"Well, that's a relief." Ann finished the wine. "Because I just reported Milos as a possible human rights violation."
Chapter 11.
Jay and I sank onto our chairs like well-rehearsed puppets. Ann watched us. She was flushed with wine and, quite possibly, embarrassment.
I was thinking how ingenious it was of Ann to have come up with a lever. I had not heard of the Henning Institute, but I should have thought of Amnesty International or, given my family associations, of the American Friends Field Service Committee.
My feelings were an odd mixture of admiration, chagrin, and mild hurt that Ann hadn't confided in me. After what Thorne had told me earlier, I thought it possible that Ann's rescue effort was unnecessary, but she hadn't known of the ambulance, and Thorne--or, to be fair, Wilberforce--had been stonewalling us. But was Milos in good hands? I wasn't sure, and I didn't think Thorne was either.
I looked at Jay. His eyes were bright with what looked like suppressed amusement. I glared at him, daring him to laugh.
He didn't. "By this time next week Thorne's ass will really be in the wringer."
Ann made a distressed noise. "Oh, no! Why? That's not fair. I didn't suggest that Mr. Thorne was at fault. I don't think he is."
"He's the officer in charge of the investigation." Jay smoothed his mustache. "Where the buck--or the pound--stops. He has the press on his back already because of the murder. When the Henning people start investigating, he'll be fielding calls about Vlaçek from Important Persons."
"Questions on the floor of the House of Commons?" I was trying to imagine a sequence of events.
Jay considered. "Probably, and when the politicians take up the cry, the press will catch on very fast. I don't envy Thorne."
"Should I warn him?" Ann put her glasses back on and peered at Jay.
"It might be kind. Of course, the Institute may decide not to do anything. As I said, they tend to specialize in Irish cases."
Ann sat for a long silent moment, frowning. "The woman I talked to promised they'd make inquiries. Maybe I should call them off, but I can't help wondering who ordered that ambulance. And how voluntary Milos's discharge was." She stood up. "I wish Mr. Thorne and those people at the hospital had been open with us. If they'd been frank, I would have waited a day or two. Well, what's done is done. I'll call Inspector Thorne tomorrow morning. Now I'm going to lie down and read for a while."
"Dinner at seven thirty," I murmured. Then I remembered I hadn't told her Daphne and Trevor were coming after dinner. She agreed, without enthusiasm, that we owed them hospitality--and a look at my husband.
"Good God, you mean they have to approve of me?"
I laughed. "Don't let it get to you, Jay. When they're well-oiled with that wine, they'll think you're wonderful."
"Especially Daphne." Ann shot an impish grin over her shoulder. She shut the bedroom door with a neat click.
"Does that mean," Jay asked in bemused tones, "that I'm going to bowl Daphne over with my natural charms or that Daphne oils easily?"
I refused to answer.
But when the Worths joined us, Daphne was back to being Miss Starch. Perhaps she was shy, perhaps Trevor brought out the worst in her. She kept her knees together, sipped like a lady, and sat up very straight in one of the arm chairs. Trevor, by contrast, was expansive and genial on the zebra-striped sofa.
While Ann and Daphne talked over the pros and cons of herding fifty ten-year-olds through a museum, I sat on the hassock and watched Jay and Trevor go through the same ritual Jay had played out with Inspector Thorne that morning. In that case, the disputed territory had been professional. This time, I expected the arena would be sexual--a touch of guilt on my part--but, to my surprise, it was literally territory. The house.
Jay said, "I believe I ought to thank you and your sister for making the larger apartment available to us."
Trevor took a sip of the bordeaux. "Not at all. I've had my eye on the basement flat since Auntie refurbished it. It's ideal for one, cramped for two, but until this flat was free, Daph and I didn't feel we could ask the ladies to move. My dear sister has strong feelings about eviction."
"And you don't?"
Trevor smiled. "I'm no crusader. Daphne is. A difference of temperament."
"I'd like to see the basement flat sometime--just for curiosity's sake. Lark's description of it after the burglary was, uh, vivid."
"I say, do you fancy a look at the Scene of the Crime?"
"I've seen that already," Jay murmured.
Trevor looked blank for only an instant, but Jay pressed his advantage.
"Tell me, Mr. Worth, why did your aunt leave the foyer and stairs in such a dangerous state of disrepair? You said she refurbished the basement flat. This flat is modern, too, and, uh, handsome. The hallway is a real puzzle." He had spent more than an hour before dinner poking around the fatal stairwell.
"But my dear man, Auntie didn't own the building. Just the three flats--hers, this one, and the basement. The chap above you, Carruthers, owns his, and Mr. and Mrs. Givens own the other. All of the houses in this terrace belong to the earl of Rotherhithe."
"I'm damned." Jay let out a low whistle. I was surprised, too. I had assumed Miss Beale was erratically parsimonious.
"Rotherhithe is second cousin to the duke of Westminster." Trevor added, in fake Cockney, "'im as owns Myfair."
Jay picked up the wineglass I knew he was going to nurse all evening and took a cautious sip. "We call that sort of arrangement a condominium. That is, people buy apartments in a larger building, but they also pay for the upkeep of the common areas. Stairs, hallways, landscaping, and so on."
"Things are rather different here." Trevor flashed the famous smile and took a gulp of bordeaux.
"So it seems. Do you and your sister plan to sue the landlord?"
"Heavens, no. That isn't done. Besides, Auntie was murdered. His lordship can scarcely be blamed for that."
Jay chuckled. "I never thought I'd have a good word to say for ambulance chasers, but any American lawyer worth his salt would poke your argument full of holes in five minutes. That stairway is a deathtrap, with or without a murderer on the fourth floor landing. It's a tort waiting to happen."
"You must have a legal background, James."
"You might say so." Jay shot me a sardonic look. I hadn't mentioned Jay's police connections to the Worths. The subject had not arisen. "Fear of personal injury suits would force American landlords in a wealthy neighborhood like this to keep the buildings in decent repair. Their insurance companies would insist."
"Americans must be a litigious lot." Trevor sipped his wine.
"American lawyers sure are."
"Will you pass those munchies, Lark?"
I rose and retrieved the tray from the end table. "Sorry, Ann. Do try the Stilton, Daphne. The man at the deli assured me it was ripe."
"Oh, thanks." Daphne cut a wedge of the blue cheese and laid it on a water table biscuit. "Mmm, very nice."
Ann helped herself to the brie. "Daphne says we should go to Hampton Court before the tulips fade."
"Good idea. That's near Windsor, isn't it?"
Daphne made a face. "Close. Stay clear of Windsor. It's crammed with tourists." She blushed at her own tactlessness.
Before she tangled herself in 'I don't mean tourists like you' apologies, I stepped into the breach. "I'd probably better stick to London for the time being. Inspector Thorne might toss me in the clink if I tried to leave town."
"He held Lark's passport over the weekend," Ann explained.
Daphne's eyes went round. "'Strewth. I thought he suspected Trevor and me. He grilled me for hours Friday, and he's been interviewing all of our friends."
"I'm sure that's just routine, honey. They always suspect next of kin." Ann cut another bit of brie. "Trevor would like more of the white wine, Lark."
"Right," I said meekly. I left the tray with the ladies and carried the bottle to Trevor. He and Jay were discussing the rival merits of Ferrari a
nd Maserati. I filled Trevor's glass.
He gave me an absent smile, but I don't think he noticed me. I faded back into the decor and listened.
It was obvious that Trevor's employment was not just a means of making a living. He was passionate about automobiles. Jay isn't, but he can talk car if he has to. In this case he didn't have to. Trevor was singing a solo.
I decided to leave him to it and edged back to Ann and Daphne.
"Will there be a memorial service for Miss Beale?" Ann was asking.
Daphne grimaced. "Auntie has been cremated. Her solicitors said it was what she wanted. I daresay I ought to arrange something with the vicar for her friends."
"Are you and Trevor her only family?"
"There's Mum." She sipped. "My mother is in a nursing home. A stroke."
"Oh, I am sorry, my dear."
Daphne sighed. "Don't be. I visit her every week, of course, but she's a difficult woman. I can't cope with her tantrums." She reached for the Stilton. "And Trevor's no help. The nursing home is the best solution all round."
It was hard to think of an appropriate response to that.
Ann tried. "I remember when Buford's old granddaddy had a stroke, Nana wasn't strong enough to care for him, and all the children were working. A nursing home was the only logical solution." She took a breath and shifted to a less perilous topic. "I imagine you must find it easier to get to your school from here, Daphne. You had a flat in Chiswick, didn't you? Where's Chiswick?"
"West. I shared digs with two other teachers. One bedroom, one bath. It was ghastly." Perhaps Daphne thought she had been revealing too much, for she finished her wine and rose. "Thanks awfully for the wine. We must be off. Tomorrow's a working day, you know. Come along, Trevor."
It took Trevor perhaps ten minutes to wind down, but Daphne was determined to leave. All three of us saw them to the door amid polite shaking of hands. When they had gone at last, Ann said, "Whew. There's a family feud going on there."
I blinked at her. "Really?"
Jay yawned. "Maybe they're like Midwesterners. You know, at a cocktail party the men congregate in one corner, women in the other."
Ann smiled. "Southerners are like that, too, but it doesn't seem to be the pattern here. I don't think Daphne and Trevor exchanged two words this evening--beyond necessary politeness, I mean. And Daphne really resents her brother. No wonder he wanted our flat."
"Maybe he bored her to death talking about cars," Jay suggested.
Ann laughed, but stuck to her guns. "No, there's something else going on."
"Did you find Trevor boring, Jay?" I picked up the demolished cheese platter and carried it toward the kitchen. "I thought you encouraged the car talk."
"It seemed like his topic." Men can be bitchy.
"Why, my goodness, Jay, Trevor was just trying to relate."
Jay grinned at Ann. "Touché. Good night, ladies. I'm beat."
I glanced at the wall clock. It was only ten. "We could boogie all night at the Hard Rock Cafe."
"Fat chance," he said amiably, kissed me, and went off to bed.
Ann and I tidied the kitchen.
I ran a dishpan of hot, soapy water and set the wine glasses in it. "Tell me about the Henning Institute."
"Their headquarters is near Bloomsbury Square, and someone called Lord Henning is the major sponsor. I wish I knew more about those papers of Milos's." Ann picked up a dishtowel. "I did my best to convince the woman to do something, but I don't think she took me very seriously."
"Jay called Dad from Dallas. The papers hadn't come. It really is too soon, Ann. My mother's always complaining about the length of time it takes for a letter to reach her from England. And that was a parcel."
Ann sighed. "Our suspicions are too nebulous. Mrs. Burke--that was her name--said the Czech embassy is riddled with secret police. They're called St. B's, after the street in Prague where they're headquartered, and they play rough. She said it was unlikely that the British government would bother Milos unless the information he had was extremely embarrassing."
"Like that ex-spy in Australia whose memoirs Mrs. Thatcher tried to ban?"
"Like that." She wiped the last glass and set it in the cupboard.
I shut the cupboard door. "What if Jay was right, and the stabbing was a goofy accident?"
"Followed by burglary and murder?"
I ran a damp cloth over the counter. "I keep hoping we'll turn out to be a pair of hysterical women, but I don't think so."
"I feel like a real fool for embroiling you in this mess, Lark. I like Milos, but goodness knows I was just looking for a little adventure. I didn't bargain on a Robert Ludlum novel."
I laughed. "I like Milos, too, you know. I think you did what you had to do, going to this rights organization. In fact, you were darned clever. I'm with you."
She gave me a quick hug. "That means a lot. Good night, Lark."
After Ann deserted me I sat in the living room watching the news. The state visit had gone off without a hitch. Princess Di and Prince Charles would be spending the holiday at Sandringham. An outbreak of salmonella in the north had been traced to a batch of hazelnut-flavored yogurt. The commentator said 'yoggurt'. For some reason, the irony of health-food aficionados being felled by their favorite nosh gave me the giggles.
I decided to turn off the telly, before my snickering woke Ann, and go to bed. Jay was sound asleep. I snuggled in beside him. When I woke at half past six he was already up.
I drifted out to the kitchen and found him reading Ann's old Times.
"Hi." I stretched and yawned, then put the kettle on. "What time did you wake up?"
"Four."
"Great stuff, jet lag." I looked closer. His face had a grayish tinge, and his eyes were shadowed. I felt a clutch of dismay. "Uh oh. Nightmare?"
He set the paper down. "It's okay, Lark. I brought the Walkman. And I took a hot bath about an hour ago."
"But it's been more than a year."
He sighed. "Yeah, I'm a little depressed. I thought the plane flight would probably trigger off a doozy, but it's no damn comfort knowing I was right. I wonder how long it takes to row across the Atlantic?"
The kettle shrieked. I removed it with numb fingers and poured boiling water into the cafetière.
Jay's nightmares were a legacy of traumatic stress. Twenty years before, the year Jay turned nineteen, he had had a tour as an army medic in Vietnam. The day he was scheduled to return to the real world, he boarded a Pan American charter at Tan Son Nhut just as the airbase came under a rocket attack. After nearly a year of combat he had not expected to make it home alive. The rocket attack lasted two hours. Then the plane took off. He claimed he held it together and in the air all the way across the Pacific Ocean. Jay does not like to fly.
I had found out these interesting facts only when I proposed our trip to England and then only after prodding. I had taken a cool, rational view of the situation. He should not be debarred from normal interaction with the world because the world had been insane when he was a kid. He agreed. Reluctantly. After considerable thought. He flew at home, short hops, and he had medication to take if he were to suffer an anxiety attack before the flight, or halfway through it. Nobody had said anything about anxiety attacks on the ground.
For the most part Jay was fortunate. He did not suffer flashbacks or ungovernable rages or other debilitating symptoms, and he had long ago worked out routines, like the hot bath and jazz on the Walkman, for dealing with nightmares. They had decreased in frequency since our marriage, but they were appalling when they did happen. From my viewpoint, the worst thing about them was my inability to do much that helped.
I pressed the lid of the coffee pot down viciously and poured a cup of cloudy liquid. It was far too weak.
"Damn. Damn me for thinking up this self-indulgent expedition, and damn Ann for getting caught up in Milos's melodrama, and damn Thorne for taking my passport." I was beginning to cry. I bit my lip hard and sat down at the table.
Jay tou
ched my face. "Hey, cut it out. Go for a run with me." Running was another remedy, an effective one when it was possible.
I sniffed. "In the park?"
"Sure, in the park. Then we can come back and spend the morning canoodling on that weird bed."
I gave a watery laugh. "Okay. Ten minutes."
"Make it five." He was wearing sweats and running shoes, and he was wound up like an overworked spring.
We were out the door and trotting toward the zebra in ten minutes flat.
We zipped all the way around the Hyde Park and most of Kensington Gardens. I was ready to do it again, but Jay pulled me down on a bench.
"Hey! Enough." He was panting and laughing.
I said between gasps. "You're sure?"
"Yes." His breathing steadied. "Lead me back, Lark. I want breakfast, and I'm damned if I know where we are. What's that?" He pointed at Kensington Palace.
"Princess Di's little townhouse. Come on." I jogged him home via the news agent's. I would have bought croissants, but I didn't have enough change in my zip pocket.
We took a bath together. Showers are better, but the bath was not bad.
We had spilled quite a lot of water on the floor. I made toast while Jay mopped, and we were both feeling a lot better by the time Ann got up. All the same I was worried. I wondered how much it cost to take the QEII to New York.
Jay and I were lying on the plum bed--fully clothed, we are not sexual athletes--and reading the Independent together when the phone rang. I heard Ann answer. After a few minutes a timid knock on the door sounded.
"Come in," I caroled.
Jay sat up and swung his legs off the duvet.
Ann's head poked around the edge of the door. "Inspector Thorne wants us to look at those mug shots this morning, Lark." She blushed. "Shall I tell him you're otherwise engaged?"
Jay pulled me to my feet. "Tell him Mrs. Dodge will cooperate fully with the authorities. She's coming. I'm going to take a nap."
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