‘Soon after you left, sir, the Norway spruce was delivered,’ the housekeeper politely informed the master of the castle, her arms now laden with three sets of outerwear.
Sir Kenneth glanced at a beautiful, but bare, Christmas tree that had been set up at the other end of the room.
‘Mrs Janus has an annoying habit of stating the obvious.’ He gestured to the stacked boxes on the console table. ‘Please overlook the Christmas fripperies. Mrs Janus also has an annoying habit of decking Rose Chapel with boughs of holly and streams of satin ribbon.’
Not liking Sir Kenneth’s lofty tone, Edie walked over to the table and carefully lifted a glass angel out of its nest of tissue paper. As she held it aloft, its gilt-edged wings caught the wintry light. ‘These are lovely ornaments,’ she said to Mrs Janus, smiling.
‘That is from Poland.’
Without being told, Edie sensed that the Christmas holidays were particularly difficult for Mrs Janus. Like many emigrants, she no doubt longed for the traditions of her native land. Taking care, she replaced the fragile angel in its box. ‘I’m sure it’ll be a beautiful tree.’
‘The Christmas season is one of joy and remembrance,’ the housekeeper replied, casting a quick glance in her employer’s direction.
‘And hot mulled wine,’ Sir Kenneth loudly barked. ‘And bring us some of those little tarts I saw you pop into the Aga.’
Orders issued, Sir Kenneth led Edie and C?dmon down a hall. Playing the baronial lord, he swung open a panelled door and strode into a large, high-ceilinged room. About to follow him, Edie hesitated, taken aback by the stone grotesques that flanked the doorway.
‘Is it my imagination or did one of those butt-ugly creatures just move its lips?’
‘It’s the play of light and shadow,’ C?dmon informed her. ‘Sir Kenneth’s way of instilling fear into the hearts of all those who enter his
At a glance, she could see that the
Trying not to gawk, she checked out the room. Some things, like the medieval torcheres, looked right at home. Other things, like the modern shelving unit jam-packed with vinyl records sheathed in clear plastic looked conspicuously out of place in the medieval setting.
‘I dare say that you are looking at the best collection of 1950s American rock ’n’ roll in the entire UK,’ Sir Kenneth remarked, having noticed the direction of her gaze. ‘The music of my youth, as you have undoubtedly deduced.’
Edie also deduced that music wasn’t the don’s only passion. On the wall nearest to where she stood there hung a black-and-white poster of the 1930s movie siren Mae West, her curvaceous figure swathed in a satin evening gown. Beside the poster a large animal horn hung from a bright blue tassel, the hideous thing banded with engraved silver. All too easily, she could visualize Sir Kenneth, decked out in his red cashmere scarf and brown bomber jacket, swigging gin and tonics out of the cup like tap water.
‘My dear, before you depart, you must have a look at my collection of incunabula,’ Sir Kenneth said, gesturing to a bookcase bursting with leather-bound volumes.
Not having the least idea what he was talking about, Edie gave the bookcase a cursory glance, recalling a philosophy professor who’d once invited her to his house to look at his collection of Chagall prints. She sidled closer to C?dmon.
Sir Kenneth motioned to a pair of upholstered chairs positioned in front of a paper-laden desk, one stack of papers weighed down with a rusty astrolabe, another with a snow dome of the Empire State Building. Behind the desk, beautifully framed in gilt, hung a reproduction of Trumbull’s painting depicting the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
‘Sir Kenneth has a love of all things American,’ C?dmon whispered in her ear as he dislodged a dozing cat from his chair. ‘Be on your guard.’
‘That’s why you’re here, Big Red,’ she whispered back at him.
Walking over to them, Sir Kenneth jovially slapped C?dmon on the back. ‘Middle age becomes you, Aisquith.’ Then, turning his attention to Edie, ‘When he first arrived at Oxford, he was a ganglylimbed lad with a thatch of unruly red hair.’
Grinning, Edie gave C?dmon the once over. ‘Hmm. Sounds cute.’
‘Ah! The lady has a penchant for red-headed lads.’ As Sir Kenneth took his seat behind the desk, Edie heard him mutter, ‘Lucky bastard.’
36
At finding himself seated in Sir Kenneth’s study, inundated with the twin scents of damp wool and musty leather, C?dmon experienced an unexpected burst of painful nostalgia. Striving for an appearance of calm, he glanced at the stained-glass window that dominated the room. A beautiful piece of medieval artistry, the three lights depicted that most famous of cautionary tales, the Temptation in the Garden.
For some inexplicable reason it reminded him of his student days at Oxford — perhaps because he too had dared to eat the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. And if he was the hapless Adam, Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown could only be the conniving Lucifer, although in his impressionable youth, he’d cast his mentor in a far more exalted role.
A brilliant scholar, rigid taskmaster and at times capriciously cruel bastard, Sir Kenneth demanded unswerving fidelity from his students. In return, he gave his charges an unforgettable academic journey. Ever mindful that Oxford had started out with groups of young scholars gathered around the most illustrious teachers of the day, Sir Kenneth maintained the tradition, hosting weekly tutorials within the stone confines of Rose Chapel.
For nearly eight years, he and Sir Kenneth had maintained a close relationship. Not unlike a father and son.
Initially, Sir Kenneth had approved his dissertation topic, intrigued by the notion that the Knights Templar may have explored the tombs and temples of Egypt during their time in the Holy Land. But when he dared to suggest that the Templars had turned their backs on Catholicism and become devotees of the Isis mystery cult, Sir Kenneth not only refused to countenance the notion, he took the rejection one step further, publicly ridiculing him for having ‘embraced rumours and passing them off as the truth’.
It was as if he’d been mugged in the middle of a dark and rainy night.
Thirteen years later he turned misfortune to advantage, his derided dissertation paper becoming the cornerstone for
Shoving aside old memories, C?dmon cleared his throat, ready to embark on what would undoubtedly be a bumpy ride.
‘Let us consider whether Galen of Godmersham did discover the Ark of the Covenant while on reconnaissance in Esdraelon,’ he carefully began, mindful that Sir Kenneth dealt in ‘fact not innuendo’. ‘Is there any evidence to support this notion?’
Leaning back in his leather wingback, blue-veined fingers laced over his chest, Sir Kenneth’s gaze narrowed, the old man undoubtedly deciding whether or not to reply. With a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, he finally said, ‘There are a few shreds of historical data to support your theory.’
‘Like what?’ Edie piped up, subtlety not her strong suit.
‘As you undoubtedly know, theories have waxed and waned as to how and why the Ark disappeared.
