The Lazarus Vault Part 11

'One a night. Talks for about ten or fifteen minutes.'

'Were you listening?'

Destrier gave him a sly look. 'She hasn't told him about her night at the opera, if that's what you're wondering.'

Blanchard didn't rise to the bait. 'Keep monitoring her.'

Brussels Outside the museum the grounds descended in a series of severely geometric terraces towards an ornamental lake. The pale gravel crunched like bonemeal underfoot, powdering Ellie's shoes white. At least there were more people here, families with dogs and children roaming about on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon. Ellie said nothing, waiting. But her companion seemed in no mood to speak either. He slouched along with his hands in his coat pocket, darting little glances over his shoulder.

'Who are you?' Ellie said at last.

His face brightened. He looked glad for the opening, and it occurred to Ellie that perhaps he was as nervous as she was.

'You can call me Harry.'

'Are you a spy?'

He thought about that. 'Not in any political sense. I belong to a group that prizes secrecy.'

'Like the Freemasons?'

'Not really.'

He paused, examining his reflection in the pond. 'I'm sorry about all the cloak-and-dagger. I tried to get you at the art gallery, but they were watching.'

Ellie could feel herself skating on a thin layer of credulity, talking and nodding as if this were a perfectly normal conversation. 'Who's they?'

'Your employers.'

'Of course. The medieval heart of darkness, spying on me all the time.' She rounded on him. 'Why did you give me that newspaper article?'

'Because I thought you should know the truth.' He held her gaze. 'John Herrin was your father. John Herrin was Aneurin Stanton.'

'My dad died in a car crash,' she said numbly.

'That's what your mother told you.'

They turned left, along a long rectangular lake. Everything here was straight lines: the horizontal banks of the lake and the path running parallel; the perpendicular bars of a row of poplars.

'What's your version?'

'Pretty much what it said in the paper. He was. .h.i.t by a train in an Underground tunnel. Died instantly.'

Ellie felt dizzy. 'Can we sit down?'

'It's better if we keep moving.' Harry glanced over his shoulder. 'He died trying to break into the Monsalvat Bank.'

'Is that what you are? Bank robbers?'

'Monsalvat have something in their vaults that belongs to us something they stole a long time ago. Nye Stanton died trying to get it back. Now you're their star young banker.' He pouted, feigning surprise. 'Coincidence, no?'

'So what? You rigged the compet.i.tion to get me in there? You thought I'd unlock the vault to let you go in and get what you want?'

'We didn't have anything to do with it.'

They pa.s.sed a small boy feeding bread to a flock of ducks. The birds pecked and jabbed and half-drowned each other to get to the crumbs. Harry glanced at his watch.

'We haven't got much time. You've been working on the Talhouett takeover.' It wasn't a question. 'Has anybody mentioned Mirabeau to you?'

'No.'

'Do you know the Lazarus account?'

Ellie remembered the red folder she'd seen lying on Blanchard's desk. 'No.'

'Please think, Ellie. This is more important than you can imagine.'

'Important to who?' The thin ice that had supported her belief, that had allowed her to play along with the charade as if it made any sense, suddenly shattered into a thousand pieces. She flailed, drowning in the rush of doubt. 'You say I'm being spied on, but the only person I've seen spying on me is you. You come here with crazy stories about my dad that can't be true. I don't know who you are, but if I see you again, I swear I'll call the police. I'll tell Blanchard.'

'If you do that, you'll never see us again.'

'I don't want to.'

'No. But you might need to.'

He thrust a business card into her hand and hurried away. No name or logo, just a phone number and a scribbled note. If no answer, leave a message for Harry from Jane.

'Do you expect me to use this?' she shouted after him. He didn't look back.

She thought about tearing the card into pieces and scattering it on the wind, or dropping it in the long reflecting pool. Being rid of him for good.

But just the same, she put it in her pocket.

XVIII.

Normandy, 1135 It's getting dark by the time we ride out of the forest. The rain's stopped; the clouds have moved to the horizon. They hover over the sunset, bruising it like a fist. I let Ada ride half a length ahead of me, as befits my lord's wife. Neither of us speaks. There is more inside us than we can possibly say.

When I thought Ada hated me, I longed to know what she was thinking. Now that I think she loves me, not knowing is almost unbearable. An hour ago there was nothing between us, but the doubts have already started to set in. Does she regret it? Has she changed her mind? Is she thinking about Guy?

The thought of Guy sinks my spirits. Suddenly, what we've done seems less like the fulfilment of my dreams, more like a monumental error.

I'm still thinking about it when the clashing of steel rings into the evening air. It's coming from a thicket that stands like an island in the middle of the next field.

'Wait here.'

I kick my horse and canter across the field. The earth beneath his hooves is white with ash from the burned stubble. I can't find a way in to the copse, so I dismount and push through the briars and brambles on foot. It's so dark inside I can barely see the branches, but there's no mistaking the urgent sounds of battle. Sparks light up the small clearing in the middle of the thicket: I can make out two dim figures lunging and retreating from each other like dancers. One's a knight in full armour, a shield on his arm and a sword in his hand. He's dismounted; the weight enc.u.mbers him. It's just as well for his opponent, who's got nothing more than a brown tunic and a fur-trimmed mantle to protect him. He doesn't even carry a sword: he's desperately parrying the knight's attacks with a straight-bladed hunting knife.

It's Guy.

It's like watching a dog baiting a bear except that the bear's claws have told. Guy's limping from a cut in his thigh; he can't run. The knight swings, and the strength in his blow knocks the knife clean out of Guy's weakened grasp. It flies away into the bushes, lost. Guy's helpless.

He has his back to me; he hasn't seen me. In a flash, I see how easy it would be to slip away into the undergrowth. He's wounded and unprotected: he'd never leave this thicket alive. Ada would be a widow and could remarry who she liked.

It all rushes through my head in a split second. Is G.o.d tempting me, or has He granted me this golden opportunity to set right all the sufferings of my life? But I'll never know what I'd have chosen. The knight lunges to his left and Guy staggers out of the way, turning. His head comes up and he sees me. I know he does, because his face changes so much even his enemy notices. Quick as a rat, the knight pivots to meet me.

I'm committed and all I have to defend myself is my knife. I reach for it, but only feel cloth. It's not in my belt where it should be in fact, my belt isn't there either. I must have left it in the forest. I feel the dizzy terror of being utterly defenceless.

The knight's confused he must take me for some page or peasant who's wandered into the battle. He doesn't know whether to kill me now or wait until he's dealt with Guy.

Guy moves. The knight, knowing he's the real threat, turns and lifts his shield.

I feel a stone against my foot. Unnoticed, I bend down and scoop it up. It's about the size of an apple, snug in my hand. With an instinct I've been honing all my life, I hurl it at the knight's head.

I have a good throwing arm. It strikes him clean on the back of the skull, just below the rim of his helmet. He staggers; I haven't knocked him out, but I've stunned him. It's all the opening a veteran like Guy needs. He steps forward, twists the knight's sword out of his hand, and has it at his throat in a trice.

'Who sent you?'

The knight doesn't answer. Perhaps he's still dazed. Guy doesn't think so: he reverses the sword and slams the pommel into the knight's face. Blood gushes from his broken nose.

'Who?'

He mutters something I can't make out. Even Guy isn't sure. He says, 'Athold?'

The knight nods and doubles over. He spits out a wad of blood. Guy takes a step back. I remember what Gornemant taught me. Never kill a knight who surrenders to you. Always think of the ransom.

Distracted by my thoughts, I barely see the movement. There's a hiss and a squelch: the next thing I see, Guy is pulling the sword out of the knight's throat. I hear a patter like raindrops as the knight's blood drips onto the leafy floor. Guy wipes the sword on his mantle. He glances at the blade, then at me: for a thrilling moment I think he's going to dub me there and then.

He scowls, and jams the sword in his belt.

'Where was your knife?'

'I dropped it in the forest.'

I can't meet his gaze but it doesn't linger on me. He's already striding away.

'Will you make me a knight?' I call after him. It's an impertinent question, but I've just saved his life. I'm not prepared for the look of fierce hatred he answers me with.

'You saved me with a rock. Any boy who's ever shied at pigeons could have done the same.'

We find my horse at the edge of the copse. Without asking, Guy swings himself into the saddle and rides ahead. I stumble after him through the ashen fields. When we reach the road my heart lurches: Ada's not there. I can see hoofprints in the mud heading down the road, just one set, and I hope it means she rode back to the castle. Guy, thankfully, doesn't see them.

Much later, I realise why he was so ungrateful to me and why he killed the knight when he could have had the ransom. He's an old man, with an old man's vanities. He doesn't want anyone to know how close he came to being killed.

XIX.

London 'Have you ever heard of a man called John Herrin?'

Ellie covered the phone with her hand, though her door was shut. For all she dismissed Harry's dark hints and allegations, she felt uneasy calling from the office. But her mother went to bed so early these days it was hard to catch her any other time.

'Herrin?' Her mother sounded weary, too old for a woman who hadn't yet reached retirement. Perhaps it was the line, which hissed and clicked like a shortwave radio. Ellie would have to get the phone company to look at it next time she visited. 'Like the bird?'

Ellie spelled it out. 'I think he might have known Dad.'

'Ah ...' A sigh, like a willow rustling in the wind. For as long as Ellie could remember, a distance had entered her mother's voice whenever the subject of her father came up. 'Nye had so many friends. I didn't know them well, you know. Things were different then.'

Ellie drew a deep breath. 'When Dad ... died ... it was just a car accident, wasn't it? No one thought there was anything suspicious.'

A long pause.

'It was a long time ago.' She closed the door, gentle but absolute. 'When are you coming home, Eleanor?'

'Soon,' Ellie promised, ashamed. 'Work keeps me so busy. But I'll be there for Christmas.'

'And Douglas?'

'He's fine.'

'Will he come for Christmas too?'

Ellie bit her lip. 'I don't know.'

'It would be nice. You make such a lovely couple together.'

When she'd hung up, Ellie logged on to the bank's main system and looked up the account for the Spenser Foundation. She remembered the name from the cheque they'd sent when she won the essay compet.i.tion: she'd wasted half an afternoon enjoying the sheer possession of it, touching the stiff paper that spoke of wealth, admiring the bank's crest stamped in the corner. The first time she'd crossed paths with Monsalvat Bank. She'd even let herself imagine not depositing it keeping it as a trophy. But in the end, five hundred pounds was five hundred pounds.

The account information appeared on-screen. Ellie stared.

In the entire history of the Spenser Foundation, there had only ever been two transactions. In March of last year, five hundred pounds had been transferred in electronically. Two months later, it had been withdrawn in the form of a cheque made out, though the system didn't record it, to Ellie Stanton. n.o.body had touched the account since then.

So where did the money come from? She could see from the prefix it was another Monsalvat account. She clicked to get its details.

Legrande Holdings. This account was much busier, a steady stream of comings and goings. But while the money travelled out in all directions, it seemed to come from one princ.i.p.al source. Saint-Lazare Investments (UK) Ltd.

Her pulse was racing, though there was nothing wrong about what she was doing. She clicked to view the Saint-Lazare account.

ACCESS DENIED.

Ellie tasted cigar smoke in her mouth and looked up. Blanchard was leaning against the door, watching her with his usual inscrutable expression. How long had he been there?

'I didn't hear you knock.' Trying to be casual, she brushed the computer's trackpad to close the open window.

'You were concentrating very hard. I did not want to disturb.'

'I'm just tired.'

For a moment, she imagined telling him everything Harry, Brussels, John Herrin. All she wanted was for Blanchard to wrap his arms around her and rea.s.sure her. Harry was a fantasist, a lunatic worming his way into the gilded life she'd been given.

But there was just enough in his story to give her pause. Not the bald facts, which were unbelievable, but the s.p.a.ces around them. Her mother's silence when she mentioned John Herrin. The Spenser foundation's accounts. A sense of ACCESS DENIED, secrets she wasn't privy to.