Duplicity, p.1
Duplicity, page 1
Duplicity
James Lalonde
Book 2
A. D. Hay
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Duplicity. A James Lalonde Novel, Book 2
Copyright © A. D. Hay (2022). All rights reserved.
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www.authoradhay.com
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ISBN-13: 978-1-9163483-8-7 (paperback)
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permissions contact: hello@authoradhay.com.
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Book cover design by Le Villain Book Covers at levillainbookcovers.com
Contents
French in Duplicity
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Epilogue
Also by A. D. Hay
Author’s Note
THANK YOU!
About the Author
Thank you for joining James Lalonde in Duplicity
French in Duplicity
À bientôt: adv. See you soon
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Entrée: noun. The small course that precedes the main course in a three-course meal.
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Euh: The French equivalent of “um.”
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Maman: noun. Mother, mum, mom
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Mamie: noun. Grandmother
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Merde: noun. A mild, humorous substitute for “shit.”
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Oh, la vache: An expression of surprise similar to “damn” or “oh my god.”
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Oui: adv. Yes
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Santé: noun. To your health—used as a toast, similar to cheers.
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Vert: adj. Green
Prologue
Glastonbury Abbey, 1184 AD
The light, intoxicating aroma of the oil lamp filled the scriptorium of Glastonbury Abbey. Illuminator Brother Guiscard dipped his brush into the round wooden bowl next to his easel. A spring evening chill blew through the room. Hunched over, he continued to paint the tiny dragon on the initiums in the Commentary on Daniel by Jerome of Stridon.
He paused, leaned back on his stool, tilted his head, and gazed at the leather-bound manuscript. His bright-green eyes floated across the immaculate handwritten black ink. It was a stunning piece of literature. Pity it would end up in a private collection. The midnight hours were the only time he could dedicate to the secret commission. Peter de Marcy, the newly appointed abbott, would never have approved such a project. Brother Guiscard crossed his fingers and hoped he wouldn’t get caught.
He sighed.
Reaching across the book, he dipped the brush into the wooden vessel. After surveying the empty scriptorium, Brother Guiscard leaned forward and continued to paint the initium.
A creak, putter, putter broke the midnight silence. Hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. With his hand on his chest, Brother Guiscard rested the brush in the small wooden dish as he sensed another monk creep up behind him. He was caught red-handed. Please don’t be the abbott. He turned his upper body. In the flicker of light created by the oil lamp was Brother Piers of Damerham. Praise God.
‘Piers, you scared me.’ Brother Guiscard rubbed his trembling hands along his brown tunic then stared at the manuscript.
Brother Piers shuffled up behind Guiscard. He leaned over, stared at the masterpiece on the easel, and chuckled. ‘The abbot will not appreciate the symbolism in the initium.’
With a pinched expression, Guiscard sighed and turned to Brother Piers.
‘The initium is appropriate to the context and the theme of the Commentary.’
‘Guiscard, I’m not criticising you. I’m just preparing you for the inevitable argument coming your way.’
Brother Guiscard shook his head as he glanced at the manuscript. ‘The Commentary is a commissioned piece. He doesn’t have a say.’
Brother Piers raised his eyebrows. ‘I know nothing.’ The monk lifted his hands in the air as he gazed over Guiscard’s shoulder at the initiums.
The two Benedictine monks stood and gazed at the manuscript.
‘The initium is beautiful.’ Brother Piers patted him on the shoulder, breaking the awkward silence.
At that instant, a whiff of acrid smoke wafted into the scriptorium. Brother Guiscard gasped as he whirled around on his stool. ‘Do you smell that?’
Brother Piers ambled towards the dark-stained timber library door on the opposite side of the room. ‘The stench is stronger here.’
After sprinting across the room, Brother Guiscard halted. Smoke streamed out from under the door.
Grabbing Brother Piers’s arm, Guiscard pulled him to the centre of the scriptorium. ‘You must wake the librarian. Only he has the keys.’
Brother Piers peered at Guiscard with a grim expression. ‘I fear it’s much too late to save the books. I will sound the warning bell. Save what you can.’ Brother Piers scurried towards the entryway and disappeared into the abbey.
The smoke formed a light fog in the scriptorium. Paralysed with fear, Brother Guiscard surveyed the room. His entire life was about to go up in flames. Was the fire deliberate?
The smoky atmosphere thickened, jolting him into action. Guiscard coughed and grabbed the Commentary on Daniel, the only manuscript within reach. Then the flames tore through the library door.
The heat burned his skin as the crackling, roaring blaze filled his ears. Brother Guiscard sprinted through the abbey’s pews. He was moments away from freedom, but Guiscard couldn’t find Brother Piers. He had disappeared five minutes ago and hadn’t returned. Maybe Piers had left.
The blaze swept through the abbey, engulfing everything in its path. Brother Guiscard wept as he ran towards the exit, the flames nipping at his heels.
Clutching the manuscript, he sprinted out of the abbey doors, across the lawn, and towards the forest. Brother Guiscard shuddered at the terrified voices of his fellow monks trapped in the monastery. Everything within him wanted to run back into the abbey, but he couldn’t save them. That moment would haunt his dreams forever.
He needed to get help from the nearby village. Brother Guiscard dragged his weary body through the woods. It was all up to him. He tore through the woodlands, and up ahead, a simple brown tunic and hood came into view—Piers.
One
Wednesday: 10:01 a.m.
James Lalonde unzipped his navy-blue bomber jacket, revealing a pristine white T-shirt as he walked along the High Street in Oxford, smartphone in hand. Just ahead, two large bay windows with a familiar brown trimming came into view. As he reached the first bay window, he hesitated. For a split second, his reflection stared back at him. How he had aged since he’d last graced the establishment. He was only twenty-nine, and his first wrinkles were showing. “Laughter lines,” his grandmother, Valerie, had told him. But he suspected she was telling a small white lie to spare his feelings. Or perhaps that was what she told herself when she looked in the mirror and saw lines on her face.
Leaning forward, he peered into the window. The Queen’s Lane Coffee House was deserted. So that was the place where the man wanted to have brunch? James had read the email a dozen times that morning, and he was running late, a habit James had sworn to correct but at which he had failed spectacularly. That day was no exception. With two quick clicks, James stared at the email on his screen. He wasn’t hallucinating—he was in the right place. James glanced up from his device and surveyed the tourist-laden streets, looking for the infamous black Bentley. The man always drove a Bentley, not that he drove. He was al ways driven.
A loud tap on the glass behind him caused James to jump. He whirled around. Hovering in the large bay window was a man with a head of thick dark-blond curls. Alexander Harper Thompson had closed the coffeehouse for their brunch. How embarrassing. The door of the Queen’s Lane Coffee House opened, and James stepped inside.
Before him lay a sea of small, dark-stained round tables, each with two or three matching chairs. A familiar, comforting menu was etched with precision on chalkboards suspended above the bar and counters. To his left, an array of pastries, cakes, and sandwiches sat in the refrigerated display case. The place was a small slice of heaven, and it hadn’t changed. Like magic, it transported him back in time to when things were less complicated and all he had to do was read and study. He was officially old.
Alexander gestured at a table for two in the centre of the room. ‘I trust you read the report on your late mother’s estate. Nothing much has changed. That’s not a bad thing, considering the current economic climate.’
James sat. At a table against the back wall of the coffeehouse, a tall greying man dressed in black was sipping a cup of tea. The man was old, possibly in his seventies judging by the depth of the grey. He had an eerie atmosphere about him. There wasn’t a particular quality that gave James this uncanny impression but an overall vibe. Upon first impression, the man seemed to go about his business, drinking tea and reading the paper. But after a few seconds, James sensed that he was being watched. And the man seemed familiar.
A couple of months ago, a black car with tinted windows had followed James around Northampton as he went about his mundane existence. The driver was old. No, I’m being paranoid. His estate manager had hired a bodyguard. That was all.
Alexander cleared his throat.
James returned his attention to Alexander. ‘Yes, everything seems great, just as it has always been.’ James nodded. ‘I haven’t examined her assets. They don’t feel like mine. It feels disrespectful, almost.’
Alexander sighed. ‘Your mother left these to you in her will so you could enjoy them, not tuck the financial records in a drawer.’ He shook his head. ‘Lucky you have me to tend to them.’
James chuckled. ‘You’re not a gardener.’
‘Actually, I am, in a way.’ Alexander pulled the napkin off the table and shook it into his lap. A man wearing a black T-shirt and a freshly pressed white apron tied around his waist walked up to the table. He placed a cappuccino and an espresso in front of them.
‘The food will be out in a moment,’ he said as he dashed to the kitchen door.
Alexander pointed at the coffee bar. ‘I remember that after your graduation, where we first met, we went through your new assets in this same tiny coffeehouse. Almost seven years ago.’
‘You get less time for manslaughter.’
‘Still sarcastic.’ Alexander sipped his cappuccino.
James grimaced as he picked up his espresso.
‘Your mother took a disliking to my love of cappuccinos. When I used to meet up with her in Paris, she pressured me to drink espresso. It was the Parisian way, apparently.’ Alexander’s eyes glazed over. ‘Emmanuelle thought a cappuccino was more of a dessert than a coffee.’
James smiled. ‘The milk content, most likely.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to put a dampener on our brunch,’ Alexander said as the attendant burst out of the kitchen, slamming the door against the wall.
The pristine white apron tied around his waist had bright-red and light-brown smudges. He sprinted across the coffeehouse, holding a full English breakfast in one hand and a croissant in the other.
‘I ordered your usual,’ Alexander said, ignoring the staff member hovering around them.
‘That’s perfect.’
‘You’re so French.’ Alexander shook his head. ‘Have you ever tried a full English breakfast?’
James rolled his eyes. ‘It’s too much food first thing in the morning.’
Twenty minutes later, the two men finished eating brunch. James sat opposite Alexander and peered over his shoulder at the mysterious greying man still reading the newspaper as before, tucked away in the corner of the café. Deciding not to ask about the man, James glanced at Alexander and wondered if he should ask him more questions about his mother—the same dilemma as always. But he knew that prying those secrets out of Alexander’s vault would be fruitless. He had to wait for anecdotes to slip out.
‘Something on your mind?’ Alexander picked up his second cappuccino then took a sip.
His chest tightened. ‘No,’ James lied.
Alexander narrowed his eyes. ‘I guess you’re wondering why I moved this quarterly meeting up to August instead of the usual September brunch.’
James nodded. ‘I’m a little curious about why you’re in town. You rarely leave New York.’
‘That’s not true. But of late, I’ve been preoccupied with my companies.’ Alexander placed his cup back on its saucer. ‘I’m considering adding to my mediaeval sword collection. It’s for my private exhibit.’
James’s eyes widened. ‘You have a private exhibit?’
The crinkling of paper in the background broke his train of thought. A pair of green eyes glared at him over an edition of the Daily Voice. Wrong question?
‘Yes, I have a private collection. It’s minuscule. Usually, I purchase items and loan them to museums for further study. But my collection is a bit lacking of late.’ Alexander stared off into the distance.
‘Anything legendary or infamous?’ James kept one eye on his elderly stalker.
The elderly MI6 wannabe hadn’t tackled him to the ground yet. Interesting. So Alexander has the man on a leash.
Alexander laughed. ‘Isn’t that the dream? But tragically, that’s just for the cinema. Real life is a lot more disappointing.’ He returned his gaze to James. ‘I’m interested in a piece from the late Middle Ages. It’s at Christie’s in London. Oxford wasn’t too far away.’
James nodded. ‘It’s a little over an hour away by train.’
Alexander raised his eyebrows.
Too posh for the train. Noted.
‘Have you given any thought to what you want to do now that you’re a free man and have resigned from the Northampton Tribune?’
James smiled. ‘I want to travel around Europe. I grew up in France with my grandparents, but I’m embarrassed to say I haven’t seen enough of Europe.’
‘Travelling is great. You should add New York to that list.’
James grimaced. ‘I want to focus on Europe for now. Maybe some other time.’
A distant expression formed in Alexander’s eyes as he took another sip of his cappuccino. ‘Your mother dreamed of living in New York. It’s all she would talk about.’
