The Jane Barnaby Adventures Box Set

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Also by the Author

Jane Writes Home: part one—welcome to Oxford

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Jane Writes Home: part two—Jane the matchmaker

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Jane Writes Home: part three—all about royalty

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Jane Writes Home: part four—sibling rivalry

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Jane Writes Home: part five—an abridged story

Also by the Author

Acknowledgements

About the Author

The Jane Barnaby Adventures

Finders Keepers

Losers Weepers

THE DREAM SERIES NOVELS:

Dream Student

Dream Doctor

Dream Child

Dream Family

Waking Dream

Dream Reunion

Dream Home

Dream Vacation

Fever Dream

Dream Wedding

Dream Fragments: Stories from the Dream Series

Betty & Howard’s Excellent Adventure

A Box of Dreams: the collected Dream Series (books 1-5)

All available at:

www.writingdreams.net

Copyright © 2016 by J.J. DiBenedetto

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

J.J. DiBenedetto

Arlington, Virginia, U.S.A.

www.writingdreams.net

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Interior Design & Typesetting by

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Finders Keepers/J.J. DiBenedetto — 1st ed.

Cover Art: designed by

Emma Michaels

August 30, 1990

Dear Daddy,

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write, but I’ve been incredibly busy. Before I go any further, I want to thank you. First, for everything, because I wouldn’t be anywhere without you. Second, for making me get on the plane even though I know it’s driving you crazy to have me so far away. And third, for convincing me to come two weeks earlier than I would have if it had been left up to me.

Everyone has been very friendly and helpful, but despite that, there are so many things that are far more difficult than I imagined. For example, I spent all morning and part of the afternoon at the bank setting up my checking account. It would have taken a half-hour at most back home.

That’s nothing compared to the paperwork I’ve had to fill out at the University. There’s a form for absolutely everything, except possibly for going to the loo (I’m trying to use the British words. I’ll never hide my accent and I don’t want to anyway, but I think they appreciate me making the effort, vocabulary-wise).

Actually, there probably is a form for using the loo, which probably has to be filled out in triplicate, submitted to two different offices and signed in blood, and I just haven’t run across it yet. But I have gotten a lot done. If nothing else, I’m definitely, officially, properly enrolled at Magdalen College, Oxford, so you can tell everyone back home about that!

It’s beautiful here. As soon as I have a couple of rolls of film shot, I’ll get them developed and send you pictures. Almost everything is so old here - there are parts of the campus where, if I didn’t know better, I might think it was the year 1790 instead of 1990! You were right about the weather, though. It’s been gray and damp every day. It feels like November, and I guess that’s one more thing I have to thank you for. I’ve been wearing my new raincoat every day!

I promise I’ll write more often. How does twice a week sound? I’ll tell you more about my dormitory, and the food, and the special form I have to fill out if I want to have wine with my dinner. Hopefully, by the next time I write, my advisor will be here, so I can tell you about him, too. Until then, I miss you and I’m thinking of you.

All my love,

It was another cold, damp, uninviting day in Oxfordshire, but the young woman in the beige raincoat didn’t pay the slightest attention to the miserable weather. She refused to call it toffee-colored despite what the label said; beige was beige! The coat was a shade or two lighter than her long light-brown hair, which whipped about in the wind as she knelt down, her hands raking through the dirt until they found what they sought.

Jane Barnaby picked up the small, smooth stone and examined it critically. It would do nicely, she decided. Now, she was ready. She stood up and made her way down to Addison’s Walk, just as she’d done every day since she arrived at Oxford back in August. The gray sky didn’t bother her at all; by now, Jane was used to not seeing the sun for days at a time. Honestly, this December morning wasn’t noticeably different than her first morning here four months ago. Maybe it was a few degrees colder, but no more than that.

The Walk was still beautiful; it made no difference whether it was sunny or cloudy or pouring rain. In her right hand, Jane carried the small round stone that she’d just picked up from the ground outside Holywell House. This, too, she’d done every day since she arrived.

As she walked, Jane didn’t feel the wind, cutting through her London Fog coat. She hadn’t had the heart to tell her father that the raincoat he’d bought for her as a going-away gift wasn’t actually a British product at all. And that wasn’t the only thing she hadn’t had the heart to tell him - three months here, two letters home a week, and she still hadn’t mentioned her daily ritual.

But as she walked, that slipped from her mind, as did nearly everything else. She wasn’t thinking about the meeting she was headed for, or what it might portend. The only thing on her mind now was, as always when she trod this path, her mother. Jane carried on a conversation with her, telling her about everything and nothing.

Her mother had guided her here, not just to Oxford, but specifically to Magdalen College. Jane was certain of that. She knew it that very first day, when she’d been given a brief tour and history lesson by Olivia, one of the two Social Secretaries of the College. Olivia had led Jane along the beautiful Walk, explaining that it had been one of C.S. Lewis’ favorite places when he’d been a Fellow here. The moment Jane heard that, she knew. It hadn’t been random chance that landed her in this particular College, but her mother’s hand.

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe was the very first real book Jane’s mother had ever read to her and her brother. Closing her eyes, her feet moving unerringly along the Walk, Jane was transported back to her childhood bedroom. She saw herself taking the book from her mother’s hands, and then slowly, haltingly, reading it back, her voice growing stronger and more confident with each word. Jane remembered the pride shining from her mother’s eyes as she and then her brother in turn finished the last chapter and demanded that they start on Prince Caspian immediately.

Her mother would be proud of her now, Jane was certain of that. She opened her eyes and returned to the present, squeezing the stone in her fist as she rounded the northeast corner of the Walk, passing by the footbridge that led to the Bat Willow Meadow. It wasn’t much farther, maybe fifty feet, to the elm tree. Angela’s Tree, with a capital T, as Jane thought of it now.

There was a pile of stones, carefully placed, right at the base of the old, gnarled tree. You could even call it a cairn, Jane decided, now that it was almost a foot high. She knelt down and placed the new stone just so, keeping the cairn perfectly stable and balanced. Then she made the sign of the cross and whispered, as she did every day, I know you’re with me, Mom. I love you.

Jane remained there, kneeling, a few minutes more, until the wind stilled for a moment. It always seemed to do that; Jane knew it was her mother reaching out to her, telling her it was time to continue on with her day. Jane stood, staring at the cairn for another moment, when she heard footsteps behind her.

She turned to see a fellow graduate student and resident of Holywell House, Melanie Harrington. Melanie wore only a hooded sweatshirt and didn’t seem bothered by the cold and the wind and the damp; Jane had three layers on underneath her coat and, now she was done with her daily ritual, she could feel the miserable weather in spite of all her clothing.

As Jane waited for Melanie to catch up with her, she realized her classmate had probably been standing back, watching her as she left the daily gift for her mother. She knew that her private ritual wasn’t really private, that her fellows in the College sometimes saw her at it, and probably wondered what she was doing.

Melanie drew even with Jane and, smiling gently, asked, How is your mother today?

She’s very curious what Professor Welldon… Jane was halfway through her answer before she properly registered what Melanie said. How do you know about that? It hadn’t occurred to Jane that not only wasn’t her ritual private, but in fact it was general public knowledge.

Everyone knows, Jane, Melanie said, patting Jane’s arm. It’s, she took a deep breath, quite touching, really. The two women resumed walking. Melanie laughed gently and continued, Professor Chary scolded a pair of undergraduates the other day about it. They were fooling around near your tree, and he told them to show the proper respect.

Jane blushed a deep red. Professor Chary was the President of the College! He knew about her mother, about her daily walk? "He called it ‘my tree?’"

He did indeed, Melanie answered. You know how it is here. We love our traditions, even if they are only three months old. Give it a year, and your tree will be a regular item on the walking tours of the grounds.

Mom would like that, Jane said softly, more to herself than to Melanie. Maybe it was finally time to tell her father about it. Send him a picture of Angela’s Tree, tell him about her daily walks and her conversations with Mom. Maybe it was well past time to have a long talk with her father about Mom, and about allowing himself to really live again.

Jane walked into the Middle Common Room and spotted Professor Welldon immediately. He was settled in a plush armchair, deeply engrossed in a book. She couldn’t help but smile; her advisor was always deeply engrossed in whatever he happened to be doing at the moment. The man had more energy than anyone else Jane had ever met, and he was able to focus it like a laser beam on who or whatever was in front of him.

Jane went over and sat in the next chair, wondering how long it would take for Professor Welldon – she couldn’t bring herself to call him Bill, no matter how often he asked – to notice her.

The answer was: until he reached the end of the chapter he was reading, about ten minutes. Her advisor put the book down and grinned at her. Right on time! Jane didn’t bother to point out that when she’d gotten here ten minutes ago, she was already ten minutes late; she’d learned the first week of term that Professor Welldon didn’t set much store by the clock.

You wanted to talk to me, Professor?

Yes, indeed, he said, his voice booming. He wasn’t big, really, but Jane had to keep reminding herself of that. He was hardly taller than she was, maybe an inch or two, if that. And he wasn’t heavy by any measure. But the way he carried himself - his aura, the sheer force of his personality - made him seem like a huge man, a bear. With a voice, and a laugh, to match. I’ve got an assignment for you, if you’re willing. Jane also had to remind herself that he’d been living here for the last twenty years; he hadn’t lost a bit of the Bronx accent that she was so familiar with. She had less of it than he did, and she’d only been over here for three months.

Jane wondered, not for the first time, if that was why Professor Welldon had taken her under his wing. Could it really be that simple – a shared hometown? Whatever the reason, Jane wasn’t about to question it; if her advisor liked her, and wanted to push her along, that was just fine by her.

Yes, Professor. Whatever it is, yes, I’ll do it. She’d have said that regardless of her feelings towards him, or his towards her. It was a universal truth for graduate students, whether here at Oxford or back in the United States: you don’t say no to your advisor.

His smile got even wider. Wonderful! You can drive, I assume?

Of course, Jane replied. Not well, as her father or any of her friends would attest, but Professor Welldon didn’t need to know that.

You can drive a stick?

Of course, she said again, even though she never had. How hard could it be?

Perfect! I wouldn’t normally impose on a student for something like this, he said. Jane didn’t react; it didn’t matter why he was asking, or what, precisely, he wanted her to do. But my wife and I have to leave for Mallorca tomorrow, and the car won’t be delivered until Monday morning. I’d have my daughter do it, but Tali can’t get away. And I know I can trust you, Jane.

He knew he could trust her. That was that, as far as Jane was concerned. She could learn to drive a stick on the fly. She could drive his car wherever it needed to go. Thank you, Professor.

Would you please, for the love of God, call me Bill already? We’re not in class.

Yes, Pro – Bill. It was never going to sound right, but she’d try to retrain herself. So where am I driving your car?

Nowhere very far. His smile was as bright as the sun. Just over to Spain.

Jane lay on her stomach, stretched out on the bed and staring out at the gray sky and the damp grounds. It really was beautiful; she never tired of the view. But she forced herself to look away, turning her attention to the blank sheet of paper in front of her. Dear Daddy, she began.

Like most children, when Jane was very young, she’d called her father Daddy. Somewhere around her eighth birthday, she’d decided that was too immature and began calling him Dad. She’d started calling him Daddy again four years ago, when she first went away to college. Four years ago - or, in other words, three months after her mother’s car accident, and two weeks before her death.

Neither Jane nor her father had ever said a word about the change. It was a week or two before Jane even realized she was doing it, and once she did, she decided that it simply felt right. She could tell that he felt the same. Jane was fairly certain it wasn’t ever going to change back again; he would always be Daddy to her, for the rest of her life.

She lay there, staring at Dear Daddy and debating whether she should tell him about the daily walk and the Tree and everything else she wanted to say to him. He deserved to hear it, needed to hear it – but this wasn’t the right way. The things she had to say to her father had to be said in person.

He was going to visit her sometime in the spring. He hadn’t come out and said so, but his last few letters hinted at the prospect, with mentions of storing up vacation time and watching his budget. She’d tell him then. She could take him out to the Tree and tell him right there. He would feel Angela’s presence. He’d know his wife wasn’t truly gone, that she was looking after him just as surely as she looked after Jane.

That was definitely the right approach, Jane decided. With that dilemma out of the way, Jane spent an hour telling her father all about her upcoming trip. For the sake of his peace of mind, she left out a few details. He didn’t need to know that she was driving someone else’s brand new car nearly 1,400 miles. Or that she’d be travelling alone across three countries and two bodies of water. He’d only worry, and what was the point of that?

She did make sure to tell him what a big deal it was, and how she’d get to see all the dig sites on Mallorca first-hand. She pointed out that, in the past, Professor Welldon usually took several students with him, but this time, he’d singled out Jane for the honor. She omitted the fact that it was usually summertime when her advisor brought students out to Mallorca, rather than over Christmas, and that the only reason he’d asked her was because there was no one else to bring the car over.

She finished by mentioning something that was 100% true: Professor Welldon was not only from the Bronx, as Jane and her father were, but from the very same neighborhood. The Professor had grown up less than half a mile from the house that Jane’s father had been born in. Of course, Professor Welldon was thirteen years older than her father, and he’d joined the army when he was eighteen, so it was extraordinarily unlikely that the two men had ever crossed paths as children. And it was obviously impossible that either of them would remember if they had. Again, there seemed to be no point in mentioning that.

When she was satisfied that she’d said everything her father needed to know, and nothing he shouldn’t, Jane wrote the date in the upper left-hand corner: December 11, 1990. Then she signed the letter, the way she always signed letters to family and to her closest friends - the way her mother had taught her back in kindergarten. Her friends back in college – and high school, for that matter - had laughed at her about it. They’d especially laughed about the little heart at the end, right above the e in her name. But her mother had been very definite about it, when she’d explained it to a confused but willing five-year-old Jane. Anybody who sees that will know everything they need to about you. Jane hadn’t questioned it then, or anytime since. If it was good enough for Mom, it was good enough for her, and it was definitely good enough for the rest of the world.

Jane folded the letter, stuffed it into the envelope she’d already addressed, and sealed it. She went to her desk and fished for another envelope; the thought of college reminded her that she had another letter to write.

Dear Jess, she began, and proceeded to tell her best friend all the details about her upcoming trip that she’d left out of the letter to her father. As she wrote, she began to feel a nervous stirring in the pit of her stomach. When she got to the part about having to drive a stick shift 1,400 miles, when she’d never driven one before, period, the stirring became a rumbling. I have to be out of my mind. I’m going to wreck his new car and kill myself!

Jane put her pen down, and as she did so, she imagined Jess’ response. She could almost hear her friend’s clear, confident voice echoing through her tiny bedroom. Since when did you ever chicken out on anything, Jane? Think of it a road trip, right?

A road trip, Jane muttered to herself. Just like Niagara Falls! You remember, she could just about hear her college roommate say, laughing, us and Mark and Allan and Rita and Tishy. You drove the whole way and you never even got a speeding ticket!

Jess was right. Jane had made that three and a half hour drive in just over two hours. I can’t chicken out. I can do this, she told herself, picking up her pen to finish the letter. I can do this.

This place is a bloody maze! Tom peered at each doorway in the semidarkness. This was not his job. He was no delivery boy; he was the assistant Print Room supervisor, for Heaven’s sake. Really, he should have been on his way home half an hour ago. But Alice over in the Ancient Egypt and Sudan collection was desperate, and Tom agreed to help, in hopes that a favor today might be repaid after the big Christmas do. To hear some of the other lads tell it, Alice was none too shy about expressing her gratitude.

She’d better be worth it, Tom muttered. He hadn’t counted on getting lost in the bowels of the Institute of Archaeology. But this had to be the right corridor. He checked Alice’s scribbled instruction again. Sub-basement, room 16. Or was it 18? Alice’s writing was not the neatest.

It was probably 16, he decided. And there it was. The door was ajar; Tom went in, flipped the light switch. There was a wooden table in the center of the room, just as Alice had said. Set it down there, she’d told him. The people from the British Museum will be by in the morning to collect it.

Tom set down the heavy gray box; it was about the size of a large toolbox, and it was closed with a secure-looking padlock. He hadn’t asked what was in it, but he assumed it must be valuable, if the British Museum wanted it. It seemed somewhat dodgy to just leave it here, in this open room, in the basement of a building anyone could walk into, but that’s what Alice wanted, so that’s what he did.

The sky was still dark when Jane awoke just after seven o’clock. She assumed that it wouldn’t lighten significantly as the day went on; it had been heavy and gray since the middle of last week.

It didn’t strike her as a good omen. But, omen or not, the car would be arriving in two hours, and Professor Welldon was expecting her Thursday morning in Mallorca.

Before that, Jane had to take her daily walk with her mother; she threw on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, pulled her coat on over them, and went out, collecting a stone on her way down to Addison’s Walk. Jane didn’t linger as long as she usually did at Angela’s Tree, but she was sure her mother understood; Mom wouldn’t want her to keep the gentleman from the Land Rover dealership waiting.

Melanie will visit you the next couple of weeks, Jane told her mother as she placed today’s stone on the cairn. You’ll like her. I’m sure she’ll have plenty to say to you. I’ll be back after the New Year. Jane crossed herself, stood, and continued down the Walk, whispering, I love you, Mom. Please wish me luck.

She returned to her room with barely half an hour to shower, dress and make one final search of her luggage and her purse to ensure she had everything packed.

Passport? Check. The ferry tickets and the £500 in traveller’s checks Professor Welldon had given her for the trip? Check. The Professor’s mail for the last week? Check. As far as Jane could tell, she wasn’t missing anything, and if she was, she’d have to do without it. At one minute to nine, Jane dragged her bags out into the hallway, locked her door and headed downstairs.

Sure enough, when Jane got outside, two cars were approaching up Jowett Walk. In the lead was a huge blue vehicle, followed by a similar, but much smaller car. She hoped the professor’s new toy was not the massive blue one, staring with mounting dread at the massive car just now coming to a stop only a few feet away.

The smaller car parked right behind it, and both drivers emerged from their vehicles. They wore identical light blue polo shirts with the Land Rover logo emblazoned on them. The driver of the larger car, the younger and taller of the two, came straight up to Jane. He carried a clipboard, which he glanced down at before speaking. Miss Barnaby?

That’s me, Jane answered. The man handed her the clipboard.

Initial the form on line three, line eight and line fourteen. And sign at the bottom, and again on page three. Of course there was a form. There was always a form, usually in triplicate, and sometimes there was a form just to request another form.

Jane initialed and signed as she was instructed. Here you go, she said, handing the clipboard back. The man reviewed her initials and signatures and nodded. He pulled off the bottom sheet from the clipboard and handed it back to Jane.

That’s your acknowledgement. He led her over to the car – the larger one, of course. You agree it’s the correct model? Land Rover Discovery, Series I, five doors, chromatic blue exterior, sand interior?

Professor Welldon hadn’t actually told her any of that. He said it was a Land Rover; that was it. Jane just had to assume that he had actually ordered the five-door model in chromatic blue; if he hadn’t, he was going to be in for a surprise on Thursday morning. Yes, sir, Jane answered.

The man handed her a keyring. Enjoy your vehicle, miss, he said, turning to leave with his fellow. They piled into the smaller car, and were gone a moment later. Jane was left behind with this insanely large vehicle that she really didn’t know how to drive.

The hour of practice Jane had had Saturday in Melanie’s brother’s Jaguar had done nothing for her confidence in her ability to drive a stick. The poor man was in tears by the end of the session, thanks to the unnatural sounds Jane had coaxed out of the transmission in her attempts to master the art of shifting gears. Afterward, Melanie had laughed at her brother’s reaction, That was quite an accomplishment, Jane. You should be proud of yourself. No Harrington man has cried in public for a hundred and thirty years, but a few laps around the car park and you drove him to tears. Melanie’s comment did nothing to reassure Jane.

Staring at the pristine Land Rover, fresh off the lot, Jane folded the form she’d been given and stuffed it in her pocket. She guessed that the cost of the vehicle was noted there somewhere, and she had absolutely no desire to know what it was.

I’m not getting anywhere just standing here, Jane muttered, opening up the rear door and hauling her luggage into the car. With that done, she couldn’t think of any other excuse to delay the inevitable. She had to get behind the wheel and drive this beast. Jane saw her mother’s guiding hand everywhere here at Oxford; maybe this was her work, too. Her mother wouldn’t have put her here if she couldn’t handle this. Jane kept telling herself that as she climbed into the driver’s seat.

Shaking her head, laughing in spite of herself, Jane immediately got out and walked around to the other side. So long as I don’t forget what side I should be driving on, I’ll be fine, she said to herself, trying to make herself believe it.

Ten minutes later, still not believing it, Jane took a deep breath, inserted the key into the ignition, and hoped for the best.

It was not a pleasant ride, but Jane drove the two miles to the Institute of Archaeology without major incident, unless you counted stalling three times en route. Still, that was an improvement over how she’d done in the Jaguar over the weekend. And, once she got there, she took it as a good omen that there was a parking space on Beaumont Street, directly in front of the Institute.

This was the last stop before the real trip began. Professor Welldon had left a note in Jane’s mailbox. He needed her to collect a box of pottery shards that had to go back to Mallorca. It was in the sub-basement, so down Jane went. She navigated the corridors easily; she’d spent enough time down here the last three months.

The only question was, which room had the box been left in? The note specified that it would be a large gray box, and that it would be left in plain view. But, like punctuality, penmanship was not one of the Professor’s strong suits. Jane couldn’t tell if he’d written 16 or 18.

The answer was provided for her. Poking her head in, she saw that there was no box, gray or otherwise, in plain view or anywhere else, in room 18. So room 16 it was, and, sure enough, sitting on a table was her package. It was closed with a heavy padlock, and there was no key to be found. Hopefully Professor Welldon had one.

The box was surprisingly heavy; Jane didn’t expect pottery shards to weigh so much, but she supposed that it was just the box itself, and not the contents. She struggled back up two flights of stairs and through the maze of corridors and finally made it to the car. She put the box in the back seat, slammed the door and got behind the wheel.

Jane sat there for a half hour. She read over Professor Welldon’s hand-written directions several times. She pored over the maps. She checked and rechecked to make sure she had her traveler’s checks and passport, in case they’d somehow spontaneously vanished. But finally, she couldn’t delay any longer. She had no more excuses, no more reasons to delay. It was now, or never.

In the name of all that’s holy, turn that bloody alarm off!

It took Tom five minutes to remember that he lived alone; there was no one else in his tiny flat to turn the bloody alarm off. It took him five more minutes of flailing around before he finally laid hands on the alarm clock, only to find that it was not, in fact, the source of that ungodly ringing.

The phone. Of course it was the bloody phone. Which was in the other bloody room. Tom summoned up the energy to swing his legs off the bed, and immediately regretted it. The room spun, and the contents of his stomach made their way halfway up his throat.

A little while later, and much more slowly, he tried again. By this time, Tom was fairly certain, the ringing in the other room had stopped. The ringing in his head, on the other hand, was still going strong.

One hour, two litres of water and four aspirin later, he felt that he was probably as capable as he was going to get today, and he steeled himself for the task of checking the answerphone. He had no idea who it could be. His brother was in Australia, his parents were in the Canary Islands, his sister hadn’t called in three years, the Museum was closed today, just about all his friends had been at the big Christmas do last night and every one of them had to be at least as hungover as he was.

He pushed the play button and clapped his hands over his ears as Alice’s voice screeched forth from the tiny speaker. How could such a loud, horrible sound come from such a small speaker? Tom heard none of what Alice had to say, so he rewound the tape, lowered the volume to what he hoped was a tolerable level, and played it again.

Tom Barker, you great idiot! Where is that box? What did you do with it? Alice shrieked on, and Tom sat down on the floor, staring at the answerphone in utter confusion. What box? What did he have to do with anything? And how on God’s green Earth did the woman expect him to answer intelligently after last night’s party, which she hadn’t even had the decency to attend?

As Tom wondered about all that, the phone began to ring again.

The trip was not off to an auspicious start. Jane did not like being on the wrong side of the car, driving on the wrong side of the road. The thought that once she crossed the Channel – assuming she made it that far – she’d be on the right side of the road again did not cheer her up. She suspected that being on the wrong side of the car, but the right side of the road, would be even more disconcerting.

She’d made it as far as Watlington Road without serious incident, but that’s where the trouble began. Dr. Welldon’s directions had seemed very clear when she’d read and re-read them back in her room at Holywell House, but in practice they were less so. Jane completely missed the ramp to get onto the M40 motorway. It had taken her ten miles to find a place to turn around, and a maddening half hour after that to get back on Watlington Road going the right direction.

She nearly missed the ramp the second time, too, and had to cut across three lanes of traffic to make it. At a guess, she came within three inches of losing the passenger-side mirror, and maybe a foot, if that, of hitting a delivery van broadside. Her heart rate didn’t return to anything close to normal for twenty miles after that, just in time to try and exit the M40.

According to Dr. Welldon, the trip from Oxfordshire to Dover should take two hours, two and a half at the outside. Being careful, Jane had built in extra time. Her intention had been to leave by ten AM and give herself four hours to reach the port, and then an hour to figure out how to get the car aboard the boat. But that was already shot to hell; she didn’t start until eleven thirty, and she’d lost nearly an hour missing the ramp onto the M40. She couldn’t afford to fall further behind, and that meant she couldn’t miss Exit 1A.

Unfortunately, Jane was so busy thinking about how off schedule she’d gotten that she missed several signs indicating the approach of the exit. The first sign she actually saw told her that it was 250 feet away. And it was a right-hand exit. She was four lanes over to the left. Jane took a deep breath, muttered to herself, "Oh, God, I am an idiot!" and proceeded to cut off a taxi, a tour bus and what looked like a brand-new black Mercedes.

Jane only had a momentary glimpse into the Mercedes, but she was pretty sure she saw a Styrofoam cup fly out of the driver’s hand and shower him with coffee. She felt guilty, but only for a fraction of a second, just long enough for her brain to register the other Mercedes – the one directly in front of her.

The one she nearly rear-ended at fifty miles an hour.

There wasn’t enough space to stop, so Jane swerved onto the shoulder, passing the car on the right. She didn’t start to breathe again for another mile. After that, things calmed down somewhat. She was able to get onto the M25 with very little trouble, and then it was forty miles of straight driving.

She allowed her mind to wander a bit. She wondered if her father had gotten her latest letter yet, and if he’d really spend Christmas with his next-door neighbor Mr. Parlato like she’d urged him to. Then she mentally checked in with her closest friends from college. Jess would be working – no holidays in the TV business, especially for interns. Tishy would be at a fancy resort, God only knew where, with her grandfather. Rita and Jake were probably arguing right this minute over whether to spend Christmas with her family or his. Allan was back in Minnesota, no doubt digging out from two feet of snow. And Mark – God, she wished he was here right now, in the passenger seat, joking with her, flirting with her, tickling her, keeping her mind off of how out of her depth she was on this trip.

And if she had told him she wanted him to come to England with me, he would be here right now. There was no doubt in her mind that he would have turned down that job in California if she’d asked. He’d more than hinted at it; he did everything short of hiring a plane to write it in the sky, Jane had to admit. And she’d been sorely tempted, especially after that last night, a week after graduation.

But she hadn’t, and she wasn’t even sure why.

She broke out of her reverie half a mile before the next exit she had to take, no closer to an answer. Plenty of time for her to get over with no trouble. Once she was safely on the next stage of the journey, zipping along the M26 motorway as it turned into the M20, she took a quick glance at the directions. This was the longest stretch on this side of the English Channel – nearly an hour with no turns, no stopping, nothing to do except maintain a steady sixty miles an hour and keep in her lane.

Even at sixty, cars were passing her, but Jane had no desire to make this a race. It was a quarter to two; so long as nothing unexpected happened, she could still make the three-forty ferry. As the miles ticked by, Jane noticed the black Mercedes with the tinted windows behind her. She wondered idly if it was the same one she’d cut off a while back. If it was, though, the driver gave no indication. In his place, Jane didn’t think she would be quite so forgiving. She might have ridden his bumper for a while, occasionally honking at him, just to make sure he got the point. But he – if it was the same driver – just kept a safe and constant three car-lengths distance behind her and otherwise drove like nothing had happened.

Maybe, she thought, she could learn something from him. But she quickly dismissed the idea. She stared out at the lack of scenery – this was a terribly boring drive, really. That was probably for the best, though – the last Jane needed while driving an unfamiliar car on the wrong side of the road was distraction.

The miles passed by, the black Mercedes keeping its distance precisely. It wasn’t long before Jane put the other car out of her mind, as her destination neared and she had to think about directions again. Dr. Welldon said that it was easy as pie to navigate the port of Dover, but she’d learned early on that his idea of easy wasn’t quite the same as hers.

To her extreme surprise, Jane made it from the M20 to the A20, and then through not one, not two but four roundabouts without incident. Maybe I’m not such an idiot after all, she told herself as she turned off of North Camber Way onto South Camber Way. It was only another half a mile and one more turn after that, and she was there.

She checked the time: two fifty-five. Amazing! Jane followed the signs without any difficulty to the Travel Centre and found parking. The P & O Ferry counter was right in front of her – it couldn’t be easier. Five minutes later, she had a tag to place in the window of the car and clear directions to drive to the loading dock. Five minutes after that, she was taking the key out of the ignition and making her way to the elevator that would take her up to the deck of the Pride of Canterbury.

Jane walked right past a black Mercedes on her way to the elevator, barely paying it any notice. Was it the same car that had been behind her all this way? Maybe, maybe not. It wasn’t such a big coincidence anyway; the driver was probably just taking a quick holiday in Paris. If he owned a Mercedes, surely a couple of days in Paris were no big deal for him. She put it completely out of her mind as she rode up the elevator, through a short hallway and then outside into the miserable English Channel weather.

She looked out at the waves, which seemed quite choppy. The ferry was rocking a little even now, tied securely to the pier. How rough would it be crossing the Channel? Jane’s boating experience was limited to a two hour fishing trip from City Island when she was ten years old, and canoeing during summer camp from third through sixth grade. She’d never been out on the water in bad conditions, and overhearing one of the ferry’s crew refer to the churning, turbulent water as being smooth as glass today, innit? did nothing to calm her nerves.

There was a map of the ferry, and Jane noted several places to eat and drink. If she didn’t have to get behind the wheel as soon as I’m off the boat in France, she would have had a glass of wine…or five. But even without that worry, she wasn’t at all confident that she could keep wine – or anything else – down, if the ferry was bobbing up and down like crazy.

As the departure time approached, the deck became progressively more crowded despite the biting wind and spraying sea. Jane stared out into the Channel, losing herself in the rolling waves. She didn’t hear the footsteps approaching her; it wasn’t until the man approaching her was well within her personal space that she felt his presence looming behind her.

She turned, startled, and looked up. He had to be at least six feet tall, maybe six-one or six-two, Jane guessed, clean-shaven, with dark hair cut quite short. And a strong chin – a very strong chin. ’ello, Miss. Enjoying the lovely weather? She heard the slightest hint of a lilt to his voice. Irish? She was just starting to feel confident in her ability to differentiate the many varieties of English accent with some measure of accuracy, but she wasn’t willing to risk annoying a complete stranger. Especially a potentially friendly one…with such a strong chin.

I’m not sure ‘enjoying’ is the right word, she replied with a hopefully casual grin. To her own ears, her words didn’t have quite the breezy tone she was shooting for. Her flirting muscles were obviously weak from lack of use. All she could think was that Dr. Welldon would be so disappointed in her, and that thought brought a genuine smile to her lips. After all, her advisor had been trying to set her up with someone for the last month and a half.

They’d been in the Middle Common Room, her advisor just finishing an impromptu lecture on Bronze Age smelting techniques. Dr. Welldon pointed to three men sitting across the room in plush armchairs, each nursing a pint of what had to be Guinness. Good men, all three of them, he’d told Jane in a fatherly tone. And I can’t speak for your taste, but they all seem handsome enough. I’ve got the lot of them in my Introduction to Fieldwork course. You pick one, and if he doesn’t show you a good time, I’ll flunk him.

By that time, there was very little her advisor could say to shock her; attempted matchmaking barely got a reaction. She remembered the three men clearly, and her reactions to them. Those three? Thomas? the one on the left, with the scrawny arms, Have you seen him out on the river? You want to set me up with him?

What about Richard? The one in the middle, sporting a mustache that was never going to come in properly.

He’s got a girlfriend, Jane said, rolling her eyes, four of them, in fact.

Dr. Welldon shrugged apologetically. She had to hand it to him, Jane had thought. He never gave up. And what’s wrong with Henry? There was nothing wrong with Henry. Not a thing. Except for his unfortunate resemblance to Jane’s twin brother. Jane didn’t answer Dr. Welldon; she merely dug into her wallet and pulled out a picture of George. Her advisor looked at it, and for a moment – it had been the first time she’d seen this expression on the man’s face – he was genuinely confused. You’ve already got a picture of him?

Jane had laughed, loud enough to turn every head in the MCR. That’s not him, professor. That’s my brother.

Comprehension dawned on Dr. Welldon’s face. Yes. Well. That could be awkward for you. Then he’d patted her arm and smiled his gentle smile, so much like her father’s. I’m not giving up. You’re a beautiful girl, Jane. I’ll find someone for you yet, unless you take some responsibility and do it for yourself.

Jane shook her head and fixed her thoughts back on the present, and on the handsome – no, very handsome – man standing next to her. He asked, American?

Yes, she said. I’m just… she caught herself; she was about to tell this man, whom she knew not at all, every one of her personal details. Dr. Welldon was right – she clearly had been single too long if she was ready to spill all my secrets to someone she didn’t even know! She took a deep breath and continued, I’m just taking a quick trip to France. Maybe do some Christmas shopping in Paris, she said, a little too quickly. She hoped he wouldn’t notice.

Lovely place for it, he answered her smoothly. I’ve business there myself. Too smoothly. He was a professional, Jane decided, not really sure where that thought came from, or what, exactly, he might be a professional at. Still, concentrating on his voice was a pleasant distraction from the unpleasant way her stomach was behaving.

Really? Jane didn’t trust herself to say anything more.

You know what they say, he smiled. No rest for the wicked. Oh, that smile! If his business was charming the socks off of American graduate students with shredded nerves and incipient seasickness, Jane thought, he must be a millionaire. She pushed that thought away, trying to look at the man objectively. He had to be in his twenties – older than her, surely, but not that much older. What could his business be? A salesman, maybe? He had the personality for it, no question.

What kind of business? Jane tried to keep her voice level, not show how much he was getting to her without even seeming to try. She wasn’t sure she managed it.

Art, he said, and Jane’s interest in the man increased, if that was possible. I work at the Saatchi Gallery. She hadn’t been yet, and modern art wasn’t really her thing, but she knew about the Saatchi, and how prestigious it was. Obviously this man wasn’t just gorgeous, with a killer voice and charm to spare – he had real talent and serious brains going for him as well.

He was too good to be true. But was he really? Jane immediately dismissed the idea. Why shouldn’t he be exactly what he seemed? The Saatchi Gallery was hardly the kind of name you’d drop as a pickup line, and he had no way to know she was studying at Oxford and was the rare exception who would be impressed by it. She let him tell her all about his assignment, to try and obtain a series of photographs to complete an exhibit that was opening next month. She let him walk her below, to a café, and buy her a soda just as the ferry cast off from the pier, pushing out into the Channel. No coffee. I need something to calm my stomach, she explained.

She let him put a gentle yet somehow possessive hand on the small of her back as he guided her to a lounge where they could look out at the sea in dry, climate-controlled comfort. She gave him her name then, with her best version of a coy smile. Jane Barnaby, she said, extending her right hand.

Alex Coggin, he replied, taking her hand and kissing it. Jane grabbed the arm of her seat with her left hand and gripped tightly to keep from swooning at Alex’s gesture. Too good to be true or not, she was about three heartbeats away from standing up, grabbing Alex’s hand, leading him down to the Land Rover parked belowdecks and having her way with him.

The Land Rover…crap! She caught herself before those words spilled out of her mouth, but they were echoing back and forth in her head.

Jane stood suddenly, all thoughts of passion in the back seat cast away. Excuse me. I have to go, right now. I don’t think I locked the car. Alex grabbed her arm and she pulled it away from him. It’s not my car, I have to go and check. Wait here. Please, I’ll be back in five minutes, she said, forcing herself not to turn her head, not to get caught in his entrancing gaze. She set off for the elevator, making herself walk as quickly as she could and not daring to turn back.

She stepped off the elevator and headed straight for zone B-2, space number twelve. It was still there. Of course it was. Jane shook her head at the absurdity of her fears. Even if someone wanted to steal the car, it wasn’t as though they could drive it anywhere. But someone could break in, vandalize the car, or – the New Yorker in her poked its head up – steal the radio.

She was only a few feet away, walking through the cavernous, dimly-lit parking level, when the ferry lurched and she lost her footing. She uttered a curse and then, an instant later heard another. An echo. It had to be an echo. And so were the footsteps she heard coming from – she thought – ahead of her. Her own footsteps, echoing back to her at odd angles in this huge space.

And there was the car. Dr. Welldon’s brand new Land Rover Discovery, Series I, five doors, chromatic blue exterior. She had locked the car, she could see that at a glance but Jane walked around and tested all five doors, just to be sure. All locked, all safe. The windows were all unbroken, her luggage and Dr. Welldon’s box of pottery shards were all safe in the back. She could go back up and continue what she hoped she’d started with Alex. There was absolutely nothing to worry about down here. Not a thing.

Eighteen! That is an eight! Can you not read?

Tom didn’t answer; there seemed little point. Alice was more interested in berating him than in hearing anything he had to say. At any rate, what was there to say? He thought he was meant to leave the box in room 16, but he’d really been meant to leave it in room 18. And when the man from the British Museum had come, he’d found no box in room 18 – or room 16.

Perhaps you can read this, then, Alice continued, shoving a paper into his hand. Some women became more attractive when they were angry, Tom mused, not looking at what he’d just been handed. Alice was decidedly not one of them.

She tapped her foot impatiently and Tom held the paper up. The first thing that caught his eye was a figure: £6,500,000. He blinked, shook his head and looked again. The number did not change.

You understand now? The money is the least of it, you - you bloody fool! Tom imagined that much stronger words were going through Alice’s mind. Those items are irreplaceable! You think we can just go to the market and purchase more Third Dynasty relics?

Tom understood. He understood that he was going to be out on his arse and on the dole shortly, and that not just Alice but likely half her office would be joining him. He began to say I’m sorry but caught himself. Not only was it wholly inadequate, but it would probably get him slapped. Or worse; the letter opener on Alice’s desk appeared to be quite sharp, and her hand was edging ever nearer to it.

I’ve managed to put them off, Alice said, trying vainly to control her anger. I’ve bought us three days. That’s how long you’ve got to find those items and have them back here.

Me?

Alice’s hand was no more than an inch from the letter opener now. Even you are not that stupid,