“I see.”
“Literally used to be hundreds within the city itself, if you consider the city one city; you see, London is in fact a sprawling bear, and all the separate little villages about the city proper have been swallowed up by the bear with each new bridge and roadway built over the years. But at one time, each small municipality had its own coal mine. So, there's the problem.”
“Problem?”
“Even if you were certain the coal dust under Woodard's nails-”
“No longer just her nails. We went back for a closer examination, and Raehael and I found coal dust embedded in her wounds as well, in the palms and feet.”
He slowed to digest this fact. “Even if it had come from someplace she had been held hostage, where do you begin? Not likely at the few still in operation. And there are hundreds not in operation, you see?”
“There ought by now to be results on the carbon-14 dating. Let me ring the lab.” She knew Richard meant only to humor her.
To her dismay, she found that the phone lay off the hook. She picked it up, rested it on its cradle and frowned, realizing that they had been out of touch with the investigation for nearly fourteen hours. Saying so to Richard resulted in a mutter of indifference from the man.
“I only hope nothing's happened and no one's missed us,” she replied, wondering now if he'd intentionally taken the phone off the hook.
She telephoned for Dr. Raehael at the Yard's crime lab, her face giving way to surprise, which Richard read as, “Another body's been found, hasn't it?”
“No, no,” she reassured him. “Yes, Dr. Raehael, I did hear you. Thank you, and please, let's keep this bit of news between us, please.”
Richard stood over her as she dropped the phone onto its cradle. “What news have you?”
“Raehael dated our dung beetle sample back to Roman times.”
“My word… my word… So it was formed in Roman England.”
“Now where shall we begin?”
“You sound like Alice-through-the-looking-glass, Jessica.”
“And you, my Mad Hatter, have you the time?”
“It's late, it's late,” he sang out an alteration of the rhyme, “it's very, very late.”
“And have you a direction?”
He gave a moment's thought to this, his hand rising with an aha notion playing about his features. “You know, there is a little frequented museum, an industrial history museum inside the RIBA. Rather buried in the basement there. A-”
“Where?”
“Royal Institute of British Architecture near Regent's Park in Marylebone area on Portland at China. They- RIBA, that is-built all that stands in London, you see, over the years. They're quite proud of their bridges, railways, mines, the tube-underground rail lines and their daft factories. They might have something on the mines, and perhaps someone there might be expert and helpful.”
Jessica only half heard what he'd said beyond Royal Institute of British Architecture and Portland Street. “I was once a member of the elite army corps of engineers of which we British are so proud. That makes me a tad more familiar with how London is laid out, and where all of her underpinnings and underground niches, nooks, and crannies lie. Still it's a complicated mess. I need to locate a moldy old institution dealing with the layout of the city to find my own way about.”
“We haven't left yet? Let's give it a shot. Who knows? Perhaps we can locate an underground kill site, a site from before the time of Christ.”
“Well, actually, Marylebone is quite the ancient district.”
“Marylebone?” She thought the place sounded grim.
“Aye, where the Royal Institute stands moldering. Not many visitors there. Out of the way, off the tourist treks, you see… Has one of the oldest cemeteries in the city, and there's actually an Epicurean statue in a park there of the Madonna and Child. The home of the fictitious Sherlock Holmes isn't too far from the area, either. But it is on the bus routes, I can assure you.”
'Twenty-one Baker Street? Really? How interesting.”
“It was loosely based on twenty-one Baker Street, yes.” He returned to his cooking in the kitchenette, calling back to her over his shoulder, “And so… what do we hope to locate in this ancient mine, should we ever find it?”
“I have as much clue as Alice, but like her, I am curious. Get your breakfast. I'm going to shower and dress. If you don't mind, perhaps you could take me by my hotel for a change of clothes, and then we can bugger off to this RIBA place, is it?”
“Bugger off,” he repeated. “Now you're getting the language!” He'd returned to her, took her by the shoulders, and firmly kissed her where she stood in his robe. He kissed her again, attempting to rekindle the passion they'd shared the night before, but Jessica pulled away, saying, “Bugger off, yourself! We haven't time. It's already near nine. Get your breakfast, now!” she ordered, and he wandered back off into the kitchen, a smile creasing his features.
She went toward the bathroom but found herself stopped before the bed, her eye falling on a book he'd left under the bed. It's flap winked at her where she stood. Crouching and lifting the book, she saw horrid pictures of various visions of hell. Closing it, she read the title: A History of Hades and Crucifixion Motifs in European Art. She rummaged through and found the words Mihi beata mater highlighted on a page he'd marked. It gave her a chill. Apparently, the words appeared on many paintings and depictions of both Hades and the crucifixion of all crucifixions.
Suddenly he stood over her, staring down at the book in her hands. “So, you've found me out,” he said with a sour frown.
“Light reading?” she asked, attempting to mask the shakiness she felt, not wishing to sound at all unnerved by her discovery.
“A prize from the library.”
She noted the spine, seeing that indeed it was a library lender's copy. She opened it, saw the date stamp which placed it at before her discovery of Burton's tongue art.
He lamely explained, “Been doing my homework.”
“How long have you known the meaning of the inscription?” She wanted to hear him admit to it.“From the moment I heard you pealing them from Burtie's tongue, I realized I had seen the phrase in my reading. I went back to the book later to confirm it.”
“Why lie about it? Why didn't you tell me outright that you knew?”
“I played dumb on it in order to get Luc Sante involved. His being a linguist would suit my superiors, you see, and we'd have him to consult with. You have no idea the budget constraints we work under.”
“Actually, I do have some idea. We have the same problem in the Bureau.” But a glimmer of disquiet remained with Jessica. Hadn't he called Luc Sante's words slut's wool? “I'm going to get that shower now.”
“And I that breakfast. Certain you don't want some?”
Without answering, she closed the bathroom door and locked it behind her, hoping to sort out her nerves, her suspicions, and the facts under the rain of warm water.
Later Richard showered while Jessica dressed.
After having showered, and after having accepted Richard's explanation for the book and his prior knowledge of the Latin phrase found on the dead victims' tongues, Jessica made haste to dress and start the day. All the while nagging doubt tugged at both her brain and heart. She had slept with this man. Her judgment could not be so impaired, she promised herself. She could not be so blind as to sleep with a serial killer, or someone involved with a cult of serial killers. Impossible, she kept promising herself over and over.
A quick call to Scodand Yard, she felt, was in order. She asked to be put through to Stuart Copperwaite who came on instandy, asking, “My God, Doctor, where have you and Sharpe been?”
“We were missed?” was all Jessica, feeling guilty, could manage.
“We've had another crucifixion death.”
“Dear God, not another.”
