Chapter Twenty-Seven Holly
Chapter Twenty-Seven
HOLLY
The elevator doors slide shut and make a gentle descent. I figure I’ve got about forty seconds to get the panel open before it gets to the ground floor.
I glance across at the lit-up buttons which are zooming through their sequence with alarming speed.
20, 29, 28 …
Removing the key from the pocket of my dress, I slot it into the tiny circle of light. It fits perfectly. But when I go to turn it, nothing happens. I try the opposite direction. Still nothing.
Come on, work.
The buttons are flashing faster.
15, 14, 13.
‘Please work,’ I tell the key. Instead, this time when I twist, an alarm button blinks to life.
5, 4, 3 …
I make a final twist. But now the key is stuck completely inside the lock.
The doors slide open. I whirl around, trying desperately to think of a reason why I might be traveling up and down in the elevator car, with an alarm blinking, and a fireman’s key jammed in the access panel.
Fitzwilliam’s strained face appears in the door.
‘Holly,’ he says, glancing over his shoulder and stepping neatly inside. ‘Ortiz couldn’t stop Georgia getting in. Did she call security?’
‘No. She mistook me for a replacement bridesmaid.’
He laughs. ‘Wait. You’re serious.’
‘Is that so hard to believe?’
His mouth opens and shuts. I guess his preppy good manners don’t have a suggested answer for this scenario.
‘Did you change your clothes?’ I suddenly realize he’s no longer in police uniform. Fitzwilliam wears a navy Ralph Lauren T-shirt with black pants.
‘I took off the hat, shirt and gun-belt,’ he explains.
‘You wear designer shirts under your police uniform?’
‘Adrianna Kensington is in the lobby,’ he says. ‘We need to be fast.’
‘The elevator doors won’t shut in the lobby without a keycard,’ I tell him, processing this new side to Fitzwilliam. I never had him down as a rule-breaker.
He holds one up. ‘Turns out the receptionist wants to be a member of my country club.’
Fitzwilliam flashes the card to close the door, then holds a finger to the alarm for a few seconds.
‘These alarms operate on an override code,’ he adds. ‘This should hold the doors for a few minutes.’
He looks at the key, jammed in the glowing circle.
‘Georgia was wearing Simone’s ring,’ I tell him.
His eyes widen. ‘OK. That’s … odd. We’ll let Ortiz know.’
He frowns for a moment, then lifts his hand and turns the key.
‘How did you …?’
‘I have a way with keys,’ he says.
‘And humility.’
The panel falls open. Inside, wedged to one side of the controls, is a cream envelope.
For a few seconds, we both stare.
Fitzwilliam reaches for it, but I stop him.
‘Fingerprints,’ I say, leaning to take the envelope carefully from the void, using my lacy bell sleeve.
The envelope is made of heavy paper, and stamped with the Kensington crest. It bulges tantalizingly like there’s something inside.
There’s writing on the front, in Simone’s looping script:
Holly. If you’re reading this, I didn’t make it. Unmask Trinity. Simone xx
My heart catches.
‘OK. That’s kind of … strange,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘Trinity.’ He hesitates as if uncertain to tell me.
I glance across, too thick with memories and questions about Simone.
‘I don’t know who Trinity is,’ I tell him.
‘OK,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘So, “Trinity” was the police nickname for Adrianna’s kidnapper, based on her account of her time in captivity. It was never released to laypeople.’
Carefully, I reach inside the envelope, my sleeve still covering my hand.
Inside is an ancient-looking ring, bearing a crest of an oak and ravens. It’s large and bulky, made of old gold. It has an ‘S’ inscribed discreetly on one side.
‘It’s a signet ring,’ says Fitzwilliam.
For a moment I can’t speak. ‘It’s Simone’s,’ I whisper. ‘She always wore it.’ I frown. ‘But I don’t understand. I’m sure I saw Georgia wearing it. Just a moment ago.’
‘More than one ring, I guess,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘Simone wore a ring with a crest on it?’
I nod. ‘She never took it off.’
I look closer at the ring. ‘The shadowed oak and ravens has a motto underneath: Mors Aeterna. That’s Latin for eternal death.’
‘That’s the Kensington ancestral motto,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘Private education,’ he adds. ‘I had an English history teacher who made us learn the old society families.’
I ponder this. Simone wore a ring with the Kensington crest. Why? I park it as another disturbing mystery about my former boss, and concentrate on the issue at hand. Now I see the ring up close, I notice something I couldn’t see when it was on Simone’s finger.
‘The bulky shape could mean it’s a poison ring,’ I say. ‘They were a thing in medieval times. A poison ring has a secret compartment to hold the poison. Medieval assassinations are kind of a hobby of mine,’ I admit.
‘You’re a weird girl, you know that?’
I ignore him, turning the ring over. ‘If I’m right,’ I say, ‘this part should pop open. Or maybe this part …’ I’m turning it, trying to figure it out.
Fitzwilliam takes it smoothly out of my hand and with a single movement, slides back the front panel to reveal a tiny concealed compartment, no bigger than a fingernail.
‘How did you …?’
‘NYPD,’ he deadpans. ‘We may not know a whole bunch about medieval times, but modern-day kids use slider rings like these for drug stashes.’
At first glance, it looks packed with a loose brown powder.
‘Heroin?’ suggests Fitzwilliam. ‘Let’s bag it,’ he decides. ‘Take a closer look later.’
We’re interrupted by the noise of the doors sliding open.
Adrianna Kensington’s blue eyes come into view. They widen, taking in me, Fitzwilliam, and the ring held guiltily in my hand.
‘Are you the new lawyer?’ she asks, staring at what I’m holding in my hand. Her eyes zero in on the ‘S’ etched into the gold. ‘What are you doing with Simone’s school ring?’