In Time for You

by Chris Karlsen

  Ian and Miranda, Alex and Shakira, Esme and Stephen weren’t directly involved but Terrence felt they’d be good additions to the conversation. The group agreed to meet the next day at Alex’s and Shakira’s house.

  Ian and Alex. Electra had a lot of questions about them. On the boat from Wales, she confessed to Roger she knew Stephen had come through time. Roger, in turn, confessed he had as well and how he’d come through with Stephen. He told her about the battle and how he’d wounded him. When she first met Stephen he’d said his friends, Ian and Alex, came for him in the French hospital and brought him back to England. One day, when this business with the police was over and done, she would ask about his old friends. On that subject, she wondered how much Miranda, Shakira, and her sister Esme knew about their husbands.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” Shakira said as Electra, Roger, and her parents entered the Lancaster’s great room. Visitors entered their great room directly from the outside the way visitors to Elysian Fields did the great hall. “As you can see, everyone else has arrived. There’s a buffet in the dining room.”

  Before marrying Alex, Shakira had been a successful London attorney. She wasn’t a criminal attorney, but she had a good idea how the investigators would proceed.

  Shakira had the meeting catered. Shakira assured the group the caterers were asked to set a buffet up and leave. They’d return the next day to clear everything away. As much as Electra enjoyed cooking, she was happy not to have to worry about food today. Everyone filled a plate and settled in the drawing room.

  “First things first,” Shakira said. “What do you intend to tell the investigators?”

  “The truth,” Electra said.

  “Good girl.” Shakira nibbled the end of an almond filled date. “A lie is difficult to bear. Hard to maintain and once you slip, the police are on you like dogs on a bone. You realize, of course, they’ll never believe you. Two sisters disappear. One returns with a story the other has stayed in medieval England. Good for the BBC, not so much for the local constabulary.”

  “No one’s believed us so far. I’m sure the police won’t be different.”

  “They’ll ask you to take a polygraph,” Shakira said. “I’d suggest you do.”

  “I’ve no problem with that.” The possibility amused her. They’d ask. She pass. Then what? “What do you think they’ll do when I pass the test with ease?”

  “Not sure. Whatever they do, if you at any time feel uncomfortable, tell them you want your attorney. I’ll be here. Call me and I’ll come down.”

  A wave of panic flooded through Electra. What if she didn’t pass? What if something went wrong with the machine? Machines break. “What would happen if, for some reason, I didn’t pass?”

  Shakira put her plate down and came and sat next to Electra. “I see hysteria building. You’re white as a ghost. If that were to happen, call me. Do your best to stay calm in front of the police. Ask to call your attorney and I’ll take it from there.”

  “But what will they do? Will they arrest me?”

  “No. A failed lie detector test is not enough to justify an arrest. It’s not admissible evidence in a trial. It will certainly pique the investigator’s interest in you even more but at that point, nothing dire will happen even if you do fail. Let’s not worry about what hasn’t happened.” Shakira smiled and returned to her chair.

  Roger went back to the buffet table and filled a dessert plate with French pastries. Worry over her desire to open a bistro reared its ugly head. Electra had tossed and turned half the night filled with all the negative gossip that was sure to follow her. Who’d come to her restaurant? When that worry faded, fear of being thought a murderer plagued her.

  She felt stupid asking but she wanted to know. “Shakira, even if I pass the poly, is there a chance I can be booked for murder? I mean, with my crazy story and Emily missing, will they come after me for killing her?”

  Roger put the forkful of Napoleon down. “I wonder. They all but accused me of murdering them.”

  “I’m sure they’ll suspect you. They’ve no evidence to book you though. No body. No blood. No murder weapon. No motive.”

  “Would it help if I talk to the police as well? They can put me on the polygraph too,” Oliver offered. “I’d be able to confirm her story.”

  “Steady on.” That voice. A steel curtain coming down. Alex had spoken at last. “They’re already looking crosswise at Roger because he was there the day the women disappeared. You trotting in there with a tale of slipping back and forth through time brings him into it again.”

  Oliver flushed red from his shirt collar to his hairline. “I’m not a fool. I’m a well-respected scientist. I know how to speak to the investigators without implicating anyone.”

  “I don’t mean to insult you,” Alex said. “I’m—”

  Shakira laid her hand on her husband’s and gently explained, “Oliver, no one doubts your intelligence. But the investigators are experts at interrogation. You are not an expert at giving testimony and that is how you have to look at any statement you give the police. If for some reason this matter winds up in court, any statement to the police is subject to harsh cross-examination. Alex didn’t intend to criticize your intelligence, but I can’t say the same for a prosecutor. Plus, this particular statement, to the police, is just someone else telling the same lie. It doesn’t help Electra.”

  Another terrible thought popped into Electra’s head, adding fuel to her worries. “I don’t mean to sound callous but this is going to be a media circus locally, does anyone have an idea how we can avoid it? I don’t need it and my parents certainly don’t need the media sitting on their lawn.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Ian spoke up. “I can make some calls to make sure no information is leaked regarding the case.”

  Electra smiled to herself. This was a modern day version of comte-prince favor playing out. Ian played polo with several influential men in both government and business. He’d call them. They’d call the investigator’s bosses—and so it goes.

  “Thank you, Ian. I really appreciate it.”

  “I’d like to leave the area for a few weeks until this thing dies down with the police. Perhaps a B&B in France,” Electra said. “Do you think that’d be all right?” she asked Shakira.

  “I imagine the investigators will want you to stay in country. When do you plan to go to the police? I’d suggest the sooner the better.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  ****

  Electra froze on the steps of the police station. She couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Janet Crippen quickly led her daughter around to the side of the building and out of sight of the entry doors and parking lot.

  Roger and Terrence followed.

  Electra bent over an open trash container and retched several times. She’d eaten a small bowl of berries and yoghurt that morning but nothing came up. She straightened, closed her eyes, and tried to calm her breathing from the puppy-like pants of her failed attempts at vomiting.

  When her breathing finally evened out, her mom handed her a bottle of water. “Drink.”

  “You’re not alone. We’ll be right there, in the lobby,” her father said. “They’re not going to arrest you. Shakira told you they don’t have the grounds to warrant an arrest.”

  Electra began to hyperventilate again and ran to the rubbish bin but didn’t start retching. “They’re going to accuse me of killing Emily. I know it. I just know it.”

  “I am going to sit with you,” Roger said. “I will hold your hand the entire time. I’ll happily toss it back to them that they’ve played fast and loose with accusations. First me, now you.”

  “Please don’t aggravate them, Roger,” Terrence said. “There’s been no love lost between our two countries for the past thousand years. You don’t need to stir this pot with your French self.”

  Roger huffed.

  Electra took a few more minutes to compose herself a
nd then the four went inside and met with the investigators handling hers and Emily’s disappearance.

  Her parents waited in the lobby. Roger sat with her during the questioning. After a lengthy and emotionally taxing interview, she was allowed to leave.

  “You’re pale,” her mother said, standing.

  “I’m tired,” Electra said. “But, it wasn’t as terrible as I thought. It pretty much went the way Shakira predicted.”

  “Are they going to have you take a polygraph?” her father asked.

  Electra nodded. “I don’t mind. I’ll take a hundred. I told the truth. They’ll never believe it. At the end of the day, they’ll look at the poly and think I’m delusional. At least, I hope that’s the conclusion they come to.”

  “What’s your read on how they took her story?” her father asked Roger.

  “They think she’s a stone, cold liar.”

  Terrence gave Electra a squeeze. “Did they ask if she killed Emily?”

  “I think they’re saving that for the poly.”

  “When is it?”

  “In an hour. This is just a break while they set up.”

  They walked to a local tea shop and returned at the designated hour. Once more her parents sat in the lobby, this time joined by Roger who wasn’t allowed in the interview room where the polygrapher worked.

  An hour later, Electra came out.

  Roger jumped up and met her before the door closed behind her. “Well?”

  Electra shrugged. “I would’ve thought I passed. I told the truth, but they don’t tell you whether you passed or not.”

  “Then why are you in doubt?” Roger asked.

  “They want me to take another. Tomorrow. They’re bringing in a man from Scotland Yard.”

  Roger hugged her and kissed the top of her head. “They asked if you murdered Emily, didn’t they?”

  She nodded. “Several times. They framed the question different ways, but it was still, did you murder your sister?”

  The next day the Scotland Yard polygrapher came and went. His questions were basically the same. Had the local constabulary bothered to ask, Electra would’ve told them that for all the gravitas given investigators from Scotland Yard, their man wasn’t so special as far as she was concerned. The local chaps questioning was as thorough.

  After the Scotland Yard man dismissed Electra, Roger asked, “Are we done here?”

  “For now,” Detective Inspector Harlow, the lead local investigator said.

  “Do you think I murdered my sister?” Electra bluntly asked.

  “I’m favoring no, which goes against the tide of everyone else in criminal division. That said, I also don’t believe for a second, that your sister is wandering the shire in 1357.”

  “Fair enough, detective,” Electra said.

  She and Roger turned to leave and as they did, Harlow said, “I’m retiring soon, Ms. Crippen. If I ever write a book, I’m putting this case in it.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “I’m waiting to see how this ends.”

  ****

  The local investigators gave her permission to leave the area and she spent the next month at a friend’s place in Norfolk. Roger was busy working for Stephen but visited often. Whoever Ian called, they were successful and very little information went out regarding the case. Journalists for area news outlets lost interest within days and Electra’s family was left alone.

  Roger and Electra married in a small and private civil ceremony as soon as she returned from Norfolk. They moved from Gloucestershire to Oxfordshire, where Electra got a job as a sous chef in a Michelin-star restaurant. To avoid any problems from residual notoriety, she worked under the name Abagail Marchand.

  Electra, Roger, Esme, and Stephen had spent the afternoon riding, enjoying the brisk late October weather. A clear, sunny day with a breeze that carried a hint of invigorating cold brought a world of color to the woods. Besides the pleasure of the ride, they’d come to share the moment with Electra. She’d promised to bury a memory box for Emily. Today was the perfect day weather-wise to return to the outcropping.

  Everyone had contributed to the waterproof metal box. They’d included two solar-chargeable cellphones with pictures of Esme and Stephen’s wedding, pictures of Emily’s parents and Electra and Roger’s wedding, personal recordings, an iPod with playlists of Stephen singing, a small disposable camera in case a phone failed, a bottle of antibiotics, and aspirin.

  “Why the aspirin?” Roger had asked her when she packed the box.

  “Emily gets headaches when she worries. Can you think of anything else?”

  Roger went into the kitchen and came back with a large, unopened Cadbury fruit and nut bar. He handed it to Electra.

  “A chocolate bar?”

  “Who doesn’t love chocolate? It’ll be centuries until England gets it in country. This bar’s got Simon’s name written all over it.”

  “In it goes.”

  Roger leaned back against the table where Electra worked packing and gathered her to him. “How’s your French coming?”

  “Tres bien, je pense.”

  “Speak and translate as well.”

  “I said, very well, I think.”

  “Go on. Tell me more.”

  “Je t’aime de tout mon coeur. I love you with all my heart. Mon amant qui voyage a travers le temps pour moi. My lover who travels through time for me.

  “For you I’d do it thousand times a thousand more.”

  “Embasse-moi. Kiss me, my time-traveling lover.”

  READ BOOK 1 in the BLOODSTONE SERIES

  SILK

  It is the time of Jack the Ripper, the widowed Queen Victoria sits on the throne of England. The whole of London is on edge wondering when or where Jack will kill next. The Palace, Parliament, and the press are demanding the police do more to find him.

  In another part of London, rough-around-the-edges war hero, Metropolitan Detective Inspector Rudyard Bloodstone has his own serial killer to find. Inter departmental rivalries, politics, and little evidence to go on hamper the investigation at every turn. In a battle of wills, Bloodstone presses forward following his instincts in spite of the obstacles.

  Adding to those problems, away from the strains of the investigation, he is engaged in the ups and downs of a new relationship with a lovely hat maker.

  .

  CHAPTER ONE SILK

  Chapter One

  Dressing the dead required a certain dexterity and patience. William surveyed his work with pride. A pity no one would see his accomplishment. He doubted Isabeau’s maid could’ve done much better.

  Sweat beaded his forehead and he used his dead lover’s embroidered hanky to wipe his face and the film of perspiration from his chest. The fire in the hearth had gone out while they made love, but even naked, the room was like an oven. He started to pour a glass of wine then thought better of it. Until the body was disposed of and the stage set for explaining her death, he needed to keep a clear head. Instead, he rummaged through the chiffonier hunting for petticoats. No respectable woman left the house without proper underpinnings. A bottom drawer was filled with lace and ribbon-trimmed petticoats. William took the top ones and managed to get them on and tied with far less trouble than he had with the dress.

  “Thank God,” William mumbled, snickering at the inappropriate application of the phrase. “Now riding boots.”

  The boot slipped on her tiny foot with ease. He laced it up and had the second one half on when he noticed the ball of stockings on the floor. “Bugger me.”

  The concept of heaven or hell held no interest for him. On certain holidays, Isabeau droned on about religion and turned a devout Catholic face to the world. If there was anything to her belief, then she was probably gazing on the scene from some perch in Purgatory and laughing. With that grating thought fueling every move, he removed the boot and started over, stockings first.

  Finished with dressing her, William threw on the same clothes he’d worn earlier, crept dow
nstairs and headed for the stable. On the way he looked east toward the ruin of the ancient hill fort that bordered his land. Pink streaks lined the distant sky. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to make it to the cliffs before the whole of Tintagel awoke.

  He lit a single lantern and carefully placed it to the side where he wouldn’t knock it over.

  “Sir?” The stable boy stood at the base of the loft ladder rubbing sleep from his eyes, shirt askew and buttoned wrong.

  William gave little start. He hadn’t heard the boy stir.

  “I can take care of the horses, sir. What did you need me to do?”

  “Nothing, Charles. Go back to sleep. I’ll saddle King Arthur and Guinevere. Isabeau and I thought it might be nice to go for an early ride.” William laid a firm but gentle hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Sleep. By the time I—” he corrected himself, “We return, the horses will be ready for feeding and brushing.”

  The boy nodded and climbed up to his hayloft bed.

  Hurriedly working against the rising sun, William tacked up Guinevere, the mare Isabeau rode, and then saddled his big bay hunter. When he was done, he brought both horses round to the far side of the stable and tied them to a rail out of sight from the house.

  William dashed back to the bedroom, taking the steps to the upper floor two at a time. Muffled voices came from the kitchen. Of the household staff, cook rose the earliest to begin the day’s breakfast preparation. Soon the butler and his valet would be awake. He considered sneaking out of the house but dismissed the idea rather than do anything that might appear suspicious. A ride at dawn’s light was out of the ordinary but not so strange as to provoke speculation and clucking by the servants, if he acted normal.

  He wrapped Isabeau in a cloak and carried her down the main stairs. With every step, he whispered sweet words to his dead mistress and nuzzled her cool cheek. A smile played at his lips. To any staff member about, it looked like a romantic gesture.