Ark of Fire

CHAPTER 35

Leading the way through the twisting labyrinth of narrow streets, Sir Kenneth came to a halt in front of a fan-vaulted entryway. “After you, Miss Miller.”

Edie pushed open a wrought-iron gate. At hearing the spine-jangling squeak, she said, “A little WD-40 will fix that right up.”

“My dear, I have no idea what you just said, but it sounded utterly delightful.”

She forced her lips into a tight smile.

God save her from horny college professors.

Discovering that they had entered an ancient cemetery, a good many of the weathered headstones eerily tilted at a drunken incline, Edie unthinkingly leaned into Caedmon.

“Very creepy,” she murmured, not wanting to disturb the dead.

“The scenery improves on the other side of the marble yard,” he assured her, gently squeezing her hand.

A few moments later she breathed a sigh of relief at finding herself in a medieval knot garden. Taking the lead, his red cashmere scarf jauntily flapping in the breeze, Sir Kenneth guided them through the clipped boxwoods. Imagining the older man maneuvering through the circuitous route after a night spent at the Isis Room, Edie bit back a smile.

The knot garden navigated, they strolled through a small cluster of cedar trees and copper beeches.

Peering through the tree limbs, Edie’s breath caught in her throat.

Lovely to behold, even dressed in winter’s stark garb, Rose Chapel was constructed of rubbled stone, beautifully articulated with arched stained glass windows. Adjacent to the chapel was a three-story Norman tower that seemed out of place with its plain façade and arrow slits, tower married to chapel like a masculine/feminine yin/yang.

Stepping through an irreverently painted canary-yellow door, Sir Kenneth led them into a foyer. He removed his red scarf with a theatrical flourish, draping it around a marble bust of a bald-headed, beak-nosed man.

Who’s that? Edie mouthed.

Pope Clement the Fifth, Caedmon mouthed back.

An older woman in a plain navy-blue dress—Edie placed her in the fiftyish range—scurried into the foyer. Any notion of the woman being Mrs. Campbell-Brown was instantly dispelled when she obsequiously bobbed her head and said, “Good day, Sir Kenneth.”

Acknowledging the greeting with little more than a brusque nod, Sir Kenneth removed his leather bomber jacket and shoved it at the older woman. With a distracted wave of the hand, he indicated that Edie and Caedmon should do likewise.

“Soon after you left, sir, the Norway spruce was delivered,” the housekeeper politely informed the master of the castle, her arms now laden with three sets of outerwear.

Sir Kenneth glanced at a beautiful, but bare, Christmas tree that had been set up at the other end of the foyer.

“Mrs. Janus has an annoying habit of stating the obvious.” He gestured to the stacked boxes on the console table. “Please overlook the Christmas fripperies. Mrs. Janus also has an annoying habit of decking Rose Chapel with boughs of holly and streams of satin ribbon.”

Not liking Sir Kenneth’s high-handed tone, Edie walked over to the console table and carefully lifted a glass angel out of its nest of tissue paper. As she held it aloft, the gilt-edged wings caught the wintry light. “These are lovely ornaments,” she said to Mrs. Janus, smiling.

“That particular angel came from Poland.”

Without being told, Edie sensed that the Christmas holidays were particularly difficult for Mrs. Janus. Like many emigrants, she no doubt longed for the traditions of her native land. Taking care, Edie replaced the fragile angel in its box. “I’m sure it’ll be a beautiful tree.”

“The Christmas season is one of joy and remembrance,” the housekeeper replied, casting a quick glance in her employer’s direction.

“As is hot mulled wine,” Sir Kenneth loudly barked. “And bring us some of those little tarts I saw you pop into the Aga.”

Orders issued, Sir Kenneth led Edie and Caedmon down the hall. Playing the baronial lord, he swung open a paneled door and strode into a large, high-ceilinged room. About to follow him, Edie hesitated, taken aback by the stone grotesques that flanked the doorway.

“Is it my imagination or did one of those butt-ugly creatures just move its lips?”

“It’s the play of light and shadow,” Caedmon informed her. “Sir Kenneth’s way of instilling fear into the hearts of all those who enter his sanctum sanctorum.” Given what was clearly a grudge match between the two men, Edie wasn’t surprised by Caedmon’s sarcastic rejoinder.

At a glance, she could see that the sanctum sanctorum had originally been the main chamber of the chapel; the massive arched ceiling, stone floor, and stained glass triptych were the dead giveaway. Put all together, it made for an impressive sight. Assuming one ignored the half dozen cats snoozing in various places throughout the room. A nicked-eared feline, perched on top of a bookcase, drowsily lifted its head, the rest of the tribe taking no notice of the intrusion.

Trying not to gawk, she did a quick three-sixty. Some things, like the medieval torchères, looked right at home. Other things, like the modern wood shelving unit jam-packed with old records sheathed in clear plastic, looked conspicuously out of place in the medieval setting.

“I daresay that you are looking at the best collection of nineteen-fifties American rock and roll in the entire U.K.,” Sir Kenneth remarked, having noticed the direction of her gaze. “The music of my youth, as you have undoubtedly deduced.”

Edie also deduced that music wasn’t the Oxford don’s only passion. On the wall nearest to where she stood hung a black-and-white poster of the 1930s movie siren Mae West, her curvaceous figure swathed in a satin evening gown. Beside the poster a large animal horn hung from a bright blue tassel, the hideous thing banded with engraved silver. All too easily, she could envision Sir Kenneth decked out in his red cashmere scarf and brown bomber jacket, swigging gin and tonics out of the loving cup like tap water from a spout.

“My dear, before you depart, you must have a look at my collection of incunabula,” Sir Kenneth said, gesturing to a bookcase jam-packed with leather-bound volumes.

Put on the spot, Edie gave the bookcase a cursory glance, recalling a philosophy professor who’d once invited her to his house to look at his collection of Chagall prints. She sidled closer to Caedmon.

Sir Kenneth motioned to a pair of upholstered chairs positioned in front of a paper-laden desk, one stack of papers weighed down with a rusty astrolabe, another with a snow dome of the Empire State Building. Behind the desk, beautifully framed in gilt, hung a reproduction of Trumbull’s painting depicting the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

“Sir Kenneth has a love of all things American,” Caedmon whispered in her ear as he dislodged a dozing cat from his chair. “Do be on your guard.”

“That’s why you’re here, Big Red,” she whispered back at him.

Walking over to them, Sir Kenneth jovially slapped Caedmon on the back. “Middle age becomes you, young Aisquith.” Then, turning his attention to Edie, he remarked, “When he first arrived at Oxford, he was a gangly-limbed lad with a thatch of unruly red hair.”

Grinning, Edie gave Caedmon a once-over. “Hmm. Sounds cute.”

“Ah! The lady doth have a penchant for redheaded buggers.” As Sir Kenneth took his seat behind the desk, Edie heard him mutter, “Lucky bastard.”