by Jill Jones
She jerked free and glanced nervously around. “We can na talk here.”
“Why not?”
“Someone…might see.”
“Who?” Jack asked cynically. “The dragon?”
At that, her eyes widened even further, and their stormy green depths flashed with anger. “Ye have na idea what ye’ve done in trespassing on Keinadraig.”
“England’s a free country.”
“‘Tis privately owned, this island.”
Jack hadn’t considered that possibility. Sandringham had told him not to break any laws. Had he done so by coming here? “What’s the deal with this place?”
She looked perplexed. “Deal?”
Since his first encounter with this woman beside the standing stones, she’d seemed innocent, peculiarly unworldly. The entire island of Keinadraig, in fact, seemed like an anachronism, a place lost in another age. The village looked like an illustration in some old fairy tale book. The people spoke in an archaic manner. Even their clothing, like the cloak she wore, was somehow…unmodern. Jack realized with a start that Keely didn’t understand his expression, “what’s the deal?”
He rephrased the question. “I mean, why all the secrecy? Why aren’t strangers allowed here?”
The woman stared up at him for a long moment, the features of her fair, lovely face so distressed it nearly broke his heart. “‘Tis…’tis dangerous to talk here,” she insisted once again, beckoning him with slender fingers. “Come with me.”
He followed her along the beach and up the path he’d taken earlier to reach the standing stones. But instead of leading him there, she took him down the hill until they came to the cover of a large grove of trees. Once beneath the summer-rich canopy of leaves, daylight became dusk. The woman looked furtively around her, then again indicated for him to follow her. She led him behind some large boulders that hid them from all but the sea. She extinguished the flame in the old-fashioned kerosene lantern she’d been carrying and nestled it into a safe spot. Only then did she turn to him.
Her face was ashen, and Jack could see she quaked with fear. “What’s wrong?” he asked, wanting to touch her in reassurance, but not daring. “There’s no need to be afraid.”
“Aye, but there is.”
The wind tossed the hood of her dark cape away from her face, releasing the fragrant abundance of her thick black hair. It played in the breeze, caressing her face, teasing Jack, taunting him in unexpected ways until, unable to resist, he reached out and brought a tendril under control, tucking it behind her ear. His fingertips seemed to burn where they touched her skin. “Don’t be afraid of me,” he murmured again, thinking perhaps she ought to be. “I won’t hurt you.”
“‘Tis na of ye that I’m afraid.”
“Then what?”
She avoided the question, and his eyes. “Ye do na know our ways. Strangers are strictly forbidden here.”
“You’re afraid of your uncle.”
“‘Tis more than that. Our legends tell of strangers who died for trespassing…” Her voice trailed off, and Jack wondered if her words were a warning or a threat.
“What else do your legends tell you?”
“That…that bad things happen to those who leave Keinadraig.”
“Like what happened to your friend Genevieve?”
At the stricken look on her face, Jack almost wished he hadn’t brought it up. But it was the reason he was here. He wanted some answers, and this was the person who might give them to him. Still, his heart went out to her, for her ambivalence was clear.
The woman nodded, her eyes misting with tears. “Mister…uh…Jack, please. Can you tell me what…what happened to Genny?”
Keely fought the sickening fear that threatened to overwhelm her. She fought the idea that the stranger’s life had been endangered by the Dragon. It was impossible. Those were old legends, nothing more. He could not have heard singing in the cave. No one went there, certainly no woman. He must have imagined it. Maybe he’d heard the sound of the wind whistling through the rock formations and been lured deep within the cave where he’d nearly accidentally fallen to his death in the pit. He’d said he’d been attacked, but he could have just lost his footing and hit his head on the stone wall of the cavern.
There were reasonable explanations for what had happened to him. For everything that had happened in the past few days.
Still, Keely was afraid. She was afraid for him, and afraid for herself. She would pay dearly for these stolen moments with him if anyone found out, but once she’d spoken with him, she knew she had to ask him the one question that burned above all others. “What happened to Genny?”
She sank onto the stone seat where the sun had warmed her earlier in the day, as if its strength might protect her. Jack sat beside her. Keely was not afraid of him. He’d promised repeatedly that he wouldn’t hurt her, and there was an unexpected tenderness in the gesture when he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. She was relieved that he was no longer angry, for he was a large man, and she would be helpless against him. No, she was not afraid of the stranger even though she was afraid for him.
“What do you want to know?” His voice was deep, and its rich resonance sent a strange sensation racing through her. Keely had never been alone with a man like this before. She struggled to keep her focus.
“I want to know everything that happened to Genny.”
“Why don’t we start from the beginning? When she left. Did you know she was going to run away?”
Shame burned her cheeks. Did she dare reveal the truth to the stranger? Would he tell Alyn? Her uncle would likely find out sooner or later anyway. “Aye,” she replied with a small squeak. “She came to me the night she left. I…I helped her leave.”
“Why did she run, Keely?”
It was so odd, sitting here with a stranger, listening to him call her name as if they were old friends. But he was asking all the questions, while it was she who desperately needed answers.
“Who are ye?” she demanded suddenly. “Why are ye asking all these questions? Are ye a policeman?”
“No. I’m a private investigator, but I’m trying to help Scotland Yard find out who killed Genevieve.”
“But why?”
He was quiet for a long moment before he answered her. She glanced up at his face and saw a curious sadness creep into his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “Because the man who was in the hotel room with her at the time of her murder, the man who also almost died and who is suspected of killing her, is my best friend.” Keely sat in stunned silence, digesting this. His best friend? He’d nearly lost his best friend, too? Had his best friend killed her best friend?
“Did he?” She blurted her question, not meaning to be so blunt.
“What?”
“Kill her?”
The sadness in his face gave way to a stormy look. “Good God, no! Somebody, whoever did it, staged it to make it look like he shot her and then turned the gun on himself.”
“Shot!” Of course, Keely knew about guns, but the only one she’d ever seen was the pistol Alyn kept in the Council office. She did not know why he even had it. There was no need for guns on Keinadraig. “By the Saints,” she uttered, feeling lightheaded.
Jack took her hand in his, and she did not pull it away. She clung to its warmth and strength, needing something to hold onto lest she fall off the world. She listened in horror as he told her briefly how Genevieve had died. Her throat tightened when he said, “I believe she was killed instantly, Keely. I don’t think she suffered.”
As if that could ease the obscenity of it all.
Keely’s already tormented heart ripped painfully in her breast. Breath left her and would not return. The world spun, sickening her. “Genny,” she moaned, leaning over and clutching her arms. “Dear God! Poor, poor Genny.” Hot tears flooded her eyes, tears she had no will or wish to stem. She hurt in every inch of her being, and only tears seemed to numb the pain.
Giving in to her grief,
she allowed the tears to flow. Sobs wracked her whole body, debilitating her, and she did not resist when she felt the arms of the stranger enfold her. Without thought, she leaned against him, allowing his quiet strength to comfort her.
At last the emotional storm subsided, and Keely managed to regain at least some part of her senses. Reluctantly, she drew away from Jack with a strangled sob, knowing her behavior was improper, but instantly missing his embrace. “I am sorry,” she began, feeling fire in her cheeks. “I did na mean to…”
Looking up, she was shocked to see tears in his eyes as well. And she realized humbly she was not the only one who had suffered a terrible loss. She searched for words and found but a simple statement of consolation. “I am glad your friend did na die.” Meant to comfort, her words seemed instead to sharpen his pain. His face hardened.
“No, he didn’t die. Not yet. But he’s seriously injured. He’s…not expected to live.”
She did not know what else to say except “I am sorry.”
They sat very still for a long time, side by side in the protection of the boulders that shielded them from the world. Keely’s mind kept returning to the scene of the killing Jack had described, trying to grasp the impossible image of Genny in a hotel room with a strange man.
At last, she spoke. “Your friend. What is his name? What is he like?”
“Brad…” The name seemed to catch in Jack’s throat. “He was…is…one hell of a great guy. Except for the outcome, Genevieve was lucky to have known him.” Touching her chin, he gently turned her face to his. “How did she know him, Keely?”
Keely shook her head. “She did na know him. She did na know anybody on the outside. She was na running to anyone. Certainly not a lover. I think she was running from…” She broke off, not knowing how to finish her sentence.
“From what? Keely, look, I know this is hard, but if we only knew why she left, maybe we could figure out why she died. And find the killer.”
Keely shrugged, helpless and miserable. She was not comfortable telling an outsider that she suspected Genny and Ninian might have had cross words the night Genny left. She did not know it for certain, and besides, she did not think it mattered. For whatever reason, Genny had run away. The Dragon legend aside, the fate she’d met had nothing to do with why she’d left.
“I do na know what she was running from. Maybe she was na running from anything other than this village. She…she’d always been a dreamer, y’see.” Keely sniffled and wiped a stray tear with the back of her hand. She felt a faint smile tremble across her lips as she recalled the sunny, carefree girl Genevieve had been. “She and I, well, we sometimes took fish to the market in Penzance, and we’d dream about one day leaving Keinadraig and going to live in the exciting big city. Until we returned, that is. Genny’s mother, Ninian, made sure those notions were banished the moment we got home. She’d remind us of the kiss of the Dragon, and our duty to Keinadraig.”
“The kiss of the Dragon? What is that?”
Keely hesitated. She was telling this stranger far too much. “‘Tis…’tis nothing,” she faltered, unconsciously fingering the mark on her neck. “Just another of our ways.” Why was she still the one doing all the talking? She changed the subject. “Where is Genny now? Her body, I mean?”
“It’s in a place called a morgue, a place where they preserve…the dead, until they can find relatives to assume custody and give the person a proper burial.”
“Genny will have naught…”
“Are you related to her?” Jack brushed her cheek gently, and his touch raised the soft hair on her arms.
Alarmed, she shifted away from him and replied, “I am a cousin, but…I can na go to her. I can na leave the island.” A sudden thought struck her. “But maybe ye…could see to it she goes to God proper.”
“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. For one thing, I’m also a suspect in her murder.”
Keely stared at him. “What?”
“That night at the hotel, I heard someone screaming and went to see what was happening. The chambermaid ran out of the room where the crime took place, and I went in. I was the one the police found…standing over Genny’s body.” He slumped back against the rock and massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger.
Keely had never been into a hotel, so it was hard for her to visualize the scene he described, but she could not believe Jack had killed Genny. He was grieving as deeply as she was, and she felt as sorry for his loss as she did for her own. And coming upon the victims must have been a terrible shock.
“What will happen to her body if no one comes to claim it?” she asked, forcing her thoughts back to the problem of Genny’s final rites.
“They will eventually bury her in a public cemetery, I guess.”
“Oh, she mustn’t be buried,” Keely declared before thinking. “Her body must be burned so it will be purified, according to…” Keely stopped herself in midsentence. What was she thinking? She had no business telling this stranger anything of the ways of the Dragoners. “Never ye mind. ‘Tis…‘tis beyond me now.” But she wished with every ounce of her soul that there was some way she could insure that Genny’s spirit would be released according to their custom.
She felt Jack take her hand again, and her heart began to beat like a thousand drums. His touch awakened feelings within her she had never before experienced, sensations both pleasant and frightening. She ought not to be here, alone with him. He was an outsider, and although she fought the idea, it was possible that he was in grave danger for lingering on the island.
But oddly, being with him felt strangely right in her heart. She treasured this moment, for it was the stranger, not her own people, who seemed to understand her pain. She perceived his pain as well. Sadly, theirs was a bond of mutual grief. She wished they could work through it together, but that was impossible. She must send him away…soon.
“Come with me to London,” he said, interrupting her melancholy thoughts.
At first, Keely thought she’d misheard him, but he continued, and she knew she had not.
“I’ll take you there and bring you safely home again. You can take care of arranging for Genevieve’s…ceremony yourself.”
For one moment, Keely actually considered it. For a single fraction of a second her conscience told her that it was the most loving thing she could do for the soul of her friend and kinswoman.
And then she remembered who she was. And from where.
“No.”
“Why not? Are you afraid?”
“No.” Her voice quavered in her not-quite-honest reply.
“Are you afraid that if you left, your uncle would not allow you to return?”
How did this man know what was in her heart? “No,” she protested again, but suddenly her courage deserted her in the face of the truth. “I mean, yes. ‘Tis the law of the Dragon. If I were to leave, I…I could never return.”
“Do you believe in the dragon, Keely?”
“Of course not,” she snapped, then stopped short. She’d been telling herself ever since Genny’s disappearance that she did not believe in the Dragon other than as a symbol of the fierce independence of the people of Keinadraig. Nor did she believe in the old legends. And yet Genny lay dead. Brutally murdered.
…let no one leave who be Dragon kiss’d.
Chapter Seven
Garrison Holstedt sat in an uncomfortable steel chair in Inspector Sandringham’s Spartan office, staring at the tiny pistol the police officer displayed from its protective container. It was the size of a Derringer, the dull gray metal ornately engraved.
“We had Jeremy Ryder, an expert on valuable antiques, take a look at it,” Sandringham said. “He identified it as one of a set of four made in France nearly two hundred years ago for the sons of a Scottish nobleman. The other three are in museums or private collections. The fourth,” he wagged the evidence bag, “was stolen from the home of a member of Parliament nearly a decade ago, along with other valuable art and antiques.”
Garrison peered at the gun. Such an unlikely murder weapon. So small, so old, yet so deadly. Unique in design, it had two barrels and two triggers. All the killer needed, he thought grimly.
“Any idea where your son might have come by this gun?” The inspector’s voice was neutral of emotion, but Garrison wanted to reach across the desk and punch him.
“You know damn well that Brad never ‘came by’ that gun until the shooter put it in his hand. First, he hates guns. Secondly, even if he’d wanted to bring in a weapon from the States, it wouldn’t have passed through airport security. And as Jack told you, Brad was left-handed. He couldn’t have shot himself in the right temple.”
“Forensics found gunpowder on the skin of his right hand.”
Garrison’s own skin turned cold. “What? That’s impossible. Brad’s still in the hospital. When would forensics…?”
Sandringham gave him a patient smile along with an enigmatic answer. “We are a very efficient outfit, Mr. Holstedt.”
Garrison wished Jack was here. This was not good.
“That still does not mean he killed the girl and then shot himself,” Garrison argued. “I mean, where’s the motive? Why would my son, who had so much going for him, become involved in some sordid…” His voice faltered.
Sandringham shrugged. “Maybe it was a crime of passion. Or maybe your son had a secret you didn’t know. Maybe the woman was blackmailing him or something. We don’t have all the answers. But we do know that he was shot at close range. There was gunpowder on his hand, so the wound could have been self-inflicted. Of course, his prints are on the weapon. The bullet found in the girl’s body matches the one removed from your son’s skull. Both entrance wounds are the same size. Now, if it wasn’t murder and attempted suicide, then what other explanation could there be? Do you know of anyone who might be better off with your son dead?”
“Of course not.” Garrison was put off by the man’s implication that the murderer was other than some London lowlife. Who could he be talking about?
“When I arrived on the scene, I found Mr. Jackson Knight standing over the dead woman’s body,” the inspector droned on. “He claims to be a friend of your family. Is this true?”
