“Galen went to the altar not once, but thrice. No sooner did a spouse depart for the heavenly realm than Galen would find himself a young replacement. His last bride, Philippa Whitcombe, had been the daughter of the justice of the peace for Canterbury. When Galen died, Philippa promptly joined a cloistered order of nuns. One can assume that she did not suit to the married state.”
About to take a bite of her sweet, Edie lowered the tart. “So who inherited the gold chest?”
“Ah! An excellent question, my dear.” Walking over to the tray, Sir Kenneth plucked a mince tart from the near-empty plate. “Since the gold chest does not appear in any Feet of Fines record after 1348, one can infer that the gold chest was never uncovered. Not altogether surprising, given that there wasn’t a single inhabitant of the godforsaken Godmersham who survived the plague.”
“Meaning no one was left who had any recollection of ever seeing Galen’s magnificent treasures,” Caedmon murmured. For all intents and purposes, it was as though Galen’s gold chest had never existed once the plague struck. With no Feet of Fines record for the intervening centuries, the mystery would be that much more difficult to solve.
“Okay, but what about the quatrains? How did they come to be discovered?” Edie asked, clearly as determined as he to glean information.
“Galen’s estates remained in a state of ruin until the reign of the virgin queen Elizabeth. The new owner, a wealthy wine merchant by the name of Tynsdale, had the old chapel demolished to make way for a hammer-beamed monstrosity. It was during the demolition that the quatrains were discovered beneath the altar stone. Sir Walter Raleigh, a close acquaintance of the merchant, was the first to conjecture that the arca mentioned in Galen’s poetry might refer to the Ark of the Covenant. He and Tynsdale scoured every inch of the property. To no avail, I might add. Not a century passed that some addlebrained treasure hunter didn’t attempt to find—” Catching sight of his housekeeper poking her head through the study door, he stopped in midstream. “Yes, what is it?”
“A call, sir. From the provost’s office.”
Clearly annoyed by the intrusion, he waved her off. “The blasted relic’s not working,” he said by way of explanation, gesturing to an antique black telephone on the edge of his desk. “There’s a telephone in the foyer. I won’t be but a moment.”
Caedmon rose to his feet. “The time has come for us to depart.”
He wasn’t certain, but he thought he detected a disappointed glimmer in the older man’s eyes. Suddenly uncomfortable, he glanced at his wristwatch. “Duke Humfrey’s Library is open until seven. If you could call ahead and make the necessary arrangements, we would be most appreciative.”
“Yes, of course. My pleasure.” As he spoke, Sir Kenneth escorted them to the foyer.
Out of the corner of his eye, Caedmon caught a glimmer of color. Turning his head, he could see that the once-bare Norway spruce now sparkled, richly colored glass ornaments glowing jewel-like among the dark foliage.
“Did you know that it was Queen Victoria’s husband, the bewhiskered Albert, who introduced the Christmas tree to these shores? He had them all done up with edible fruit and little wax fairies.” Sir Kenneth fingered a glossy green limb, a wistful look in his eye. “I told her to get a Scots pine, not a spruce. Blasted woman.”
“I think it’s absolutely gorgeous,” Edie remarked.
“Yes, it always is.” Turning his back on the tree, Sir Kenneth cleared his throat. “The Choral Society is singing Handel’s Messiah at seven thirty. Perhaps you and Miss Miller would care to join me? There is nothing that compares to the sound of crystal voices lifted to the heavens. Quite moving. Even if one does not believe in the Christmas myth that’s been spoon-fed to us by power hungry Church fathers, eh?”
Having obtained all that he needed from his old mentor, Caedmon shook his head. He’d had enough strained conversation for one day. “Thank you, Sir Kenneth. Unfortunately, we—”
“Yes, yes, I understand.” Then, his right index finger pointing heavenward, like a man struck with an inspired idea, he said, “I’ve got just the thing. The crate arrived only this morning.” Turning his back, he searched the boxes piled high on the console table. “Where is the blasted—Ah! There it is!” Reaching into a wooden crate, he removed a bottle.
“Merry Christmas, young Aisquith.”
Caedmon hesitated a moment, instantly recognizing the label on the bottle of Queen’s College port that the older man offered to him. Collegii Reginae. He well recalled the port decanter being passed between the senior fellow and his small band of favorites long years ago. Those were fond memories, unsullied by the later rupture.
With a brusque nod, he accepted the bottle. “And a Merry Christmas to you, Sir Kenneth.”
The other man patted his stomach. “I don’t know about ‘merry,’ but it shall certainly be filling, what with Mrs. Janus stuffing me with Christmas gâteau and pecan tarts.”
Uncomfortable with the pleasantries, knowing they hid the bitter feelings that had earlier bubbled to the surface, Caedmon took Edie by the elbow. “Come. We must be on our way.”
To his surprise, she disengaged herself from his grasp, stepped over to Sir Kenneth, and kissed him on his withered right cheek. “I hope you have a very Merry Christmas!”
Grinning like a besotted fool, Sir Kenneth followed them to the door. “And, in turn, I hope that you and young Aisquith uncover Galen’s blasted box. If the gold chest is to be found, you are the man to find it.” This last remark was directed to Caedmon.
Surprised by his old mentor’s show of support, Caedmon said the first thing that came to mind.
“Thank you, sir. That means a great deal to me.”
CHAPTER 39
Enraged, Stan MacFarlane snapped shut his cell phone.
Aisquith and the woman were in Oxford.
Although the how of it eluded him, the why was plainly evident. Somehow they’d managed to find out that the medieval knight Galen of Godmersham had uncovered the Ark of the Covenant while on crusade in the Holy Land. The museum director, Eliot Hopkins, must have passed that information on to Aisquith before his death.
“Do you want me to take care of it, sir?”
Stan glanced over his shoulder. He knew that former gunnery sergeant Boyd Braxton was anxious to make amends for the debacle in Washington.
“Sometimes it’s in one’s best interest to be merciful.”
It took a few moments for the other man’s befuddled expression to morph into an amused grin. “Oh, I get it, Colonel. Like Tony Soprano, you want to keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.”
That being as good an answer as any, Stan tersely nodded. “Tell Sanchez to put a tail on Aisquith. I want to know the Brit’s every move.”
Turning on his heel, he strode down the low-ceilinged hall, his booted footfall muffled by the well-worn Persian runner. On either side of him hung gilt-framed landscape paintings.
A tastefully appointed house for the discriminating traveler.
When he leased the house on the website, he hadn’t given a rat’s ass about the décor. He only cared that the manor house was located midway between London and Oxford at the end of a half-mile oak-lined driveway. He needed a base camp to set up operations. Oakdale Manor fit the bill.
Brusquely nodding, he acknowledged the armed sentry standing ramrod straight beside the upholstered chair. The Heckler & Koch MP5 clutched to the sentry’s chest came courtesy of a sergeant major in the Royal Marines who routinely padded his retirement account with illegal small-arms sales.