Skylark

by Sheila Simonson

  "Oh God, Jay." I gulped. Trevor Worth's unreal image went pop and disappeared. "I miss you, too. Can't you just get on the next plane and come?" That was a mere wish. Jay runs the law enforcement training program at the junior college. I knew he had to wind down classes, turn in grades, and do other tedious end-of-semester chores, so I took a deep breath and launched into an account of the previous day's events.

  Jay had spent ten years in the LAPD and two as head of the Monte County CID, but I've never heard him grill anybody. He's the best listener I know. Telling him what had happened helped me clarify my perceptions. I didn't leave anything out--not the Mormon missionary, not Rollo the dog, not Trevor Worth's gold hair and plummy voice.

  When I ran out of steam, he said, "You sent the papers to your father? I wonder how long they'll take to get to New York."

  "A week at least, probably longer. I've heard horror stories of airmail deliveries taking up to a month."

  "Shall I call him for you?"

  "Yes. Please. I didn't explain much in my note. Aren't you going to ask me why I meddled with the evidence?"

  "You didn't know it was evidence at the time, and I don't see what harm you've done the originals, apart from adding to what are probably hundreds of fingerprints. I don't like the sound of that break-in, though. Move to a hotel."

  "We can't toss away two weeks' rent. Besides, I like the flat. You will, too. It's central, only two blocks from the Underground station, and the landlady is friendly. Ann can't afford a decent hotel."

  He sighed. "I suppose you're right. I wish I could talk to the man in charge...what's his name, Thorne?"

  "Cyril Thorne. He was thorough. I liked him." I hesitated. "What about that friend of yours in Leicester, couldn't he call Inspector Thorne?" Jay had corresponded with the chief of detectives for Leicestershire for several years. They were going to attend a weekend conference on DNA fingerprinting.

  "I should've thought of that. What time is it there?"

  "Six-fifteen."

  "In the morning? Ouch. I'll wait a couple of hours and call Harry at home. I wish you had a phone in that flat."

  "Me, too. There's no place to plug one in, even. I asked. Miss Beale was nice about the burglary. She said nothing was missing but the one figurine." The small but very heavy Inuit soapstone carving had vanished from the flat.

  "That and your twenty pounds."

  Ann's money, safely in her purse, had escaped the thief, but the few bills I stashed in a drawer for safety's sake had vanished. "I'll have to go to the American Express office as soon as they open. The thief didn't take my travelers' checks or credit cards." The police had concluded there was only one burglar.

  "Or your passport, or the radio or the toaster. It sounds phony, Lark."

  "The carving was worth ?200."

  "I still smell fish. He was after the papers."

  "Yes."

  "They think he was a pro?"

  "They seemed pretty sure of it, more so after Thorne showed up. The burglar picked the front door lock and left through the window in the bedroom. Oops, somebody else wants to use the phone. I have to go, Jay."

  A man had materialized behind me at some point in the conversation. I gave him a placatory smile. He looked at his watch. He wore a business suit and a gold Rolex. I wondered why he didn't have his own phone. "Goodbye, darling. I love you."

  "I love you, too. Call me tomorrow."

  "Okay." I made kissing noises and hung up. "Sorry," I said in my best bored-British voice and walked off with as much dignity as I could muster.

  Nothing was open. No convenience stores, no coffee shops, no newsstands. So I went running.

  I jogged a couple of blocks then crossed on a zebra to the impassive brick presence of the French Institute and the Lycée Charles de Gaulle. Another long block took me in front of the Yemeni embassy, very seedy, with its spy cameras tracking my progress, and across the Cromwell Road to the Natural History Museum. I trotted along Queen's Gate, past the complex of museums and colleges that stretches to the Albert Hall and the entrance to Kensington Gardens.

  The park gate wasn't open yet, so I jogged at the edge of the vast open area formed by Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. By the time I reached the next gate, the keepers were opening it. I dodged through and began running. I was conscious of my aches, so I didn't push myself. I just loped along, thinking in small disconnected bursts and avoiding doggie spoor.

  I headed west, skirting people up early to walk their pets, clusters of chattering schoolchildren, and the trim businessmen striding alone or in pairs toward the City. I left Kensington Gardens at the main gate and jogged in place until the light turned green. The traffic had thickened by then, along with the sweet scent of exhaust fumes.

  Slowing to a walk, I retraced my path. My favorite sidewalk cafe had opened. Also the news agent next door. Elbow deep in uniformed school children buying sweets, I waded over to the spread of newspapers and chose a tabloid at random--the Daily Mail. Also copies of the Independent and the Times. Ann liked to read about royalty.

  I bought cafe latté and a croissant with the last of my change and settled down at a small white table just outside the door. A pleasant babble of French rose from a clutch of young matrons at the next table, two with babies in carriers. I sipped until the caffeine jump-started my brain, then I started looking for word of Milos's accident or our break-in or both.

  There was nothing on the burglary. The Independent gave Milos a paragraph on page three, a bare summary of fact: Passenger Assaulted on Underground. The Daily Mail was less restrained. Commuter Stabbed! it shouted. Terror on the Tube! and, in smaller type, MP Calls for Guards on Public Transport. No One Safe In Thatcher's London Says Liberal Spokesman.

  I read the Daily Mail item through twice. The prose was purple, the writer had embroidered, and the story boiled down to the same facts the Independent had reported. I deduced that the police had made a statement. There was no mention of my name or Ann's, but the Daily Mail investigator had tracked down Bert Hoskins, who said colorful things about foreigners. His wife must have been unhappy when he showed up late.

  At eight I walked back to the flat. When I entered the hall, Ann made an interrogatory noise so I answered her, low-voiced, and slipped into the bathroom. I was in dire need of a shower, but the flat didn't have a shower. There was a Victorian tub. It had separate taps for hot and cold water, so it wasn't even possible to attach a rubber hose with a showerhead. Baths are for meditation. I had already meditated my way past the tulip beds in Hyde Park. Sighing, I turned on the taps.

  I rummaged through the shambles of my bedroom and found black tailored pants, a grey blazer, and a fuchsia blouse that didn't look too crumpled.

  While I bathed I did an inventory of chores. I would have to take my raincoat to the dry-cleaning shop by the Tube station. And tidy the flat. And cash travelers' checks, and go to the police station to sign my two statements, and visit Milos--where was St. Botolph's? I was leaning back in the tub trying to remember the cross street when I found myself drifting off to sleep. I sat up with a start, climbed from the tub, and almost blacked out from the effect of the steaming water. A shower would not have done that to me.

  Cross and groggy, I dried off and dressed. My face looked pallid in the fogged mirror. I dabbed on some lipstick, gave my hair a last damp fluff and went out. Ann was sitting at the table in her pink robe, staring at the coffee pot.

  "Good morning."

  "Lark, honey, will you press the damned lid down? Pouring hot water into that little old pot took all my strength."

  I obliged, grinning. "I hope I didn't wake you."

  She blinked. "You may have or you may not. Who knows? I had to face the day sooner or later."

  I poured two cups. "I brought you a copy of the Times."

  She looked around, still blinking.

  "I left it in the bedroom. Don't move. I'll get it for you. Drink your coffee."

  When I returned she had drunk half a cup and was half-focu
sed.

  "Do you want me to find your glasses for you?"

  "I'm near-sighted, Lark. I don't need glasses to read." She raised the Times between us in the universal don't-talk-now signal, so I picked up my Independent and began to read the other news stories, the ones I had skipped over in the cafe.

  Princess Diana had indeed worn shorts to her son's nursery school. Tailored shorts with knee socks. Enquiries continued into the Hillsborough football disaster. The transport workers' union was going to call a strike. Chinese students were demonstrating in Beijing. A British writers' association had petitioned the Czech government to release imprisoned playwright, Vaçlav Havel. Had I ever heard of Vaçlav Havel? Vague recollections from a senior seminar on absurdist theater surfaced, but nothing definite.

  Salman Rushdie I had heard of. Speaking of the absurd, the Iranians were still determined to execute him for blasphemy. One of my more satirical basketball players had given me a copy of The Satanic Verses as a bon voyage present. I left it behind. I didn't fancy sashaying through Heathrow airport with it. Life is full of small cowardices. At least I had displayed the novel in my shop window when it looked as if the chains were going to remove it from their shelves.

  I brooded over my coffee. Ann rustled the Times. "Another cup?"

  "No, thank you, Lark. I reckon I ought to take a bath."

  "Plenty of hot water." I poured myself another cup and stared at the crossword puzzle. I like crossword puzzles, but this one didn't make any sense. I wished I were home reading the Chronicle or the Examiner. I wished I were home, tucked into my bed with my warm husband.

  "I wish I was home," Ann muttered. "I don't care about Princess Di's knees." She dropped the paper on the cluttered floor and stood up. "I'm homesick."

  "Me, too." I eyed her. She looked as if she were about to burst into tears. "Uh, it's just bad luck. And culture shock."

  Ann sniffed. "I miss my kids." She had two sons, both in college. "And I'm paying out my life's savings to suffer. There's no justice."

  I couldn't argue with that.

  "Oh, well, bath time." She heaved a sigh and picked her way through the living room clutter.

  I had tidied her bed out of the way and cleaned up the worst of the mess the thief had created in the kitchen by the time she returned.

  "That looks better." She shoved her glasses on and inspected my work. She was wearing a blue shirtwaist dress and looked crisp and collected. "Didn't Miss Beale say something about sending a cleaning woman?"

  "Yes, but we'd probably better reduce the chaos. I have to go to Knightsbridge in an hour."

  "To the American Express office? I'll come with you. I don't want to hang around here by myself. We can visit the hospital afterwards. I'll buy flowers at the Tube station." She poured herself another half cup of coffee. "Meanwhile I guess I'll straighten up my belongings. I feel as if I ought to wash everything, what with that man pawing through my clothes."

  It was half past eleven before we found the hospital. The woman at the reception desk told us with grim satisfaction that we would have to leave, Mr. Flatkick's condition had improved but was still Grave. He was not permitted visitors. Ann thrust the flowers at her, with instructions to give them to Milos, and we trudged off, our inadequate tourist maps in hand, in search of the police station.

  It was a discreet brick building at the high priced end of the Fulham Road. The city fathers had tucked it into the corner of a cul de sac opposite a posh terrace of fake-Victoriana. Some architect of the Prince Charles school had made up his mind to clone Thomas Carlisle's neighborhood in Cheyne Walk. The long row of red brick townhouses looked smug and expensive. The police station looked like solid 1955 Council Housing. Only the nifty blue lamp outside the entrance indicated the building's purpose.

  The Crime Scene technicians had taken our fingerprints the night before, so our visit was a formality, as far as the desk sergeant was concerned. Just another pair of tourists to add to the roll of forlorn crime victims.

  We waited on a stiff bench by the central reception desk. Finally Inspector Thorne emerged, greeted us, and ushered us into his spacious office. He presented us with typed transcripts of our statements, two apiece. Ann began reading hers. I scanned the account of the burglary and decided it was accurate, though it didn't sound quite like me. I signed it then read through the second account, visualizing what had happened. When I surfaced I found Ann and Thorne looking at me.

  I lowered the stiff narrative to my lap and met Thorne's eyes. "There's one thing I'd like to add."

  His eyes narrowed.

  "On the way to our flat from the South Kensington station, I had Milos's papers photocopied. I mailed the copies to my father last evening, before the burglary."

  His mouth opened then closed with a snap. He did not look pleased.

  I said doggedly, "I don't suppose that makes any difference to your investigation, but I thought you ought to know."

  His eyebrows knotted. "Why did you copy them?"

  Good question. I paraphrased the disjointed rationalization I had given Ann the night before, adding, "I can't shake the feeling that the thief was after those papers."

  "Where did you post them?"

  "At that post office on the Old Brompton Road--near the Tube station. I poked the parcel through the out-going mail slot."

  "Too late for us to retrieve it," he said, more to himself than to me.

  "Why bother? You have the original document."

  He hesitated. "Mr. Vlaçek may feel you invaded his privacy."

  "He may. I'll apologize when I can talk to him. If he wants me to tell my father to burn the papers unread I'll do that, too. There's plenty of time. Of course, we invaded Milos's privacy when we gave the papers to you."

  That was logical. He shifted gears. "What other information have you withheld, Mrs. Dodge? Obstructing a police enquiry..."

  "I had no intention of hampering your investigation, Inspector. I wasn't sure the papers were relevant. I'm still not sure."

  "Happen we'll find out," he said.

  Ann and I exchanged glances. She had listened to the dialog without comment, and I thought she looked worried. I gave her a weak smile, though I didn't feel wonderfully confident myself.

  Thorne took my amended statement out to a typist, who redid the last page in short order. I signed. Thorne told us we should not leave town without letting him know. Though his tone was not menacing and he showed us out himself, I could see that my little confession had created doubts. I was sorry for that. I wished I could provide him with a clearer explanation. My impulses often bewilder me, and photocopying those papers had been one of my weirder moments.

  By that time I was starved as well as exhausted. I yearned to go home to the flat, fix a sandwich, and take a long, long nap, but Ann was determined not to waste the afternoon. She wanted to visit the National Gallery and stroll along Charing Cross Road to look at used bookstores. I had meant to browse in the bookstores, too.

  One of my customers lusted after nineteenth century travel diaries. Though I dealt in new books, I was slowly developing a book-search service. I had an appointment to talk to an antique map dealer in Knightsbridge the next day, Friday, but it wouldn't hurt me to look for diaries. I thought I might find some interesting oddities for my Christmas display, too. Besides, I had not been to the National Gallery since I was ten.

  So we headed east. We had a quick lunch in the basement cafeteria and went on upstairs, galloping past the Spanish masters and dawdling over the impressionists. Ann was awed, except by Van Gogh's "Sunflowers" which she said was too brown. I wasn't unmoved myself.

  When you're with a person who is experiencing something for the first time, there's a natural but not very nice tendency to want to come across as the bored sophisticate. Ann's undisguised wonder provoked that kind of snobbery in me.

  I had been fortunate enough to visit England three times when I was a child, twice for extended stays during my father's sabbatical leaves. I had also dashed through
London as a college student on my way to international basketball competitions. All the same, I didn't know London well enough to pose as a jaded cosmopolite.

  As we entered the souvenir shop on the main floor, I caught myself stifling a yawn that was part weariness, part pose. Ann rooted among the prints and the postcards, and I gave myself a stern lecture. The consequent remorse made me introduce her to the National Portrait Gallery next door--that and nostalgia. All those wonderful English faces had enchanted me as a ten year old. I wanted to see if the magic still operated.

  It did. I left the gallery almost light-footed, and Ann left in a soft murmur of teacherly delight. She wished she could have brought her high school students. Except that she no longer had students.

  We paused for tea and rather dry scones in a little Shoppe that would have received Miss Beale's assent. Ann talked. When her divorce decree came through, she told me, she had wanted to start over, so she resigned her teaching post, took a temporary job as a clerk in an Atlanta bookstore, and began planning to use her settlement money to open a small store in a resort town on the Carolina coast. She had attended the booksellers' conference as part of the research into her new life. Mostly, though, she had just wanted to see Britain. Three weeks in London and three weeks driving around the countryside. It was the dream of a lifetime. I hoped she'd be able to realize it.

  We drifted through the bookshops, accreting purchases. I had the proprietor of one musty place ship two books of nineteenth century engravings home for me. Then Ann dragged me to the half-price theater booth in Leicester Square that handles tickets to most of the plays, and she tried for Cats. It was indeed expensive. A tour group had overbooked for Hamlet, however. When I agreed to go with her, she settled for two good seats the following night at the National Theatre.

  Ann was delighted with her coup. Shakespeare-daft. I thought of Daphne Worth and wanted to laugh. There are worse vices.

  By that time my feet ached almost as much as my elbow, and it was half-past five. We took a taxi home at Ann's suggestion, an unprecedented extravagance, but I was grateful to her. I didn't think I could face the Tube during rush hour. Not yet.