THE CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS ON THE WARD DID NOTHING TO LIFT LUCY’S spirits. The last few weeks had been hellish, and she sat awaiting her biopsy with a sense of dread. Though not strictly a painful procedure, the feeling of pending discomfort was exacerbated by a mood of heavy gloom that had overtaken her ever since the headaches had started and the nightmares settled in. The sense that she was rebuilding her life with a future to look forward to was now almost terminated in her mind.
It was so difficult to understand. Her posttransplant period had initially gone well: her progress was exemplary. Beyond slightly shaky hands and appetite cravings and an odd feeling that her mind was sometimes not wholly her own, the drugs hadn’t caused her any especially unpleasant side effects, and she was managing her health and her psychological well-being better than anyone had anticipated. Then in early November, she got a cold, which sent Alex and Courtney Denham into overdrive. She knew infections were serious, and she’d been fastidious about hygiene, diet, and her lifestyle. It was just a cold, but her temperature soared out of control, and Alex—regardless of Amel’s insistence that he had done nothing at all that was even close to negligent—blamed himself for the evening on the boat, the excursion to Mortlake, even the possibility that she’d somehow come into contact with the cat litter at his flat. Unable to account for anything else that might have sent her from the glowing recuperation period after her transplant to this current downward spiral, he watched her now like a first-time mother with a newborn. He was completely professional, never actually communicating alarm to her; but his actions told her he was her clinician again, and their journey as two attracted people was on hold. Long sessions talking to Mr. Azziz, Mr. Denham, and a new consultant based at the Brompton indicated that Alex was seriously worried. He disappeared to the lab, ran tests personally, changed her medication, and fretted.
These worries were then compounded from another front when his son broke an arm badly in two places from a fall at a skating rink. It required an operation, and Alex all but vanished in his free hours. Lucy understood, but it was a blow; and within the confines of their present relationship, she couldn’t talk to him and find out how he was. They had no private time, between the onlookers at the hospital and the curfew that descended by the end of his working day with his return to his little boy. It was an absurd paradox: he was more involved with monitoring her immune system and the possibility of her new heart being rejected than anyone, but it returned them to an entirely professional relationship when their personal bond wasn’t quite established. She thought the opportunity for closeness might be gone altogether. Her humor fought back against her fate, but the strain finally got to her, hitting her nervous system. Having ignored dwelling on it too much before, she now became aware, after the fact, of all the horrors she’d been through, the brushes with death the year had contained. And someone she was just learning to trust enough to possibly start caring for seemed to be withdrawing from her.
She succumbed to a series of terrible headaches, depression, and bad dreams peopled with hostile faces. She would awake in panic, feeling as though she were being watched by someone she wished to hide from. So she was admitted again for a further series of tests.
Now it was December 22, a gray Monday, and it looked as though she was staring at Christmas in hospital. At least, on the plus side, she might see Alex. He’d been away in late November at the other hospital with his research students, and was up in Cambridge last week. She joked with Grace that she’d forgotten what he looked like and wondered who was feeding his cat—but she lacked the levity she affected, feeling like a little girl abandoned. She was back to square one. He was her very kind—but presently very absent—consultant, Dr. Stafford. The man, Alex, was elsewhere, perhaps at his ex-wife’s house with their son. But at least she still had the key as a talisman, and she clung to it fiercely.
“It definitely isn’t that bad.” Simon had descended on the monotony of her hospital room with Grace and a pile of books for her, and he immediately registered her crestfallen face.
She smiled ruefully at him: this was the one pleasure of the last few weeks. Simon had delivered her to her door as promised after coffee at Alex’s, and sparks literally flew between him and her flatmate. Grace had been dazzled by him. His irreverence and lazy charm made an instant impression on her. And Grace—who’d inherited high cheekbones and sexy curves from her part-African mother and an easy, clever banter from her Jewish father—prompted the very best performance from him. He’d found an excuse to come back soon with books for Lucy to research Dr. Dee, and Grace seized her opportunity. In a matter of weeks they had embarked on a whirlwind romance, and while Lucy was delighted for her friend—who’d had a string of broken promises in love for at least a year—it made her own lack of progress with Alex the pang more sharp. But she rallied herself for them now.
“A little light reading” was her comment on the groaning load of outsize paperbacks in his arms.
“Grace told me to keep you busy. She says you’re in danger of becoming maudlin. The Dee biography looks entertaining, but the math and this Hermetic rubbish look like treacle to get through. Could you possibly want it? Will ordered it all from Amazon, got it sent to Alex’s, so we thought you should have it too.”
Simon was trying to prick her interest about anything that might take her mind off her present stalemate, but her quiet, pale face reminded him of the studied calm of a young novitiate, nothing that was natural in his eye. Almost as an afterthought he added, “Dee was originally supposed to have died on this very day, as a matter of curious fact. But scholars seem to have decided more recently that it was probably on a date in late March—a reprieve of several months. You’ll have to read the biography to decide why this change of heart. And rather creepily, legend has it that his heart is buried somewhere under the high altar at Mortlake Church. I’m sure you’ll be riveted to learn this last salacious detail.”
For some odd reason Lucy’s face responded by deeper degrees of expression to all of this unfolding information—and Simon’s interesting choice of words. She smiled a little cryptically, pleased to have something challenging to think about. She’d had difficulty reading with the acute headaches that had seemed almost otherworldly. They were only now coming under control with a change of drugs, so she hadn’t got far with the research, but it made her feel closer to Alex—which was where she was inclined to be.
“Don’t overdo it though, Luce,” Grace added gently. “Getting better is the priority. Alex said so specifically. You know my parents are still hoping you’ll be able to join us at home in Shropshire for Christmas.”
Lucy appreciated Grace’s effort, and was grateful, although it wasn’t the festive season she’d secretly hoped for. “Thanks, honey. I’m sure I’ll feel better when I know about the biopsy.”
“Your doctors will all have to agree to release you before you make any firm plans for travel, Miss King.”
Lucy blushed with pleasure at the voice; its owner had slipped in behind Simon without her noticing.
“And do I have any hope at all of influencing you, Dr. Stafford?” In front of friends it was easier to be flirtatious.
“Every time!” In a fragment of a second he had lightened her mood. “I hope you’re not tiring my patient, you two. I’ve come to give her a bit of a pain in the neck, I’m afraid.”
Lucy laughed and gestured an explanation to Grace of the needle she had to have in that very spot. Her friend kissed her on the forehead and grabbed Simon conspiratorially to leave her alone with Alex. “I’ll call later and see how it went. Let me know when she’s ready to escape, Alex.”
“You just leave her with me, Grace.” He gave her a wry smile, and they were gone.
Alex closed the distance between them and sat down casually on her bed, which seemed wonderfully informal to her. “Are you feeling better at all?” He sounded fractionally hesitant, as though unsure of his reception.
“Yes, actually. It’s very good to see you.” Her tone was searching too. She knew they’d be disturbed at any second. “How’s your son? I was hoping he might come in with you, and I could meet him.”
Alex shook his head. “This is not the place for that. He’s not too keen on hospitals just now! But the plaster’s coming off on Christmas Eve. It certainly hasn’t slowed him down—he still wants to go skiing.” Alex read uncertainty in her face. “Are you dreaming sweetly again now?”
“I think so. That character with the black cape and the scythe doesn’t have such a prominent role for now.” She retreated to irony. “Simon’s given me some homework here. These books were among the ones Will ordered. I’ll tell you if I find anything interesting.” She thought this might reveal the cast of her mind.
“No need to rush, Lucy. We’ll have time soon to talk about it. I think for now we should concentrate on getting you out of here and back home.”
Someone with fewer insecurities would have heard the reassurance, but Lucy was not that cheerful soul today. An orderly arrived with a gurney, and Alex playfully took it over and waved him away. “Right now, the Three Fates are waiting to put a wire in your neck.” He bent closer to her and whispered, “And I’ve asked them to have a care for its fineness.”
Those words made her tentative smile more relaxed: and with Alex in control she wound down through the corridors toward her cardiologist, technician, and radiographer, and felt safe again.
AS CALVIN PASSED THROUGH THE RECEPTION AREA TOWARD THE BREAKFAST room, there was a fragrance of lilies that almost stole your breath and made the wonderful old hotel seem even more luxuriant. He approached the restaurant carrying his pale camel overcoat, fidgeting slightly with one of the large buttons. He saw the reflection of the professor’s head in the glass and thrust a hand into his pocket, then as quickly out again.
“Professor Walters is already at the table, Mr. Petersen. May I take your coat, sir?”
The maître d’ at Claridge’s gave Calvin’s coat to an attendant and then showed him to a table in the corner of the breakfast room. It was occupied by an expensively dressed man of about fifty-five, with a pin-striped shirt and navy woolen jacket, and a cream silk cravat in place of a tie. Calvin could see his cuff links catching the light from a distance away; and now, as they approached, Professor Fitzalan Walters set aside his copy of The New York Times and rose from his chair. He extended one freckled hand to Calvin’s and placed his other hand on his guest’s arm. As his chair was pushed in by a waiter, Calvin was struck again by how considerable a presence he had for such a relatively small man.
“What a pleasure that we could meet while I’m in London, Calvin.” Fitzalan had a deep voice, with the slight Southern American accent that spoke of old money and commanded attention. “Are you going back home for Christmas?”
“I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.”
The professor was an important and a busy man, one of the senior heads of the School of Theology at The College. Established in Kansas in 1870 with a sister college in Indiana, it had fared well over the years and listed among its alumni a number of senators, judges, and well-known figures from all walks of life. In fact, a good degree from The College seemed a passport to a good job in law or politics or Washington. Walters proudly described it to the uninitiated as a neoconservative fundamentalist institution. It seemed there was nothing—and no one—that Professor Fitzalan Walters didn’t know. A decade ago he had written a seminal book around the subject of the Second Coming of Christ. It suited Calvin’s moral beliefs and broader interests to look for a lecturing position that would pay enough to feed him while he got his master’s and then, he hoped, his doctorate; and when an advertisement for a post at The College seemed to offer what he was looking for, he applied. Professor Walters—FW as he liked to be called by his friends—had shown a keen interest in Calvin at their first interview. They had talked at length about his ancestor Dr. John Dee, whom he already knew to be a forebear. It was certainly Calvin’s job to ingratiate himself, but actually he was flattered: some people thought Dee a crackpot, but FW accorded him respect and was curious. Many people believed that Dee had indeed, as promised by the angel conversations, been given details about the Apocalypse and the Second Coming. What might have been contained in his writings, they had conjectured, and what had become of a great many of these? It was known that Dee’s house had been robbed, and his library looted while he was abroad in Bohemia in the 1580s. Walters seemed to know many details about Dee’s life and work, many more even than Calvin.
They had talked productively, and FW awarded him the teaching job he needed, then further helped him acquire a postgraduate scholarship so that he could complete his dissertation with a research trip. Calvin came from a good family with some property and a few shares, but ready cash was always tight, so he was grateful for the patronage. Later in their association, as Calvin got to know Professor Walters better, he found some of his ideas on Intelligent Design, the Rapture, and Creationism a little extreme, and he was certainly alarmed when Walters expressed publicly that the horrors of 9/11 could be laid as much at the feet of the pagans, the feminists, and the gays as at any Islamic terrorists—although he never expressed such concerns to his patron. He had been taken into FW’s confidence on a number of matters, and he liked to be there. But their association had recently blossomed afresh when Calvin had mentioned, in passing, the death of an English cousin, and a key with a fascinating history, which had narrowly missed descent to Calvin’s mother. It should have followed the female line, he explained, but had gone to a male cousin in England, breaking a pattern of centuries. He believed it might be linked with books and papers that his illustrious ancestor would have thought were too sensitive to release into the doctrinally riven world of the early seventeenth century, and FW expressed surprise that Calvin hadn’t told him of its existence before this.
As the waiter put Calvin’s napkin on his lap, he thought how deeply he was becoming involved with this man. Walters seemed to be in a jovial mood as he invited Calvin to order. He had already chosen an old-fashioned English breakfast himself. “Love these link sausages—can’t get anything like them back home,” he commented. Calvin wondered what was on his mind. It was unlike FW not to get straight to the point.
“Got any further with your English cousins and Dr. Dee?” Walters, between bites, never took his eye off Calvin, judging his every reaction.
“Can I take your order, sir?” The waiter was poised, and Calvin about to speak up for the eggs Benedict. Walters cut him off before he could mouth the first vowel.
“He’ll have English breakfast, fried eggs sunny-side up, link sausages, and hot buttered toast. Make sure it’s hot buttered.” Walters ignored the waiter’s close proximity and added to Calvin without lowering his voice: “These Brits don’t understand about hot buttered toast.”
“Oh, we Brits do, sir.” The waiter smiled quietly. “It’s when the toast is buttered straight out of the toaster so that the butter melts into the bread, making it limp and soggy. Anything else, sir? Coffee, decaffeinated, or regular?”
Calvin nodded his thanks before Walters said crisply to the waiter: “That will be all. Thank you.”
The waiter moved out of earshot, and Calvin replied, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I had lunch with my cousin and his friends a short while ago. I’ve been…”—he searched for an appropriate word—“…seeing the other brother’s ex-girlfriend. He was killed tragically. I’m not sure if my supervisor told you? An accident—a few months ago.” Calvin’s words were deliberately couched to sound tentative, but his cool gray-blue eyes were fixed on his breakfast companion. He wanted to gauge his reaction to this particular news item. He wondered if someone from the faculty might have known, and been responsible for, the break-in to the family home at such an opportune time.
Seeing her brains out, thought Walters; but he looked gravely at his companion. He scanned Calvin’s face, and nodded. “Yes, Guy did tell me. I heard all about it. Most unfortunate. You can’t ask him any questions.”
The breakfast arrived, and Calvin continued, “No. But his former girlfriend was upset about their break, and told me a lot about the family. She needed an ear.” He was waiting to reveal something he knew would interest his mentor, who was listening more than politely. He didn’t hurry, and finished an egg before continuing. “Interesting…at lunch, I learned the brother now has the key. I’ve seen it. He’s not sure about the paperwork that goes with it. It’s very odd. I tried to tell Siân—the girlfriend—about the problems of not following the heritage. If it’s not passed down the female bloodline. The family knew nothing of the Dee connection. The father thought it was a lot of superstition, or something to be ashamed of. It worries me that they’ve disregarded the dictum.” Calvin talked freely, realizing FW was listening to every word. “I have to say I was almost expecting a disaster. My mother was clear that it would break the chain. I believe it had something to do with his death—just the kind of bad luck she would have anticipated.” He was still fishing slightly, but caught no response. “They wouldn’t understand. They don’t seem to respect these powerful ideas. If God curses something, it is cursed; if an angel does so, the effect is the same.” He looked up at his audience. “Things have been more strained between Siân and myself now. But I’m still seeing her.”
I bet you are, Walters thought. Having seen her himself, he was vitally aware of her charms.
“Calvin.” He leaned in quietly. “We have discussed this. We could be looking at one of the great historical finds in our time. We’d both like The College to be part of this. Academic glory for you. A book in it, certainly. From a career point of view, it could be the making of you. And from a religious perspective, of course, it would be fascinating. I expect it could verify the whole theory of the Rapture, which we have been working toward for years. Dee certainly would have known about it. I would think you could just…state your claim…”
His voice trailed off suggestively, without any hint of urgency; but Calvin knew it was his chance to be something of a hero to The College. Many people—not least those at The College—would give a good deal to take control of what was in the legacy from Dee. Any man would feel the importance it accorded him, and for Calvin it came with an additional awareness of his value to FW, who was a politically and socially influential man. He recognized right now the directive he had been given to get the key back from Alex—or Lucy, if she was still holding on to it—by any means. FW wouldn’t wait forever.
The waiter discreetly put the bill on the table and Professor Walters signed without looking, tucking a large bill for a tip into the leather holder. They stood to go, and the maître d’ appeared with Calvin’s coat. Walters pushed another American note into his hand and took Calvin by the arm.
“Have you got a minute?” It wasn’t a question. “Let’s go up to my suite. There’s something that might interest you, and a couple of people you should meet. It will help you to understand how crucial this might be.”
As they crossed the elegant Art Deco lobby, a man rose from a chair and stepped into the elevator in front of them. Walters and Calvin followed him in and turned to face the door.
“Did you achieve everything, Mephistopheles?” Walters spoke without looking at him.
“Yes, Professor Walters. It was informative.” The stranger handed Walters a small leather document case.
“This is Angelo, Calvin, though I have other names for him. At times he can be a bit of a bad angel. He works for me in Europe.” Professor Walters’s tone was oblique.
Calvin turned and stared into the unfamiliar face. Everything about him was unremarkable, except that he had the yellow eyes of a cat. Calvin couldn’t place the accent.
“Nice to meet you,” Calvin said without meaning it, noticing the stranger was immaculately dressed in a fine dark suit and cashmere overcoat. The man nodded politely to Calvin, which for some reason made him feel a shade uneasy. He wondered what FW meant by a “bad angel.”
“I showed your people into the lounge in the suite,” the man was saying, “and gave them coffee, as you requested, sir.”
“Thank you.”
The elevator door opened and the party stepped into the hall. “The Davies Suite is on the left,” Walters directed them.
Angelo opened the door and stepped back, and Walters entered in front of Calvin. Over his shoulder Calvin could see the beautiful main room in yellow and white with its polished wood floor. Two men stood in front of the window backlit by the morning sun. Walters strode across the space and embraced each of them with a formal hug.
“This is the young man I’ve been telling you about, Calvin Petersen. He is my personal protégé and the man whom I hope will lead us to the answers we’ve been searching for, for years.” FW sounded unusually solemn.
“Calvin, my colleagues.” He gestured with his arm, offering no names, though Calvin was vaguely aware he knew one or both of the faces from the broad arena of politics, or perhaps from appearances on religious television.
FW lifted the briefcase onto the table and snapped it open. Out of it he took what looked like a parchment and an exquisite portrait miniature. “Well, my bad angel?” Walters asked quietly.
Angelo stepped forward with his hands clasped. “Sir, I explained to the V&A that this was a recent—bequest—to our college. They confirmed that the portrait is late sixteenth century, and just possibly a genuine Hilliard, but it doesn’t appear to be cataloged so it may only be a copy of a lost original. They cannot as yet identify the subject. The papers”—he turned some documents over—“are of interest to the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge. They are what they called fine copies of some original text, possibly now lost, which they said they could not without further study confirm; but they may be from Dr. Dee’s papers—except for this one sheet, which looks to be some kind of extract from a play script. They took a copy and will have a handwriting expert examine them—if we wish. They seemed quite excited about this one—though they are cautious in case it’s a forgery.” He looked up at the eager faces and continued: “The small books in Latin are still with an antiquarian bookseller for examination, but the Bible is very old, and valuable. I have someone working on the marked passages—which are revelatory, it appears.”
Walters nodded once to the complete report, and handed the miniature to Calvin. “It goes without saying that this is all strictly sub rosa, Calvin. A beautiful lady, isn’t she?” he said. “Do you think she could be an ancestral member of your family?”
Calvin’s eyes narrowed involuntarily as he looked at the face, grappling with the implications of the question. What had this to do with him? But it took only seconds for him to connect it to the theft from the Staffords’ house in the country—knowing it occurred while Will was in critical condition in hospital. He opened his mouth to speak to Professor Walters, then changed his mind and tried to conceal a thought. How far would these people go? He was distracted by discomforting ideas that were quickly showing his instincts to be right about their willingness to do whatever it would take to get their prize; until he quite suddenly focused on the lovely woman who looked right through him from the blue background, in her richly embroidered bodice. His eyes widened.
“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “But I believe I had lunch with her a few weeks ago. It may even be”—he was so struck by the image that he found himself thinking aloud, but the words couldn’t be called back—“that she is currently the key-holder.”