Stones of Fire

55

‘It’s not the Savoy. But then again it’s not the almshouse,’ he’d remarked drolly, surveying the modest accommodation.

Edie glanced at the iron bedstead. ‘What now?’

‘A drink, I think. No, let’s skip the pleasantries and get right down to it, shall we? In the prone or upright position? Your choice, love.’

After a moment’s thought, she picked the latter…

Trousers refastened, Cædmon bent down and retrieved a pair of lacy knickers from the threadbare carpet. Somewhat sheepishly, he handed them to Edie. His embarrassment stemming from a decided lack of finesse, he glanced at the undisturbed bed.

He could do better. He would do better.

He’d always considered himself a considerate lover, but for some inexplicable reason he’d acted on his animal urges, behaving like a testosterone-driven oaf.

‘I just need to, um, you know, freshen up.’ Her cheeks flushed, Edie pointed to the adjoining bathroom.

‘Er, right.’

A few moments later there was the sound of a running tap, followed by a muttered complaint about the lack of hot water. Unable to find a vacant room at an accredited B & B, they’d been forced to take a room at a small guest house, the only available one an attic. In an attempt to add some charm to the claustrophobic space, the walls and the steeply pitched ceiling had been papered with prancing maids in farthingales and sad-faced Pierrots straight out of a Watteau canvas.

‘Shall we have a go at the stained-glass window?’ he enquired when Edie returned.

‘Sounds like a plan. Since there’s no table, how about we pull that pine bench over to the side of the bed?’

Cædmon obediently fetched the bench in question, the two of them sitting side by side on the mattress, their shoulders lightly touching. In front of them, spread across the bench, Edie placed the sketch of the window, the handwritten copy of Philippa’s quatrains, a blank sheet of paper and two sharpened pencils.

‘When deciphering code, no stone unturned is the best rule of thumb,’ he instructed. ‘Prisons are full of thieves and murderers.’

‘No kidding. Your point?’

He smiled at what was fast becoming a familiar refrain. ‘Look for the obvious. Every link in the chain is somehow relevant.’

‘Well the geese in the basket are pretty obvious, don’t you think?’

‘Indeed. But what is the significance of the pair? We know that one of the geese represents the good housewife Philippa. But what about the other?’

Edie shrugged. ‘I have no idea. But the fact that Philippa has led us to Canterbury makes me think she may have given the Ark to the cathedral. The scene in question does show the Holy Family inside the Temple of Jerusalem.’

For several seconds he pondered the notion. While the idea had merit, something about it didn’t ring true.

‘“I know not how the world be served by such adversity,”’ he said, reading aloud from the fourth quatrain. ‘It’s clear that Philippa attributed the plague to her husband’s ill-gotten treasure. Good Catholic woman that she was, Philippa would not have burdened the Church with that same adversity.’

Getting up from the bed, Edie walked over and retrieved the Virgin bag from the room’s one and only chair, a lumpy reproduction antique upholstered in the same pattern as the wallpaper. She removed a metal nail file from the zippered pocket and sat down.

‘I broke a nail.’

Realizing that she was in no mood to decipher the drawing, Cædmon stared moodily at the pine bench. In truth, he wasn’t at all surprised by her lack of enthusiasm, the day’s events having no doubt taken a heavy toll on her.

‘Will you be spending Christmas with your family?’

Cædmon’s head jerked, caught off guard by Edie’s unexpected query. Although he knew she’d eventually ask about his private life, he’d foolishly hoped it wouldn’t happen soon.

‘My father died some years ago. But even when he was alive, we were never big on family events, Christmas falling by the wayside when I was young. My mother died in childbirth,’ he added, anticipating her next question.

‘This is the first time you’ve mentioned your family.’

‘My father and I had what you might call a strained relationship. He was strict and had no time for frivolity.’

‘He sounds like a real hard-ass.’

‘Actually, he was a solicitor.’

Edie laughed aloud. ‘Sorry. It’s just the way it came out. It sounded…’

‘Absurd?’ The old wounds not nearly as painful as they’d once been, he managed a half-smile. ‘Yes, there was a certain absurdity to our relationship.’

‘Absurdity aside, I bet your father was proud of you. Going to Oxford and everything.’

Cædmon snorted. ‘Maybe. Certainly when I left Oxford, the shame killed him.’

‘Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a weensy bit?’ With thumb and index finger, she mimed ‘weensy’.

Shoving the bench aside, he rose to his feet. There being little room to pace, he walked over to the fireplace. The act of confession an uncomfortable one, he turned his back to her.

‘Within days of my Oxford débacle, I was summoned to a hospital where my father was undergoing tests for an intestinal complaint.’ Able to see the sterile white room in his mind’s eye, he frowned, the vividness of the recollection unnerving. ‘My father was wearing a light blue hospital gown. It was the first time I’d ever seen him in clothes that hadn’t been properly pressed.’ He glanced over his shoulder at her. ‘A very dignified man, my father.’

Although she made no reply, he could see that he had a captive audience, Edie leaning forward in the chair.

‘The morning sun was shining through the window by my father’s bed. He looked like a kindly old gentleman. An aged putto, I irreverently thought at the time.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Something that had been years in the making.’ He turned and faced his confessor. ‘At this juncture I should mention that I spent the first thirteen years of my life fearing the bastard and the next thirteen loathing him because of that fear.’

‘Did he physically abuse you?’

He tersely shook his head. ‘No. In fact he never laid a hand on me, not in anger nor affection. It was emotional abuse, a systematic shutting-out that left little doubt he rued the day I had been born. On those few occasions he did take notice of me, it was always to criticize.’

‘I’m guessing it all came to a head when you went to visit him in the hospital.’

Cædmon nodded. ‘No sooner did I arrive than he told me precisely how much it had cost him to support me at Oxford. He then point blank said that he expected me to pay it back. With interest.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’ Her stunned expression was almost comical.

‘I told the old bastard to bugger off and left, perversely pleased with myself for finally standing up to him. Twelve hours later the hospital rang to tell me that my father had unexpectedly died from an embolism.’

‘How did you feel about that?’

The question was so typically American, he should have anticipated it. Should have, but didn’t.

‘If you’re asking if I felt complicit in my father’s death, I did not. Although I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time trying to understand his motives.’ He shrugged, indicating this had been a futile endeavour. ‘All I know is that my father lacked the ability to love.’

Good God! Did I really just say that?

Horrified, he self-consciously cleared his throat, refusing to meet Edie’s disarmingly direct gaze.

‘Maybe he did love you; he just didn’t know how to express it.’

‘To know the man was to know better.’

Getting up from her chair, Edie walked towards him. ‘I think your father was an idiot for wasting his life the way he did. It’s what Herman Melville referred to as the “horror of the half-lived life”. So, what about the rest of your life? Have you ever been married? Do you have any kids?’

Cædmon stared at the threadbare carpet, the conversation having veered into uncomfortable territory. The ghost of his dead lover was close. If he told Edie about Juliana, he’d also have to tell her about his murderous revenge in the streets of Belfast.

Arms crossed over his chest, he listened as the mantel clock relentlessly ticked off each passing second with an air of funereal inevitability.

Edie placed a hand on his forearm. ‘Look, whatever it is that you’re afraid to tell me, I’ll understand. Really, I will.’

Angry at being cornered, he moved away from her. ‘You’ll understand? Correct me if I’m wrong, but we first met four days ago. Barely enough time to know how I take my tea, let alone understand me.’ He snatched his anorak from the nearby hook. ‘There’s a curry house down the road. I’m going to get a takeaway.’