“So show me,” she said. Her face was flushed and her lower lip trembled slightly.
“That’s the chair in which he died, you know,” said Silas, ignoring her demand. “Where he was most comfortable. I’ve got photographs of him sitting there. In life and in death. Before and after. I look at them sometimes up there in my room, wondering what it all means. Do you do that, Sasha?”
“What?”
“Think about him. I do. All the time. This whole house rotated round him like a clock, and now it’s stopped. I spent my whole life trying to make him notice me, and I don’t think he ever really did. Not even once.”
“You were adopted,” said Sasha brutally. Silas wasn’t the only one who’d had a bad time growing up.
“Yes. But that wasn’t it,” he said. “No one really existed for him. Except maybe my mother.”
“I never knew her.”
“And she wasn’t really my mother.”
Silas smiled, but Sasha stamped her foot, unable to contain her impatience any longer. Perhaps Silas was bluffing her about the codex. She had to know one way or the other.
“Where is it, Silas?” she said. “It was a deal, remember?”
“You’re looking at it,” he said. “You’ve been looking at it all the time.”
Sasha looked down at the low table between the chairs, but all she could see were several old magazines and the professor’s chessboard with the old ivory pieces set out in battle formation, ready to play.
“Don’t play games with me, Silas,” she said. “I’ve no time for them.”
“Which is probably why you never found your precious book,” he said, as he bent down over the table and began to remove the chess pieces from the board. “My father was brilliant at this game, you know. He’d have done well as a Soviet grand master, although perhaps he didn’t have the imagination to be the best. I wonder if that’s why he never played competitively,” Silas added musingly, as he held the now-empty board up to the light. His earlier agitation had disappeared, now that Sasha had agreed to give him what he wanted.
“It’s a beautiful thing,” he said. “So simple and yet so clever. Of all my father’s possessions it’s the one I like the most. Even more than the Rolls-Royce, I think, sometimes.”
“It’s a chessboard,” said Sasha, looking bemused.
“Yes, but it’s more than that. Much more. It’s also a hiding place.” Silas held the board just above the top of the table and began to press down on two of the diagonally opposing corner squares with his thumbs.
“I saw him doing this through my telephoto lens,” he said. “He was in a hurry for some reason and forgot to close the curtains. It was unlike him.”
Slowly, the base of the board divided down an invisible central seam, and the two sides opened. But the book stayed inside, kept in place by two small clips, until Silas turned the board upside down and lifted it out.
“I think he had it specially made, although I don’t know where,” he said. “And I don’t understand why he chose the two queens’ rooks for the squares to press. Perhaps there’s no significance.”
Sasha wasn’t listening. She’d seized the codex from Silas’s hands almost as soon as he had it out of the box, and now she found it hard to turn the pages with her shaking hands. But it didn’t take her long to know that it was the real thing. The tooled leather binding was an eighteenth-century addition, there to protect the ancient vellum on which the old French monk had inscribed the gospel of St. Luke. It was not long. Not many pages. But the painting was magnificent. Red and black and gold. The colours were richer than any that Sasha had ever seen.
But would it tell her the secret of the cross, or was that just an old wives’ tale in which John of Rome had too-credulously believed? Cade must have spent years trying to find the answer, but there was nothing of his inside that she could see, except a small sheet of notepaper between the last two pages with a series of numbers written in columns that made no immediate sense to her. Was it a code? Sasha thought of trying to remove it from the book, but there was no time as Silas pulled the codex back out of her hands.
“I can hear them coming,” he said. “Remember what we agreed.”
Sasha did not hear anything immediately. The windows were closed, and Silas’s hearing was much more acute than hers, but soon the sound of a car approaching fast up the drive became unmistakable.
“Christ, it’s not the police; it’s Ritter. And he’s got Jeanne with him,” said Silas a moment later. He had moved over behind the window and was looking out into the courtyard, where a blue estate car had just driven up.
“Well, what’s so weird about that? She is his wife,” said Sasha.
“Shut up and get over here.”
Sasha had never heard Silas speak to her so rudely, but something in his tone made her do as he said. Out in the courtyard, Ritter and his wife were still in their car arguing. But then the driver’s door flew open, and Ritter got out. He was clearly enraged. It was obvious from the way in which he pulled open his wife’s door and hauled her out.
She seemed limp and held on to the car for support when he let her go, and her face was obviously bruised around the eyes. She looked a mess, with her hair in a tangle and her dress crumpled. Below the hem her stockings were torn, and there appeared to be dried blood as well as dirt on her shins, as if she had fallen over. Or been pushed.
“What a pig!” said Sasha. “He’s not going to get away with it this time. I’m going out there. Right now.”
She moved toward the french windows, but Silas took hold of her arm and pulled her back before she could open them. It was the first time he had ever laid hands on her, and for a moment she was paralysed with shock.
“Keep quiet, Sasha,” he said, speaking through his teeth. “Do you want him to kill us too?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“He kills people. That’s what he does. The family in France who owned this book that you care about so much. And a man called Carson. Others too probably that I don’t even know about.”
“But why would he kill us?”
Silas didn’t answer. Outside Ritter was hitting his wife, holding her up with one hand and smacking her across the face again and again with the back of the other.
Leaving Sasha by the window, Silas crawled over to his father’s desk on his hands and knees and put his hand up above his head to lift the telephone receiver down from off its cradle.
Laboriously he dialed 999.
“Show me,” Ritter kept shouting at his wife out in the courtyard. “Show me where you fucked him, you cheap little whore.”
“Fire, police, or ambulance?” asked the operator at the other end of the telephone line.
“Police,” whispered Silas. There was no risk of Ritter’s hearing him, but fear had taken his voice away, and Silas had to give the address twice before the operator was able to tell him that help was on its way.
Outside, Ritter was getting no reply from his wife. That much was obvious. It didn’t look like Jeanne was still conscious, and, quite soon, Ritter let go of her and she slumped to the ground. It was only then that he seemed to take in the presence of the Rolls-Royce for the first time. He went over and pulled the door open as if he thought someone might be hiding inside, and then, finding nothing, he suddenly shouted out Silas’s name, causing its owner inside the study to drop the telephone receiver on the ground like it was a hot coal.
“Where are you, Silence?” he called up at the empty windows of the house. “You’re in there. I know you are. Snot pouring out of your fucking oversized nose and your legs shaking. Knock, knock, knock. I can hear them knocking down here, Silence.” Ritter laughed.
A minute or two passed before he started shouting again. “Look out here, boy,” he called. “I’ve got something to show you.” Ritter had picked up his wife from off the ground, and now he held her up like she was some kind of puppet. There was blood on her face. Around her nostrils and trickling down from the corner of her mouth.
“Don’t like the look of her now, boy? Damaged goods. Is that it?”
It was as if Ritter knew that Silas was at one of the windows watching, and the thought seemed to reinvigorate him. Ritter was like a man who had burnt all his bridges and was now looking for the bloodiest possible ending.
Inside the study, Silas had seen enough. He needed to get to the back door before Ritter found him. What a fool he’d been not to put the Rolls in the garage. But he had never dreamt that Jeanne would be fool enough to tell her husband about their affair. Or perhaps it had come out in court. In front of everyone. If Ritter found him, he’d never find out what had happened.
