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He noticed its distinct lack of color.
“Elizabeth was always careful in choosing her portraits. This one, though, was finished after her death, so the artist had free rein.”
Impressive, he had to admit.
“The last spectacle of Elizabeth I’s reign happened in this room,” McGuire said. “The queen visited Robert Cecil in December 1602. There was great ceremony and entertainment. A glorious finale to a long reign. Three months later she was dead.”
He caught the definitive use of the pronoun she.
He’d also already noticed the phrase that appeared prominently on the left side of the portrait.
NON SINE SOLE IRIS.
Latin he understood, along with several other languages, a side effect of his eidetic memory.
NO RAINBOW WITHOUT THE SUN.
He pointed to the words.
“Historians have philosophized about the meaning of that motto,” McGuire said. “Supposedly, Elizabeth was the sun, whose presence alone brings peace to her realm and color to the rainbow.”
“Yet the rainbow has no color.”
“Precisely. Others have said that the painting is a subversive undercutting. No rainbow shines because there is no sun. Her magnificence is supposedly false.” The older woman paused. “Not too far off the mark, would you not say?”
“Then there’s another meaning,” he said. “Taking the phrase for what it says and changing it. No rainbow without the son. S-o-n. Meaning there would have been nothing without him.”
“Quite right. I’ve read the translation of Cecil’s journal. He had great respect for the imposter. I imagine he gazed upon this image often.”
“What now?” he asked.
“A good question. One I’ve been thinking about since last night. Unfortunately, Thomas Mathews did not survive to aid in my analysis. Can you tell me what happened to him?”
He wasn’t about to fall into that trick bag. “He worked in a risky business, and stuff happens.”
“Of course, if we were allowed to debrief all of you we might actually learn something relevant.”
Part of the brokered deal was that no one talked to anyone about anything.
He shrugged. “It will simply remain a mystery. As will the deaths of two American agents.”
“And three more from our side.”
Touché. But this woman was no idiot. She knew that either he, or Richards, killed Mathews. Nothing she could do about it either way. So he made clear, “My son was placed in grave danger. And, as you said, so was Ian Dunne. They’re not players. Never were. Never will be. Go too far in this game and there’s a price to be paid.”
“I conceded to Stephanie that both sides went too far. Seven deaths is more than enough for us all to learn a lesson.”
He agreed.
She motioned to what he carried. Robert Cecil’s journal. Stephanie had told him to bring it. The deal included its return.
She accepted the old volume, thumbed through its coded pages, then looked at him. “You asked me, what now?”
She stepped to the hearth and tossed the book into the fire. Flames leaped over the cover. Smoke wreathed the stones, before being sucked up the chimney. In a few seconds the journal was gone.
He said, “I guess history doesn’t matter around here.”
“On the contrary, it matters a great deal. In fact, it is history that would have caused all of the damage. Elizabeth I was a fraud, so anything and everything done during that reign would be void. At a minimum it would all be suspect. True, four hundred years have passed. But you’re a lawyer, Mr. Malone. You know the principles of real property. Chain of title is critical. Elizabeth seized Irish land and passed title on to a lot of British Protestants. Every one of those chains of title would now be in question, if not void from the start.”
“And you British pride yourselves on the rule of law.”
“Actually, we do. Which makes this scenario that much more frightening.”
“So if Antrim had not been a traitor and deciphered the journal, it just might have stopped that prisoner transfer?”
She threw him a calculating gaze. “We’ll never know the answer to that.”
But he did.
“There is one other aspect to this, too,” she said. “Elizabeth was also solely responsible for the accession of James I, as king. That would have never happened but for the imposter. James’ mother was Mary, Queen of Scots, the great-niece of Henry VIII, her grandmother Henry’s sister. Henry VIII’s will specifically excluded that branch of the family from ever inheriting the throne. It is doubtful that the real Elizabeth would have gone so contrary to her father’s wishes. The imposter was a wicked one, that I will say. He could birth no heirs, so he chose the one person to succeed him whom his grandfather expressly rejected. Perhaps he did that in deference to his mother, who hated Henry VIII and all of the Tudors. So you see, Mr. Malone, history does indeed matter. History is the whole reason all of this happened.”
He pointed to the hearth. “But it’s gone now. No more proof.”
“The translations are likewise gone,” she said. “As is the email the bookstore owner sent herself.”
Miss Mary’s cell phone had been confiscated last night.
“I believe you have the last version.”
He produced the flash drive from his pocket and handed it to her.
She tossed it into the flames.
Malone found everyone outside, in the garden. Elizabeth McGuire was gone, their business concluded. She’d come to make sure the journal and the flash drive were destroyed. True, Ian, Richards, Tanya, and Miss Mary all knew the secret. And could speak of it. But nothing existed to support any of their allegations. Just a wild tale. Nothing more. Like the Bisley Boy legend and Bram Stoker’s account from a hundred years ago.
“Time for us to leave,” he said to Gary.
The boys said their goodbyes, then Ian faced him. “Maybe I’ll come see you one day in Denmark.”
“I’d like that. I really would.”
They shook hands.
Miss Mary stood beside Ian, her arm on the boy’s shoulder. He saw the pride on her face and realized that maybe now, finally, she had a son.
And Ian a mother.
He said, “Perhaps it’s time for your street days to end.”
Ian nodded. “I think you’re right. Miss Mary wants me to live with her.”
“That’s an excellent idea.”
Tanya stepped close and hugged him. “Good to know you, Mr. Malone. That was quite an adventure you gave us.”
“If you ever want a job again in the intelligence business, use me for a reference. You did good.”
“I enjoyed the experience. Something I shall not soon forget.”
Gary said his goodbyes to the sisters while Malone led Kathleen Richards off to the side.
“What happened in there?” she asked in a low voice.
“The journal is gone, as are al
l the translations. Officially, this never happened.”
He hadn’t told her much about his conversations last night with Stephanie, but the confirmation came earlier. “You have your job back with SOCA. That’s an order straight from the top. All is forgiven.”
She tossed him a thankful smile. “I was wondering how I was going to make a living.”
“I appreciate what you did down there. We owe you our lives.”
“You would have done the same.”
“Do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Don’t stop being you. Go for it. With all you’ve got, and to hell with the rules.”
“I’m afraid it’s the only way I can do the job.”
“That’s what I want to hear.”
“But I still killed Mathews. I could have shot him in the leg. Taken him down.”
“We both know that wouldn’t have worked. The SOB deserved to die and, if given the opportunity, I would have done the same thing.”
She appraised him carefully. “I do believe you would have.”
“He recalled the last time he’d enountered Thomas Mathews. I told him once, seven years ago, that one day he’d press someone too far. And he finally did.”
She thanked him for all he’d done. “Maybe I’ll come over to Copenhagen one day and see you, too.”
Her eyes held the promise of more.
“Anytime,” he said. “Just let me know.”
They walked back to the others.
“We made quite a team,” he said to them. “Thanks for all your help.”
He watched as they left, walking back to the train station for their return trip to London. He and Gary were headed straight to Heathrow, a car waiting for them at the house’s main entrance, courtesy of Stephanie Nelle.
“You okay?” he asked Gary.
They hadn’t really discussed all that happened yesterday. And though Gary had not actually killed Antrim, he’d certainly allowed him to die.
“He was a bad man,” Gary said.
“In every way.”
The world swarmed with hacks, con men, and cardboard cutouts. Parents fought every way they could to shield their kids from each and every one. But here the truth had to be faced. He needed to say something.
“You’re my son, Gary. In every way. You always will be. Nothing has changed that, or ever will.”
