The Janus: Eden Reid, #2

By Beverley Carter

Beneath a church in central Italy lies a secret vault. Sealed off for centuries and forgotten in the mists of time, it is suddenly revealed when an earthquake causes damage to the ancient building above. The hidden chamber holds a hoard of treasures unrivalled in modern times and the world’s best archaeologists arrive to study and document its contents.

Pilfering is rife and despite being guarded, thefts are increasing. But worse is yet to come. Among the artefacts, the archaeologists make a shocking find, the body of one of their colleagues. Before they can raise the alarm, a second earthquake causes further damage. The vault is buried, along with its secrets and an international team of archaeologists.

In Cambridge, Eden Reid is trying to locate antiquities expert, Dr Vanessa Higgins, who has been unaccounted for since she left for Italy and it is feared she may be among those killed in the earthquake. Eden uncovers unsettling facts about Dr Higgins’ private and professional life and fears she may have stumbled on an antiquities theft and forgery ring that threatens the security of some of the world’s greatest treasures. But where there is big money, there is danger and Eden is soon to discover that when murder is cheaper than bribery, even the innocent are no longer safe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beverley Carter
• Release date: Mar 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386870494

Book preview

Prologue

CRAIG FERNSHAW LOWERED himself carefully down the last rungs of the wooden ladder into the cool darkness of the chamber beneath the ruins of the church of Santa Maria in the small Italian town of Bellavista. He stepped to one side and held onto the ladder to steady it for his colleague, Marcus Christof. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Fernshaw glanced around the chamber, cursing under his breath at the empty spaces where yet more of the artefacts had been taken, stolen no doubt from under the noses of the guards.

‘It’s been looted again,’ he said to Christof, who was now standing beside him and brushing the pale yellow dust that got everywhere from his hands.

‘This is hopeless,’ said Christof. His English was good, but spoken with a heavy German accent. ‘At this rate there will be nothing left for us to study. I’ve asked for more guards but apparently the men are needed elsewhere and it’s not a priority to have them standing watch over an old church. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were filling their pockets too. I heard a rumour that Deitrich-Rice was seen not far from here.’

‘I heard that too,’ said Fernshaw. ‘I don’t expect we’ll see anything of him ourselves. From what I’ve heard he never gets his hands dirty but I alerted the security office all the same. Although what good that will do is anyone’s guess. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s telling the guards what’s worth taking.’

‘Good God what is that?’ Christof pointed to a far corner of the chamber, deep in shadows where the thin morning light had not yet penetrated. Fernshaw unclipped a small metal torch from his belt and shone the bright beam into the corner. A pair of legs clad in dusty black jeans and black lace up safety boots protruded from a recess at the rear of the chamber. Fernshaw and Christof hurried over and saw the rest of the person, lying on his back as though asleep, with one arm across his face. Christof reached forward and gently pulled the arm down. The man did not stir.

‘Isn’t that Jonathan Weiland from Dublin?’ whispered Fernshaw.

‘I think so,’ said Christof. ‘He’s been hit with something, look - there’s blood all around his head.’

‘We need to get him some help,’ said Fernshaw. ‘The two Jeans from France will be on their way over; I’ll go up and call them.’

‘I think we are too late to help him,’ said Christof. Weiland’s open eyes had the sightless gaze of the dead. Christof crossed himself. ‘Look at him - he is staring straight from this world into the next.’ Christof sighed and shook his head. ‘Tell the French boys to call the police.’

Fernshaw climbed the ladder and called to the two men from Rennes University, Jean Leblanc and Jean Pettigrue. They were making their way across the dusty churchyard through shards of yellow morning sunlight. They laughed and chatted carelessly, both carrying tall lidded takeaway cups of coffee. Fernshaw didn’t know the French words for murder but as he called out to them, his horrified look must have told them all they needed to know. Pettigrue dropped his coffee and called across to the guard who had just come on duty. The guard’s jaw dropped and his cigarette fell unnoticed onto the dusty ground at his feet. Fernshaw descended the ladder once more and he and Christof were quickly joined by the two French archaeologists.

‘Do you think Deitrich-Rice had anything to do with this?’ asked Fernshaw.

Christof shrugged. ‘Who knows what that low-life is capable of? You know how the saying goes – where there is money, there is crime. If it is not him, then it is someone else of his ilk. We should be careful not to touch anything.’

A deep, low rumbling sound began that they felt first in the pits of their stomachs before their ears could hear it. The rumbling grew in intensity with every passing moment. The earth beneath their feet began to shudder. Dust poured like loose sand from the ceiling and walls and Fernshaw shouted for them all to get out. Christof stood frozen and unable to move, transfixed by the rushing sand that had reminded him in that instant of an hourglass his kindergarten teacher used to measure the lunch break. She stood it in the window and when all the sand had run out, their break was over. They had to stop what they were doing and return to class. He and all the other children hated that hourglass and would devise mischievous plans to break it, imagining that if the sand could be stopped, then so could time itself and their play could continue forever.

The rumbling grew into a roar as the stone blocks that held the chamber and the church above them in place began grinding and grating against each other. First small chunks, then huge blocks of masonry rained down on them and suddenly the sunlight that spilled through the small opening at the end of the chamber was cut off and they were thrust into darkness. Still the shaking continued, as if it would never end. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

The guard at the church of Santa Maria fell to his knees. He clasped his hands together in prayer and gazed up at the clear blue sky. Tears of shock ran in thick rivulets down his dust covered face as he muttered prayers of thanks. When he had finished praying, he relaxed his shoulders, allowing his head to bow slowly downwards. His eyes came to rest on the mountain of rubble that had been the west wall of the church just moments before. It had collapsed onto the chamber he had been sent to guard, and had buried it completely. The guard stood up, trembling. He walked unsteadily over to where the entrance to the chamber had been. He stared in disbelief at the rubble and shakily crossed himself. His hands fumbled for the packet of cigarettes in his breast pocket. He extracted one and lit it, drawing deeply and awaiting the soothing sensation that would follow. The hot smoke mingled with the dusty air and caused him to cough. He spat the cigarette out and stamped it into the ground. Then, subconsciously, he drew out another and repeated the process, this time ignoring the coughing and persevering until he had quickly smoked the whole cigarette.  After a few minutes, his supervisor found him and led him away. He gave him another cigarette to calm his nerves and told him to take the rest of the day off. He patted him enthusiastically to encourage him to leave, as though his back were the hind quarters of a horse. Eventually, he left, staggering almost unconsciously along the rubble strewn main street, too numb to even begin to process what had happened. But he didn’t go home. He went instead into a nearby bar that had been doing excellent trade since the first earthquake which had brought all the foreigners to their little town. They arrived to have a look at the disaster, gasping in delight and photographing the destruction. Meanwhile, the regulars returned, drowning their usual sorrows and a few extra ones in alcohol. He sat down in his usual spot, a tall wooden chair at the left hand end of the bar. The barman saw him and, diplomatically ignoring his dishevelled appearance, he poured him a double measure of his usual drink.

Chapter One

EDEN SAT IN THE GLEAMING foyer of the Fenmarsh Institute, a specialist centre for the study of antiquities based on the north-eastern edge of the city of Cambridge, England. The foyer was a giant glass and steel structure that protruded from the flat landscape like a bubble shaped greenhouse. The early morning sun was beginning to pierce through the thick white fog that had largely hidden the building from Eden’s view as she approached it along the wide driveway that curved gently through the landscaped grounds towards the building from the main road. 

The receptionist, an athletic looking bronze skinned woman of indeterminate age, wearing a perfectly fitting pinstriped navy suit beamed warmly at Eden and asked her to take a seat. Eden marvelled at the receptionist’s closely cropped hair and admired the confidence it must take to wear one’s hair so short and yet remain undeniably feminine. Eden twisted a spiral of her own dark hair around her fingers as she waited awkwardly on one of the banks of artistically looking but uncomfortably low leather seats. Fidgeting with a buckle on her chocolate brown satchel, Eden’s gaze flicked alternately between the array of glossy brochures on the low table in front of her and the enlarged photographs of various antiquities that adorned the white painted walls that made up two sides and formed a corner in the otherwise circular glass foyer.

Eventually, a tall, overly slim woman appeared who looked to be no older than her very early twenties and beckoned Eden to follow her. She led Eden through a set of double doors, a short distance along a corridor and into an office that faced the front of the building. She was neatly dressed in a tailored charcoal grey trouser suit and shiny black high heeled shoes. She sat down behind her desk while Eden explained why she had come. She seemed to give the matter some thought, then the young secretary raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows and smiled sympathetically at Eden.  Her blue eyes glistened and shone like jewels out of her perfectly made up face. She sighed and placed the handful of documents she had been holding face down on her desk and rested a heavy glass paperweight on top. She stood up, checked her appearance in the reflection of the tinted glass window and smoothed a hand over her straight chestnut hair. ‘You had better come with me,’ she said in a bored tone, and set off at a brisk trot down a long corridor with floor to ceiling windows along the right hand side and a series of closed wooden doors with white plastic name plaques to their left.

Eden swung her leather satchel onto her shoulder and quickly followed the secretary, whose flowery perfume left a vapour trail behind her whilst her metal stiletto heels tapped out a fast metronomic beat upon the stone floor. The sound echoed in the long corridor, as if it intended to announce their arrival in Morse code. The sun streamed through the large windows in bright, dazzling shafts of light that blocked Eden’s view intermittently as she chased after the secretary. Outside, the fog had receded into a low mist that clung to the wide expanse of manicured lawn in the large rectangular courtyard garden. The bows of manicured ornamental trees hung low, weighed down with the morning moisture that is so common in late autumn and would be sure to be followed soon by brisk October winds that would strip the trees of their last remaining leaves.

As they neared the end of the passage, Eden could hear raised voices booming from a room ahead, whose door was slightly ajar. The secretary stopped and held up a delicate hand to indicate to Eden that she too should wait. When a lull in the conversation came, she rapped loudly on the door and immediately pushed it open, without awaiting a response. ‘Excuse me sir; this is Eden Reid from Vanessa’s publisher. Miss Reid, this is Professor Stuart Rathmore, our Head of Antiquities and Senior Lecturer here at Fenmarsh, Vanessa’s boss, and also Mr Robert Hartington, Vanessa’s fiancé.’

‘Ex fiance’ said Hartington, as he forced a hand through his mop of brown hair. Eden thought he looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He was of medium height and with a slightly chunky build that suggested the early onset of middle-age spread. He wore tired looking brown corduroy trousers, a thin navy blue jumper with a checked shirt beneath indicated by its crumpled collar protruding unevenly and giving away the fact that it hadn’t been ironed. A worn tweed jacket that was fraying slightly at the cuffs hung loosely on him and gave the impression of a child’s hand-me-down clothing that had been a better fit on its original owner. His shoes were old but polished and one of the laces had come undone. Eden noticed how red in the face Hartington was and deduced that his were the raised tones they had heard on their approach. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he added, glancing at the secretary’s and Eden’s slightly bewildered faces. ‘Five years I gave that woman. Five years of my life, of putting my life on hold and following her around like a pathetic puppy and for what? For her to go flouncing off to Italy without any warning and all I get is a note stating that it was no longer working - that we were no longer working - and would I please post my key through the letterbox on my way out?’

Professor Rathmore stood up slowly from his position on the corner of a worn desk. He was a tall, gaunt man, and his limbs gradually unfolded, straightening like those of a spider reaching across to test the tension of its web. His pale face was cleanly shaved and his closely cropped silver hair was almost too perfect a match to his spotless pale grey suit. ‘I’m sure we all feel very bad for you,’ he said, patting Hartington reassuringly on his back, ‘she’s treated you appallingly, there’s no doubt about it, absolutely appallingly, but you see we had no one else we could call, did we Susan?’

The secretary agreed, ‘that’s right. Once the hotel sent all her belongings back, we had no one else to return them to. Yours, Mr Hartington, is the only contact name we have for Vanessa.’

‘Only she’s not actually dead, is she?’ asked Hartington sarcastically, ‘so the question remains - where on earth is she?’ He slammed his fist down hard onto the desk to his side. Eden stood quietly, trying to work out what was going on. Susan sensed her confusion.

‘I should explain,’ she said, ‘Vanessa - Doctor Vanessa Higgins - left without notice just over three weeks ago, saying she was travelling to the Umbria region of Italy on a hunch and it was important that she left immediately.’

Eden frowned, ‘isn’t that the region that’s been in the news recently - where there has been an earthquake?’

‘That’s right,’ said Rathmore. He lowered his tall frame slowly back down onto the edge of his desk. ‘There have been several tremors in that region over the last few months, the most recent of which Vanessa was feared to have been caught up in. She travelled to a small town called Bellavista that had been particularly severely affected by the earthquake because of the rumours that came our way that an unusual chamber had been discovered beneath the local church. It had probably been concealed for centuries.’

‘A crypt, you mean?’ asked Eden.

‘Not a crypt, no, more what you might call a safe. There were all sorts of stories flying around the world of archaeology that there was, among other items a large krater. So, naturally, Vanessa was keen to find out for herself, kraters being her speciality.’

‘Ah,’ said Eden, ‘like the one her book is about, er the Euphronios Krater?’

Professor Rathmoor let out a small chuckle. ‘If it was like the Euphronios, we would all be over there crawling about in the dust, pawing through the rubble. And of course the Trumpington’s upcoming and much anticipated exhibition would pale into insignificance. But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it, to pick up Vanessa’s manuscript before the Trumpington Exhibition?’

‘That is what I’d hoped,’ said Eden. ‘I’m afraid books about singular artefacts only really justify a small print run, and Vanessa’s greatest chance of achieving a decent return is to have copies of her book available at the Trumpington Museum in time for the exhibition. That’s why I’ve been trying to get hold of her.’

‘Well good luck with that,’ said Hartington.

Eden frowned. ‘You said she was feared to have been caught up in an earthquake – only she wasn’t?’

‘Yes that’s right,’ said Hartington. ‘That’s about the size of it. My dear fiancé ran off to Italy, leaving us all in the lurch. She must have known we would have assumed she was trapped in the earthquake along with the five people who actually were trapped and have lost their lives, given that was her last known location. But it turns out she wasn’t there and it was obviously far too much trouble for her to lift up a telephone and let one of us know.’

Eden turned to Susan. ‘You say the hotel sent her things here?’

‘That’s right,’ said Susan, shrugging. ‘Apparently there is a lot of confusion in the area and then there were more tremors and another part of the church collapsed,  and well when Vanessa didn’t return to the hotel, they knew she had been working there and assumed she must have been killed. They kept her things for a few days but then when they started pulling bodies out of the rubble – the bodies of the people Vanessa had been working alongside – the hotel assumed she had also been killed and couriered her belongings back here. I sent them to Robert last night.’

‘Is there anything there that might tell you where she is?’ asked Eden.

‘Like what?’ asked Hartington.

‘Like rail tickets or air tickets. Or a diary perhaps?’

‘No, no I don’t think so,’ said Hartington. ‘But if she had any tickets like that, the chances are she would have carried them with her. She has a small rucksack that goes everywhere with her. If she had any tickets for anything, they’d be in that. She’d have her passport with her too. She’s always totally paranoid about misplacing things, so anything important she keeps with her.’

‘What about a computer – a laptop, netbook, tablet?’

Hartington frowned. ‘There is a laptop. She backs it up to a memory stick and her phone, both of which never leave her side. The phone that she could have called any one of us on to let us know she was alright. The laptop’s in the suitcase with the rest of her stuff but it’s got a password. I wouldn’t have the faintest idea what it is. That’s where the manuscript to her book is likely to be though and since she hasn’t had the common decency to leave any instructions with anyone, I don’t see why you shouldn’t have a go at cracking her password if you want to. Not that she deserves for you to bother.’

Rathmore stood up, leaned across his desk and scribbled something quickly onto a slip of paper. ‘Try that,’ he said and passed it to Eden.

Eden read what he’d written: whtRed4u?

‘It was a bit of a joke in the department,’ said Rathmore. ‘It stands for what have the Romans ever done for us? You see, working here with antiquities, the Romans have done quite a lot for us. Not all of it positive of course, but it’s fair to say that most of us wouldn’t have a job had it not been for the Roman influence across north Africa and Europe.’

‘Is it legal?’ asked Susan suddenly, ‘are you allowed to just hack into someone’s private laptop?’

‘Why shouldn’t we?’ asked Hartington. ‘None of us know where she is. And in any case, it’s hardly hacking if we’ve got the password. Miss Reid’s come to get a manuscript that Vanessa should have sent to them, for which – if my memory serves me correctly - she has received a generous advance. If you ask me, she’s contractually obliged to hand it over. I don’t see why we shouldn’t honour that, if we can. I also don’t see why I shouldn’t have a look on Vanessa’s computer and see if there is any indication as to where she’s gone.’

‘Well, I think it’s an invasion of privacy,’ said Susan. ‘Even if it is okay to forward the manuscript to Vanessa’s publisher, I don’t think you should go poking around all her personal files. I mean, she’ll be back, won’t she? Clearly she wasn’t caught up in the earthquake, so she’ll have gone somewhere else and will probably arrive back at her hotel and wonder where all her things have gone.’

Hartington’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well if you had told me where she was staying, I could have left instructions with the hotel asking them to inform me if and when she shows up there.’

‘I did that when they sent her things back,’ said Susan, ‘obviously.’

Rathmore stepped forward and held up his hands. ‘Alright you two, please calm down. There’s no point taking it out on each other. Susan, I’m sure Vanessa will appreciate your loyalty, but the fact remains that we don’t know where she is. We hope she’s alright but, as you quite correctly pointed out, the situation in that part of Italy is somewhat chaotic at the moment. Mr Hartington is listed in Vanessa’s personal file as her next of kin. Whether that’s out of date or not is irrelevant since we have no other information to defer to and if there is anything at all that might lead to discovering Vanessa’s whereabouts, then I don’t see that it’s unreasonable for Mr Hartington to look for it. If in the meantime, if Vanessa suddenly reappears, then surely no harm will have been done?’

‘Thank you,’ said Hartington. He turned to Eden, ‘her laptop’s back at my place, it’s not far. Do you want to come back with me and see if we can get this manuscript?’

Eden shrugged. ‘Yes, great.’ She pulled out her phone and tapped at the screen for a moment until she had opened Dr Higgins’ contact details. ‘Cavendish Mews – is that right?’

‘That’s it,’ said Hartington. ‘Number five. There’s a narrow driveway at the side that takes you around the back of the building, you can park there – unless you want a lift back with me?’

‘No, that’s fine,’ said Eden, ‘my car’s here, I’ll meet you there. I just have a couple of phone calls to make first.’

‘Alright,’ said Hartington, ‘well I shall be there for the rest of today, so just come over whenever you’re ready. Thank you for your time, Doctor Rathmore.’ Hartington shook Rathmore’s hand and then turned and walked out, shooting Susan one last sneer for good measure.

‘No wonder she dumped him,’ muttered Susan after he’d gone.

Rathmore shook his head and rolled his eyes.

‘I have to say,’ said Eden, ‘I do share Susan’s concerns about going through the documents on Doctor Higgins’ laptop. I would much rather have her permission. Is there any other way we can try to locate her? Does she have any family or other friends we can contact?’

Rathmore frowned. ‘It’s difficult to say. Vanessa’s been with us for nearly two years but we haven’t quite got to that stage of the working relationship where one gets to know each other’s private lives. Vanessa came to a barbecue at my home about two months ago but she brought Robert. I believe that’s the only time I’ve seen her outside of work. How about you, Susan?’

‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t know anyone. I haven’t seen her outside of here – apart from Professor Rathmore’s barbecue.’

‘She hasn’t mentioned any other relatives – brothers, sisters?’ asked Eden.

‘None that I know of,’ said Rathmore. ‘Susan – you have lunch with her sometimes – has she ever mentioned anyone?’

Susan shook her head. ‘She only ever talks about work and most of that goes straight over my head. Sorry.’

‘Okay,’ said Eden, ‘well what about her previous employment – does she have any colleagues she keeps in touch with?’

‘Ah – you might have something there,’ said Rathmore. His cheeks coloured slightly. ‘Vanessa’s previous employer is a personal friend of mine. I’ll give her a ring and see if she has any ideas.’

‘Would you mind ringing me and letting me know how you get on?’ asked Eden, ‘I’d rather not just take her manuscript without her permission. I’m not entirely sure about the legalities of it. And even if we are legally entitled to it, it would sit better with me morally if I didn’t do it behind Doctor Higgins’ back.’

‘Oh, absolutely,’ said Rathmore, ‘leave your details with Susan and I’ll get back to you.’

Eden left Rathmore’s office with Susan and they returned along the corridor towards the front office. ‘He’s quite a flirt you know, old Rathmore,’ whispered Susan once they were out of earshot. ‘He and Vanessa’s old boss are like two teenagers when they get together. It’s quite repulsive. I mean I don’t suppose they actually do anything, after all they are both married – not that that counts for much – but honestly, it’s like the script of a Carry On film with those two. All double entendres and ooh err Matron and dirty laughs. I think they had a thing once, back in the day. Did you see how he blushed just at the thought of her? Well he’s got an excuse to call her now, so he’ll love that. Do you want a coffee?’

‘Please,’ said Eden. They arrived back in Susan’s office and Eden sat down while Susan poured two mugs from the percolator. The office was spacious and airy but lacked any form of personal adornment. Whilst Rathmore’s office had a wall variously covered with original artwork of a modernist nature, group photographs and an array of framed certificates, Susan’s office was bland and featureless. There was a chart denoting staff training days and holidays, a calendar featuring the birds of Britain and a sun bleached print in a cheap frame of a nameless misty lake which had presumably been put up by a previous occupant. The office was clean and meticulously tidy, including the neatly stacked documents in the plastic trays on top of a grey filing cabinet in the corner. A potted orchid with creamy white flowers stood on a bookcase that housed colour coded volumes of company procedures and policies, a Chambers dictionary and thesaurus and a selection of hardback books with faded spines on various antiquities from around the world. As Eden looked more closely at the orchid, she realised it was an expensive fake.

‘There’s milk in the fridge behind you and sugar in the little blue pot in front of you, if you want it.’

‘Thanks,’ said Eden, ‘do you mind if I ask you what you make of all this? Do you think Doctor Higgins has come to any harm?’

‘Oh I doubt it,’ said Susan. ‘She’s not the type. She’s the sort that always lands on their feet. You know – the ones who have the Midas touch. I just thought Robert ought not to snoop in case he finds something he doesn’t like.’

‘Like another man, do you mean?’

Susan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know anything for sure but it wouldn’t surprise me. Vanessa’s clever – well that’s obvious I suppose, but well, what I’m trying to say is that she’s clever in a sort of intellectual way but perhaps not so much in a sort of emotional way.’

‘Do you mean she’s callous?’

‘Callous is a bit strong. I wouldn’t say she’s callous. No, it’s more thoughtless, if anything. Vanessa’s not totally heartless you know, but then I suppose she did drop Robert like that and it’s true that she hasn’t been in touch with any of us. But I don’t think it’s necessarily deliberate. Sometimes she just seems a bit lacking, emotionally. And none of us knows what went on there, you know, behind closed doors.’ Susan winced.