Skylark

by Sheila Simonson

  Ann had pulled out the Hide-A-Bed and disappeared into the bathroom with her robe and slippers. Tactful. I rinsed my cup, turned off the burner, and drifted to the bedroom.

  Needless to say I slept badly and briefly, my dreams full of bloody images. Milos, eyes twinkling, flitted among the corpses chanting snatches of Shakespeare. Rollo yipped pitifully. When I finally admitted to myself that I was awake, it was six and my body felt as if it was in a mid-Pacific time zone. I slid into sweats and running shoes and oozed out the door. I didn't even think about lurking reporters.

  Fortunately, the press was not yet on the loose, though Thorne had posted a constable by the front entrance. The man--it was not Ryan--gave me an unsmiling nod as I walked past him.

  I tried to reach Jay from the pay phone and got our answering tape. I left word that I'd call later, thinking as I spoke that the recorded message Jay and I had concocted the previous winter was too cute for words and would have to be replaced. No shops were open, nor did I think the gates of the park would be, so I headed toward the river and jogged along the Embankment as far as the Chelsea Hospital. The weather was as gray as my mood.

  I swung by the newspaper stands in the Tube station on my way back and bought the Times and the Independent. I didn't even allow myself to focus on the tabloids. I tried Jay again without success and remembered that he had been scheduled to attend an obligatory end-of-semester gathering, the kind administrators imagine will delight their staff, who are so exhausted from grading term papers they only want to collapse. I didn't record a message.

  I was visualizing Jay on the dean's redwood sundeck when I bumped into the reporter.

  "Sorry," I muttered.

  "Mrs. Dodge?" She was young and dressed in punk black with her hair sheared off asymmetrically in the style fashionable that season. She used red eye-shadow. She pulled out a notebook.

  I kept walking. I could see the constable watching us from the pavement in front of the house.

  "Will you tell our readers your sensations when you were informed of your landlady's death?"

  "What paper?"

  "Pardon?"

  "What newspaper do you represent?"

  "Ah. Wendy Wills, Daily Blatt." The Blatt was two shades yellower than the Daily Mail.

  "Miss Beale's death is a great tragedy, Ms. Wills. Mrs. Veryan and I extend our condolences to her family. I have no further comment." I kept my voice as pleasant as possible. The constable was still watching, but he made no move to intervene.

  I unlatched the gate that led down to our areaway. A flashbulb popped. Ms. Wills had a photographer with her. Enterprising.

  I turned and made sure the gate had locked behind me.

  "Why did you come to London, Mrs. Dodge?"

  Why indeed. Another flash. I blinked.

  "I'm told you had a grievance against Miss Beale."

  I didn't respond.

  "Was she going to evict you? Did you kill her? Did you kill the dog? What of poor little Rollo, Mrs. Dodge?"

  I was wrestling with the door lock by then, and my newspapers slid to the pavement. I opened the door, gathered up the papers, and entered. The reporter's shouted questions pursued me.

  I made sure the door would hold then went into the bedroom to check the window. It opened on a private park with high iron railings. The railings hadn't slowed our burglar. They'd be duck soup to a reporter of Ms. Wills's stripe. After I had secured the latch and closed the curtain tight, I tossed the papers on the bed, stripped off my sweats, and ran a bath. When I no longer felt smirched and slimy, I dressed in jeans and a pullover and went back to the papers. Ann hadn't stirred, as far as I could tell. At least the flat was sound-proofed.

  The Independent story, though it made a lower corner of page one, was short, restrained and reasonably factual. "A confidential source" had leaked the tale of our eviction. Probably not the police. Daphne? Trevor? Daphne's friends in the tenants' league? The report mentioned our burglary but drew no connection to Milos's stabbing. Apparently Thorne had not yet identified us to the press as the unnamed witnesses. I wondered how long it would take for the journalists to figure that one out. Perhaps they had forgotten Milos.

  I also wondered when I would be able to sneak out and telephone Jay. It was midnight at home, and if I didn't call soon he would worry. If I did call he would also worry, of course.

  I stewed for half an hour. Then I dug out my sunglasses and the blue beret I had bought as a souvenir for Jay's secretary. Not much of a disguise. Nothing could camouflage my height. I nosed out the door. There were no reporters in sight, though the constable regarded me with interest from his perch on the steps that led up to the front door.

  I said good morning to him and scurried down the street to the telephone kiosk. Two householders were walking leashed dogs. Otherwise the area was deserted. The Old Brompton Road was livelier--cars, buses, some early shoppers on the sidewalk. No one seemed to notice me, though. I got through to Jay on the first ring.

  I poured out my story to my silent husband, not excluding Rollo's demise and my encounter with the press vanguard.

  When I wound down he said grimly, "That does it. I'm coming tomorrow."

  "But what about finals?"

  "I'll do the grades I can tonight and give the rest of the students Incompletes. Kayla can monitor the tests for me."

  Kayla was his secretary.

  "But we're already in debt..."

  "Old Mason in the music department has a couple of cheap excursion fares available. His wife broke her leg last week, and they won't be able to use the tickets. I told him I might want one of them..."

  "At the dean's soirée last night?"

  "Yeah. I'll have a two hour layover in LA and four hours in Dallas, so I won't get in until eleven Monday morning London time."

  "Oh, darling." I knew he hated to fly. Guilt washed over me. "I'll meet you at Heathrow."

  "Gatwick," he corrected. "If you're not arrested."

  We talked for another twenty minutes--big spenders--and I took down the flight number. When we hung up I felt better and worse. I wanted Jay with me, but bankruptcy stared us in the face. Also it sounded as if Mason had booked a Flight from Hell. Taken with the inevitable jet-lag, the ordeal was bound to flatten Jay. At least I had flown non-stop from San Francisco. However, a flat spouse is better than none.

  On that philosophical conclusion I started back. Then it occurred to me that Ann and I would need to escape sooner or later, if only to lay in supplies. I returned to the kiosk, dialed the taxi dispatcher, and asked for a cab at eleven o'clock. She wanted me to name a destination. I said Harrods. If reporters pursued us we could surely lose them there. It's the most confusing store I've ever been in.

  Ann was sitting in the kitchen staring at the Times as if she had forgotten how to read.

  "Jay's coming."

  She focused on me. "How nice."

  "I mean soon. Monday."

  She blinked and readjusted visibly. "Why that's wonderful, Lark honey. I'm sure he'll straighten everything out in no time at all."

  "Now, cut it out."

  She took a gulp of coffee and said, with dignity, "You may reproach me for my style of discourse after ten thirty. Not before."

  I told her about the press siege and the taxi. I was beginning to feel almost cheerful.

  Ann liked the taxi idea, but she intended to make for the tourist information bureau as soon as the cab set her down in front of Harrods, then go on to the hospital. I didn't object to that, and we concocted plans. They did not include a visit to the Chelsea Police Station.

  Chapter 8.

  At eleven o'clock, we leapt up the steps, dived through the reporters, and escaped into our waiting taxi amid a chorus of shouted questions, most of them unanswerable. By that time a dozen representatives of the Fourth Estate and their auxiliaries, plus an ITV camera unit, had assembled in front of the house. Flashbulbs strobed as the taxi pulled out.

  "Harrods?" the driver asked in a bored voice, as if
he were accustomed to abetting notorious fugitives. Perhaps he was. When I said yes, he made no further attempt at conversation--just flipped his meter on and drove. I love London taxi drivers. Not only do they know every obscure side street in Central London, they are tactful.

  Ann and I sank back in the huge seat and looked at each other.

  "Do you think they'll follow us?" she asked.

  "The police or the press?"

  Our taxi turned a corner, and she clutched at the convenient door-grip. "Whatever."

  The driver pulled onto the Cromwell Road. Traffic was thick. I craned around and spotted half a dozen other shiny black taxis, their Engaged signs lit, on the wide street behind us. Any one of them might hold a reporter.

  "Plan B."

  "Right."

  The light changed and we sailed majestically past the Victoria and Albert Museum, then obscured by billboards the canny director had let out for an enormous sum to replace funds the Thatcher government cut from his budget. Beyond the V and A and the ultramodern Ismaili Center, past the Brompton Oratory with its demure dome, lay the posh shopping district of Knightsbridge and the arrogant gray bulk of Harrods department store.

  When the cabbie wheeled grandly around and pulled in behind a Jaguar, I already had the fare and a suitable tip in my hand. We climbed out, and I thrust the money through his open window. It's possible he touched his cap, but we didn't dally to thank him.

  I made a path through a coach load of tourists--German or Scandinavian, I thought--who were milling about the main doors. Inside, Ann and I split up. I squirmed and elbowed my way through clumps of chic English shoppers and bewildered foreigners toward the back of the store. Ann headed west for the escalator.

  When I passed the mouthwatering array of goodies in the food section, I hung a left. Then I veered round into men's shirts and slipped out the east doors into the horde pouring from the adjacent Tube station. I didn't spot anyone following me.

  For once the crossing light was with me. I surged across the street and cut back to the American Express office. The queue inside gave me fifteen sweaty minutes. I scrunched down and tried to look shorter, but the line moved with reasonable speed. There were three tellers on duty. I had cashed the last of my travelers' checks, zipped back to the Tube station, and thrown myself on a Piccadilly Line train within half an hour. I didn't pause long enough to work into a good phobia.

  I spent the morning the way untold thousands of London housewives did--grocery shopping. Ann's purchases the day before had been limited, because we thought we were leaving for Wales. Also we had not anticipated Jay's presence. I laid in enough for a siege.

  I bought a pasty at one of the delis near the Lycée and ate it as I walked along, London-style. At about half past two I retrieved my raincoat from the dry cleaners. It would be some time before Ann returned. She had intended to undo our Welsh travel arrangements and visit Milos at the hospital. I thought about walking to Waterstone's Bookstore on the Old Brompton Road, but I was laden with loot, and my arms ached. Reluctantly, I headed back to the flat.

  The reporters had dispersed. Perhaps they had pursued us and been bamboozled. More likely they had grown bored waiting. The constable's eyes widened when he saw me, and he reached for his radio, but I had the key routine down pat. I managed to slip into the flat with a minimum of delay. I was stowing the last of my booty in the kitchen cupboard when the gate buzzer sounded.

  Inspector Thorne was not pleased with me for disappearing. I played innocent and offered to show him the groceries, but he and Sgt. Wilberforce, who was back on duty, hauled me off to the Chelsea Police Station anyway.

  I suppose all police interrogations have common elements. Thorne remained massively courteous, but he and the sergeant took me through my statement so many times I lost count. They did a Mutt and Jeff on me, though it was hard to tell which of them was supposed to be the nice guy and which the intimidator. Behind their masks, Thorne seemed angry, Wilberforce cool. Neither was amused.

  Around four thirty they took a tea break. A uniformed woman brought mugs of horrible sweet tea with milk. The infusion was strong enough to dissolve teaspoons, but sugar and milk disguised the tannin. I drank four swallows of the awful stuff and came wide awake.

  "Now, Mrs. Dodge, let's go over your decision to attend the theatre one more time."

  "Promise?"

  Thorne blinked. "Eh?"

  "Do you promise this is the last time?"

  He sighed. "No promises." Wilberforce looked bored.

  I summoned patience. "There was no decision involved. Ann wanted to see Cats before she left London, but the tickets cost too much, so she found cheap seats for Hamlet instead. That they were for Friday night was purely fortuitous." I had already paraphrased the same information umpteen times.

  He nodded. "Now, in the afternoon, you returned alone around three. Did you ring the bell for Miss Beale?"

  "I went straight down to our flat and straight to bed. I saw nothing suspicious. I didn't hear the dog. I slept until Ann came home, because my internal clock was haywire."

  "You woke around five." He no longer pretended to sound skeptical about my two hour nap. Progress. He led me through the rest of the evening, from the lamb chops to our return on the Tube, and this time, when I wound down, he rose from his chair. "All right, Mrs. Dodge. That's all for now. I must ask you to leave your passport with us."

  That was a blow--not as heavy as being booked into jail on a week-end, but a blow nonetheless.

  "How am I supposed to cash checks?" I had no travelers' checks left, but he didn't need to know that.

  He was unmoved by my possible fiscal plight and added that I was not to leave London without notifying him.

  Caffeine from the tea jangled in my bloodstream. I was damned well going to meet Jay at Gatwick on Monday. I thought about telling Thorne, but it was none of his business. I rose and brushed my skirt straight.

  "Sgt. Wilberforce will drive you to your flat."

  "I'll walk," I said coldly. "I need the exercise."

  Ann met me at the door. "Where have you been? Milos has disappeared!"

  "What?"

  She took my pristine raincoat and hung it in the hall closet. "I went to the hospital. When I asked to see Milos I got a runaround from the receptionist."

  I followed her into the living room and sat in the armchair. "Maybe they moved him to another hospital."

  She hunched on the loveseat/bed. "I don't think so. When I asked to talk to the sister in charge of that ward, the receptionist hemmed and hawed, and allowed as how I'd have to see Matron. That took a while. Finally, I was sent up to the third floor to a glassed-in office, and this dragon lady just stonewalled me."

  I had a brief flash of Stonewall Jackson charging through the hospital.

  She leaned forward. "That woman would shame a clam. She said Mr. Vlaçek was no longer in hospital, and she was not authorized to give out information about patients to strangers. I said I was no stranger. I did the whole act, Lark, honey. I begged, I pleaded, I cajoled. I did everything but claim Milos was the father of my unborn child. It didn't do a particle of good. She told me zip."

  "I wonder if Inspector Thorne knew about Milos's disappearance?" When Ann frowned, I explained my little sojourn at the police station.

  "They took your passport? Oh, honey..."

  "I won't need it for a couple of days. Unless Daphne tosses us out on our ears. Why don't you think Milos was transferred to another hospital?"

  "Matron would have had no reason to withhold that from me. Telling me would have got me out of her hair. She was hiding something."

  I said slowly, "I hope he hasn't taken a turn for the worse."

  "What if the assassin made another attempt on his life? I reckon the police moved Milos for his own protection and told the hospital to cover up."

  That seemed far-fetched to me. Perhaps my doubt showed on my face.

  She went on, hands clenched on her knees, "The only other explanation I can th
ink of is that Milos died, and they're waiting to notify whoever is next of kin before they admit their incompetence to anybody else." She teared up. "God, Lark, what if he's dead?"

  "He's not dead." I got up and went to the kitchen. "They probably just moved him to another hospital."

  "Then why did Matron..."

  "Maybe she wouldn't tell you anything because she hates Americans. Matron hasn't seen me, and neither has the ward sister. Shall I go over during visiting hours tomorrow and tell them I'm Milos's sister from Canada, eh? I do a great Toronto accent. They'll tell me everything."

  That provoked a small smile.

  "I hope you like fish. I bought plaice for dinner."

  Ann had no objection to plaice. We comforted ourselves with cookery and settled down for a quiet evening. Ann had collected a bundle of maps and brochures from the tourist office. She pored over them as if they provided mental escape. I was listening to a string quartet, but my mind kept puzzling over Milos's disappearance. I had pooh-poohed the idea that he was dead, but I was by no means sure he wasn't. The knife had punctured his lung.

  Around eight thirty the bell rang again, and Ann went to the door. Daphne Worth entered, looking rumpled and forlorn.

  Ann showed her into the living room. I felt awkward at first, and I think Daphne did, too. We paid her a week's rent from the stash Miss Beale had returned, and I poured a round of wine from the carton I had opened for dinner. Ann murmured baroque condolences and tut-tutted about the press, and all three of us had another glass of plonk. I mentioned that Jay was arriving early. By the time we finished off the carton we were on first-name terms, and Daphne was telling us her troubles.