Twenty-Two
He used the old spiral staircase in the storage room to go back downstairs. When he reached the ground floor he made his way along the long, dark corridor that led to the antiquities chamber. He was aware that he was in a strange state of mind. A volatile storm of emotions seethed inside him. Among those highly charged sensations was a cold fury, a good deal of which was aimed at himself. He had put Beatrice in grave danger tonight.
Everything had gone wrong. Again. Just as they had a year ago, he thought. At least this time an innocent woman had not died, but it had been a very near thing.
The massive doors were still closed, just as he had left them a few minutes ago, and still unlocked. Assuming the killer had fled, it was unlikely he would have taken the time to lock the doors on his way out. Still, one never knew. The criminal mind was often predictable but not always.
He pulled out the handkerchief he had used earlier when he had realized that there were dangerous fumes in the room. He held the large square of linen across his nose and mouth.
He entered the cavernous space, struck a light and pulled the door closed behind him.
The scented smoke had largely dissipated but he could still feel some of the disorienting effects. The arm of a nearby statue appeared to move. He ignored the hallucinations and focused on his objective.
He turned up two of the wall sconces. The glare fell across the body on the altar. An unlit lantern sat near one of the dead man’s hands.
He moved forward, listening intently for another presence in the room. He was certain that he had the chamber to himself now. The killer was gone.
The victim was not one of the guests. He was dressed like a high-ranking servant, a valet, perhaps. Joshua doubted that anyone would claim him in the morning.
It was the sight of the wound that sent a flash of knowing through him. The fraudulent valet had been killed with a single, expert thrust to the heart. It was possible there were two highly skilled assassins involved in the affair, but the probability was very low. In any event, professionals killed in unique ways. No two did it in exactly the same manner. There was little doubt but that the man who had murdered Roland Fleming months ago had killed the valet tonight.
What in bloody hell is going on? Joshua thought.
The valet’s pockets produced a train ticket, some money and a watch but little else. The watch was far too expensive for a valet. The inside of the lid was engraved with a set of flowing initials—E.R.B. Joshua doubted that the dead man’s initials, whatever they might be, were the same. The watch had been stolen at some point.
“You were a petty criminal who turned to blackmail,” Joshua said to the dead man. “How did that come about?”
He took a step back from the altar. His boot brushed against an object on the floor. He looked down and saw the envelope filled with money that Beatrice had brought with her earlier.
He picked up the envelope and started a methodical search of the room, gradually expanding the circle around the altar until he found what he was looking for. The killer had not had time to retrieve the remains of the pot of burning incense that he had placed in an alabaster bowl.
Joshua looked at the device for a long time, constructing a variety of possible explanations and conclusions. But in the end he knew he could not escape the truth.
The past was not dead, after all. And now, somehow, it was linked to Beatrice.