“There are no wrong reasons to write. Don’t worry,” Alex said absently, scanning the final page again. “I polish faster than anyone. We’ll have you ready to submit in no time.”
“I know”—Harmony blinked—“I mean, I know that you were a quick writer. History has it that you were the terror of your secretarial staff. They could barely keep up with your output. In fact, they called you…”
She trailed off. His nickname had been a racial slur. He had in fact called out the man who had printed the article saying he was a “nigger slavé-driver lording it over the other blacks he employed.” It had been only one of many duels he fought with the men of the press.
Alex chuckled, the memory apparently no longer cause for anger. Perhaps that was because he’d won those duels, and history had awarded him a moral victory as well.
“‘The slave-driver.’ Almost no one knows about that anymore. I’ve been whitewashed by the literary world. It’s a bit strange after all these years to have someone around who knows who I am. Or was. I’d like to think that I’ve changed some—and for the better. These days I hardly ever call out critics who pan my books.” Alex lifted his eyes from the computer screen. Though she should have been accustomed to his ebony gaze, she apparently still found it riveting.
“Well, I think you’d be okay as an editor, if a bit bossy in other parts of life,” Harmony answered, holding his stare for an instant and then looking away. Something was doing funny things to her breathing. “How much longer do we have before landing? Were you able to fax off your next chapter to your secretary before we left? I feel guilty letting you help me when you still have so much left to write.”
“We are about four hours from Gatwick. And then a long car ride that may be excruciating because of tourist traffic.”
“There’s nothing closer?”
“There’s actually a small airport at Newquay, but I prefer not to announce our arrival in Cornwall. It may be paranoia, but I am not certain anymore about who might be in Saint Germain’s pay. But don’t worry, Millie will have had the caretaker go around to the cottage, so everything will be in order for us, with no one—at least, no one who is too interested in our whereabouts—being the wiser. That gives us plenty of time to concentrate on the matter at hand and get this book whipped into shape.” Alex said ruthlessly: “Show me the next chapter—and stop worrying about my manuscript, if that’s what’s making you frown. It’s all under control.”
The plane hit a small pocket of turbulence, reminding them that they were no longer safely on the ground. Alex glanced out the window and grimaced. Harmony did thesame.
“I’m not sure I’m in the right frame of mind to write just now. It feels frivolous when I know that there’s so much…” She trailed off, still having trouble articulating her reaction to all that they had seen in Mexico.
“But of course you must write—that is what we do.” Alex was definite.
“But what about Saint Germain?” she protested weakly. “We can’t just forget about him.”
“Would you suggest to a cherry tree that it not grow cherries just because there is a man with an ax somewhere in the woods? Or that fish stop swimming because there are fishermen in his stream? My dear, our character is our destiny. You are what you are, Harmony. Embrace it. It is not enough just to survive—not in the long run. Take this lesson from me. One must thrive, not just endure. What is life without bliss? You know your joy, now…pursue it. A very wise American once said that a house divided against itself will not stand. This I know to be true. And you can write even now. I have written in exile, in prison, with a bounty on my head—as did Victor Hugo and Descartes and Molière. And many others before and since. Writers write. Let me worry about Saint Germain while you finish your book. We can’t act effectively until we have more information anyway. Take the gift of this enforced air travel and stay on my island and put the time to good use.”
Harmony felt herself being persuaded. If not on an island, surrounded by the peaceful sounds of the ocean, then where and when would she ever find the time to finish her book? And when would she ever have the chance to have anyone as gifted as Alexandre Dumas do her editing?
“No person or place could be more ideal,” Alex affirmed. “Now, show me the next chapter.”
“Are you sure you want to do this? You don’t have to, you know,” she said a last time.
“Of course I know. But you also know, since you’ve studied me, that I have always patronized new writers. I like to foster talent that might otherwise wither before blooming. So finish your story, and I will help you make it commercial,” Alex answered. “It’s an important one to tell, and no one else can be counted on to get the details just so. It is your legacy and your right to do this. But, as you now know, Fate is a fickle bitch. You may not have another clear space of time in which to work once we find out about Saint Germain. Seize this day and walk in the sun.”
“That sounds like something that belongs on a tombstone,” she complained.
Alex nodded soberly but said, “Believe it or not, there are far worse epitaphs to be had.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Two Kalmucks put a whip in my hand. With one of these whips Prince Tumaine can kill a wolf at a single blow by striking it on the nose.
—Letter from Dumas père to Dumas fils while visiting Russia
My father was a great big child which I had when I was just a little boy.
—Dumas fils, about his father
Infatuated, half through conceit, half through love of my art, I achieve the impossible working as no one else ever works.
—Alexandre Dumas
“There she is. That’s Chilicott’s Folly.” Alex pointed to the right as he parked the car at the side of the road on a narrow strip of gravel that would have intimidated a mountain goat. “I bought it about seventeen years ago. I used to stay here with my friend Conan Doyle. The only place prettier is the Channel Islands where my friend Hugo used to live, but the weather wasn’t as predictable there. I find comfort in knowing that there are regular storms here. You cannot imagine how many places there are in the world that have no reliable rain.”
“You mean Arthur Conan Doyle?” Harmony asked, unfastening her seat belt. Then added: “And Victor Hugo?”
“But of course.”
“Name-dropper.”
Alex smiled. “Hugo wrote Les Misérables there when he was in exile on the islands. I believe the setting helped. These North Sea islands are seemingly serene but secretly savage places. It is difficult to believe when the sea is as placid as it is today, but it isn’t always so. Winds blow hard and from all over the world. Look at the variety of plants blown here—wild sea grass called marram, agapanthus from Africa, and many wildflowers to attract butterflies, none of which were native. There are fishing birds blown here too, dunlins, plovers—they haunt the fractured rock crying like inconsolable ghosts at sunrise and sunset.” Then, with equal casualness: “I had a small swimming pool put in last year. It is filled with seawater—very refreshing to swim in. It is a small house, only five bedrooms. But very private. Our only company are the dead in the cemetery, and they’re quiet. It’s a good place for writing. You should be able to work here. I think we can have your story ready in a week, perhaps two.”
“Oh. Good. Thank you.” Harmony was feeling a bit dazed by the schedule Alex had set her. She couldn’t help but wonder if he had designed it so that she would have little time to worry about what was going on with Saint Germain, and if that were true, why? Surely he didn’t think she was going to let him go off and confront this monster all by himself. Alex may have had the older quarrel, but this man was doing things that were an abomination in the eyes of all humanity. That made him The Spider’s business.
“Ready to make the climb?” Alex asked.
“Ready to be done with sitting.” But Harmony gave herself another moment to study the island before approaching it. She would never have admitted it out loud, but she was trying to sense wh
at sort of place this might be.
The red-roofed house stood atop a ninety-foot-tall slab of wooded rock, at the moment marooned on a beach of golden sand. It was immediately apparent that the only way to reach the house was across a suspension bridge anchored to the cliff face above where they hadparked. There was a narrow stair with shallow steps leading up to the bridge that spanned the strange vertical space between the island and the mainland.
“It looks as if a giant with a croquet mallet knocked the land away,” she said softly.
“Cornwall had giants, you know, so that may be what happened.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Harmony climbed out of the mini-coupe and stretched her legs, breathing deeply of the sea air. The same sun shone here as in Mexico, but its rays felt infinitely more benevolent. Alex was right; it was difficult to see this place as anything other than benign. They should both be able to work here.
“The tide is on the turn,” Alex said. “In two hours, the island will be completely surrounded by water. It’s an odd sensation. There’s a certain resonance to the waves that moves through the stone. You can almost hear the island humming at high tide.”
Harmony looked with disfavor at the stair and then the narrow suspension bridge that linked the island to the mainland.
“We walk?” she guessed.
“This time. There are bicycles on the island.” Alex slammed the car door, their suitcases in hand. Harmony carried her portable.
“You know what today is?” Alex asked.
“Um—Wednesday?”
“It’s St. James’s Day. We must have oysters tonight—it brings good fortune.” They started up the first stone stair, Alex in the lead. Harmony stepped carefully. The red rock was fairly smooth, but the angle had a slight backward grade and was uncomfortable. It would be treacherous to run up in the wet. She had to wonder if that wasn’t deliberate. After all, one probably had to be unusually private to want to live on an island.
As they approached, the house quickly emerged from the shrubs. The building had an odd appearance that the builder had probably not intended. But this was Cornwall, home of mystical beasties and pirates, so perhaps the architect had been deliberate in placing windows so that they looked like a pair of dark eyes staring out from under a bloodied scalp. Beyond the house she could see the stone roofs of minihouses, which she assumed were the sepulchers where the quiet neighbors rested.
“Wasn’t James the Apostle beheaded by Herod? What makes him so lucky?” she asked, mounting the next flight of stairs.
“He has shown up to help good Christians in time of war. He rides onto the battlefield in shining armor atop a white steed—covered in oyster shells.” Alex smiled back at her, but Harmony could tell that he was distracted. As she watched, he took several deep breaths of air, turning each time so he faced a different direction.
“That could be handy. If you’re a good Christian, of course.” Through the dense foliage she could see the slate roofs of other cottages on the mainland. All the chimneys were smokeless and decorated with moss and cooing plovers. She was charmed to see white snowdrops growing at the side of the stair, pushing up bravely among the slabs of granite.
“This must be a great place for you to write. Have you worked here before?” she asked, her breathing growing labored as they neared the bridge at the top of the stair.
“Yes. And let us hope it inspires me again,” she thought she heard him say. “I’ll need all the help I can get to finish this one. I still don’t know what possessed me to write about my time in Tangier.”
Alex stepped onto the suspension bridge and turned back for her. Shifting the bags to one hand he stood smiling, offering his other hand as if he knew how much she disliked the idea of stepping onto the frail-looking span.
Harmony had begun to reach for his fingers when a stray gust of wind buffeted her contemptuously, tossing her against the rope railing. For a moment she feared that she might actually topple over the side of the low cable rail.
What are you? the wind asked. Just another human. You are nothing—a bit offlesh that I might blow away. Have a care, or that is what I shall do.
Then Alex’s hand clasped hers, and the feelings of incipient alarm died away.
“It’s perfectly safe here,” he assured her. “If you’re careful.”
Perhaps that was true, but Harmony suspected that she wouldn’t ever try to cross this bridge alone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
For a thorough understanding of the culinary arts, no one is as well equipped as a man of letters; for he, accustomed to refinements of every kind, knows better than anyone else how to appreciate those of the table.
—Alexandre Dumas
I am receiving letters from all over France, letters in which people seek my advice about polenta, caviar or bird’s nest soup…I see with pleasure that my culinary reputation is growing and bids fair to eclipse before long my literary reputation. God be praised! I shall then be able to devote myself to a respectable calling and to bequeath to my children, instead of books which they might inherit for fifteen or twenty years, casseroles and marmites which they would inherit for eternity and could bequeath in the same manner to their own descendants.
—Alexandre Dumas (reported in Les Nouvelles)
THE SPIDER
Chapter One
Moving house hadn’t been as traumatic as expected. Of course, she hadn’t actually moved house; she’d just packed a suitcase—well, three suitcases, a purse, and a PC—and strolled from her airport hotel into Terry Carter’s fully furnished country home. Gillian stood on the rear terrace overlooking the rose garden, enjoying the fading away of the afternoon, and admitting to herself that she was more than smugly pleased with her newfound luck. Since leaving Thomas and the States, she’d been living a charmed existence. First there was the auction for her fourth novel. That heavily publicized event not only provided her with an adequate income, but had guaranteed the need for a sequel and the reprinting of her three previous novels. The royalty checks were already rolling in.
On the personal front there was Scott and Jonathan. Who would have guessed that two such successful and wealthy men would be attracted to her! The fact that they were a little boring was irrelevant. After all, she wasn’t planning to marry either of them. They were just for occasional dating when she needed an escort to some public function where she would be embarrassed to turn up alone. And last, but hardly least, there was this mansion, tumbled into almost by accident when she’d bumped into an estate agent at a book signing who overheard her pie-in-the-skying with her publicist. Her karma was definitely improving.
“All the bad stuff is behind me,” she said with a sigh, leaning on the balustrade and breathing in the warm, clean air that was such a change from the exhaust fumes of London. Nobody in California built manorhouses in stone, or had parapets and marble statues and hidden stairs! Wouldn’t her nephew go nuts playing hide-and-seek in the garden maze when her sister’s family came for Christmas? The ancient yew hedges were an imaginative kid’s paradise. In fact, the whole place was just this side of Eden.
Of course, there was the little matter of the burglary. But the agent who had brokered the deal had assured her that the owner had installed a new, super-powerful security system. She had to admit that the thing certainly looked powerful, with its panel of blinking lights and elaborate arming and disarming rituals. And it wasn’t as if she had anything worth stealing. Her only item of any value was her older-model portable PC—and surely that wouldn’t interest the kind of burglar who robbed country estates.
No, she was definitely living in clover! After years of struggling with her writing and with a commitment-phobic lover, she finally had life by the tail and she was going to enjoy every damn minute of it.
“Is it Christmas again already?”
“What? Of course it isn’t Christmas!”
Daniel Spencer sighed inwardly and waved his brother, Allen, Commander of the Criminal Investigation Department
of Scotland Yard, into his favorite wing chair and then headed for the brandy. Allen only visited socially once a year, but he had a definite preference about where he sat.
“Daniel.” Allen’s tone was grim as he settled himself into his sibling’s just-vacated chair, confirming Daniel’s suspicions that this was not December and his brother’s visit was not a social call.
“There is beginning to be a great deal of gossip about your pet organization.”
Free Our Forests. His brother would never name it.
“Of course. But they’re harmless, you know,” Daniel murmured, pouring out a generous snifter of brandy and handing it to his brother. Allen never had approved of his brother’s patronage of various environmental groups. But then, Allen was on the side of law and order—mostly order—and found the group’s membership’s tendencies toward civil disobedience aggravating. It also embarrassed him that his own flesh and blood had founded the organization. The only reason that the two brothers were still on speaking terms was because Daniel had retired from active membership in the organization once they had found their financial feet, and gone back to being a dilettante who made money through investment rather than by the sweat of the brow or attempting to change the social order.
“You may find this situation humorous, but I do not. Everyone is up in arms about these burglaries, and fingers are being pointed at various environmentalist groups. What if this scofflaw is a member of your…ah…old organization?”
“Rather doubtful,” Daniel said, taking a seat across from his tense sibling and sneaking a glance at his watch. It was not the expected Rolex, but rather a sturdy black sports-watch that was missing the blue neon LCD. He smoothed his dark sweater over his wrist and then sipped from his glass, feeling the familiar need for an anesthetic that always accompanied Allen’s visits.
“I don’t see how you can be so sanguine about that bunch of nutters.”
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