Chapter 22
Derrick looked at the collection of souls in Cameron’s office and wasn’t altogether sure where to begin.
The truth was, the truth was very hard to swallow.
His first brush with anything of a paranormalish nature had come when he’d first seen Robert Cameron nine years ago in hospital, lying in a bed with tubes sticking out of almost every orifice.
It had taken Cameron quite a bit of time to recover from the knife wound in his back and the way his head had been half bashed in by something no one seemed to care to name.
Derrick had wondered what that something had been and how a man could acquire those sorts of wounds in the present day without someone having alerted the police, but as with the wounds themselves, the manner of their earning had been something no one had seemed particularly interested in discussing.
He’d subsequently worked for Cameron for eight years as something more than an employee and something not quite as trusted as family—though perhaps the last wasn’t true.
Cameron had trusted him with all kinds of things, but there had definitely been a line drawn at the divulging of too many personal details.
Of course Derrick had had questions about Cameron’s past. He had pretended not to think anything of it when he’d gone to various cousins and paid them to forget any even slightly imagined aspirations to the chieftainship of their little clan.
He hadn’t mentioned the fact that not only Cameron’s Gaelic but his excellent French had an accent to it that Derrick hadn’t been quite able to place.
But after Sunshine Phillips had arrived on the scene and all kinds of things had happened, Derrick had finally confronted Cameron about things he’d been mulling over for several years.
Such as the fact that Robert Francis Cameron mac Cameron had been born in the year 1346 and apparently somehow traveled through time to take up his place again as laird of the clan Cameron in the present day.
Of course, knowing that had led to knowing things about other Scots in the area, most notably James MacLeod, Jamie’s brother Patrick, and their cousin Ian.
Derrick wasn’t sure he wanted to think about how many times and places he’d traveled with Jamie.
No one would have believed him. He wasn’t sure sometimes that he believed it himself, not when he was safely in the present day, knocking back a Lilt or watching football on the telly.
He wondered how the others in the room would react.
Samantha wouldn’t be surprised, of course, because she had already seen more than was polite of the past. Oliver had come face-to-face with things that he didn’t seem to care to talk about.
Peter had heard stories but never experienced anything for himself.
Derrick looked over to see the true loose cannon in the room.
Ewan was only leaning against a wall, watching him with a smile that held absolutely no hint of a smirk.
Whatever that one knew, Derrick hardly dared speculate on.
The truth that connected them all was that they knew Robert Cameron.
And that made all kinds of thinking possible.
“Are you going to pace whilst you lecture us,” Oliver said solemnly, “or have a seat?”
Derrick had already seen Samantha seated comfortably by the fire.
He supposed there was no reason not to be comfortable himself.
He sat, sighed, then looked at the others in the room.
He started to speak, then decided that perhaps a visual might be more useful.
He put all the exhibits on the coffee table.
Two bags of stones, linen tube with one end slit open, and the handkerchief made from bobbin lace.
Oliver looked at him. “And?”
“And it makes me ill to look at those gems,” Peter said, looking away.
Derrick took the second set, the ones that had been sewn into Samantha’s bag, and put them into her purse. He left the others on the table, then looked at his partners, for that was what they would be in this.
“These are, I think, the gems that Richard Drummond is accused of stealing.”
Ewan came to sit down. He didn’t look terribly surprised, but since his usual expression was one of deliberate and usually inappropriate levity, Derrick supposed lack of surprise was an improvement.
“Then how is it you have them?” Ewan asked politely. “Twice, as it happens.”
Derrick supposed there was no point in not being honest. “One set was sewn into Samantha’s bag.
We’re assuming that was done by Lydia Cooke.
” He paused. “The others, those loose stones there, were wrapped in that cloth, then planted on Samantha in a crowd near the Globe. When we’d gone back to Elizabethan England to fetch Epworth’s lace. ”
Oliver only blinked. Peter looked as if he thought he should smile, but he seemingly couldn’t manage it.
“Interesting,” Ewan said. “Why Samantha?”
“Good question.”
Peter looked up from his contemplation of the floor. “Ollie said there was some dark doings with that Drummond bloke. Just hearsay, no trial. Killed him anyway.”
“He died from exposure,” Oliver corrected.
“Aye, exposure to an axe on the green,” Peter said with a snort. He shot Samantha a look. “Sorry, miss.”
Samantha waved away his apology. Derrick thought she looked remarkably well for someone who thought her existence was going to end at any moment. She rubbed her arms, as if she were suddenly rather cold.
“If Richard Drummond didn’t take the gems,” she asked, “then who did?”
“Probably the same one who saw him put in the Tower for the crime,” Ewan offered.
“Then who put those gems in my purse?”
Derrick rubbed his hands together because he was apparently feeling the same chill Samantha was. “That’s a mystery we are going to have to solve. But I think the solving of it is going to require a little heart-to-heart with Sir Richard Drummond.”
“Oy,” Oliver said. He didn’t look surprised, but he rarely looked surprised by anything. “How do you propose to do that?”
Derrick swept them all with a look. “We’re going to break him out of the sixteenth-century version of the Tower of London and ask him.”
There was silence for the space of approximately five seconds.
And then, instead of those men he trusted with his very life—even Ewan, it had to be said—looking at him as if he’d lost his mind and was destined for a Bedlam that didn’t exist any longer, they simply looked at each other briefly, then got down to business.
“I’ll print out the Tower schematic,” Oliver said.
“I’ll make a list of possible gear,” Peter said.
“Will I have to wear tights?”
Derrick shot Ewan a look for the last one. “You aren’t coming.”
“Are you daft?” Ewan asked, looking genuinely astonished. “I’m the only one who can act. Well, unless—”
“Shut up, Ewan,” Derrick warned.
“Then just what in the hell is it you want me to do?” he demanded.
“Create believable personas for us to get us in and out of the city without getting us thrown in jail. And find us a safe place to land in 1602 for twenty-four hours.”
Ewan looked as if he was preparing to throw a monumental tantrum. He seemed to reconsider, though, then merely nodded briskly.
Derrick watched his lads—well, and Ewan—doing the third thing they did best, which was to prepare a site for an .
. . well, assault probably wasn’t a good word.
Visit was probably a better term for it.
Whatever anyone wanted to call it, Peter and Oliver were masters at it.
Ewan was more suited to charming people out of their priceless treasures, but he could also be quite useful when it came to planning exit strategies.
Derrick couldn’t say he would be particularly interested in having Ewan along for the ride, but he wouldn’t be unhappy to have his advice beforehand.
He looked at Samantha, who was simply watching him, silent and grave. He smiled.
“What is it?”
She shook her head. “Just watching. They’re impressive.”
He nodded. “They are.”
“And your cousin has interesting toys.” She nodded toward the architectural printer in the corner. “Good for plans, I suppose.”
“And large games of naughts and crosses.”
She smiled. “I imagine so.” Her smile faded a bit. “What can I do?”
He knew what he needed but almost hesitated to ask. He rubbed his hands together. “I’m not an expert in Elizabethan textiles, but . . .”
She sighed. “I can put off my leap into artistic endeavors for another few days and play historian if you like.”
“Then let’s invade Cameron’s sanctuary. He has all kinds of books up there on all kinds of obscure things. I’m sure he has a book on costumery.”
“I don’t suppose he has any costumes lying around.”
“I think I might manage to find a few in London.” That was badly understating what his apartment was full of, but there was no point in telling her things that didn’t make any difference at the moment.
He wasn’t even quite sure what he had that would have served a woman, so obviously things would have to be acquired on short notice.
The sooner he knew what they needed, the better.
He left the lads to their work and walked with Samantha up the stairs to Cameron’s private study.
· · ·
Three hours and a lovely supper later, he was sitting on the couch with his bare feet on Cameron’s coffee table, trying to stay awake.
He honestly wasn’t sure he’d managed it entirely.
He rubbed the grit out of his eyes and looked to his right.
Samantha was sitting in a chair facing at right angles to his.
She had lost her shoes somewhere as well, but she apparently didn’t feel comfortable enough to put her feet on the furniture.
The sea had done what he’d wanted to but never dared, namely pulled several strands of hair out of her braid. She kept tucking those strands behind her ears. He would have asked her to stop, but then she would have looked at him as if he’d been daft.
He wondered what she would have done if he’d simply leaned over and kissed her.