j a m e s
t w i n i n g
“Go home, Tom. You’re not needed here. You’re not wanted
here.”
“He left a message before he died.”
“I know.” She gave a sad nod. “They showed me the
photos.”
“Then you saw who it was addressed to?”
“You two and your little codes and secrets.” Her bottom
lip, pink and full, jutted out indignantly, nostrils quivering.
“It was never like that,” he insisted.
“Yes it was. Rafael only ever invited me in when it suited
him. And even now that he’s dead, nothing’s changed.” Tom
remembered now that she’d always insisted on calling her
stepfather by his fi rst name.
“What was he mixed up in?” Tom pressed.
“I don’t know. Things were never simple between us.” She
fixed him with an accusing stare. “You walking out on me
didn’t help. It forced him to pick sides.”
“Is this about Rafael, or us?”
Eva flew forward and slapped Tom across the cheek, the
sharp crack of the blow echoing around the room.
A pause.
“Feel better?” Tom asked slowly, rubbing his face.
“Go home, Tom,” she said wearily.
“He came to see me in London.”
“What?” This, finally, seemed to have registered.
“Three or four weeks ago. I don’t know what he’d got him-
self involved in, Eva, but I think he was in trouble and that he
wanted my help. He stole part of a Napoleonic dinner ser-
vice. An obelisk. What was he up to?”
She looked down, the toe of her black patent leather shoe
poking absentmindedly through the debris strewn across the
fl oor.
“He lied to us, Tom.” She glanced up, looking unsure of
herself for the fi rst time. “He lied to us all. I could tell from
his voice. He’d signed up for another job.”
“For Milo.” Tom nodded, thinking back to the unfi nished
letter M scrawled in blood across the base of the well. “Have
you checked the drawers yet?”
“What do you mean?”
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
8 1
He pulled one of the drawers out, emptied what remained
inside it on to the floor, and then released a small catch un-
derneath. The bottom of the drawer folded back, revealing a
hidden compartment about an inch deep. It was empty.
“He used to hide things he was working on in these,” Tom
began, before realizing from the expression on Eva’s face
that this was yet another secret Rafael had not chosen to
share with her. Maybe she had a point after all.
“Open them,” she muttered hoarsely.
There were six drawers, but like the first, they were empty.
All except the final one. This opened to reveal a painting. A
painting that a small part of Tom had almost been expecting
to find. There could be no doubt now that the two cases were
connected.
“Is that a da Vinci?” Eva exclaimed.
“It’s the Madonna of the Yarnwinder ,” Tom confi rmed
grimly as he carefully lifted it from the drawer. “But it’s not
the original. That was stolen a few days ago by Milo. This
must be one of your father’s forgeries. I expect that’s what his
killers were looking for when they turned this place and
his apartment upside down.”
“You mean all this was for a stupid painting?” Her voice
broke as she gestured, the sweep of her arm taking in the
ransacked room but also, Tom knew, the invisible trail of
blood that led to the courtyard on the other side of the city.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to keep her emo-
tions in check. He said nothing, giving her time to regain her
composure. As she lowered her arm, Tom caught a glimpse
of the silver bracelet he’d given her many summers ago, be-
fore she hurriedly tugged her sleeve back down to cover it.
Perhaps she hadn’t totally banished those times from her
mind after all.
“They didn’t take everything,” he said gently. “They left
you this—”
He handed her the photo he had found on the fl oor. This
time there was no holding back her tears.
C H A P T E R F I F T E E N
SOUTH STREET, NEW YORK
19th April— 3:26
t w i n i n g
“Go home, Tom. You’re not needed here. You’re not wanted
here.”
“He left a message before he died.”
“I know.” She gave a sad nod. “They showed me the
photos.”
“Then you saw who it was addressed to?”
“You two and your little codes and secrets.” Her bottom
lip, pink and full, jutted out indignantly, nostrils quivering.
“It was never like that,” he insisted.
“Yes it was. Rafael only ever invited me in when it suited
him. And even now that he’s dead, nothing’s changed.” Tom
remembered now that she’d always insisted on calling her
stepfather by his fi rst name.
“What was he mixed up in?” Tom pressed.
“I don’t know. Things were never simple between us.” She
fixed him with an accusing stare. “You walking out on me
didn’t help. It forced him to pick sides.”
“Is this about Rafael, or us?”
Eva flew forward and slapped Tom across the cheek, the
sharp crack of the blow echoing around the room.
A pause.
“Feel better?” Tom asked slowly, rubbing his face.
“Go home, Tom,” she said wearily.
“He came to see me in London.”
“What?” This, finally, seemed to have registered.
“Three or four weeks ago. I don’t know what he’d got him-
self involved in, Eva, but I think he was in trouble and that he
wanted my help. He stole part of a Napoleonic dinner ser-
vice. An obelisk. What was he up to?”
She looked down, the toe of her black patent leather shoe
poking absentmindedly through the debris strewn across the
fl oor.
“He lied to us, Tom.” She glanced up, looking unsure of
herself for the fi rst time. “He lied to us all. I could tell from
his voice. He’d signed up for another job.”
“For Milo.” Tom nodded, thinking back to the unfi nished
letter M scrawled in blood across the base of the well. “Have
you checked the drawers yet?”
“What do you mean?”
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
8 1
He pulled one of the drawers out, emptied what remained
inside it on to the floor, and then released a small catch un-
derneath. The bottom of the drawer folded back, revealing a
hidden compartment about an inch deep. It was empty.
“He used to hide things he was working on in these,” Tom
began, before realizing from the expression on Eva’s face
that this was yet another secret Rafael had not chosen to
share with her. Maybe she had a point after all.
“Open them,” she muttered hoarsely.
There were six drawers, but like the first, they were empty.
All except the final one. This opened to reveal a painting. A
painting that a small part of Tom had almost been expecting
to find. There could be no doubt now that the two cases were
connected.
“Is that a da Vinci?” Eva exclaimed.
“It’s the Madonna of the Yarnwinder ,” Tom confi rmed
grimly as he carefully lifted it from the drawer. “But it’s not
the original. That was stolen a few days ago by Milo. This
must be one of your father’s forgeries. I expect that’s what his
killers were looking for when they turned this place and
his apartment upside down.”
“You mean all this was for a stupid painting?” Her voice
broke as she gestured, the sweep of her arm taking in the
ransacked room but also, Tom knew, the invisible trail of
blood that led to the courtyard on the other side of the city.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to keep her emo-
tions in check. He said nothing, giving her time to regain her
composure. As she lowered her arm, Tom caught a glimpse
of the silver bracelet he’d given her many summers ago, be-
fore she hurriedly tugged her sleeve back down to cover it.
Perhaps she hadn’t totally banished those times from her
mind after all.
“They didn’t take everything,” he said gently. “They left
you this—”
He handed her the photo he had found on the fl oor. This
time there was no holding back her tears.
C H A P T E R F I F T E E N
SOUTH STREET, NEW YORK
19th April— 3:26
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