Violet thought, we’re as different as chalk and cheese. There was no way this partnership was going to last or produce fruit.
Ryan reached down under his seat and brought out his brief case. He smiled at Violet as he opened the case and produced a paper shopping bag from a store on Duvall Street. “For you,” he said.
“Me?”
“Yes,” said Ryan, “I purchased this item for you, although I assume you have, in fact, already read it.”
The tone of his voice was sufficient to make Violet wary as she held the bag on her lap and took a measured sip of champagne. She thought over the things that Todd had discovered about Professor Marcus Ryan. He had been a TV star at an early age, a handsome young academic with an Indiana Jones vibe, striding around exotic locations and introducing viewers to the forgotten treasures of ancient history. His star had waned with the coming of edgier reality shows where everything was a competition and clothes were mostly optional. At 45 he was a has-been with only Michael Mandretti’s personal lust for treasure to keep him solvent. His ex-wife had remarried, he was estranged from his children, and his bank account was as precarious as her own.
Violet knew that any investigation Ryan might make into her own circumstances would come up empty. Todd had spent a considerable amount of time making sure that Violet Chambray existed in cyber-space only as a finder of lost items, with hint that she might be of European origin, and a nod to a possibly Romany background. Her age, place of birth, even her current address were hidden from the general public, and all clients were sworn to secrecy, on the theory that the best way to generate publicity was to create a cult of secrecy. Violet had recently come to the conclusion that Todd’s secrecy gambit was not working, but so far she had not come up with any alternative.
“Open it,” said Ryan.
Violet took another sip of champagne, and then peeked inside the bag. It contained a thin paperback book. No, she thought, not a book, a journal or a calendar. She brought the book out into the light of the reading lamp above her head. The cover, garishly colored, showed a knight in dark armor, trampling on a dragon emblazoned banner. Behind him flames engulfed a medieval castle, and dark thunder clouds gathered around his head.
“What on earth…?” she said.
“A Villain a Day,” said Ryan. “I found it on the sale table at that new bookstore on Duvall. Clever idea really, an evil deed for every day of the year, but apparently it didn’t sell well. It’s written by your friend Carlton.”
“Oh,” said Violet, “well that was thoughtful of you.”
“Yes, it was,” said Ryan. “I thought you would be especially interested in the entry for Bad King John, and how he lost his treasure.”
“I already know how he lost his treasure,” said Violet.
Ryan took the book from her hand and flipped through the pages. “Ah, here it is,” he said. “Allow me to read it for you.”
“I can read it for myself,” she said.
“No, I’ll read it,” said Ryan. He cleared his throat theatrically. ““A cold wind sweeps across the bleak marshes that border the North Sea. The short winter afternoon draws to an end. The sun sets behind leafless, stunted trees. It will be dark soon and there will be no light of human habitation. Not even the lowest peasant would dare to build a hut on the shifting sands of the Wash.” Ryan paused. “Does it sound familiar?”
Violet shifted in her seat. Of course it sounded familiar; they were the very words she had used to describe King John’s journey across the marsh.
“Same story, same words.” said Ryan, “exactly the same words, right down to the part about the sun setting behind leafless stunted trees.” He
Ryan reached down under his seat and brought out his brief case. He smiled at Violet as he opened the case and produced a paper shopping bag from a store on Duvall Street. “For you,” he said.
“Me?”
“Yes,” said Ryan, “I purchased this item for you, although I assume you have, in fact, already read it.”
The tone of his voice was sufficient to make Violet wary as she held the bag on her lap and took a measured sip of champagne. She thought over the things that Todd had discovered about Professor Marcus Ryan. He had been a TV star at an early age, a handsome young academic with an Indiana Jones vibe, striding around exotic locations and introducing viewers to the forgotten treasures of ancient history. His star had waned with the coming of edgier reality shows where everything was a competition and clothes were mostly optional. At 45 he was a has-been with only Michael Mandretti’s personal lust for treasure to keep him solvent. His ex-wife had remarried, he was estranged from his children, and his bank account was as precarious as her own.
Violet knew that any investigation Ryan might make into her own circumstances would come up empty. Todd had spent a considerable amount of time making sure that Violet Chambray existed in cyber-space only as a finder of lost items, with hint that she might be of European origin, and a nod to a possibly Romany background. Her age, place of birth, even her current address were hidden from the general public, and all clients were sworn to secrecy, on the theory that the best way to generate publicity was to create a cult of secrecy. Violet had recently come to the conclusion that Todd’s secrecy gambit was not working, but so far she had not come up with any alternative.
“Open it,” said Ryan.
Violet took another sip of champagne, and then peeked inside the bag. It contained a thin paperback book. No, she thought, not a book, a journal or a calendar. She brought the book out into the light of the reading lamp above her head. The cover, garishly colored, showed a knight in dark armor, trampling on a dragon emblazoned banner. Behind him flames engulfed a medieval castle, and dark thunder clouds gathered around his head.
“What on earth…?” she said.
“A Villain a Day,” said Ryan. “I found it on the sale table at that new bookstore on Duvall. Clever idea really, an evil deed for every day of the year, but apparently it didn’t sell well. It’s written by your friend Carlton.”
“Oh,” said Violet, “well that was thoughtful of you.”
“Yes, it was,” said Ryan. “I thought you would be especially interested in the entry for Bad King John, and how he lost his treasure.”
“I already know how he lost his treasure,” said Violet.
Ryan took the book from her hand and flipped through the pages. “Ah, here it is,” he said. “Allow me to read it for you.”
“I can read it for myself,” she said.
“No, I’ll read it,” said Ryan. He cleared his throat theatrically. ““A cold wind sweeps across the bleak marshes that border the North Sea. The short winter afternoon draws to an end. The sun sets behind leafless, stunted trees. It will be dark soon and there will be no light of human habitation. Not even the lowest peasant would dare to build a hut on the shifting sands of the Wash.” Ryan paused. “Does it sound familiar?”
Violet shifted in her seat. Of course it sounded familiar; they were the very words she had used to describe King John’s journey across the marsh.
“Same story, same words.” said Ryan, “exactly the same words, right down to the part about the sun setting behind leafless stunted trees.” He
Similar Books
