Knightley and Son (9781619631540) (18 page)

The penthouse was even sleeker and colder than Beecham’s office. The furniture was uniformly black and uniformly leather, with the occasional cashmere throw pillows. The floor itself also appeared to be leather or some synthetic equivalent, and the overall impression was of being inside the carcass of an exotic black animal of some kind.

Chloe closed the glass doors to the roof garden and greeted Beecham in a surprised but professional tone. “Bram. I didn’t know you were expecting guests. I would have done the watering another time.”

“That’s quite all right.” Beecham’s voice betrayed a hint of anxiety—possibly even fear, Darkus thought. “Chloe, you remember Darkus Knightley,” he went on, ushering his guests into the living room. “This is his father.” Knightley bowed enthusiastically in Chloe’s direction. Beecham gestured uncertainly to Uncle Bill. “And this is . . .”

“Montague Billoch,” said Bill, using his birth name, “but ye can call me Monty,” he added, with a smile that seemed to inflate his cheeks close to bursting. “Verra canty.” Neither Darkus nor his father made any attempt to comprehend this last comment.

“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” said Chloe hesitantly.

“Thank you, Chloe.” Beecham closed the door behind her. Then he removed his coat, went to a marble-topped bar, and poured himself a large neat whiskey, using a monogrammed napkin to dab his shining forehead. “Can I offer you anything?” he asked Knightley and Bill, who looked at each other and shrugged.

“Not on the job,” Darkus responded for them. Knightley and Bill nodded in agreement, as if the thought had never crossed their minds.

“Fair enough,” said Beecham, taking a seat and gesturing for his guests to do the same. He pressed a remote control and a set of electric blinds descended silently over the windows, blocking out the roof terrace. Knightley and Bill watched, impressed, while Darkus examined the imposing bookcase that took up one entire wall of the living area.

“I understand you’ve decided to cooperate,” began Knightley.

“I’ve come to realize my options are fewer than I thought,” said Beecham, sipping deeply from his whiskey tumbler. “Like my client, I am now the subject of rumor and innuendo. I am a target for those who seek to use
The Code
for their own purposes, which are beyond my control,” he went on, his voice wavering more noticeably.

“Would you care to elaborate?” said Darkus, continuing his survey of the room.

“In short . . . ,” Beecham replied, “I believe my life is in danger.”

Chapter 14

Hidden Chambers

“Proceed,” said Darkus.

Beecham looked from Knightley to Bill, then began talking. “I’m aware that certain fringe groups hold my client responsible for events that could not have been foreseen. I also believe another, larger organization has manipulated the book’s release for their own personal agenda—an agenda that I cannot fathom, nor do I wish to.”

“What kind of organization?” asked Darkus.

“I don’t know. But I believe Lester’s death was no accident.”

“The editor?” said Darkus.

“That’s right.” Beecham drained his glass.

“And do you have any idea who might be orchestrating this?” said Knightley.

“No,” said Beecham, looking down and to the left. Darkus knew enough about body language to know that this was a “tell”: a sure sign that Beecham was lying. It hadn’t escaped Knightley either.

“And you expect us to believe this story of a shadowy organization?” said Knightley. “With no tangible evidence? Only wild hypotheses?”

“It is not my job to investigate crimes,” answered Beecham. “It’s yours.”

“I gave you the chance to deliver your client to us, and you refused,” said Darkus. “You obstructed our investigation.”

Beecham went white, then turned to Knightley. “I’ll give you Chambers’s location. I’ll tell you everything I know. But first I want guaranteed round-the-clock protection and immunity from prosecution. In writing from a high court judge.”

Knightley looked to Bill for approval. Meanwhile, Darkus completed his assessment of the room, then calmly turned to face Beecham.

“Before we grant your request, Mr. Beecham, I believe there are some more immediate issues that need to be addressed,” he said. “Starting with this bookcase . . .” Darkus approached the heavily lacquered bookcase, running his hand over the shelves where a variety of Far Eastern trinkets were lined up for ornamental effect.

“Careful, Doc,” said Knightley, the anxious parent in him coming out.

“Is your son always this poorly behaved?” said Beecham curtly.

“Not without good reason.” Knightley watched with nervous interest. “Don’t break anything, Doc, for God’s sake,” he whispered.

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” Darkus inspected the edge of the bookcase and the adjoining wall, then turned to face the others. “It’s clear from the layout of this room that there is significantly more space behind this bookcase than meets the eye.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” protested Beecham.

“I think you do,” said Darkus, moving aside some of the Far Eastern trinkets on the shelves overhead.

“Gently—” beseeched Knightley.

“Don’t worry, Dad.” Darkus took what appeared to be a small makeup compact from his inside pocket. He opened it and removed a miniature blusher brush, dipped it in a small amount of white powder, tapped it once, then ran it along the shelves, over the spines of the books, leaving a white residue.

“What’s he doing?” demanded Beecham.

“My line of reasoning began with the notes I discovered in the file room at your office,” said Darkus, blowing away the white powder to reveal a cluster of fingerprints centered on a large hardcover book entitled
Secrets of the Ancients
.

“What were you doing snooping around my office?” raged Beecham.

Darkus continued undeterred. “The handwriting was a perfect match for the signature on the title page of
The Code
that you donated to the auction. A foolish move on your part, but driven by good intentions, no doubt. They were what betrayed you.” Darkus reached for the hardcover book.

“Don’t touch that!” barked Beecham.

Darkus ignored him and removed the book from the shelf, which resulted in an audible click. Darkus looked to his father for permission. Knightley nodded encouragingly, a look of stunned pride spreading broadly across his face.

“My theory was confirmed rather simply by your monogrammed napkin, which contains the letters B.R.B. Which I assume stand for Bram . . . Ross . . . Beecham,” declared Darkus, then pulled on the bookcase, which swung open on hidden hinges to reveal a secret room with a desk, a chair, and a laptop computer stationed inside. “Or—if you rearrange the letters—should I say . . . Ambrose Chambers.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Knightley.

“
He
is Chambers . . . ?” said Bill, pointing at Beecham. “How?”

“A monogram that led to an anagram,” said Knightley, nodding proudly.

“I rest my case,” said Darkus, looking at Beecham, or, as his pen name would have it, Ambrose Chambers.

“A’right, lads, we’ve got our man,” Bill said into his walkie-talkie.

The apartment doors opened and uniformed officers surrounded Beecham, who looked at Darkus with something approaching admiration—but not quite.

“You’re very good, son, but I’m afraid your reasoning is only half-sound,” Beecham announced. “You see, there really is no Ambrose Chambers. I didn’t write a word of it. I only transcribed it from an existing text, for someone—or some
thing
—
else.”

“Who?” demanded Darkus.

“I’ve already made you my offer,” said Beecham, turning to the assembled members of law enforcement. “Grant me immunity, and I’ll tell you everything I know. Refuse it, and Chambers won’t say another word.”

“Save it for the station,” said Bill, and nodded to the officers, who took hold of Beecham’s arms and raised him to his feet.

“You’re making a big mistake,” he called out, struggling with the officers as they guided him out of the apartment toward the elevator. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with—” Beecham shouted as the elevator doors closed behind him.

Darkus calmly closed the compact and returned it to his inside pocket. He looked up at his father, who was now studying him more closely than ever.

“Impressive,” said Knightley.

Darkus shrugged. “It was the only explanation that would support the facts.”

Knightley nodded, suddenly feeling very old.

“Shall we continue Beecham’s interrogation at the station?” said Darkus.

“In the morning,” said Knightley. “First, I think it’s time you got some rest,” he added tenderly.

“As you wish.”

The gentle rhythm of the cab’s progress through London soon lulled Darkus to sleep in the backseat. Traffic lights and Belisha beacons blurred past the window as Knightley guided the Fairway toward Cherwell Place. Somewhere a clock struck one, and the stars were just visible above the neon shroud.

Knightley reflected that London was never calmer or more innocent than in the dead of night—and yet no time of day was more apt to be used for ill gain. In the years since he’d unwillingly gone to sleep, the city had changed and evolved, adding corporate insignias and chain outlets, without ever managing to lose its prehistoric skeleton of nonsensical but somehow interconnecting parts. It was a sort of ordered disorder, much like the inner workings of a brain: a brain that could be used for good or for bad; for dreaming or for nightmares.

Knightley glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Darkus slumped with his head resting against the window, his breath steaming up the glass. Knightley smiled privately to himself, then turned the wheel, pulling up outside number 27. He quietly got out of the driver’s seat, slowly opened the rear passenger door, and scooped up Darkus in his arms without waking him. He hadn’t done this for longer than he could remember, and it probably wasn’t advisable in his current state, but sometimes reason and common sense were irrelevant. Knightley crept across the sidewalk to the house, keeping his balance, inserted the key into the lock, and opened the front door.

He heard the rumbling, bronchial snores of Bogna emanating from the first-floor bedroom. Knightley carefully ascended the stairs, carrying his burden, trying to minimize the creaking sounds that were either coming from the staircase or his knee joints—he wasn’t sure which. He reached the top floor and crept into his office, lowering Darkus onto the chaise longue. He drew up, panting and holding his chest until his breathing slowed down.

“Are you okay, Dad?” Darkus whispered, looking up at him.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Just the last flight of stairs or so.”

“You could’ve told me.”

“I thought you were having . . . a moment.”

“I’m having a heart attack is what I’m having,” said Knightley, getting his breath back.

“Mom’s right,” said Darkus matter-of-factly. “For a detective, you can be pretty oblivious.”

Knightley shook his head. “There’s a distinction between ‘oblivious’ and ‘focused,’ Doc. Your mother never understood that. I require close to one hundred percent of my brain when I’m conducting an investigation.”

“I know,” replied Darkus. “And female counterparts are a distraction.” He quoted his father’s words back to him.

“I thought maybe
you
would understand that, seeing as how you’ve become an investigator in your own right. And a very good one,” Knightley said proudly, then frowned again. “Perhaps I wasn’t the most attentive father. But I never expected anything of you; I never tried to push you in any particular direction, to be a suit or a desk jockey, not like most parents.”

“That’s because you never took the time to get to know me,” said Darkus. “You never bothered to deduce what direction I might want to go in.”

Knightley took a moment to digest this. “I wanted you to be able to stand on your own two feet. And look how right I was,” he said, cheerfully unaware of the effect he was having. “Judging by your performance with Beecham—or should I say Chambers—I must have done something right.”

“On the contrary,” said Darkus. “In the absence of guidance, I took the only course that presented itself. I followed you.”

A wave of guilt crashed over Knightley. He took a deep breath and waited for it to pass. “If I left you in the dark, it was because I wanted to spare you the
real
darkness. The kind that you need more than a night-light to protect you from.” He took a blanket from a cupboard and unfolded it over Darkus on the chaise longue. “I see no point in revisiting past history. We have a case on the boil, and we need our minds in tip-top shape. Get some rest, and that’s an order.”

“Okay, Dad,” Darkus answered somberly.

As his son closed his weary eyes, Knightley retired to the armchair opposite, but found himself out of sorts. He steadied his breathing and watched Darkus for several minutes. Knightley’s face was an indecipherable mask, caught between emotion and reason. His son was the one case he would never crack, a case that would go on long after his own demise. Perhaps someone would solve it: someone more deserving; someone better than him.