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Authors: James Twining
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clench-
ing at the mention of Harry Renwick. A family friend and
surrogate father to Tom, Renwick had revealed himself to be
the murderer and criminal mastermind known as Cassius.
The shock of his betrayal the previous summer still hadn’t
left Tom; nor had the guilt he now felt at his role in Harry’s
death, or his anger that Renwick had taken the truth about
Tom’s father’s true involvement in his murderous schemes to
his grave. There were still so many questions about the sort
of man his father had been, about the people he’d known and
the things he’d done. Questions, always questions, but never
any way of answering them.
“You never want to . . .” She broke off suddenly, reached
behind him and snatched the CCTV still off the desk where
Tom had left it. “Where did you get this?”
“Archie. It’s from that break-in at Apsley House.”
“I know that man.” She pointed at the blurred image.
“Rafael?” Tom gave a disbelieving frown. “I doubt it.”
“He was here,” she insisted. “The morning you flew off to
Italy. He left you something.”
“What?”
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
5 3
She pointed at the bookcase under the window. A long,
narrow object had been placed there, wrapped in what ap-
peared to be a white linen napkin.
Tom picked it up and carried it over to the desk. As he
stood it up and undid the knot, the material fell away, reveal-
ing a porcelain obelisk, just over two feet long, inscribed
with hieroglyphs.
“What is it?” asked Dominique, frowning.
“It’s part of the Egyptian dinner service from Apsley
House,” Tom answered, grim-faced.
“But they told us nothing was taken.”
“That’s exactly what he wanted them to think.”
“You mean he swapped this for a replica?”
“I should have known better than to think he’d have run
away empty-handed. He’s too good.”
“Who is he?”
“A crook and a friend.” Tom gave a wry smile.
“In that order?”
“He never saw the difference. Was there anything else?”
“A letter.” She handed him an envelope. It was made
from thick, good-quality ivory paper and a single word had
been written across the front in a swirling copperplate script.
Felix .
Tom snatched a knife out of the desk drawer and sliced it
open.
“It’s empty,” said Dominique, looking up at him question-
ingly. “What does that mean?”
“Only one way to find out,” Tom said as he reached into
the desk for his address book.
“Have you seen the time?” she warned him.
“He’s up to something,” he muttered, nodding at the stolen
obelisk and the empty envelope. “What if he’s in some sort of
trouble? What if he needs my help?”
He found Rafael’s number and dialed it. A few seconds
later a voice answered.
“Digame.”
“Rafael?” he asked in a tentative tone, not recognizing the
man’s voice and wondering if he’d misdialed.
There was a pause.
5 4 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
“Who is this?” There was a suspicious edge to the man’s
voice.
“Oliver Cook,” Tom improvised a name and a reason for
calling. “I work for the London Times . We were hoping to get
a quote from Mr. Quintavalle for a piece we’re running tomor-
row. Who am I speaking to?”
“Officer Juan Alonso of the Seville Police,” came the
heavily accented reply.
“The police? Is Mr. Quintavalle in some sort of trouble?”
Another pause, then the man replied in a hesitant, almost
apologetic tone.
“Señor Quintavalle is dead.”
“Dead?” Tom gasped. “How? When?”
“Last week. Murdered. If you like, I transfer you to my
superior,” Alonso suggested eagerly.
“That’s kind, but I’m on a deadline and I’m a quote down,”
Tom insisted, trying to keep his voice level. “Thanks for your
help. Buenas noches.”
He punched the off button. There was a long silence. Do-
minique placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
“I was too late,” he said slowly, shaking her
ing at the mention of Harry Renwick. A family friend and
surrogate father to Tom, Renwick had revealed himself to be
the murderer and criminal mastermind known as Cassius.
The shock of his betrayal the previous summer still hadn’t
left Tom; nor had the guilt he now felt at his role in Harry’s
death, or his anger that Renwick had taken the truth about
Tom’s father’s true involvement in his murderous schemes to
his grave. There were still so many questions about the sort
of man his father had been, about the people he’d known and
the things he’d done. Questions, always questions, but never
any way of answering them.
“You never want to . . .” She broke off suddenly, reached
behind him and snatched the CCTV still off the desk where
Tom had left it. “Where did you get this?”
“Archie. It’s from that break-in at Apsley House.”
“I know that man.” She pointed at the blurred image.
“Rafael?” Tom gave a disbelieving frown. “I doubt it.”
“He was here,” she insisted. “The morning you flew off to
Italy. He left you something.”
“What?”
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
5 3
She pointed at the bookcase under the window. A long,
narrow object had been placed there, wrapped in what ap-
peared to be a white linen napkin.
Tom picked it up and carried it over to the desk. As he
stood it up and undid the knot, the material fell away, reveal-
ing a porcelain obelisk, just over two feet long, inscribed
with hieroglyphs.
“What is it?” asked Dominique, frowning.
“It’s part of the Egyptian dinner service from Apsley
House,” Tom answered, grim-faced.
“But they told us nothing was taken.”
“That’s exactly what he wanted them to think.”
“You mean he swapped this for a replica?”
“I should have known better than to think he’d have run
away empty-handed. He’s too good.”
“Who is he?”
“A crook and a friend.” Tom gave a wry smile.
“In that order?”
“He never saw the difference. Was there anything else?”
“A letter.” She handed him an envelope. It was made
from thick, good-quality ivory paper and a single word had
been written across the front in a swirling copperplate script.
Felix .
Tom snatched a knife out of the desk drawer and sliced it
open.
“It’s empty,” said Dominique, looking up at him question-
ingly. “What does that mean?”
“Only one way to find out,” Tom said as he reached into
the desk for his address book.
“Have you seen the time?” she warned him.
“He’s up to something,” he muttered, nodding at the stolen
obelisk and the empty envelope. “What if he’s in some sort of
trouble? What if he needs my help?”
He found Rafael’s number and dialed it. A few seconds
later a voice answered.
“Digame.”
“Rafael?” he asked in a tentative tone, not recognizing the
man’s voice and wondering if he’d misdialed.
There was a pause.
5 4 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
“Who is this?” There was a suspicious edge to the man’s
voice.
“Oliver Cook,” Tom improvised a name and a reason for
calling. “I work for the London Times . We were hoping to get
a quote from Mr. Quintavalle for a piece we’re running tomor-
row. Who am I speaking to?”
“Officer Juan Alonso of the Seville Police,” came the
heavily accented reply.
“The police? Is Mr. Quintavalle in some sort of trouble?”
Another pause, then the man replied in a hesitant, almost
apologetic tone.
“Señor Quintavalle is dead.”
“Dead?” Tom gasped. “How? When?”
“Last week. Murdered. If you like, I transfer you to my
superior,” Alonso suggested eagerly.
“That’s kind, but I’m on a deadline and I’m a quote down,”
Tom insisted, trying to keep his voice level. “Thanks for your
help. Buenas noches.”
He punched the off button. There was a long silence. Do-
minique placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
“I was too late,” he said slowly, shaking her