Warriors (35 page)

A curlew startled him. It rose from the marsh directly in front of him, flapping its wings and whistling its mournful cry. His tormentor chased it across the moorland and disappeared.

His face was covered in muck and blood, and it came to him to cup his free hand and scoop up bog water, splashing it against his face. The bog waters were now chest high, and he could no longer even feel his feet. The tempting tufts of grass were useless, and many had died learning that lesson.

He blinked, trying to see.

Somehow he’d gotten closer to the bank he’d fallen from. And there he saw his salvation. A heavy root protruded from the mucky dirt about halfway to the top. He stretched a trembling hand toward it and fell miserably short. No way. He could never reach it with his hands. Haul himself up that steep embankment by sheer force of will and survival instinct.

But.

He still had Mary Poppins, didn’t he, and by Jove, he used her now, whispering a solemn and heartfelt prayer of gratitude to his beloved Diana as he hooked onto the root and clawed his way up the muddy bank.

It was odd, wasn’t it? You went down one road looking for one thing and found something else entirely. “Yes!” he exclaimed, having reached the summit at last. He got to his feet, inhaled a bite of boggy air, and straightened himself up. This was one of those moments he lived for. The very reason he’d chosen to be a copper in the first place.

Live to tell the tale and you’re halfway home. Have a few precious clues in your pocket? You’re an ace detective!

The murder plot, like the swirling fog, was thickening.

THE YELLOW PERIL FIRED RIGHT
up, spitting smoke and making joyful popping sounds. He managed to get her turned around and proceeded carefully along the muddy ridge until he reached the main thoroughfare
. Hello, what’s this?
he thought, peering through the rain-spattered windscreen.

Two wavering wafers of light were approaching on the roadway from the north, rounding a wide curve. A large car, slowing, as if looking for the proper turning . . . He reached for the switch to cut his own headlamps, but it was too late. The car—he could make it out now—was an old Rolls-Royce saloon. Silver in color. A vintage Roller from the 1930s, he’d guess, the Phantom II, most likely.

It sped up immediately, disappearing into the fog before he could make out the number tag. But he’d caught a glimpse of two people up front in the glow of the dash lights. Small. Women, most likely, as one had longish dark hair and the other a short bob.

That was interesting.

He flipped on his headlamps and fog lamps, deciding to follow the Phantom II. He felt good. Never happy about taking a human life, of course, but mostly satisfied with the evening’s adventure.

He turned over events of the case in his mind all the way home. He was able to follow the silver Rolls along the twisting road for perhaps an hour before it dissolved into the fog. Never was able to make out the number plate on her, sadly enough.

C
H A P T E R
  4 8

S
tokely Jones Jr., I swear, if you had told me on the day we got married, I’m talking about that hot sticky day down there in the Everglades, that one day soon you’d be taking me to London to meet the Queen? At Buckingham Palace? Hell. I’d have left you standing right there at the altar on the grounds of insanity. And now look at you. Look at your bad self. Just look around you, honey!”

“Buckingham Palace, baby,” Stoke said, not quite believing it himself.

The long procession of the anointed on the grand staircase moved up two more steps. He knew he was getting close now. His moment was near.

“Don’t stand still too long, sugar,” he said. “Else you get gold-plated, red-velveted, or crystallized. Just like that crystal chandelier up there? Big as a damn Volkswagen!”

He pulled at one wing of his white tie. Damn thing was way too tight, but it was too late to retie it now. Rearranging one’s wardrobe right now, couple of hundred yards shy of meeting Her Royal Majesty, well, would be a serious breach of palace protocol.

“Don’t be nervous,” Fancha said.

“I’m not nervous. Do I look nervous? Because I’m not.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Really?”

“Really. You’re fidgety; look at you. Quit messing with your tie. Only four more knights ahead of you now. You ready? You remember what they told you?”

“How could I forget?”

They’d had a preliminary run-through at Buckingham Palace yesterday to make people more comfortable with the ceremony. Apparently Her Majesty’s folks were sticklers for protocol around here. But he’d taken the whole thing seriously, even memorized the damn rules and gone over them with Fancha during dinner at the Ivy in the West End last night.

He recited for her, very quietly.

“DON’T speak unless spoken to. ‘She doesn’t want to hear your prattle. Even if you’re Prince Philip,’ the guy joked. DO follow the dress code. Only woman in the world with the constitutional power to force people to wear hats. DON’T touch the Queen. It’s illegal. And DON’T pat her corgis, either, much as you may be tempted. DO use the right form of address. First time you meet her, you say, ‘Your Majesty.’ After that, ‘Ma’am.’ Rhymes with jam. DON’T offer a handshake. Wait for her. DO keep handshakes short. ‘Don’t pump the Royal hand,’ the head protocol guy said. ‘In fact, try not to pump anything.’ DO curtsy when meeting the Queen. This does not apply, of course, if you’re a man—even Liberace, apparently.”

“Okay, okay, that’s good,” his wife said.

Stoke laughed just thinking about it. The rehearsal guy was actually pretty funny, believe it or not.

Way the whole thing would go down today, according to the funny protocol guy, each person would get to spend a few private moments with Her Majesty alone before moving on. So he was going to get to talk to her, tell her how much he admired her. Best part of this whole thing, seeing her again.

The procession of those being honored continued to make its way slowly up the winding marble staircase to where the Queen was receiving honorees. They were all dressed to the nines, some of them to the tens, twenties, and even the thirties in his humble opinion. Medals, diamonds, swords, all kinds of shiny accessories hanging all over everybody. Hell, all he had were the small ruby cuff links his daddy’d left him. But to him they were shining as bright as all the jewels in the palace.

Last minute, he’d removed all his ribbons, Navy Cross, decorations, and medals he had from his war experiences, leaving them back in a drawer at Claridge’s. Fancha pitched a fit, said he should wear them. He’d earned the right, she said. He couldn’t say why he didn’t want to. Decided they were too personal, maybe. Not anybody’s business but his own. And, anyway, there was just too much blood on those things that belonged not to him, but to his band of brothers.

They moved up more two steps, and the world’s fanciest conga line paused again.

“Oh, baby, I am so damn proud of you,” Fancha said, her bright brown eyes gleaming as she squeezed his hand hard. “You are something else, Mr. Jones.”

He looked at her, so damn proud of her, too. Man. All royal blue silk and satin bows and little white pearls down the front of her dress. She really looked like a queen herself, surrounded by all this finery and gold and all that glitters, his Queen for a Day, anyway.

The long, long line moved up two steps again, each knight-elect holding on to the gilded banister for dear life. People, not just him, seemed nervous. Hell, who wouldn’t be? The Queen of England is going to lay a sword on your shoulder and make you a knight of the realm? Serious shit. No matter who you are.

Knighted. Whoa, baby. How badass is that? Arise, Sir Stokely!

Fancha popped his balloon. “And don’t you forget to call her ‘Ma’am’ like ‘jam,’ now, you hear me, Stokely Jones? That’s the rule. Because you already met her once before up in Scotland. So don’t you go embarrassing me by calling her ‘Your Majesty,’ understand?”

“I won’t.”

But I probably will.

“And you remember now, don’t you turn your back on her. Ever. You back up a few steps. Keep facing her before you walk away.”

“I’ll remember.”

“And straighten up your tie before it’s your turn. It looks funny. Crooked.”

“I will.”

“And stop smiling.”

“I can’t.”

She laughed.

The procession moved up two more steps.

It was funny. The nearer he got to the Queen, the more relaxed he felt. He could see her face now. And he remembered how much he had admired her that night when she was standing there in that dark cellar at Balmoral Castle, surrounded by her family and a lot of her friends, with people being randomly shot point-blank dead by the terrorists. Thinking her son or one of her grandsons would surely be next. But not thinking about herself.

No.

When he and Hawke and the hostage rescue team had finally made it down to the castle’s cellar, Stoke had seen why the Brits revered her—hell, loved the whole family. These people, this whole nation, sometimes behaved in a way you could associate only with 1940s war movies, or Edward R. Murrow radio news broadcasts during the blitz. These folks had been bombed all right, night after night, endlessly. They had suffered total and prolonged war. And they had endured.

What did Churchill say?

“Never give in, never give in, never give in.”

Damn straight, Winston.

And they hadn’t, either. Give in? Hell. Just the look on the Queen’s face that night—her eyes shining with righteous courage in that dark cellar at Balmoral Castle—that alone had made the whole ragtaggy, scraggly-headed terrorist bunch holding her family captive look like the pitiful cowardly lowlifes they truly were. Lower than low. Punk-ass murderers hiding behind religion.

As his investiture drew near, he let go of Fancha’s hand and moved forward alone. Not at all nervous now. No, sir. He was not even slightly—

“Stokely Jones Junior!” the equerry said loudly, his name reverberating throughout the great hall.

Stoke took a deep breath and approached the Queen.

She caught his eye as he drew near. He thought he saw a little smile of recognition on her face (hell, who wouldn’t recognize him in this crowd?), and he smiled right back.

“Mr. Jones,” she said as he knelt on the investiture stool.

“Ma’am.”

Rhymes with jam.

He’d remembered!

The Queen offered her white-gloved hand.

“Stokely Jones Junior, is it not?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I wish to tell you how deeply my family appreciate what you did at Balmoral, Mr. Jones. Your valiant efforts did not go unnoticed. My grandsons, William and Harry, told me that night that there would have been no happy ending without you.”

“I can only say it was my great honor to meet you and your family that night, Your Majesty. All the men involved in the rescue felt that way, ma’am. Your bravery inspired us.”

“You’re a warrior, Mr. Jones. I saw, and see, in you a strong, brave heart. England is honored to count you among her friends. Please remember that.”

“I thank you, ma’am; I always will.”

“And this, now, our small tribute to your act of valor.”

She placed the sword, first on his right shoulder, then on his left.

He was so stunned, he couldn’t move.

The Queen smiled and whispered in his ear, “We are running a bit late, please arise, Sir Stokely Jones.”

HE FOUND FANCHA. SOMEHOW, AFTER
all that, he found his wife amid the crowd in all the excitement following the ceremony.

“Sir Stokely,” she said looking up at his beaming face, both of their eyes shining with tears. He embraced her, hugged her to him.

“Let’s go home, Mrs. Jones,” Stoke said, hugging her more tightly to him. “Let’s go home.”

C
H A P T E R
  4 9

S
abrina bade farewell to her young charge next morning, kissing him twice and giving him a hug. She’d taken her employer’s advice and, on a whim, she’d booked a small single room for one night at the Lygon Arms. It was a dreamy spot and only a stone’s throw from Hawkesmoor in the event of an emergency.

Suddenly she was excited about her weekend prospects. Over the years she’d made friends with many of the pub staff at the lovely old inn, as well as not a few of the regular patrons. Happy memories, for the most part. Many other young single women had, like herself, frequented the pub on weekends, hoping to meet attractive, well-bred, available men. In her time there, some had, some had not. So it goes.

Her favorite female chum during that period of her young life, someone with whom she’d lost touch when she’d moved to London, had been the beautiful Lorelei Li. A free spirit and a brilliant student of political science at Cambridge back in those days, she was always up for anything.

She’d texted Lorelei from London when she’d learned she’d be taking on a new position in the country and had immediately heard back from her. Still down in Cambridge, Lorelei said, a part-time newspaper job in London but also still frequenting their old haunts on weekends and holidays, especially the Lygon Arms.

Sabrina had had the silly fantasy she might actually see Lorelei sitting at the bar when she arrived. Such fun that would be! Before she put Alexei to bed and turned in herself, she checked to see if she’d had any messages. She found one and it was from Lorelei! Was she psychic or what? She dialed back, and Lorelei said she wanted to get together. She was in the neighborhood and wanted to meet her for lunch the next day. Where would be fun? Sabrina reminded her about the Lygon Arms and it was a done deal!

Another good thing had happened. She remembered that the bartender in those halcyon days was a handsome young man named Jeremy—she wondered if he still remembered her. And whether or not she might catch sight of him, too.

Sabrina stopped by the butler’s pantry to say good-bye to dear old Pelham. He assured her for the tenth time that Alexei would be safe and sound while she was away. In the event of an emergency, he had her mobile number. She was taking her iPad as an e-mail backup. She made sure he had Alexei’s meal schedule and cough medicine on hand, then carried her bulging needlepoint Union Jack bag out to the former stables, now Lord Hawke’s row of garages. His lordship had an amazing collection of vintage race cars and other exotic automobiles behind those doors—including the particularly smashing bright red “le Ferrari” roadster.