Stones of Fire

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 me from horny college professors.

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

‘Very creepy,’ she murmured, not wanting to disturb the dead.

‘The scenery improves on the other side,’ 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 boxes. Imagining the older man manoeuvring through the maze after a night at the pub, Edie bit back a smile.

The knot garden navigated, they strolled through a copse 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 punctuated with arched stained-glass windows. Adjacent to the chapel was a three-storey Norman tower that seemed out of place with its plain facade 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 lobby. He removed his red scarf with a theatrical flourish, draping it round a marble bust of a bald-headed, beaked-nosed man.

‘Who’s that?’ Edie mouthed.

‘Pope Clement V,’ Cædmon mouthed back.

An older woman in a plain navy-blue dress — Edie placed her around fifty — scurried into the lobby. 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 woman. With a distracted wave of his hand, he indicated that Edie and Cædmon 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 room.

‘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 lofty tone, Edie walked over to the table and carefully lifted a glass angel out of its nest of tissue paper. As she held it aloft, its gilt-edged wings caught the wintry light. ‘These are lovely ornaments,’ she said to Mrs Janus, smiling.

‘That is 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, she 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.

‘And 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 Cædmon down a hall. Playing the baronial lord, he swung open a panelled 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,’ Cædmon informed her. ‘Sir Kenneth’s way of instilling fear into the hearts of all those who enter his sanctum santorum.’ Given what was clearly a grudge match between the two men, Edie wasn’t surprised by Cædmon’s sarcastic tone.

At a glance, she could see that the sanctum santorum had originally been the actual chapel, the massive arched ceiling, stone floor and a stained-glass three-light window being dead giveaways. Put all together, it made for an impressive sight. Assuming one ignored the half-dozen cats snoozing in various places throughout the room. A feline with chewed ears 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 checked out the room. Some things, like the medieval torchères, looked right at home. Other things, like the modern shelving unit jam-packed with vinyl records sheathed in clear plastic looked conspicuously out of place in the medieval setting.

‘I dare say that you are looking at the best collection of 1950s American rock ’n’ roll in the entire UK,’ 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 don’s only passion. On the wall nearest to where she stood there 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 visualize Sir Kenneth, decked out in his red cashmere scarf and brown bomber jacket, swigging gin and tonics out of the cup like tap water.

‘My dear, before you depart, you must have a look at my collection of incunabula,’ Sir Kenneth said, gesturing to a bookcase bursting with leather-bound volumes.

Not having the least idea what he was talking about, 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 Cædmon.

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,’ Cædmon whispered in her ear as he dislodged a dozing cat from his chair. ‘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 Cædmon on the back. ‘Middle age becomes you, Aisquith.’ Then, turning his attention to Edie, ‘When he first arrived at Oxford, he was a ganglylimbed lad with a thatch of unruly red hair.’

Grinning, Edie gave Cædmon the once over. ‘Hmm. Sounds cute.’

‘Ah! The lady has a penchant for red-headed lads.’ As Sir Kenneth took his seat behind the desk, Edie heard him mutter, ‘Lucky bastard.’