Artifact by Gigi Pandian Page A

safely.
    I made a quick stop in a Tesco Metro supermarket to grab a packaged egg-mayonnaise sandwich. It was not a frivolous stop. A girl has to keep up her energy to be productive. One of my favorite things about Britain has always been the food. Though mocked by some, I appreciate the straightforward nature of British cuisine. So much of it is easy on-the-go food. And on-the-go I went. I headed down the bustling street toward my next task: tracing Rupert’s whereabouts.
    It was a pleasant, sunny day. Throngs of tourists and Londoners walked along the broad sidewalk. The tourists ambled along, dressed in bright, summery colors. The locals, in their more subdued hues, easily maneuvered around them. Black cabs hurried along in the street. Pigeons flapped their wings to move out of the way. It was almost as if life was normal again.
    Almost.
    I couldn’t quite place the reason, but something made me nervous as I walked. I was more worried than I’d admitted to Lane. I hurried into the tube station on the corner.
    The Picadilly line went straight to South Kensington. It was quintessential Rupert to have lived in such a posh neighborhood while still a student. I emerged from the Underground at Gloucester Road and walked down the familiar blocks. Within a few minutes, I stood in front of Rupert’s old flat. I didn’t know if he had still been living there, but I had to start somewhere.
    My unease grew stronger as I stood there. It was the same nervous feeling. I shook it off and knocked.
    An attractive brunette opened the door. She told me she and her husband had moved in a year ago, but she wished me luck finding Rupert. She said she could tell Rupert and his roommates were sweet guys because when she first moved in, a neighborhood stray cat thought dinner ought to be on the stoop of the ground floor flat. “Sweet” was not an adjective I would use when describing Rupert and his friends. It was a good bet it was an opportunistic cat.
    My next stop had a better chance of success. I’d heard that after Rupert finished his degree the previous December, he began lecturing at King’s College in London. I sent him a “happy graduation” card at the time. His family connections had probably helped him get the job, but to be fair, Rupert was highly intelligent. He could do a lot when he set his mind to it. Which wasn’t to say it was a frequent occurrence.
    I found the department of archaeology in the modern King’s Cross building on The Strand. Though it was summer and many of the students were gone, a smattering of voices could be heard in the hallways. At the main office, a very round and very freckled red-haired man stared at me from where he sat wedged into his seat.
    “Can I help?”
    “I hope so,” I said. “Do you know Rupert Chadwick?”
    His pudgy nose scrunched up, turning his narrow eyes into even smaller slits.
    “He isn’t here anymore.” He spit out the words. I didn’t get the impression he’d heard Rupert was dead.
    “Quit before the end of term,” he added.
    I wasn’t surprised Rupert had rubbed someone the wrong way. Still, that was not the answer I expected. What would have made Rupert quit so soon? A lecturer was the bottom of the ladder of university instructors, but King’s College was an excellent school in the heart of his beloved London.
    “Do you know where he went?”
    “Not likely. He moved away.”
    “I was really hoping to track him down.”
    The man looked at me coldly.
    “It’s just...he owes me some money,” I said.
    His face relaxed. “Sounds like something the prat would do. Wish I could help.”
    “Maybe someone else here was friends with him.”
    He scratched the side of his large, red neck. “Not that I know of. What’d he want the money for? Always the posh ones who’ll take you for it.”
    “Something stupid, I’m sure. Do you know why he quit?”
    “Don’t think I can help. That was a mystery around here, that one was.”
    “A mystery?”
    “He didn’t