CHAPTER 55
“It’s not the Savoy. But then again it’s not the almshouse,” he’d drolly remarked, surveying their modest accommodations.
Edie glanced at the iron bedstead. “What now?”
“A drink, I think. No, better yet, let’s skip the pleasantries and get right down to it, shall we? In the prone or upright position? Your choice, love.”
Giving it a moment’s thought, she picked the latter. . . .
Trousers refastened, Caedmon 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 un-mussed 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 the bathroom faucet opened, 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 lodgings at a small guesthouse, the only available room being in the garret. In an attempt to add some charm to the claustrophobic space, both the walls and the steeply pitched ceiling had been papered in a blue toile, the prancing maids in farthingales and the sad-faced Pierrot straight out of a Watteau canvas.
“Shall we have a go at the stained glass window?” he inquired when Edie returned.
“Sounds like a plan. Since there’s no table to sit at, how about we pull that pine bench over to the side of the bed?”
Caedmon 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, was the sketched drawing of the stained glass 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. “Prison is full of thieves and murderers.”
“No kidding. Your point?”
He smiled at what was fast becoming her familiar refrain. “Look for the obvious. Every link in the chain is somehow relevant.”
“Well, the two 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 of the other?”
Edie shrugged. “I have no idea. But the fact that Philippa purposely led us to Canterbury Cathedral makes me think she may have given the Ark to the church. Not to mention, the scene in question details the Holy Family inside the Temple of Jerusalem.”
For several seconds, he pondered the notion. Though 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 quatrains. “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 Air bag from the room’s one and only chair, a lumpy Marquise reproduction upholstered in the same pattern as the wallpaper. She removed a metal nail file from the zippered pocket.
“I broke a nail.”
Intuiting that she was in no mood to decipher the drawing, Caedmon moodily stared 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?”
Caedmon’s head jerked, caught off guard by Edie’s unexpected query. Although he knew she’d eventually inquire about his private life, he’d foolishly hoped it wouldn’t happen anytime soon.
“My father died some years back. But even when he was alive, we were never big on the holidays, and Christmas fell by the wayside when I was a young lad. I suspect the lack of holiday cheer came about because there was no woman in the household. My mother died in childbirth,” he added, anticipating her next question.
“This is the first you’ve made mention of your family.”
“My father and I had what you might call a strained relationship. A strict taskmaster, he eschewed frivolities of any sort.” Such as “hanging the stockings by the chimney with care.”
“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, in retrospect there was a certain absurdity to our relationship.”
“Absurdity aside, I bet your father was proud of you. Going to Oxford and everything.”
At hearing that, Caedmon derisively snorted. “Hardly. When I left Oxford, the shame of it killed him.”
“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a weensy bit?” With thumb and index finger, she indicated a “weensy” unit of measure.
Shoving the pine bench aside, he rose to his feet. There being few places to roam, he walked over to the fireplace. The act of confession an uncomfortable one, he turned his back to her.
“Within days of my Oxford debacle, I was summoned to St. Anselm’s 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 wore a light blue hospital gown; it was the first time I’d ever seen him in a garment that had not been properly pressed.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “A most dignified man, my father.”
Although she made no reply, he could see that he had a captive audience; Edie was leaning forward in the chair.
“The morning sun was shining through the window adjacent to my father’s hospital bed, casting upon him a soft light, making him appear as a kindly older gentleman. An aged putti, I irreverently thought at the time.”
“So what happened?”
“Something that was 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, disavowing her of the notion. “No. In fact he never laid a hand on me, not in anger nor affection. His was an emotional abuse, a systematic shunting that left little doubt he rued the day that I was born. On those few occasions when he did take notice of me, it was always with a critical eye.”
“I’m guessing it all came to a head when you went to visit him in the hospital.”
Caedmon nodded. “No sooner did I arrive than my father informed me of precisely how much it had cost to support my studies at Oxford. He then point-blank told me that he expected due recompense. With interest, I might add.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Her stunned expression was near comical.
“I told the old bastard to bugger off. That said, I took my departure, perversely pleased with myself for finally standing up to him. Twelve hours later his doctor rang me up, notifying me that my father had unexpectedly died from an embolism.”
“How did you feel about that?”
The question was so typically American, their culture grounded in the visceral, that he should have anticipated it. Should have, but didn’t.