Stones of Fire

Like Jonathan Padgham, he had a cultured English accent.

‘I’m curious. How did you recognize me? There must be a hundred people milling about.’

‘Lucky guess,’ she replied, shrugging. ‘That and the fact that you have the same British I’m-so-superior air about you that Dr Padgham had.’

One side of the man’s mouth twitched up. ‘Had? I can’t imagine old Padge has changed all that much.’

Edie swallowed, the moment of truth having arrived much too abruptly.

‘I said “had” for a reason. He’s dead. Jonathan Padgham was killed a little over an hour ago. And just my luck, I’m the only witness to the murder.’

9

‘… and if they find us, we’re both going to wish we’d had the foresight to pre-purchase a headstone and burial plot.’

For several moments C?dmon Aisquith stared at the paranoid, Pre-Raphaelite beauty standing before him. Like a mad maestro, she used her hands to punctuate the nonsensical words issuing from her chapped lips.

‘Why contact me? Why not go to the authorities?’ He spoke calmly, not wanting to tip the scales from mad to stark raving mad.

‘Because the authorities were in on the kill, that’s why. And they mistakenly believe that Dr Padgham sent you an email right before he died,’ she answered, clearly unable to speak in coherent sentences. ‘That’s why they want to kill you. And trust me, killing you would be child’s play for these guys. Like the grim reaper pulling that battery bunny right out of a top hat.’

‘Mmmm.’ He wondered if she had taken some sort of hallucinatory drug.

‘Is that all you have to say?’

‘I could say that you have a penchant for mixed metaphors.’

‘Look, I’m dead serious. Emphasis on dead just in case you’re too dense to get the message. You still don’t believe me? Fine. I’ve got the proof right here.’

‘Indeed.’

She began to rummage through the bag hanging off her leather-clad shoulder. Peering inside, C?dmon caught sight of what looked like a Manila file folder and a box of frozen vegetables.

It was plain as a pikestaff: the woman was absolutely bonkers.

A determined look on her face, she removed a khaki-coloured waistcoat from the bag. Clutching it in her hand, she brandished the garment in front of his face. ‘I was wearing this when Dr Padgham was murdered. Then I had to crawl over his body…’ Her chest visibly heaved. ‘That’s his blood smeared on the front.’

‘May I?’ C?dmon touched the bloodstain, surprised to discover that it was damp.

Were it not for the still-tacky bloodstain and the faint smell of vomit, he would have dismissed the woman outright. Instead, he removed his mobile phone from his breast pocket.

‘What are you doing?’ Edie Miller frantically grabbed him by the arm, preventing him from raising the mobile to his ear. ‘If you call the police, we’re as good as dead.’

‘If you would be so kind as to unhand me, I’m going to ring Padgham.’ And hopefully get to the bottom of this lunacy.

‘Be my guest,’ she muttered, releasing her grip.

Having earlier programmed Padge’s mobile number into his phone, he quickly made the call. He let it ring five times, disconnecting when an automated message began to play.

‘It appears that the old boy has turned off his mobile.’

‘Wrong!’ Edie Miller screeched at him, earning several sideways glances from passers-by. ‘The old boy is lying under his desk in a pool of his own blood.’

Worried she might continue to attract unwanted attention, he motioned to the nearby tables. ‘I’m willing to hear you out provided you keep calm. Understood?’

She nodded, actually managing to look contrite.

‘Very well then. Do be seated while I get us some coffee. Unless, of course, you prefer tea.’

‘No. Coffee is fine.’ She glanced at the nearby Espresso Bar. ‘A cappuccino would be better.’

‘Duly noted. I won’t be a moment.’

Aisquith watched her as, like an obedient child, she shuffled over to a small table adjacent to the Espresso Bar. Seating herself, she removed her bag from her shoulder and clutched it to her breast. While the mass of dark brown corkscrew curls was her crowning glory, it was the deep-set brown eyes that drew and held his attention. Accentuated by straight brows, the combination gave her a sombre air wholly at odds with her forceful personality. And wholly at odds with her eccentric attire — a black leather motorcycle jacket, clunky black boots and a long purple and red tartan skirt.

‘God help me for coming to a crazed damsel’s rescue,’ he muttered under his breath.

The order placed for a cappuccino and a hazelnut coffee, he paid the cashier. Collecting the coffees, he grabbed sugar packets, dairy creamers, plastic stirrers and paper napkins, stuffing them into his jacket pocket. A few seconds later, a coffee cup clutched in each hand, he made his way to the table.

‘Not knowing how you take your coffee, I rather overdid it.’ He plonked everything onto the middle of the round table.

His noticeably subdued companion reached for two sugar packets. ‘I always sweeten the deal with a couple of sugars,’ she remarked, snapping the packets to and fro as she spoke. Ripping them open she poured the contents into her cup. ‘You know, it’s just occurred to me that I don’t even know your first name.’

‘C?dmon,’ he replied, watching her brow wrinkle when she heard the Old English moniker, the unusual name his father’s way of making a man of him, forcing him to face up to the bullies at a tender age.

‘I thought the English were all tea drinkers.’

‘Rumour has it I’m something of an iconoclast.’ Opening a creamer, he poured a dollop into his cup. That done, he began the inquisition. ‘How is it that you came to witness this supposed murder?’

‘You’re a hard sell, aren’t you? Although I suppose if the boot were on the other foot, I would be as well. To answer your question, I’m a freelance photographer at the Hopkins Museum. That’s how I came to witness the murder.’ About to raise the cup to her lips, she suddenly lowered it to the table. ‘Before I tell you what happened, I need to know in what capacity you knew Dr Padgham,’ she abruptly demanded, her lack of subtlety disarming.

‘We played cricket together at Oxford. As so often happens with youthful friendships, we eventually lost touch with one another. When Padge learned that I was in Washington on the last leg of a book tour, he rang me up. Suggested we meet for drinks. Talk over old times, that sort of thing. Satisfied?’ When she nodded, he said, ‘It’s now your turn, Miss Miller.’

‘A month ago I was hired by Eliot Hopkins to photograph and digitally archive the entire museum collection. I work on Mondays because that’s when the museum is closed to the public.’

‘Enabling you to take your photographs unimpeded,’ he intuited.

‘Exactly. But today was unusual.’

‘How so?’

‘Dr Padgham was in his office. He’s never in the office on Mondays.’

‘Was there anyone else in the museum?’

‘As usual, there were two guards downstairs in the main lobby.’ She shot him a penetrating glance from deep-set brown eyes. ‘You’re following all this, right?’

‘Yes, yes,’ he assured her. ‘Please continue.’

‘Around one thirty, Dr Padgham called and asked if I would come upstairs to the administration offices.’

‘Why did he do that?’

‘He wanted me to take some photographs for him. I got the idea that he was working on some kind of special project. That’s why he was in the office on his day off. Obedient minion that I am, I went up to the fourth floor and took the pics. I was about to leave his office when a cable came loose on his computer. Dr Padgham conned me into climbing under the desk to fix the connection.’