Apparently one of the statue’s eyes had already been gouged out, and had no doubt been dishing bad luck for centuries, but in the other stone socket was a fabulous diamond. Despite the obligatory doom and gloom prophecies of the temple priests—whom they silenced by slaying—the Mughals had stolen the remaining diamond orb. And lo and behold, Babur’s favorite captain had died of a cobra bite the very next day, proving that the gem was cursed—though not so cursed that it was returned to its rightful owners.
Shades ofThe Moonstone, thought Grace. She could see why this tale would appeal to the youthful Peter’s romantic streak.
How the jewel had traveled from the hands of the Mughal Dynasty back to the Ottoman Imperial Treasury was lost in a blood-drenched history of war and conquest.
So that was it—the root of Peter’s downfall? She peered at the larger-than-life image on the computer monitor.
Serpent’s Egg or snake eye. It seemed to wink malevolently at her through cyberspace.
8
When Grace got back to the Gardener’s Cottage, the light was blinking on her answering machine. The first two messages were fromThe Clarion requesting an interview. These she promptly erased. The third was Chief Constable Heron requesting her presence at the police station in order to “review her statement.”
The chief constable was well known to Grace. She had dined at his home on two occasions, and had Heron and his wife Constance to dinner in her own small cottage. She liked and respected the chief constable, a shrewd and kindly man. Unfortunately he had filed Peter in the scoundrel category, which put certain constraints on their friendship.
Still, she was relieved that the official summons came from the chief constable and not the crisp executive of law and order she’d met the night before.
She did see the crisp executive, however, as he was leaving the chief constable’s office as she was being ushered in.
He nodded without warmth, and Grace nodded back with an equal lack of enthusiasm. She noticed that he was only a little taller than she was, very trim and straight as though he’d just “earned his colours,” as the Regency novelists were wont to put it. His hair was dark and his eyes a light indeterminate color.
“Who is that?” she asked the chief constable, closing the door to his office.
Chief Constable Heron looked very much like aMasterpiece Theatre policeman, right down to his magnificent handlebar mustache.
“Detective Inspector Drummond. He transferred from the Metropolitan Police force a few months ago. Very able young chap.”
“I’ll just bet,” Grace said with feeling.
There was a faint twinkle in Heron’s black-cherry eyes, but he said, using his pipe to indicate the chair across from him, “Now then, Grace. Tell me what you know of Mr. Hayri Kayaci.”
Grace seated herself with the sensation of one seeking a comfortable spot on a hot griddle. She knew that by then the police must have established the connection between Kayaci and Peter. If they hadn’t, they soon would, and they would take a hard long look for the reason behind any lies or half-truths. If she could confine her answers to those things the police must already know, that would be the safest course.
“He was one of the gendarmes at the Istanbul prison where Peter was held,” she replied.
Heron observed her beneath beetling brows. “You didn’t reveal that fact in your statement last night.”
“I was only asked what my personal relationship to the deceased was.”
Heron shook his head disapprovingly. “Prevarication, Grace,” he told her. “And well you know it. Why was Kayaci in Innisdale?”
“Now that I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea.”
She could say with honesty, “Peter doesn’t confide in me. Not that kind of thing, anyway.”
Heron made a harrumphing noise.
Grace said tentatively, “I thought his reason for being here might be official. I know Peter escaped from Turkey.”
Heron’s cheeks puffed on his pipe in meditative fashion. “Kayaci was not representing the Turkish government in any official capacity,” he said at last. “He was sacked a couple of years ago for dealing in the antiquities black market.” He studied her shrewdly. “You seem surprised.”
She was not surprised. She was elated that her deductions up to now had been correct. Kayaci was after the Serpent’s Egg. He believed that Peter still had it. Kayaci himself had been nothing more than a crook.
She answered, “I was afraid he might be here to have Peter extradited.”
The black eyes fastened on hers. “Did he threaten to have Mr. Fox extradited?”
“Um, not that I know of.” She sidestepped, realizing that her decoy might give Peter motive for murder.
Heron studied her. “Then why would you fear such a thing? Surely Mr. Fox is aware that the United Kingdom has no extradition treaty with Turkey.”
Everywhere she looked were land mines. She had to make sure nothing she said implicated Peter in the man’s death.
“We didn’t discuss it.” She hated lying. Her skin felt flushed and prickly, as though she’d overdosed on niacin. Serve her right if she broke out in a rash. “And although I couldn’t really make out what he wanted, he was clearly not a friend of Peter’s.”
“You’re referring to your encounter with Kayaci in the park on Thursday morning?”
“Correct.” She resolved to restrict herself to brief answers that couldn’t possibly get her into further hot water.
“What precisely did Kayaci say to you in the park?”
“I can’t be precise, because he was practically incoherent. He rambled on about prison, about how I should talk to Peter. He quoted something.”
Heron’s eyes lit up. “A quote? What did he say?”
Heavens. Then they knew all about the Serpent’s Egg. But of course, when they ascertained Kayaci was no longer with the Turkish government, they would have put two and two together. The stone had never been recovered. The Turks would never have stopped watching for this national treasure to turn up.
But did Heron believe that, like in some old-fashioned pulp mystery, the solution to the stone’s hiding place would be in a riddle or a quotation? She must be wearing off on him.
“ ‘Satan’s friendship reaches to the prison door.’ ”
Heron mulled this over and seemed disappointed. “And you say here you never met Kayaci before Wednesday afternoon?”
An easy one. “Correct.”
“Can you explain why Kayaci was inquiring after you in the village on Tuesday?”
Grace didn’t have to feign surprise. “I have no idea. What kind of questions was he asking?”
But Heron declined to answer. He referred again to the file before him.
“According to witnesses, you spoke to Kayaci in the park for several minutes before the conversation appeared to turn ugly.”
They were covering the same ground again. It was difficult to know what to say when she had no idea how much Heron knew.
“It was ugly from the start,” Grace said. “He said he had asked around the village and learned that I was—that Peter and I were friends.”
“But he already knew that from his visit to Craddock House, didn’t he?”
“I didn’t stay for their reunion. Anyway, Mr. Kayaci seemed to think that I could influence Peter. I suppose he believed Peter had information he wanted.”
“Information regarding—?”
Why had she said that? Did that contradict what she had said earlier? It was hard to keep track.
“Information about the job Peter was arrested for in Istanbul. I don’t know the details, but he was obviously looking for someone or something, and he believed Peter had the answers he needed.” That much they already knew or could deduce.
Heron studied her for an uncomfortably long moment. Grace had never experienced this side of the chief constable. She decided she didn’t like it. Nor did she like the feeling that she was disappointing him.
/> “You say you did not remain for the reunion between Kayaci and Fox, but isn’t it true that you and Fox went to dinner at Mallow Farm shortly after?”
Grace’s mouth parted but nothing came out. How could he know about that? And what could she say? I was hiding in the confessional? I went home and came back? “I stepped into the garden while they talked,” she said finally, belatedly.
“I see.” Heron made some notes. Grace would have given a lot to be able to read upside down.
“According to Mr. Sartyn you were going through the deceased’s pockets when he arrived at the crime scene.”
“What?”
“Not true?”
“I knelt to check his pulse. Why would he say such a thing?”
“Perhaps that was the way it looked to him.”
Indignantly, Grace exclaimed, “He needs to have his eyes checked. You don’t honestly think I had anything to do with that man’s death?”
After a moment the chief constable’s lips twitched. “Bridget Jones commits murder, eh? I don’t think you killed Kayaci, no. But you’re holding something back. I know you that well.”
He paused as though to give Grace opportunity to change her course. When she said nothing, he said gravely, “There’s some truth in that quotation of Mr. Kayaci’s. A woman should pick her friends carefully.”
“As should anyone.”
Absently, he twisted the end of his handlebar mustache, his eyes assessing. “You might as well know, I’ve given DI Drummond lead on this case.”
“Oh?” She preferred the kindly chief constable, even when he wasn’t thrilled with her.
Accurately interpreting her expression, Heron added with dour satisfaction, “It may be you’ll not find him as patient a man.”
Grace picked up her purse, privately hoping that she would not have enough interaction with DI Drummond to find out anything about him at all.
It looked like moving day at Rogue’s Gallery. An enormous lorry was parked out front, half-blocking the country lane, and men in overalls moved back and forth across the lawn lugging boxes. Kameko Musashi stood to the side supervising. Though she did not carry a whip, she managed to convey the impression that sluggards would be dealt with severely. The moving men kept a brisk pace.
Peter stood inside the doorway directing a procession of lacquered chairs.
“Welcome to the Bridge on the River Innisdale,” he greeted her.
Grace ignored this. “Itwas murder,” she informed him.
One black brow arched in characteristic fashion. “My dear girl, you’ll frighten the customers with these cryptic utterances.”
“That will make it unanimous.”
“Whisht.” That was Scots for “shut your gob.” He jerked his head in the direction of a carrying Brooklyn accent inside the shop, and Grace took the hint and went in to deal with the usual summer crowd.
After she had answered the usual barrage of questions and rung up a sale for some small but pricey items, she headed for the back room to pour herself a cup of tea.The Clarion, Innisdale’s local newspaper, lay on Peter’s desk, its banner headline screaming bloody murder—as though violent death were not a normal occurrence for the quaint but disconcertingly perilous village.
She scanned the story, but there was remarkably little information. Mr. Hayri Kayaci, a Turkish national on holiday, had been found dead in Cherry Lane Park following the Thursday night concert. Kayaci appeared to be the victim of foul play, although the police had not yet revealed the cause of death. The police were equally unforthcoming about their possible suspects.
Grace folded the paper and replaced it on Peter’s desk.
The day passed quickly and was a profitable one, at least for Peter. When he had closed the door on the last client, and locked the gallery, he sent Grace out to the back garden with plates, flatware, and a bottle of chilled Riesling.
Apparently they were dining al fresco that evening. She set the table, one of those wrought-iron constructions of another generation, wondering if it was her imagination that Peter seemed more lighthearted now that Kayaci was dead.
But after all, why shouldn’t he be relieved that Kayaci was no longer a threat? He would have to be very noble indeed to regret the end of Horrible Harry, and one thing Peter had never pretended to be was noble.
Pouring the wine, she sat down in one of the heavy lawn chairs and took a sip. She loved this garden, as she loved every inch of Craddock House. The old iron chairs in a variety of paint-chipped bleached colors were made comfortable by plush cushions in faded florals. Discreetly concealed outdoor lights combined romance with practicality. Brilliant annuals burst from vintage pots; ivy and clematis trailed from urns. Flowering vines of wisteria, old roses, and clematis wound up the house.Some of these flowers are older than I.
Grace’s thoughts were interrupted as Peter rounded the corner carrying a plate of freshly prepared salmon. The Lake District was famous for its salmon.
“I was a-thinkin’ bar-bee-cue,” he said in a Texas drawl.
It always amused Grace that when Brits imitated Americans, they invariably seemed to choose a Texas accent.
Peter did accents quite well, another of those small mysteries that intrigued her. She had developed an ear for regional pronunciations, but she couldn’t place Peter’s. He spoke what she considered “public school,” with some transatlantic inflections. It reminded her a bit of Cary Grant’s oddly regionless speech.
The paving stones beneath her feet were still warm from the afternoon sun, and she allowed herself to be soothed by the summery scents of newly mown grass and grilling salmon. Remembering other summers and other barbecues, she was suddenly, intensely homesick.
It was difficult to believe that she had gone nearly two years without seeing her parents or brothers. She missed them all so much. Not merely the family picnics and swimming pool parties, but the comfortable intimacy of being with the people who knew her better than anyone else, the people who accepted and loved her for who she was, and would never judge her for not being something she could not be.
“You’re very quiet this evening,” Peter remarked, setting a plate before her.
She smiled quickly, shaking off her preoccupation. “It’s that police interrogation thing. It really takes it out of you.”
“Ah yes. I remember it well.” He smiled, and the afternoon almost seemed like an adventure in retrospect. “Never mind, Esmerelda. You’re home with the gypsies now.” He took his place across from her, and it seemed for a moment that this was how it had always been, and always would be.
The meal was a delight. The salmon was grilled to flaky perfection, and the nutty-flavored couscous and cucumber salad with mint and crème fraîche were the perfect accompaniment. For dessert there was blackberry cobbler. She’d had many such delightful dinners with Peter.
She wondered where and when in his strange and crooked career he had learned to cook. There was so little she knew about him. Where had he learned about antiques? He was very well read; where had he been educated? Oxford? Cambridge? She did not even know how old he was. She guessed he was in his late thirties or early forties.
“When is your birthday?” she asked suddenly.
“June. June 20.”
“That would make you—?”
“Old.” His mouth curved at her expression. “Or were you inquiring as to my…er…sign?”
“I don’t believe in astrology.” She put her fork down and leaned back, staring up at the night sky.
The keen stars were twinkling.
She glanced across the table. Peter was rolling the stem of his wineglass between his long fingers. He watched the glitter of the crystal in the candlelight as though it were fascinating.
“This murder business had nearly driven the Shelley from my mind,” she said to break the silence.
“You take these things too much to heart.”
She opened her mouth, then let it go. He was teasing her. At least, she hoped he was.
“
I forgot to tell you. I think I found a photo of John Mallow wearing that cap badge we found—or one very similar.”
He looked up then. “SAS, Special Air Service. A tough outfit. Lads in the Regiment don’t desert.”
“This one did, apparently. I just can’t figure out why.”
The candles threw shadows across Peter’s lean face. “Maybe he couldn’t face the idea of going back to that carnage.”
“You said lads in the Regiment didn’t desert.”
His smile was twisted in the flickering light. “Given the right set of circumstances, anyone’s nerve can fail.”
“He didn’t look like that type.”
“What type is that?” His voice was unexpectedly bitter. “This is based on one photograph?”
“Several photos. He looked, oh, I don’t know. Like Rupert Brooke. Young and gallant. Willing to die for his ideals.”
“Yes, well, there’s the ideal, then there’s the reality of getting your arse shot off.”
There was something in his tone that held her silent for an instant. Thinking aloud she said, “But to have left Eden…”
“ ‘Though he has Eden to live in, man cannot be happy alone,’ ” Peter quoted sententiously.
Grace chuckled. “No, Eden Monkton. They were engaged. She was going to have a baby. When he disappeared, he abandoned her, too. She was disgraced.”
“A rotter through and through.” But his tone was derisive.
“But that’s what I mean. Can you picture the man who wrote the letter we read disgracing himself and his family, abandoning his fiancée and unborn child, deserting everything he valued and believed in?”
“Had you considered that your John may not be John Mallow? Perhaps he’s…hell, I don’t know. John Smith.”
“Who’s John Smith?”
“Who’s—?” Peter’s brows drew together. “You do have a one-track mind. I meant only that we don’t know that your letter writeris John Mallow. We don’t know to whom the letter was addressed.”
Sonnet of the Sphinx Page 7
