Other People's Baggage (15 page)

“What's going on?” I asked when I caught up to her. She had her phone to her ear, but hung up when she saw me.

“I've had a bad feeling ever since this morning,” she said, not slowing her pace. “It's always a bad sign for a show when something is sabotaged at the theater.”

“What does that have to do with the hotel?” I asked. I was half-jogging to keep up with her. Not an easy feat while walking through a grassy park in heels.

“Maybe nothing,” she said. “I hope it's nothing.”

Daniella's friends hadn't followed, but Astrid and Clayton caught up with us at the edge of the gardens. The four of us entered the hotel together. We didn't get far. The elevator and stairway off the hotel lobby were blocked off with police tape, leaving the adjacent bar packed with wall-to-wall people. Families had squished themselves into the three tartan-patterned loveseats off to one side, and a lucky few were sitting in the half-a-dozen matching chairs. Everyone else stood wherever there was a free few inches of floor space. The crowd quickly swallowed us up, and I found myself separated from Daniella, Astrid, and Clayton.

I caught a glimpse of Daniella pushing her way through the crowd to the closest police officer. Before reaching him, she paused and changed course. She'd spotted someone.

A tall man with dark, olive-hued skin stepped through the main doors of the hotel lobby. He was easy to spot. The man had presence. This was the type of person you could easily imagine commanding the attention of the room. He wore a dark gray suit that must have cost several thousand dollars. In spite of his businessman's attire, he reminded me of an older version of someone I knew….

Daniella greeted him with a hug. I couldn't hear what they were saying to each other, but their animated body language made it apparent something was wrong. A group of exceptionally tall men with German accents walked past me, and I lost sight of Daniella. This was one of those times when I really hated being short.

Craning my neck, I spotted a deerstalker hat. Clayton Barnes. I made my way in that direction. When I reached him, he was with Astrid and Daniella. The charismatic man wasn't with them.

“It's the chess set,” Daniella said, her voice shaking even more than it had on the phone. “A thief used explosives to blow up a safe in the hotel. The chess set has been stolen.”

FOOL'S GOLD: FOUR

  

“You can't be serious,” Clayton said. He shook his head from side to side repeatedly, as if willing his words to be true. His previous calm disposition was nowhere to be seen, replaced by the demeanor of a small child throwing a tantrum. “How could this have happened?

“I don't understand how it happened,” Daniella said, looking at the floor as she spoke. “It shouldn't have been possible.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“We thought we were being so clever,” Daniella said, her voice almost a whisper. Her lip quivered and her eyes filled up, but she kept the tears at bay. “We made a show of putting the chess set in the main safe at the hotel desk. But it was a fake set we gave them. Nobody was supposed to know the real chess set was in the safe in our suite.”

“How did you learn what happened?” I asked. “Was it from the man I saw you talking with?”

“That was Feisal,” Daniella said, nodding and meeting my gaze. “The chess set is his, so the police told him what about the theft. He's gone off to the police station with them.”

So that was the antiques dealer, Feisal. He reminded me very much of a great uncle of mine I only knew from family photographs. Their faces were superficially similar based on skin color and the shape of their eyes, but my great-great uncle's photographs had captured a bold look in his eyes and in the way he carried himself. I recognized that same adventurous spirit in Feisal.

“I never trusted that security guard of his,” Astrid said. Though she didn't seem to speak much, her voice was confident, verging on arrogant. Her accent wasn't Scottish or English, but I couldn't place it.

“You don't mean Izzy,” Daniella said.

“Of course I mean Izzy,” Astrid said. I placed the accent. Her English accent was tinted with French. “Who else would I mean? You said it yourself—since it was stolen from our suite, where the four of us were staying, it had to have been one of us. You, me, Feisal, or Izzy.”

Clayton remained silent, looking between Astrid and Daniella with his deerstalker hat pulled low on his brow. He wore an expression that combined anger and confusion.

“He wouldn't—” Daniella began, but stopped short when she saw Astrid's expression.

“Well, you and I didn't do it,” Astrid said, “and why would Feisal steal his own chess set? I'm telling you, it was Izzy—”

“May I have your attention, everyone!” A fair-haired man in a policeman's uniform stood on a chair near the reception desk to address the crowd with a thick Scottish accent. The din of the crowd lessened slightly, but didn't cease, which was probably because the policeman looked all of twenty years old. As someone who was often mistaken for an undergraduate while I was finishing my PhD, I should be more forgiving of people who look young but need to exert their authority. In two weeks, I'd be teaching undergraduates as an Assistant Professor of History. I'm twenty-nine, but I'm only five feet tall and have the same small bone structure as my Indian mom. I'm a good teacher and know my stuff, so I hoped I'd be perceived by my students as having more authority than this poor policeman.

“The other floors of the hotel will be opened up soon enough,” the young officer said, raising his voice to be heard above the chatter. “But not immediately. Please go about your business and you should have access to your rooms again within an hour or two.”

The crowd gave a collective groan. The police officer looked in our direction, then jumped down from the chair and walked straight to us. When he reached us, he glanced at the cell phone in his hand. On the screen was an image of the
Fool's Gold
poster with a picture of the two actresses.

“Daniella Stuart and Astrid Moreau?” he asked.

He asked Daniella and Astrid to go to the station for a few questions, since they were staying in the suite with the theft. In spite of the respectful manner in which the request was made, it didn't seem like a voluntary request.

“Of course,” Daniella said. “Jaya, I'll meet you back here as soon as we're done.”

Instead of finding out why a security guard of questionable character was guarding the chess set, I watched Daniella and Astrid disappear out the door.

Clayton removed his gold glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I hope their input can shed some light on this mess,” he said. “God, this is awful. Join me for a pint while we wait?”

I didn't want a beer, but my stomach rumbled loudly. Clayton and I made our way through the lobby toward the hotel's restaurant. At least that's what we tried to do. It was entirely possible I would be crushed to death weaving my way through the crowded lobby. But the policeman's words were beginning to have an effect on the hotel guests. The crowd thinned out and I spotted two seats at the end of the bar.

I passed a woman speaking with her young son, who fell silent and turned to stare open-mouthed at Clayton as we passed. It wasn't just the woman. Several people turned their heads to stare at him as we walked by. Though his outfit was outrageous, the rude behavior surprised me.

I kept on walking until I reached the empty seats. I sat on a high-backed wooden stool and set my messenger bag at my feet. I expected Clayton would remove his Sherlock hat when we sat down, but he left it on.

“I knew Feisal's trusting nature would get him into trouble one of these days,” Clayton said. His shoulders slumped as he rested his elbows on the bar.

“You think Feisal's security guard stole the chess set?” I asked.

“I fear so,” Clayton said. “I've known Feisal for years. I've bought many antiques from his London shop, and he's become a good friend over the years. He was born in Egypt, educated in London. He fell in love with our great country and has been here ever since. He's a good man, but he lets his emotions get the better of him when it comes to business decisions—such as who he hires.”

We ordered food from the bartender and I asked for a coffee to go with my leg of lamb since it was a bit early in the day for a beer. But as soon as the bartender set down a cup of instant Nescafé front of me, Clayton's dark beer looked much more appealing. I should have known better than to order coffee in a Scottish bar.

“I may drink far too many of these,” Clayton said as he raised his glass, “unless the gold pieces are recovered soon.”

“The police must know something they aren't sharing,” I said. “Otherwise they would have questioned all the guests, not just the four of them staying in the suite.”

“I suspect they will be arresting Izzy, if they haven't already.”

“Why are you and Astrid so sure he's guilty?” I asked. “Shouldn't a security guard be the least likely person to be suspected?”

“It's his past,” Clayton said. I waited for him to go on, but he didn't.

“Which is?” I asked.

“I don't like to gossip about others,” Clayton said, drawing his lips together and adjusting his glasses. “It creates a negative energy that isn't good for my alchemical transformations. You needn't concern yourself with our problems. You're here to enjoy the festival. So tell me, what do you do in America?”

I opened my mouth to protest, but thought better of it. I couldn't figure out Clayton Barnes. He seemed sincere in what he was saying and oblivious to the stares brought by his flamboyant Victorian clothing.

He also had a good point. There wasn't anything I could do. I was only being nosy. I would wait for Daniella to return from the police station, since I said I'd wait for her, but then I would go buy myself some clothes and enjoy the city. There was a tour of the castle scheduled in a couple of hours that I had been hoping to attend. I love guided tours because it's interesting to see which parts of history the guides talk about.

“I'm about to begin teaching history at a university in San Francisco,” I said.

“Oh, a historian! How lovely. That's why you asked if I studied historic alchemists. You don't study them, do you?”

“I specialize in Indian history,” I said. “My research is on the British East India Company.”

Clayton squinted at me through his glasses. “Are you Indian?”

“My mom was Indian and I was born there. But after she died, my brother and I grew up in California with my dad, who's American with typical mixed European descent.”

“There were some extraordinary Indian alchemists,” Clayton said. “Arguably the Egyptians did the most to further the study of alchemy, but there's a great tradition of Indian alchemy going back centuries.”

“Really?”

“The Bhairavis focus on mercury, not gold, with the goal of prolonging life rather than transforming metals, but the processes are the same.”

“Turning lead into gold is the same as the secret to eternal life?”

“They're both about transformation,” Clayton said. “There's real science behind these transformations. Modern chemistry is but a branch of alchemy. Isaac Newton was an alchemist. He believed his alchemical work to be integral to his scientific studies. Aristotle was an alchemist, as was Socrates.”

“You
are
a historian,” I said.

“You caught me.” He paused and loosened his ascot. “One needs to study the masters in order to learn their secrets.”

“Let me ask you this,” I said. “Why doesn't everyone go around turning lead into gold, if it's possible? And why don't we all live forever?”

Clayton frowned. “You're a skeptic. I understand. Most people are. They say I'm eccentric, that I have a screw loose. No, no. It's true. I know what they say. It's only natural. Most people cannot achieve the highest forms of alchemy, so it's perfectly reasonable that they doubt what they cannot see for themselves.”

“Couldn't you show them?” I asked, thinking about Sanjay's tricks.

“It's not easy to transform metals,” Clayton said. “Nor is it easy to transform oneself. And it's not something that can be done in public.”

“Since you're one of the few people who have succeeded in this difficult process,” I said, “why don't you make enough gold to solve all of the world's problems?”

“As a historian, surely you realize that money won't solve the world's problems.”

“True enough,” I admitted. “But it could help.”

“And I do,” Clayton said, a huge grin forming on his face. “You're not from here, so you don't know who I am. You see, I'm quite well known. I give a lot to charity.”

I felt my cheeks flush. That explained why so many people in the crowd had been glancing in our direction. I was with a famous philanthropist.

It wasn't the Scottish people who were crazy. It was me who was ignorant. I'd been so caught up in my dissertation the last few years that even when living in London I hadn't heard of him. I hadn't had a television in my flat, and all of my reading was related to my research.

“I'm sorry I didn't realize—”

“Don't be embarrassed,” Clayton said. “That's one of the reasons it's been such a pleasure to speak with you. I've spoken more to you about alchemy this afternoon than I've done with anyone in ages, because you haven't treated me condescendingly.” He paused and reached into his breast pocket. “I'm hosting a little party for charity at my castle tonight, since so many people are in town for the festival. The process to create gold is draining, so I do what I can, and donate much of it, but I need to convince others to do so as well. I hope you'll attend—no donation expected, of course. You saw how upset Daniella is. You should help her take her mind off of this theft.”

The elegant invitation he placed in my hand was printed on thick cream-colored paper with lettering that looked like gold leaf. Behind the letterpress text with information about the event was a light sketch of a stone castle surrounded by a forest.

“I'm supposed to attend the opening night of my friend's magic show tonight,” I said, “but if the timing works, I'd love to come. Thank you.”

Clayton pursed his lips. I expected he wasn't used to people turning down invitations to his castle.

“I think you would be a big help to Daniella,” he said. “You can distract her from this nonsense. The castle is just outside the city, so it takes no time at all to get there.”

He tossed off the word “castle” as casually as if he was saying “apartment.”

“It's only a small castle,” he said, reading my expression. “No real fortifications. It's a glorified manor house with some beautiful gardens. It was owned by a sixteenth century alchemist. That's why I bought it. He's the one who named it Black Dragon Castle.”

“Black Dragon?”

“It's an alchemical term,” Clayton said. “It symbolizes stages of transformation. The dragon is key to transformations. Integral,” he paused, “but dangerous.”