stained overalls as a fashion statement.

  But I kept my thoughts to myself and remained silent.

  ‘I don’t know about infamous,’ Mum said with a bemused expression on her attractive face. Despite not wearing any makeup and dressed in her working outfit, she was unfazed by the dour presence of Sir William in her home. ‘But, yes, I’m Rose Woods.’

  Sir William smiled slightly in response. ‘Ah, so modest. You are the painter who has taken the art world by storm, are you not? My wife tells me that your latest exhibition in New York was most sought after. Although, in truth, I’m not much of an art critic, I have followed your career with some interest as I like to think of myself as a bit of a collector of post-modern art.’

  Fi and I exchanged a quick look, bewildered by the odd exchange occurring in the middle of our hallway. She made a gesture in the language of twins but I replied in the negative; I didn’t think we should interfere but, instead, let things play out before us, allowing us to observe the participants in this extraordinary power play – for this was a role my mother knew well; the world of art and art lovers, artists and art collectors. Yet, I doubted Sir William was here to commission a painting.

  My thoughts were con
firmed a few moments later when, having exhausted the topic of collecting art as an investment – something my mother disdained beyond measure – Sir William invited himself and his task force into my father’s study to discuss the real object of his visit. Jacques Renauld and two of the men, including the Assistant Commissioner, followed Sir William from the entrance into the study, but the other Met detectives were swiftly dismissed and made to wait outside, cooling their heels on the gravel driveway.

  As Fi had been ignored by all, she took to the stairs in search of our younger siblings and Indy – I was to find out later that she had, of course, desperately wanted to attend our private meeting but had thought it best to stay as far away from the obsessive Jacques Renauld as possible; the man had too keen an eye and might have figured out our identity swap if he was able to examine us closely together – leaving me to fend for myself, along with my parents.

  Imperiously, Sir William stepped towards the Partners desk, choosing to occupy the seat that my father normally preferred, leaving him no option but to remain standing – and so he took up his former position in front of the fireplace. My mother sat serenely upon the chesterfield, looking for all the world like a duchess about to have a quiet tête-à-tête with a circle of intimate friends, whilst the other occupants fanned about the room.

  Wishing to call as little attention to myself as possible, I crossed to sit on the cushioned window seat, away from the rest of the room’s inhabitants, the open window allowing for a deliciously cool and refreshing breeze at my back, allowing me to maintain my composure as I still felt flustered by this unexpected turn of events.

  ‘Would anyone care for tea or coffee?’ My mother offered our visitors, performing her duty as the gracious hostess. When the offer was declined by Sir William for all of them – and no one dared to contradict him – Mum subsided into majestic silence.

  Sir William cleared his throat. ‘You may be wondering why we have disturbed your day of rest but we find it necessary to ask you a few questions that may concern you all, including Dr Rivers and Dr Donnatelli.’

  My father raised an eyebrow above his steel-rimmed glasses. ‘Concern us?’

  Sir William’s tone remained neutral. ‘We have received troubling reports about a security problem at Home House where Dr Donnatelli was holding a special event yesterday morning.’

  My mind swirled, and I held my hands in my lap demurely, hoping that they would not tremble and give me away. But no one bothered to so much as look my way or include me in the conversation.

  Mum’s voice held only the frankest concern, demonstrating her ignorance of anything to do with Isabella’s Ostara Festival, including the invitation she had failed to receive. ‘How terrible! What happened? Is everyone all right? And Isabella?’

  The Assistant Commissioner spoke up, ‘A brawl broke out amongst some of the guests. And significant damage was made to property.’

  It was absolutely necessary for my parents to interrupt now.

  ‘Is that all? A brawl? What’s any of this got to do with my family?’ I caught my father’s annoyance. Nothing about this rang right – it was ludicrous to question us about an event from which my parents were absent.

  At least my father wasn’t cowering in front of these intimidating men. But Dad’s questions had the effect of triggering an admission from Sir William.

  ‘Let me come to the point. We were keeping Dr Donnatelli under police surveillance since the recent attack made upon her.’

  For a moment we were silent.

  ‘Jesus. I suppose that means you’ve been keeping my daughter under close surveillance too.’ Dad had voiced a statement not a question.

  ‘At the request of Dr Rivers, we withdrew our police surveillance of Miss Woods.’ Sir William’s pale blue eyes were chips of ice behind his spectacles.

  Reading between his carefully-chosen words, I understood St. John’s request as more of a threat. And I was shocked.

  So shocked that I listened to the exchange around me, my eyes downcast. I couldn’t tell them the truth, couldn’t describe my astonishment and discomfort – especially with the ironic knowledge that I was under constant surveillance by the Nephilim – so instead, I looked down and said nothing.

  ‘When was this?’ my father demanded, his voice laced with anger.

  ‘I’m sorry, Professor Woods, that’s all I can tell you. This is police business. But I can assure you it was all strictly legal – we did not violate any privacy laws but simply kept a watchful distance.’ The elderly gentleman’s remark came in a voice as hard as steel, his tone daring us to challenge him on this matter. But I felt my stomach cramp in response, experiencing a sensation of dread at the thought of police surveillance, even knowing that the Nephilim would have handled things already and, perhaps, even covered up any trace of their presence at Isabella’s party.

  The Assistant Commissioner took over from Sir William. ‘However, it appears that we have made a breakthrough in our investigation into art and antiquity crime and, most particularly, the stolen artefact.’

  ‘What do you mean? Did you find the artefact?’ Mum was curious and I couldn’t blame her – art theft was part and parcel of her world and, of course, was the concern of every serious, highly sought after artist just like acts of internet piracy were a concern for professional recording artists.

  ‘Dr Jacobi’s disappearance followed by recent movements by Dr Rivers to France and Italy have led us to realise that it was unnecessary for your former colleague to leave the country.’ It was Renauld who said this last part, but the voice matched his physical deterioration and was much less commanding and authoritative than when I had first met him. Some small twinge of compassion worked its way beneath my defences but I was still on my guard, especially as he continued, ‘More likely it is the case that she passed on the stolen goods to one of her accomplices who then smuggled it over the border.’

  Why wasn’t I more surprised? My tone was quietly belligerent as I spoke up in defence of my fiancé, ‘You’re not accusing St. John of being an accomplice? Or of smuggling stolen goods out of the country? Wouldn’t you need some sort of proof of his involvement with Dr Jacobi? After all, it isn’t against the law to visit family overseas – at least, not yet.’

  ‘No, Mademoiselle Woods, we are not.’ In the natural light streaming in through the open windows, Renauld had a pale, sullen cast to his skin. His voice held a touch of frost.

  But Sir William interposed, preventing Renauld from making this personal, ‘In fact, our investigation is centred on Dr Donnatelli and we were hoping you might assist us.’

  My father’s tone was perplexed as his gaze encompassed the seriously-ill man standing before him, so aloof and clearly close to embracing death, and his imperious colleague. ‘I’m sorry? I must have misunderstood. Isabella Donnatelli? But that’s absurd! She wasn’t even employed by the museum when the artefact disappeared.’

  ‘And yet it is evident that the attack upon Dr Donnatelli was staged.’ Sir William saw that his words registered. ‘The men responsible for the attack – and we now believe to be also responsible for the attack upon Miss Woods – are in Isabella Donnatelli’s employ.’

  My mother’s face froze as she absorbed Sir William’s declaration. Yet none of the roiling emotions she must have been experiencing laced her words. ‘How is this possible?’

  ‘I’m sorry but, as I’ve said, this is police–’

  My father opened his hands in a gesture of impatience. ‘Let me get this straight. Isabella Donnatelli is under investigation. This woman has been in my home, sat down to eat with my wife and children, slept under this very roof, and – if what you’re saying is true – has endangered my family – harmed my daughter. Either you need our help or not. Otherwise, please leave and allow us to continue our Easter break in peace.’

  As my father spoke, the two detectives exchanged glances. At Sir William’s nod, giving his consent, the Assistant Commissioner confirmed, ‘The Met Police received a tipoff.’<
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  In the spill of late afternoon sunlight, I studied the way the others deferred to Sir William. The cool breeze at my back helped clear my head. Whilst my parents accepted the Assistant Commissioner’s statement at face value, my thoughts were racing and I wondered who might have provided this information. Immediately, only two names leapt to mind.

  Finn.

  It wasn’t much of a stretch of the imagination to believe that Finn might have been the anonymous informant – for whatever reason, even if only to help his own cause, he had helped me escape from the encounter at Home House and Belladonna. It could be seen as simply another act of defiance against Semyaza, matched only by shielding us from the Rephaim at Satis House and providing Fi with a duplicate of the Scroll. But it was more likely that the informant was ...

  ‘St. John.’

  His name was barely a whisper upon my lips but Sir William’s hawklike eyes swivelled to fix upon my face. No one else seemed to have heard my breathed utterance.

  ‘Our intelligence has proved to be very useful indeed.’

  At the elderly gentleman’s words, I found myself short-tempered. I resented the implication that St. John was a stoolpigeon. If he was a whistle-blower at all, then I had every faith it was something he had long deliberated upon and only considered as a final, desperate measure. Perhaps he knew he was compromised and corrupted. Or perhaps he knew that his blessing upon the Manor House had been stripped away. Or perhaps he was trying to deflect the task force’s attention from the Safe House and the whereabouts of Ellen Jacobi.

  Whatever the case, I knew St. John believed that the Nephilim were oddities of nature. He believed that this was a world created for humanity. He understood the gravity of what was at stake. I did not understand the necessity of involving Sir William and his task force – but I was done with doubting him. Staying quiet, I let my parents ask their questions. Everyone had their secrets. And I had mine.

  Finally convinced of the actuality of Isabella’s infamy, my father asked, ‘You said you were hoping for our assistance, how so?’