by Tom Savage
More shouting and barking. The spray from the cascading water pelted her as she reached out with her hands, scrabbling for purchase. She rolled over onto her back and looked up, but she could barely see anything. She started to rise, but a wave of dizziness sent her back down, flat against the sidewalk.
“Ouch,” she muttered.
Hands. Big, strong hands grasping her shoulders. She cried out and struck at the air in front her, trying to knock the hands. Her fist came into hard contact with soft skin.
“Oof! Careful, ma’am. Please calm down. I’m trying to help you.” A West Indian accent, melodious, beautiful. “Lena, stop dat noise! Stop it, child!”
The screaming abruptly ended, but other sounds continued, a scuffle not far away. Male shouting and the dog’s frenzied barks. Nora blinked, peering up into the mist. The nanny was looming above her, holding her, helping her up. Nora relaxed and allowed the big, surprisingly agile woman to raise her to her feet. She was standing now, leaning against the woman, damp and disoriented, trying to make out what was happening a few feet away through the dense fog. She heard the sound of a blow, a fist striking flesh, and a groan. Something large rushed by from behind her on her left, running toward the action. A male shout. Another female scream.
She tried to move closer, but the woman stopped her with a firm grip on her elbow. “You stay right here, ma’am. Don’t get involved in dat. De men will handle it.”
Nora blinked again, and now she could just make out three figures a few yards in front of her, near the benches on the far side of the fountain. As she and the governess watched, the tallest one—the jogger, she now saw—punched the face of one of the other figures, a dark-haired, dark-skinned man in a dark suit, sending him reeling. As he staggered, the man dropped something—her shoulder bag!—to the ground. The jogger reached down to snatch it up while the third figure, the teenage boy, closed in on the thief, fists raised. He and the jogger now had the other man cornered against a tree.
“Okay, ye feckin’ Paki wanker, now ye’re gonna get it!” the boy growled.
“No, Gary!” A desperate female cry from somewhere behind her: the teenage girl.
Click. A low, ominous sound, and now the dark-haired man against the tree thrust an arm out in front of him, toward the two men who closed in, waving it from side to side in a slashing motion. In that moment, through a gap in the mist, Nora saw two things with perfect clarity.
Her would-be robber was the young man from the plane this morning. And he was holding a knife. A switchblade.
“Hoy!” Gary cried, leaping directly toward the knife, but the tall jogger reached over with one arm to snatch the boy from midair and pull him away, out of reach of the glinting weapon’s deadly arc.
“No!” the jogger said. “Stay back, mate.”
The big dog was still barking its head off, and the old lady was shouting at it, trying to control the animal. Nora couldn’t see them, but she could hear everything. She heard the children crying as they arrived to clutch the nanny’s skirt. Nora reached down to place her hand on the shoulder of the nearest little girl, listening. She heard the ragged breathing of the three men in the mist before her, facing off. There was a moment of suspended animation: the man against the tree, Gary and the other man facing him, Gary’s screaming girlfriend, the sobbing children, the barking dog, the shouting old woman, the constant splash of falling water.
Then, with a final violent wave of the knife, the thief took off from under the tree at a dead run, sprinting away across the grass toward the entrance at the southern end of the park. He was swallowed by the fog, leaving only the brief sounds of his retreating steps, then silence. Gary started to go after him, but a firm command from the jogger stopped him. The big man had his cellphone at his ear again, speaking low, conveying some soft but urgent message. The police, Nora supposed.
Now, at last, the dog got into the act. With a shout from the unseen old lady in the fog behind her, the big brown animal burst through a wall of mist, streaking past Nora in the direction the running man had taken. Everyone watched as it too disappeared in the fog, its menacing, low growl fading. A moment of silence, then a sharp male cry, followed by an equally sharp whine from the dog. Nora winced, thinking of the ugly blade she’d glimpsed in the man’s hand. Oh God, not the dog! she thought. She broke free of the nanny’s grasp, ready to run blindly through the mist.
The hand that stopped her was more powerful than the nanny’s considerable grip. The big man in the sweatshirt was now standing beside her.
“Don’t,” he said, and Nora froze.
The elderly woman hurried over, one gloved hand on her tweed-covered heart, the other holding a dangling leash.
“Buster!” she cried.
Another whine from the fog. Then Buster came trotting into view, materializing from the swirling mass like the Hound of the Baskervilles, and Nora realized that he was indeed a hound of some kind. He was limping slightly, and he had something in his teeth. They all rushed over to him. His mistress reached him first, sinking to her knees on the pavement, and everyone else crowded around. Nora noticed that the pretty teenage girl had finally joined them as well, her hand clutching the hand of her hot-tempered boyfriend.
“Oh, Buster, are you all right?” the old lady whispered, reaching out with her gloved hands to inspect him for damage. A sharp bark from Buster, then he began to lick her face. She felt his right foreleg, and he yelped in obvious pain. “He kicked you!” she cried indignantly. She leaped to her feet, faced the wall of fog in the general direction the man had taken, drew herself up to her full four-foot-ten-inch height, and shouted at the top of her voice. “You’d better keep running, you son of a bitch! Arsehole!”
They all stared at her, even the dog. There was a moment of shocked silence. Then everyone but Nora started to laugh. The men began it, joined by the girlfriend and the nanny. Even the little girls were giggling. Miss Marple turned around to face her audience, blushing. Then she too burst into ladylike chuckles. She knelt down beside Buster and took him in her tiny arms, crushing him in a hug. She removed the object from his mouth and held it up in triumph for all to see: a strip of dark material, part of the fleeing man’s trouser leg. They all laughed harder, and some of them began to clap their hands, a round of applause for the fearless Buster.
Nora blinked around at the crowd. The big man beside her held up her shoulder bag, and she took it from him, staring blankly at his handsome, laughing face. Then she smiled, and the smile became a grin. The first titter of laughter escaped her lips, and she gave herself over to it. She sagged against the nanny and the two girls, laughing with the rest of this motley group of strangers in this cold, foggy park. Buster shook himself, barked, and began furiously wagging his tail, which set everyone off again.
Just as they were all about to collect themselves and go their various ways, a uniformed park security guard appeared from the mist. He was an older man, barrel chested, red faced, with a thick mustache and muttonchop whiskers. Arthur Treacher in the flesh, the perfect Central Casting bobby.
“Eh, wot’s all this, then?” he wanted to know.
Nora took one look at him and screamed with laughter, but the fresh explosion of mirth around her drowned it out. The guard stared at them all, his mustache twitching, utterly at a loss. Nora hitched her bag over her aching left shoulder as the jogger stepped forward and took charge.
“It’s okay, sir,” he said. “It’s all over now. A little excitement, that’s all. Some deadbeat tried to steal this lady’s purse, but we sent him on his way.” He jerked a thumb to include the beaming Gary in the rescue.
The guard turned to Nora. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“Yes,” she said, “I’m fine. Thank you—all of you. I just want to go back to my hotel.”
“I’ll come with you,” the jogger said.
Nora was about to protest, but the look on the young man’s face stopped her. He was escorting her home, and that was that. The teen girl was tugging on G
ary’s arm, and the nanny had taken the twins firmly by the hand. Miss Marple was putting Buster’s leash back on his collar.
“Please see these people safely out of here,” the jogger said to the guard. It was more a command than a request. The guard nodded and led the little group away down the sidewalk, not even questioning the young man’s authority. In moments, they were lost in the fog.
Nora stood beside the fountain with the young man, forming words to thank him for his help. He was watching the others go. As soon as they were out of earshot, he turned to her, pointing at her shoulder bag.
“Have you got a handkerchief in there?” he said quietly. “Or maybe some plasters?”
It took her a moment to translate from British to American English. Plasters: Band-Aids. She blinked and looked down. He was gingerly rolling up the right sleeve of his sweatshirt, and now she saw a dark spot next to a slit in the material. A thin red line ran up his forearm, six inches long, beaded with drops of blood.
“Oh God, you’re hurt!” she cried.
“Just a scratch,” he mumbled. “But I could use a sop.”
Nora pulled a travel pack of tissues from her bag, then felt around in the bottom of it and came up with two Band-Aids and an atomizer. She took his arm in one hand, dabbed the blood away from the scratch, and sprayed it. He winced.
“Ow! What the hell is that?”
“Chanel Number Five. Hold still.” She placed a wad of tissues against the cut and taped it in place with the bandages. “There, that’s the best I can do till we get to the hotel.”
He sniffed the dressing. “I smell like a tart.”
Nora laughed. “Well, a high-end tart, anyway. Here.” She found a tiny bottle and handed him two Advil gelcaps. He popped them into his mouth and swallowed.
“Cheers,” he said. “Come on, let’s get out of this soup. Um, where are you staying?”
“The Byron, in—”
“I know where it is.” He retrieved her soaked beret from the ground and handed it to her, and they began to walk toward the park’s southwest entrance. “Are you traveling with people? I mean, is there someone at the hotel…”
Nora stopped walking, and everything came back to her. She looked down at her left hand, at her wedding ring. “No, there’s no one. I just arrived from America this afternoon. My husband died here two nights ago, a car accident, and I’ve come to—to take him home. My name is Nora Baron.”
“I’m sorry,” the young man said. They were silent for a moment. Then he said, “I’m Craig Elder. Well, me da’s Craig Elder, so I guess I’m Craig Elder the younger.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “Irish?”
“Through and through,” he replied, and he smiled too.
“We’re from Donegal, originally,” she said, “but I’m a New Yorker. Pleased to meet you, Craig Elder.”
“Likewise, Mrs. Baron.”
“Nora,” she said, and they walked out of the misty garden together.
Chapter 6
“Who was that character?” Craig Elder asked her.
Nora looked over at him. They were at the corner of Gower Street, turning in the direction of the hotel, and this was the first time he’d spoken since they’d left the park. She thought of her acting training, arranging her features in what she hoped was blank surprise.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“Oh, come on.” He stopped walking, pressing his left hand against his damaged right sleeve, checking that the makeshift bandage was still in place under it. “I saw your face when you looked at him, and later, when he took off. You recognized him.”
Yes, I did, she thought, but she merely shrugged and said, “I thought I recognized him for a moment, but I was wrong. I never saw him before. I have no idea who he is.” At least that last sentence was true. She wasn’t going to go into it all here, now, with this stranger.
“Okay,” he said, and they began walking again, “but be careful with that purse.”
She smiled. “I will. What do you do, Mr. Elder? I mean, when you’re not saving ladies in distress.”
“Student,” he said. “In, um, Dublin. I’m here on summer hols, um, bunking with a mate who lives just off Russell Square. I run in that park every day, to stay in shape.”
“Lucky for me that you do,” she said. “Dublin—would that be City University, University College, or Blanchett College?”
He blinked. “Um, Blanchett. And you?”
“I’m an actor,” she said, “and now I teach acting at a university in the States.” She didn’t add that she was enough of an actor to know that he’d just lied to her. He was too old to be a student, for one thing. He was in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. He was stammering, and he clearly didn’t know Dublin. There was no Blanchett College—she’d made it up on the spot and named it after her favorite movie star. The other two schools were real, but liars always went for the final choice in multiple choices. Jeff had told her that.
She gave her champion a covert once-over. Six two, lanky but powerfully muscled, strong features dominated by intelligent gray eyes, full lips and good teeth, short brown hair that came close to being a buzz cut, and a two-day shadow on his tanned skin. He had one of those Irish grins, all encompassing and startlingly masculine, and his voice was a resonant baritone. Nora the drama teacher always noticed these things. Something about him reminded her of the military. Whatever he did, she didn’t think he spent a lot of time behind a desk. Definitely an outdoors type.
“Here we are,” she said as they arrived at the Byron Hotel. He held the door for her and followed her inside. She stopped next to the bust of Lord Byron on a table in the entryway and turned to face her new friend. He looked at the bust, then up at a portrait of the poet in a gilt frame behind it. On the wall beside the print were framed poems, “She Walks in Beauty” and “So We’ll Go No More A-Roving” among them. Nora pointed to her favorite, a framed line from the play Don Juan, which was probably Byron’s most famous quotation:
’Tis strange—but true; for truth is always strange;
Stranger than fiction.
“Words to live by,” she said. “If you want to wait here a moment, I’ll ask the manager for a first aid kit, and we can do something about that arm.”
“Don’t bother,” he said. “My, um, my mate has stuff back at—at his flat. He’s a med student.”
At Blanchett College? she thought, but she didn’t say it. She said, “I’m meeting a friend for dinner; she should be here any minute. Will you join us?”
He didn’t answer her immediately. He was staring past her, into the lobby. Nora turned around and looked. Wimbledon had apparently not been called for fog tonight, and there were only three people here. An elderly American couple in one corner argued over a map of England. In another corner sat a pretty young blond woman in a low-cut blouse and a short skirt, with beautiful legs crossed at the knee that ended in a pair of spiked heels. Craig was staring at the girl. Nora smiled.
“Oh, no thank you,” he murmured, tearing his gaze from the vision. “I really must be going now. Will you be all right here until your friend joins you?”
“Please don’t worry about me anymore,” Nora said. “You’ve done enough of that for one night. Thank you again, Mr. Elder the younger.” If that’s really your name, she thought.
“Well, good night, then,” he said. “And be careful.” With a smile and a last, swift glance at the fabulous legs in the armchair, he strode quickly out into the fog.
Be careful, Pal.
It was the second time in an hour that a strange man had instructed her to be careful. In the case of Craig Elder, that final warning hadn’t been the tip-off, not by a long shot. She’d begun to have her suspicions about him as far back as the park, when he appeared so conveniently to spring into action. He’d told the boy, Gary, and the security guard exactly what to do, and they’d automatically obeyed him. When the thief escaped, he’d spoken into his cellphone—but no police had arriv
ed. Someone else, somewhere else, had been alerted. Craig Elder was not a student; Nora was certain of that. She wondered again about a possible military background. Still, all this evidence hadn’t decided it for her. It was something he’d said outside, on the way here just now: Be careful with that purse. That had been the dead giveaway.
What is it? she wondered. What on earth do I have in my purse?
“Nora, darling!”
Nora looked at the front door, and a genuine smile came to her lips. Vivian Howard was the only non-actress she’d ever met who could always make an entrance worthy of a star. She stood there in a tasteful black suit that complemented her glossy black cap of hair, an expression of concern on her handsome, immaculately painted face, holding out her arms.
“Hello, Viv,” Nora said, and the two women embraced.
Chapter 7
“What happened to your forehead?” Vivian asked her.
Nora waved a hand in vague dismissal. “Oh, it was nothing. I stumbled on something in the fog and fell down, but I’m all right. Does it look awful?”
“No, it’s just a little black-and-blue spot. You look fine—I mean, considering. I mean— Oh, damn it, Nora, I don’t know what to say!”
Nora reached across the white linen tablecloth and grasped her friend’s hand. “Don’t worry, Viv, I’m fine. I’m just getting used to it, that’s all. It’s going to take a while.”
“You didn’t eat anything,” Vivian said. “Mrs. Tindall knocked herself out with that lovely chicken, and you barely touched it. Or the wine. Have you eaten today?”
Nora shrugged as a Tindall son-in-law arrived to clear the dinner plates from the table. “I had something on the plane. To tell you the truth, I’m more tired than anything else. I could sleep for a hundred years.”
