Skylark

by Sheila Simonson

  Ann's calls didn't take long. She came in, her face a pale blur in the dark room. "I called Thorne, but he's still off duty. Sgt. Baylor answered."

  "And?"

  She plumped down on an armchair. "I opened my mouth to tell her where Milos is, and I just couldn't. What if the Henning people think he's in danger from the British?"

  "That did occur to me. Did you call the Institute?"

  "Nobody answered."

  "It's Sunday."

  "And a bank holiday," she said impatiently. "I know. We'll have to handle this ourselves, Lark."

  "We?"

  "You and I."

  "What about Jay?" When she didn't answer I added, "He is my husband." And an ex-cop on first name terms with a chief inspector of British police.

  She took a deep breath. "All right. You stay here, and I'll take the car. What time is Jay coming back?"

  "Ten or so. It's the last full session." And if the bar were open afterwards he might be even later. The conference members seemed to be a sociable lot, and Jay was enjoying them.

  Ann met my eyes. "Will you give me until he gets here? I can drive to Shropshire in a couple of hours and check the place out."

  "Ann, darling, you can't drive at all--remember?"

  "I'll manage. I once drove Uncle Billy's tractor."

  That was so absurd I hooted.

  She blushed, but I could see from the set of her jaw that she wasn't going to give in.

  "All right," I said, "let's think this through. If the Henning people have Milos, then he's probably getting proper care. They did remove him in an ambulance. He's in no immediate danger."

  Ann began pleating the skirt of her dress.

  I went on, "We don't need to rescue him, Ann. They aren't sticking slivers under his fingernails and igniting them."

  Her mouth trembled. "We don't know their agenda for sure, or his. We don't know what was in those papers. Until we do..."

  I stood up. "It's two. My father should be up. My turn to telephone."

  I jogged across the green and charged yet another international call. I got my parents' answering tape. Nobody home. When I returned Ann was upstairs packing.

  She took the absence of news from Dad with calm. "If you'll drive me to York, I'll go to Ludlow by train and worry about a car when I get there."

  I sighed. "I'll drive you to Shropshire. I have to let Jay know what's happening, though. I can't just take off."

  She opened her mouth as if to protest, hands full of underwear. Then she focused on me and apparently read my determination. "All right. I'm sorry to be such a hard nose, honey. I'm sure Jay won't do anything to put Milos in jeopardy, and I am grateful. It's just that I'm so worried about Milos. And so confused."

  I could relate to that. I went into the Laura Ashley bedroom, stuffed my clothes in the garment bag, and sat down to compose an explanation for Jay. I meant to take it to the conference site, in case he wasn't immediately available. To be safe, I repeated the gist of the information and placed the first note on our bed.

  When we reached the former teachers' college, I left Ann in the car and went in search of my husband. I was stopped in the hallway, which was indeed painted an institutional green, by a sixtyish man in a dark suit and tie who demanded to know who I was.

  I explained that an emergency had come up and that I wanted to speak to my husband.

  Cerberus pursed his tight little mouth and asked me the nature of the emergency.

  I never lie well under pressure. I said I had to make an unexpected trip to Shropshire and that I wanted to tell Jay the circumstances before I left.

  "I'm afraid that won't be possible, madam. I cannot interrupt a session of the conference for a merely personal matter."

  I started to blurt out that it was a police matter and bit my tongue. I had to tell Jay about Hambly, but there was no reason I had to tell the entire constabulary. "I want to speak to whoever's in charge."

  His eyebrows rose. "I am, madam." He was getting smugger by the second, and I was getting angrier.

  I decided to cut my losses before I said something unforgivable. I took out the note I had written and scrawled Jay's name on the outside, adding in parenthesis "per Detective Chief Inspector H. Belknap." I held it out. "Very well. Will you see to it that James Dodge receives this message?"

  He took the note with a bland smile. "Certainly, madam."

  I startled Ann when I opened the car door.

  "Back so soon? What did Jay say?"

  "I left a note for him."

  She refastened her seatbelt as I slid into the driver's seat. "I hope he won't worry about you."

  "So do I."

  "We're off?"

  I nodded and turned the ignition. "We're off."

  Chapter 14.

  "I trust you brought the AA Atlas." I shifted to accommodate a steep hill. The Escort groaned.

  By way of response, Ann lifted the huge book of maps from beneath a pile of guides and magazines in the back seat.

  "Get me onto the A1. We need to find a gas station."

  "All right," she said in a small voice. She refastened her seat belt.

  I shifted into fourth and let the car roll downhill, accelerating slightly as we approached a curve. "I'm not mad at you, Ann. Just worried."

  "We may be on a wild goose chase."

  "I don't think so." I forced a lighter tone. "And anyway you wanted to tour the Welsh marches."

  "That's right, honey." She added, incorrigibly the English teacher, "It's A.E. Housman country." She gave me a swift glance and returned her attention to the atlas.

  "'Oh, I have been to Ludlow fair,

  And left my necktie God knows where,

  And carried halfway home or near,

  Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer.'"

  The sound of Housman's neat quatrain in Ann's plummy Georgia accent cracked me up. Then I thought of Jay's necktie, God knows why, and cracked up again. I was still chuckling when I saw the sign for the first roundabout. There was an exit posted for the A1. I extricated the car from the vicious circle, headed off in the right direction, and, as we topped a gentle rise, saw the BP logo floating in the near distance. The station was open. I filled the tank, and we were on our way. The signs were auspicious. I felt a surge of optimistic energy. At least we were finally doing something.

  We reached the vicinity of Ludlow by six. Traffic had been heavy but not impossible, and I had used the motorways, a hairy experience. Thanks to well-posted exits and Ann's heroic navigation, I by-passed Leeds and Birmingham and turned off on a highway that promised to lead to Ludlow, or, possibly, Kidderminster. By that time my eyes hurt from squinting, my teeth hurt from clenching, and I was sure my spine had adopted the curve of the driver's seat.

  Ann cleared her throat. "I need to find a loo."

  "Okay. Look for a likely pub."

  We chugged in silence along the secondary highway I had entered. After another half mile Ann gave a subdued shriek and pointed. Spraying gravel, I pulled the Escort into the car park of a half-timbered building, rather large, that announced itself as The Royal Oak. That sounded nautical to me, odd so far inland. However, there were lights and the car park was almost full of station wagons and Landrovers.

  Our luck held. The Royal Oak was a country inn rather than a pub. We used the loo and looked the place over. In addition to a large and very noisy bar, all dark paneling and beveled glass, there was a dining room posted to open at seven. When Ann's attention strayed to a display of tourist brochures on a long refectory table, I cat-footed it to the registration desk.

  The blond man behind the counter gave me a harried smile. "May I help you?"

  "Two for dinner."

  "Ah. Yes, of course. You'll have a half hour wait."

  "We could sit in the bar."

  "If you will, madam, I'll call you."

  I shot a glance over my shoulder. Ann was absorbed in a pamphlet. "Uh..."

  "Yes?"

  "Is there by any chance a room available
?"

  He said doubtfully, "There's one left, but the tariff is rather steep. It's meant for a family group."

  "How much?"

  He told me. Less than Jay and I had been paying Mrs. Chisholm.

  I palmed my Visa card. "We'll take it."

  "Very good, madam. For how long?"

  "Just tonight."

  "Shall I show you the room?"

  I said expansively, "That won't be necessary. I'm sure it's very nice."

  He whipped out his register, and I signed. Fortunately I had scribbled the car license number on a bit of paper, so I had the necessary information at my fingertips. He took an impression of my Visa, which he insisted on calling a Barclaycard, and handed me a large key. The deed was done.

  I tucked the key into my purse and moseyed over to Ann, who was reading brochures with maniacal concentration. "How about a beer?"

  "Okay. This is interesting country. All kinds of stately homes." She snaffled another brochure and tucked it into her bag. "Lead me to it."

  Most of the patrons were standing in the center of the room, drinking beer and shrieking like peacocks. All of them appeared to know each other. They had been to a race meeting near Ludlow. While Ann staked out a place on the periphery I fetched two half pints.

  I set the beaded glasses on a table the size of the AA Atlas. "Is bitter okay?"

  "Yes." She leaned against the settle, wriggling her shoulders. "My word, I'm tired. I marvel at your driving, Lark, honey. Why you took those nasty old roundabouts smoother than a London cabdriver."

  I smiled and sipped my beer and let her lay on the compliments. When she wound down I said, "I saw a signpost for Ludlow at the last roundabout. Thirty miles."

  "Yes. We're almost there, thank God."

  "What do you propose to do?"

  She blinked at me over her beer glass.

  "When we reach Hambly."

  "Find Milos?" Her voice wavered in that nice southern uncertainty that is half statement, half question.

  "So we just march right up to the front door and ask the lord of the manor if he has a stray Czech stashed in his back bedroom?"

  She reddened. "Well..."

  "We ought to think it through."

  "I've been trying to think it through since we left Yorkshire," she confessed. "I guess we need to see Hambly first."

  "Case the joint?"

  She winced. "Really, Lark."

  The desk clerk appeared in the door arch. I caught his eye and nodded. "What we need is food and logic. Let's try out the dining room."

  "But there are hours of daylight left."

  There were perhaps two hours of daylight left. I adopted a tone of sweet reason. "We did skip lunch. We have to eat sometime, Ann, and you know how things are on Sunday." I got to my feet. "We may not find another restaurant open, and I'm not in the mood for pickled onions. I need sustenance."

  She rose, too, and shouldered her tote. "I guess you're right."

  Dinner was very English--soup, good roast lamb with real mint sauce, three kinds of potatoes, and boiled green cabbage leaking liquid. I ate with deliberation. The dining room filled with families. Ann and I talked sporadically but didn't advance beyond our need to find Hambly-the-House. There was bound to be security, I pointed out, if only a handful of family retainers. Probably, if the Henning Institute folks were in the habit of secreting political refugees on the premises, there would be guards. Ann's gloom deepened as we ate.

  She ordered the trifle. That was too much anglophilia for me. I asked for coffee and the cheese board, a wise choice. The cheese was ripe and Stilton, and the coffee, had it not been for whole cream and demerara sugar, would have peeled my tonsils.

  Ann ate a last delicate bit of what looked to me like vanilla pudding. Then she glanced at her watch. "My goodness, it's almost nine!"

  "Heavens to Betsy." I sipped coffee.

  "It must be dark out."

  "Must be."

  She stared at me. "You knew the meal would take forever."

  I fished in my purse. "Well, yes. What's worse, I rented a room for the night." I held up the key. "Bed and breakfast. I suggest we retire to our room and map out our strategy."

  Her mouth compressed. Our eyes locked. Finally she leaned back in her chair. "I declare, you're as strong-willed..."

  "As a mule in a hurricane?"

  "You took the words right out of my mouth."

  In deference to fishermen and the commercial travelers who were its mainstay, the Royal Oak served breakfast early, from seven-thirty to nine. Ann and I had reloaded the car and were waiting outside the breakfast-room door at seven-thirty.

  Our bedroom had been a marvelous jumble of antiques--a wardrobe and dresser--cheap modern stuff--three beds and a cot--and that bizarre domestic technology the English specialize in--an electric pants press. Floor levels on the way to the bathroom varied wildly, which indicated that the place probably did date back to the reign of Charles II, he of the oak tree hideout.

  We stayed up until midnight, planning alternative courses of action, and I went down to the foyer twice to call Jay at Mrs. Chisholm's. I dialed six times and each time the line was busy. That worried me. I had left two separate notes describing where we were going and why. Jay might find it annoying to be stranded in the country without a car, but he could ask Harry Belknap for a lift or call a taxi from Thirsk. I told myself that over and over until I finally fell asleep.

  The weather had changed slightly the next morning. It was misting out, what the Irish call 'soft weather.' A chatty salesman who breakfasted at the next table said he thought the sky would clear by ten. That promised well. Breakfast was gammon and eggs. I kept hoping one day I'd run into a place that served smoked haddock for breakfast, or kedgeree. However, the gammon was good gammon. We were on the road before nine.

  With a night's rest and a solid breakfast under her belt, Ann's mood had swung. She hummed to herself as she scanned for our turnoff. A roundabout shot us off on a B road--paved and well-maintained but rather narrow. Because we were in territory warmed by the Gulf Stream, everything had leafed out, and flowering shrubs blossomed in the misty fields and gardens. Spring was farther along than it had been in Yorkshire. By ten the sky had cleared.

  The road twisted and rose. There was quite a lot of traffic--and sweat-making blind corners--so I concentrated hard on the mechanics of driving safely. At a quarter of eleven, we nosed into the village Ann claimed was closest to Lord Henning's estate. It was tiny, perhaps twenty houses, a church, one shop with the red Post Office sign affixed, a pub, and an upscale antique shop. The street had been laid out well before the invention of the automobile. I spotted a small car park beside the pub, so I turned around at the church and went back, parked the car, and got out.

  Ann extricated herself from the passenger side. "Hambly can't be more than ten miles from here." Her cheeks were pink with excitement.

  "Good. I need to find a phone." I had tried Mrs. Chisholm's number before we left the Royal Oak and got another busy signal. I was beginning to think there was something wrong with the line.

  "The pub won't open until eleven."

  "Maybe there's a pay phone in the post office."

  We walked to the shop, but it was closed up tighter than a drum. When I peered through the window I saw no evidence of a public telephone. The antiques place was also closed but promised to open at eleven thirty. That left the pub.

  We stood by the car, not saying much, until the door to the pub opened. We asked for a pot of tea and a phone, and the barmaid, her eyes bright with curiosity, pointed down the dank hallway that led to the restrooms. I tried Mrs. Chisholm's number three more times. The line was busy. I held my breath against the odor of disinfectant emanating from the loos, and dialed again. This time a woman answered.

  I said carefully, "This is Lark Dodge. May I speak to my husband?"

  The woman, it was apparently the cook, asked me to repeat myself, so I did, explaining that I had stayed there Friday and Saturday n
ights and that I was anxious to talk with my husband.

  "Oh dear, lass, he's gone, hasn't he? That copper with the red auto drove him to York this morning early."

  "I see," I said, feeling rather blank. "May I speak to Mrs. Chisholm?"

  I was given to understand that she was off visiting friends in Thirsk. I thanked the woman and hung up. I supposed Jay must have decided to leave on an earlier train. We had been scheduled to return at five. I wondered how early was early. On the off chance the he might already have reached London, I dialed the flat, but no one answered. I walked back into the saloon bar of the pub with my feet dragging.

  Ann poured me a cup of tea. "That nice woman says Hambly is about five miles down the road that runs past the church. It's open today, Lark. Isn't that a stroke of luck? She says they don't open it to the public very often, but there's some kind of stately home tour going on over the holiday, and Hambly will be open until four or five."

  I sat and sugared my tea. I needed energy. "I've been on stately home tours. Everything will be cordoned off, and there will be a volunteer or a staff member in every major room watching to make sure nobody snatches the porcelain knick-knacks."

  "Don't be negative, Lark."

  I sighed. "I'm sorry. Jay checked out early, and I don't know how to reach him. He isn't at the flat."

  "Try again in a couple of hours, honey. He's bound to show up."

  "You're probably right, but it is worrying. Ah well, let's go to Hambly and see what we can see."

  We drank our tea and left, pulling out behind a dark sedan that picked up speed as the village ended. I kept to a more cautious pace, and the sedan disappeared from view.

  The road narrowed beyond the church. A stone wall, at head height and in good repair, followed it on the left--not conducive to trespass. I had set the odometer at zero. When it registered 5.2, and we still hadn't found Hambly, I began to wonder whether the barmaid had been fictionalizing. Perhaps the odometer was calibrated in kilometers.

  "There's a sign!" Ann leaned forward. "The car park's off there to the right."