Arthur

by Nancy Warren

  They could kill, too, those hands. Somehow she knew that. He wouldn’t waste time on moral dithering. If someone he loved was threatened, if he felt he had no choice, he’d kill.

  He’d have even less compunction making his interest in a woman clear. She doubted he’d often been told no.

  “I’ll take you upstairs now,” he said, and she thought he’d listened in on her thoughts. She almost said, “It’s a little soon,” before she realized he was still playing tour guide.

  “Sure, okay.”

  Up they went. She followed him and felt the quiver of awareness. Oh, he filled out a pair of jeans nicely. She told herself to stop ogling the guy’s butt, but where else was she supposed to look? Besides, she was a woman who believed in life’s little luxuries, and this was surely one of them.

  Just because she looked, didn’t mean she had to touch. And, until this book was written, she reminded herself, looking was all she’d be doing.

  The staircase was narrow, the walls rough plaster, wonderfully old and atmospheric.

  There were two bedrooms upstairs and a bathroom. The largest bedroom contained a big, comfy bed with a chintz-covered duvet in lavenders and greens. The walls were palest yellow, the ceiling sloped and a dormer window overlooked the fields and the immense grandeur of Hart House.

  When Arthur stood in her bedroom and explained about the heat register, she could barely concentrate. He was looking at her, talking about the electric heat, but there was an entirely different heat stirring the air. She felt it coming off his body, from the eyes that looked at her so keenly.

  She felt such an intense physical reaction to this man who was a complete stranger that she took refuge in looking out of the window. There was a river on the other side of the big house and she could imagine herself tramping all over the area on the many footpaths as she wrestled with her story. In the distance she could see sheep moving slowly, like scattered clouds.

  “It’s a lovely part of the country,” he said, from behind her.

  “Yes, yes it is. But, I’m here to work,” she reminded both of them.

  They clomped back down the stairs and he handed her the keys. “The number of the pub is by the phone. My home number is there as well, if you need anything.”

  Was it her imagination or had he put the slightest emphasis on the last bit?

  He was the most appealing man she’d met in a long time, but she didn’t have the time, not while her deadline was breathing down her neck. So she sent him her blandest smile.

  “There are a few staples in the cupboards, but if you plan to cook tonight, you’ll need to get to the shops. The ones in town close at five. There’s a Sainsbury’s – that’s an American style supermarket. It’s open until seven, but it’s a drive.”

  “Any chance of home delivery or takeout meals?”

  “Not in the village. There’s the King George Café; does a nice breakfast, lunch and cream tea, but it’s not open for dinner, or there’s the pub.”

  “Right. I guess I’ll see you for dinner then.”

  “You’ll see me before that.”

  Her brows rose.

  “I’ll fetch your bags from the station.”

  “Oh, there’s no need, I can—“

  “It’s all part of the service.”

  She took the keys he held out. “Thanks.”

  She allowed herself the luxury of watching him walk back across the fields, watching the long gait, the easy stride of a man at home in the country. She told herself it wasn’t lust gluing her gaze to his retreating back, but research. When he got to the stile, he turned and lifted a hand. As though he’d known she’d be watching him. Which she had, damn it, she thought, waving back.

  Okay, lady, she said to herself, time to write. The tingling in her fingertips that had never quite gone away since she’d had her vision in the pub, now warred with a slight queasiness in her stomach that she knew was nerves.

  She unzipped her bag and pulled out her laptop, placing it on the sturdy oak kitchen table. The kitchen chairs were also oak, though they appeared to be a later vintage than the table. They were also hard.

  At home she had an ergonomic desk and a chair with about seventeen levers and knobs to adjust height, angle, amount of lumbar support. She shook her head at herself as she found a cushion on the sofa in the lounge area, as Arthur had called it, and placed the flattish square cushion covered in green brocade onto the kitchen chair. She faced the window and the view of the fields with the big house in the background.

  A bit of crawling around on her hands and knees and a minor amount of swearing later and she had her adaptor plugged into the English socket. The computer seemed perfectly happy with the new system, powering up with a reassuring whir.

  She sat down. Opened a new file, flexed her fingers as though she were a pianist about to perform at Carnegie Hall. Typed Chapter One.

  Then she sat back against the hard wooden back of the kitchen chair and pondered the murder in the pub.

  She pulled out the six pages and typed in what she’d written, adding details as she went.

  The pub was busy. It was a Friday night. She imagined a lot of laughing, the thunk of darts hitting the dartboard, the end-of-the-work-week letting loose as the place filled up and the pints went down. The restaurant would be kept busy. Patrons as thick around the long bar as seagulls around a fishing boat. And, in the dim corner, the man in the expensive dark suit drank his beer slowly. Was he waiting for someone? Or was it a surprise when the tall figure sank down beside him on the long upholstered bench?

  A surprise, she decided. Her victim did not know his killer. She described the knife briefly. It wasn’t elegant or showy. It was an unadorned stiletto: a tool of death. Nothing more. It was the hand holding the knife that fascinated her. The long, sensual fingers curled round the hilt. It was a man’s hand. He wore no ring, but the fingernail of the thumb was ridged as though it had been smashed and re-grown in a strange manner.

  Meg felt the moment that the knife moved. It’s not a simple matter to stab a man to death in a public place. He needed strength, her villain, as well as guile and amazing self-confidence. She saw all three come together in the way he watched for his moment, then took it, muscles bunching in his arm, the suppressed grunt of effort, the gasp of shock from the victim and the quiet sigh as his last breath expelled.

  By the time Manfred Waxman slumped to the table, stabbed through the heart, the villain had pocketed his knife and was making his way to the door before the first drop of blood hit the floor.

  The pub door opened, and shut. Then the villain sauntered down the village high street as though he were a man on his way home after a couple of pints. She felt the knife in his pocket, as though her own fingers touched the blade, still wet with a dead man’s blood.

  When a hand touched her shoulder she jumped a mile. She’d have screamed if her heart hadn’t got jammed in her throat preventing her from making a sound. She swung around to find Arthur looking down at her in some amusement.

  “I’ve never seen anyone go into a trance the way you do. I knocked on the door, and then I called. I could see you in here through the window so finally I let myself in. Sorry I startled you.”

  She put a hand to her chest, feeling her heart pound. She needed a minute before she could speak.

  “I really frightened you,” he said in a concerned tone. “You’re trembling.”

  He touched her hand and she jerked back instinctively. His thumbnail was ridged. “What happened to your thumb?”

  He took his hand back and looked down at the misshapen nail. “I banged it with a hammer a couple of months back. Terrible looking thing, I know.”

  “It’s weird because my murderer has a thumbnail exactly like that.” Of course, his misshapen thumbnail didn’t make Arthur a murderer. It meant she’d noticed his nail and it hadn’t registered consciously.

  “I was fixing some fencing. Nothing as exciting as killing, I’m afraid.”

  She shook her h
ead. “Sorry. I scare myself when I’m writing. You crept up on me when the murderer was leaving the scene.”

  Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Writing your books frightens you?”

  “Of course. If I didn’t scare myself I’d be worried. It would be like a comedy writer not getting her own jokes, or a cookbook writer not feeling hungry when she dreamed up recipes.”

  He nodded, looking down at her with a thoughtful expression. “Better to end up laughing or eating a fine meal than trembling with fright, though.”

  “You’re right, of course. Sometimes I get so scared when I’m writing that I can’t sleep.”

  “What do you do then?”

  “Keep writing. With every light burning and all the doors locked.”

  “Well, I can assure you it’s safe round here, but if you’re ever bothered by anything, you can call me.” He gave her a rueful grin. “For a chat. I’m a light sleeper, myself. I live alone, so you’d not be disturbing anyone.”

  “Thanks,” she said, hoping that she’d be strong enough to resist. Or at least strong enough not to phone him unless she was really, really scared. She wasn’t happy with herself for being so pleased that he’d casually let her know he slept alone.

  “Shall I take your bags upstairs, then?”

  “That would be great. I found some tea bags and everlasting milk. Do you want a cup?”

  He hoisted her three bags with such ease she felt jealous, knowing her arms and shoulders would be sore tomorrow from hauling them on and off the train. “Better not. I’ve got a few things to do.”

  “Okay.” She was relieved, of course, since she didn’t want to be interrupted now that the heat of the story was upon her, and she’d only asked out of politeness. But now that he’d turned her down, she wished he was staying, instead of abandoning her with no one but a murderer for company.

  Hunger pangs, eye strain and jet lag finally dragged her out of her story. A glance at the watch she’d already set to local time told her it was almost seven. She had no idea what time the pub stopped serving dinner, but she figured she’d better get a move on if she wanted to eat.

  She braved the antique plumbing for a quick shower, re-did her makeup and changed into her best jeans and a soft green sweater.

  Then, grabbing the flashlight that hung by the back door, since there were no streetlights to guide her back to Stag Cottage, she headed back to the scene of the murder.

  Chapter 3

  Arthur didn’t admit to himself he’d been watching for the new tenant of Stag Cottage until the door opened and in she walked, the eccentric author who seemed to spend a great deal of time in her own world, deaf and blind to real life being lived under her nose.

  Her hair flowed over her shoulders, glorious, the color of wheat right before harvest. Rich with gold and biscuity browns. She’d changed into a dark green sleeveless jumper, jeans that showed off a very nice figure and leather sandals. She’d applied makeup, he noticed since he last saw her. She glanced around as she walked in, not shy, exactly, but unsure.

  He waved to get her attention and she sent him a smile that might be all about relief at seeing a familiar face but which, nevertheless, got his blood up. She was much too pretty for her own good. Or his.

  “How’s the writing going?” he asked, loud enough to be heard over the din.

  “Fantastic. I have a very good feeling about writing here.” She’d done more than change her clothes, he noted. Her hair was shiny and slightly damp at the ends and her face appeared freshly made up. Her eyes were hazel. Big and round and thoughtful. She had a glossy magazine smile, fine skin and a few freckles.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Red wine, please.”

  He poured it for her and set her glass in front of her. “Everybody comes up here eventually. I’ll introduce you round, if you like. Or are you here for absolute peace and quiet?”

  She laughed. “I wouldn’t have come here if I was. I’d have stayed in Stag Cottage with the cans of soup and crackers in the cupboard.”

  “I shouldn’t think anyone in town will be a nuisance. We get plenty of toffs – George’s friends – coming through. And film and telly stars, of course, since the castle’s been used for everything from toothpaste commercials to costume dramas.”

  “Well, that’s a big relief.” She held up her glass in a silent toast and sipped. He served a few more drinks, keeping half an eye on her. He could have sworn she was off in her own world again, but when he had time to mop up a spill, he found her chatting happily to Edgar Nolan who ran the tobacconist’s shop across the way. Edgar was an old widower, harmless but he could bore the eyebrows off a beetle given half the chance.

  George and Maxine wandered up to the bar. “Bugger me, if you don’t get uglier every time I see you,” the Lord of the Manor said to him.

  “You can sit yourself outside with the rest of the lager louts,” Arthur responded. Having proven their mutual respect and esteem, Arthur turned to Max. “Hallo gorgeous. When are you going to give him the shove and run away with me?”

  “How’s Friday for you?” Max asked. But her hand never left George’s. If he’d ever seen two people crazier about each other, he couldn’t remember it.

  He grinned at her. “What can I get you, love?”

  “Do you have those little bottles of champagne?”

  “Of course,” he said, hauling one out. He didn’t bother asking George, just pulled him a pint. Probably because he’d been ribbed so mercilessly as a teenager, Lord Ponsford had learned early to prefer beer to anything posh. Knowing they’d soon find friends and disappear into the crowd, Arthur said, “Come and meet the new tenant of Stag Cottage. Another yank.”

  George cocked an eyebrow.

  Maxine was predictably thrilled to find that their temporary tenant was American. George did his charming Lord of the Manor routine, then sent Arthur a glance that conveyed definite approval. Yeah, keep away, dirty dog was what he telegraphed back.

  Already, Maxine was catching up on news from home. Politics and celebrity gossip seemed equally fascinating. While they were at it, George and he discussed how they were going to annihilate their opponents next Saturday on the football pitch, in their local over thirty league.

  “I’m starving,” Maxine said. “Meg, will you join us for dinner?”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t want to intrude.”

  “No. Really, I insist. I want all the news and to know what people are talking about at home. I feel like I’m losing touch with my people.”

  “You were in Los Angeles two months ago,” George reminded her.

  “You don’t understand, honey.”

  She turned to Arthur, as he’d half known she would. Maxine already knew him too well and took as keen an interest in his affairs as his sister did. “Come and take a dinner break,” she ordered him.

  If he didn’t want to eat dinner with Meg as much as Maxine knew he did, he’d be annoyed. But, Maxine was smart and perceptive. So he shrugged and said, “I’ll see.” Which, of course, Max being Max, she took as a yes.

  “Great.” She turned to Meg. “We order off the board, here. I can recommend everything, but my favorites are the shepherd’s pie and the lasagna – meat or vegetarian.”

  Meg, who he suspected was feeling the effects of international travel followed by a good few hours spent murdering people, looked a little dazed. “Vegetarian lasagna sounds good to me.”

  When they’d ordered, George took them away to settle at a table. She fit right in with them, he thought. Already Meg and Maxine were on the friendliest terms. A lot of people were intimidated by George’s title and all the pomp that surrounded him, at least until they got to know him. But he could tell Meg wasn’t like that. He suspected every man would have to prove himself in her eyes. Prince or pauper.

  He waited until the food was up to take his break, reasoning that Meg hadn’t asked for his company and she’d made it fairly clear she wasn’t looking for any action. At least, not
on her first day here. Give her a week or so to acclimatize and he might see if he could interest his temporary neighbor in a possible holiday fling.

  The dinner rush was ending and Joe was on with a couple of waitresses, so Arthur picked up the tray of food and delivered it, serving himself today’s special: chicken Kiev.

  “Oh, my God,” Maxine squealed as soon as he sat down. “I can’t believe you’re Meg Stanton.” She looked at Arthur and George in turn. “I love her books.” She shook a carrot stick at Meg. “You have kept me awake way too many nights.”

  He could tell from the pleased, and rather smug look on her face, that Meg thought a sleepless reader was a high compliment.

  “So, you’re famous?” He’d accepted that she was a writer without ever thinking she might be well known. Well, he’d never heard of her, but that didn’t mean much.

  “No—“

  “Yes.” Max interrupted. “She’s totally famous in the States. Maybe not so much here. But I’m sure that will change. I thought your last book was your best yet.”

  “Is it a chick read?” George wanted to know.

  Maxine rolled her eyes. “Lots of men read her novels. My dad is a huge fan.”

  Arthur had wondered the same thing, whether the lady was writing for her own kind, but he wasn’t going to have his nose snapped off. “I’ll have to track down one of your books.”

  “I can lend you one. I think I’ve got them all,” Maxine said with pride. “In fact, while you’re here, maybe you could sign them for me?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  “I can’t believe this. I know, I’m gushing. But I am such a fan. I’ve read every one of your books.”

  “Really? Which is your favorite?” Meg paused and put her fork down, obviously taking this seriously.

  “I have two favorites. I can never decide whether I like the one about the wife who murders her adulterous husband, and then decides to rid her city of all cheating men – oh, and those guys totally got what they deserved. It was so deliciously gory. Or the woman who was abandoned by her father, and, after she tracks him down and kills him -- well, I don’t want to give any more away.”