The Explorer's Code (29 page)

She wanted to sleep more than anything in the world. She took off her clothes and folded them neatly on the chair. Clad only in her bra and panties, she slipped between the silky sheets. The bed smelled of lavender. She smiled to herself and fell asleep.

T
he clerk at the desk of the inn was clearly not charmed by the gregariousness of the man checking in.

“Your room key, sir,” he said as he handed over the key to room 116.

“I’m looking forward to seeing a bit of the countryside around these here parts,” said Bob as he took the keys.

“Thank you, sir. Have a nice stay.” The crisp British tones could not have been more chirpily dismissive.

“Thanks, son, mighty kind of you.”

Bob and Marlene headed to the lift.

Room 117 of the Golden Horn Inn was a tangle of equipment. The Russian leaned over his computer and listened carefully to the bugs he had placed in the dining room, study, library, and kitchen of Cliffmere. This morning, it had taken only a few moments to place them, and now conversations were recorded directly into his media source program. It looked like an electrocardiograph machine. He could see when people were speaking from the undulations on the screen. He scrolled through, looking for the vibration lines. It was going to take hours to listen to everything. But there was nothing else to do in this rainy British dump.

Room 118 of the Golden Horn Inn was barely touched. The man who had checked in hadn’t stayed long. Neither had the man in 119. They had
left together to “see the countryside.” They were now taking turns standing in the shrubbery on the property line of Cliffmere. One sat in the car while the other got soaked to the bone in the rain. Then they switched. Thaddeus Frost turned up the collar of his raincoat, longing for the sunny afternoons he had just enjoyed in Turkey.

C
ordelia came down the main staircase as the clock was chiming eight. She had slept through tea and felt completely refreshed.

“Here you are. I thought you would never wake up.”

Sinclair was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

“I ache all over from yesterday,” she admitted.

“You poor darling. I’ll give you a massage later. That will help.”

He took her hand and lightly lifted it to his lips. He brushed the back of her knuckles with a kiss, and then turned her hand over and kissed her wrist, looking into her eyes. The touch of his lips on her skin made her pulse race.

“I missed you during my nap,” she said.

“We can see each other tonight,” he assured her, taking her arm and moving toward the main wing. “My room is just down the hall.”

The study was a cozy box of a room, off the library, paneled in the very dark carved oak of the Tudor era. The room was well worn, with high-backed armchairs grouped around the fireplace. Marian’s gardening catalogs were in a stack, along with several mystery novels. The fireplace had attracted a hunting dog and a large calico cat. The animals eyed Cordelia with curiosity when she came in. Sinclair walked over to pat the dog, who tilted its head so Sinclair could fondle its ears.

Tom poured two glasses of amontillado sherry and handed them to the ladies. He offered a cut-crystal tumbler of whiskey to Sinclair and then
took a seat by the fire. Sinclair let the rich taste of the whiskey warm him on the way down, settling his soul.

“We need to talk about Bradford,” said Tom.

“And Sir James Skye Russell,” said Cordelia.

“Do you think the deed could be here in the house?” asked Sinclair.

“I think it’s pretty much impossible. I know this may seem like a big house,” Tom said, “but we have inventoried all the historical documents.”

“And you couldn’t have missed anything?” asked Cordelia.

“Probably not. The library is extremely rare and we have had it appraised. The curators went over all the books and papers about four years ago. We certainly would have found a deed at that time.”

“No desks with secret compartments, no hidden rooms or hollow panels?” asked Cordelia.

“Oh, there are plenty,” assured Tom. “A house this old is
filled
with hiding places. But I grew up here. I have been over every inch of the place.”

“Where would you even
start
in a place this size?” asked Sinclair. “It would take years.”

“Well,” said Marian with brisk practicality. “We can’t think clearly on empty stomachs. We had better go in to supper.”

The main dining room was wood-paneled, and to Cordelia it looked at least the size of an indoor tennis court. The enormous dining table could accommodate forty people. As they dined, they all sat at one end, around a circle of candlelight, as if huddled over a campfire.

By the end of the sumptuous meal, Cordelia was utterly contented. She leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee. She loved Cliffmere. Tom and Marian were treating her like family, and she had never seen Sinclair so relaxed. He and Tom had spent the afternoon touring the estate. As the two men sat there discussing their day, they could have been father and son; they had similar physiques and the same tall, rangy strength. Marian sat quietly, listening. She looked very lovely in her rose silk blouse and long black moiré satin skirt. Her pearls had the luster of several generations of wear.

The food had been superb: lamb confit terrine, slow-roasted rack of pork with wild mushroom ragout, and scallion potatoes. The lemon-blackberry tart was light and delicious.

“How we wish we had known about you all these years,” Marian said warmly, squeezing Cordelia’s hand. “We
do
consider you family.”

“That means so much to me,” Cordelia replied, her voice husky with suppressed emotion. “You have no idea how much.”

Tom looked over at Cordelia and Marian, both of whose eyes swam with tears. He glanced at Sinclair, clearly uncomfortable with the emotional turn of the conversation.

“Shall we retire to the library?” he asked.

They left the table and walked into the next room. The library table had been set with a crystal decanter and delicate port glasses. They helped themselves to port, and started a slow amble around the enormous book-lined room. Soaring bookcases stood twenty feet high. About twelve feet up, a brass-railed catwalk gave access to the higher shelves. As they toured the magnificent collection, Tom pointed out his favorite volumes to Sinclair. Marian waited until the men were a few steps ahead before she turned to Cordelia.

“I
do
like your young man. Have you known him long?”

Cordelia flushed. “I’m afraid not. I just met him about two weeks ago.”

Marian started in surprise. “Oh! I had no idea. I am sorry; I didn’t mean to pry. I assumed you were—”

“No, it’s no problem. I don’t mind talking about it.”

“You seem very close,” observed Marian.

“Yes, things
have
moved along very quickly,” Cordelia admitted. “We met at an award ceremony in Monaco.”

“Were you accepting an award?”

“John’s foundation was giving an award to Elliott Stapleton. In a funny way, I feel like my great-great-grandfather introduced us.”

“That seems to me to be a
very
good introduction,” said Marian soothingly.

“He invited me to lunch the next day, and then after that there was this problem with the deed. He kept helping me. And, of course, I started falling for him. . . .”

“He seems lovely.”

“You should have seen him yesterday when they tried to kidnap me. He was incredible.”

“I am sure he was magnificent,” said Marian warmly, patting her hand. “Tom told me he seems to be a solid young man.”

“I’m glad you approve.” Cordelia smiled.

“And he certainly is
good-looking,
” Marian added.

“You know, at first I was a little afraid he was a
too
good-looking.”

Marian laughed. “There is no such thing as
too
good-looking. Besides, you are beautiful yourself, my dear. He might say the same of you.”

“Thank you,” said Cordelia. “Actually, he has never commented on my looks.”

“He probably thinks you are tired of compliments, and he wants to impress you in other ways.”

“I wonder . . .” mused Cordelia.

“Well, the way he was looking at you during supper tells the whole story,” said Marian. “He is quite in love with you.”

Cordelia blushed, and tried to recover her composure as they approached Tom and Sinclair.

“I would love to show you some of our pictures,” Tom was saying to Sinclair. He turned to his wife. “Marian, shall we go into the gallery?”

They walked through a large archway into the next room. Tom switched on the ceiling lights to reveal a beautiful old wood-paneled picture gallery with twenty-foot ceilings. About two dozen paintings were exhibited along the sides. Some of the canvases were so large they measured the entire height of the room. They walked slowly along the gallery, inspecting the paintings and sipping their port.

“Here is a Constable,” Tom said, pointing, “and another pastoral by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot. But the real centerpiece is this sailing scene of Antwerp Harbor by J. M. W. Turner.”

Tom then went over to a pair of portraits.

“Now to the Skye Russells.
These
are the portraits of the first Lord Andrew Skye Russell and his wife, Mary, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds in 1755.”

The tall man had a determined chin, and wore an ermine-lined red coat. His wife was pale and aristocratic, her lapdogs cavorting around her brocade skirt.

Tom proceeded a few more paces.

“And
here
is the ancestor that should interest both of you. Sir James Skye Russell, painted by Mr. James McNeill Whistler in 1902.”

They looked at the full-length portrait of a pale young man dressed in black. He carried a pair of gloves and wore what appeared to be an opera cloak. His face was interesting, sensitive.

“And this is his wife, Anne,” said Marian.

She wore a pink frilled day dress, and faced a quarter turn away. Her skirt was embroidered with peonies. Cordelia noticed a softness in her expression.

“It’s like
meeting
them! We have been reading about them in the journal all week,” Cordelia exclaimed, looking at the beautiful soft brown eyes of the woman in the portrait.

They continued down the gallery.

“Here we have a Venice scene by Luca Carlevaris, painted in 1709.
View from Bacino di San Marco.
”

As they walked to the far end, a large painting drew Cordelia’s attention. It was an Arctic landscape. A ship appeared to be moored among the ice floes. The snow was cast with a rosy glow, and in the beautiful light the icebergs loomed in opalescent splendor all around the ship. On the surface the ice had the look of mother-of-pearl, but underneath its color ranged from deep blue to celadon green. It reminded Cordelia of her great-great-grandfather’s description of the Arctic.

“What a beautiful painting,” she said admiringly.

“Yes,” said Tom. “It is quite special. These kinds of Arctic landscapes became very popular in Queen Victoria’s day.”

“I guess in the tradition of the Victorian explorer,” commented Sinclair.

“Exactly. In fact, an American painter, Frederic Church, set the fashion for romanticized Arctic landscapes when he exhibited
The Icebergs (The North)
in 1861. There was so much enthusiasm for these kinds of paintings, many of the polar explorers brought along a photographer and a painter.”

“Is this painting by Frederic Church?” asked Cordelia.

“No, it is a little later than that, 1871, but the Frederic Church painting may have been the inspiration for it. This artist was also American. It’s called
An Arctic Scene: Among the Icebergs in Melville Bay.
”

“Incredible,” said Sinclair, stepping back to admire it.

“Who painted it?” asked Cordelia.

“William Bradford,” said Tom.

They all froze, staring at the painting.

“Bradford,”
they said simultaneously.

In a country lane in Oxfordshire, the two fat Americans in the rental car were clearly lost. They pulled up to a car parked next to a hedgerow. A bearded young man in a tweed cap was smoking a cigarette, standing next to the car. His companion sat in the driver’s seat.

“Are ya’ll from around here? Can you tell us where Cliffmere is?” asked Bob.

Thaddeus looked at the couple with interest.

“Yes, I believe it’s right there, through the trees,” he said in a credible British accent.

“Much obliged,” said Bob. “I wanted to check out the farm. I hear Cliff-mere supplies some of the best restaurants in London.”

“I couldn’t tell you,” said Frost, tossing his cigarette and moving toward his car. He glanced down at the couple’s license plate and memorized it. These tourists didn’t seem like a threat, but you never could tell. He was jumping at shadows these days. In his entire career, he had never had a worse feeling about a case.