“Of course I’m coming,” he said.
The light was gone when they crossed the border into Scotland. It had been raining for hours.
Och hush ye then, och hush ye. The night is dark and wet.
Grace put aside her book for a moment, listening to the lullaby of the rails; the wheels seemed to roll a soothing song as the miles melted away.
She glanced at Chaz. He was sleeping. No one looks his best sleeping, despite what the romance novelists write.
She reopened Paul West’s brilliant Lord Byron’s Doctor, but found that despite the seductive prose she couldn’t concentrate. Poor Polidori. Nothing had gone right for him. He had loved the wrong people and pursued the dreams that would destroy him. In the end he had taken his life. Grace reflected on this final act. Suicide could be motivated by many things, including the desire for revenge.
Polidori had believed his work would secure his place in Romantic literature, but his fiction was largely forgotten and the journals of his adventures with Byron and the Shelleys had been “edited” upon his death by his sister, who had believed them scandalous. (Probably correctly!)
So in the end Polidori did not even have his final say.
He had seemed locked in a love-hate relationship with Byron, but if his suicide had been intended as a kind of payback, it seemed to have earned little more than passing comment from his famous fratelli.
Grace bookmarked her place and set the novel aside. She remembered discussing with Roy Blade how the lives of the Romantic poets seemed to mirror their dramatic works.
Life seemed to be imitating art in Innisdale as well.
Chaz spoke, startling her out of her reflections, and she realized he had been silently watching her for a few minutes.
“It doesn’t make sense. You’re not the kind of woman to sacrifice all her plans and ambitions for a man with an unsavory past. It’s like something out of a B movie.”
He sounded almost as though he were thinking aloud. And although he had only now truly brought it up, she felt like they had been arguing the subject since he arrived.
She tried to answer without sounding defensive. “Peter had some trouble with the law, but that’s history. He’s not the same person.”
“You don’t believe that, or you wouldn’t be on this train.”
“It’s just the opposite. I believe it, or I wouldn’t be on this train.” Did she really believe that? Even Grace wasn’t sure. She had to know what was going on, whether it meant the end to her dreams or not.
“But you’re so squeaky clean!”
“Gee, you flatter me.”
“I don’t mean—I mean that as a compliment.” Chaz straightened up in the cramped seat, his expression earnest. “You have morals and principles and goals. I just can’t picture you in love with someone like that.”
In love? Was it love? She didn’t know. Certainly it was not the love she had dreamed of, reading by the light of a flashlight beneath an adolescent’s bed-clothes. The love that dare not stay up past ten o’clock. Just as certainly it was unlike any emotion she had felt for any other man in her life.
Could you love someone without trusting him?
Trust, Grace would have lectured her young ladies, is essential in any healthy relationship. Possibly, spying on one’s gentleman friend was not the best illustration of trust, and yes, there was something about Peter Fox that roused instincts honed by years of supervising devious adolescents. But, the truth was, Grace did trust him. Not just with the small things, like her pocketbook. She would trust Peter with her life. In effect she had done so by moving to Innisdale.
And yet…she had kicked over the traces of her hitherto conventional and admirably well organized life, but she had done it on condition.
She had not truly given her heart; she had waited for proof, for guarantees.
There were no guarantees with love.
It was nine o’clock when the train let them out at Waverley Station in Edinburgh. Rain beat down on the glass ceiling supported by a network of iron columns. Commuters, haggard in artificial lighting, pursued luggage and cabs with desperate purpose in the stale air.
Tagging behind Peter, who walked swiftly, Gladstone bag in hand, Chaz and Grace hotly debated their next move in a hissing exchange that had others moving hastily out of their path.
Peter went into a washroom.
“Go in after him,” Grace urged.
Chaz balked. “I’m not following him in there. He’ll see me. He might do something.”
“Like what? He’s not violent.”
“You want to bet money?”
“Then don’t let him see you!”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
Grace considered this, then relaxed. “Never mind, here he comes.” She ducked back as Peter strode out, his long-legged stride quickly putting distance between them as he moved through the throngs of people engaged in farewells and hellos, struggling with luggage or searching for information on the circular signs.
Grace left her hiding place, Chaz tagging after, still protesting.
The night air was surprisingly sharp and cold. As they watched, Peter crossed the street and hailed a big black cab.
Grace flagged down another.
The driver was out before they could stop him, moving to retrieve their nonexistent luggage.
“No luggage,” Grace said. “Can you please follow that car?” She pointed at the other cab pulling away from the curb, and the driver chortled.
“Oh, I’ve been waiting all my life for this very request.” At least, that was the way Grace translated it. It came out sounding something like, “Och, ye ken fine A wantit this a guid ween year.”
“Is he speaking Gaelic?” Chaz whispered.
Grace shook her head.
The cab ahead, apparently alerted to the game, began to drive with maniacal disregard for traffic, pedestrians and road signs. Its black bulk weaved in and out of the other cars.
Their own driver sped up while pointing out places of historical or cultural interest at the top of his lungs. “And there tae the left, that’s Edinburgh Castle! The castle houses the Scottish crown jewels, the Scottish National War Memorial, and the Stone of Destiny—”
The black cab ahead took a corner sharply and disappeared down another boulevard, where jets of a fountain glittered among the old-fashioned street-lamps. Even at night, streaming past at sixty miles an hour, it was a beautiful city.
Fascinating to think, Grace reflected, momentarily distracted, that some of these buildings would have been standing when Polidori was a student there.
There were more twists and turns down narrow streets. Pedestrians performed intricate balletlike maneuvers to avoid the speeding vehicles. “Are you sure you’ve nae time for sightseeing? We’re no sae far from Holyrood Palace where the Royal Family still often stay while visiting Scotland.”
Their guide added with peculiar relish, “It was there that the young Mary Queen of Scots witnessed the bloody murder of the Italian Rizzio by her husband Darnley and the earrrrls of Athol, Huntly, Bothwell, Caithness and Sutherland—with the aid of the wicked Lord Ruthven.”
Grace’s attention was caught by the mention of this last name. She recalled that Mary had cursed Lord Ruthven and all his House—a curse that had come true during the reign of her own son, James VI.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the cabby, who suddenly yanked on the steering wheel. “Jacky Stewart thinks he’s going to escape us, the daft bastard!”
They screeched around the corner in hot pursuit.
Chaz clung white-knuckled to the side of the cab. His eyes briefly met Grace’s, then he closed them as if in prayer.
Someday, Grace thought—if we live—this will be funny.
“And over there is the clock tower of the new Balmoral Hotel…”
More squealing tires, then the cab ahead suddenly drew to the side of the road, and Peter got out, striding toward an immense building that looked like a Georgian wedding
cake.
“Where’s he going?”
“Pull over!” Grace ordered. “Hurry!”
Their cab rocked to a stop in the middle of the street, and Grace and Chaz piled out. Chaz paid the cabby while Grace started down the crowded sidewalk, trying to keep Peter in sight.
“Hey!” the driver called to her. “Lass! Lassie!”
Grace whirled and ran back to the cab, still darting looks over her shoulder. Peter had vanished inside the building.
“He’s taken you full circle, you know.”
“What?”
“Look!”
She looked. Gradually what she saw began to register: that towering pinnacle of stone, that was surely the Scott Monument. Which meant that this formal stretch of grass and flowers must be Princes Gardens…The historic-looking building Peter had gone into must be the Old Waverley Hotel. Which meant that right across the street…
She turned, and there was the Princes Street exit for Waverley Station. They were right back where they had started less than an hour earlier.
“I don’t believe it!” Chaz exclaimed. “The guy is crazy.”
The cab driver laughed. “Aye, crazy like a fox!”
15
He had vanished.
The staff at the Old Waverley Hotel were solicitous but unhelpful. They could not reveal the names of registered guests; besides no one had noticed anyone of Peter Fox’s description entering the building.
Chaz and Grace returned to the street. Mist rose off the pavement; the lamplight had a grainy look. It was no use. Peter had a head start and a plan. They had no idea where they were going, let alone where Peter was going.
“That’s it then,” Chaz said, when Grace admitted it was no use.
She could have cried with sheer frustration.
“Why don’t we get some dinner and catch the next train home?”
It was a sensible suggestion. Grace heard it and acknowledged this with one ear. With the other she was listening to the little voice that insisted there had to be a way to figure out where Peter was going. After all, the entire country of Scotland wasn’t as large as Southern California.
“I’m starving,” Chaz said. He looked at his watch. “Let’s get something to eat,” he urged again.
“Monica!” Grace exclaimed.
Chaz glanced around. “Where?”
“No, she lives here now with her husband Calum Bell. Well, in Cramond, which I think is a suburb. She might be able to help.”
“Help with what? Grace, it’s over. He’s gone, and frankly it’s just as well that you’re not involved in whatever he’s up to.”
She ignored this, rifling through the address book in her purse. “Here we go.” She looked around for a phone booth. Chaz followed, still protesting.
“Grace, he obviously knew you were following him, and he’s put it just as clearly as if he said it to your face. He wants you to go home.”
“Then he should have said it to my face.” The answering machine picked up. Monica’s chipper voice invited her to leave a message.
Grace bit her lip. Hanging up, she said, “We’ll call back in a bit. Meantime, let’s rent a car.”
By now she was so used to the accompaniment of Chaz’s objections they barely registered as they located a car rental place and hired a mini for the next few days. However, even she had to sympathize when they found their leased vehicle.
“Pink?” Chaz protested. “You expect me to drive around this country in a pink car?”
“I can drive.”
“That’s not the point. I’ll still have to sit next to you. We’ll look like—like cosmetic consultants.”
“You were there. You heard the man say this was all they had.”
“Unbelievable,” muttered Chaz. “They’ll see us coming a mile away.”
Locating another phone booth, Grace tried Monica again.
This time Monica picked up.
Grace had hardly started in when Monica interrupted. “Grace, where are you? This is grand! Is Peter with you?”
“Er…no. I’m with Chaz.”
“Chaz? Chaz?”
Hearing his name, Chaz whispered, “Tell her hello.” His expression, however, was disapproving. He still hadn’t forgiven Monica for breaking up their comfortable foursome with Tom Anderson.
“Yes, he’s been visiting,” Grace answered Monica brightly.
“Crikey! Well, if you can’t ditch him, bring him along,” Monica ordered irrepressibly.
Directions given, they got in the rental, which, despite its rosy hue, Chaz insisted on driving.
“Are you sure you don’t—”
“I am perfectly capable!”
Grace subsided.
And capable he was. It took them no more than ten minutes to get out of the roundabout, windshield wipers slapping and hazard lights flashing.
Other motorists honked impatiently and gesticulated rudely.
“It just takes some getting used to!” Chaz muttered, foot feeling once more for a nonexistent clutch.
Before heading to Monica and Calum Bell’s, they stopped to purchase a few overnight things and a change of clothing at what was quaintly termed “an American-style department store,” Chaz parking half on the sidewalk, which seemed to be the natives’ custom.
A few minutes later, and many pounds poorer, they returned to the street and their pink chariot—now adorned with a parking ticket.
Cramond turned out to be a lovely village on the south shore of the River Forth. Calum and Monica greeted them at the door of a whitewashed house trimmed in dark blue. Red flowers bloomed in window boxes, and a shiny brass bell hung by the front door.
“It’s so good to see you!” Monica hugged Grace tight. “I’ve missed you!”
“Wee Gracie!” Calum said, enfolding Grace in a bone-crushing hug.
The interior of the house was ultramodern, done in striking white and black. Posters of vintage pulp detective covers added a vibrant note of color. Walls of bookshelves were packed with books and photos of Monica and Calum looking enviably happy.
Grace took note of what seemed to be an awful lot of suitcases stacked in the front room.
“Are you going somewhere?”
Monica rolled her eyes. “There’s a conference for PI novelists in Canada, and Calum is the guest of honor. We’re flying out day after next.”
Monica and Chaz’s reunion was more restrained. Chaz’s manner was a bit distant with Monica, who raised her brows and met Grace’s eyes.
“He thinks you’re a bad influence,” Grace explained later, when she and Monica were alone for a few minutes in the guest room.
“The feeling’s mutual. What in the world are you doing with him? Where’s Peter?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I love long stories…provided there’s a happy ending.”
“I don’t know how this ends.” She tried to fill Monica in on some of the highlights.
“Wow. This sounds more like a miniseries,” Monica interrupted.
“It feels more like a miniseries. Maybe something by Stephen King.”
Monica chuckled. “So am I making up one bed or two?”
“Two. Definitely.”
Monica nodded wisely and opened a cedar chest full of blankets.
A quantity of red wine with the pasta Monica cooked for dinner relaxed Chaz, and he stopped making scornful noises while Grace finished her explanation of what they were doing in Bonny Scotland.
When they retreated to Calum’s office after the meal and Chaz saw the framed blowups of Calum’s book covers, he exclaimed, “Mikey Tong? You write the Mikey Tong series?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve heard of it!” Then, perhaps realizing this didn’t exude great confidence in his own work, Calum corrected, “That is, I do indeed. D’you mean you’ve read my work?”
“I’m a huge fan!”
Calum preened, if such a big, ruggedly handsome man could be said to preen. “I like this fellow,” he informed Gra
ce.
“I didn’t know you read detective novels,” Grace said. She accepted the snifter of Drambuie liqueur that Monica passed her.
And Chaz, or perhaps it was the wine talking, retorted, “There’s a lot about me you don’t know. A lot you never bothered to find out.”
“Hoo boy,” Monica murmured.
“Anyway,” Grace said, getting hastily back to business, “we’re looking for some people named Ruthven.”
“Ruthven?” Calum repeated. “That’s not a name you hear often.”
“But it is a Scottish name? The name of a clan?”
“Aye. An old Highland family with a black-and-bloody history. I think the true line died out centuries ago with the execution of the earl of Gowrie.”
“Ah,” said Grace, as though she knew what the heck Calum was talking about.
Calum rose and pulled a copy of Scottish Surnames down from the shelf. He flipped the pages, then read, “The peerage ended with the Gowrie Conspiracy of 1600—an unsuccessful attempt on the life of James VI which resulted in the royal fiat that the ’names, memory and dignity of the Ruthven family’ were to be extinguished and their lands shared out.” His eyes met Grace’s. “Friends of yours, you say?”
“We’re not that close,” Grace said. “Where is the family whatchamacallit? Seat?”
Calum shrugged. “Perthshire was the original family holding.”
“I would say this is probably an outlaw branch of the family.”
“The entire family is an outlaw branch,” Calum retorted. “You won’t find them listed in half the Scottish clan books.”
Grace thought this over. “Peter said that there was no Lord Ruthven.”
“Technically speaking, he’s correct. In Scotland the family name does survive, but the title is the earldom of Gowrie.”
Grace didn’t follow all the complexities of titles and endowments.
“So this particular title could be made up. A stage name?” She was thinking out loud.
“The very name Ruthven could be made up. Even if the surname of these people is Ruthven, there may be no connection with Perthshire at all,” Monica said, following Grace’s line of reasoning. “It’s not like Scottish families only live in their hereditary territories.”
Verse of the Vampyre Page 18
