C. Palov - Templar's Code

“Ahem.” Raising a balled fist to his mouth, he cleared his throat. “There’s something that I need to caution you about before we enter Rubin’s bookshop.”

Edie returned a musty volume to the cart. Given the awkward lead-in, it was no surprise that her brows drew together in the middle.

“I met Rubin Woolf during an undercover operation,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You mean he’s a spy?”

“Er, no. What I’m trying to say is that Rubin knows me by the alias Peter Willoughby-Jones.” A rush of blood heated his cheeks. “At the time, I was posing as an antiquarian book dealer.”

Her shoulders shook with a barely contained mirth. “Not very James Bond of you.”

“The spooks at Five are a more staid lot than the chaps at Six. With my academic background, it was a believable cover. And one other thing before we go in”—he guided her to the other side of the lane—“Rubin can be difficult at times. A bit of a temperamental genius, I’m afraid.”

“An English antiquarian who comes with a warning label.” Edie reassuringly patted his chest. “Don’t worry, Big Red. Now that I’m properly caffeinated, I’m up for the challenge.” To prove her point, she pitched her coffee cup some four feet into the air, the cup squarely landing in the nearby trash receptacle.

Caedmon, not feeling nearly as athletic, disposed of his half-empty coffee from a more sedate distance.

“When the bombs drop, please remember that the alarm was duly sounded.” Warning issued, he stepped in front of Edie and opened a plate-glass door.

A tinny bell announced their entry into the small shop lined floor to ceiling with dark espresso-stained bookcases. In the middle of the shop were three glass display cabinets showcasing valuable prints and maps.

“Peter Willoughby-Jones!” a cultured female voice hailed. “At long last you’ve deigned to visit your old chums at Cecil Court.”

A chicly dressed blonde got up from an Edwardian desk and walked over to greet them.

Taking Marnie Pritchard’s outstretched hand, Caedmon leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. At one time they’d been well acquainted. The Cecil Court crowd frequently met for drinkies, and he’d been friendly with more than a few of his fellow dealers.

As they stood before each other, slowly shaking their respective heads, the way people do when they run into someone they haven’t seen in some time, he realized that the passing years had not put so much as a dent in Marnie’s confident posh-girl persona.

“The place hasn’t changed one bit. You haven’t changed one bit,” he said.

“ ‘Thank God! Cecil Court remains Cecil Court,’ ” she retorted, the Graham Greene quote a familiar refrain among the close-knit booksellers.

“Marnie Pritchard, allow me to introduce you to Edie Miller.”

“So very pleased to meet you,” Marnie said warmly as she took Edie’s hand.

“Likewise.” Edie’s brown eyes crinkled at the corners, a sure sign of mischief in the making. “So, you and Peter have known each a long time, I take it?”

“Too many years to count.” Marnie airily waved her hand, the light catching on a very expensive Baume & Mercier watch.

As he recalled, Marnie came from a moneyed background. Why she continued to work for the tetchy Rubin Woolf was a mystery.

“Rubin is still angry at you, Peter, for unceremoniously leaving the fold,” Marnie remarked, having intuited his thoughts. “Not a day goes by that he doesn’t gripe about the dodgy Moscow émigré who took over your shop. Oleg Rostov specializes in Russian literature. Although I understand that for a price, he’ll be happy to show you the religious icons that he keeps in the backroom. Very black market,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Sounds like a case for MI5.”

Hearing that, Caedmon inwardly groaned, suspecting that Edie intended to have a bit of fun at his expense.

“Maybe you could go undercover and help take down the Russian smuggling ring,” she added a split second later, pushing the envelope right out the plate-glass door.

“How utterly exciting,” Marnie trilled with a deep-throated chuckle. “I’ve always wanted to be a femme fatale.” Still chuckling, she gestured to the staircase at the back of the shop. “Rubin’s upstairs in his boudoir anxiously awaiting your arrival. And it was very nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Miller.”

“Please call me Edie.”

Caedmon waited until he and his companion were halfway up the stairs, and out of earshot, before laying into her. “I will have a great deal of explaining to do to a great many people if you continue in this vein. So please tone it down,” he hissed. Then, realizing he’d come at her like a boulder on a butterfly, he softened the rhetoric. “This is an awkward situation for me. I never thought I’d see these people again.”

“And you feel guilty because you lied to them,” Edie astutely deduced.

“Yes, I do feel guilty.”

“Sorry, Peter.” Rising up on her tiptoes, Edie gave him a quick peck on the lips. “Won’t happen again.”

A shadow suddenly fell across the two of them. Glancing up, Caedmon saw a rotund bespectacled man garbed in a bespoke three-piece Nevis Tweed suit, the conservative attire completely at odds with the gelled spiky white hair and royal-blue polka-dot bow tie.

“A bit old for shagging in the shadows, aren’t you?”

“One is never too old for stolen pleasures,” he called out. Taking Edie by the hand, he led the way upstairs.

When they reached the top, Rubin had already retreated to “the boudoir.”

“Where’s Tweedy Bird?” Edie whispered in his ear.

“Shhh.”

Admonishment given, he ushered her through an open doorway; Rubin stood inside the small foyer beside a heavily carved court cupboard. Beyond his tweed-clad shoulder, Caedmon glimpsed their host’s pride and joy—an authentic sixteenth-century paneled bedroom that had been painstakingly deconstructed and reassembled on site. The room included a massive Tudor four-poster bed that doubled as Rubin’s desk, the top covered with books. The only two things that stood out as not belonging in the historically accurate re-creation were the framed photographs on top of the court cupboard and the nineteenth-century German cuckoo clock that hung above it.

“Rubin Woolf, may I present Miss Edie Miller.”

“Nice to meet you.” Edie held out her right hand.

Pulling a long face, Rubin shook hands with her. “An American? Well, well. Haven’t met one yet who didn’t consider the Bible the only book worth reading. ‘Get thee to a nunnery,’ ” he extolled, pointing to the open doorway behind them.

Proving that she could ably roll with Rubin’s well-aimed punches, Edie stepped over to the court cupboard. “Wow. Are these people who I think they are?” She pointed to a framed group photograph. The leather, chains, and general disheveled appearance of all four people in the grainy shot instantly dated the picture. Vintage punk rock. Rubin, thin to the point of emaciation, sported the same spiky coif, the only difference being that three decades ago it was platinum blond.

Wearing a bored expression, Rubin nodded. “Sid Vicious, Nancy Spungen, and Johnny Rotten.” He jutted his chin at the shirtless pixie who defiantly glared at the camera. “And, of course, yours truly. Back in ’77 we were all vying to get into Nancy’s pantsies.” He chortled nastily. “She was an American, you know, so no coaxing required. God, what a frightful night.” Shuddering, he glanced heavenward. “She had the smelliest feet imaginable.”

“Didn’t you guys in the seventies ever eat?” Still studying the photograph, Edie glanced over her shoulder at Rubin.