Book of Souls

The decision on Cantwell Hall was trickier. Ultimately, Frazier did what he’d often done when faced with these kinds of situations. He let the Library help him make up his mind. When he reviewed the pertinent DODs he nodded knowingly. His mind turned to the specifics of the plan. He had no doubt DeCorso could accomplish the job effectively. His only concern was the Brits. The SIS was behaving like a swarm of angry hornets over the Cottle affair, and the last thing he needed to do was poke a stick into the nest and twist it around. He would warn DeCorso to be careful, exceptionally careful. But on a risk-reward basis, he was certain it was the right course. What good was neutralizing Piper if the girl and her grandfather could spill their guts about whatever the hell they’d found.

He typed an e-mail to DeCorso with his orders and a stern litany of admonitions.

This was probably going to be his last mission with DeCorso, he thought, without a trace of sentimentality.

When Isabelle switched off her light, DeCorso peered through his night-vision scope to make sure she wouldn’t go roaming. He waited a good half hour to be on the safe side, then began his work. He had his favorite cocktail for this kind of a job-cheap, easily bought, possessing the perfect balance of speed and coverage. Kerosene, paint thinner, and camping stove fuel in just the right ratios. He lugged two five-gallon jerry cans up to the house and quietly began soaking the entire circumference of the building. The old Tudor frame would catch quickly enough but he didn’t want there to be any gaps. He was after a ring of fire.

He worked his way back around to the rear garden. There was still a half a can left. With a small suction cup and a diamond cutter, he carved out a pane of glass in the French Room, directly below Isabelle’s bedroom. He poured the remaining liquid directly inside. Then, with the insouciance of a factory worker ending his shift, he lit a match and flicked it through the window.

Isabelle was dreaming.

She was lying at the bottom of William Cantwell’s grave. Will was heavy on her, making love, and the top of the wooden casket was creaking and groaning under their weight. She was startled, and in fact deeply upset, at the incongruous pleasure she was experiencing amidst the ghastliness of the surroundings. But suddenly she looked over Will’s shoulder into the sky. The sunset was glowing orange, and her lime tree was heaving in the breeze. The soft rustling of its great green branches soothed her, and she was completely happy.

As she was succumbing to smoke inhalation, the ground floor of Cantwell Hall was a raging inferno. The fine paneling, the tapestries and carpets, the rooms crammed with old furniture were no more than kindling and tinder. In the Great Hall, the oil paintings of Edgar Cantwell, his ancestors, and all who followed him bubbled and hissed before dropping off the burning walls one by one.

In Lord Cantwell’s bedroom, the old man was dead of smoke inhalation before the flames arrived. When they did, creeping up the walls and spreading over the furniture onto his night table, they caught the corner of the last thing he had read before going to bed.

The Shakespeare poem curled into a hot yellow ball, then it was gone.

DeCORSO PULLED HIS car into the Hertz lot at Heathrow off the Northern Perimeter Road. It was 3:00 A.M…, he was tired, and he wanted to get over to the Airport Marriott, wash the smell of accelerants off his body, and get a few hours of sleep before his rendezvous with Piper. Since it was the middle of the night, and there were no lot attendants, he carried his bag into the lobby. There was a single night clerk, a bored young Sikh in a turban and polo shirt, who mechanically checked him in and began to settle the bill.

The clerk’s demeanor changed and he started to glance at his terminal.

“Any problems?” DeCorso asked.

“Keeps freezing up on me. Just need to check the server. Won’t be a minute.”

He disappeared through a door. DeCorso swung the terminal around to have a look but the screen was blank. He shifted his weight from leg to leg in frustration and fatigue and drummed the counter with his fingers.

The speed with which the police arrived impressed him purely from a professional point of view. Blue lights flashed into the lot and surrounded the office. DeCorso knew that run-of-the-mill British cops didn’t pack, but these guys had assault weapons. Probably an airport antiterror unit. They meant business, and when they yelled for him to get down on the floor, he did, without hesitation, but that didn’t stop him from angrily swearing out loud.

When he was cuffed with plastic wristbands and hauled to his feet, he looked the ranking officer in the face. He was Special Branch, a deputy inspector who was looking as smug as the cat who’d caught the canary. DeCorso demanded, “What’s this about?”

“You ever been to Wroxall, in Warwickshire, sir?”

“Never heard of it.”