The Alexandria Link

THIRTY-FOUR

BAINBRIDGE HALL, ENGLAND

5:20 AM

MALONE ADMIRED THE MARBLE ARBOR IN THE GARDEN. THEY’D taken a train twelve miles north from London, then a taxi from the nearby town station to Bainbridge Hall. He’d read all of Haddad’s notes stashed in the satchel and skimmed through the novel, trying to make sense of what was happening, remembering everything he and Haddad had discussed through the years. But he’d come to the conclusion that his old friend had taken the most important things with him to his grave.

Above stretched a velvet sky. A cool draft of night air chilled him. Manicured grass stretched out from the garden in a pewter sea, the bushes and shrubs islands of shadow. Water danced in a nearby fountain. He’d decided on a predawn visit as the best way to learn anything, and had obtained a flashlight from the hotel concierge.

The grounds were unfenced and, as far as he could see, not alarmed. The house itself, he assumed, would be another matter. From what he’d read in Haddad’s notes, the estate was a minor museum, one of hundreds owned by the British Crown. Several of the mansion’s ground-floor rooms were lit, and he spotted, through uncurtained panes, what appeared to be a cleaning crew.

He turned his attention back to the arbor.

The wind rustled the trees then rose to sweep the clouds. Moonlight vanished, but his eyes were fully accustomed to the eerie pall.

“You plan to tell me what this thing is?” Pam asked. She’d been uncharacteristically quiet on the trip.

He directed the light onto the image etched into the marble. “That’s from a painting called The Shepherds of Arcadia Two. Thomas Bainbridge went to a lot of trouble to have it carved.” He told her what Haddad had written concerning the image, then used the beam to trace the letters beneath.

D O.V.O.S.V.A.V.V. M

“What did he say about those?” Pam asked.

“Not a word. Only that this was a message and that there are more inside the house.”

“Which certainly explains why we’re here at five o’clock in the morning.”

He caught her irritation. “I don’t like crowds.”

Pam brought her eyes close to the arbor. “Wonder why he separated the D and the M like that?”

He had no idea. But there was one thing he did comprehend. The pastoral scene of The Shepherds of Arcadia II depicted a woman watching as three shepherds gathered around a stone tomb, each pointing at engraved letters. ET IN ARCADIA EGO. He knew the translation.

And in Arcadia I.

An enigmatic inscription that made little sense. But he’d seen those words before. In France. Contained within a sixteenth-century codex describing what the Knights Templar had secretly accomplished in the months before their mass arrest in October 1307.

Et in arcadia ego.

An anagram for I tego arcana dei.

I conceal the secrets of God.

He told Pam about the phrase.

“You can’t be serious,” she said.

He shrugged. “Just telling you what I know.”

They needed to explore the house. From a safe distance in the garden, among belts of towering cedars, he studied the ground floor. Lights flicked on and off as the cleaners went about their work. Doors to the rear terrace were propped open with chairs. He watched as a man stepped outside carrying two garbage bags, which he tossed into a pile, then disappeared back inside.

He glanced at his watch: 5:40 AM.

“They’re going to have to finish soon,” he said. “Once they’re gone, we should have a couple of hours before anyone arrives for work. This place doesn’t open till ten.” He’d learned that from a sign near the main gate.

“No need to say how foolish this is.”

“You always wanted to know what I did for a living, and I never could tell you. Top secret, and all that crap. Time to find out.”

“I liked it better when I didn’t know.”

“I don’t believe that. I remember how aggravated you’d get.”

“At least I didn’t have any bullet wounds.”

He smiled. “Your rite of passage.” Then he motioned her forward. “After you.”

SABRE WATCHED AS THE SHADOWY FORMS OF COTTON MALONE and his ex-wife merged with the trees behind Bainbridge Hall. Malone had come straight to Oxfordshire. Good. Everything hinged on his curiosity. His operative had also done her job. She’d hired the three extra men he’d requested and delivered him a weapon.

He drew a few long breaths and welcomed the brisk night air, then removed the Sig Sauer from his jacket pocket.

Time to meet Cotton Malone.

MALONE APPROACHED THE OPEN REAR DOOR, STAYING TO ONE side, embracing the shadows, and peered inside.

The room beyond was an elaborate parlor. Shimmering light cascaded from the vaulted ceiling, illuminating gilded furniture and paneled walls livened by tapestries and paintings. No one was in sight, but he heard the whine of a floor polisher and the blare of a radio from beyond the archways.

He motioned and they entered.

He knew nothing of the house’s geography, but a placard told him he was in the Apollo Room. He recalled what Haddad had written. In the drawing room of Bainbridge Hall is more of Bainbridge’s arrogance. Its title is particularly reflective. The Epiphany of St. Jerome. Fascinating and fitting, as great quests often begin with an epiphany.

So they needed to find the drawing room.

He led Pam to one of the exits that opened into a foyer possessing the majestic lines of a cathedral transept, arches eloquently stacked atop one another. Interesting, the abrupt change in style and architecture. Less light softened the outlines of the furniture into gray shadows. Within one of the arches he spotted a bust.

He crept across the marble floor, careful with his rubber soles, and discovered the likeness of Thomas Bainbridge. The middle-aged face was replete with furrows and curves, the jaw clenched, the nose beaklike, the eyes cold and squinty. From what he’d read in Haddad’s notes, Bainbridge was apparently a learned man of science and literature, as well as a collector-acquiring art, books, and sculptures with a calculated judgment. He’d also been an adventurer, traveling to Arabia and the Middle East at a time when both places were as familiar to the West as the moon.

“Cotton,” Pam said in a low voice.

He turned. She’d drifted to a table where brochures were stacked. “Layout of the house.”

He stepped close and grabbed one from the pile. Quickly he found a room labeled DRAWING. He oriented himself. “That way.”

The floor polisher and radio continued to duel upstairs.

They departed the dim foyer and wound their way through wide corridors until they entered a lit hall.

“Wow,” Pam said.

He, too, was impressed. The grand space was reminiscent of the vestibule to a Roman emperor’s palace. Another startling contrast to the rest of the house.

“This place is like Epcot,” he said. “Each room’s a different time and country.”

A chandelier’s rich glow illuminated white marble stairs, lined down the center with a deep maroon runner. The risers led straight up to a peristyle of fluted Ionic columns. Twists and curls of black iron railing linked the pink marble columns. Niches on both floors framed busts and statues as if in a museum gallery. He glanced up. The ceiling would not have been out of place inside St. Paul’s Cathedral.

He shook his head.

Nothing about the manor’s exterior hinted at such opulence.

“The drawing room is up those stairs,” he said.

“I feel like we’re going to meet the queen,” Pam said.

They followed the elegant runner up the unrailed risers. Paneled double doors at the top opened into a darkened room. He flicked a switch and another chandelier, fashioned from animal tusks, burned bright, displaying a crowded salon, worn and comfortable, the walls hung with velvet the color of pea soup.

“Wouldn’t have expected much less,” he said, “after that entranceway.”

He closed the doors.

“What are we looking for?” Pam asked.

He studied the wall paintings, most portraits of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century figures. No one he recognized. Maple bookcases stood in rows below the portraits. His bibliophile’s eye quickly noticed that the volumes were innocuous, only for show, with no historical or literary value. Bronze busts topped the cases. Again, no familiar image.

“The Epiphany of St. Jerome,” he said. “Maybe one of those portraits.”

Pam rounded the room, studying each image. He counted them. Fourteen. Most were of women, elaborately dressed, or men adorned in wigs and flowing robes common three hundred years ago. Two sofas and four chairs formed a U before a stone hearth. He imagined this was where Thomas Bainbridge may have spent a lot of time.

“None of these,” Pam said, “has anything to do with a St. Jerome.”

He was puzzled. “George said it was here.”

“Maybe so. But it’s not now.”