Skylark

by Sheila Simonson

  "Nothing."

  He rotated a thumb at the base of my skull.

  "Ow."

  "Tell me."

  My eyes teared. "I made a fool of myself. I lost my temper with that...that..."

  "Bitch?"

  "Now you're doing it!" I wailed.

  "A mistimed joke."

  "Go away and eat something."

  "Not until I know what's bothering you."

  "I told you." I flopped onto my back and stared at the ceiling. The molding was ornamented with plaster curlicues.

  Jay turned my face toward him.

  I blinked my tears back. "Go away."

  "I guess I don't understand. She--that reporter--was goading you. I thought you kept your dignity. You meant what you said, didn't you?"

  "Yes, but..."

  He brushed the bruise on my cheek with a feather-light touch. "But?"

  "I hate getting angry."

  "It's never a pleasant feeling, but you were justified."

  "It's a woman thing," I mumbled.

  Jay understood anger well enough. What he didn't understand was the shame a display of anger produced. I was conditioned not to lose my temper in public, not to use four-letter words, even somebody else's, not to avenge an insult. And maybe my conditioning was right. Civilized.

  I said, "I made an enemy of her. That was stupid."

  "Does it matter? You don't have to read what she writes, and a lot of the other reporters were nodding and taking notes."

  Wonderful. "I embarrassed Dad and Lord Henning."

  "They'll live."

  "I embarrassed you."

  "Nope." He kissed me. "I was ready to applaud."

  "You're just saying that."

  "You don't embarrass me, Lark." His eyes had gone dark the way they do when he's thinking long thoughts. "You can make me angry. You puzzle me sometimes. Every once in a while you scare the shit out of me. But you don't embarrass me. I was standing there in the doorway at Hambly, watching you and thinking how lucky I am."

  I kept my eyes on his. "No lie?"

  "Cross my heart."

  "I'm the lucky one." I was about to cry again, so I kissed him instead.

  I slept three hours and woke feeling good. Good and hungry. Ann fixed me paté and crackers.

  * * * *

  Appleby's was the kind of restaurant the English mention when foreigners criticize English cookery. The menu was straightforward without being folksy, the ingredients were absolutely fresh and prepared with loving attention, and the service, though obsequious by American standards, was excellent. The odd thing about such establishments is that they aren't where an American would expect them to be. They are hidden on unnumbered, sometimes unpaved roads in remote corners of the kingdom, and they do not advertise.

  My father claimed the best British restaurant he had eaten at was on the Isle of Mull off the coast of Scotland, inaccessible three-quarters of the year and twenty miles along a single lane road from the nearest population center. I had thought that was Dad indulging in unaccustomed fantasy, but Appleby's, not quite so remote, convinced me otherwise.

  At first we didn't talk about the events at Hambly. We were too busy soaking up the ambiance and the mushroom tartlets. Dad and Milos discussed the role of the intellectual in political change and we all ate. A couple of times I caught Milos watching the waiter with a critical eye, notably as he removed our polished-off bowls of green pea soup. To die for. The fish was sole, delicate, melting, wonderful. The discreet waiter brought us rack of lamb, mine tactfully dissected.

  Jay turned to Milos. "So why did you decide to blurt out the whole story, Mr. Vlaçek?"

  Milos sawed at the lamb. "I put them in danger--Lark and Ann, as well as the two who were killed and my poor friend from the Institute. I am opposed to terrorism, but if I agree to conceal the information from the press, and if something then happens to innocent by-standers..." He gestured with his knife. "If I allow that, then I am in danger of becoming a terrorist myself."

  Jay chewed. "Okay, I can see that. But why didn't you warn George you had changed your mind?"

  Dad glanced at Jay and back at his wine glass.

  "This is tender lamb." Milos kept his fork in his fist, European style. He seemed unembarrassed. "I call the hotel. Already Professor Dailey has left for Hambly. A headache is nibbling at me. I brood about the harm my singular crusade is doing, and I wonder how to pull the plug." He loaded the fork with meat and veg.

  "Maximum publicity," my father murmured. He sipped his wine.

  Milos beamed. "Openness. Is it Bacon who says that the simplest solution is best?"

  "Occam's razor." Ann had been uncharacteristically silent. "What are you going to do now, Milos?"

  He chewed and considered. "Find another job. I cannot return to the Hanover. A good waiter is supposed to melt into the background. I have trouble with this. It is not my nature."

  I had to laugh. After a moment, everyone did, though Ann cast me a reproachful glance.

  As we drove home, Jay said, "He's impressive--Vlaçek."

  Though I had drunk only about a tablespoon of the wine, I was sleepy. I yawned. "Impressive?"

  Jay made a cautious right turn onto the road to Much Aston. "I don't know what I expected. He's straightforward and down-to-earth."

  "He likes openness. That's what all the furor was about, in a way. Secrets within secrets. Secret plots. Secret alliances. Secret police. God knows, the free press is a pain sometimes, but I prefer it to cover-ups. We were wrong to try to hide what we knew. I'm glad Milos set us straight."

  My kindly thoughts about the press wavered as we approached the Greyhound. Jay parked the car in the hotel lot, and we used the rear entrance. My shoulder ached. As we stood in the dark corridor, waiting for the elevator, I leaned on Jay's arm. "At least it's over."

  "Mrs. Dodge?"

  I straightened, prepared to say "no comment" until the elevator arrived. Jay and I turned.

  "If I may have a word with you, Mrs. Dodge." It was Chief Inspector Thorne. He gave me a tentative smile. "And with Mrs. Veryan."

  My heart sank. "Ann rode with my father. She'll be back soon."

  "Good. That's very good. May I?" He gestured at the brightly lit elevator as it creaked to a halt. The iron lattice groaned, and the door opened.

  Jay was frowning. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes."

  He turned to Thorne. "Very well, but my wife is supposed to rest. You can have half an hour."

  Thorne sighed. "That should do the trick."

  We entered the lift, and it creaked upward.

  I said, "How's Daphne Worth? I was shocked to hear of her accident."

  "'Twas no accident. I've come for the villains' automobile. The lad's seeing to the paperwork."

  "Sgt. Wilberforce?"

  "Aye." The elevator stopped. Thorne held the ancient door open for me, and he and Jay followed me down the hall to our room. "They transported Miss Worth to London yesterday, to St. Botolph's. She's still unconscious. She's mumbled a word or two, calling for her Mum and her brother, but nothing to the point. Happen forensics will be able to tie the auto to the crime. Parks fingered our friend, Smith, for the burglary, but he's said nowt so far of Miss Beale's death."

  Jay unlocked our door, and we entered the room.

  I flipped the light on. "Why don't you retrieve the chairs, Jay?"

  He had already opened the communicating door and entered my father's room. Thorne followed him while I sat on the foot of the bed and tried to wake up. Obviously "it" wasn't over. Inspector Thorne represented the loose ends. I hoped he would tie them up quickly.

  Thorne took me through the events of the bank holiday, starting with Saturday. I gave him my version, slowly, naming places and routes, which he wrote down in a small black notebook. When I got to the part where we headed south I balked.

  "Look, inspector, why don't you wait for Ann? She has the AA Atlas in her room, and she can show you where we went. I drove, she navigated. I
don't remember the highway numbers. The inn we stayed at Sunday night..."

  "That's crucial."

  "Well, it was called the Royal Oak, and it was north of Kidderminster, but Ann can show you where it is. She'll be here in a few minutes."

  "All right." He set the notebook on the small table. "I heard of your adventures at Hambly, lass." He appeared to hesitate. "Will you tell me your impressions of the two men you followed into the grounds?"

  I felt blank. "You know what they look like."

  "Not that." He gave his head an impatient shake. "Personalities."

  "Ah." I closed my eyes and focused my mind. "Faisel seemed to be directing operations, a sort of field supervisor. Out of shape, a bit pompous, not physically courageous. It seemed to me that he thought Smith was expendable."

  "Very likely. And Smith?"

  "Pure testosterone."

  His brows shot up. "Eh?"

  "No social inhibitions whatsoever. Not bright, but skilled and satisfied with himself. It was almost as if he were laughing up his sleeve--at Faisel and maybe at the world in general. Smith was cold." I hesitated. "You did ask for impressions."

  He nodded, his hands folded, eyes intent.

  "Faisel is a bully, a controller. Smith is something nastier, if that's possible. A tool who prides himself on being an efficient tool. A professional killer." I stumbled on the word. "Alleged killer."

  Thorne gave a wry smile. "I'm not a solicitor, Mrs. Dodge. And I've laid down my notebook. Then you think Smith could have killed your landlady?"

  "Yes. In cold blood. He hates women." I glanced at Jay. "Despises is probably more accurate. Ann and I followed those two men around Hambly as if we were invisible to them. They didn't notice us." I paused and considered. "Or maybe they did, but they couldn't conceive of us as a threat to their plans."

  Thorne cleared his throat. "If Smith's telling the truth, they had no idea who you were, Mrs. Dodge. They noticed Mrs. Veryan as they were leaving the hotel for Hambly, but they dismissed her presence as a coincidence."

  Ann--we--had had a close call. I shivered. "At Hambly, it was Faisel, not Smith, who killed the watchman's dog. I don't know that that means anything. They're both killers."

  Noises emanated from the hallway, then from my father's room, and the connecting door opened. Jay said, "I think they're back."

  "Ah, there you are..." Dad stopped in the doorway.

  I rose from my perch on the foot of the bed. "It's Detective Chief Inspector Thorne, Dad, from London. Is Ann...ah."

  My father entered with Ann on his heels. Jay performed introductions, and Dad and Ann shook hands with the inspector.

  Ann said, "I hope you're well, Mr. Thorne. You look bone-tired. Surely you're not still on duty? We brought a bottle of whiskey for a little nightcap."

  Thorne was smiling at her. "I might be persuaded, lass."

  She beamed at him like a moon goddess and went to round up tooth glasses. I was glad I had not taken a pill. Whiskey sounded far more appealing.

  It was an unpronounceable single malt Dad had spotted in the bar. His mind must have been in Scotland, explaining the day's debacle to the Galloway and Dumfries constabulary. He swore he had once drunk the stuff in Edinburgh during an April blizzard.

  We all sipped and made approving sounds. I drink scotch about once a year, so my grounds for comparison were not wide, but it went down smoothly and the base of my spine tingled.

  Thorne looked blissful. Presently he asked Ann for the AA Atlas, copied out our stopping places, and took us through an account of our movements. He expanded a bit on Daphne's condition, which was grave. Trevor had quit his job to take care of his sister. When and if she should be released, she would need careful nursing. Parks had confessed his own part in the burglary and named Smith as Milos's assailant. By tacit agreement none of us mentioned Milos's papers.

  Thorne said nothing of them either. He had kept his silence almost from the beginning. Someone had told him the papers were classified, someone with sufficient authority to make Thorne keep to his silence, even when the rest of the world was talking about Milos's revelations.

  I liked Thorne, but he had lied to us when he said the papers didn't bear on the case. We might have believed him.

  By then it was eleven, and I was falling asleep sitting up. With some prodding from Jay, Thorne rose to go. He promised to see us soon in London.

  He threw us a curve as he left. "We must inspect the auto you hired in Yorkshire." He had the grace to look embarrassed.

  Dad ran his hand through his hair. "But you've charged Smith."

  "With Miss Beale's murder," Jay murmured.

  Thorne nodded. "Aye, that's it. The odds are we'll charge the pair of them with attempting to kill Miss Worth, too, but we've no evidence they were in Dorset Sunday evening. That being so, we have to eliminate other possibilities."

  I said with some heat, "We have no motive for harming Daphne Worth."

  "I don't have to establish motive, lass. Just means and opportunity. And I'd be no kind of investigator if I didn't have your auto checked."

  "But we have to return the car tomorrow, Mr. Thorne." Ann had meant to ride with Dad to York in the morning.

  "I'll tell the boys to step lively, then. Happen they'll be finished by afternoon. I'll not take the keys from you now, but don't use the Escort until I give you the word."

  My father said, "We'll cooperate, of course."

  Thorne shook hands with Dad, who saw him to the door, and made a sketchy bow toward the rest of us. Then he was gone.

  Ann plopped onto the foot of the bed next to me. "I can't drive that car. Whatever shall we do? George has to catch the train to the north." She was now on first-name terms with Dad. Despite his somewhat pedantic style, my father is not at all formal. Ann's deference had given way to her natural friendliness.

  * * * *

  The only solution to the car problem was for Dad to return the Fiat to Heathrow and fly to Glasgow. The rest of us hung out at the Greyhound until the police finally released the Escort at two-thirty. It was clean, they said. Actually it was covered with road grime. Jay drove us lickety-split to York, using the motorways, because otherwise we would have had to pay a surcharge for returning the car to the wrong place.

  Jay left Ann and me to forage for sandwiches while he turned the car in. We had half an hour to admire the walls of York before we caught the train south. We reached the flat in London late, around ten, all of us exhausted and me hurting. I took four aspirins and went straight to bed. I heard the phone ring a couple of times at the edge of awareness.

  Next morning--I slept until eight--Jay told me both my parents had called that evening, Dad from Glasgow, my mother from New York. Dad's reception in Scotland had been chilly because of the publicity the press conference had received. He was coming back that evening and would take a cab from the airport. My mother, apparently unaware that it was midnight when she reached Jay, had wanted a thorough explanation of the press conference. When she asked to speak to me Jay said I was asleep, bless him.

  Sooner or later I would have to talk to Ma about my escapade, but I could not have defended myself that night.

  Jay served me tea and croissants for breakfast. He had gone out for the newspapers around seven-thirty, and by the time he came back the press were in place, cameras at the ready.

  "Did they corner you?" I took a bite of croissant.

  He grinned. "They tried. I spoke Spanish to them, muy agitado, until they gave up."

  "Why didn't I think of that?"

  "Probably because you don't speak Spanish, darling. More tea?"

  I held out my cup. "Did they recognize you?"

  "I don't think so. It's a good thing I stayed off-camera in Shropshire."

  I showed him the Daily Blatt. "You didn't. There you are leaving the Greyhound with Ann."

  He took the paper from me. "Nobody could identify me from that. I look like a bandito. Shall I shave off my mustache?"

  "Sure." I knew he
wouldn't. "And I'll shave my head and nobody will recognize either of us. Give me back the Blatt."

  He complied. "You feel better, don't you?"

  "A lot. Dr. Mayfield said I could take my arm out of the sling from time to time." That reminded me that I'd have to report to the out-patient clinic at St. Botolph's to have the dressing on my shoulder changed.

  We were trying to decide whether to call a taxi when Ann drifted in, yawning. She had been rather mournful on the ride back from York because of missing Haworth again, but a night's sleep had restored her to her usual cheer.

  Jay made coffee for her, and I warned her about the press siege.

  She groaned. "I have to go out. I promised Milos I'd talk to his landlady and rescue his belongings."

  "That does it," Jay said. "We'll call a taxi. Ann can ride with us to the hospital. There's strength in numbers."

  "If you go with us, you'll blow your cover." I explained to Ann about Jay's Spanish impersonation, and she was enchanted. She decided to speak Latin for the tabloids.

  Jay came with us anyway. We reached St. Botolph's around ten, thanks to another blasé cab driver who shot right through the cordon of reporters. Ann patted me on my good shoulder and reminded me to ask after Daphne. Then she went off afoot in search of Milos's apartment, which was near the Gloucester Road Tube station.

  My kindly Shropshire GP had smoothed the way for me by telephone, and I was accepted on a local physician's list with a minimum of fuss. Finally I was called. Jay said he'd wait.

  He was browsing among the National Health pamphlets when I returned with my arm in less restrictive strapping. He saw me and rose, smiling. "How are the stitches?"

  "The doctor doesn't think there'll be much of a scar on my shoulder, but I may have to have a plastic surgeon look at the arm."

  "You could pretend you'd undergone some kind of initiation rite."

  "Or become a Hell's Angel woman. Right." I wriggled my arm. "I was lucky Smith didn't hit a tendon."

  "Or your aorta." Jay gave my good arm a pat. We made our way to the lobby. "Where's the restroom?"

  "WC, please, or loo. It's down there." I pointed down the short corridor to my right. "I'll ask about Daphne at the desk while I'm waiting for you."