So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5

by Anne R. Allen

  What was worse, the other people in the bar looked more likely to come after him with pitchforks than help him find a bunch of pornographers.

  He gulped his beer and shivered. He had apparently come to this hostile place for no reason at all. He took a gulp of his beer and thought about Silas sunning himself on a Hawaiian beach. His thoughts were not forgiving.

  Chapter 25—Camilla

  The man in my bed sat up and grinned.

  "Hello, lass," he said. "Are you planning to do some digging?"

  I stood frozen in my bedroom doorway still clutching the garden spade.

  "Allow me to apologize for borrowing your bed. I was right knackered. Hitched a ride with a lorry driver this morning after bloody little sleep last night."

  Buckingham yawned.

  "You have a brilliant cat, by the bye. What's his name?"

  The man sat up and put on some wire-rimmed glasses and shoved his feet into a pair of sneakers.

  He had longish gray-blond hair and wore a tee-shirt with a pair of ancient jeans. He had a Northern English accent and was good-looking in a what-not-to wear sort of way. Oxford don meets Pirates of the Caribbean.

  I had to take a moment to start breathing again. I set down the shovel.

  "Peter Sherwood? You're dead! You drowned! Where on earth have you been?"

  "Oz," he said.

  Peter—it did seem to be Peter—stood and ran his fingers through his tousled hair.

  "And then I was at sea. Just landed this morning at a port near Los Angeles. A place unimaginatively called Long Beach. I came as soon as I heard."

  "Oz? You were in Oz? With the Cowardly Lion and the Tin Woodman? I suppose they gave you a magic wand to open my front door?"

  I wondered if I might be losing my mind as I stared at my formerly-dead publisher and one-time lover. Maybe this was how Dorothy Gale felt when she was being tornadoed into Munchkin Land.

  "Australia." Peter grinned. "And it's silly to leave your key under the flower pot on your front step. Everybody does."

  "You've been in Australia?"

  I did leave an extra key under the pot of geraniums in case I locked myself out. Probably a cliché. But that didn't mean people could just let themselves in...

  "Yes," Peter stood and stretched. "I've been crewing on an Aussie ship for weeks. Totally out of touch with civilization."

  He started to put his arms around me. I did not reciprocate.

  "How can I hug a ghost? What happened to you? Everybody at Sherwood Ltd. thinks you're dead."

  "No they don't." He laughed. "At least not Vera or Henry or Liam and Davey. I've been running the company from abroad. I needed to...let's say 'retire' my Peter Sherwood identity for a while, so we scuttled the yacht off Jamaica and hitched a ride with a Japanese trawler. I owed rather a lot of money to some unpleasant Croatian blokes who questioned my ownership of the Marynia. But that's all cleared up now."

  "You stole that yacht? I thought..." I stopped. I was talking to myself. Peter had wandered away in the direction of the kitchen.

  "I don't suppose you have such a thing as a cup of tea?"

  I followed him in a kind of daze, watching him put the kettle on and take the box of Twining's English Breakfast Tea from the cupboard.

  "You have a lot of explaining to do, Mr. Sherwood." I sat down at my little dining table, put on my sternest face, and motioned for him to sit as well.

  "You're not wrong." Peter put a couple of tea bags into my Royal Doulton pot. "And I will tell all. In the fullness of time. But at the moment we have a bit of an emergency."

  He took some milk from the fridge and two cups from the dish drainer.

  I could contain my anger no longer.

  "A bit of an emergency? Peter, my life is one big fat emergency. You have no idea..."

  "I think I do." He poured boiling water into the teapot and sat down. "I've seen your Amazon pages. Do you really not know that you should never, ever respond to a review? It's not done. I should think that the Manners Doctor, of all people, wouldn't make such a breach of online etiquette."

  I wanted to slap him silly for pretending to be dead all this time—and for being so calm and...British.

  "All that craziness with the book reviews—you think it's my fault?"

  "It's not a question of fault. But some authors have been bloody awful to reviewers. Stalking them and sending fans to harass them—even hitting them over the head with wine bottles. Now if you respond at all, you'll get on the "badly behaving author" list and the review vigilantes will lump you all together and swarm your buy pages with one-star reviews."

  "I sort of figured out I'd broken some rule. But all I did was make a flippant remark. I did not hit anybody over the head with a wine bottle...did that really happen?"

  "I'm afraid it did. The author motored all the way from London to Scotland to do it. Landed the poor reviewer in hospital."

  "Obviously that author was deranged. But I'm not. All I did was defend my taste in architecture. Which isn't even my taste. Just something they accused me of. Do you think that makes me deserve death and rape threats?

  "Rape threats? You've had death and rape threats?" Peter stopped filling his tea cup, mid-pour.

  I nodded. "They said they'd rape and mutilate me. And other...horrible things. They sent a photo of my house. The worst part was they pretended their email was from my friend Plantagenet. Have you ever heard of anything so cruel?"

  "Plantagenet? The threats used the word 'Plantagenet'? Are you sure?"

  "Plantagenet O," is what the email said. I thought the 'O' was meant as a hug, but obviously once I read it..."

  "Bloody hell." Peter's face went pale. "It's worse than I thought. I didn't realize they had people here in America. I don't suppose you happen to have a weapon somewhere about the premises? A nice handgun perhaps?"

  Chapter 26—Plantagenet

  Plant managed to wave Brenda back to ask for some coffee. She gave another sniff. Apparently coffee wasn't something she approved of.

  "Camilla is very fond of Vera," Plant said, trying a different tack. "Do you know where I might find her?"

  "I don't have her address. It's somewhere out on the old Ropery Road, but she's probably at the Hall, like everybody else. Why aren't you over there? You'll be missing everything."

  "The Hall?"

  "The Old Hall, Swynsby's claim to fame. They've got the big reenactment going on there today, don't they? Costumes and swords and that. Mostly an excuse to drink. I had them in here before the show started. Wearing their silly outfits, talking that nonsense and carrying on like it was the Middle Ages. Already drunk as lords."

  "Hurry up, man." An old pensioner spoke from the shadows. He didn't smile, but at least he didn't look as hostile as the others. "Just three blocks north on the High Street, then turn left. You'll be missing all the good parts. They've got Richard III himself coming today. He stayed at the Hall, you know, on this day in 1483. On one of his journeys from York to London..."

  "It will all be over by now." A gray-haired woman at a nearby table interrupted him. "I'll be glad to see them go. They're all barking, those reenactors. They talk as if they don't know what year it is."

  "Not quite over," somebody else said. "The doors don't close until four."

  "And you think Vera might be there?" Plant asked Brenda.

  Brenda shrugged. "Everybody else is. Not much to do for excitement around here. We don't even have a movie theater anymore."

  Plant gulped the rest of his beer and paid his bill. This might be his one chance to talk to Vera Winchester. And Vera was probably the only person in Swynsby-on-Trent who could tell him what had happened to Sherwood Ltd.

  He walked the three blocks along the cobbled street as the old man had instructed, then turned left toward the river.

  In spite of his exhaustion, he felt a thrill as he rounded the corner and saw the old manor house, in all its medieval splendor, surrounded by well-tended flower gardens and velvety green lawns.
r />   The Hall was a half-timbered building from the fifteenth century with what looked like an even older stone tower, complete with crenelated battlements. It looked as if Yorks might have used it to shoot crossbows at Lancasters and vice versa.

  This was the history he'd come to England to see.

  The lawns were decorated with people in medieval costume, and vendors sold what was advertised to be mead—as well as pints of ale. Attendees bought sandwiches of roast pork and apple pickle from a cart where a whole pig roasted on a spit.

  Musicians with fiddles, odd wooden flutes and squeeze boxes played bouncy music for some Morris Dancers, who did their funny little jumping and stick-clicking dance.

  The whole thing looked a lot like a "Renaissance Pleasure Faire" back in the States, except there was an actual Renaissance building in the background. And probably fewer drugs. At least he didn't smell any.

  He did smell the scents of lavender and rose from the plentiful flower gardens. They looked authentic too. Very English cottagey.

  He realized he was going to have trouble connecting with Vera, though, since he had no idea what she looked like. He couldn't very well start shouting her name into the crowd of hundreds of merrymakers.

  Still, he was glad he'd come to Swynsby, in spite of his fatigue and less than welcoming experience at the Merry Miller. This spectacle was charming.

  He sat on a little stone wall that encircled a bed of spectacular flowers. Someone had plucked a couple of bright purple spikes and left them on the wall. Plant picked one up. It was lovely and fragrant. He wondered if it would grow in California.

  A woman in a dark, nun-like medieval costume approached him. Something about her seemed sinister, although she gave him a smile.

  "You mustn't pick those," she said in a sharp tone. "The flowers are part of the display. This is a classic medieval herb garden. The pink flowers are soapwort. In medieval times, they used it for bathing."

  He nodded, trying to look grateful for the lecture. He wondered if she thought he needed a bath.

  "The little daisy ones are feverfew," she went on. "They're good for a nervous stomach, and that dramatic purple spike you have is monkshood. Also known as wolfsbane."

  "Wolfsbane? Isn't that poisonous?"

  The woman nodded. "Oh, yes. Terribly. The official name of the poison is aconitum. There are stories that it can turn you into a werewolf. I don't know about that, but it certainly can kill you."

  Plant dropped the flower.

  The woman leaned over him and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Never pick wolfsbane. Just touching it can cause a dreadful tummy upset. You may already have done yourself harm."

  Chapter 27—Camilla

  Peter seemed less upset about my rape threats when he saw the email.

  "This IPO address is English," he said. "You're in California. No matter how deranged they are, they'd require magic willies to rape you from the other side of the planet."

  He went back to the kitchen to retrieve his tea.

  "You honestly think I’m safe here?" I followed him, not feeling safe at all.

  Peter sipped his tea and made a face.

  "It's gone cold. I don't suppose you have a drop of something stronger?"

  I wasn't in a drinking mood.

  "There's the microwave if you want to heat it up." I pointed at the oven that I realized now could have been cleaner. "How can you be sure they won't come here? That email showed a picture of this cottage. They know where to find me."

  "Anybody can find a photo like that with a simple search." Peter leaned against the kitchen counter, looking relaxed again. "It's not a secret that you own a bookstore in Morro Bay. It was included in your CV on the Sherwood website. Pradeep thought it made you seem more accessible to readers than the former one that called you a 'socialite'."

  "Where is the Sherwood website? I couldn't find it when I last looked."

  "Hacked. The Plantagenet people kept putting up a picture of Richard III instead of our logo, along with obscene messages, so Henry had it taken down."

  "A portrait of Richard III? That's what somebody put on my Facebook page too. What is this about, Peter? And who is Hinckley Lutterworth? Do you know that name? They keep mentioning him in these stupid reviews."

  Peter opened the cupboard behind him and found the remainder of Marvin's cognac.

  "Courvoisier?" he said. "That's too good to spoil in a cup of cold tea. Have you some proper glasses?"

  Robot-like, I got a snifter out of the china cabinet and handed it to him with a good deal less graciousness than the Manners Doctor would have prescribed.

  "Who are these people and how did they get a picture of my cottage? That certainly wasn't on your website. Somebody had to come back here into the courtyard to get that shot. You can't even see this house from the street."

  "Google sends its photographers everywhere." Peter filled his glass and walked back to the desk. "That picture is no doubt taken from Google Maps. They've got most of the buildings in the civilized world on there."

  He tapped a few keys on my computer. A photo of the Maidenette building came up.

  "As she used to look. Remember?" Peter gave an intimate smile.

  I stepped back. I was not at all in the mood for romantic nonsense.

  "What do you mean, 'used to look'? What happened to your building?"

  Peter typed some more.

  "Here's a piece from The Swynsby Sentinel from a fortnight ago. This is how it looked after the riot—or attack. I suppose it's more accurate to call it an attack. Henry Weems told me they were like an invading army."

  I leaned over his shoulder to peer at a grainy newspaper photograph of what might have been the Sherwood parking lot, full of broken bottles and trash.

  My questions started spilling out.

  "Who attacked who? You were in Swynsby? Henry was there? Where are Vera and Pradeep? And Liam and Davey? Why don't they answer their email? Where's my check? And...you're supposed to be dead, Peter. Here I've been thinking you were dead for three whole years! Why aren't you dead?"

  That didn't come out the way I meant it.

  Peter laughed. "I left you a message. Didn't you get it?" He drained his snifter and went back to the kitchen. "I stopped by your store and left you a card with a drawing of a coyote. A reminder of when we first met. I imagined that would tell you it was me."

  He picked up the bottle from the counter and held it toward me.

  "Are you sure you won't have any?"

  I sighed and decided I might as well join him. Maybe it would help me calm down enough to communicate with this rakish ghost in my kitchen.

  "Thank you. Maybe I will. There are more glasses in the cabinet."

  As Peter took out another of my Waterford Lismore snifters, Buckingham sauntered up to him and meowed.

  "Does your cat want cognac too?" Peter smiled as he poured a couple of fingers into the snifter for me. "He looks thirsty."

  "Buckingham! I haven't fed you! I'm so sorry!"

  The poor cat. I had forgotten him. All my pet supplies were still in my shopping bags on the front step. I rushed out to get them and took a couple of deep breaths of cool sea air. I was sure this was all going to make sense once I had time to think, but right now I still felt as if I were in the middle of that tornado to Oz.

  I did remember Peter's "message," of course. I'd clung to a sliver of hope at the time that the coyote card with the odd message from a strange "fisherman" meant Peter was alive, but after all this time, that hope had died.

  "You didn't pay for that card, by the way—if that was you." I didn't quite smile at him as I brought the bags in and put them on the kitchen counter.

  I pulled out the two new cat bowls along with a can of Friskies Tasty Treasures. Buckingham had better like turkey and cheese with gravy. I opened the can and dumped it in the smaller of the new cat bowls.

  Peter gave one of his enigmatic shrugs and filled the bigger bowl with water from the tap. He set the two bowls on the kitch
en floor.

  He and I watched in silence as Buckingham enjoyed his dinner.

  "Yes," Peter said finally. "I owe you for the cost of that card. I didn't have any U.S. currency at the time. I was only ashore for a few hours. As a matter of fact, I owe you for many things. Like this delightful cognac. I haven't had liquor this good for some time..."

  He swished his snifter. How could he do that? We were in the midst of chaos and there he was, calmly sipping Courvoisier.

  I looked at the glass he'd poured for me, but didn't pick it up. I wasn't sure I wanted it.

  "What do you know about these people who attacked the Sherwood offices?" My questions came rolling out again. "Do you know what happened to Plantagenet? What's going on over there in England? Was it a bomb?"

  Peter slammed down his glass.

  "What bomb? Have they bombed the Maidenette Building? They wouldn't be that bloody daft, would they?"

  "I was talking about the bomb in London. At the Old Vic. Last night. Plant was there. Isn't that what you're talking about?"

  "I..." Now Peter looked confused. "In London? Are you sure?"

  "Of course I'm sure. It's all over the news."

  Peter ran back to my desk and typed at my laptop.

  "I haven't seen any mainstream media for days," he said over his shoulder. "I rushed up here when I heard from Vera about how you'd set off the review police....What have you heard about this thing in London?"

  I was tired of the reminders of my review faux pas, but decided to ignore it. There were much more serious things at hand.

  "Read The Guardian. They have the most sensible coverage," I said. "They think it was an accident. But other people say it was a bomb. And Plant won't return my calls. I saw him on TV, talking about Richard III. A clip from the BBC News."

  "Richard III?" Peter's face lost all his British calm. "Your friend Plantagenet? The screenwriter? He was talking about Richard III?"

  "Yes. The accident—or whatever it was—happened during the Kevin Spacey production of Richard III. At the Old Vic. Plant had been looking forward to it for months. And he had to go alone, even though it was supposed to be his honeymoon, because Silas is being a complete idiot about my engagement to Plant a hundred years ago. Plus my former lawyer came to the wedding and he's some buffed New Age guru now, so he and Silas ran off to Maui.... And I couldn't go with Plant to London because I was so devastated about Ronzo. Of course that was before I knew about the kittens... "