Oh, the cleverness of you, she thought wryly. Though he would never admit it, she suspected that Peter was almost enjoying himself. Was there a bit of Peter Pan in Peter?
“The police will expect to find those on the body.”
“And so they shall.” He rose, lithe as a dancer. “Did you go into any of the other rooms or touch anything else?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“Positive?”
“Yes.”
They retraced their steps back to the terrace.
“The gate,” Grace murmured. “I touched it when I followed Sartyn in.”
Peter nodded.
She watched him cross the lawn. Or rather she watched for where she was sure he must be, but he moved fast and stayed to the deep shadows of the fence and trees. She had a glimpse of him when the gate moved. A few moments later, the headlights on Sartyn’s car blinked on. The car reversed and she watched it move along to where Grace had parked earlier.
Nervously she paced up and down the end of the terrace. Through the trees she could see the car rolling forward and back. Peter pulled across the road and circled back around, attempting, she realized, to obscure her tire tracks. The headlights on Sartyn’s car went dark again.
For what seemed like forever, she waited. She tried to read her watch in the dim light. Only about four minutes had passed. She raised her eyes in time to spot Peter sprinting back across the drive. He vanished almost immediately from her sight, sticking to the shadows and the stone and cement.
She was startled when he seemed to step out of the ground in front of her.
He came up the stairs fast, but still had wind enough to speak to her in passing.
“Start back for the car.”
He kept going. Grace turned, bewildered, as he disappeared back through the open window. Then she remembered: the keys.
Uncertainly, with many looks over her shoulder, she started back across the gardens.
He caught her up before she had reached the ornamental pond, still breathing fast but evenly.
She thought of the old joke, “Friends help you move, real friends help you move the body.”
They retraced their way through the overgrown garden. Peter gave her a boost, and she scrambled back up the tree and over the dangerous fence.
“Thank you,” she said, when they were in the Land Rover and speeding back toward Craddock House.
“All part of the service.”
“I’m sorry to have dragged you into it.”
“That’s my line, isn’t it?” He looked away from the road, offering a wry smile, the first since she had shown up bleeding and panicked on his doorstep. “You used to be such a quiet, restrained girl. What happened?”
“You.”
“LIBRARIANFOUNDSLAIN. POLICESUSPECTHOMICIDE,” read Grace over breakfast the next morning. She glanced at Peter as he poured more tea into the oak leaf china cup at her elbow. “Do you thinkThe Clarion is being ironic?”
“Sadly, no.”
“They found him so fast.” She browsed the article. Sartyn’s body had been discovered when a gardener at the neighboring estate had noticed the dead man’s car parked outside the deserted house. The police were conducting an inquiry.
“They’re being awfully close-mouthed about this.” She thumbed through the rest of the paper.
“Don’t read anything into it.”
“No pun intended?”
He smiled faintly, but he seemed preoccupied.
She was rearranging an assortment of small clocks when DI Drummond showed up at Rogue’s Gallery to request Grace’s presence at the station.
While Grace stood there silently warning herself not to panic, it turned noontime, and the clocks began to chime the hour in a range of silvery tones. By the time the last note died away, Peter had appeared from the stockroom.
He leaned against the doorframe, drawled, “Ah, could this be that much-anticipated invitation to the Policeman’s Ball?”
Drummond’s gaze was chilly. “Hardly.”
“Are you arresting her?” Peter inquired.
“We can do,” Drummond said flatly.
“Merely curious,” Peter answered. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to ask me a few questions? That’s what this is really all about, isn’t it?”
“You’re not helping her, Fox.”
Peter’s lip curled. “Does she really need help? Surely you’re not that stupid.”
This was so blunt, so out of character for Peter, that for a moment Grace thought she must have misheard. Drummond’s flushed and angry face indicated she had not.
“Uh…” she interjected quickly, looking from one man to the other. “I don’t mind helping the police. I have nothing to hide.”
For a long dangerous moment Drummond held Peter’s gaze. Peter raised one eyebrow in that deliberate—and maddening—way.
“Let’s go,” Drummond said, curtly taking Grace by the arm and marching her outside to the waiting car. She tried not to show his grip was painful on her cut arm. It would be difficult to explain away that injury.
“He’s on thin ice,” he said under his breath, glancing back at the tranquil facade of Craddock House.
Aren’t we all, thought Grace.
25
It went through Grace’s mind that the police might be using her to get to Peter. Peter believed that Drummond’s sole reason for coming to Innisdale was to try and nail him. It made sense, given Drummond’s history with the Art and Antiquities Squad.
But if that were the case, he was doomed to disappointment. Grace was quite certain Peter would not sacrifice his freedom for anyone or any reason.
“What is it you think I’ve done now?” she asked, as Craddock House disappeared behind the trees.
“We’ll discuss it at the station,” Drummond said curtly. He was certainly a stickler for the rules.
So Grace forced herself to sit quietly, exuding innocence and moderately expensive floral fragrance, and hoping both were doing their job.
Once they were settled in Drummond’s tiny office he wasted no time in getting down to business. “Where were you Tuesday night between the hours of nine and one o’clock?”
Technically one o’clock would make it Wednesday morning, Grace reflected, then wondered what in her psyche led her to focus on such trivial details rather than deal with looming threats.
“I’m staying at Craddock House, as you know.” The chief constable would have pegged her response as prevarication, and he’d have been right.
“Were you alone?”
“No. Peter and I spent the evening together.”
His upper lip curled, indicating what he thought of her alibi.
He stabbed a finger into what was apparently her file. He had nice hands, Grace thought. Well shaped and well cared for. Musician hands. No wedding ring.
“I want to ask you again about your argument at the library with Sartyn. You need to think carefully before you answer. A lie at this juncture could be most damaging.”
“I’ve already told you the truth. I wanted to know why he was saying all those terrible things about me, why he was trying to implicate me in Kayaci’s murder.”
“And?”
“Nothing. He refused to talk to me in private.”
“Why?”
“He pretended to be afraid of me.”
“Pretended?”
Grace glared.
“Why should you think Sartyn was pretending? Patently his life was in danger.”
“Not from me,” Grace said.
“Did you see Sartyn after your altercation in the library?”
“No. And it wasn’t an altercation.”
“You didn’t arrange to meet at another time? Did you go to the library again?”
“No. I haven’t had time. My house burned down, if you’ll recall. And before that I was at a three-day conference.”
“The literary conference at Amberent Hall. Yes, I’m aware
that you were in attendance.”
She hoped he wasn’t tracking her movements too closely. It would be difficult to explain away the previous night.
She said, “Anyway, it’s my belief Sartyn himself killed Kayaci.”
Drummond’s brows rose in exaggerated surprise. “Really? And then I suppose he committed suicide?”
“No, I think one of their confederates killed him.”
“Whose confederates?”
“Sartyn and Kayaci’s. I believe they were involved in something together.”
“Such as?”
The last thing she wanted to do was introduce the subject of the Serpent’s Egg or Peter’s imprisonment. “I don’t know.”
He rolled his eyes, which in Grace’s opinion was a very unpoliceman-like thing to do.
“Your relationship with Mr. Fox has given you a warped view of how the world operates.”
“Say what you like,” Grace said. “Sartyn was up to something.”
“Whereas you, Miss Marple, have no agenda?”
She was getting rather tired of the Miss Marple comments—had no one in that wretched country ever heard of Nancy Drew? However, if Drummond was likening her to spinster sleuths, he couldn’t be too serious about holding her as a murder suspect. Perhaps he thought he could intimidate her into giving away information on Peter.
Tentatively, she asked, “Can I ask you about the murder weapon?”
“No.”
“For heaven’s sake! If I’m the killer, you’re not telling me anything I don’t know. If I’m not the killer, then I have a better chance of defending myself against my homicidal maniac boyfriend, right?”
Drummond looked skeptical, but at last said, “We believe both victims were killed with a long, narrow metal implement such as a meat skewer.”
Death by shish kebab, Grace thought, suddenly queasy.
When Grace returned to Craddock House she found Peter going over the books. He was a meticulous bookkeeper, she had noticed. It always took her by surprise, although attention to detail was apparent in every aspect of his life. Perhaps it was because he never seemed to think much about money.
“All clear?”
“The police definitely believe I had something to do with Harry’s death,” she told him.
“Did you?”
“Very funny,” she snapped.
His blue eyes narrowed. “You’re losing your sense of humor.”
“I’m just struggling to see the lighter side of being suspected of murder. Maybe once I’m in prison and have time to reflect…”
He laughed, and reluctantly Grace joined in.
“It’s that DI Drummond,” she muttered. “Heron as good as told me he suspects me. Drummond, I mean.”
“Then he truly is an idiot.” Peter eyed her quizzically. “You rather like that idiot, though, don’t you?”
“No.”
He laughed, but it had a hardness to it.
Before Grace could say anything, assuming she knew what to say to that, the bell on the front door jangled and the next wave of customers entered. Peter locked the ledger in his desk drawer and came to help her in the fray.
A handsome older man with a thick shock of gray hair and a vaguely familiar smile approached her while she was ringing up a German couple’s purchases.
“Grace Hollister?” And when Grace nodded, “Jack Monkton.”
“How do you do?” She offered her hand, amazed and delighted.
“I’ve had quite a time locating you. Old Fen gave me your name.”
“Professor Archibald?”
“That’s right. He said you were looking for the sonnet.”
“You know about the sonnet?” There was no reason he shouldn’t, now that she thought of it. In fact, if his mother had shared anything at all of his parentage, she had probably mentioned the sonnet.
“Oh yes. It’s a bit of a family legend.”
Grace wondered if the quest was going to end there and then. Perhaps Jack would say that he had the sonnet, had always had it. She found the idea disappointing.
“Do you have the sonnet?”
“Me?” Jack looked surprised. “No. As far as any of us know, the sonnet disappeared with my father. For obvious reasons, I feel I have a stake in your hunt.” His smile was regretful. “Unfortunately, my mother rarely spoke of my natural father. She spoke of the Shelley sonnet even more rarely, and I confess I wasn’t interested—not then. I wish now I’d paid closer attention.”
Grace shared that wish.
“The thing I thought you’d be interested to know, the thing I thought might help you in your quest, is that before my mother died, she donated my father’s journals and letters and her own personal papers to the Innisdale Historical Society.
“You’re kidding!”
“No. I assure you I’m not.”
Grace couldn’t understand why Miss Webb would have feigned knowing nothing about the Monktons or what had become of Eden Monkton or the Shelley sonnet, when she had in her possession John Mallow’s journals and letters and Eden Monkton’s private papers. It didn’t make sense.
“Do you live locally?”
“I live in London, but I had to come down here in any case. They discovered a body in the home I own here. I meant to get in touch with you sooner, but I was out of the country on business.”
Jack Mallow checked his watch, and added, “As a boy, as far as I was concerned, Aubrey Mason was my father. I hated the very thought of John Mallow. But I’m older. Mellower, perhaps. I’ve made my own share of mistakes. I realize it’s unlikely Mallow is still alive, but if he is, I’d like to see him. And if he’s dead, I’d like to know what happened to him.”
“I’m not really investigating what became of John Mallow.”
“It’s my belief—it was my mother’s belief, as well—that when the sonnet turned up we would learn what became of my father.”
She suggested delicately, “You never heard from your aunt?”
He shook his head. “You’ve been listening to local gossip. My mother never believed that her sister ran off with my father. She was sixteen, after all. A kid.”
“But then what happened to your Aunt Arabella?”
“I don’t know. By all accounts she was a wild one. They weren’t close, Mother and my aunt. My mother believed the girl ran away and that the timing was coincidence. She once said that she thought it was possible that my grandfather knew where my aunt had gone to earth; however, he managed to get himself killed in Turkey not long after the war ended, so who knows?”
“That reminds me. The Egyptian girl,” Grace inquired. “Your grandfather’s second wife? What became of her?”
“No one knows. After Grandfather died in Egypt, she disappeared. From what I understand, she was not happy in England.”
Grace thought this over.
“If your mother didn’t believe Mallow ran off with her sister, what did she think happened to him?”
Monkton shook his head and glanced at his watch again.
“She never expressed any theory at all?”
“Mother thought it might have had something to do with the war. He was with the SAS, you know. A hush-hush mission, something along those lines. Something even the War Office might not be privy to”
Grace had learned quite a bit about the Special Air Service while researching John Mallow. Formed in 1941 to conduct desert raids deep behind German lines in North Africa, the SAS had proved a fearless and relentless enemy—living up to their motto, Who Dares Wins. It remained Britain’s main Special Ops force and one of the world’s toughest fighting units.
Grace could more easily believe Mallow had been lost on a covert special mission than that he had deserted. Apparently the woman who, at least in theory, should have known him best agreed.
Peter, who had carried out a large white porcelain elephant for a customer, returned with Cordelia in tow. He was saying, “I should have another think. She eats a frightful lot, you know.”
Co
rdelia, gurgling with laughter, spotted Grace. “Hiya! I’ve had the most super idea.” She noticed Jack Monkton and became instantly self-conscious as she set her course for where Grace stood. Peter followed, steadying the vases and figurines she set rocking in her wake.
“Hullo.”
Jack nodded, glanced away. Glanced back again.
“Grace, why don’t you come and stay with us for a while? Till your cottage can be rebuilt. It’ll be a sort of holiday.”
“Um, I don’t know that there’s any plan to rebuild the Gardener’s Cottage,” Grace hedged.
“All the better. Stay the summer. We could have lots of fun, you know.” As she spoke Cordelia fixed Jack with that bold, dark gaze that was so at odds with her gawky movements.
Grace made introductions, observing them ruefully.
Eden Monkton might have dismissed the idea that her sixteen-year-old sister could have waltzed off with her fiancé, but years of riding herd on disconcertingly worldly adolescent females had given Grace a more jaded view.
Jack Monkton had to be in his sixties, but he was a handsome man, a man of substance; and Cordelia was a girl bent on broadening her experiences. There were not many weapons in her arsenal beyond baby-smooth skin, lovely eyes, and an appealing coltishness—but her aim was true. Jack Monkton seemed mostly amused by her interest, but Grace noticed that he stayed around chatting for longer than he had intended.
26
Somehow, without noticing, Grace seemed to have been drafted into the Big Sister program. Cordelia showed up uninvited the next morning as Grace was setting out for the Innisdale Historical Society.
She tried gently to discourage her, but Cordelia insisted that she found the idea of gaining access to Eden Monkton’s letters and journals utterly thrilling. Grace accepted the inevitable, and they set out for the village and Landon House.
Miss Webb heard them out in bewildered silence.
“It’s my belief your Mr. Monkton is mistaken,” she said finally, uncertainly. “I’m sure I would know if any such exhibit had existed.” Proof of her emotional upset, she had dropped her usual crisp telegraphic speech pattern. She seemed elderly and slightly confused.
Sonnet of the Sphinx Page 20
