The Layton Prophecy Page 5

  Miles appeared to hesitate. “Do you know how your father died?”

  I replied with a slow nod. “He drowned.”

  “No,” Miles said. “He didn’t die by drowning.”

  I stared at him. My mind seized up, all other thoughts sinking into oblivion. On the television, Carmina Burana reached its crescendo. The passionate voices soared around me, inside me, filling my ears with a foreboding that seemed as frightening as the drumbeat that accompanies a firing squad when they raise their weapons and take aim.

  “What of...how did he die?” I asked in a shaky whisper.

  Miles eased down from the sofa and settled into a kneeling position on the floor. His powerful body seemed trapped in the narrow space, but he ignored any discomfort. Reaching across the low table, he took the coffee mug from my hands, set it down, and curled his strong, warm fingers around my shaking ones. The odd, pitying way in which he was studying me made my heart pound with fear.

  “Alexandra, your father lost his electronic beacon when his boat broke up.” His eyes held mine, stark and serious. “When the rescue team didn’t get a drifting signal, they thought he’d gone down with the boat. They gave up searching.”

  “I know,” I whispered. My throat closed as the grief of loss, less than a year old, assaulted me anew. “There was another storm. He fell off the life raft and drowned.”

  The comforting grip on my hands tightened. “His water maker didn’t work.” Miles spoke slowly, hesitating over every word. “He had no fresh water.”

  “No.” My eyes searched his in a silent plea. “You’re wrong.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” he said softly. “I’ve seen the autopsy report. Although your father was in the sea when he was found, his life jacket was holding him afloat. There was no water in his lungs. He was already dead when he fell off the raft.” Miles rubbed my hands, his thumbs gliding in a soothing caress across my knuckles. “Alexandra, your father died of thirst.”

  “No!”

  “Yes,” Miles said. “And that’s not all. My brother Francis was a mountain climber. He was climbing in the Rockies. It was a very hot day. He was doing a long route, and, like a fool, he didn’t want to turn back when he ran out of water. He got very badly dehydrated. He died from heatstroke.”

  My head began to sway in denial.

  “It’s true,” Miles said. He dropped his voice and recited the poem again. “Like a wheel, she starts again, crosses oceans, rejoins men. The curse has crossed the ocean and has joined the two remaining Layton heirs. When there’s two, it happens twice, death with heat, with crystal ice. Because of the Layton twins, everything is duplicated now. Francis died of heatstroke and dehydration. And crystal ice, I think that refers to salt. Your father died because he was stranded in seawater.”

  “There’s nothing about Bonnie Maiden,” I said, desperately wanting to ignore what he was telling me. It wasn’t alarm over the curse that was crushing my chest so badly it hurt to breathe, but the thought that my father had died a slow and agonizing death, waiting for a rescue that never came.

  “No,” Miles agreed. “But it says the prophecy goes back to the beginning. When you start from the beginning, the next verse is Bonnie Maiden follows soon, love and marriage, that’s her doom. And, if everything happens twice now, once on each side of the ocean, it means that you and Cleo will be next.”

  “I can’t believe what you’re telling me.” My head was shaking in tiny jerks now, an involuntary movement that I couldn’t control, like shivering from cold. “It’s nonsense. An ancient curse. I’d have to be stupid to accept it could be real.”

  “I don’t think so,” Miles said carefully. “That’s why I asked if you were in a relationship. Love and marriage is meant to be your doom.”

  “And Cleopatra’s?”

  “Hers, too.” His expression hardened. “And she’s already married to the son of a bitch who’ll cause her death.” The grip of his fingers on mine became fierce. “That’s why I need your help. There’s not much time.”

  “Much time for what?”

  “For breaking the curse, of course.” He released my hands, pushed up to his feet, and began to pace the cramped room, reverting to a man of action. “The gold and diamonds, they’re supposed to be there, and I’m the one who cares about Cleo, the one who can find them and make amends.”

  I huddled on the sofa, my knees drawn up to my chest. “It shouldn’t take much to make amends for a jug of ale and a game pie.”

  “Huh?” Miles stopped mid-step, looking at me as though I’d lost my mind.

  “The curse,” I told him. “It was cast by a Layton servant unfairly sacked for stealing a jug of ale and a game pie.”

  “Where does that idea come from?”

  “The village lore.”

  Miles raised one hand and rubbed his jaw, in deep thought. “The way I see it, the original Layton Prophecy in 1658 was a prediction of things to come. Full of hatred, but only a glimpse into the future. It lacked the power to cause things to happen. Then, nearly three centuries later, Francis Layton broke God’s commandments. That’s what released the evil foretold in the prophecy, made those events pass.” Miles resumed his restless striding across the floor. “I don’t know where the rhyme comes from, but I sure as hell know why the curse fell upon the family.”

  I waited in silence while he paced some more.

  “Francis Layton—not my brother, but the one who died in South Africa—was a murderer and a thief. He found diamonds, and possibly gold. He had a partner. Rather than share his good fortune, he murdered the other man, and then set off to return to civilization on his own. He got lost in the Kalahari Desert and died of thirst.”

  “How do you know this?” I asked.

  Miles stopped and faced me. “Because I’ve read Francis Layton’s diaries. And let me tell you, that man must have had ice water in his veins. The entries where he talks about his plans are quite specific.”

  I shivered, and quickly slammed a lid over my imagination. “What happened to the gold and diamonds?”

  Miles spread his hands, palms up. “No one knows. They must be hidden somewhere.”

  “South Africa?” I asked. “Layton Manor?”

  He spread his hands wider. The broad shoulders inside the navy blue Annapolis sweatshirt rose and fell in a gesture of doubt. “And there’s another problem,” he added. “We don’t know to whom we should make amends. I have no information on the man Francis Layton murdered, or where his descendants might be.”

  My brows arched. “So, what are you planning to do?”

  “Search.” He resumed his restless pacing. “I’m on a sabbatical. I have six months. Then I have to return to work.”

  I stared up at him from the sofa, suddenly curious. “Are you still in the Navy?”

  “No. I went back to college and did a doctorate.” Three steps, turn and walk the other way. “I’m an academic now. I lecture at Drexel University in Philadelphia.”

  “What in?”

  “Mainly quantum physics.” He pivoted on his heels to change direction. “My sideline is paranormal phenomena, prophecies and predictions in particular.”

  I pursed my lips, evaluating what he’d told me. My mind jumped to Aunt Rosemary. I assumed she’d be listening in to the conversation on the baby monitor. It surprised me that she hadn’t stormed over to Rose Cottage by now. “That sounds a little too convenient,” I said, remembering her suspicions. “Considering we’ve just been talking about curses.”

  Miles sent me a rueful smile. “I thought you might say that. I can assure you that my interest in the paranormal wasn’t triggered by the Layton Prophecy. I only found out about those aspects of the family history recently.” He came flush with the wall and spun around. “My father has a trace of Indian blood in him, and that’s how I got interested in ancient predictions. My specialty is Native American prophecies. Hopi, Mohawk, Cherokee. I’d be happy to show you my academic credentials.”

  Up to that point, I�
��d listened to his paranormal lecture with polite disbelief. My main focus had been trying to come to terms with how my father had died. Now, a kernel of concern took root inside me. I was talking to an expert. If Miles thought there was a threat to my safety in the Layton Prophecy, perhaps I ought to listen.

  “This business about the curse,” I said slowly. “You really are serious about it, aren’t you? You truly believe there could be something in it?”

  He paused his pacing and faced me, cramming his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “I’m a scientist,” he said. “And as such, I have an open mind. Up to five hundred years ago, we believed the earth was flat, and we were at the center of the universe. We’ve learned a lot since, but much remains that we don’t understand.” He sighed, walked back to the table and picked up his cooling coffee. He took a sip, grimaced in distaste and lowered the mug again. “I’ve seen things that fill me with awe. I’ve seen a young girl move physical objects with the power of her mind. I’ve had a man describe the thoughts running through my head. I’ve listened to someone predict the future, and then watched the foretold events unfold. The probability of an evil curse threatening the Layton family might be one in a million, but I’ve got to take that possibility into account.”

  “All right.” I gave him a thoughtful nod. “Let’s say I’m prepared to accept your expert opinion, and do whatever I can to help you to break this curse that might, or might not exist.” I wrapped my arms around my knees to ward off the chill that seemed to linger in the corners of the room. “Where should we start?”

  Miles pointed at the baby monitor. “We might start by asking your aunt to join us.” Then he gave a sudden leap, as if something had bitten him. Swearing, he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone that vibrated like an angry wasp. “I turned off the ringtone while we were at the pub,” he explained as he pressed a button and raised the phone to his ear.

  “Did you get that?” I hissed into the baby monitor, wishing it was the expensive kind with two-way transmission, so I could hear Aunt Rosemary confirm that she’d been able to follow our conversation.

  “Cleo, sweetheart,” Miles Kendrick crooned into the telephone. Then he looked at me. “Yes, she’s here. Do you want to talk to her?”

  I flapped my hands in front of my face and gave a frantic shake of my head. He grinned at me. “All right,” he said. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you too.” He lowered the handset and pressed another button.

  My stomach flipped over. It was quite possible that Miles Kendrick wasn’t taken after all, assuming the endearments I’d heard through the baby monitor last night had also been for his niece.

  “It’s getting late,” I said, suddenly feeling awkward. “I’d better go. I’ll talk to Aunt Rosemary about working with you to break the curse.” I glanced around. “Do you want to come over to our side tomorrow? We have more space, and real milk.”

  He scowled at the bowl filled with long-life portion packs. “If there’s something wrong with that stuff, blame your aunt. She supplied it.”

  I decided that now wasn’t the ideal time to educate him about the difference between emergency rations and proper food.

  We walked out of the living room and spent a few more minutes in the hallway. While I put on my shoes, we firmed up the arrangements for Miles to join us at Mill Cottage the following day.

  Then, I wished him good night and retreated next door.

  An unkind soul might have called it an escape. The narrow space in the hall had forced me to stand very close to him—close enough to breathe in the musky scent that always seems to linger around certain men. Despite his current academic occupation, Miles Kendrick was the rugged outdoor type. Traces of campfire smoke and ocean spray clung to him, adding to his masculine charm.

  Aunt Rosemary intercepted me at the front door of Mill Cottage.

  She rolled her eyes. “I told you that he was on to the baby monitor.”

  “No,” I said. “I told you.”

  She gave me a peeved look but didn’t argue back.

  “Is he a nutcase, with all this curse stuff?” I asked as I toed off my shoes.

  Aunt Rosemary pursed her rosebud mouth. “He’s an expert it the field. I assume scientific caution requires him to allow for the one in a million chance it could be real.”

  “Are you going to help us break the curse?”

  “I don’t mind helping. Curse or no curse, it’s an interesting project.” She tried to sound bored, but I could tell she was hooked. Aunt Rosemary loved solving puzzles. Her eyes narrowed. “Of course, it could be just a ploy to spook you, make you feel in need of his protection, so he can get into your knickers.”

  I told her how as a kid Miles had worshipped her, thought her more powerful than comic book heroes. “Maybe it’s your knickers he wants to get into,” I added.

  “Rubbish,” Aunt Rosemary said. “I might have impressed him as Tinkerbelle, but I’m not into younger men. You can have him, darling.” She turned and walked away from me, patting her curls.

  I could tell she was pleased.

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  Chapter Six

  The following day, Aunt Rosemary made history by cooking a hot lunch instead of serving sandwiches.

  “Why didn’t you ask him to dinner?” she complained as she struggled to drain pasta with one hand while using a wooden spoon to stir the saucepan full of bolognaise sauce with the other. “That would have given me more time.”

  “Miles said we can’t afford to waste another day.” I surveyed the destruction in the kitchen. “Why don’t you let me help?”

  “Just keep out of my way,” Aunt Rosemary wailed. “Doing this on my own is bad enough. Coordinating two people would be impossible.” She motioned her head at the empty jar of ready-made pasta sauce lying on its side, making a sticky puddle over the kitchen counter. “Can you get rid of that? Not in the trash. Hide it somewhere else until he’s gone.”

  I didn’t move, feeling it was safer to keep out of her orbit. “He won’t care if it’s not homemade,” I pointed out. “He’s using your long-life milk.”

  Aunt Rosemary threw a look of horror at me through the clouds of steam. “Damn. Those are from last summer. I forgot to chuck them out.” She bit her lip. “He’s a Yank. They sue if something goes wrong.” She peered into the pasta sauce and stirred with added vigor. “Leave the jar on the table. Make sure he sees it. If he gets sick, we’ll tell him it’s the sauce, and he’ll have to sue the manufacturer.”

  I shook my head in resignation. I wanted to finish the book on Florentine art, but I couldn’t tear myself away from my vantage point in the kitchen doorway. There was an element of morbid fascination in observing Aunt Rosemary spiraling into chaos. It was almost like watching a disaster movie, one of those shipwrecks where people in evening dresses are trying to find their way out of an upside-down ocean liner. They always take the wrong turn and end up in another explosion. It was the same with Aunt Rosemary’s cooking. She always took shortcuts and ended up ruining things.

  “Go and detain him,” Aunt Rosemary told me. “The pasta’s stuck together. I need to start again, boil another batch.”

  “Chop it into bits,” I suggested. “He’ll think it was meant to be like that. He used to be in the Navy. Sailors eat anything, even things crawling with maggots.”

  “Go,” Aunt Rosemary said.

  I pushed my shoulder from the doorjamb and floated out to the front door, enjoying a rare sense of superiority. It never ceased to amaze me that Aunt Rosemary, who could bend any computer to her will, calculate fractions in her head, and score fifteen on Mastermind general knowledge, went to pieces in the kitchen.

  The chilly November wind bit through my jeans and sweater as I stood outside Rose Cottage and rattled the brass knocker on the door. There was no reply. I looked around. The AVIS car stood parked at the curb. The village newsagent was open until noon, so it was possible that Miles had popped out for a newspaper, or some other essential ite
m. Perhaps he’d taken my comments to heart and had gone out to buy fresh milk. I pounded the knocker again and waited, folding my arms across my chest to keep warm.

  Eventually, Miles appeared at the door. He was barefoot, not just without shoes, but without socks. The jeans and the Annapolis sweatshirt looked even more rumpled now than they had the day before. I wondered if he’d been taking a nap. No, I decided. His hair was curling damp, so he must have been in the shower. I reined in my thoughts before images rose in my mind.

  “Am I late?” Miles asked, glancing at his wrist. When he realized his watch wasn’t there, his brows pulled into a frown. “What time is it?”

  “You’re not late. Aunt Rosemary is having a crisis in the kitchen. I’ve been sent to detain you.”

  “I was in the shower.” He looked at me and his expression softened. “You’re cold. Come inside.” He reached out and pulled me in, one hand clutching my upper arm. “You’re shivering.” He raised his other hand, and began to rub my arms up and down, warming me with rough efficient strokes that weren’t even remotely related to caresses, and yet my pulse went wild. Before I realized what I was doing, I had uncrossed my arms, taken a step into him, and laid the flat of my palms over the A and P in the middle of the Annapolis that spanned his muscular chest.

  Beneath my right hand, his heart was beating strong and steady. His full mouth was level with my eyes. When I tilted back my head, I found him looking down at me. I sensed the sudden flinch as he caught his breath.

  His skin flushed a shade darker. His hands stopped rubbing, and instead their grip tightened over my arms. Gently but firmly, he steered me backwards, until I was forced to shuffle my feet and separate our bodies.

  “Sorry,” he said, sounding a little husky. “I didn’t stop to think. I’m used to looking after Cleo. I didn’t mean to...” His voice trailed away and his arms fell to his sides.

  I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. Miles had the trapped look men get when they’re stuck doing something they don’t particularly want to do. On any Saturday or Sunday afternoon, it’s possible to see dozens of men wearing that exact look while they trail behind women in department stores.