Chapter Twenty-One
During their hour-long train ride to Oxford, Quinn explained to James the significance of the pub they would be visiting. A group of writers called the Inklings, the most famous of whom were C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, used to meet for lunch at the Eagle and Child. For their fans, it was a place of pilgrimage.
Exiting the train station, they braved the cold and damp weather and walked the half mile to the pub. They were a little early for their dinner appointment, so they ducked into the nearby news shop to pass some time and find warmth. Quinn left James intently studying a car magazine and wandered down another aisle, perusing the array of periodicals. She cupped her frigid hands together and breathed on them, promising herself if she spied a pair of gloves, she’d snap them up.
Quinn ambled over to a rotating display rack filled with cheap Christmas ornaments. She spun it slowly, her gaze drifting absently over the decorations until an especially shiny, metallic one caught her eye. It looked like a copper chicken egg, with the front top half featuring the silver face of an infant. The baby had rounded eyes, an open, gaping mouth, and bright red lips. It appeared to be utterly terrified as it emerged from—or perhaps was trapped in—an alien cocoon.
“Pssst! James!” Quinn hissed and waved him over.
He walked toward her, eyebrows raised in question. When she mutely pointed at the monstrosity, James recoiled. “What the hell is that?” he whispered, face twisting like he’d just swallowed a bug. He hunched forward to get a closer look at the ornament. “I had no idea babies went through a larval stage.”
Quinn covered her mouth and shook with silent, uncontrolled giggles. “Maybe alien babies do,” she said in a low voice when she finally was able to speak. “I think this is how they travel to Earth, sent by their alien overlords bent on world domination.”
His brilliant grin nearly knocked her flat. “And the first thing these evil overlords send is horrifying alien spawn to gain supremacy over Ed’s Christmas tree?”
“That’s what I’m thinking. Who are we to deny fate? Besides, nothing says Merry Christmas like a nightmarish pupal sprog.” She plucked it from the rack and hooked the loop of thick golden thread over her finger. She held it up for them both to admire. “It’s perfect.”
They approached the cashier, a young woman with her nose deep in a thick paperback copy of The Brothers Karamazov, and set the ornament and car magazine on the counter. The cashier glanced down at the items and cried, “Bloody hell! That’s a fright.” She peeked up at them and shrugged in embarrassment. “No offense.”
“No worries,” Quinn said. “I’m buying it as a joke for a friend.”
“Oh,” the young woman said, now smiling as she rang up their purchase. “That’s a relief. I mean, to each his own, you know? But that’s more than a bit terrifying, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Quinn answered as she paid for their items. Her treasure now safely wrapped in tissue paper and placed in her purse, she and James wished the young woman a pleasant evening and left the shop.
They were still laughing about their epic find as they approached the entrance to the pub. An oval sign hung from a black wrought-iron arm attached to the wall above the door. It featured an eagle against a blue sky, its wings outstretched in flight, and carrying a baby slung in a blanket clutched in its talons.
James stopped and faced her. “You okay? You ready for this?”
She fiddled with her wedding rings and nodded.
“Just remember that you’re Quinn Riordan and the rest will come naturally. You’ll be great.”
She nodded again and crossed her arms. “Did you know that pubs put pictures on signs for customers who couldn’t read?”
James reached out and rubbed her arm. “I didn’t know that, and now I know you’re ready.” His hand slid down her arm and he intertwined their fingers. As soon as they stepped into the pub his easy demeanor dropped and he shifted into spy mode. He never let go of her hand as they continued weaving farther back into the long, narrow pub.
They came to a small room with a short bar on the right where three men stood waiting to order. Beyond that was a dark timber entryway with a sign attached to the crossbeam. It said RABBIT ROOM.
The room was small—it only sat about ten people—a bench lined one wall with a couple of tables in front of it. Dark wood paneling covered the bottom half of the walls, and small, framed pictures and plaques decorated the plaster top half. Quinn would have liked to stop and study the photos, but since there was no red-haired woman in the room, James kept them moving. Quinn knew they weren’t on vacation, but that didn’t stop her from soaking in the atmosphere.
They walked down another hallway and into a narrow room, stopping for a moment to scan the guests at the tables lining one wall. Still no professor. They pushed on to yet another room beyond.
The room at the back of the pub was obviously a newer addition. The ceiling was glass, the floor was tiled, and the walls were painted brick.
Quinn easily spotted Professor Gemma Dudley at a table against the back wall. Her mane of auburn ringlets was unmistakable. The professor recognized them immediately as well. She smiled, slid out from the bench, and stood. After greetings, introductions, and handshakes were exchanged, James held out a chair for Quinn.
“No, please,” Professor Dudley said. “You two sit together. I’m solo tonight. I’ll sit there.” Before they could argue, she moved her pint of ale to the other side of the wooden table and took the chair.
Quinn knew James preferred to sit where he had full view of a room anyway, so she wasn’t about to argue. They removed their coats, scooted across the bench, and settled in. James set his briefcase with the manuscript in it on the floor.
“I hope you don’t mind if we sit in this area, Mrs. Riordan. It’s not as publike, but it’s a little quieter. Unfortunately, it might deprive you of the complete Bird and Baby experience.”
“Not at all,” Quinn said. “Though I may jump up at some point and gawk at the pictures and plaques on the walls. And please, call me Quinn.”
“And James.”
“And I insist you call me Gemma.”
“It would be an honor, Gemma,” Quinn said. “And we both want to thank you for being so generous with your time. We figured it was a long shot to even speak with you when I called. To be sitting here with you tonight is incredible. So, thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. I enjoy being able to apply my niche Latin skills in the real world when the opportunity arises. In fact, I was scheduled to meet a man yesterday to look over a manuscript, but he never arrived.”
When Quinn flinched at the professor’s comment, James rested his hand on her thigh and gently squeezed it.
“That’s too bad,” he said without missing a beat.
Quinn mentally kicked herself for reacting upon hearing of Ben’s probable contact with Professor Dudley. It wasn’t exactly smooth spycraft on her part. Time to stay quiet and let the professional handle things.
The conversation was put on hold when their server arrived. All three ordered fish and chips and James ordered a pint of porter. Two minutes later, his pint arrived and after a couple of sips, he nodded in approval. He sat back, crossed his legs, and laid his arm across the top of the back seat cushion behind Quinn. She shifted a little, nestling into his side and the arm that curled around her shoulders. If he was going to sell the happily married couple thing, so would she.
“Before we get too far into this,” Gemma said, “I have a caveat. I know quite a bit about manuscripts and have read and studied hundreds. That being said, I am in no way equipped to authenticate, date, or establish the origin. That will require the services of a different kind of expert.”
“We understand, right, Quinn?” James gave her an encouraging smile.
“Mmm-hmm.” When it became clear he wanted her to continue, her confidence returned. His thumb lazily rubbing a spot on her upper arm wasn’t terrible either. “We know it will take some time to date the parchment and assuming it’s organic, the ink, too. I’m sure there are experts here at Oxford, but I have a friend at UCLA who can do that, so we’ll wait to tackle that when we get home.”
“You mentioned you found it amongst your grandmother’s things. She never spoke of it?”
“No. We have a couple of theories.” Quinn launched into what she and James cooked up on the train in case her ersatz grandmother was mentioned. “Her father, my great-grandfather, was in France during World War II. We think he might have run across this manuscript and brought home a ‘souvenir.’”
“And kept it hidden so no one would know he had a pilfered manuscript,” Gemma supplied.
“Exactly.” Quinn smiled up at the server when she set their plates down in front of them. “The much more mundane theory is that Grandmamma bought it and for some reason kept it a secret.”
Quinn dove into her fish and chips with gusto. The first bite of delicate whitefish with the crunchy coating nearly had her swooning.
“What about your grandfather? Is he still alive to ask?”
“No. He died when I was a baby. My grandmother was an independent sort. She never remarried and took care of herself.”
Quinn reached over, picked up James’s porter, and took a sip. It was strong and had a bite, yet she detected a hint of sweetness. It was the best beer she’d ever tasted. For a second or two, she regretted not ordering one for herself. But when she remembered that drinking an entire pint would leave her weaving and dizzy, she knew she was better off satisfying her taste buds with an occasional sip from James’s glass.
As they ate, they chatted about the weather, Christmas plans, and Gemma’s husband the physics professor. Once the dishes were cleared away and they washed their hands of all destructive oils, James removed the manuscript from his briefcase and handed it to Professor Dudley.
Quinn watched the other woman closely as she turned the book over in her hands, examining the cover and then opening to the first page of text. Her green eyes darted back and forth as she read down the page.
After twenty agonizing minutes of watching Gemma turn page after page, her lips occasionally pursed and eyebrows puckered, she finally said, “This is the story of a knight’s travels and exploits.” She turned to the first page. “This is how it starts, ‘The most noble and esteemed son of Johannes,’ which is Latin for John,” she interjected, “‘was strong and well born and called Eugenius.’ His name today would be Eugene Johnson.”
“Eugene Johnson isn’t quite as majestic as Eugenius, son of Johannes, is it?” Quinn said. She relaxed, now that she knew the professor could help them.
“Not really, no,” Gemma said with a small smile before she continued reading. “‘Born in the new town soon after invaders from the west were vanquished, he was destined to be a great warrior. Unmatched was he in size and bearing and his face did shine like the glorious sun. Eugenius did battle both the hated empire to the west and the infidels of the mountains to the east.’”
“‘Infidels . . . to the east,’” Quinn repeated, turning the words over in her mind. “Do you think he was a Crusader?”
“That was my first thought,” Gemma answered with a nod. “While he was in the east, he was kidnapped and held captive. Eventually, he made his escape with the help of a sympathetic local. The rest is his exploits from town to town as he journeyed home.”
Quinn absently spun the wedding and engagement rings on her finger. “Eugenius must be the knight in the miniatures.”
James hummed his agreement. “From what I read, these kinds of heroic stories weren’t uncommon. But I’m under the impression they were usually written in the vernacular so family and friends could read about their great feats. Why Latin?”
“Perhaps to make it appear more regal,” Gemma said.
“Are the places where Eugenius, son of Johannes a.k.a. Eugene Johnson, traveled to mentioned specifically?” James asked. “Or any other people? Maybe his parents or a king?”
“That’s an odd thing about the text, actually. Usually, these stories are very precise. It’s all part of the bragging you mentioned. In this case, however, people and places are only alluded to with opaque descriptions. For instance, rather than saying outright to whom Eugene holds his allegiance, it says he served ‘the great lion’ and then ‘the lion’s successors’.”
“In one of the miniatures, the knight is depicted kneeling before another man.” James said. “Lion in Latin is Leo, right? A king named Leo? Or a duke? Or pope?”
“I know there have been a number of popes with that name,” Gemma said.
Quinn squirmed in her seat, her brain buzzing as every synapse fired at once.
James narrowed his eyes at her. “I recognize that look.”
“If we assume Eugene was a Crusader,” Quinn said, practically vibrating with exhilaration, “we might be able to figure out which Crusade it was if there was a pope, king or duke Leo, Leon, or Leopold, something like that, involved. That would give us an approximate time when Eugene lived.” She bolted upright and her eyes burned with inspiration. “Oh! Richard the Lionheart.” She fought the urge to whip out her phone and start her research right there at the table. What she missed was the amused look that passed between James and Gemma.
“What about the places?” James asked. “That would help narrow it down, too.”
Gemma skimmed several pages of the manuscript. “Here’s one that’s wonderfully vague. There’s a place called ‘blizzard village.’”
“‘Blizzard village’? That’s helpful,” Quinn said sarcastically and slumped back. She touched her fingertip to her lips as she contemplated various scenarios. “Maybe he got trapped in a huge snowstorm on top of the Alps on his way to or from the Middle East.” More to herself than her tablemates, she said, “He went east instead of west and ended up in the Himalayas. ‘Wrong Way Eugene.’”
While Quinn ruminated, James took a notepad and pen from his briefcase and slid them across the table. “Could you write down all of the descriptive Latin phrases for the people and places, their translations and the pages where they’re located for us? Quinn can take it from there. Her tenacity is second only to her intelligence. She’ll figure it out.”
“No doubt,” Gemma said. “I can see the steam billowing from her ears.” For the next thirty minutes she wrote down the requested information. While they waited, Quinn and James shared the rest of his pint and quietly chatted about their research plan of attack.
When Gemma finished, she set the pen down and pushed the paper back to James and Quinn. “Obviously, the pages in the manuscript aren’t numbered, so I referenced them by their folio number, then recto and verso.” To demonstrate, she turned to the third leaf in the book. She held the page straight up gripped between her thumb and forefinger. “This is folio three, or f. 3.” She pointed at the front of the sheet, and said, “Recto, written f. 3r,” and then the back. “Verso.”
“F. 3v,” Quinn said.
“Precisely.” Gemma closed the book, refastened the clasps, and handed it back to James. He promptly returned it to his briefcase.
“We can’t thank you enough for your help,” Quinn said. She leaned into James and whispered, “We should pay her a consultation fee.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” The razor-sharp tone warned Quinn that arguing would be an exercise in futility.
“Okay,” James said. “But please let us pay for your dinner.”
“That I will allow. Thank you. You can also repay me by letting me know what you learn about the manuscript.” She handed Quinn a business card she’d retrieved from her bag.
“You can count on it,” Quinn replied and tucked the card away in her pocket.
Their business now concluded and the hour growing late, James said, “We really should get going. Can we walk you to wherever you’re headed next, Gemma?”
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary. My husband is coming here to collect me when his meeting is over, which should be any moment now.” She paused and considered first Quinn and then James. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I speak out of turn. But I have to say this. When you look at Quinn, James, I see in your face the same enthralled, amused, and bemused expression I’ve seen in my husband’s for the past thirty-two years. Therefore, it is with good authority that I tell you your life with Quinn will never be dull.” She narrowed her eyes and added, “But you already know that.”
James nodded. “I can honestly say it’s been a nonstop adventure since the day I met her.”
“I could say the same thing about you,” Quinn said, bumping him with her shoulder. Her stomach fluttered as they held each other’s gaze for a brief moment.
James smiled and then glanced at his watch. “We’d better get going. If we hurry, we can catch the next train.” He tossed enough pound notes on the table to adequately cover the tab. All three stood and shook hands again, then Quinn and James offered Gemma a final thanks and farewell.
They walked through the maze of rooms toward the front door. Quinn was happy when they stopped here and there long enough to look at the displayed Inklings memorabilia.
Out on the sidewalk, the chill in the air penetrated Quinn’s overcoat like it was made not from wool, but from a thin layer of gauze. She turned up her collar to combat the cold.
“It’s a bit nippy.” James looked up and down the mostly deserted street and frowned. “I should have called a taxi.” He turned and started back toward the pub. “I’ll do it now. We can go back inside and wait.”
Quinn gripped the sleeve of his coat and tugged, stopping him. “No, let’s walk. We don’t know how long it will take to get here and we don’t want to miss the next train. Besides, if we walk fast, the exertion will keep us warm.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Now come on.” Quinn turned on her heel, lowered her head, and marched off at a brisk clip. James jogged to catch up and then fell in step.
After walking for a couple of minutes, James put his arm around Quinn’s waist and pulled her close to his side. He steered her toward a brick wall to their right.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. When they reached the wall, he turned her toward him, lowered his head, and kissed her. It wasn’t a chaste peck on the lips, but a full-mouthed go-big-or-go-home kind of kiss. It all happened so fast, and she was so startled by it, for a second her brain went numb. When it kicked in again, her body was already fully engaged, kissing him back. Any thought of “this is opening a big ol’ can of worms” that tried to edge into her consciousness was beaten back by the sensation of his lips, his body pressed against hers. She slipped both arms under his open overcoat and around his waist and melted into him.
James broke their kiss, but kept his face only inches from hers. His smile was slow and sexy and his voice was deep in his chest when he said, “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.” He cupped the side of her face with his hand and brushed her cheek with his thumb. “I finally found the perfect excuse.” He closed the gap again and grazed her lips with his.
It was a good thing she was trapped between James and the wall. Otherwise, she would have crumpled to the sidewalk in a heap. “Excuse?” Why were they talking when they could be kissing?
“Mmm-hmm. I needed to be sure, and the only way to know was for us to stop walking. Once the idea of stopping to kiss you came to me, I couldn’t think of anything else.”
Her brain had turned to oatmeal, so it wasn’t a big shock she had no idea what he was talking about. She searched his face, mostly hidden in the shadow cast from the glow of the street lamp behind him. “Be sure about what?”
His head turned a fraction when his eyes pegged all the way to the right. “Don’t look and don’t panic.” His gaze returned to her and he gave her a swift, yet incredibly sensual kiss. “But we’re being followed.”