“There’s more good things than that to come from this,” Drummond said cheerfully. He was in terrific spirits that afternoon. “There’s a bloody treasure trove in that hidden room. More than one museum is going to have cause for rejoicing.”
“Certainly the Egyptian government will be interested,” Peter murmured.
“True.” Drummond reached for a cream-filled bun.
Grace said, “The sonnet will go to the Bodleian; that’s what Jack said this morning when I spoke to him.”
“And you will get the credit.” Drummond smiled at her. Peter directed a level look his way.
“John will get the credit. He’s the one who deserves it.”
They were silent for a moment, recalling John Mallow’s gruesome fate.
“Personally,” Grace said at last, “my money was on Sir Vincent Monkton. It’s difficult to think of a sixteen-year-old girl committing murder.”
“Really? After all those horror stories about the belles of St. Mary…” That was Peter. Grace shot him a dark look.
“St. Anne’s,” she said.
Drummond said, “Miss Webb is clear enough about her recent crimes, but she’s vague about what happened sixty-odd years ago. Partly, I suppose, because of the time lapse, and partly because it seems to have been a crime of impulse.”
“I can guess some of what happened,” Grace said. “John must have gone that night to confront Monkton. I can’t imagine he would have wanted to expose him, because of Eden, but Monkton’s own attitude would have made it difficult. They must have argued.”
“That jibes with what Miss Webb told us. Mallow seems to have somehow discovered Monkton’s secret. They rowed that night, then Mallow left. Unfortunately, he ran into Arabella, who had just learned that Mallow and her sister were making plans to run off to Gretna Green. Whether she was acting out of her own frustration at being rebuffed or to protect her father, she struck him over the head with a poker as he came out of the secret room.”
“And then there was no going back,” Peter said.
Drummond said curtly, “Not for her, apparently. Even now she doesn’t seem to feel a flicker of remorse. Monkton, perhaps to protect his daughter, or more likely to preserve his precious collection, dragged Mallow back into the treasure room.”
“And…mummified him,” Grace said, not quite steadily.
“Apparently so. Eventually.”
Grace asked, “Whose idea was it that Arabella should leave that night? Did she really leave a note saying that she and John were running off together?”
“That seems to have been her father’s idea. He had her write the letter, then sent her off for safekeeping to friends in Scotland.”
“But he died suddenly in Egypt not long after the war,” Peter said thoughtfully. “The lolly would have stopped then, and the girl would have had to make her own way in the world.”
“Which she seems to have managed ably enough. Doesn’t appear that she ever looked back until she returned here.”
Grace, the product of a close-knit and loving family, protested, “How could Monkton let his own daughter believe her fiancé had abandoned her?”
Drummond shrugged. “I think that was the least of his concerns. Monkton hated Mallow, and I’m sure he managed to self-justify his actions. After all, he allowed Eden to keep the child, which wasn’t typical of those days. He supported her and the baby until she finally married.”
“So the money to the post office box in Scotland was Monkton paying off Arabella?” Grace guessed.
“Or supporting her. Unfortunately he didn’t appear to make provision for her in the event of his death, and Arabella was left to fend for herself. Eventually she came back to Innisdale with a new name and a new identity.”
“But why did she come back here? Especially since she could never admit who she was or claim her share of her inheritance. It was such a dangerous choice.”
Drummond said, “No one can answer for sure. Until Sartyn started nosing around, she seems to have been content to live out the role she chose for herself.”
“And you say that she confessed to killing Kayaci?” she asked innocently.
“Yes,” Drummond said, not meeting her eyes. “It seems pretty clear that Sartyn had done his homework and came to Innisdale hunting Monkton’s lost collection. Once here, he discovered Peter Fox was living locally”—his eyes flicked toward Peter—“and contacted his former partner, Kayaci. It doesn’t sound like he had ever heard of John Mallow or had any idea there was anything to his disappearance, but Miss Webb couldn’t have him digging around. She knew what he would find if he discovered the hidden room.”
Grace shivered, thinking of the terrible secret of the mummy case.
“From what we can make out, she was stalking Sartyn.”
“And she just happened to be carrying a darning needle?”
“Apparently she used to carry one all the time for protection when she was out walking. It’s the sort of thing old ladies do, isn’t it? I’d an auntie who used to carry a railroad tie nail. Anyway, she overheard Kayaci and Sartyn discussing Mr. Fox, and must have seen a way to narrow the field. She assumed Sartyn would be blamed for the death. If the police didn’t nab him, she could always take care of him herself.”
“The best-laid plans,” Peter said dryly.
Drummond shot him a cool look. “Yes. Naturally we suspected you. That wouldn’t have troubled Miss Webb any, but then Ms. Hollister poked her nose in.”
Grace made a face.
Drummond told her, “Miss Webb began to follow you. It was she who caused your car to go off the road into Lake Swirlbeck. She says she was only trying to warn you off.”
“Rather a stern warning,” said Peter.
“She claims Grace’s going into the water was an accident.” He held his cup out for a refill. “But there’s no mistake about her setting your cottage on fire. She believed you were getting too close to her secret and had to be stopped.”
When the tea cakes had been eaten and the last of their questions answered, DI Drummond rose, and Grace saw him downstairs.
He hesitated outside the front door.
“Grace, oddly enough, it turns out I’ll be in Los Angeles around the same time as you,” he said very casually.
“Really? That’s a coincidence.” Then she realized he had never called her by her Christian name before. “I hope,” she added, suddenly wary.
His smile was rueful. “It is a coincidence. Every other year or so, Interpol organizes an international training conference on cultural property trafficking. This year it’s going to be held at your Convention Center.”
“Er…really?” She kept saying that.
“Maybe we could have dinner one night?”
Grace stared. “Oh! I—well, yes, I suppose so.” At his expression, she said honestly, “I’m surprised. I was under the impression you were only interested in me as a means of getting to Peter.”
He looked uncomfortable. “I used to notice you in church long before I knew who you were. I thought…well, I thought you looked like someone I’d like to get to know. Then I found out about your connection to Peter Fox.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Well.” He was awkward. “So when you come back, are you and Fox…is this an exclusive arrangement?”
“I…well, we never actually discussed it.”
“But you want it to be?”
“Yes, if—”
If what? If she knew for sure that Peter loved her? If she knew for sure that they could be happy together?
If she didn’t feel compelled to make a pilgrimage back home?
“As I said, we’ve never discussed it.”
He laughed.
He had a nice laugh, she realized for the first time.
Epilogue
A sparrow hawk circled high, high above,
crying out in the blue emptiness of the sky.
“Why do hawks do that, do you think?” Grace asked, a little breathless from the climb.
She placed a cautious hand on a boulder that jutted out from the mountainside and leaned forward, gazing down at the checkerboard of green fields and golden meadows. The lakes and streams gleamed like silver. From their vantage point she could see the entire valley. Innisdale Wood, the village, a tiny white dollhouse that was surely Craddock House; they looked like illustrations in a child’s story.
Peter shaded his eyes, searching the sky. “Hunting, perhaps.”
“Maybe he’s warning us off.” She dropped to the ground, tired but exhilarated from the hike that had taken the best part of the morning. “Or maybe he’s just happy.”
His thin mouth curved; he still gazed upward.
“Maybe.” He lowered his hand and found a place on the ground beside Grace.
“Thank you for bringing me here.”
The cold, clean wind off the top of the mountain stirred the tendrils from her damp temples and ruffled Peter’s pale hair.
He said, “I used to hike here often when I first moved to Lakeland. Not so much now.”
She could understand the desire, after what he had been through in Turkey, to climb as far as humanly possible from the noise and dirt of cities and the men who built them. This was as close as you could get to God. Nothing but sun and sky—and the echoing cries of wild things.
“It’s beautiful. Beautiful beyond words.”
His lean cheek creased. “Praise indeed.”
She chuckled.
They were silent for a few minutes.
“Your plane leaves Monday?”
She nodded.
“And there’s no talking you out of it?”
She laughed and shook her head.
“But you’re coming back.” It was a statement, yet there was something very…neutral…in his tone.
She studied his profile. “Yes.”
“But you don’t know when.”
“As soon as—well, as soon as is reasonable.”
“Ah, sweet reason,” he murmured.
She smiled, but she wished she were better at reading his thoughts.
Your shadow in deceiving moonlight
Your voice in the whisper of sand
I drink from the waterskin, not water, but your memory
And at night wine cannot dull the ache
She thought of the Egyptian poem John Mallow had rewritten for Eden. A work of heart rather than art, perhaps, but the sentiment was timeless and universal. Already she could feel the emptiness of separation.
“When you do get back,” Peter said very casually, “you might consider moving in with me.”
“I might?”
He lifted a shoulder. “If you like.”
She teased, “This is so sudden, Mr. Fox. You must be confident I’m not coming back.”
“Oh, you’re coming back,” he said. “Even if I have to fetch you.”
Startled, Grace met his gaze. He was smiling a mocking smile, but his eyes held her own.
“Thou art my long lost peace,” he quoted.
Unexpected tears filled her eyes, and she wiped at them hastily. He caught her hand and kissed her wet fingertips.
High overhead, the sparrow hawk had his answer.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Praise
Also by Diana Killian
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Epilogue
All the clues point to these bestsellers from Pockets Books…
Sonnet of the Sphinx Page 24
