1 A Motive for Murder (9 page)

I sprinted down the tunnel. My mind was going ninety to the dozen. I don't know if that's just an Australian expression, but that's what was happening to me.

I had passed the Children's Cave, when a guide appeared. "Are you okay? Is there anyone else behind you in there?"

"Yes, no, oh maybe one man," I blurted, and shielded my eyes from the flashlight.

"Oh sorry, I brought a flashlight in case the lights went out again. Should be fine now. You keep going and I'll go and look for anyone else in there. It's very rare that the lights go out in here."

"Oh, okay, thanks." I took off at a run again, straight through the Circle, straight down past the Tool Store, out the entrance, and then down the hill to the car park. I had no wish to run into Jamie Smith again. My cheeks were hot with embarrassment. I saw the Audi parked in the lower section of the car parking area so ran up the slope and sat down behind a tree, catching my breath.

The trees afforded a good and discreet view of the Audi but it seemed forever before Jamie came out, hopped in his car and drove off. It was actually just over fourteen minutes according to my iPhone.

Douglas wasn't due for another fifty minutes so I decided to have a Clotted Tea, as gruesome as it sounded to Aussie ears.

It wasn't until I sat at the seat with my back to the Caves affording a good view of the entrance to the courtyard that I remembered the whispered words in the Inner Temple. Jamie must have been in front of me at that point, and the words had come from behind me.

I felt a headache coming on and rubbed my temples. The sight of cream arriving took my mind off my worries; food was the perfect remedy, especially fattening food. I preferred the taste of artificial cream but wasn't going to refuse the real thing.

The Clotted Tea looked exactly like the Devonshire Teas of back home, and was yummy. I stuffed my face with light, fluffy scones - or biscuits depending on your country - to which I'd added lots of whipped cream and strawberry jam- or jelly, again, depending on your country. The cream turned out to be delicious and it was horribly bad for me, I'm sure, which served to cheer me up.

I heaped three large spoons of sugar into my tea and stirred well. A lot of sugar would make the morning's events go away, although part of me - and I am sure there's no prize for guessing exactly which parts of me - wanted a repeat performance from Jamie, no matter how much my mind rejected that idea.

An hour later, I sat at Aunt Beth's kitchen table with only Diva for company. Douglas had arrived punctually, collected me, driven straight back to Aunt Beth's and dropped me off, engine running as usual. The uncomfortable silence between us had persisted throughout the journey home. I was wondering if it was too early to have a glass of wine - oh well, it would be 5 p.m. somewhere.

While the laptop was booting up, I poured a large glass of red, then googled "garlic poison." I discovered that garlic has been shown to lower cholesterol and triglyceride levels in humans, dogs and monkeys and that several scientific studies showed that garlic is harmful to horses causing Heinz Body Anemia, whatever that was.

I also discovered that study on the effect of garlic on blood pressure in humans which said that garlic reduced systolic blood pressure in those patients who had elevated systolic blood pressure.

I was starting to get an information overload. Maybe I would end up sprouting facts like Douglas.

Perhaps Aunt Beth had eaten huge amounts of garlic for her heart condition after all, despite the fact I hadn't found any garlic in the kitchen or garlic tablets in the medicine cabinet.

I tried one more thing. I googled the words
garlic poison death
. The third entry was
Death by Selenium
. This was enlightening. It said that selenium is odorless and colorless and looks and tastes like water. It said that even a low dose can be lethal, and that it also causes a very strong garlic odor.

Then I came across mention of a
CSI
episode in which someone killed her husband with a selenium overdose. I finally figured I was onto something.

"Most cats, when they are out, want to be in, and vice versa, and often simultaneously."

(Louis J. Camuti)

Chapter 11
.

I had just finished my second requisite morning cup of coffee and gritty bits when the doorbell rang. It was unlike Douglas to be an hour early; he was usually right on time. I was relieved that I was already showered, dressed, and had put on my make up while drinking the second cup of coffee.

The person standing on the front door was a shock to me.

Jamie Smith. I was embarrassed after throwing my arms around his neck the day before.
Should I invite him in?
I wondered.
What does he want?

"What do you want?" It came out more harshly than it did in my head.

"Misty, please hear me out. You're in danger."

I grimaced. "So everyone keeps telling me."

"Who's 'everyone'?"

I thought of Skinny again.
Misty, stop exaggerating
. "Well, you and Douglas."

I ignored Jamie's immediate frown and showed him into the kitchen. It was brighter in there, and so less intimate, and I suppose, a kitchen is not a terribly intimate place anyway.

I put the jug on to boil, filling it with minimal water so it wouldn't take as long, and picked up a blue and white pottery jar which was labeled
tea
. Without thinking, I turned it upside down to look at the maker's mark. This was reflex; my mother had been an antique dealer for years before turning to jewelry. She always turned things upside down to look at the maker's mark, although did so less often after the time she turned a vase upside down at a client's house, not realizing the vase was full of water.

The jar was empty so I looked for teabags. I saw a packet marked Twinings Lapsang Souchong, and reached in for two tea bags.

"How do you have it?"

"Black, with one."

"Okay." I poured the boiling water in, added one spoon of sugar to his and one to mine. Then I thought about it and added another spoon to mine. I thought about it some more, and added yet another spoonful to mine.

I put Jamie's tea in front of him so forcefully that some of the tea splashed out, and then sat down opposite him.

"Okay, tell me what you wanted to say."

"Have you ever heard of Paul Whitehead?"

I groaned, partly as I had just tasted the tea which tasted like liquid beef jerky, and partly because he sounded just like Douglas.

"Are you a clone?"

Jamie looked startled. It may have been the tea as he had just taken a mouthful. "Sorry?"

"You and Douglas. You both sort of look the same; you both keep asking me if I've heard of someone."

"That was the first time I asked you if you had heard of someone."

I hate it when men are logical. I couldn't think of a lucid reply, so just waved my hand at him in an attempt to make him continue.

"Paul Whitehead...."

I cut him off. "Oh yes, I know about him. The cave at the Hellfire Caves - one was called Paul Whitehead's cave - it had a figure of him and an urn." I at once blushed right down to my toes, wishing I hadn't mentioned the caves at all.

Jamie ignored my obvious embarrassment and pressed on. "Yes, Paul Whitehead was a satirist and poet. He was a close friend of Sir Francis Dashwood and a member of the Order of the Friars of St. Francis of Wycombe. Horace Walpole spoke highly of him. He was friends with the great painters William Hogarth and Francis Hayman, and the actor and dramatist William Havard. Whitehead swapped insults with Alexander Pope. He was despised by the satirist Charles Churchill who wrote, 'May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall) be born a Whitehead and baptized a Paul!' Whitehead's wrongful reputation as simply a minor poet probably comes from Churchill's slander of his character. At any rate, Churchill himself was despised by such men as Hogarth and Dr. Johnson."

I laughed in spite of myself. "Really, you are a clone. You and Douglas are both walking Googles; I've never heard so many catalogues of facts!" I hoped I wasn't going to get a fit of the giggles so forced down another mouthful of Lapsang Souchong.

Jamie didn't appear to see the funny side at all. "Whitehead was a very important man; probably not a soul knew more secrets than he did about political figures of the time. He knew secrets about future American, English, and European leaders. He was the only one to keep records of Dashwood's and the Order's activities, and he kept them in a single book."

I nodded and Jamie continued. "The reason I'm telling you about him is his urn. He died in 1774. Seven days before his death, a messenger arrived at his house with a letter. Four days later, he ordered his servants to build a huge bonfire in the grounds. He piled all his books and papers onto it for the next seventy six hours. After the final paper burned, he went to his bed and was dead six hours later."

I wondered if there had been a strong smell of garlic in his bedroom. "Was he murdered or did he kill himself?"

Jamie shrugged. "History tells us that his Will instructed that his heart was to be given to Sir Francis Dashwood and put in an urn. He left fifty pounds in his Will for the urn's purchase. Sir Francis Dashwood carried out his wishes and put Whitehead's heart in the urn in the Mausoleum. What history doesn't tell us is that the fifty pounds was a cover story. The urn was already in the possession of Sir Francis Dashwood and was inscribed with a particular set of arcane symbols."

"But Jamie, I saw the urn today. The sign said it was the original urn."

"No, it's not. It's said that an Australian soldier stole the heart, but what was actually stolen was the urn. After the theft, the Order put a similar looking urn in its place. There is a painting - you can find it on the net - which clearly shows the original urn and the inscription on it. That is, in the painting you can see the inscription but not make out what it says. Despite rumors that the original urn is now at West Wycombe Park, in fact it's never come to light. Misty, I don't want to frighten you, but there are people who will kill to get those symbols, and the only other place they appear is in the missing page of your aunt's book."

I stood up. "I don't know where it is!" My voice rose almost to shouting point.

"Misty, that could be irrelevant. The people who are after it may try to hurt you to get you to hand it over; they may not believe you don't know where it is."

"Who are these people?"

Jamie just looked at me.

"Come on, you can't just tell me this then not tell me any more! Aunt Beth was murdered for that page! You really need to tell me; I insist." I used my most stern voice.

"It's not that I don't want to tell you. You're in danger as it is; the more you know the worse position you are in. Have you considered going back to Australia?"

He was so frustrating. "No, I have not! Look, stop trying to deflect attention from my question - you need to tell me; who are these people?"

Jamie stood up and paced up and down the kitchen for a couple of laps, then sat down again. "Misty, I'd rather not, it's awkward."

"What do you mean? Really, if I'm in danger as you say, then surely I'd be better off with all the facts."

Jamie looked hugely embarrassed. "You won't like it."

"Try me." I fixed him with my best glare, but Diva soon ruined that. She shot out from behind the door and made a beeline for Jamie. To my surprise, she hopped up on him and kneaded his knee, pushing her paws up and down while purring loudly. Jamie stroked her and she only swiped at him once or twice in a half hearted manner.

I frowned. Was Diva a good judge of character? She liked Jamie, and disliked Douglass and Cassandra, although her dislike of Cassandra may be simply because Cassandra detested cats. I was so lost in thought that I jumped when Jamie started talking again.

"Okay, you asked for it," he said, while stroking the purring Diva. "They're the Black Lodge, a secret society of Ceremonial Magicians who want to use the symbols on the page for what they believe is a ritual to prolong their lives. The reason you won't like it is that Douglas is one of their leading members."

I was shocked, but I'd had so many surprises lately and this one was no more shocking than the others. I couldn't believe a word Jamie said. Or was it Douglas whom I shouldn't believe?

I was considering this when the doorbell rang. I excused myself, and found Cassandra on the doorstep, a cake in her hands.

"Come in Cassandra; the cake looks good. I have a visitor," I warned her in low tones.

At the sight of Cassandra, Diva hissed, leaped from Jamie's knees and bolted up the stairs, swiping at Cassandra on her way. Fur flew into the air, and Cassandra sneezed.

I did the introductions, then made Cassandra a cup of tea while a little annoyed that I didn't have time to process the bombshell that Jamie had just dropped on me. I did doubt it was true, but I wanted to figure out why Jamie would say such a thing. Perhaps he was the one who was in the Black Lodge and trying to throw blame onto Douglas.

Cassandra wasn't showing any animosity to Jamie this time, no doubt as he was eating her cake with such relish.

"That's a wonderful cake, Cassandra."

"Thank you. I used to bring chocolate cream cake over for Beth once a week."

I dissected the cake, and ate the frosting off the top and the sides. That's the only part of cake I like, and luckily for me the frosting was thick. I avoided the cream. It looked real, and I only like fake whipped cream. As much as I liked the frosting, I again lamented the fact that Cassandra had shown up just as I was about to find out more from Jamie.

The doorbell rang again. Cassandra and Jamie both looked startled. I checked the time on my iPhone. This would have to be Douglas, and right on time as usual.

I hurried to the door, and sure enough, Douglas was standing there. "I have visitors," I whispered. This was getting to be a habit.

I led Douglas down to the hallway to the kitchen. Cassandra looked shocked. I figured it would have been a long time since she had seen two gorgeous guys in the one room. I turned to Douglas to introduce everyone, but was struck speechless by the look on his face.

I had never seen Douglas's countenance change too much throughout the time I had known him. He had always been Mr. Cool-As-A-Cucumber. Right now, he was looking like someone from an acting class practicing a different range of emotions - shock, horror, rage, surprise. Cassandra and Jamie noticed it too, for they hastily muttered their goodbyes and took off like bats out of hell. No one had even shaken hands with Douglass, let alone said, "Hello."