Artifact (7 page)

We rode the Underground from Heathrow into the city. Much of the journey into London is above ground. We watched the outskirts of London speed by, passing by rows of sprawling stone houses with the wash hung out to dry.

I hadn’t been back to London in over a year. Apart from the time I’d spent with Rupert, I passed most of my time in London looking at India Office Records in a reading room of the British Library. It was an intense year, and I finished my dissertation by the end of it. Rupert, on the other hand, was happy to prolong the student experience. His archaeology dissertation (the subject of which I was never entirely certain) was a never-ending work-in-progress that his heart was never committed to. Born wealthy and knowing parental money would keep coming as long as he was still in school, Rupert had chosen one of the longest courses of study available. While flitting around from one archaeological subject to another, he took his time, enjoying life. That was Rupert’s strong suit. And we certainly did enjoy the finer things in life that year.

Spending my days studying the lives of people who had lived long before me left me with a desire to live my life to the fullest each night when I left the hallowed library halls. Not because the research was mundane and I needed some excitement, but quite the contrary. The pieces of history that survive are the dramatic ones. The kind that can make you wonder why your own dreary existence is worth living.

My research area is especially full of drama. Adventurous traders, proud rulers, courageous soldiers. No, my days weren’t boring. But my nights with Rupert were even more exciting. Had he lived in a previous century, I have no doubt he would have voluntarily headed to India in search of his fortune like some of his ancestors.

The train headed into underground darkness as we neared central London. I pulled my thoughts back to the present.

Lane and I found adjoining rooms in a quiet Bayswater hotel. I quickly freshened up, then slipped my heels back on. I heaved my messenger bag across my chest before knocking on Lane’s door.

“I’ll share a cab with you to the library,” I said when he opened the door. “There’s something I want to look up there before I make another stop.”

He yawned in response. His shoes were off and his dress shirt half unbuttoned. I pulled my eyes from the latter.

“Haven’t you ever heard of a nap?” he asked. “It’s not even noon here. The library will be open all day. And it’s only a quick tube ride from here.”

“A cab is much more efficient. Besides, you don’t want me to go out there all by myself, do you?”

Lane raised an eyebrow. He was quite good at it.

“I didn’t see anyone suspicious when we got off the plane,” he said. “There’s probably nothing to worry about.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“No. But you don’t believe you need a bodyguard, either. What do you want?”

“Your help.”

His eyebrow shot up again.

“I thought if we got started now,” I said, “we could meet for dinner. We could compare notes before I leave for Scotland tomorrow.”

Fifteen minutes later we passed the sprawling King’s Cross/St. Pancras station and arrived at the British Library. As we walked inside, I thought I noticed Lane give a fond look to an object directly inside the doors. The metal bench in the shape of a book with its pages flipped open is one of my favorite items in the library as well.

The main section of the library is open to the public. The reading rooms for specialized research are different. You need to apply for a reader’s pass with your credentials. Lane didn’t stop at the office to apply for a pass. Perhaps we’d crossed paths before without knowing it.

We dropped off our bags in lockers before entering the reading room. Bags are prohibited in all reading rooms, along with coats, umbrellas, food, drink, and even pens.

With all the hoops you need to jump through to gain access to the specialized reading room mini-libraries, you might think the rooms would be sparsely populated, quiet places. To the contrary, the room with the India Office Records seats a hundred and often fills to capacity, especially during the summer when visiting scholars are numerous.

I wasn’t after a seat, though. I was after Jeremy, the librarian I had known while doing research at the library. He worked in the Asia, Pacific & Africa Collections. I spotted him right away. He was tough to miss.

“Jaya Jones,” Jeremy said in his familiar, elegant voice. He rested his elbows on the high counter of the information desk. Though he’d only spoken two words, I was reminded of how well he could have fit into a film adaptation of a Jane Austen novel. Or maybe an audio recording. I didn’t recall any black aristocrats in Jane Austen. He leaned forward over the desk and kissed the air next to my cheek.

“What brings you back to our fair city?” he asked. “Let me guess. You missed the challenge of walking in your fabulous heels on our cobblestone streets.”

Jeremy is only a few years older than me. He looks even less like a librarian than I look like a professor. Like me, he appears younger than his true age. Unlike me, he’s happy about it. His brightly colored ensemble of purple corduroys and a yellow sweater fit too tightly, but he pulled the look off with great success.

“A bit of a detour,” I said. “You were always amazingly ingenious in what you could find. I thought I’d see if you could help me. I’m looking for some Indian rubies.”

Jeremy watched closely as I lifted a small notebook from the library-approved plastic bag. I removed a photograph from the notebook’s pages.

I pushed the photo of the ruby bracelet across the desk for him to see. He glanced at the front with only moderate interest. He lifted it up to more carefully inspect the back.

“Where’s the reference?”

“That’s why I need you, Jeremy.”

I filled him in on how I thought the bracelet was from a set of Mughal jewelry from at least a few hundred years ago, and told him I’d check in later that day.

As I walked toward the exit, I felt a wave of apprehension wash over me. I looked around the high-ceilinged room. It was filled with people, some deep in concentration hunched over tables, some hurrying around. I spotted what I thought was the top of Lane’s head in a corner of the room. I hesitated, then walked over to him. The reference binders look much the same, so I couldn’t tell what he was looking up.

His face lit up when he saw me. I felt my own face break into a smile. Was I blushing? What was the matter with me?

“Got anything?” I asked.

“I think so. It shouldn’t take too long to find something, now that we’re here.”

“See you tonight,” I said, then headed out of the safe haven of the library to find out what Rupert had been up to.

If I didn’t want to sell my roadster to pay my phone bill, I needed a new cell phone to use in the UK. Especially if I was going to call Sanjay as I’d promised. I found a mobile phone dealer on Tottenham Court Road who popped out the sim card from my phone and gave me a new card with a prepaid UK plan. Before heading off, I sent Sanjay a quick text message to let him know I’d arrived safely.

I made a quick stop in a Tesco Metro supermarket to grab a packaged egg-mayonnaise sandwich. It was not a frivolous stop. A girl has to keep up her energy to be productive. One of my favorite things about Britain has always been the food. Though mocked by some, I appreciate the straightforward nature of British cuisine. So much of it is easy on-the-go food. And on-the-go I went. I headed down the bustling street toward my next task: tracing Rupert’s whereabouts.

It was a pleasant, sunny day. Throngs of tourists and Londoners walked along the broad sidewalk. The tourists ambled along, dressed in bright, summery colors. The locals, in their more subdued hues, easily maneuvered around them. Black cabs hurried along in the street. Pigeons flapped their wings to move out of the way. It was almost as if life was normal again.

Almost.

I couldn’t quite place the reason, but something made me nervous as I walked. I was more worried than I’d admitted to Lane. I hurried into the tube station on the corner.

The Picadilly line went straight to South Kensington. It was quintessential Rupert to have lived in such a posh neighborhood while still a student. I emerged from the Underground at Gloucester Road and walked down the familiar blocks. Within a few minutes, I stood in front of Rupert’s old flat. I didn’t know if he had still been living there, but I had to start somewhere.

My unease grew stronger as I stood there. It was the same nervous feeling. I shook it off and knocked.

An attractive brunette opened the door. She told me she and her husband had moved in a year ago, but she wished me luck finding Rupert. She said she could tell Rupert and his roommates were sweet guys because when she first moved in, a neighborhood stray cat thought dinner ought to be on the stoop of the ground floor flat. “Sweet” was not an adjective I would use when describing Rupert and his friends. It was a good bet it was an opportunistic cat.

My next stop had a better chance of success. I’d heard that after Rupert finished his degree the previous December, he began lecturing at King’s College in London. I sent him a “happy graduation” card at the time. His family connections had probably helped him get the job, but to be fair, Rupert was highly intelligent. He could do a lot when he set his mind to it. Which wasn’t to say it was a frequent occurrence.

I found the department of archaeology in the modern King’s Cross building on The Strand. Though it was summer and many of the students were gone, a smattering of voices could be heard in the hallways. At the main office, a very round and very freckled red-haired man stared at me from where he sat wedged into his seat.

“Can I help?”

“I hope so,” I said. “Do you know Rupert Chadwick?”

His pudgy nose scrunched up, turning his narrow eyes into even smaller slits.

“He isn’t here anymore.” He spit out the words. I didn’t get the impression he’d heard Rupert was dead.

“Quit before the end of term,” he added.

I wasn’t surprised Rupert had rubbed someone the wrong way. Still, that was not the answer I expected. What would have made Rupert quit so soon? A lecturer was the bottom of the ladder of university instructors, but King’s College was an excellent school in the heart of his beloved London.

“Do you know where he went?”

“Not likely. He moved away.”

“I was really hoping to track him down.”

The man looked at me coldly.

“It’s just...he owes me some money,” I said.

His face relaxed. “Sounds like something the prat would do. Wish I could help.”

“Maybe someone else here was friends with him.”

He scratched the side of his large, red neck. “Not that I know of. What’d he want the money for? Always the posh ones who’ll take you for it.”

“Something stupid, I’m sure. Do you know why he quit?”

“Don’t think I can help. That was a mystery around here, that one was.”

“A mystery?”

“He didn’t say a word to anyone.”

I walked slowly down the hallway toward the main entrance. I was at a loss as to what to do next. I was sure Rupert would have stuck with a real job for at least a semester. I thought I would have been able to find someone who knew what he was doing. Now I had no choice but to arrive blind at the Scottish dig.

I stopped in the ladies room to freshen up. I splashed water on my face, then looked in the mirror. In spite of Lane’s proclamation that I slept like I meant it, I was tired. I looked it. I needed some coffee.

I left the building, thinking I’d see if one of my favorite cafes was still in business. I walked a few yards before I realized I should have turned the other way to reach the Embankment tube stop. I turned around and passed by the main doors to the university again. As I walked by, I got the feeling someone was calling my name.

I looked back toward the expanse of the building. Maybe the man who disliked Rupert had thought of something helpful. Between his red hair and girth, he would be hard to miss. But I didn’t see him. I walked back inside, but he wasn’t there either. Odd.

Back out on the sidewalk, the feeling was there again. Someone was calling my name. The name Jaya wasn’t uncommon in England, with its large South Asian population. It was conceivable that someone would have been calling out to their friend Jaya down the street.

I wasn’t
hearing
anything, though. I was feeling it.

Someone was watching me.