“Astarte,” Grace informed Peter at breakfast the next morning, “refers to Lord Byron’s half-sister Augusta Leigh. References to Astarte in Byron’s epic poem “Manfred” are regarded by many scholars as Byron’s veiled confession of their incestuous relationship.”
Peter frowned as though she had begun speaking in tongues.
“George Gordon, Lord Byron, 1788-1824,” Grace prompted. “Byron. One of the greatest of the Romantic poets and arguably the most famous, if only for his wild love affairs and passionate ideal—”
“I know who Lord Byron was. And nobody, by the way, ever called him George.”
Grace allowed herself an academic smirk. “Augusta called him ‘baby.’ Byron called her ‘goose.’”
“Here we go,” muttered Peter, pouring himself another cup.
“Think about it,” Grace said eagerly, leaning forward. “In 1905 Byron’s grandson Lord Lovelace published the Astarte Papers as his grandmother’s vindication for having left Byron. This is all documented fact, by the way.”
Peter nodded without enthusiasm. He looked tired this morning. The tiny lines around his eyes were more pronounced. His hair, damp from the shower, fell carelessly over his forehead.
“Now, it seems obvious to me that Lord Byron and Asta—”
“It seems obvious to me,” he interrupted rudely, “that you’ve got Lord Byron on the brain. Frankly, you seem obsessed with dead guys. It’s not healthy in a woman your age.”
“At what age would an obsession with dead guys be healthy?” Grace inquired, momentarily distracted. “Just for the record.”
“For the record,” Peter said, ignoring this, “there is absolutely no reason to suppose we are looking for a manuscript. I know that’s where this is heading. I know you would love to believe we’re after some priceless, long-lost masterpiece, but your mates in the van mentioned gewgaws not papers.”
“But…”
Peter shook his head. “Jewels. For one thing, it has to be something Delon would recognize as valuable. He wouldn’t have recognized a literary treasure if it had hit him between the eyes. It also has to be something Delon could easily conceal on his person.”
“Why assume that? Anyway, a manuscript could be rolled up in a cylinder and carried under a jacket. And someone else could have pointed out the value of it to Delon.”
“Gewgaws,’ said Peter.
“What are gewgaws?”
“Supposedly the word comes from the Middle English giuegoue. Meaning a showy trifle, a useless ornament, or a toy. Not, by any stretch, a manuscript.”
“You’re assuming the thugs who grabbed me use their nouns properly.”
“I’m assuming whoever hired them can tell the difference between a book and a jewel.”
Grace found Peter’s reasoning oddly irritating. She wasn’t used to being out argued, especially by a man.
“Fine, it’s not a manuscript. So what is it? The Jewels of Astarte? There’s no such thing.”
Peter seemed to find something funny; what, she had no idea. He questioned gravely, “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I spent most of last night scaling your bookshelves. I’ve researched every major site of Astarte worship and there are no particularly valuable artifacts associated with her.”
Peter washed down the last of his sausage and eggs with another cup of tea. They were enjoying a traditional English breakfast right down to the fried mushrooms and tomato. Grace was not sure about tomato at breakfast, but she was trying to be a good sport.
Tilting his chair back at a gravity-defying angle, he speculated, “Astarte or Ashtoreth was regarded by the Greeks and Romans as the Evening Star, and partially identified with Aphrodite. Ishtar to the Assyrians, in fact, she’s the all round great female principle.”
“If you already knew all this, why didn’t you say so last night?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, you’re rather cute when you’re on the boil. In any case, literature is your field, history is mine.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I’m guessing an artifact. Probably a jewel though I can’t imagine how Delon would have access—”
“Wrong!” Grace said. “Wrong, wrong, wrong. You’re taking the reference to Astarte too literally. It isn’t a representation of Astarte we’re after. Astarte is a symbol.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Everything points to it.”
“What everything?”
Grace gestured vaguely. “Your girlfriend’s name, for one thing.”
Peter’s black brows rose in an expression of superiority. “Are we talking proof or mystical signs from on high?”
“Allegra.”
“Pardon?”
“Byron had an illegitimate daughter by a woman named Claire Clairmont. That’s what she called herself anyway. Actually her name was Jane, and she was Mary Godwin’s stepsister. Mary Godwin was the author of Frankenstein, and coincidentally, Shelley’s wife.”
“I know who Mary Godwin was.”
“She—Claire, that is—practically forced herself upon Byron who was still technically married to Annabella Milbanke—”
Catching Peter’s eye, Grace returned hastily to the point. “Allegra Clairmont-Brougham? That’s quite a coincidence. Wait, there’s more!”
Grace jumped up from the table to return a moment later with a stack of weighty tomes. These she dropped on the table, rattling the creamer and sugar bowl.
Aloud she read, “The Wicked Lord Byron. Lyrical Lords of the Romantic Age. And here’s my favorite: He Walked In Beauty.”
“Please, I just ate,” complained Peter.
“All by your neighbor, noted Byronic scholar V. M. Brougham.”
Peter sighed. “V. M. Brougham is Al’s Aunt Venetia. I fail to see where this is leading.”
“V. M. Brougham is a nut,” Grace told him succinctly. “You think I have an obsession with dead guys? This woman has made them her life’s work. You should read what passes for scholarship in these things. It’s embarrassing.”
Peter idly rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger. “That doesn’t prove anything.”
“There’s more. In the bio notes of He Walks, it says V. M. Brougham is working on the definitive account of Byron’s relationship with his half-sister Augusta Leigh, entitled That Hour Foretold. That was twenty years ago.”
Peter said nothing.
“You have a Byronic scholar living on the other side of your woods—”
“It’s the Lake District, Grace. It’s not just the tourists who appreciate the literary history here. We’ve got a cottage industry based on the Romantic poets alone.”
Grace stuck to her guns. “And there’s the clue of ‘Astarte’ scrawled in blood. There’s got to be a connection. At the very least, V. M. Brougham might be able to shed some light on what we’re looking for. Maybe it’s a letter from Byron to Augusta Leigh.”
Grace’s eyes blazed with a fanatical light that Peter viewed with misgiving.
“What happened to the cult angle?”
Grace shrugged.
He lowered his chair on all four legs. “Now listen,” he said firmly, “I appreciate your desire to help. I value your input, but don’t you think that the smartest move on your part would be to go home?”
“Certainly not! This is my field of expertise.” This was the kind of thing she lived and breathed for. With the possibility of finding a literary treasure, any desire Grace had had to flee Britain for home and safety vanished. This was every scholar’s dream. What were a few thugs with guns in the face of academic fame and glory? “Besides, you’re the one who said they might attempt to snatch me if I tried to leave the country.”
“I know, but I’ve been thinking up ways around that. I just might have a plan.”
“You just might have a plan? That’s reassuring!”
“Grace…”
“Peter!”
Unexpectedly, he deferred to her. Grace took a deep breath. “What’s the point of arguing?
It’s going to take at least a couple of days before I can get a new passport. In the meantime, let me help.”
Still he said nothing. Was she winning him over to her point of view?
“At least grant that there is probably a connection between Byron and this murder.”
He shook his head. “There’s nothing to indicate a lost manuscript.”
“Okay, but it is the most logical conclusion.”
“It’s not logical when the man specifically mentioned jewels.”
Grace agilely jumped track. “As you said, literature is my field. The Romantics are my period. I can be of use to you. You’re working blind.”
“Don’t you have family? People who are going to worry about you when you don’t turn up?”
“Naturally I have a family. I have a lover.” Now why had she thrown that in, for it was surely an exaggeration of her understanding with Chaz. Was this her insurance policy against her attraction to Peter Fox? “But I’m on vacation. No one’s expecting to hear from me till the new term starts in…” She looked up at the kitchen clock and swallowed hard. “Seven days.”
Seven days till the term started? Could her vacation truly have dwindled down to six days? Had she lost a day somewhere?
“Just my luck.” Peter eyed her dourly.
Thinking that perhaps he was softening, Grace said persuasively, “We have nothing to lose by talking to this V. M. Brougham, surely? We could just sort of sound her out.”
After a long moment Peter nodded. “Why not? Provided you agree to go home, once you see that these things are merely coincidence.”
“Sure,” Grace said blithely, crossing her fingers in her lap.
High Rhymes and Misdemeanors Page 20
