Relics Torn

By S.G. Benton

Plunge into the Depths of the Illicit Art World - Where Stolen Treasures and Family Secrets Lead to Deception, Betrayal, and Murder.

Delve into Relics Torn, a compelling international crime thriller where art and antiquities are the priceless puzzle pieces in a deadly game. Crafted for the discerning adult reader, this riveti

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Mar 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9781962473026

S.G. Benton

S.G. Benton hails from Naperville, Illinois, and has lived a life steeped in law and art. With 30 years' experience as a lawyer and university lecturer in art and antiquities law, she also holds a PhD in anthropology with a research focus on objects of cultural heritage. Benton draws literary inspiration from her lifelong love of mysteries and thrillers; her favorite protagonists range from Elizabeth Peters's Amelia Peabody to Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon. She and her husband, both passionate travelers, have lived in the US, Australia, and Mexico before making their home in Copenhagen, Denmark.

Book preview

4

New Mexico

Liliane Ashe wrinkled her nose in pleasure as she inhaled the forest's perfume—peppered spice of juniper mingling with musky piñon—that scented the crisp, predawn air. On this clear night, high in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, conditions were perfect.

She crouched and lowered her head to the damp soil. Dressed in camouflage, hair tucked into a dark cap, face and hands smeared with mud, she’d done her best to melt into the surroundings.

She studied the first print, absorbing every detail.

Trust me, beauty, she whispered. I’ll find you.

She leaned back on her heels and made quick notes and sketches in her journal.

It was Liliane's third straight night on the prowl. She’d been remotely tracking the large cat for eleven months now, volunteering as part of a year-long research study of mountain lion behaviors. It was just a hobby; she’d been tracking New Mexican wildlife since she was a kid. But this diversion had become something more. She felt vested in this animal, which had been hers to monitor since it was captured, collared, and released. Determined to lay eyes on her creature before the collar dropped off and the cat vanished, Liliane knew time was running out.

Now back in New Mexico, she could personally search the location cluster where the lion had returned. She’d been systematically combing the area, guided by her GPS tracker, but a couple of drenching rains had left sodden conditions that disrupted signals when the cat moved around. On the first night, she came across some scat. On the second, nothing. But tonight she hit the jackpot. Prints. And they were fresh.

She clamped a small flashlight between her teeth, freeing her hands to measure and photograph the illuminated pawprints. The flashlight bobbed as she smiled in anticipation. Tracking reminded her of studying Impressionist paintings: prints—brushstrokes on an earthen canvas—hinted at size, pace, and direction, while leaving details open to interpretation. The effort challenged her mind and her body. She loved it.

And this escape to the mountains was exactly what she needed. New York was always so rushed. She’d barely made the submission deadline for her article on antiquities trafficking, which she managed to squeeze in between other work. Then she’d celebrated with friends, and by their third round of martinis, the entourage had convinced her to return to Santa Fe for a few weeks to unwind.

A breeze rustled aspen branches high above her. A nearby stream gurgled softly as it meandered through the trees. She strained to listen; nothing else. She reminded herself that things happened in their own good time. Patience was key. It wasn’t one of her virtues, as her mother would often say. She breathed in deeply and out slowly, swallowing the familiar pang of pain and regret that surfaced whenever a memory of her mother crossed her mind. This visit, she reminded herself as she shifted her focus back to the tracks, was dedicated to enjoying the present, not struggling with the past.

She moved along steadily, photographing and recording size, shape, and spacing between the prints pressed into the soft mud. Ahead of her lay a tangle of undergrowth; the tracks led in that direction. She noted a diminishing spread between the toes. The cat was slowing down. At the edge of the undergrowth, the trail disappeared.

She peered into the brambles.

Don’t think you can give me the slip that easily, my feline friend.

Liliane moved slowly around the periphery. The prints reappeared, leading away from the brambles into a shallow, rocky ravine. She swept her light along the ground. A moist swath darkened the earth alongside the tracks. She stooped, examined it, and processed this new twist.

Blood. And it's fresh. Okay, stakes just rose. Careful, now.

She felt her pulse quicken as she followed viscous stains along the animal's path. The right-side tracks were now blurred. Maybe the cat was dragging prey. Or maybe it was wounded, dragging itself to some unknown place in the darkness beyond. If it had caught a fresh meal, it would seek out a protected location where it could cache the animal and feed on it. If injured, it would feel vulnerable. And the latter, especially, meant danger if she caught up to it.

The breeze had subsided; the night turned still and quiet. Liliane spotted more blood spatters and disturbed ground leading toward an outcropping of large boulders piled against a hillside. It looked like a drag trail, and it ended at a shadowed, gaping space between the rocks.

She climbed onto a small ledge behind some dense vegetation. The perch would provide cover and a good vantage point to spot the cat if it emerged from the gap. She photographed the drag trail, rock opening, and surrounding area, then sat and pressed her back against the hill. She laid the camera in her lap, hoping for a photographic ambush.

Her arm ached. She massaged the spot where she’d been injured. Although the scar had faded, the dull throbbing occasionally returned. And whenever it did, it always transported her right back to Ronda, the Spanish hilltop village where she and Victor had confronted a deranged art thief. The thug slashed her with a knife just as she snatched away a painting he was about to throw into a gorge.

He could’ve killed her. What the hell had she been thinking? She hadn’t. She’d followed other instincts, failing to consider risks ahead of time.

Like the risk you took crossing the line with Victor, she reminded herself for the hundredth time.

She bit the inside of her lip, anger and anguish flaring despite her vow to let it go, to put it all behind her. Of wounds yet to heal, her aching forearm was the mildest.

The air vibrated. Liliane's attention snapped back to the mountain lion. She lifted the camera and rose to a crouch. A low guttural sound, intermingled with labored breaths, emanated from somewhere just beyond the boulders. The rumbling grew louder.

Liliane's next thought came in her mother's voice, in that tone she knew so well.

All right, Lily. You know the fine line separating predator from prey. Hunter from hunted. One wrong step and roles can reverse in a flash. Time to let this creature be.

Liliane eased herself down from the ledge, willing her movements to be silent. She backed away, keeping her eyes riveted on the gap in the rocks where the lion could emerge, until the forest's shadows swallowed her.

5

London

Worse than blood, Detective Inspector Jack Marsh growled as he stepped off the curb onto Cousin Lane, trying to avoid a patch of vomit-splattered footpath. Behind him, the windows of The Banker went dark. Closing time.

Drops of chilled rain burrowed inside Marsh's collar. He tried to brush the water from his neck and stumbled on the uneven cobbles. Pain shot up his leg. That didn’t help his mood.

Second time this week she stood me up, and now this.

He tested his weight on the ankle, grimaced, then walked gingerly in the direction of his car.

The heels of Marsh's shoes clicked against the stones. Rounding the corner, he heard something else click. A refuse lorry stood in the middle of the road, near the entry to Walbrook Wharf's warehouses. It sounded like the driver was attempting to start the engine, which failed to engage.

Bad place to die, thought Marsh.

His next thought was that it was the wrong day and wrong time for waste collection. A few questions were in order.

He approached the lorry, reached up, and rapped his knuckles against the window. No response. He tried the handle. Locked. He grasped a small handrail next to the driver's door, stepped onto the running board, and pulled himself up to look through the window.

A small man was crouched over the steering wheel, repeatedly turning the key to no avail. Click. Click.

Need some assistance? Marsh called through the glass. The driver ignored him.

Just what I need tonight. Some arsehole treating me like shit.

He rattled the door handle. The driver finally glanced up, his dark eyes filled with what Marsh could only interpret as terror. The man slapped at the lock, then scrambled onto the passenger seat, threw open the other door, and jumped out.

Fuck all. Here we go.

Marsh dropped to the ground and hurried around the lorry in pursuit. The driver reached the wharf's entry and tugged at the locked gate, glanced around wildly, then turned and sprinted toward a narrow grass berm separating the Riverside Walk from the Thames. Marsh gave chase, feeling the strain of his turned ankle in each footfall.

The sod better have a good reason for making me run.

He suddenly felt a twinge of concern for the driver's safety. The land dropped away steeply from the top of the berm toward the river's dark waters; it was a treacherous path even for a relaxed stroll in the light of day. Just as Marsh opened his mouth to shout a warning, the man stumbled, tried to right himself, then fell into the darkness.

A scream pierced the air. Followed by a splash. A grey heron, startled from its roost, gave a harsh croak and fluttered into the sky. Then, as abruptly as it had been shattered, silence returned.

Marsh limped to the spot where the man fell, but he couldn’t hear or see anything. He shouted; no response. He shook his head, then pulled out his phone and dialed.

DI Marsh here. A man fleeing a scene just fell into the Thames, adjacent to Walbrook Wharf. North side, off Riverside Walk. Asian. Slight build. I need assistance.

6

London

It was just past nine in the morning when Victor Aldwyn pulled into a parking space outside the Royal London Hospital. An ICU nurse escorted him to the patient's room but told him to wait in the hall.

A few minutes later, a doctor emerged and greeted him. Victor showed her his badge.

Special Agent Victor Aldwyn. Interpol, Art Crimes Investigative Team.

He offered his card. The doctor took it and raised an eyebrow.

Art Crimes Investigative Team? Never heard of it, she said, slipping the card into her pocket and crossing her arms. I didn’t think Interpol even had its own agents.

Victor was used to the skepticism.

The organization coordinates networks of police and experts specializing in different areas of crime. The ACIT serves one of those areas. We tend to keep a low profile. I’m working with Scotland Yard's Art and Antiques Unit on the case that brings me here today.

Hmm. Okay. I’ve got just a few minutes. Follow me, please. She led the way to an empty waiting room.

We need the patient's name and contact information for next of kin, if you’ve got it, she said.

Not yet, I’m afraid. What's his condition?

The doctor scanned some papers attached to a clipboard, then nodded. I see you’re authorized for medical disclosure. She set the clipboard on a chair and turned to face Victor. He suffered severe hypothermia and a fractured skull. We were able to raise and stabilize his body temperature with active core rewarming. He's just back from surgery to address the fracture; he’ll remain in a medically induced coma until the cerebral edema—brain swelling—diminishes.

Victor made some notes, then looked up. Amazing that he survived, isn’t it?

He was unconscious when he was pulled from the river. If he hadn’t got tangled in some weeds along the embankment, he would’ve drowned. Fortunately, his head stayed above the waterline. He was damn lucky.

Victor frowned. Lucky? Maybe. All things considered.

Anything you’ve come across that might help us identify him? he asked.

Yes. He—actually, you’d better come see for yourself.

She led the way back to the patient's room and stepped aside to let Victor enter first.

The patient lay motionless in the bed. A cannula strung across the unconscious man's face delivered oxygen through his nostrils. Tubes inserted into both arms led to fluid-filled IV bags. A clamp encased one finger. A device protruding from his scalp, and sensors littering his chest, anchored him to monitors. A tube inserted down his throat explained the consistent rise and fall of his chest.

Ethnicity appears to be Southeast Asian, the doctor said. I’d say between fifty and sixty years old. Teeth in bad condition, no sign of dental maintenance. As for trying to track down his identity . . . he has some notable markings.

The doctor folded back the bedcovers, exposing the man's left leg. She pulled a penlight from her pocket, lifted the foot, and shined a light on the sole. The skin was wrinkled and mottled, but Victor could see the impressions.

The center marks—the geometric shapes—were burned into the skin, like a cattle brand. Looks like it was done quite a while ago. The tattooed oval appears to be a more recent addition.

Bottom of the foot. Must’ve hurt like hell, Victor murmured to himself as he took several photos.

Odd placement, he thought.

There's more, the doctor said.

She smoothed the covers back into place and walked to the side of the bed. Then she folded down the top edge of the sheet, revealing the man's arms.

These cuts are fresh. I’d say less than a week old.

Victor looked closely at the wounds. Thin lines ran from just below each shoulder to just above the elbow, narrow and straight, with sideways slices running in opposite directions at the top and bottom. They looked disturbingly familiar.

His vision blurred. The arm he stared at morphed into that of an old man, sprawled and bleeding on a footpath littered with broken glass.

Dublin.

Victor clamped his eyes shut.

2005. Seventeenth of March. Late afternoon. Cold.

Blood. Smoke. Petrol fumes burning his nostrils.

He’d done his best to stabilize the elderly man. Tried to calm him as he stammered about an attacker who’d pounced on him and yelled BOOM! into his face, then sliced his arm, grabbed his wallet, and fled.

Victor had raced in pursuit of the attacker, leaving others to tend to the victims. Unaware of a young woman sprawled just meters away. Until, having lost his quarry, he circled back. Then he’d found her. Too late. A paramedic had arrived and done his best, but it wasn’t enough.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to purge the sharp pain that shot across his forehead.

Agent? Are you all right?

Victor blinked. The doctor was looking at him with concern.

Yes. He cleared his throat. I—please excuse me. Occasional migraines.

Here. She handed him a cup of water. Victor downed it in a few gulps and nodded his thanks. She took the cup from him and discarded it, then gestured to the patient's arms.

Would you like to photograph these, as well?

I would, yes.

Victor took photos, made some notes, then shook the doctor's hand. Thank you for your time.

Let us know if you track down any family or friends. She readjusted the sheet and walked with Victor to the door. It would be good to have someone he knows here with him right now.

I will, he said. If anyone contacts the hospital or comes around asking about him, please ask the staff to call me right away. No visitors until I’ve spoken with them first. I’m sure you understand, given that this is an active criminal case. And, of course, call me as soon as he regains consciousness.

Of course.

Victor returned to his car and took a few slow, deep breaths. He was irritated with himself for allowing personal memories to intrude on his work.

But those cuts . . .

He rubbed the back of his neck. It had to be Doyle. The bastard was back.

Victor shifted focus to the driver's brand and tattoo. Bottom of the foot. Odd. And anything odd surfacing during an investigation was, in his book, something not to be ignored. He champed at the bit to return to his Manchester office and start digging for leads, but that would have to wait. He had one more stop in London. It was time to see what the driver had been transporting when he fled and almost drowned in the Thames.

Central London heaved and stuttered in its usual gridlock as Victor made his way along the A11. Forty minutes after leaving the hospital, he turned onto Victoria Embankment and parked in a secured car park. The eight-story office building housing the Metropolitan Police loomed impersonally in front of him.

He dropped his holdall on an empty desk and poured himself a mug of thin coffee. After hanging his suit jacket on the chair, he brushed at a few wrinkles, loosened his tie, sat down, and opened the dossier.

The report was concise. It included a description of the abandoned lorry and its contents. The cab had been devoid of clues. No wallet, no identity card, no personal effects. But, unlike the cab, the hopper hadn’t been empty:

Contents of waste collection vehicle hopper: six hay bales, each measuring approximately 1m x 1m x 50cm, wrapped with wire. Within each bale: art fragments, mosaic in construction, in various states of disrepair. Largest pieces affixed with wire to wooden boards. Remainder unsecured, buffered with cardboard, paper, and wood scraps.

He turned his attention to a laminated polaroid photograph, clipped to a page of notes. The photo had been recovered from the driver's pocket.

A petite, dark-haired woman stared out at Victor with weary eyes. Her arms encircled the shoulders of two young children who clung to her. They stood barefoot in front of a stilted bamboo house. In the background, lotus ponds and rice paddies stretched into a flat landscape marked by a scattering of palm trees.

Victor flipped the photo over and looked at the three lines of writing.

He read the notes on the attached sheet.

Language: Khmer

Translation:

Come home soon

We love you

Chanthavy

Possible photo location: Cambodia/Thailand/Vietnam

A chair scraped across the floor. Victor looked up. Detective Inspector Marsh dropped a folder onto the desk and sat down heavily. His shirt was partially untucked, and his clothes looked as if he’d slept in them.

Ah! The knight in shining armor, come to the rescue, Marsh declared. And not a moment too soon. I was tempted to make off with the goodies.

Keep your grubby hands off the goods, Marsh.

Wouldn’t dream of interfering, old chap. I’m just the local lackey appointed to tend to the fucking Interpol agent's unreasonable demands.

Victor reached across the desk and shook Marsh's hand.

Nice outfit, lackey. Out all night again?

We don’t all get the soft shifts, pretty boy.

An occasional visit to a dry cleaners wouldn’t hurt. All right—Victor's tone shifted—fill me in.

Marsh opened his folder and glanced over his notes.

You’ve got the deets leading up to the bloke's tumble into the Thames. He was discovered by a passing jogger, tangled in vegetation almost a kilometer downriver from Walbrook Wharf. Lorry's a 2007 dustcart, owned by Gulliver's Truck Hire. One of a handful on long-term hire to Cardiff Council. Stolen three weeks ago. No current leads. Only prints found in or on the lorry were the driver's. He's not in our database. Investigation's a damp squib so far.

Victor nodded. And the mosaics?

Quite a pile of tile, if I do say so, Marsh quipped. We’ve stacked the bits in one of the basement cages.

Any thoughts about this? Victor handed the photo and notes to Marsh. The DI glanced at them and handed them back.

Yeah. How the hell do those people write like that? It's not normal.

Victor sighed. Anything else?

Can’t hardly even say the name. Marsh threw a smug grin. Khmer? Needs a few more vowels.

Victor slipped the material back into the file.

Cultural myopia doesn’t suit you, Marsh. How about applying yourself to something more productive? Show me the mosaics.

Down in the basement, fluorescent ceiling lights flickered harshly against drab walls as Marsh led the way. Victor's gaze trailed along the scuffed floor, a dull stretch of scarred concrete registering the never-ending grind of processing the criminal underworld's flotsam and jetsam.

Toward the end of a long stretch of storage cages, Marsh stopped and unlocked a gate. An open bin filled with wood and paper scraps squatted near the entrance, and bulging plastic tarps huddled on metal shelves.

Victor walked to the rear of the cage and folded back a corner of one tarp. Staring up at him, amid a carnage of fractured and filthy tiles, was the face of an angel.

She was streaked with dried mud, but he could make out a vermilion halo encircling her apricot hair. Most of her neck was cracked, much of her right arm chipped or missing. Wires cut across her face and torso, wrapping around the mosaic fragment and binding it to a slab of wood. Her large eyes conveyed an aura of both strength and vulnerability.

A piece of masking tape, with what looked like more Khmer writing scrawled across it, clung to the tiles. He carefully lifted the fragment bundle and glanced underneath. A sticker with Spanish handwriting was affixed to the back.

Victor set down the bundle and replaced the tarp. He uncovered several other piles and surveyed the wreckage before nodding to Marsh that he was ready to go.

Keep this gate locked until I personally authorize entry, Victor directed. Understood?

Crown jewels or some such, Aldwyn?

Just keep them secure, Marsh.

Victor returned to his desk. He opened the file cover again and stared blankly at the stack, contemplating his next move. The auburn-haired angel and her beseeching eyes flashed across his mind.

He pulled out his phone and dialed. He may not get her, but he knew precisely who he wanted on the case.

7

New Mexico

The predawn light painted the sky in watercolor splendor as Liliane worked her way back to the Borrego Trail, following narrow switchbacks that wound along the canyon's ridge. She had felt confident that she would finally lay eyes on her lion. But no such luck.

Maybe it's too late. For a lot of things.

Her mind jumped around, reminding her of what-ifs and near misses.

As she stepped out of the forest and onto the paved road, her pocket vibrated. She unsnapped the flap and pulled out her phone, answering without looking at the name on the screen. It would be Aunt Mila, wondering if she’d be home for breakfast.

Good morning. I’m starving!

Liliane.

With a single word, his voice startled her. And, to her chagrin, spread through her like a warm swallow of cocoa on a winter's evening.

Damn.

Victor. How unexpected.

I’m sorry if I’ve caught you at an inopportune time. It sounds like you were expecting someone else.

Liliane struggled to come up with a response. She felt torn between an urge to toss the phone down the mountainside and an impulse to demand some answers.

Why are you calling?

Well, you see . . . How are you?

You’re calling me at this hour to inquire about my health?

I’m sorry. It's outrageously early there, isn’t it? I should’ve realized before ringing.

She clenched and unclenched her jaw. Held the phone in front of her face and stared at it. After a moment, she decided not to hang up. Yet.

I’ve been up for a while. Just finished a hike.

Hiking before dawn? You must be back in New Mexico.

I am.

I’d venture a guess that you’ve been out tracking. After your lion? Have you spotted it yet?

She was surprised that he remembered. It had been a brief, whispered conversation in Ronda while they crouched in the shadows of the Puente Nuevo, waiting for that damn thief to emerge from the building where he’d holed up with a stolen Kahlo painting.

Like my as-yet-unseen lion, she thought despondently. Probably still holed up right now in that crevice, devouring its prey.

I heard rumblings, but no sighting yet.

You’re intrepid. You’ll lay eyes on it in time.

Time's not on my side. She's due to lose her collar in a few weeks, then she’ll disappear.

Just like you, Liliane thought, bitterness snapping at her heels. She had no desire to engage in casual conversation. Get to the point, Victor.

Anyway. Why did you call?

Well . . . Victor cleared his throat. A new case has arisen, and Interpol would welcome your assistance.

Interpol. Business. Of course.

After the Kahlo incident, I figured Interpol would’ve had its fill of me. I almost ruined your chance to capture that thief.

You saved the painting, Liliane. The Kahlo would’ve ended up at the bottom of that gorge. You acted impulsively, I’ll grant you that—the lunatic could’ve killed you—but we’re all grateful for the outcome. How's your arm?

Liliane flexed her arm instinctively.

Fine. It's had a long stretch of time to heal.

It has been a long stretch, Victor said. And . . . too long since we’ve spoken. Lil, I’m sorry I had to leave Spain so abruptly. I was thrown undercover into a case that had been simmering for a long time. It unexpectedly boiled over.

She was determined not to make things easy. She waited, biting her tongue.

Victor finally broke the silence, his voice tinged with sadness. I’m truly sorry I couldn’t forewarn you. My orders were to disappear immediately. I had no choice.

No choice. Right. Well, Agent Aldwyn, you carried out your orders splendidly.

She hung up and stuffed the phone into her pocket.

A few hundred yards from the end of the trail, just steps from where the land disappeared off a cliff's edge, an old pine bench invited hikers to pause and enjoy the views across the valley. Liliane decided to stop and catch her breath. Her temper had finally cooled, and she was starting to regret how she’d handled the call with Victor.

She was surprised how quickly her long-simmering emotions had resurfaced. She was a professional; she should be able to move past their mistake and get back to business. And nothing good would come from reopening the wound she’d been nursing. It would just drag her into territory more dangerous than a rock outcropping hiding a mountain lion.

She took out her phone, turned it over in her hands, finally dialed. He answered on the first ring.

Sorry, she said. I shouldn’t have dropped off so fast. Before he could respond, she decided to just push past the awkwardness. So. Tell me about this new case of yours.

Right! Well. We’ve recovered an extraordinary cache of mosaics.

Victor sounded relieved to be back in professional territory. And she had to admit she was curious about the case that inspired him to make contact again.

They’re beautiful, he continued. But fragmented, scarred, in need of expert care. I immediately thought of you.

Fragmented, scarred . . . that's me, all right. Liliane frowned, but despite her momentary self-deprecation, she knew he was sincere in his comment. Before their diversion to Ronda, they’d been working in Madrid with the ACIT and Spanish police on a case involving a large cache of stolen antiquities. They’d recovered a badly damaged Roman mosaic floor fragment that needed careful stabilization before it could be transported, and Liliane had been the only team member qualified to handle it. Her doctoral research had finally paid real dividends. Still, she wasn’t convinced that she was needed simply because mosaics were involved. And she wasn’t at all convinced that she wanted to work with Victor Aldwyn again.

There are specialists out there with a lot more experience, she said. You’ve got Europe at your fingertips, for god's sake.

I know that. But I like the way you think. We work well together. And these particular mosaics will entrance you, I’m sure of it.

He paused; she waited.

There's an angel, he continued. She's exquisite. Damaged, but exquisite. You came to mind as soon as I saw her. Another beautiful redhead who caught me off guard the moment we met.

She could hear the familiar smile in his voice and found herself smiling back. Then she caught herself.

Seriously, Victor. Why me?

Here's why. In addition to the expertise you demonstrated with the mosaics in Spain, I’ve seen how good you are at sorting through seemingly random bits of evidence and finding connections. This case has some unusual details that need unraveling.

He was trying to tempt her with morsels like unusual details, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to take his bait. Again, she waited out the silence.

You’re the one I want, Liliane, he finally said. I want a mind like yours to help me sort this one out. It's a bit of a puzzler.

She chewed her lip.

Tell me more about the puzzle pieces.

The mosaics are old, possibly Byzantine, he said, his voice becoming animated. At least they look to be. They were found in the back of a stalled rubbish lorry in the middle of London, packed in hay bales. Some of the larger pieces are bound with wire to wooden backings. Smaller bits were less coddled, I’m afraid. Just piled into the hay. A lot of loose tiles, as well. Probably knocked around during their journey to London from parts unknown.

Liliane cringed as she envisioned the damage.

The angel fragment is wired to a wooden slab, Victor continued. I took a quick glance underneath. The wood support has a sticker on the back, with Spanish writing. I couldn’t get a good look because I didn’t want to risk further damage by moving it around.

Good decision. Spanish, huh? She thought for a moment. "I doubt that points to the source. If they’re Byzantine, it's unlikely they came from Spain. Byzantium's western edge