EXCERPTS FROM
THE DEVIL AT MY HEELS
PROLOGUE
Dr. Michael Stuart, red-bearded and in his early fifties, closed the door behind the last of his dinner guests and sighed in satisfaction. Thank heavens they've gone, he thought. He went quickly to his study, opened the small, fireproof safe he kept under his desk and withdrew a plain brown file folder. Relocking the safe, he put the folder on his desk and sat down. This is it, he thought, looking at the sheet of yellowing parchment the folder contained. The first definite proof in eight hundred years. That stuff will be worth a fortune, and the publicity will be incredible. Could get me a knighthood. When I publish this, we'll have to rewrite the history books. Thank you so much, good King John.
He looked up and frowned as the sound of footsteps reached him. He rose, walked out of the study and stopped abruptly at the sight of a man in dark jacket and slacks standing in the hallway.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. “How did you get in?”
“Easy. You left the front door unlocked after you saw your guests off. Very careless of you.”
Stuart heard the cold menace in the intruder's voice and suddenly realized the danger he could be facing. He strove to keep his voice steady as he tried to take control of the situation.
“Get out. Now.”
“I want that parchment back. I only asked you to authenticate it; I didn't give it to you.”
“I've told you. I've got it in safekeeping. I can look after it for you.”
“Bollocks. You just want the glory. That document belongs to me, and I want it back.”
Cold-fisted fear squeezed Stuart's vitals as in the dim light of the hallway he could see the intruder carried the heavy iron poker from the front room fireplace.
The man took a step closer.
“Give me that letter, Stuart. I'm through playing games.”
A bead of sweat snaked coldly down Stuart's spine. There's a phone in the study, he thought. If I can get in there I can lock the door and call the police. They'll believe me, not him.
He spun on his heel and made a dash for the open study door. He heard a yell of anger and felt his shirt rip as a strong hand tried to hold him back. He stumbled, half turned.
“No!”
The heavy poker struck the side of his head. Its thunderous impact was the last sound he heard.
And now here’s a short excerpt from Part One
Julius glanced about him and, seeing no one, moved softly to a workbench against the wall to his right. He picked up the hammer made for beating gold and felt a malevolent satisfaction at the weight of it in his hand. The half-darkness in the workshop gave Julius a feeling of security; a sense that he and Robert were alone in all the world and not even God Himself could see them.
He moved forward.
At that moment, Robert straightened his back and turned to face him, standing not three paces away.
“What is it, Brother?” Robert asked in surprise. “Is all well?”
“Is all well?” sneered Julius. “All is well with you, is it not? Gottfried saved his dying breath to bless you; everyone praises your work. You sit here at your ease boiling your stinking fish bones while I am sent chasing hither and yon to find bent spoons and broken pans.”
“Good Brother,” began Robert, “I beg you to believe—”
“And now,” Julius interrupted, “I have heard you spoken of for prior.”
“Prior?” Robert laughed. “Me? Surely you jest, Brother Julius.”
“Don't you dare laugh at me,” Julius shouted, seizing Robert's habit at the throat.
