Disclaimers: as before.
Warning: angst!
It was late morning by the time Nigel and his unwelcome chaperone arrived at the castle. Once a palace and fortress of some significance, belonging to the Duke who had ruled over the region in the 14th century, it was still a formidable fortress. Erected in the high Gothic style, the gatehouse still boasted a fine, pointed arch, which on each side was embossed with the heraldry of long dead and forgotten families. Although the turrets of the gatehouse and the adjoining curtain wall were now crumbling, the keep still soared high behind, and was in remarkably good structural condition.
In ordinary circumstances, Nigel would have admired this remarkable sight. Like any specialist of his kind, he would have taken delight in identifying its typical architectural features and trying to find out as much as he could about its specific history.
But these were not ordinary circumstances. Nigel had barely slept for nearly forty-eight hours, what with his ordeal the night before and the previous disturbed, delayed flight from America, which had landed in the early hours of yesterday. He had not eaten or drunk, apart from the coffee he had with Syd and a few swigs of water allowed him by his captors, since the first meeting with Wildey in the British library. Coupled with his throbbing head, and slightly sore stomach, he really was not in the mood or condition to appreciate even the most rare and beautiful styling. He greeted the site chiefly with trepidation, although he could not suppress just a small spark of curiosity.
The car jolted under the gateway, over some of the smaller bits of rubble fallen from the walls, and pulled up outside the keep. A crumbling stone staircase led to a small entrance on the first floor.
'Come on, out you come,' ordered Bately, waving his gun. Nigel clambered out of the car, feeling slightly shaky.
'So this is where the king of the castle orders his pathetic minions around from, is it?' Despite everything, Nigel was getting heartily sick of being pushed around.
'There's no king here but me right now, boy,' jeered Bately, grabbing Nigel by the shoulder and shoving him on to the steps which led up to the keep door.
'Patronising git,' mumbled Nigel, quite audibly as he stumbled forward. Exaggerating his fall deliberately, he took the chance to furtively glance around him, assessing his chances of escape. From here, they did not look too bad. The curtain wall had completely disintegrated in places, making it easily scalable, and there was no portcullis or gate left in the entrance tower. If only he could get out of the keep, his prospects would be favourable. Picking himself up, however, he was faced with the looming prospect of the keep itself, towards which he was propelled by another sharp push from Bately. His heart sank. These places were built to be impenetrable and inescapable.
………………..
Sydney did not go straight to the police. She knew better than to trust their heavy-handed ways, especially in a country with which she was not absolutely familiar. Instead, she went to the best place to go in any city: the University.
In the history department of the University of Rouen, members of staff were both shocked and delighted to be honoured with the sudden presence of the great Professor Sydney Fox. She told them that she had lost her blackberry and was in urgent need of access to the Internet and the telephone. They happily obliged, and also insisted on buying her a much-needed lunch. She told them little of the rest of her story. This was an occasion when she realised she had to tell her own affairs only on a 'need to know' basis.
Karen and Cate had not rested for second, particularly since the former received Nigel's gabbled message, and soon after realised she had lost contact with Sydney. Cate had freed herself from other duties and boarded the first flight to France. She had followed Sydney to Rouen, frantically searching for any leads on Sydney's location. Meanwhile, her people at Interpol had opened some inquiries into Bellimo and Wildey, and the possible whereabouts of Nigel.
Of Wildey there was absolutely no trace. Indeed, it seemed he had never really existed. Bellimo was real enough, as Sydney has known before this adventure had started. Now she was pretty sure she had met him face-to-face, and left him in the basement, unconscious, not long ago.
Bellimo had lairs all over Europe, although there had been no record of the Rouen house to which Sydney had been taken. However, a gangster recently taken into Interpol's custody, who was known to have had contact with Bellimo, was induced to tell them that he believed the rogue trader had a base in a ruined castle 'somewhere in the South of France.' Nigel's call and description of the runway had been traced to a little used airstrip some miles from Avignon. With these two pointers, Cate and Sydney decided that was the best place to start looking, even though later, silent calls from the same phone had been made from Germany, Austria and Poland.
Sydney and Cate were reunited at the University. Sydney having extracted herself from several curious and adoring French academics and their questions is quickly as she could, they made their way back to the house where she had been imprisoned. Predictably, there was no sign of Bellimo, and Dr Tadman's body was gone. While Cate called colleagues to make inquiries about the late historian, Sydney suddenly remembered the documents she had founded the desk downstairs.
She pulled them out of her bag and perused them closely. She found they had been sent from the Calais archive, and they concerned the whereabouts of the locket. Sydney had long since ceased to care about finding this particular item; indeed, once she had lost Nigel nothing else mattered apart from her finding him as soon as possible. However, she was also still acutely aware that locating the locket may be the key to getting him back.
The purport of the papers, however, was not particularly helpful. The first, the opened envelope, was simply a duplicate of the original document that had interested Nigel, stating that Emmeline Hart had reported the locket stolen in Calais in early January, 1815. The second, which neither Tadman nor Bellimo had apparently read, was from later in the year. It reported that the locket had never been returned.
Sydney's heart sunk. Maybe Lady Emma Hamilton had died without ever having the locket returned? This seemed likely, as she had died that year, quite early on if Syd remembered correct. If the text needing interpreting had been written by Emma, it may simply lead to somewhere where she had intended to place the locket, but was never given a chance. Even if Nigel cracked any code correctly, the retriever of the locket may not find it, and then he could be in even more trouble.
Sydney knew she had to get to the south of France and find him as soon as possible. In less than three hours, thanks to Cate's power to commandeer a small plane, she was there and searching.
………………….
The first floor of the keep, into which Nigel was taken, resembled the most expensive jumble sale he had ever seen. At a brief glance, Nigel identified exquisite Louis XIV furniture, a sculpture surely by Canova, and several well-known stolen masterpieces including ones by da Vinci and Caravaggio. Nothing had been treated with respect. The works of art were piled together, unprotected by coverings, in the damp and grime.
'What pathetic philistines would leave priceless treasures like this?' he retorted with disgust. 'I know you're only interested in value, but surely you've got brains enough to know they'll fetch more money in good condition?'
'Funnily enough, buyers on the black market don't tend to get a moneyback guarantee,' said Bately with a dark chuckle. 'They don't tend to complain. And I suggest you should keep your opinions to yourself too, my friend, or it'll be your condition you're worrying about.' He raised his hand threateningly. Nigel continued to look appalled, but did not argue.
Nigel's accommodation was reached up a spiral staircase and was basic, to say the least. Probably an old guard chamber, it had stone walls, ceiling and floor and only a tiny window slit, with a built-up sill, just large enough for arrows to be fired out of. In one corner was a threadbare mattress and in the other the opening to a small adjoining chamber, with no doors.
'That's your ensuite bathroom facilities,' sneered Bately. Nigel had no doubt that the small opening lead to a mediaeval guarderobe: a primitive water closet, jutting out over the walls.
On the windowsill was a large, red wine-coloured leather bound book and by it paper and a pencil. 'There's your assignment, then. You better get on with it.'
'Now hold on just one minute', exclaimed Nigel. He may have been shattered, but he was not going to meekly obey this moron. 'I wasn't expecting five-star hotel treatment', he exclaimed, maintaining his previous air of disgust, 'but how do you expect me to work now? I've not slept in days, I'm starving hungry… and I would really like to be able to wash.'
This was an honest plea. Nigel didn't mind a bit of superficial dirt, particularly if Sydney thought he looked 'manly,' as she once told him. Nevertheless, he hated being really dirty. His hands were ingrained with dirt from scrambling in the bushes by the airport and other such mishaps, and his bruised face felt cold and clammy. He severely doubted there was running water in the guarderobe.
'Please', said Nigel grudgingly.
The larger man looked him up and down. His captive certainly did look a bit of a mess. His face was very pale, almost ashen. There were grey rings forming underneath his eyes, and the purple-red mark on his cheek looked particularly nasty. 'I suppose you were somewhat prettier when we started with you,' he leered. Nigel felt decidedly uncomfortable.
'Well, okay, kid' said Bately, suddenly more congenial. 'If you want a sleep, you'd better have it now. If you wake up, get started on that book. I'll see what I can do about the rest.'
'That's terribly gracious of you,' said Nigel sarcastically. He did not want to sound too enthusiastic, even though he desperately wanted what only this man could provide. 'Please don't call me kid. I'm a lot older than I look.'
'Are you, indeed. How interesting,' smiled Bately. Then he went to the door and left, turning a key in the lock behind him. Too exhausted to think of escape right then, Nigel collapsed onto the mattress and fell asleep.
Things will get better soon, I promise! Please review and thanks for reading.