Toad in the Hole (3 page)

“The Tower of London is not the Tower’s official name. It is actually: ‘Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress, the Tower of London.’” He pointed in front of us. “This is a typical example of Norman military architecture of the late eleventh century. The White Tower rises to more than twenty-seven meters above the ground. The walls are made from Kentish limestone, with finely cut Caen stone, imported at great expense from the conqueror’s Norman homeland.”

It could have been the after-effects of too many warm beers last night, but I started to imagine the people that had stepped on the cobbles where I stood. The Tower of London was, after all, a prison for history’s rich and infamous. It was freaky to think about those who had been here awaiting trial, or worse, execution. Surely Travis and I trod along the same paths as past victims and traitors.

Erratic droplets threatened, but the sky didn’t pour rain.

“Kind of odd that GG and Edmond didn’t come with?” Travis mused.

His innuendos about my grandmother and Edmond were so far-fetched I didn’t deem them worthy of a response. Pushing my hands deep into my jacket pockets, i blinked a raindrop from my lashes. “They both have been here more than once.”

“Edmond and GG are big history buffs. I would have guessed that sharing in your first impression of the Tower would have been right up their alley.”

Travis’s vivid imagination was quickly becoming annoying. “GG said she was viewing a partially-completed commission. Edmond was going to accompany her to the storage facility.”

“A painting?” Travis asked.

We followed our assigned Yeoman across a courtyard. “Situated on the Thames, the Tower was never supposed to be a prison. Originally it was a royal palace and fortress. You are all standing on the grounds of an official royal residence of Her Majesty the Queen. She has a house onsite which she could still inhabit if she wished.”

“She said it was by an artist she knew back in the sixties. He passed away last year.”

“What artist?”

“She didn’t say. They met when she lived in New York. He painted a tin of Heinz Baked Beans. The English kind, but didn’t finish the piece. She’s not sure what to do with it.”

“Only twenty-two executions have ever taken place at the Tower of London and most were performed on the nearby Tower Hill. The last man to be beheaded here was the Jacobite octogenarian, Lord Lovat in 1747.”

All the gore and killing in one place over such a long period of time—a thousand years—I considered to be bad juju. It couldn’t be mentally healthy to work in this kind of environment, and I wondered if the Yeoman Warders who lived within the tower walls slept well at night.

“Who buys a painting of half a can of baked beans?”

I listened to the tourists talk among themselves. It was like a meeting at the United Nations: Chinese, German, Arabic, and Russian languages chattered around me.

“Apparently my grandmother, although I’m not sure if she bought it.”

Travis nudged my shoulder. “Did she win it in a poker game?”

“I don’t know much about her personal business. Just that she likes to collect and she seems to have the means to do so.”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“Ask her what? How did you get all your money? That’s breaking a golden rule.”

“What golden rule?”

“You never ask people who have money how they got it.”

“She’s your grandmother, not some stranger.”

“A grandmother I only recently met. Maybe at some point she’ll tell me, but I’d hate for her to have the impression I’m more interested in her finances than in her.”

Noisy squawking ensued from a beak that was shaped like a bowie knife. Our tour guide motioned toward a silky black raven whose neck was covered in shaggy feathers. “Legend says that the kingdom and the Tower will fall if the six resident ravens ever leave the fortress, so seven ravens are kept, one extra, just in case, to protect the Crown and the Tower.”

Motioning to an adjacent building, the Yeoman ended our tour and said, “The jewels of the monarchy have been on display since the late seventeenth-century and can be viewed.”

The sky opened its spigot and a soaking rain fell. Going inside to peek at the jewels seemed a good escape.

“Do you think we’ll get a chance to scope out some cemeteries, maybe pop in a funeral home or two while we’re here?”

“Why?”

“A lot of famous people are buried in this country. I’d like to pay my respects.” He ducked inside a passageway where we stood single-file in a line of tourists. “I’m curious. You like to admire paintings, I like to analyze gravestones—the stories they tell. Lives memorialized in just a few words.”

What was it with me being attracted to the quirky types?

“Death is what we all have in common. Sooner or later it will happen to all of us.”

I shuffled along a velvet-roped area behind Travis. After centuries the air inside the stone buildings still carried the heaviness of untimely, violent death and I shuddered. “Hopefully later.”

“You don’t know. None of us know. It’s unexpected. That’s the cool thing about living—the journey, and where you end up after it all. If, at a young age, someone told you where you’d die, there’s no way you’d believe them.”

“You’re depressing me. Knock it off.”

An attendant who emerged from the corner instructed us to keep moving. Under glass cases I could see a row of crowns, necklaces, and scepters. Guards stood in each room. A friendlier female attendant gave her spiel. “In 1649, after the English Civil War, the crown jewels were destroyed on the orders of Parliament. Crowns, scepters, and bracelets, some dating back to the time of Edward the Confessor in the eleventh-century, were broken and defaced. The gold and silver was sent to the Royal Mint to be made into coins.”

“There was no telling if all of the pieces were melted,” I whispered

The sheer volume of gems set in gold that passed before my eyes, blew me away. Travis pitched a whistle. “What do you think this all is worth?”

“Billions.”

Travis pointed to a twelfth-century gold anointing spoon. “Look at that. The card says it’s the oldest piece in the collection that survived the civil war decree.”

My head whirled. Someone actually owned this collection. Walking backwards on the moving belt, I attempted to read the plackets that brushed by too quickly, and had to get into line two more times. There were two famous, whopper diamonds in the display. One of the stones, the Cullinan, rested on top of a three-foot golden scepter, and the other diamond was set into a crown. I couldn’t help but notice an enormous amethyst and weighty emerald in the scepter. It made the puny stones that weighted the brooch on my chest seem sorry.

Travis crooked his neck toward me and whispered, “How does one country acquire all of this?”

“This is the British Empire. Read between the lines. Gems like these were looted after they sacked a country or were presented—meaning taken as payment—for not overtaking some regime.”

“That’s a bit stark.”

“When’s the last time the British mined an emerald or sapphire?”

Travis shrugged.

“They don’t. Gems and pearls aren’t from here.”

“Rachael, don’t get your undies in a bundle. All kinds of things journey around the earth until they are lost or destroyed.” He eyed my chest and I protectively put a hand over my heart. “Picking up shiny things and pocketing them is human nature. Stems back to hunting and gathering. And collecting is in your blood. It’s what your grandmother does and you’re just getting started.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The eye of Horus from the New Orleans voodoo queen you wear as a necklace, and the stinking oyster that’s pinned on your shirt. You have your treasures.”

I was glad I hadn’t told him about the pink crystal in my pocket. The one Sakar—a feng shui devotee neighbor of Dad’s girlfriend had given me to help in relationships. “These aren’t stolen or plundered, they were gifts given to me by strong-spirited women.”

Leaning into my ear, Travis whispered, “Is that what you call voodoo-practicing, out-of-body seeking, potion-tinkering enthusiasts? Back in the day, those women would have been called witches.”

“I don’t believe in the magical powers of trinkets as much as I do the spirits of the women that insisted I keep them.”

“If that’s your story.”

It irked me when Travis had a point that involved me. “You up for visiting a museum or gallery?”

“Of course.”

Outside of the Tower a few tourists hovered beneath the eaves of rooftops. My red Candie’s flats sloshed across a grassy lawn and the leather bow drooped. Parked cars lined the street, and we looked for the one GG had hired: a black sedan with a sign posted in the darkened window that read ‘O’Brien.’ I didn’t admit it to Travis, but he was right. I was disappointed to be touring London without my grandmother. I thought she’d brought me here so we could spend time together, but it seemed she had another agenda. Something to do with taking an inventory of paintings she kept in a warehouse near the inn where we were staying. And Edmond was here to assist her with anything that needed to be refurbished or touched up. At least I had Travis to pal around with.

Grabbing my hand, Travis tugged. “Come on, let’s make a runner,” which completed the soaking of my shoes.

Inside the hired car, a driver in sunglasses partially obscured by a curtain partition asked, “Where to?”

“You’re not the guy who drove us here,” I declared.

He looked up into the rear view mirror. “O’Brien, I’m your driver.”

“Where’s the other guy?” I asked wondering if we were the wrong O’Brien.

“His shift ended.”

Bored with my inquisition, Travis interrupted, “What do you think, Rach? The National Portrait Gallery or the British Museum?”

“The British Museum is a big place. Three stories filled with…” My last word hadn’t left my tongue when the car took off, moving away from the Tower.

In a foreign but proper British accent, the chauffeur said, “The buildings are close to one another, within five minutes. If you tire of one, you can walk to the other.”

That voice. Something about it unnerved me, but as I sat directly behind him, I couldn’t get a good look. I angled to see his reflection in the outside mirror when Travis nudged me. “Maybe we can grab a bite.”

“Sure,” I said, unzipping my soggy jacket.

“I want to see the ancient Egyptian mummy bone collections.”

“Fine by me.”

Traffic was stop-and-go. There was a scent in the car, heavy and sweet. I racked my brain to recall where I’d been when I last came in contact with it. “I read that there are some limited-time exhibits running. The Elgin Marbles, that were taken from the
Parthenon in Athens
, are a must.”

Behind the wheel, the gentleman’s face turned as he took a left and I caught a glimpse of his jaw line. He mumbled, “The British have a history of appropriating treasures.”

My breath quickened. “It’s stuffy in here.” Shedding my jacket I tucked it by my feet.

A few blocks later, the car pulled up to a curb in front of a Greek revival building that dwarfed any museum I’d ever visited. Travis hopped out on his side while the chauffeur held my door, an umbrella in his hand.

Beneath the steady rain, Travis shouted, “Come on, Rach,” as he slammed his door and ran for shelter.

“I’m right behind you,” I said mostly to myself.

The jacket I’d worn had been pushed under the front seat, and I ducked beyond my knees to snatch it when I felt meaty thighs press against mine. Bolting upright, I shimmied to the middle seat. Closing the door with his right hand, the driver slipped his left across my shoulder and gripped me.

I glanced at the cinnamon-skinned fingers that rested on my bicep. His nails were impeccably manicured, except the index finger nail that was longer than the rest. It had a layer of enamel fashioned into a sharp edge. In an instant I recognized this creep. “Ahmed Sadid! Has the Turkish Department of Antiquities sent you to escort me around London?”

Creases formed at the corner of his eyes. He slid his free hand down the silk necktie that rested under a pinstripe suit. “My duties take me to stranger places than this.” His sweet scent choked the air, and his knee touched mine.

“Why are you here?”

Gold-capped molars I wish I hadn’t noticed gleamed from the depths of his mouth. “There are always collectables to be obtained. It’s a matter of financial means and circumstance. My offer still stands, Ms. O’Brien.”

Under the museum entrance, Travis examined a hoard of posted flyers.

Where was he when I needed him?
“Offer?”

With an open palm he cupped the oyster fastened to my chest. His closeness was meant to intimidate me and from the sound of my pounding chest, his tactics were working, but I didn’t dare let him know.

“The amethyst oyster can provide for you handsomely. You wouldn’t be in need of the scholarship grant you applied for.”

Thudding rain meeting the cars roof resounded above my head. My eyes darted out the back window. Instincts willed me to bolt, but fear jellied my legs.

My hand glided onto the door handle. To my relief he didn’t try to stop me. “It’s a gold brooch with a few amethysts. Hardly worth the kind of money that would cover my college tuition. Why are you so interested in it?”

“Ms. O’Brien, the brooch is representative of a treasure lost to my people during the Crimean War. We want it back, and I am willing to make an amicable offer for it, but others won’t be so generous or reasonable.”

“How much?”

Ahmed’s mouth opened, but no words escaped. His eyes left me and glinted indignantly at the black Range Rover that abruptly stopped to a halt next to our car.

“Good luck with your treasure hunt,” I said, before lurching out the door and bolting through open black iron rod gates toward Travis.

NOTE TO SELF

Ahmed Sadid, the hookah smoking Turk I met last year! I knew I was being followed.

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