Shehad to know what was happening.
Letting herself out of the flat, she stepped onto the shop landing. The bright light caught her off guard, though she herself had left the overhead on. Rogue’s Gallery was lit up like a theater stage. She felt for the wall switch and doused the light.
The darkness felt sheltering and familiar, and Grace relaxed a fraction. She moved to the landing railing and stared down. There were no windows on the top gallery of the store, which was lined with bookshelves, but moonlight from the store windows limned the face of the mermaid ship’s figurehead suspended from the vault ceiling. Nothing moved. All was silent.
Taking a deep breath, Grace crept down the stairs, holding tight to the banister to steady herself. She headed straight for the window on the lower level.
No sign of an intruder—or Peter. She inched along to the next window where she had seen the figure. Pressing close to the glass, she tried to angle herself so that she could see below the sill. A bulky figure rose out of the darkness, filling the window. Grace screamed.
The next instant, Peter’s startled and exasperated face appeared in the glass. Grace made apologetic motions. He gestured that he was moving along the side of the house. Or at least, that’s what she supposed he was indicating. Perhaps he was indicating he wanted Grace to move along the side of the house. Perhaps he was communicating something very rude indeed.
She craned her neck watching him navigate his way through the bushes and shrubs, then darted to the next window, waiting for Peter to appear.
No sign.
She waited.
Where was he?
She ran back to the other window.
Nothing.
What had happened? How could he disappear between the two windows? It was only about twelve feet from point A to point B.
Grace’s heart pounded hard. What next? She listened tautly. No sounds of struggle. No sounds at all. She didn’t dare open the door or a window, but what if Peter had been knocked unconscious?
She headed to the next window, peering out intently into the blackness.
Movement in the glass caught her eye. Something in the darkness. No…a reflection. Someone was coming up swiftly behind her! She whirled and shrieked.
Peter jumped and swore. “Damn. Stop doing that!”
The highly irritating implication was that Grace made a habit of unprovoked shrieking. “I’m nervous,” Grace yelled back.
“As am I.”
That was ridiculous; he didn’t have a nervous bone in his body—although he did seem more snappish than usual.
Spots of red and blue lights slid across the wall behind them. Grace turned to the window and saw a silent police car parked on the roadside.
“That was fast,” she said.
“Always there when you don’t need them,” Peter retorted, but perhaps he was thinking of other times and places. He went to meet the police.
Grace woke to a morning scented with apple blossom. For a few moments, she lay in bed reflecting over the odd events of the day before—and the even odder events of the evening.
Innisdale’s Finest had been unable to locate the intruder, but Peter had found a set of small distinct footprints outside the window where Grace thought she had spotted someone.
“Small as in child-sized?” Grace had inquired, thinking of the diminutive Miss Musashi.
“That’s right, Snow White,” Peter drawled. “The dwarves are after you.”
This drew a snigger from one of the young constables, but it occurred to Grace that Peter, quite easily following her line of reasoning, had, for reasons known only to himself, wanted to throw the police off the track.
Had the Shogun ordered his chauffeur to spy on them? If so, his worst fears had been confirmed. Well, maybe not hisworst fears, because Grace’s search had proved fruitless.
She cast off the sheet, which was the only covering she needed these warm nights. After a quick shower—the eccentric plumbing of the Gardener’s Cottage did not lend itself to luxurious bathing—she brewed a pot of tea and sprinkled cinnamon and sugar on toast.
There was a time when cinnamon and sugar would have seemed as dangerous as cocaine, and freshly brewed tea would have felt like a silly extravagance. But since her extended and unplanned stay in the Lake District, Grace was no longer driven by clocks and calories.
Well, not most of the time, anyway. Old habits were hard to break. She would never face being “tardy” with anything other than dismay, and sometimes she found the slow pace of Innisdale’s denizens more aggravating than charming. But it was pleasant to have thrown off the shackles of weighing herself every morning, even as she had cast off the notion that control-top panty hose were required wear for every ensemble.
Sipping tea and crunching her sugary toast, Grace planned out her day. She had decided, while driving home last night, to check out the Innisdale Historical Society in hopes of turning up information on John Mallow. Her search through the history of Mallow Farm had raised more questions than it answered.
She had found nothing to support the hypothesis that there was an undiscovered work by Shelley in the papers of Mallow Farm. She had neither the time nor justification to keep digging—Peter would have to turn everything over to the Shogun in a matter of hours. But if she could figure out what had happened to John Mallow, perhaps she could retrace what he had done with the Shelley.
Assuming that there really was a Shelley, and that this was not some elaborate hoax.
It was a long shot, but with what was at stake, Grace was more than willing to commit herself to the hunt.
Finishing her breakfast while listening to a meadowlark in the tree outside the kitchen window, Grace donned a red Laura Ashley floral-print shift.
She decided to walk to the historical society, which was yet another difference between her old life and her new. Although she was very fond of the battered Aston Martin her landlady had sold her for a song, these days she walked everywhere it was practical to do so. She found she enjoyed walking, and often strolled in the village or the surrounding countryside for the sheer pleasure of it.
This morning she walked briskly, entering the tall iron gates of Cherry Lane Park and cutting through the booths and tents of the annual arts festival.
It was a lovely day. Fluffy white clouds gamboled through the blue field of sky, an occasional little black cloud hinting at one of the sporadic Lakeland showers. The air was sweet with the scent of cherry blossoms, and the strains of saxophone drifted from the gazebo in the center of the park.
As she hurried on her way, Grace resisted the temptation of colorful booths stocked with everything from ceramics to baked goods. Color photographs of Innisdale taken in the 1950s and ’60s were on display at one tent, and she slowed down to have a look.
Despite the Brigadoonish character of the village, clearly time had not stood still there. She was leaning in to have a closer look at Renfrew Hall back in the days when it had served as the vicarage, when a heavy hand closed on her shoulder.
Startled, she turned to find Hayri Kayaci towering behind her. Grace was generally polite to a fault, but her antagonism to Harry was such that she couldn’t—and didn’t even try to—conceal it.
“What do you want?”
“You.” He stuck his face in hers. Grace recoiled from the crumbs in his beard.
“Me?”
“Yes, I ask in village. Learn you am his woman.” Apparently he had honed his technique by watching Igor in the Frankenstein films.
He smiled, which was even worse than his habitual scowl.
“His ‘woman’?” She tried to shake off his hand.
His grip tightened. “Tell Fox, there iz no out for him. He honor our bargain, bargain I haf made in good faith. Or…I haf friend tell.”
It took her a moment to translate. Grace glanced at the busy stalls around them. No one seemed to be paying attention. Given what Harry seemed to be implying, she wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing or not.
�
��Tell what?” She knew instinctively that she should not acknowledge any concern or interest in what Kayaci said, but she couldn’t help it.
Her words brought a snaggle-toothed display of yellow. “My government pay lot of money to get him back. Your government not protect thiv of national treasure.”
Grace thought of the Elgin Marbles, but held her tongue.
All the same her expression must have irritated Harry. His red lips pulled back in a smile that was more a baring of teeth. “He not so proud gentleman then, Peter Fox. Dirty. And starving. And afraid. Yes, afraid. They all afraid.” He moved his shoulders like someone cringing from a blow, then laughed. He made a whimpering sound, then laughed again.
“Afraid like dog. Do anything. Say anything. But he keep his word tome .”
Grace’s throat seemed to close up. Her heart was thudding uncomfortably with something she was surprised to recognize as rage. Rage that men like this were allowed to operate…tolive .
“Youare the dog,” she got out through dry lips.
He was cheerful. Apparently there was nothing like someone else’s distress to brighten his day. “In Turkey is saying. ‘Satan’s friendship reaches prison door.’ ” Like a malevolent Confucius, Mr. Kayaci seemed given to quoting grim aphorisms.
Was he threatening her? She didn’t know and didn’t care.
“Yes, I’ve heard all about the prisons in your country. Children imprisoned for shouting antigovernment slogans. Hunger strikers shot. Writers, artists, and dissidents jailed and tortured for daring to question state policy. The visiting relatives of prisoners routinely threatened and humiliated. And human rights organizations warned that criticizing these policies is itself a criminal offense.” She was shaking with anger and adrenaline.
Kayaci’s fingers dug into her shoulder. “I want Serpent’s Egg!”
“The Glen in Kendal serves a very nice breakfast…”
He shook her so hard, he nearly knocked her off her feet. Grace’s head snapped back, and she cried out, afraid he might break her neck.
“Hi, you!” The vendor of the photography booth came around the tent flap, looking outraged.
That was the advantage of living in a small town.
Kayaci let her go so suddenly she nearly fell against the photo display.
“We see each other again,” he promised, and departed though the rhododendrons.
“And that was the last anyone saw of the Croglin vampire,” the stout, sensible-looking proprietress of the Innisdale Historical Society informed an enthralled group of Americans.
Grace, who had had her own recent vampire experience, would have liked to hear more. She was mostly recovered from her unpleasant encounter with the Horrible Harry, and the hushed museumlike atmosphere of Landon House further soothed her nerves.
While waiting for the tourists to disperse, she examined the displays of old china and lace until at last the opportunity arose to waylay Miss Webb. She introduced herself and her mission.
“Must say this is a pleasure,” Miss Webb said, her pale green eyes scrutinizing Grace. “Come upstairs, my dear, and we’ll have a natter.”
Miss Verity Webb appeared to be descended from the long line of traditional English spinsters that populated British crime fiction. She looked a hale and hearty sixty, her iron gray hair close-cropped, her broad face tanned. She reminded Grace of girls’ hockey, spinster friendships, and…cats. In fact, there was a cat—a large, black cat—in the upstairs room where Miss Webb led Grace.
The cat was industriously occupied in reducing a hideous one-armed orange-and-green jumper back into a ball of yarn.
“Naughty puss!” exclaimed Miss Webb without heat, and shooed the unrepentant beast off. “Put the kettle on, shall I?”
Grace had a sudden and overwhelming craving for a mocha frappucino with a double shot of espresso. “Tea would be lovely,” she said, taking the overstuffed chair Miss Webb indicated.
“Of course we’re all so excited about your book,” Miss Webb boomed from the kitchenette in the robust accents that must have called several generations of Girl Guides to order. “Been thinking that perhaps we could make arrangement to sell copies here at the historical society.”
“Oh?” Grace, who had not been thinking much beyond earning some extra cash, couldn’t think of anything to say to this unexpected and flattering offer.
“Something of a local celebrity, after all.”
Grace didn’t know what to make of that. Miss Webb bustled around in the tiny kitchen, and the cat, which was about the size of an armadillo, watched Grace balefully from across the room. Grace usually got on well with animals, but no amount of sweet talk would lure this one into petting distance.
Miss Webb returned with a tea tray laden with blue-and-white Willow Pattern china.
Grace sipped tea strong enough to strip varnish. “I’m a celebrity?”
“Course you are, my dear. To have made a discovery that sheds new light on Lord Byron’s family connections is an amazing achievement.”
“It was more or less an accident,” Grace confessed. She became uncomfortable when anyone tried to make her the heroine of that particular adventure. “And I had a lot of help.”
Miss Webb patted her hand. “So modest. Especially for a Yank.” She offered Grace a plate of scones. Grace sampled one. It seemed to have been mixed with concrete.
“Understand you will be speaking at the Amberent Hall literary conference.”
Grace touched her teeth with her tongue, feeling for chips. “That’s right. Are you taking part in the conference?”
“Not my sort of thing. Afraid my notion of poetry is jolly old Edward Lear.”
The author of such literary classics as “The Dong with a Luminous Nose” and “The Pobble Who Has No Toes”? Grace had no response to that.
Miss Webb poured some milky tea in a saucer and set it on the floor. The black cat swaggered over and began to lap it up, his tail twitching languidly. Watching him indulgently, she said, “You were interested in the history of Mallow Farm, was it?”
“Actually, I was wondering if you could tell me anything about John Mallow.”
Miss Webb’s green eyes, similar to those of her cat, narrowed. “John Mallow? Great many John Mallows, my dear. Any one in particular?”
“Well, yes. The John Mallow who was born in 1916. I’m guessing he must have died in World War II.”
“Ah, the Great Patriotic War.” Miss Webb was silent for a moment. “Any reason?” she asked suddenly.
It was an obvious question, and Grace was chagrined that she was unprepared for it. “Just curious—”
“Rattling skeletons in the closet, you know.”
“I am? Am I?” She sounded like a parrot. Polly want a concrete cracker?
“Afraid what I know is only gossip. After twenty years, I’m still something of a newcomer to Innisdale.” Miss Webb glanced down at the cat, which had made a sound that in a human would have been a burp. The cat looked at Grace as though she had made the uncouth noise.
“Anything might be helpful.”
“Really?” Miss Webb thought it over. “Suppose it’s almost local legend by now. From what I gather, this young John Mallow was engaged to marry Eden Monkton. You’re familiar with the Monkton Estate?”
Grace nodded. She didn’t wish to let on exactly how familiar she was with the Monkton Estate, but several months ago she had believed that circumstances warranted her first attempt at B&E. Fortunately, no one had ever learned of her one-woman crime spree.
“Sir Vincent Monkton was one of our more famous Egyptologists. Did you know that, my dear?”
“No.”
“Yes. Was discussing it with Mr. Sartyn only this morning. He had an amazing collection of antiquities—Sir Vincent, I mean, not Mr. Sartyn.” Miss Webb chuckled at the mix-up.
“Mr. Sartyn?”
“New head librarian. Interesting young man. Pleasure to see someone so young take an interest in the past.”
“I don�
�t think I’ve met him yet.”
“Oh, but you must. Believe he’s about your own age.” Was there a matchmaking glint in Miss Webb’s eye? Now thatwas a scary thought. “The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bó”?
“Pity of it was, Sir Vincent lost the whole kit and caboodle during the Blitz.” Miss Webb poured more tea—or possibly paint thinner. “Quite a coincidence that you would also be asking about Sir Vincent.”
Grace said tactfully, “It’s really more John Mallow that I’m interested in.”
“Of course, my dear. In any case, I believe Sir Vincent did not approve of the match. And his doubts turned out to be quite right. On the eve before he was to report back for duty, John Mallow went AWOL. Frightful scandal. Eden Monkton was pregnant, you see. The war created quite a bit of that in those days. Young couples believing each day might be their last—difficult to explain the frenzied atmosphere at the time.”
Grace fastened on one point. “So no one knows what happened to John Mallow?”
Miss Webb said briskly, “Well, I don’t, but that’s not to say that no one does. He could never return here, you see. Would have been shot for desertion. Wartime, after all.” She seemed to think this over. “He must have had friends and relations. Suppose someone might know what became of him. In the confusion after the war, it’s possible he could have started a new life someplace else. Under an assumed name.”
Grace felt sudden empathy for the girl who had fallen for a handsome and untrustworthy man. “What happened to Eden?”
“Disgraced. At least, I’d imagine so, remembering how intolerant we were back then.” She shook her head. “Don’t know, to be perfectly honest. Have an idea she did eventually marry.” Miss Webb glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel, and Grace realized she must be expecting another busload of tourists.
“What happened to the baby?”
Miss Webb looked apologetic. “No idea, my dear. The Monkton family still owns the estate, so perhaps you could contact their agent.” She regarded Grace curiously. “Were you thinking of writing another book perhaps?”
Sonnet of the Sphinx Page 4
