It was a pity Brian Drummond was such a pig-headed jerk. He would be very useful in trying to track down a missing person. Sleepily, Grace tried to come up with an argument that might convince him to use his resources to help her. She was still arguing with him when she fell asleep.
A small but distinct sound woke her.
Grace opened her eyes and stared into the darkness. She was wide awake, her heart beating fast.
Uneasily, she tried to classify the sound that had disturbed her much-needed slumber.
The window.
Someone had closed the window. She processed this swiftly.
She sat up, eyes probing the darkness. Nothing moved. Chair, trunk, secretary, all stood motionless in the moonlight.
No one was in the cottage. So…someone had reached in and closed the window. Why?
Pushing back the sheet, she crossed to the window, trying it. It didn’t budge.
She turned. The cottage had a strange stuffy odor. She sniffed experimentally. Something about that scent was vaguely familiar. Ominously familiar.
She headed toward the kitchen. She could see her purse sitting wide open on the kitchen table. But no one was after her purse, for it appeared as though the kitchen window, too, was closed.
Tentatively she tried it. Then she pulled hard. The window resisted as though someone had fastened it from the outside.
But that wasn’t possible.
Still more puzzled than alarmed, Grace tried to angle her head so that she could peer down over the sill. She was flabbergasted at the gleam of metal. Someone had wired the window closed.
A whoosh of sound from the other room caught her attention, then flames spiked up from the pool of darkness next to the front door. In fearful animation they danced in a ring of yellow and red, and then seemed to leap toward the overstuffed chair near the secretary.
Grace scrabbled to pull the sheet from the bed and toss it over the flames, but the sheet crackled away like paper.
By now the cottage was thick with smoke. It was almost impossible to see.
Coughing, Grace raced back to the kitchen, soaked a tea towel, and held it against her face, breathing through the damp cloth. She had to get out. But how? The door was blocked by flames, the windows were fastened shut.
The heat was intense. The living room was a wall of fire. The cottage was going up like a tinderbox.
Grace grabbed the milking stool she kept in the corner and smashed it through the diamond pane window. Wood and glass went everywhere as she jabbed the stool one-handed.
The sash stayed in place. She reached through, groping for the wire. It felt thin; that was good, surely. She tried to wiggle it loose. A shard of glass cut her hand, but she barely felt it.
Blindly, she followed the length of wire until the ends pricked her fingers. She felt feverishly back along the loop till she found the twist. She worked it, yanking it back and forth, trying to free it. The blood from her sliced hand made the wire slippery.
Every nerve in her body shrieked for speed, but she made herself slow down and make each motion count.
At last the wire slipped loose and fell away.
Grace swung open the empty frames, stepped up on the milking stool, and reached back for her purse. She tossed it out and crawled awkwardly through the window.
She dropped to the grass in her bare feet then stumbled away from the cottage.
In the distance she could hear sirens.
“Grace! Dear God, Grace!” Her landlady, Sally Smithwick, was running down the garden flagstones. The curlers in her hair fell as she ran.
Curlers, Grace thought stupidly. I didn’t know anyone still slept in curlers.
She turned back and the flames were poking fingers through the roof of the cottage. Yellow smoke billowed behind the cottage windows. For one crazy moment, she wondered how she could see the smoke so clearly with no lights on.
Sally joined her but Grace did not hear anything she said. She was absorbing the fact that everything she owned here was going up in smoke.
She watched the carved wooden heart on the front door of the cottage turn black. The door had not been blocked or locked to prevent her escape, but it hadn’t been necessary. After petrol was poured through the mail slot and a match was lit, there had been no chance of Grace’s escaping out the front.
“Oh, Grace,” Sally kept repeating. “You might have been killed.”
Embers drifted to the grass at Grace’s feet, and she began to tremble with reaction. Someone had done their level best to murder her.
Her car was gone. Her home was gone. Her books, clothes, photos—decades in the future, no one would sift through the detritus of Grace Hollister’s life, because there would be nothing but ashes to sift through.
The fire brigade arrived at last, aiming hoses of water at the cottage over the wilting hydrangeas and rhododendrons. Sally put her bathrobe around Grace and led her back up the flagstone path to Renfrew Hall. Grace spotted pink curlers lying in the grass every few feet.
As they reached the house they were joined by Chief Constable Heron and Detective Inspector Drummond.
“Thank heavens you’re all right,” Heron said gruffly. “We weren’t sure what we’d find here.”
“How did it happen?” That was Brian Drummond, dark hair on end. He was wearing jeans and what looked like a pajama shirt sticking out from under his jacket.
Sally shooed them all inside, settling Grace in one of the comfortable oversized chairs in the sitting room. Outside, they could hear the commotion of the fire brigade. DI Drummond stood at the window watching. No one seemed to have much to say.
Sally bandaged Grace’s hand, scoffing at the idea that paramedics would do a better job.
“Tea, that’s what we all need,” she said briskly, and bustled off to the kitchen.
“You’re in shock, and that’s no wonder,” Heron muttered, draping an afghan around Grace’s shoulders.
Drummond left the window and dropped down on the flowered ottoman across from her. “Tell us what happened,” he urged. His pajamas, she noticed, were a dignified blue-and-gray stripe.
“What is there to tell? Someone locked me in and set the cottage on fire.”
The doorbell rang, and Grace started.
“That will be the press,” Heron said somberly. “Sally will sort them out.”
Drummond leaned forward, pressing, “What did you see? Did you see who started the fire?”
But Grace recognized the deep tones answering Sally’s voice. She turned toward the doorway as a tall, familiar figure entered the room.
“Peter.” She could have cried with relief. Cool and groomed and civilized, not a fair hair out of place, he might have stepped out of an expensive whiskey advertisement. Even his Levi’s and green flannel shirt looked like wonderful product placement rather than mere clothes.
He stared at Grace across the room for a long moment, then the tension seemed to leave his frame.
“What are you doing here?” Drummond stood up.
Peter barely glanced at the younger man. “I thought you were supposed to be a detective.”
The chief constable turned his shrewd and appraising gaze from Peter to Drummond, as Drummond demanded, “And exactly how did you learn of the fire so quickly?”
“I’ve news for you, mate,” Peter said. “Half the village is down by the vicarage gates.”
The DI did not look convinced. Heron said, “I believe Mr. Fox keeps a telescope in his front room.”
“Very observant of you, Chief Constable.”
“And he just happened to be gazing out at the village at three o’clock in the morning?”
“It happens I don’t require much sleep.” Peter moved over to Grace, dropping to one knee with utter lack of self-consciousness. He found her undamaged hand in the folds of blanket, his long strong fingers caressing Grace’s chilled ones.
“No woman ever looked lovelier without eyebrows,” he said.
Grace’s laugh was half sob. Sh
e felt her forehead. Her eyebrows were still there…sort of.
“I still don’t see—” started Drummond.
Peter said wearily, “And you never will. With or without a telescope.” His eyes were still on Grace’s face. “I think you should stay at Craddock House for a time.”
She nodded.
Drummond objected and looked to the chief constable, but Heron shrugged. His black-button eyes still studied Peter. “I think that’s an excellent notion,” Sally said, setting the tea tray down on the table near them. “Now let’s have our tea, and Grace can answer your questions. And then she needs sleep. I’ve no doubt she’s in shock. I am myself.”
So they drank their very hot, very sweet tea, and Grace answered Heron’s and Drummond’s questions, although she felt as little emotion as though she were under hypnosis. When at last the questions were done, Peter led her out into the night that smelled of smoke, tucked her into the Land Rover, and drove her to Craddock House.
She did not speak on the drive. She was beyond speech. She was relieved that she was with Peter; she felt safe with Peter. He was so competent. So utterly and unfussily competent. How much better it was to concentrate on Peter’s hands moving with smooth surety on the steering wheel than to think about the fact that someone had tried to kill her, not once, but twice—and would probably try again.
Her eyebrows were still there, though singed. Her hair was frizzed about her face, although she did not recall being that close to the flames. There were smudges on her cheekbones and forehead, but those washed off. Her hand was down to a manageable throb, thanks to the two painkillers Peter had offered. She was incredibly lucky that all the damage seemed to be washable or repairable with scissors.
“This should fit,” Peter said, when she stepped out of the washroom. He handed over a pale green silk shirt.
“It should?” Doubtfully she studied the shirt. Peter was tall and lean, and the shirt looked tailored. Grace was a grown-up woman with a grown-up woman’s curves. “Because that’s all I need tonight—to feel fat.”
It was not the fear that she looked fat that put the waver in her voice; it was the knowledge that she hadn’t so much as a T-shirt to her name.
“Bed for you, Esmerelda.” He pulled back the comforter on the guest room bed. She had slept in that room, in that very bed, when she had stayed with Peter during their first adventure.
She couldn’t imagine sleeping; she was afraid of what her dreams would bring. Besides, her brain seemed to be going a million miles an hour, flooded with worry and anxiety that no amount of sleep could stem.
“Call me, and I’ll tuck you in.” He turned toward the door.
Grace sat down on the bed. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
“Er—I’ll sit up with you, if you like.”
“Do you mind?” She held out her hand. The bedsprings squeaked as he settled beside her, easing an arm around her shoulders. He gathered her closer.
“You’re safe, love.” His voice was husky.
“I know. But for a few moments there…”
“Better not to look back on that.”
She thought of the photos of family and friends turning brown and curling into flames, of her books charred black.
The awful shadow of some unseen Power floats through unseen among us—visiting.
“Thank God I remembered my purse.”
“Yes. Thank God.” His arms tightened briefly.
For some reason, the huskiness in his voice closed her throat and brought tears to her eyes. “I know it’s silly to cry over material objects…”
“Go on, if you’ll feel better.” He kissed the top of her head.
She nestled into him, put her arm around him.
Peter made a strange un-Peter-like sound.
“I know it’s a cliché,” Grace agreed, shakily. “But circumstances are such…” She wiped another tear away. She was not crying, but every so often, a tear seemed to leak down her cheek.
He gave her a light, tender kiss, and stroked her back as one comforts a child.
But Grace was obeying an instinct as old as time itself, and her response turned the gentle pressure of Peter’s mouth into something else.
She lay back into the bedclothes, pulling Peter down with her. Breathless moments passed, then Grace murmured, “You can turn the light out.”
Peter rolled on elbow. “At the risk of being mistaken for a gentleman…are you sure?”
She nodded.
Still he hesitated. “I—er—fear I’m taking advantage.”
She made a shaky effort to mimic his usual drawl, “I fear you’re…not.”
His blue eyes held hers for a long moment. He reached for the lamp.
21
“I’ll tell you what’s really weird,” Grace said.
“I’m bracing myself.” Peter sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed and looking utterly unruffled, as though they had not spent the last hours before the dawn making what Shelley had referred to asdelicious moan upon the midnight hour.
Awaking to find herself alone in the bedroom, Grace was not sure if she was disappointed or relieved; she did not regret the instinct that had driven her to seek comfort in lovemaking—exactly. But she told herself she could no longer distract herself from the reality of this latest disaster forever. She must face up to her plight—to her danger—and the sooner, the better.
And so she had been lying in bed, staring at the dark wood ceiling beams, and “facing up” in an uncharacteristically apathetic way when Peter had walked in on her.
Feminine curiosity slipped through the apathy as she studied him. Peter smiled wryly, meeting her eyes, and it seemed to Grace that there was a hint of curiosity in his gaze, also.
“For all the wisecracks about my being a Miss Marple, I haven’t made one single effort to find out who murdered Harry Kayaci. So why would anyone be trying to get rid of me?”
“Maybe the two things aren’t connected.”
“But according to Brian Drummond, someone is trying to kill me because of what he or she thinks I know about Kayaci’s murder.”
“Brian?” Peter repeated.
“DI Drummond.”
Peter was silent for a long moment. She turned her head to meet his quizzical gaze. “Are you sure this is what you want to talk about?”
“Yes, of course,” she said a little quickly.
He raised one eyebrow but said only, “I expect it’s occurred to you that possibly DI Drummond is talking through his hat.”
She smiled faintly. “True. But why would someone try twice to kill me?”
“At a guess, it’s something to do with the Shelley sonnet. That’s where you’ve spent your time and energy these past weeks. You’ve made no secret that you’re looking for it.”
“Mary Shelley’s original manuscript forFrankenstein sold for about 5.2 million dollars, but that’s an unusual case. If we were to discover an original poem by Shelley, it would certainly be valuable, but probably not worth millions. The greatest worth of these original works or first drafts or notes lies in their ability to help scholars figure out the poet’s original intentions.”
Peter was shaking his head. “That may have been true once, Grace, but cultural properties, including literary works, have appreciated at astronomical rates over the past few decades. In fact, art and antiquities theft is right there next to smuggling and drug trafficking. Partly because there’s not an infinite supply of these items, and partly because a legitimate market does exist.”
“Even if it’s the finest thing Shelley wrote, it’s not worthkilling over. Trying to kill me? Destroying everything I own?” Unexpectedly, her eyes filled with angry tears. “Everything I own in the world—”
Silence.
“Not actually,” Peter said. “You’ve got a blue jumper, three hair combs, and a pair of earrings downstairs.”
The prosaic tone was like cold water, and for an instant it startled Grace speechless. But she could not stop inventorying h
er losses. “The earrings you gave me for the Hunt Ball,” she wailed. “They were antiques.” She was sick at the loss of those delicate pearl-and-filigree earrings, and all the other lovely things he had given her over the past months—including the book of poems by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
“They’re just things, Grace.” His voice was quiet. “The only irreplaceable item at the Gardener’s Cottage was you.”
And he meant it. She had noticed before that for all his love of the beautiful, the rare, the old, Peter was essentially pragmatic. He had carefully constructed a controlled and civilized environment for himself, but somehow she knew that if he had to, he could walk away from it all without a backward glance.
Grace was not like that. She treasured the mementos of her childhood, the souvenirs of her adolescence. She took good care of all her belongings and fretted over every chip and crack.
He said suddenly, “That hat you shipped back to the States—”
“Hat?” She wiped away the tears with the back of her good hand.
“The one you bought when you first came over. Black felt trimmed with violets and white roses, I believe you said.”
“Fancy you remembering that,” Grace said shakily. “I’d all but forgotten that hat. You’re right. I had it shipped home.”
Home.
“Well, you know what they say,” Peter said lightly. “Home is where the hat lies.”
“I’ll pay you back, of course,” Grace said, receiving the stack of parcels Peter had purchased for her in the village.
“My dear girl,” he murmured, as though she had said something truly shocking.
It was late in the afternoon. Grace had showered, tried to eat some breakfast, and waited impatiently for Peter’s return. She carried the parcels into the bedroom and began opening boxes.
She supposed it was not exactly a good sign that he was so obviously experienced and comfortable at buying women’s clothing. But he had taken time and trouble, and apparently spared no expense; the tightness in her throat seemed to grow to the size of the apple wedge that had choked Snow White. There were lovely wisps of delicate lace-edged satin and silk, probably supposed to be bras and panties, but in Grace’s opinion about as useful as meringue. They would have to do until she could get into town and buy something more practical, something…cotton.
Sonnet of the Sphinx Page 17
