Chapter Thirteen
Clio
Clio searched the internet for mentions of Minxu Peng and found nothing. She tried the police databases and got a hit. Minxu
Peng was a missing person. Just like Zofia. The difference was that Minxu’s body had recently been pulled out of the Thames.
She exhaled sharply. A job at this Institute in St. Andrews was starting to look like a poisoned chalice. When they were in
the British Museum, Lillian had told her that one of the groups of women was likely embedded in academia. What if some of
them were based in Scotland?
Something else was needling her. When they spoke at the British Museum, Lillian had also mentioned a “dear friend” who she’d
lost.
She wanted to find out who this person was. Tim might know, but she hesitated to ask him. If she was to take Lillian’s advice
seriously, she’d already said enough. Too much, possibly, though her gut was to trust him.
She thought back to Lillian’s funeral. The attendees had been a mix of former colleagues and a couple of distant family members.
Clio’s grief had been overwhelming that day and she hadn’t lingered after the service.
In fact, she’d barely spoken to anyone and she regretted that now.
But there was one person who might be able to identify this friend, someone who’d been working in their building longer than Lillian, someone Lillian had formed a bond with.
Clio picked up the phone and asked the switchboard to put her through to the cafeteria.
Ethel was in. It didn’t surprise Clio. Ethel was always in. She ran the canteen and was a friend to everyone. Clio asked the
question.
“What’s it worth?” Ethel cackled.
“A box of Ferrero Rocher?” Everyone knew they were Ethel’s favorite.
“Lillian palled about for years with Pippa Wade. You couldn’t separate them if you tried. But Pippa died.”
“What happened?”
“She was shot during a raid. Awful. I don’t know the ins and outs of it, but Lillian was never the same after.”
Clio googled the name, found what she needed. Philippa Wade was buried with police honors in 2011. She had died in the line
of fire during an undercover operation and was survived by her husband, Geoff, an engineer. No kids. It was easy to find Geoff.
He lived in Chiswick. She grabbed her bag and headed out.
Geoff Wade’s house was in the middle of a well-kept Victorian row. She rang the bell. Geoff was dapper, gracious, and amenable
to talking to her. His home was immaculate, but she felt as if loneliness was lurking in its nooks and crannies. The air was
so still, the surfaces so clean. From the look of the décor, she’d have put money on the fact that this room had looked exactly
the same the day Pippa died. Prominent on his mantel was a framed photograph of a beautiful young woman.
“Is this Pippa?” Clio asked.
“It is. It was taken on the day we got engaged. I miss her every day, even after all these years.” He fixed Clio with a stern
look. “I’m not sure why you’re here, but if you’re truly a friend of Lillian’s then you’re a friend of mine. Otherwise, you
can leave now.”
“Lillian meant the world to me. She was my mentor. I’m here because just before she died, she mentioned Pippa in the context of something she was working on, and I wanted to know if you could shed some light on it.”
“Why aren’t you asking your colleagues?”
She hesitated. Geoff didn’t seem like a man who suffered fools gladly. She chose her words carefully. “It’s sensitive.”
He looked interested. “Okay, let’s stop talking in code. Pippa was murdered by one of your own. I knew it, Lillian knew it.
We could never prove it. The police claimed her death was accidental, unfortunate, you name it, but there were far too many
coincidences that day for it to be true. Pippa was pulled onto an operation last minute. It was undercover. She’d never been
undercover. She was put in the line of fire with inadequate briefing. In the debrief, it was implied that the so-called accident
happened because she had a lapse in judgment, but if there was one thing she absolutely was not lacking in, it was judgment.
Pippa didn’t have lapses. She was whip-smart, the most extraordinary person I’ve ever known. It was all a lie.”
Clio felt as if there was ice water dripping down her spine. “Why would they lie?”
“Because she knew something she shouldn’t. She’d been working on a case with Lillian. Two groups of powerful women, out to
get each other. Pippa had told Lillian she’d made a breakthrough, but they needed to meet in person. It wasn’t something she
was willing to say over the phone.”
“But Pippa never made it to the meeting,” Clio guessed.
He shook his head. “She was pulled onto this operation instead. She and Lillian were due to meet at the British Museum. Lillian
said she knew, as soon as the meeting time passed and there was no sign of Pippa, that something was wrong. Pippa was never
late.”
“Do you know where in the museum they were supposed to meet?” Clio asked, although she suspected she already knew.
“There’s a piece of medieval embroidery on display there. Doesn’t look like much to my eyes, but it meant something to the case. Pippa never told me what. They were supposed to meet in front of it.”
Clio felt as though someone was walking over her grave. “Who was running the operation that Pippa was working on?”
Geoff’s face clouded as he fought yet more emotions. She was rattled by how fresh his anger and grief still were, even after
all this time. “An asshole called Tony Axford,” he said.
It was the second time Clio had heard that name today. More coincidences. Far too many.
“Did you know Tony?”
He shook his head. “No, but he was very close to Tim Keenan at the time. It was a boys’ club. I expect it still is. Lillian
always suspected that Tim was moved to head up Art and Antiques to keep an eye on her after Pippa died. And FYI, Tim’s job
should have been hers.”
Clio felt sick. She should have listened better to Lillian’s warning not to talk about the case internally.
Geoff said, “I see you’re shocked. I’m sorry. But if you’re here now, with me, it’s because Lillian wanted you to be, and
it’s best you know everything so that you can protect yourself.”
Anya
As I walked back to the manuscript room I paid attention to security for the first time.
I noticed cameras everywhere, many of them positioned discreetly. I had no idea how to do what Mum wanted.
In the tower room, a camera was trained on the bottom of the spiral staircase. Its range included the table where I was asked
to leave my devices, and I put my iPhone back there before going upstairs. The burner phone stayed in my pocket. Another lens
was trained on the top of the stairs, and it seemed also to cover the door that led into the paneled room and the manuscript
room beyond it.
Otherwise, there were no obvious signs of security, but the cameras might be hidden. I had to assume that they were watching what I did in those rooms.
I stood in front of the shelves of manuscripts and tried to think straight.
What had Mum said? Just that the binding was unremarkable, but she’d also asked me that strange question.
I’ve been wondering if you and Sid had considered getting a pet? It might be a lovely thing to do now that you’re settled.
Viv saw a very nice black cat for adoption. It had beautiful lantern eyes.
It wasn’t a riddle, exactly. So, what did she mean? Black cats were associated with witches, everyone knew that. They appeared
in all kinds of images. Should I be thinking of one I’d already seen? Was she asking me to use my memory? There were a few
images I could recall that would match that description. Or was she referencing something in my dad’s collection? That felt
the most likely.
The problem was, I’d only examined a few of the books this morning, and there were almost two hundred altogether. I began
to pick out the ones with plain bindings and look through them, but, conscious of surveillance, I was careful not to rush.
I tried to work methodically.
As I worked, I thought about the symbolism of the black cat. They were associated with witchcraft. Perhaps there was a witchcraft
collection here. They could also symbolize sensuality, predatory skills, good or bad luck depending on the culture, darkness
and shadows, sharp eyesight, a silent traveler, an emblem of the moon, or a shape-shifter. Black cats were charioteers for
the Norse goddess Freya, the bearers of nine lives.
As I eased open the cover of yet another book, I also considered the lantern eyes Mum had described.
Was that another layer of symbolism? The lantern represented safety, a sanctuary, a place to flee, sometimes a clandestine signal.
Did it create another meaning altogether if I juxtaposed it with the cat?
It was the sort of complexity Mum enjoyed, but I was struggling to put the images together and find anything meaningful. What was I not seeing?
I finished looking through one shelf of books and started on the next. It was getting late. I didn’t know how long they would
let me stay here.
The first three volumes on the new shelf were law texts, then there were two medieval gardening manuals, with illustrations
of fruit trees, insects, butterflies, and birds that were delightful but not helpful to me. The next four volumes were medical
texts. Again, no cats. There was a copy of an ancient gynecological manual called The Book of the Conditions of Women. I saw drawings of the female anatomy and descriptions of stomach-turning treatments for female ailments. There was an early
Bible. No cats. No lantern eyes. I opened the second-to-last book on the shelf, feeling despondent.
It was a bestiary, a book of animals, real and mythical. On a first look, I noticed a colophon on the last page that told
me it had originally been made for the library of a basilica in Galatina, in Italy, in 1452. Bestiaries were designed to illustrate