Decked

by Carol Higgins Clark

  “Certainly should have. One moment, sir.” The woman’s voice sounded dignified but friendly.

  As Livingston waited he wondered when he would be able to grab a sandwich. He hadn’t eaten anything since early that morning.

  The dignified voice began talking again. “All right then. I have on the list here a Cameron Hardwick who gave us a post office box in New York City.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

  Livingston was about to hang up when he had a thought. “Did he give any local phone number for where he could be reached before he boarded the ship?”

  “Actually he did. We always ask for a number where we can contact our passengers before sailing in case there is any sort of delay.”

  Livingston jotted down the number, which had a High-gate exchange. Highgate was only thirty miles from Oxford. “Thank you.” Quickly he dialed and anxiously waited as the phone rang six or seven times. Finally it was answered by what sounded like an older man. “Barleyneck Inn. Mason Hicks, at your service. Yes, yes. Can I help you? Oh my. Please hold on.”

  Livingston looked at the receiver with a quizzical look. “I’m holding.” He listened as the voice at the other end apologized to someone who presumably was registering a complaint.

  “Oh my, your tea wasn’t hot, was it? So sorry. Have a seat. We’ll get you another pot straightaway. Yes, yes. Have a seat. Have a seat—can I help you?”

  Livingston drummed his fingers on the desk.

  “Can I help you?” the voice repeated.

  Livingston sat up in his chair as he introduced himself. “I need to know if there is a Cameron Hardwick there, or has he been there?”

  “Cameron Hardwick. Yes.”

  “Yes?” Livingston sounded surprised.

  “Yes. Yes, he checked out at the beginning of the week. Hold on a moment, please.—Hello, it’s lovely to have you back. Sign the book, please.—Hello. Yes. So sorry. Cameron Hardwick checked out on Monday morning. A quiet chap. Very neat. Always borrowing the ironing board.” A laugh resembling a wheeze traveled through the telephone wires.

  “He’s been there before?”

  “Oh yes, yes. Oh-oh, hold on a moment.”

  Livingston waited impatiently as the clerk rang a bell and called for a porter. When he got back on, Livingston asked for the address of the inn and how to get there. It’ll take all day to get any information on the phone, he thought to himself. After giving him the directions, the clerk said to Livingston, “Shall I reserve a room for you? We’ve got quite a nice one facing the stream.”

  “No, but I will stop by this afternoon, if you will be there.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. We serve tea and scones at four. My wife makes homemade jam. Oh-oh, hold on a moment.”

  “That’s all right,” Livingston yelled into the phone before the voice went away. “I’ll see you later.” He winced as he hung up. I’m getting a bit cranky, he thought. I need a real meal, but not before I ring Valerie Twyler. There was no answer at her home, so he decided to try Llewellyn Hall. The maid answered.

  “She and Philip have gone off to Bath for the day with some of the students who arrived for the summer program. They won’t be back till tonight around half ten or eleven. I’m here alone waiting hand and foot on Penelope.”

  “How is she feeling?” Livingston asked.

  “Her appetite’s back,” she said flatly.

  “I see.”

  “I’m not getting any younger, and all those trips up and down the stairs. ‘More tea, please. Get me some crackers. Would you mind making me some soup?’ You’d think all of a sudden that she owned the place. When Lady Exner gets back I’m asking for a raise.”

  “Right.” Livingston tried to sound sympathetic. “I’ll try to reach Miss Twyler this evening.”

  “Whatever you’d like. I’ll be home by then, soaking my poor feet, parked in front of the telly. ’Bye.”

  Livingston was relieved to hear the receiver click in his ear. He glanced at his watch. Two forty-five. Time for a quick plowman’s lunch and a pot of tea at the pub across the street and then I’m off to the Barleyneck Inn, he thought. He had a feeling that the proprietor of the hotel would be only too happy to chat him up about Cameron Hard wick. As he walked out of the station house he only wished he didn’t have to wait until that night to question Valerie Twyler. His wife had hoped that he’d be able to be home that evening. But something told him that it shouldn’t wait until morning. Oh well, he thought as he entered the darkened pub, I can always decide after my visit to the Barleyneck. Maybe after I get through with that bloke I’ll be ready to call it a day.

  THE BARLEYNECK INN was located at the end of a cul-de-sac in a farming village. As Livingston turned down the street he paused to allow a few free-roaming sheep to cross the road. They stared at him with bored expressions as they made no attempt to hasten their progress, the only outward sign of their heartbeat being an occasional “baaaa.” “Hurry up,” Livingston muttered to himself, “before you find yourself lying in front of my fireplace.”

  Pulling into the driveway, Livingston found a small country inn, charming in a Victorian sense, nestled below large oak trees. Inside, the atmosphere was pleasant. Floral draperies and wallpaper in the community room offset the rich dark paneling in the foyer. An old man whom Livingston guessed to be the one he had spoken to sat at a large antique desk urging a young couple to be sure and come again. Weathered skin was topped by thinning gray hair. Bifocals rested on his amiable-looking nose. He looks as if he’s been here since the Reformation, Livingston thought.

  “I hope everything was to your liking.”

  “Splendid,” the young woman answered quickly as she tapped her foot impatiently.

  “Yes, yes. Traveling around a bit, are you?”

  “We’re headed back to Australia in a couple of days,” the thirtyish-looking man replied as he put his credit card back in his wallet. “Well, thank you.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Australia but never quite made it. Where in Australia are you from?”

  “Melbourne.”

  “Yes, yes. Maybe I’ll get there someday, but—”

  “Excuse me,” Livingston interrupted as the young couple looked at him gratefully and grabbed their suitcases. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with you.”

  “Yes. Certainly. ’Bye now,” the innkeeper called to the departing duo, who were now halfway out the door.

  “I’m Inspector Livingston. I spoke with you this morning.”

  “Indeed. You’re the one who wants to know about Cameron Hardwick. I’ve been thinking about him since you called. A nice enough chap, I suppose. An American. But picky, picky, picky.”

  “Do you think we could talk about this in private?” Livingston asked even as he acknowledged that there seemed to be no one else around. From the sound of all the activity during the phone call this morning, you would have thought it was the Ritz.

  “Certainly. By the way, I’m Mason Hicks.” The man’s look of curiosity was hearty. “Now let me summon my helper so he can man the desk while we go into my private office.” He hit a circular bell at his desk three times. “I should have called him to carry their suitcases out,” he added as he pointed his finger in the direction of the front door and then, temporarily exasperated, hit the bell twice again.

  A timid-looking oldster appeared from around the corner. The Palace Guard, Livingston thought.

  “Rodney, do you think you can man the desk? We have a great emergency here, yes yes,” Hicks declared.

  Rodney squared his shoulders as he took command. “Er, would you like some tea first?” he asked politely.

  “No, thank you,” Livingston replied.

  Hicks led him into a tiny musty-smelling office whose walls abounded with pictures of hounds leaping over fences.

  “I don’t want to keep you,” Livingston began as he sat down on a red leather chair squeezed between a statue of a dalmatian and the drape
ries.

  “Take your time, take your time, um-hmmm, yes,” Hicks said as he folded his hands in front of him, clearly enjoying the excitement only a police officer’s presence can engender. “So you’re doing an investigation of Cameron Hard wick, eh?”

  “Routine questioning, really,” Livingston replied. He cleared his throat. “Over the phone you indicated that Cameron Hard wick is a frequent guest.”

  “We love those kind.” Hicks’s eyes crinkled as he smiled and leaned forward.

  “Right,” Livingston replied. “How often would you say he visits?”

  “A couple of times a year maybe. Good-looking fellow in a brooding way. He has a lady friend who frequently comes by and stays with him.” Hicks fired a huge suggestive wink.

  Livingston looked up from his ever-present notebook. “Can you describe her?”

  “Ohhh, late thirties, I suppose. Brown hair. Attractive enough in a plain sort of way. A bit prim. You wouldn’t think she’s the type to carry on an affair, but you know what, I think she’s married!” As Hicks’s eyes lit up, he pushed his elbow out in a nudge-nudge, wink-wink motion and shook his head up and down.

  “Do you by any chance know her name?”

  “I believe he always calls her Mary. She never gave a surname. He always books the reservation. We have ten beautiful rooms, but he always likes to stay in the same one, every time. It has its own private bath. Once it wasn’t available and he got a bit nasty—”

  “I see, I see,” Livingston interrupted. “When was the last time you saw his lady friend?”

  “A day or two before he left. That was last weekend. She came by on Saturday morning and they had tea sent up to the room. He likes his privacy and everything has to be just so. His eggs have to be cooked a certain way, his bacon must be crisp ... He jogs every day. Told me if he didn’t he’d go crazy.”

  “It sounds like you remember quite a bit about him,” Livingston remarked.

  “Well, he’s been coming here for the past ten years,” Hicks exclaimed.

  “Ten years?” Livingston asked.

  “Yes, yes. He came in and was the first guest to stay in the room overlooking the stream after it had been redone. The girl joined him that night. They were both very pleased with the accommodations and have been coming back ever since. My wife and I decided it reminds us of the movie Same Time Next Year. Did you ever see that?”

  “Yes, enjoyable film,” Livingston replied.

  “Yes, yes. It makes one wonder what they have to hide.”

  “It certainly does,” Livingston answered as he got up and realized it was going to be a long evening until he got the opportunity to question Valerie Twyler, also known as Mary Cook.

  AT SEA

  IT WAS THE most relaxed day of the crossing. Veronica was clearly preserving her energy for her newfound relatives. Regan in a deck chair on one side, Gabby Gavin on the other, Veronica held court with passersby but did not at any time spring to her feet. Gavin fussed incessantly over her. First he was afraid the sun would burn her. Didn’t she have a sunblock lotion he could fetch for her from the suite? Veronica dived into her tote bag and triumphantly yanked out a sunblock 32—maximum protection.

  “They say not a ray will damage your skin, not even if you’re sunbathing on the equator,” she chortled.

  Gavin looked glum.

  They did not go into the dining room but had the buffet lunch near the pool. Regan brought Veronica a club sandwich and a margarita with a little paper umbrella bobbing among the ice cubes.

  Veronica extricated the umbrella and tossed it into her bag. “That’s for my scrapbook. It will always remind me of this special day with you, dear Mr. Gray.”

  “Are you sure you’re not chilled by the wind?” he asked anxiously. “Let me go get a sweater for you.”

  “No need,” Veronica proclaimed as she yanked a shawl out of her seemingly bottomless tote bag. “Dear Regan thinks of everything.”

  Regan thought she detected hostility in the glance Gabby threw at her.

  “And now I must complete the book of my favorite author. Mr. Gray, did you know that Regan’s mother is Nora Regan Reilly, the famous suspense writer?”

  Gabby had a twisted, sadistic look on his face. Alarmed, Regan noticed her mother and father were just coming around the side of the pool. She was sure Gabby spotted them at the same moment. He clamped his lips as Nora whirled around and fled back into the lounge, a resigned-looking Luke in her wake.

  At 4 P.M. Regan and Veronica started upstairs to begin packing before dinner.

  “As Regan has pointed out, it would be so much better if we get most of it out of the way before dinner, since the bags have to be out in the hallway before we retire.” Veronica waved the tote bag at Gavin. “Au ’voir.”

  OXFORD

  THERE WAS NOTHING he could do except wait out the return of Val and Philip. Livingston decided he might as well go home and have a decent dinner with the family. His wife, Maude, always sensitive to his moods, observed quietly, “Something brewing, I gather. I was sure I’d be putting the lamb in the fridge for you.”

  He was attacking it vigorously. “It would be a shame not to have it fresh and hot. I do have to go out later.”

  “Oh, Daddy,” Davina wailed. “I was hoping you could drive me and Elizabeth and Courtney and Laura to cinema.”

  “Not tonight, I’m afraid.”

  “But we’re all planning to go.” Davina looked horrified. “It’s important.”

  “I’d like to think that my appointment is important too,” Livingston said dryly. “Where are Elizabeth’s and Courtney’s and Laura’s fathers tonight?”

  “All very busy. Maybe you could—”

  “Davina, let your father enjoy his dinner in peace,” Maude ordered.

  Peace. Livingston looked at Davina with irritated affection. Since the moment they’d carried her home from hospital, peace had been a rare commodity in this household.

  Somehow that reminded him of Athena Popolous. From what he’d learned, she’d been at odds with her parents. Not that Davina was at odds, of course. But Athena had been only five years older than this pretty child who was looking at him with such indignant eyes. And Athena had been strangled and left to rot covered by brambles and underbrush.

  He finished dinner quickly, gulped down a scalding cup of tea and pushed back from the table. “If you can get someone else’s mother or father to pick you up, then I’ll drop you off. But it has to be soon.”

  Davina jumped up and hugged him. “Thanks, Daddy.”

  “Right,” Livingston replied as he watched her go pounding up the staircase so she could make the all-important phone calls in private.

  There was always the chance that Val and Philip might get back early. In the meantime, he could visit with Penelope for a while. You never knew what tidbits she might be able to offer.

  Giggling should be against the law, Livingston thought an hour later as he dropped off Davina and her friends at cinema. It was ten of eight. When he had phoned Llewellyn Hall, Emma Home had promised to wait until he got there to admit him. “But don’t make it any later than eight, please, sir, there’s a program I want to watch tonight and I hate to miss the beginning. Turn it on even a minute or two late and you can’t make head nor tail of it.”

  A rocket scientist, Livingston thought.

  When he arrived, Emma was standing at the door, her large handbag firmly clasped in her arm.

  “You know where her bedroom is. She’s looking forward to seeing you. She’s all fluffed up in bed, suffering for a visit. Better you than me.” With the speed of light, Horne was backing her Land Rover out of the driveway, firing deadly pebbles into Philip’s flower beds.

  Livingston stood in the foyer a moment and looked around. If only the portraits of Sir Gilbert Exner’s crusty ancestors could talk, he reflected as they glowered down at him. This house was a good three hundred years old. Forget the first two hundred ninety years. He’d love to know what had been going on
here for the last ten. Not to mention the woods outside where Athena’s body had been found.

  He heard a greeting from upstairs. “I say, I’m up here,” Penelope bellowed.

  “I thought she was supposed to be half dead,” Livingston muttered as he started up the stairs.

  Penelope looked infinitely better than she had when he visited her in hospital. But that still wasn’t saying very much. Livingston removed a sorry-looking teddy bear from her rocking chair, the only available seat in the room, and sat down, immediately forced to use his feet as brakes as the chair squeaked back and forth. The momentum finally subsided when Livingston got up, grabbed the chair and held it until it was still, and sat down again very warily. How many more years till my retirement? he wondered.

  “You’re looking well this evening, Miss Atwater,” he lied.

  “Oh, do you think so?” She flashed a smile that brought to mind that ridiculous American program “Mr. Ed.”

  Knowing that he was plunging into murky seas, he said, “I do hope you’re feeling better.”

  Ten minutes later, feeling that he had had a crash course in gastrointestinal disasters, he was able to steer the conversation in the direction he had planned.

  “I’m so sorry you missed the sailing. Are you planning to join Lady Exner in the States?”

  The teeth disappeared, lost behind a thin, grim line. “The plans have not been defined.”

  Meaning, Livingston thought, that Lady Exner is not going to fly her over. He assumed a false heartiness. “I see. Well, you’ve had a narrow escape and perhaps a good rest will be better for you. Lady Exner will be back in a month’s time and I’m sure you two will have a jolly time planning Philip and Val’s wedding.” He raised one eyebrow. “You don’t seem very enthusiastic, Miss Atwater.” He leaned forward confidentially, the rocking chair almost collapsing on top of him. “Are you?”