Toad in the Hole (16 page)

If Ahmed’s men know how to open the brooch they would already be at Allerton Castle.

D
ove
C
oo-OO-oo

B
efore Morning broke, I heard cooing directly above my head that escalated into a noisy racket. Apparently the doves still nested in the slots on top of the dovecote and I thought of Stone, my on-again, off-again quasi-boyfriend back in the states. He would love this place and all the nature. Our relationship was left open-ended and I wondered if we’d be together in the future.

I’d slept hard and woke up refreshed. Packing the still damp clothes that had hung overnight. I was as ready as I could be. The walk to the canal was just under two hours. We still had a dozen locks to pass through before we landed in Stratford-upon-Avon. If we got a move on, I estimated we could anchor before evening and have plenty of time to check out the town, maybe even find GG and Edmond before
Twelfth Night
began at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre.

From an open window, I heard the whistle of a teakettle and made my way to the kitchen. “Travis?” I said, surprised to see him awake.

His hair was askew and his eyes weren’t quite open. Three mugs sat on the counter and he filled them all with hot water. “Cooing,” he grumbled. “Guess you couldn’t sleep either?”

I settled into a carved oak high back kitchen chair. “Where’s Sonny?”

“He went for a walk. Said something about asking the neighbors for a favor.”

The slate tiles were cold under my feet, so I tucked my knees up, folding my legs and huddled the steaming mug to my chest. “We have a busy day.”

Resting against the counter, Travis was barefoot in jeans with an untucked cotton plaid shirt only partially buttoned. “You know what today is?”

After sloshing milk into my tea, I reached for a spoonful of sugar. “Yeah, it’s haul-ass to Stratford-upon-Avon, hope to hell GG and Edmond show up or we’re screwed day.”

Travis cracked his knuckles on both hands. “Besides that. It’s July fourth! Independence Day.”

“Um, Travis have you forgotten where we are?”

“No.”

The windows in the alcove where the kitchen table rested were dramatic in height. Like an angelic oil painting, shadows of light began to penetrate the space between a lone maple tree’s branches. Beyond it, Sonny clipped along leaving a trail of crushed grass beneath his feet. His features weren’t recognizable in the distance, but the cane that kept pace with his gait gave his identity away.

“Fourth of July and Thanksgiving are not historic celebrations the Brits share our enthusiasm for. We’re going to have to let today blow over.”

“Picnics, pools, the smell of the grill, fireworks. It’s my favorite holiday.”

“You like it better than Christmas?”

“As a kid, no, but now, yeah.”

“Tonight should be fun. I’m looking forward to the Shakespeare play.”

He shrugged. “I’ve read his tragedies, they’re depressing. He was just a writer. What’s the big deal?”

A figure in a tweed sport coat with olive suede elbow patches and jeans waved from outside the window. “You’re a downer this morning. What happened last night?” I whispered, “Did Sonny kick your butt in backgammon?”

The French door lock rattled as Sonny twisted it open. “Rachael, you’re up?”

“The bird alarm clock in your attic woke me.”

Sonny laughed. “You don’t find the roosting coo-OO-oo soothing?”

“Not when it’s dark outside.”

Thanking Travis for the cup of tea, Sonny joined me at the table. My packed Marks and Spencer bag rested in the corner.

“When do you want to set off?” he asked.

“It’s a two hour walk to the canal. We better leave within the hour if we want to make it to Stratford on time.”

“On time?” Sonny asked.

“We’re due to meet GG at a Shakespeare play.”

Sonny rubbed his jaw. “I don’t like this. Those two thugs at the shop. The stolen brooch.”

“The men have the brooch, we don’t. Why would anyone care to bother us now?” Travis asked.

I added more sugar to my tea before I spoke. “Ahmed and his men have probably discovered the numbers are longitude and latitude and have already been to Allerton.”

Sonny fidgeted and his gaze fleeted over my shoulder to the landscape beyond. The digital clock on the counter flipped over. “What is it?” I asked, thinking he spotted an animal in the woods.

“Someone may have altered the inscription.”

“How many beers did you two drink last night?”

Standing up, Sonny straightened a picture frame of a prized pig, the pinks popping off the black background.

“Who’s the artist?”

“Moreland.”

Raising his hand like a stop sign, Travis re-directed the conversation. “Backup here.” He pulled out a chair next to Sonny. “Altered the inscription?”

A puff of air escaped Sonny’s chest and he clucked his tongue. “When you showed me the brooch, I inspected it with my engraving tool. Changed the two to an eight.”

I sat stunned.

“But I snatched that etching tool from your hand.”

Sonny smirked.

“That was sneaky,” Travis said.

“Yeah, wasn’t it?” He snickered. “I may be old, but I’ve still got moves.”

“Why’d you change the number?” I asked.

“I didn’t know you pesky kids from Jack. Changing the two to an eight probably landed those villains in Timbuktu. The brooch is some sort of pawn. I suspect, as I believe you do Ms. O’Brien, that engraving King Edward commissioned inside it leads to something more significant. Wallis sent the gifts to your grandmother and to me, both Brits, for reasons we’ll never know. In the name of the Queen, I trust you two to discover the mystery behind the brooch and my painting before those Turks. Do stay alert and keep a low profile. My neighbor over the Eastern field has a lorry, he will be by in half an hour to take you to the canal.”

NOTE TO SELF

Doves, not my pet of choice.

For an old eccentric jeweler, Sonny’s still got a few wild hairs. Altering the brooch, sneaky man.

The race is on!

T
he
B
ard

E
arly in the evening, the sun’s rays glistened on the water and mirror images of leaves from dense trees lining the bank were cast upon it. Low-lying
willow branches dipped into the canal water like fingers swiping a lick of icing. Another English town, but instead of a shire on the end of the name, this famous landmark had the word
upon
in the middle of Stratford and Avon, raising its status and making it seem more important.

From the deck of
Her Grace
, I read the onshore sign near the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. “Same rules as the town of Stoke Bruerne, we can berth the narrowboat for forty-eight hours for free.”

“If we can find a spot,” Travis said from behind the tiller in the cockpit.

We chugged past boats queued up like train cars when I spotted an open slot. I pointed, but Travis had already noticed the space and nodded.

Like an old married couple, we’d gone through the motions dozens of times. Gauging the distance
Her Grace
drifted with the current, I jumped ashore. He tossed me a rope and I secured the vessel with a couple of half-hitches.

From dry land, I scoured both sides of the waterway for GG and Edmond, thinking they’d be waiting for us.

“See them?” Travis asked.

I shook my head and hopped back onto the boat.

“What’s next?” he asked.

“Find GG. Tell her what we know. Find out what she knows.”

“Then what?”

“We’re close. The original coordinates inside the brooch fall on the property of Allerton Castle in Yorkshire near GG’s place. We’ll be up there anyway.”

“You’re determined to go to this place, and I can’t talk you out of it?”

My hands anchored on my hips. “You’re such a pain. Trying to derail my brilliance.”

Under a crooked smile, he said, “And you, Rachael are an adventure junkie,” which only yanked my chain.

While he rattled around inside, I slumped into our appointed captain’s chair. Travis had unknowingly peeled through my layers. Despite not knowing what I was doing, where I was going, or if my grandmother would even show up, deep down I was optimistic. If we didn’t find her in forty-eight hours, I’d have to call Dad back in the states. He would for sure go off the deep end. And hearing him blast me for losing my grandmother and his assistant wasn’t something I’d subject myself to unless desperate.

Climbing the cabin stairs, Travis held one hand behind his back.

“What do you have?”

“Guess.”

My watch ticked seconds away.

He stood still.

“A fish you and Sonny caught. It’s what’s been stinking up the cabin all this time.”

“That’s a terrible guess.”

Scrunching my forehead, I shot him a ‘you are completely annoying’ glance. “It would explain the smell.”

“Ta da,” he said, and whipped a painting of a horse from behind his back.

I gasped. “You freakin’ stole that from Sonny?”

He handed the placemat-size painting to me. “I didn’t steal it, I won it in backgammon.”

“This is the painting Wallis Simpson’s estate gifted him. Did you cheat to win this?”

“I didn’t cheat. I won fair and square.”

“It must have something to do with the brooch and the scepter. It’s the whole Allerton Castle connection. But why did she leave it to him?”

“In case you’re wondering, Sonny doesn’t know either.”

I bit my cheek. “Did you ask him?”

“Didn’t have to. He said he’s tired of staring at the thing, looking for clues as to why she left it to him. He thought it was just a mistake until we showed up.”

The sunlight glared across the oil paint, making it hard to see the details. We slipped into the cabin, where a less intense natural light shone in from the windows, and stared.

“It’s a brown horse,” Travis said.

“In a pasture with the corner of a castle in view.”

“I don’t see any secret code concealed in the trees,” he said.

“It isn’t a picture from grade school where you find the hidden farm animals.”

“Maybe scrape the paint off, like a lottery ticket.”

Horror crept up my spine. “Deface it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

“It shouldn’t be that complicated,” I said and flipped it over. There was a paper backing, typical in framing to cover the messy splotches on the back of the canvas. There weren’t any markings, so I peeled it off. I showed Travis a scribbly handwritten note that read,
Allerton Castle 1927-1936
.

“This was how Sonny figured out the name of the castle.”

“Dun, dun, dun,” Travis hummed.

There was no note or anything of interest on the canvas. I ran my fingers around the back of the frame. On the bottom inset was a light inscription:
54 02 – 01 37
. My heart quickened. I’d memorized those numbers before.

“Put this somewhere safe,” I said as I handed it back. “We need to find a bookstore and get a map of Yorkshire.”

AT THE DIRTY DUCK Pub we were lucky to get a seat on the garden courtyard wall. Finding a bookstore with maps had taken longer than I’d expected, and there wasn’t enough time to go back to the boat before the show. I tucked the ordinance survey map of Yorkshire I’d purchased into my plastic Marks and Spencer bag that was starting to look a little worse for the wear.

Stratford-upon-Avon was a tourist town. A place to relax and discover the witticisms of one of the longest loved writers in history. I barely noticed the thatch roofs, cobblestone walks, and brimming flower baskets on every streetlamp. Even with a pint, I couldn’t relax. Every muscle inside me twitched. I fretted that Ahmed or his thugs would turn up. It was silly. We hadn’t encountered any dangerous or seedy types since London, but being away from the safety of Sonny’s secluded house, I couldn’t dispel the weight that had lodged itself in the pit of my stomach.

Travis and I clanked glasses before we guzzled. “We have to be quick. Show starts in half an hour and I want to get there in plenty of time.”

“Rach.”

I looked over both my shoulders. “What?”

“Have you thought through the worse-case-scenario?”

“I’m trying not to. When you think of worst-case scenarios, it gives them life, a chance to root themselves.”

Travis chugged and I watched the bubbles from the bottom of his glass rise.

“What if they don’t show?”

“We’ll spend the night on the boat. If we don’t find them by this time tomorrow, I’ll call Dad.” I glanced at my wrist. “Ready?”

Travis reached across the table and slid his hand into mine and kissed its back before releasing me. “You bet.”

HOARDS OF PEOPLE STOOD outside the Shakespeare Theatre. There were all types, from fussy in suits and evening wear to jeans and cotton shirts— i.e., Travis and me. Weaving through clusters of patrons, I misstepped, backing into the shoulder of a portly man. He glanced at me, annoyed, and I mumbled, “Sorry.”

“Should we go inside? Maybe they’re already seated,” Travis said.

Skirting a knee-high brick wall on the perimeter of the crowd, I held a hand over my brow. My throat tightened. “I don’t know. I kind of figured we’d spot them out here.”

As show time neared, the crowd thinned. The sun slipped west and a chill cut the air. I’d been stood up, except this wasn’t a date; this was my grandmother who’d sent me down the Thames with an oyster brooch.

Hands stuffed in his pockets, Travis was patient.

“I guess we can go in,” I said, beginning to feel the disappointment I tried not to show.

RICH BROWNS AND GOTHIC RED decorated the theater lobby. An usher flashed a light on our tickets and directed us left. Travis slid an arm around my shoulder and squeezed. Early on, before everything happened in London, I’d been excited to see
Twelfth Night
. I’d read the play my freshman year and had gotten an A on a composition paper. Now, being here, a joyous anticipation failed to erupt and instead an ominous sour feeling winced inside my stomach.