Stones of Fire

20

A cold wet rain fell upon the heath.

A line straight out of a Victorian novel, Cædmon thought moodily as he pulled back the hotel curtain. Except it wasn’t a heath; it was an asphalt car park bounded by eight-foot-high brick walls and a twelve-storey office building directly opposite.

‘My, my, what style,’ he muttered, releasing the rubber-backed curtain and stepping away from the window. Since paper had beaten rock, they’d left Washington via the subway, checking into a Holiday Inn across the river in Arlington, Virginia. That was two hours ago, and he was still trying to muddle his way through the chain of events that had landed him in this monochromatic hotel room with its uninspiring view.

He glanced at Edie Miller, coiled in a ball on one of the double beds, her mouth slack, her eyes unfocused. His gaze lingered a few impolite moments, Cædmon thinking she looked like a dahlia curled in the frost.

In dire need of refreshment, he strolled over to the counter, the room equipped with a coffee pot, microwave oven and a diminutive refrigerator. He uncapped a bottle of Tanqueray purchased at the shop down the street.

‘What are you doing?’ A drowsy expression on her face, Edie lifted her head from the pillow.

‘I thought I’d make myself a G and T.’

The dahlia instantly revived. ‘Make mine a double.’

He obliged and, tumbler in hand, walked over to the bed. As though mocking their dismal plight, the ice cubes merrily clinked against the sides of the glass. ‘Sorry, but we’re out of lemons,’ he said, handing her the half-full tumbler.

Swinging her bare feet over the side of the bed, Edie levered herself into a seated position, the tumbler clasped between her hands. ‘AWOL lemons are the least of our worries.’

‘Indeed.’

Safe for the moment, Cædmon suspected that they were being hunted by very determined adversaries. And while their adversaries had possession of the prize, the Stones of Fire having been stolen from the Hopkins Museum, they also seemed very keen to erase all traces of the theft.

But why?

The question had been plaguing him for the last two hours. Neither he nor Edie Miller could guess the identity of Jonathan Padgham’s killer. Nor did they know the current location of the breastplate.

So why launch a bloodthirsty manhunt?

The manhunt implied that their foe did not want it made public that after several thousand years, the fabled Stones of Fire had been rediscovered. So, their foe had an ulterior purpose for stealing the breastplate, one that had nothing to do with plunder and profit.

Lost in thought, he belatedly realized he’d depleted his glass.

Careful, old boy. You’ve already slain that dragon.

Needing to pace himself, Cædmon set his tumbler on the dresser. Drink was a tempting mistress that beckoned when one least expected it.

Bare feet still dangling over the side of the bed, Edie looked at him, her expression forthrightly quizzical. At a loss for words, he returned the stare, enjoying the sight of the long brown curls framing her face and shoulders in a riotous halo. Admiring a woman’s attributes was one of those simple pleasures that made a man momentarily forget stress and strife. Like hat pegs, her nipples were visibly prominent through the thin fabric of her silk pullover, Edie having removed her bulky jumper.

‘Is something the matter?’

Caught with his hand in the biscuit tin, Cædmon quickly glanced at the television on the other side of the room. His cheeks warm with colour, he picked up his depleted G&T and made a big to-do of swirling the ice cubes in the bottom of the glass.

A sudden knock at the door broke the moment.

‘You don’t think…?’

‘No, I do not,’ he replied, striding towards the locked door. A quick glance through the peephole confirmed what he already knew — the porter had arrived. A fortuitous interruption, the room awash with sexual tension.

What did you expect, checking into a hotel room with a lovely American woman?

Unlocking the door, he greeted the porter with a courteous nod, the young man handing him a paper bag emblazoned with the Holiday Inn logo. Before taking custody of the bag, Cædmon reached into his trouser pocket and removed several crumpled notes. The exchange made, he closed and locked the door.

Awkwardly smiling, still conscious of the tension, he hefted the white bag in the air. ‘I come bearing gifts, compliments of the establishment.’

Edie patted the mattress. ‘Sit yourself here and let’s see what’s in the gift sack.’

Uncertain what to make of the invitation, he obediently complied. He knew that in the aftermath of bum-clenching terror each person acted differently. Some turned to alcohol, some turned to drugs, and a good many turned to sex. Cædmon preferred the first, had never been interested in the second and wasn’t altogether certain how he felt about the latter. While he found Edie Miller attractive, he in no way wanted to take advantage of the situation.

He dumped the contents of the bag onto the bed. ‘One tube of toothpaste, two toothbrushes, hand lotion, shaving cream, razor and, alas, only one comb. I’m afraid we’ll have to share.’

‘I’m kinda getting used to sharing.’

Cædmon assumed the offhand remark had to do with the fact that the room had been paid for with a soggy hundred-dollar bill from her ‘spinach fund’. Concerned that electronic transactions would be traced, he had imposed a moratorium on all credit cards. Certain his room at the Churchill would also be monitored, he phoned the hotel and asked them to gather his belongings and put them in storage until such time as he could collect them. He’d also rung up his publicist, informing her that he was catching a late flight back to Paris. If asked, she would lead inquisitors astray.

‘Would you mind…?’ Edie waggled her glass back and forth, indicating she needed a refill.

‘Not in the least.’ Getting up from the bed, Cædmon walked over to the makeshift bar on the other side of the room. Along the way he collected his own glass.

The silence unnerving, he busied himself with mixing the drinks. Concerned he might cross an invisible line and equally worried his companion might be receptive, he went easy on the gin. His fount of small talk dry, he wordlessly handed Edie a replenished glass.

‘Cheers,’ he said, clinking his tumbler to hers.

‘Actually, more like tears, don’t you think?’ Her demeanour glum, Edie listlessly raised the tumbler to her lips.

‘Myself, I prefer taking the glass-half-full approach.’

‘Don’t you care that your friend was murdered?’

‘Of course I care,’ he retorted, not wanting to have this conversation with a woman he barely knew. ‘However, experience has taught me that pain only worsens if one wallows in it.’

‘Is that what I’m doing, wallowing?’

‘No, you are not wallowing. Wallowing is when one forgoes the tonic water.’ As well he knew. Hoping to lighten the mood, he said, ‘His nickname for me was Mercuriophilus Anglicus.’

‘I assume you’re referring to Dr Padgham.’

‘Padge could never recall anyone’s forename.’

‘Probably because he was too caught up in his own self-importance.’ No sooner did the words escape her lips than Edie slapped a hand over her mouth. ‘God, that was horrible! I’m sorry.’ Then, laughing, ‘Did I mention that I’m a mean drunk? So, what does Mercurio blabediblop mean?’

‘It means the English mercury lover.’

Still smiling, she lifted a brow. ‘Sounds kinky. Do I really want to know the story behind it?’

Enjoying the silly game, he feigned indignation. ‘I can assure you that the story is not nearly as racy as you presume. It so happens that alchemical mercury suffuses all creation. In ancient times it was thought to be the secret essence of the all in all things.’

She drew a long face. ‘Oh, puh-lease. There must be a class you guys take at Oxford where they teach you how to pontificate to us little people.’

‘Are you always so frank?’

‘Not always.’ Her brown eyes twinkled mischievously.‘I do have to sleep.’

Cædmon threw back his head and laughed, her humour growing on him.

‘You know, it’s crazy,’ Edie said, suddenly serious. ‘All of this murder and mayhem happening because of an old breastplate.’

He walked over to the striped wingback chair on the far side of the bed and sat down. ‘The Stones of Fire are much more than “an old breastplate”.’

‘You said something about the breastplate being designed by God and manufactured by Moses.’

‘So claim a good many biblical scholars.’

‘Come on. You don’t really think that the breastplate was divinely inspired?’

‘Actually, I think the breastplate has a far more —’ he paused, not wanting to offend her possible religious beliefs ‘— complex pedigree than that contained within the pages of the Old Testament.’

‘What exactly do you mean by “complex”?’ Drawing her legs onto the bed, she curled them beneath her bum. ‘I thought it was pretty straightforward: Moses would don the breastplate in order to control the… how did you phrase it? The “cosmic power” contained within the Ark of the Covenant.’

‘Which begs the question, where did Moses learn such a feat? I have long suspected that Moses was not only an Egyptian, but a trained magician at the pharaoh’s court.’

‘Moses, the guy who led the Jews out of bondage and commanded the ragtag Hebrew tribes as they wandered the wilderness for forty years, that Moses was an Egyptian magician?’

He nodded.

‘You know what I think, Mr Cædmon Aisquith? I think you’ve had way too much gin. For starters, the Egyptians were a bunch of pagans. They had — what — like a couple hundred gods.’

‘Not nearly as many as all that,’ he quietly corrected, well aware that the theory he was about to propose would scandalize many a churchgoer. ‘Would it surprise you to learn that the ancient Egyptians were the first people to practise monotheism? Known as Atenism, for several decades it was the state religion, the pharaoh Akhenaton officially declaring that Aten was the only god in the heavens.’ Leaning forward, he propped his forearms on his thighs, the point he was about to make key to his argument. ‘Aten was not the supreme god; Aten was the only god. Furthermore, I believe that Moses, or Tuthmos as he was known at the Egyptian court, was not only an avid follower of Atenism, but he also fused his beliefs into those of the fledgling Hebrew faith.’

Edie stared at him, saucer-eyed. ‘What are you saying — that Yahweh and the Egyptian god Aten were one and the same?’