Was this painting a clue? Surely it was not part of the original furnishings? So what was its significance?
Grace examined the fireplace grate. It looked like some papers had recently been burned. She sifted through the gray ashes and brown curls of paper. A newspaper? She lined the largest pieces up on the floor and studied them in the circle of her flashlight beam.
…ossachs. Rang. LY RECORD.
It might as well be hieroglyphs. Grace sighed heavily, and her carefully accumulated clues blew across the floor. She scrambled to retrieve them, and put the crumbs of paper in her pocket to be examined later. She left the room, starting upstairs.
How could they vanish without a trace? They must have started packing the night of Theresa’s murder.
Which meant what?
Obviously, Catriona was involved in the murder. That had to be what Ruthven had wanted to tell Grace, but Catriona had stopped him.
Except…there was a logistical problem or two with that. Catriona was strong and agile, but was it probable that she could carry an unconscious man out of a theater and clean up all traces of blood and escape without a trace within fifteen minutes?
In fact, it would take a fair amount of upper body strength to impale someone with a piece of wood. Would a woman have that kind of strength? Assuming that Peter was wrong, and this wasn’t an elaborate hoax, Catriona must have had an accomplice.
Clearly not Lord Ruthven.
Some unknown henchman?
Or someone else? Someone she’d known and trusted for years. The kind of man who kept his head under pressure, who lied as naturally as he breathed, whose stomach wasn’t turned by violence, who didn’t shrink from the idea of doing something illegal.
A man like Peter.
Downstairs the phone began to ring, shrilling through the vacant hush. Grace ran downstairs and picked it up. She did not speak.
A man’s voice said something she did not understand. Because he did not speak clearly or because she didn’t recognize the words?
If she spoke, she would give herself away. She compromised on a toneless grunt.
“Dé?” The sharp tone was one of interrogation. The word was foreign. Romanian? She had no idea, and she did not dare reply again.
Silence stretched on both ends of the line—then it was cut by the dial tone.
She was coming out of the library the next morning—having spent a fruitful couple of hours comparing typography and newspaper mastheads—when she spotted Peter leaving the bakery a few doors down.
How anyone could be thinking of baked goods at a time like this was beyond Grace. It was even more vexing that Peter should look so relaxed and at ease with the world.
As he opened the door to his Land Rover she considered him rather critically, from the gleam of his fair hair to the dull sheen of his leather boots. He did wear Levi’s well, she had to admit. Slim hips and long legs, that was the key.
As though feeling himself watched, Peter glanced around and caught her eye.
Just for a moment he looked pleased to see her. His expression changed almost instantly to wariness.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve just been doing a little research.”
His mouth thinned, but he said lightly, “Improving your mind, or are you snooping for something in particular?”
She ignored this, nodding at the white sack he held.
“Grocery shopping?” It was a silly question, but she wanted to keep him standing there, talking to her. She missed him. She hated being on opposite sides. She would have liked to call a truce—and not just to share what she suspected he carried in that paper bag.
“No, I was robbing the bakery. I’ve got a bag of hot croissants.”
He was joking, but there was a bite to it.
Grace couldn’t seem to help herself. She said, “They’re gone, you know.”
“Who?” She had his full attention now.
“Mary Queen of Plots and her minions. Supposedly they’ve gone to visit friends in Transylvania. That’s what the note they left said.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand tighten on the door frame. Then he relaxed. “I’ve heard it’s lovely this time of year.”
“Lord Ruthven vanished with them. But I spoke to the chief constable this morning. The police did check on that smeared handprint on the theater curtains—and it was real blood.”
He was so still she couldn’t see him breathe. Then he swallowed.
“I see.”
She had never seen his face look like that. He was a stranger again. It was a stranger who glanced at his watch as though recollecting himself, smiled a cool, contained smile, and said, “Fascinating. Forgive me, love, but I’ve got to run.”
He threw the sack inside the Land Rover and slid in, slamming shut the door. Just for an instant, as he started the engine, his eyes met hers through the windshield.
Then he gave her a curt nod and put the car in reverse.
Grace watched him swing in an efficient arc and speed off down the road. And she knew that he had told her the absolute truth: he was going to run.
She made her decision there and then, and went to get her car.
Speeding south along the A65, Grace kept Peter’s Land Rover just in sight with one car between them.
She feared the robin’s-egg blue of the Aston Martin stood out like a hot-air balloon in the gray morning, but Peter was driving fast, and Grace was willing to bet his mind was preoccupied with whatever had sent him shooting back to Craddock House and then out once more into the drizzling morning—Gladstone bag in hand.
Even preoccupied as she was, Grace could not help but notice the dramatic beauty of the rainswept countryside. Copper and gold leaves glinted against the dramatic sky, and in the distance the mountains were a pastel haze of blue and purple and mauve. The white thunderheads ahead seemed to form nebulous grimacing faces. As she drove through the lush, verdant landscape, it was easy to see why nineteenth-century painter John Constable had described the Lakes as “the finest scenery that ever was.” And eighteen million annual visitors seemed to concur with this assessment.
The Land Rover was disappearing into the rolling green distance. Grace accelerated. Woods flashed by in scarlet, yellow and brown.
The tune of “John Peel” kept running through Grace’s mind.
Chase the fox from his lair in the morning…
As they neared Oxenholme, Peter slowed and pulled into the car park. Grace shot past and a mile up pulled a U-turn, and drove back.
Peter had parked. She spotted his tall figure heading for the gray building of the station before a bus pulled out, blocking her view. It didn’t take a detective to deduce he was taking the train. But which train?
She hurried across the forecourt, skirting rain puddles, and positioned herself near a kiosk where a driver in a yellow shirt and goose bumps held high a sign in Japanese.
In a few minutes Peter strode out of the station and started for a platform where a train sat idling.
Grace didn’t have time to waste on subtlety. “I want to go where the man in the khaki trench coat is going.”
Perhaps this was a popular route with secret agents, for the clerk said, as though hers were a routine request, “Eleven forty-three to Euston Station.”
Euston Station? Then they were going to London?
Gulping over the cost, Grace bought her ticket. Because of recent deprivatization of the railway system, extensive improvements were now under way. Modern trains were slowly replacing the old rattlers; but, compared to other countries, railway travel was shockingly expensive in the UK.
Leaving the ticket counter, she looked around for a decent hiding place where she could watch Peter without being noticed until it was time to board. The bank of phones looked promising.
A young woman with a baby carriage had engaged Peter in smiling conversation. The baby, clearly a girl, was cooing at him and offering her pacifier.
There was no cash machine at the sta
tion. She would have to hope she didn’t have some kind of financial emergency before she reached London. She looked at her watch. Half past eleven. It was nearly a four-hour train ride to London. Grace’s stomach was already growling.
The minutes passed; then passengers began to board. Peter assisted the woman with the baby carriage.
Ticket in hand, Grace filed toward the steps of the train. A hand clamped down on her shoulder. She turned, startled.
Chaz, looking unreasonably outraged, stood there.
“What are you doing?” Grace demanded.
“What are you doing?”
Belatedly she lowered her voice. “Catching a train.” She turned and spotted Peter’s back disappearing inside the train. “Look, I’ve got to go.”
“You’re following him!” Chaz was not bothering to keep his voice down, and they were drawing curious glances.
“And you’re following me.” Despite her ire, she couldn’t help seeing the irony in the situation.
Chaz was attempting to draw her away. Grace freed herself. “Not now!”
“Are you crazy? You can’t go running after him. Even if he’s not a crook, you can’t chase him all over the country.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The train whistle blew. Desperately, Grace said, “I’ve got to go.”
“We’ve got to discuss—”
Grace freed herself, darting to the platform and up the stairs. The difficulty was that Peter was in the first-class section two cars up, while she was stuck in standard; it would be impossible to keep an eye on him.
She dropped into the first empty seat and picked up the newspaper someone had left on the seat next to her, opening it wide. At least it provided temporary concealment. She tried to think what to do next.
After all, Peter might simply be going to visit friends. Honest, law-abiding friends. He might be going shopping. He might just feel like a trip to London.
If he had been outraged at the idea of her spying on him in the graveyard, what would he make of this?
Someone plumped into the seat next to her.
“Why don’t you poke eyeholes in the front page,” Chaz muttered. “You couldn’t look sillier than you do now.”
Grace brought down the paper. “What are you doing here?”
“I can’t let you do this by yourself.”
“I have to do this by myself.” Especially since she had no idea what she was doing.
Chaz was shaking his head stubbornly. “I’ve bought my ticket. It’s too late now.”
The train was beginning to move.
“Chaz—”
He folded his arms and sat back in his seat, ignoring Grace’s exasperated gaze.
Outside the window, clouds, buildings and trees slid by as the train picked up speed. After a time Grace stopped fuming and started thinking. “Give me your cap.”
Chaz looked affronted. “Why?”
“I need a disguise.”
“This is ridiculous.” He seemed to be addressing the ceiling of the train.
“May I please borrow your cap?”
Chaz’s lips were set in disapproving lines, but he handed his golf cap over and smoothed his dark curls down.
Grace twisted her hair into a ponytail and tucked it under the spacious cap. She turned the collar up on her blazer, and muttered, “I’ll be right back.”
“You couldn’t look more conspicuous,” Chaz informed her departing back.
This, Grace ignored. Peter would not be looking for her, so all she needed to do was avoid catching his eye. It was a risk, but she needed to know where he was. A niggling doubt suggested that if he had spotted her, he might have left the train before it departed the station.
Tipping the golf cap low over her face, she started down the corridor. Briefly she scanned the faces of the passengers crowded into the rows of seats. He wasn’t in the first section.
She began to worry she’d lost him.
He wasn’t in the second section. Panic set in, but then she spotted him in a window seat, gazing out at the landscape flashing by.
Grace ducked back. A couple of passengers glanced at her curiously.
Her heart was racing as though she’d just completed an obstacle course. She had to wonder at herself. No surprise Chaz thought she shouldn’t be left on her own. And she considered herself a role model for girls? Yikes!
When she was composed again, she readjusted her collar and slipped back down the corridor, finding her place next to Chaz.
“Found him.”
Chaz shook his head. “May I have my cap back?”
Grace handed over the cap, took out her sunglasses, and put them on. “How much money do you have?”
“A few pounds. A hundred dollars in travelers’ checks.”
“I don’t know how far we’re going. Maybe all the way to London, although he could have purchased a ticket to London to throw off any possible pursuit. I didn’t notice if this train stops along the way or runs straight through. Even so, I suppose he’d find a way to get off if he needed to.”
“You should hear yourself,” Chaz commented. “It’s pretty sad.”
“We should move down to where we can keep an eye on him.”
“The train goes straight through. He’s not going anywhere for a while.”
There was no point arguing. Grace got up, and, sure enough, Chaz followed.
They found new seats closer to where they could observe Peter. He had ditched the mother and child but appeared to have been appropriated by a cuddly grandmother type who was showing him pictures of her cats. He really did have lovely manners, Grace reflected dispassionately.
The miles rolled by in a lulling clackety-clack of wheels on rails. Chaz read the news in sections while Grace watched the aisle from the shelter of the rest of the paper. She comforted herself that if Peter did spot them, they could pretend to be on a day-trip to London. It was reasonable that Chaz would want to sightsee. Peter shouldn’t automatically assume he was being followed. In her imagination she began to argue this point with him.
“I’m hungry,” Chaz said gloomily.
Grace considered for a moment. There was an onboard buffet, but that might just be for the first- or club-class passengers. In any case, they had to make sure they didn’t bump into Peter. Food would have to wait.
“I know. Me too. We can grab something in London.”
Chaz sighed in a way that seemed to imply that somehow his plight was all Grace’s fault.
They reached London well after three o’clock in the afternoon. In Grace’s mind, Euston Station was still graced with the Great Hall and massive Doric arch entrance of old films, but these had been destroyed in the early sixties when the station was rebuilt, and the new edifice was an uninspired slab.
“Now what?” the Voice of Doom inquired as they made their way through the crowd.
“I don’t know, but we have to be ready to move fast.”
They waited, watching Peter from around a corner.
“I feel like a fool,” Chaz groused. “What kind of relationship do you have that you feel like you need to spy on the guy?”
Stung, Grace retorted, “You’re spying on me!”
“That’s different.”
Grace sniffed.
They struggled through the other passengers, finding then losing the tall pale-haired figure working his way quickly through the crush of people milling around them. He left the station concourse, walking out on Eversholt Street. A few yards down he went into an Edwardian-looking building on the left. A green-and-white sign read THE HEAD OF STEAM PUB.
“What now?” wondered Grace aloud. “He must be planning to catch another train, or he would hail a cab, right?”
“Don’t ask me. Maybe he just likes to eat lunch here.”
“But that has to be right. He wouldn’t hang around here—unless he plans to meet someone who’s also arriving by train.”
“I can’t keep up this pace on an empty stomach,” Chaz informed
her.
“Okay, let me think. I’ll keep an eye on the pub, and you go buy something and bring it back here,” Grace said. “I’m guessing he’s waiting around for another train.”
Chaz looked long-suffering, but went off to do her bidding. Grace checked her watch.
Chaz returned shortly with roast beef sandwiches and bottles of lemon squash. They ate hovering in the doorway, keeping an eye on the pub.
“I don’t see what the point of this is,” Chaz groused.
Mouth too full to answer, Grace glanced up; Peter was headed straight their way. She swallowed in one gulp, and practically fell over Chaz in her haste to avoid being seen. She dragged him, still clutching the remains of their impromptu lunch, behind the nearest magazine rack. Swimsuited models smirked at Grace from rows of glossy covers.
Peter strode past without a glance in their direction.
“Now comes the hard part.” Grace fixed Chaz with the compelling look that used to work so well on her freshman class. “We’ve got to find out where he’s headed without being seen ourselves.”
Chaz looked blank; then his eyes widened. “Look,” he said, “you may have noticed that I am not James Bond.”
“You’re doing very well,” Grace assured him. “Frankly, I’m impressed.”
Chaz made a harrumphing sound but looked a little flushed as he set out on his next mission. He was back after several nerve-racking minutes..
“I saw his ticket. He’s going to Scotland!” he gasped.
“Scotland?”
He nodded, and, still out of breath, added, “Edinburgh. We’ve got to decide now. It takes twenty minutes by tube to get to King’s Cross, and the train leaves at five.”
Scotland. Yes, of course. Transylvania was just so much thumbing of nose. The Daily Record was a Scottish paper. The man who had been driving the moving van had a Scottish accent. Catriona was Scottish.
Grace said firmly, “My mind is already made up.”
Chaz’s shoulders slumped. “This is crazy. We don’t have any luggage!”
Men. Grace had her purse, which contained all the essentials: lipstick, credit card and book. She started walking. “You don’t have to come. I don’t want you to come.”
Verse of the Vampyre Page 17
