And then the killer would be after her. Mark laid a hand on her arm as if he could pull her back from danger. Every fiber of her body shivered.
“God,” Hilary murmured, “what should I do with the ivory Christ? If the other artifacts weren’t safe at the museum, then it won’t be, either.”
“Can you smuggle it out?”
“Steal it?”
“Protect it.”
Lightning struck nearby. A deafening explosion rocked the car, and the world flashed stark white. Mark winced. Hilary gasped, then inhaled, obviously trying to calm herself. Her eyes were enormous with confusion and fear that had nothing to do with the storm. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her everything was all right, but from the set of her mouth and jaw he deduced she didn’t want him to hug her. And everything wasn’t all right.
The rain slackened. Osborne loomed beyond the thrashing branches of the trees. “The house,” Hilary said, “looks like the mansion in Poe’s ‘Fall of the House of Usher’. I keep expecting to see it slide into the excavation and disappear.”
“It might be better if it did.” His hand tightened on her arm. “You have to tell Zapata about the forgeries. Give her the figure for safekeeping.”
“She’ll ask for proof. I don’t have any.”
“How did you know they were forgeries, then?”
“By the way they feel. I know that sounds crazy, but—but—a forger can’t copy the age of an object, the generations of use. Maybe that’s what I sense….” Hilary’s clenched fist hit the steering wheel again, this time in a gesticulation of decision. The horn bleated. “I can weigh them without hurting them! Weight is almost as hard to duplicate as age. I have the old numbers on the printout.”
“Great! Good idea!”
Hilary deflated. “Unless someone changed the computer files to match the new items. If he or she was competent enough to make such fine copies….”
“You won’t know until you check. Tell you what—tomorrow morning you weigh the artifacts. I’ll take a long lunch hour, and we’ll go talk to Zapata.”
“I ought to tell Jenny,” said Hilary, “but I’m afraid she’ll come out fighting.”
“She’s not that aggressive,” Mark said and ignored Hilary’s oh-yeah? look. The only reason he didn’t quite trust Jenny, he assured himself, was because he didn’t want her to have made an ass out of him.
The rain thinned to a watery veil. A ray of sun gleamed beneath the lowering cloud, making Osborne House stand out starkly against the navy blue sky. The green-and-yellow of the turret shone like beacons. An attenuated human shape moved behind those multicolored windows.
Hilary followed Mark’s eye upward. “There’s Jenny now.”
“That’s not Jenny. That’s not her body shape.” He realized what he’d said when Hilary rolled her eyes heavenward. Groaning, he stepped out into the rain.
The kitchen door opened. Jenny emerged onto the back porch and waved the teapot. Still the shape stood at the turret window.
Mark raced through the squishy grass, Hilary at his heels. He brushed by Jenny, saying, “Someone’s upstairs in the study. Come on.”
Jenny put the teapot down and seized her flashlight.
The odd half light of the storm distorted the rooms and their antique furniture, so that Mark could have sworn gargoyle faces leered from shadowy corners. He wasn’t about to stop and make their acquaintance. Hilary’s breath was harsh beside him, her shoulder bumping his—she saw them too, he thought incoherently. He wondered if ghosts existed only because people saw them.
Jenny turned the flashlight on and off, replicating the flicker of lightning outside the fly-specked windows. The clock ticked hollowly in the hall, and the treads of the stairs groaned beneath their hurrying feet. No one was in the study. Mark raced up the tower stairs and was shamefacedly relieved to find no one there, either. Through a green pane of glass he inspected the plastic sheets covering the excavation, now sodden puddles of water. Hilary stood with her arms crossed. Jenny gazed at the empty chair and table, one hand outstretched. “He’s not here,” she said.
“He?” Hilary asked. “I thought the ghost was a woman.”
“The ghost on the staircase is a woman. The one here and in the study—the presence here, I should say, as I’ve never actually seen anything—is a man. It’s Arthur. It’s my father. I’ve tried to talk to him, but I can’t.”
Mark remembered sensing Arthur’s presence here the morning after the murder. Jenny had told him of someone watching her while she slept. He himself had felt someone was watching them both as they slept together. But that had been the cat. Hadn’t it?
“Come through to the kitchen,” Jenny said with a sigh. “The kettle’s on, and I’ve been saving a bottle of Glenmorangie.”
“Funny,” said Hilary, her voice quavering, “I never liked Scotch until I drank it in Scotland. The atmosphere, I guess.”
Right now Mark would’ve settled for considerably less atmosphere. In a tense, silent knot, he and the two women started back down the stairs, leaving the little turret room empty behind them.
Chapter Sixteen
Just to make sure no flesh and blood person besides themselves was in the house, Mark, Hilary, and Jenny checked every room on their way back to the kitchen. They saw nothing and heard nothing except their own ragged breaths, the plod of their footsteps, and the insistent tick of the clock. Hilary couldn’t vouch for the others, but she didn’t even feel anything, and her nerves had been pared finely enough to sense the touch of a gnat’s eyelash.
When they walked through the parlor, Hilary kept her eyes on the smudged plaster ceiling. Through the soles of her shoes her feet sensed bare floor—the police had carried away the blood-soaked carpet. Her mind’s eye saw Nathan lying before the fireplace and then shied away.
The roving beam of Jenny’s flashlight found neat squares cut in the walls and ceilings of every downstairs room, just enough for a head, and a hand holding a light, to inspect the empty spaces between walls and floors. But Jenny suspected the Cross had been hidden in the old garage and she presumably had her reasons. Long nights tapping with sensitive fingertips on these very walls, no doubt. Long nights trying to reach the father she’d never known.
The kitchen at Osborne would never again be as comfortable as Hilary had first thought. Like the tide creeping up a beach, the darkness of the house had at last engulfed it, too. Hilary remembered Mark’s self-satisfied smile after their first tour. Damn the house, to lull him into complacency and then pounce. She wanted to hug him, but from the set of his mouth and jaw she deduced he’d object to that. Especially in front of Jenny.
Jenny put the kettle on the burner. She brought out the bottle of whisky, assorted cups and glasses, and boxes of crackers and cookies. Biscuits, Hilary amended, since that’s what Jenny would say. Mark stared into the empty fireplace. On the mantel Lucia’s skeletons either dug a grave or searched for treasure. Graymalkin’s chair sat beside the hearth, but the little cat was nowhere in sight.
“I’ll have to borrow Graymalkin sometime,” Hilary said. “I’ve got a mouse in my kitchen.”
“Small as she is, she drags in all manner of things,” Jenny returned. “Pre-emptive strikes, I suppose.” She added slices of cheese to the platter.
Next to the computer was a small white box pierced with holes. “A nursery monitor,” Mark said. “Like a walkie-talkie. Where did you put the transmitter?”
“At the top of the stairs,” said Jenny.
Hilary turned the dial. The electronically amplified tick-tock-tick of the grandfather clock reverberated in the speaker. Hastily she lowered the volume so that the ticking as was subtle as a heartbeat. “When did you get this?”
“Sunday afternoon. I heard the piano and footsteps but couldn’t make myself look. It wasn’t Arthur. He never makes noise.” The kettle whistled. Jenny poured boiling water into the teapot, placed the platter on the table, uncorked the whisky, and poured generous dollops into three glass
es.
“I wouldn’t have looked,” said Hilary. “I would’ve been afraid it was the killer revisiting the scene of the crime, not a ghost.” Jenny shot her a grateful look. “So there are two ghosts. The woman—Vicky, not Felicia—plays the piano and walks up and down the stairs. Maybe she starts the clock. You saw her once, didn’t you?”
Jenny glanced reprovingly at Mark—he’d told on her. He sat down at the table and made a cracker and cheese sandwich. “Yes,” she replied. “Odd—I’ve seen her, but I don’t sense her presence. Not like I do Arthur’s. Maybe ghosts fade out over time; she died in 1912, after all.”
“My mother,” Mark admitted, “says she was hearing stories of Vicky’s ghost when she was a little kid in the forties and fifties.”
Hilary realized this conversation was a continuation of one Mark and Jenny had already had; they’d worked through the obligatory “I must be crazy, I think I’m seeing ghosts”. Scraping her chair, she sat down and took a cup of tea and a glass of whisky. The one was hot and sweet, the other as stinging fresh as sea spray over a Scottish cliff. Whisky, tea, and sympathy, she thought. Not a bad combination. Maybe she should be grateful for the ghost in the turret. Here she was sitting with Jenny without any awkward, accusatory preliminaries.
“Remind me,” Jenny said, “to get Arthur’s notebook, the one in which he started his memoirs, back from Nathan’s father. Someone should do a biography of the man, warts and all.”
“Arthur really is here?” Mark asked. “How do you know?”
“I don’t know how I know, but I do. I’m afraid that blood will tell.”
Hilary heard her own voice responding to Mark’s question. By the way they feel.
Jenny went on, “I don’t think Arthur wants to leave his memories. So much of his personality is invested in his collections. We possess nothing certainly except the past, as Evelyn Waugh says.”
“What if we don’t want the past?” Hilary asked. “Don’t we possess a future, too?”
“I hope so,” said Mark. “Nathan’s future was cut short.”
A breath of cold air wafted through the room. Thunder rumbled, rattling the teacups in their saucers, and another wave of rain assaulted the house. On the table the monitor ticked quietly. Hilary was facing away from the connecting door, and the back of her neck prickled. But if she wasn’t safe with Mark and Jenny, she wasn’t safe with anyone. Defiantly she took a chocolate biscuit and ate it in two bites.
“Who killed Nathan?” Mark asked.
Jenny poured him another dram. “His murder has something to do with Felicia’s, I’m sure of that. Same method, right? And he was holding her sweater.”
“Zapata says that yarn from the sweater was caught on the box the figurine was in.” Hilary held out her glass.
“Arthur might have killed Felicia,” said Mark, “but he certainly didn’t kill Nathan.”
Jenny refreshed her own glass. “I don’t think he killed Felicia. He was an overbearing tin-plated dictator with delusions of godhood, but I can’t see him as a killer. Arthur and Felicia had their problems, true. She sold off some of Osborne’s land—I wonder now if that’s where he hid the Eleanor Cross. But he’d have had plenty of time to retrieve it.”
“So could any one else,” Mark pointed out. “The Coburgs could’ve had it all along.”
“All they’d need is the Christ figure to complete the set.” The possibilities for more murder and mayhem were appalling; Hilary bit her lip, hard, to keep from listing them.
“Personally,” Jenny went on, “I think Dolores killed Felicia—not that I can fathom why. But I’ll be the first to admit I’m prejudiced against Dolores. My mother, by the way, was never in America.”
It had never occurred to Hilary that Pamela might have killed Felicia. Jenny had been listing her own possibilities, it seemed.
The rain slackened again. Another feeble gleam of sunlight glanced through the kitchen windows. Mark rested his chin on his hand and his elbow on the table. “Me, I think Travis killed Nathan. Maybe his and Sharon’s marriage was simply a dynastic merger, not a love match, but he’d still regard her as his. And for her to cross the ethnic boundary—well, some of these society types are still just rednecks wearing cologne, with the mentality of cavemen. If that’s not insulting cavemen.”
“The Ripper material was in a sports portfolio,” offered Jenny, “and Travis seems to have little on his mind bar sports. Although, you have to admit, Sharon herself is just as likely a candidate for the killer—a lover’s quarrel, whatever. We all saw her ticking off that bloke at the reception.”
“We don’t know why Sharon and Nathan got together to begin with,” Hilary pointed out. “I could never see that they had anything in common, other than the museum….” She stopped abruptly.
Mark shoved the plate of cookies and crackers toward her, offering what comfort he could. Jenny stood, got the tea kettle, and warmed up the pot. Hilary took so deep a gulp of tea that she burned her mouth. She saw the beauty and glory of the artifacts tarnished by lies, mockery, and fear.
Mark was gazing at her expectantly. Yes, of course, she had to tell Jenny. Who had a better right to know?
“I found the killer’s prime motive this morning,” Hilary said. “The Regensfeld artifacts.” She explained, item by item, about the forgeries that had been substituted for the real objects, and how her own inexperience must figure in the plot. “Nathan had a copy of the catalogue printout on his desk the Wednesday I left,” she concluded. “I hate to think he was part of the scam. I’d much prefer to think he discovered it, and the criminals eliminated him.”
“Vasarian.” Jenny’s face was as severe as that of a general sending her troops into battle, but she didn’t, after all, jump up to lead the charge herself. “Maybe he’s working with the Coburgs, maybe he’s trying to do them over. What neck he has, to mention Van Meegeren’s forgeries when he himself is involved in one of the all-time great confidence jobs.”
“Is he?” Mark asked. “I admit he has the background and the know-how to get the forgeries made, but wouldn’t it be easier for him to simply substitute the fake pieces for the real ones after he leaves for Europe?”
“The pieces would’ve been packed and sealed. And Vasarian thought he was leaving for Europe—it’s Nathan’s death that’s kept him here in Texas.” Hilary rubbed her neck. Her muscles were sore; all day they’d been tense, anticipating a blow.
Mark began massaging her shoulders. “If Vasarian was honest, he’d blow the whistle on the fakes just as quickly as Nathan would. Whereas the Coburgs wouldn’t know the difference between real and fake—they’d have to trust Vasarian. Has he seen the artifacts recently, do you know, Hilary?”
“He was at the museum Friday night,” she answered, “but not necessarily in the lab.”
“He might have done a bunk with the real ones on Friday,” Jenny said. “Maybe he and the Coburgs are all in it together. Maybe the artifacts are already gone.” She ran her hands through her hair, as though considering pulling it out by the roots.
“Would Nathan confront them?” Mark asked. “Would he die for art—for Christian art at that?”
“For the concept, yes. For the principle.” Hilary turned to Jenny. “Have you ever wondered if your mother’s death was an accident?”
Jenny’s eyes widened. “The driver who hit her stopped and tried to help her. The police were satisfied it was an accident. Why do you ask? How could she have been a threat to anyone?”
“Maybe she knew where the Cross was. Maybe someone thinks you know where it is.” Gently Hilary put Mark’s hands aside, uncomfortable with him touching her while Jenny watched. “I don’t know, just a thought.”
“You’re very comforting,” Jenny said dryly.
“About as comforting as you are, suggesting that the real artifacts are already gone.”
Mark asked, “How did the ivory figurine get into the study? Why did Nathan have it in his pocket? Why didn’t he just leave it in the box, and
ask you, Jenny, about it on Saturday?”
“Because he’d seen the address on the box,” Hilary answered. “He might’ve wondered why Jenny hadn’t told him about it and was doubtful of her motives. He might’ve wanted to get the figure into the vaults at the Lloyd where it would be safe. Not that it is safe.” And who the hell am I to sneak it out? she asked herself.
“My motives do seem rather dicey.” Jenny said and looked at Mark, not at Hilary.
He shook his head, still stubbornly denying his suspicions of Jenny. But then, Hilary told herself, he only suspected her because he was afraid she had used him. Not that she did. She couldn’t have. Hilary wondered why she, of all people, could be so sure Jenny was trustworthy. Probably because she was too tired to create any more conspiracy theories. “Nathan liked detective stories,” she said. “He had a dogma-free perspective—he could look at something from the outside, without preconceptions. I’m not surprised he’d figure out the artifact scam. I only wish he could help solve his own murder.”
“Indeed.” Jenny got up from her chair and walked down the room to the connecting door, trailing a clenched fist along the countertops.
Mark looked after her. “I don’t see how you could’ve prevented his death.”
“By showing him the ivory figure straightaway?” she returned. “By putting him in the picture about Arthur and the Cross and me?”
“I don’t see how that would’ve made any difference,” said Hilary stoutly, too well acquainted with her own games of what-if.
Mark drained his cup and his glass. “Hilary and I were involved in a murder investigation last summer. I don’t think police methods vary that much from country to country. But Zapata’s up to her neck in cases—the murder rate here in Fort Worth gets higher every year—while the British cops were able to bring a full court press to the problem.”
Garden of Thorns Page 24
