The Excalibur Codex (40 page)

‘You’ll tell us eventually,’ the man said. ‘Better to give me it now than what the boss will do to you. I’ve seen him work on a woman before and it isn’t pretty. You’re a rare beauty, he’ll use that against you. No? Well, that’s a shame.’

The scream that followed a second later would have frozen Jamie to the spot if he hadn’t been expecting it. Instead, he stepped into the doorway with the Sig-Sauer in front of him. He was in a relatively modern kitchen and a tall man with his back towards the door held the left hand of a partially bound girl he didn’t recognize over the steam from a boiling kettle. The girl’s face was contorted in agony, but her eyes were open and he saw the moment she registered the newcomer with the pistol. Somehow through the agony she found the focus for rational thought. A dozen possibilities flickered in those eyes and the result was an even louder and more prolonged shriek that gave Jamie the vital moments it took to cross the kitchen. With one movement he raised the Sig-Sauer and smashed the butt of the pistol into the base of her torturer’s skull and the man collapsed on to the tiled floor.

Jamie made sure he was unconscious before turning his attention to the victim. The girl was hunched over and obviously close to collapse herself. She was small and dark haired with a pale, slim face and dark pain circles under wide electric-green eyes that in other circumstances might have been described as hypnotic. He helped her to a chair and she slumped forward with her head on the kitchen table, sobbing quietly. He felt a surge of compassion, and her blistered hand needed treatment, but he knew he didn’t have time to play nurse.

‘I’ll need a knife,’ he said.

She raised her head and blinked before nodding
towards a drawer next to an ancient Aga. Jamie laid the pistol on the table and rummaged in the drawer until he found what looked like a bread knife. He cut her free, using the cord to bind the hands of the unconscious man on the floor. When he looked up she was watching him.

‘Thank you.’ She shuddered. ‘I think you might have saved my life. He said this was just the start. Who are you?’ She had a very soft voice with a gentle Scottish lilt.

‘That can wait.’ He gave her a smile that was meant to be reassuring. ‘Can you stand? It’s time we got you out of here. How many of them are there?’

‘Three that I’ve seen, apart from this one, but possibly more.’ She groaned and tried to get to her feet. He went to help her, but she shook her head. ‘Their leader is an older man. I think he’s a little mad. He keeps talking about Excalibur. They’re searching the house.’

He nodded. ‘If I help you out to the trees, do you think you can find somewhere to hide out until the police get here?’

She frowned. ‘What about you?’

‘I have some business to finish with these people.’ He picked up the pistol and checked that the magazine hadn’t been dislodged by the impact on the man’s skull. When he was happy, he held out an arm to support her.

‘I’m not going anywhere without you.’ Her voice was hoarse, but there was no mistaking the conviction there.

‘Jesus …’ The word burst from him.

‘No,’ she said, and he was astonished to see a twinkle of humour in the tired eyes. ‘Fiona. Fiona Maxwell.’

She held out her right hand and he took it, wondering what in the name of God he was going to do with her. ‘Look, you’re still in shock—’

‘He has one of those too,’ she said, ignoring him and pointing at the Sig. ‘I saw it under his coat.’

Jamie cursed himself for not searching the downed man. He checked under the black bomber jacket and came up with a Ruger automatic, the twin of the one Gault had carried in America. He saw Fiona Maxwell studying the gun. ‘Do you know how to use it?’

She met his gaze and raised a cultured eyebrow. ‘I assume you point it and pull the trigger.’ He shook his head as he handed her the pistol, but he couldn’t help smiling. Fiona Maxwell might be small in stature, but it was clear she had a giant heart. Five minutes ago she’d been having her hand broiled and her future promised nothing but a shallow grave. His mind rebelled against allowing her to risk her life again, but there was no fighting the determination in her eyes. The gun looked huge in her petite hand and she struggled to hold it straight, but she had long musician’s fingers and her forefinger curled round the trigger. She glared as she looked along the barrel. ‘Better with two hands, but one will have to do.’

‘It has two pressures,’ he explained. ‘You take the first strain on the trigger, and it will fire as soon as you deliver the second.’ He was looking towards the internal door on the far side of the room as he said the words. When he looked back the gun was pointed at his chest. His heart missed a beat.

‘I’m asking you again. Who are you and why are you here?’ Her face was deathly white, but the gun was steady enough now and there was iron in her voice that demanded a response.

It was a question Jamie had always known he’d have to answer, but the circumstances were a little different from what he’d imagined. Staring down the barrel of the Ruger there didn’t seem any point in arguing, so he gave it to her straight. ‘My name is Jamie Saintclair, I’m an art dealer who specializes in the return of stolen works and artefacts.’ The intensity of the dark eyes deepened a fraction, but it was only later he would understand why. ‘I came here to make sure some property that was taken from this house is returned to its rightful owner.’ He met her gaze. ‘I am also probably responsible for what’s happened to you. I’m sorry, that wasn’t part of the plan.’

The pistol drifted to the side. ‘You mean the sword the man brought with him? You really shouldn’t have bothered. We’ve more swords in this house than we know what to do with.’ For a moment the dismissal of his efforts took Jamie’s breath away, but before he could reply she said: ‘In that case, perhaps we should be on our way.’ She turned to the outside door, but hesitated when he didn’t follow. ‘Well?’

‘There’s another reason for staying. I owe it to a friend.’

‘So it’s a matter of honour?’

He shrugged.

‘Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?’

Fiona Maxwell wanted to lead the way, but Jamie refused on the grounds that whoever went first was also likely to stop the first bullet. Instead, he made her draw a rough map of the interior of the ground floor. A corridor led from the private rooms to the main house, through an ante room to the armoury. Beyond the armoury lay the entrance hall, which had doors connecting to the library and Scott’s study. There was also a large dining room off the armoury.

‘Where did you last see Adam Steele?’ Her only reply was a look of puzzlement. ‘The older man you mentioned,’ he explained.

‘He seemed very interested in the armoury and the weapons,’ she whispered. ‘There are hundreds of them: swords and pistols, suits of armour and spears. Sir Walter collected them from all over the world, including some from the field of Waterloo. He has Rob Roy’s claymore, you know.’

‘But not Excalibur?’

Her face went blank. ‘If such a sword exists, Mr Saintclair, it will never leave this house. You have my word on it.’ It was strange to hear the sentence spoken with utter conviction, but her eyes contained an element of doubt, as if she was uncertain whether she was telling the truth.

He considered the diagram. ‘It’s my intention to surprise Mr Steele if I can, but that doesn’t look very likely if we go through the armoury. Is there another way into the main house?’

She thought for a few seconds. ‘The spiral stair!’ She hurried back through the house to the kitchen where Jamie’s victim lay groaning on the tiled floor, still more unconscious than not, but for how long?

‘Can I borrow your scarf?’ He indicated the bright print at Fiona’s neck.

‘It was expensive.’ It was a very female response and he smiled. ‘It’s Louis Vuitton.’

‘If he damages it I’ll buy you another,’ Jamie promised as she reluctantly handed it over. He used the brightly coloured silk to gag the prone intruder. ‘Hopefully he won’t choke.’

‘It would serve him right if he does. Here.’ She led him through to the hallway of the private wing and pointed to a painted door. ‘This leads to the cellars.’

‘I thought you said we were taking a spiral stair?’

‘You’ll see,’ she said mysteriously.

Jamie opened the door and hesitated. ‘Just one last
thing. Do you think you can manage another scream?’ She shot him a startled look. ‘You’ve been awfully quiet for a while,’ he explained. ‘If they don’t hear from you they’ll be expecting our friend in the kitchen to report back that you’ve either fainted or given him what he wants.’

She disappeared for a few seconds and another agonized shriek filled the house before she reappeared. Jamie took his first step into the darkness.

‘Watch out. The steps are worn. There should be a light switch on your left.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, recovering from his stumble.

The light clicked on and he found himself in a long, low cellar that seemed to stretch half the length of the house.

Fiona let out a hiss. ‘They’ve been here.’ She pointed to an antique chest of drawers that had been overturned, with the drawers emptied out and generations of anonymous bric-a-brac dumped on the floor. There were other signs, shelves tipped over to reveal the bare stone walls behind. Baskets and boxes were tossed aside, their contents strewn haphazardly around. ‘The stair is there. In the far corner.’

They made their way carefully through the mess until they reached the far end. ‘Stay here.’ He held the pistol in front of him and slowly ascended the clockwise staircase.

Her voice followed him. ‘You’ll come to a little alcove halfway up. The door leads to the entrance hall.’

‘Okay, it’s clear. But I think you should stay here.’

‘This house and everything in it is my responsibility, Mr Saintclair. I thought we agreed that.’

‘Christ.’ He noticed the blisters sagging like grapes from her left hand. ‘You must be in agony. Please.’

‘Pain is part of life,’ she said. ‘Just as death is. We cannot escape it; therefore we must learn to endure it. You may not think it, but this house has borne a great deal of pain.’ She looked into his eyes and he felt as if she was searching his soul. ‘Just as pain has marked you. She must have been very special to you, your friend?’

He halted abruptly and stared at her. How could she have known? But when he looked into those green eyes, he understood. ‘She was.’

‘Did they hurt her?’

‘I … don’t know. I think so.’

‘Then we have to stop them.’

Reluctantly, he capitulated. ‘All right, but stay behind me. Keep the gun pointing at the ceiling and don’t shoot anything unless someone else starts shooting first.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘I hope you’re not going to do any damage, Mr Saintclair. This house means a great deal to a great many people.’

It seemed an unlikely request, given the circumstances, but he bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘I’ll do my best not to, Miss Maxwell, but Adam Steele and the people with him are very dangerous. As you’ve seen, they won’t hesitate to hurt you.’

‘I won’t let them touch me again.’ The words emerged
with an animal ferocity and he believed every word. ‘I’d kill them first.’

Jamie edged open the door to reveal a large wood-panelled hall big enough to hold a medieval banquet in. To his right, at the far end of the hall, the subdued lighting illuminated two full suits of armour complete with massive broadswords. Scott had festooned the walls with the mounted heads and horns of unfortunate beasts of indeterminate origin as well as hundreds of lesser ornaments Jamie couldn’t quite make out. An impatient upper-class voice that could only be Adam Steele echoed round the room, but, he guessed, not from within it. It seemed the sword collector was fascinated by the depth of the late Sir Walter’s collection of weapons in the armoury next door, but frustrated by the sheer scale of it. From what Fiona Maxwell had said, there were so many swords of so many origins and so many periods it might take hours before Steele was satisfied that none of them was the one he sought. Jamie eased his way into the room and motioned the Scottish girl to follow him. With a little luck he could step into the armoury and get the drop on the financier and whoever was with him. He was momentarily distracted by the skull and horns of an aurochs, a breed of massive wild cattle that had been extinct for some four hundred years and almost missed the sound of footsteps marching purposefully towards the door. He looked round desperately for somewhere to hide, but there was nowhere close enough. At the edge of his
vision he sensed Fiona Maxwell slipping back inside the stairway but he knew he’d never make it. A shadow appeared inside the doorway and he skipped right to take advantage of the only cover available, the narrow gap between the door and the wall.

The footsteps grew louder as they reached the tiled floor of the entrance hall and he waited with the pistol in both hands for the moment the door was pulled back and his sanctuary discovered. But the sound faded as the man – he was certain it was one of Steele’s drivers – walked the length of the hall and out of the door at the far end. He let out a long, slow breath, willing his heart to slow, and by the time he emerged Fiona Maxwell was already waiting by the doorway. Their eyes met and Jamie nodded and stepped inside.

Adam Steele turned from the display of swords he’d been studying with an angry frown. ‘Is he …?’ His eyes widened when he recognized the intruder. The guard behind the banker went for his gun, but Jamie pointed the Sig-Sauer at Steele’s head.

‘That wouldn’t be wise. Finger and thumb and draw it out by the butt. Lay it on the floor and kick it towards me.’ The bodyguard obeyed and a second later Jamie heard a soft movement as Fiona moved in behind him. ‘You’re losing your touch, Adam. I didn’t think it would be this easy.’

Steele smiled and it wasn’t a pleasant smile. ‘That has yet to be proved, old boy. Why don’t you drop the gun and take a look behind you?’

‘You don’t think I’m going to fall for that old trick,
old boy
?’

‘Oh I do, old boy.’

‘Do as he says, Jamie, or I may have to blow your pretty little friend’s head off.’