Skylark Page 7

"Brilliant idea." I wasn't really over my Tube phobia--I had almost had to walk to Knightsbridge--but I wasn't sure how many prodigal taxi rides Ann could afford.

  The National Theatre is a glass and concrete structure of the sort that provoked Prince Charles to his famous outburst against contemporary architecture. I rather liked it myself. The terraces in front of the complex and the theater balconies gave on an incomparable view across the Thames, with the Houses of Parliament and, downstream, St. Paul's Cathedral, floating on the river.

  When the play let out, we drifted back toward the Hungerford Footbridge, taking our time. The historical buildings across the Thames were floodlit by then, and their reflections shimmered on the water. We strolled, soaking in the postcard-perfect view.

  Ann said dreamily, "'London, thou art the flower of cities all.'"

  "Who's that? Wordsworth?"

  "Dunbar. A Scottish poet. Much earlier than Wordsworth."

  We climbed to the bridge and started across. It was misting a little and chilly. Ann stopped midway and stood staring at the pinkly lit dome of St. Paul's as the last of the chattering play-goers streamed by us, bound for Charing Cross.

  I glanced at her and saw that her cheeks were wet, whether from tears or mist I couldn't be sure. I cleared my throat. "It was a thought-provoking production."

  "Mm."

  "I'm in love with Polonius."

  Ann laughed and mopped her glasses with a tissue. "What a glorious Hamlet he must have been. He played Hamlet, you know, just before World War II. The Ophelia was wonderful, too."

  "You haven't said anything about the leading man."

  "He surely did put an antic disposition on. I think I liked it--an antidote to the melancholy Dane cliché. Oh, look." A brightly-lit launch pulled out from the embankment and headed downriver. We watched it out of sight.

  Ann heaved a sigh. "I guess we'd better head for home. Shall we take the Tube?"

  "Sure," I said bravely. "No sweat."

  Tube trains stop running after midnight, and it was half past eleven by then. I could see why the other playgoers hadn't stopped to admire the view. Charing Cross was almost deserted and several of the exits had been chained off. We descended to the right platform, our shoes clacking in the empty corridors. On the platform, two shadowy figures lurked beside a pillar. Ann and I drew together.

  The wait dragged on. Finally we felt the rush of stale air and heard the rumble as the train approached. A bunch of punk kids occupied the car that stopped in front of us. They stared out with cultivated sullenness.

  "Next car." Ann dragged me down the platform.

  The two men who had stood together near the pillar were already seated in the car we boarded. Ann and I hunched together by an elderly Jamaican woman. There was no one else in the carriage.

  I was gritting my teeth. I stared at the Underground map and checked off the stations as we passed them. Westminster. St. James. At Victoria the elderly woman got off. No one entered.

  Beside me, Ann clutched her purse and swayed with the rocking motion. Neither of us said a word. As the train pulled into Sloane Square, the site of the assault, the two lurkers moved toward us.

  I almost leapt from my seat and ran off the train. My heart thumped. Then the men stepped off the car, a woman with a shopping bag got on, and the doors closed.

  I looked at Ann. "No suitable quotes?"

  She rolled her eyes. "'And in the night, imagining a fear, how easy is a bush supposed a bear.'"

  "That's not Hamlet."

  "No, but it's apt." She smiled. "I do get pedantic, honey. It's the English teacher habit."

  "I like it. All I can ever remember are irrelevant bits that sound funny."

  "'I'll lug the guts into the neighbour room?'"

  "Like that."

  South Kensington station was just as empty as Charing Cross had been, and the arcade was spooky without the flower vendors and newspaper stands. We jaywalked, London style, to the south side of the street and moved past the shuttered shops at a good clip. A pub spilled comforting light and noise at the first corner, and a police car, blue light revolving, passed us as we walked. I saw it turn down our side street.

  An empty bus rumbled by, and a taxi full of well-dressed revelers. Still, it was quiet for Friday night in a city.

  As we turned the corner Ann stopped dead. "Look. Isn't that our house?" The question was not rhetorical. Ours was only one of a long row of nearly identical Regency-style townhouses, and both of us had tried to enter the wrong areaway at different times.

  The police car sat by the front steps, and the main door to the building stood open. It did not take genius to realize that something was wrong. We walked, feet dragging, toward the blue-lit scene. I think we were both afraid to find out what had happened. My stomach had tied itself in a knot.

  "That's Daphne Worth talking to the officer," Ann murmured.

  "Another break-in?"

  "Lord, I hope not."

  We reached the wrought-iron railing, and Constable Ryan moved towards us from the gate. His face looked menacing in the inconstant blue light. "Move along...oh. You live here."

  "Until Monday," I said. "What's going on?"

  "There's been an accident."

  Accident? Ann and I stared at him.

  "Your landlady, Miss Beale, has had a fall."

  Ann clucked her tongue. "Those awful rubber strips on the stairs were a disaster waiting to happen. I hope she's not badly injured."

  "She's dead, madam."

  Silence. My heart paused then thudded into danger mode. I heard Ann draw a long breath.

  "You'd best go down to your flat," Constable Ryan said. "We'll send someone down to question you."

  I swallowed hard. "Question us? We've been gone all evening."

  "Even so, Mrs. Dodge."

  Ann had fished out her keys. She undid the gate with a minimum of fumbling, and I went down the concrete steps after her. The front-door lock, the one the burglars had picked the night before, opened smoothly.

  Ann entered the flat. As I followed her, I heard Daphne Worth's voice from above, shrill with strain and anger.

  "...but why did they have to kill Rollo, too?"

  I shut the door and leaned against it.

  Chapter 7.

  "He's here, Lark. Wake up!"

  "Mm...who?" I blinked awake. I had been dreaming of Jay, such is the power of positive wishing.

  Ann turned on the bedside light. "Inspector Thorne."

  I squinched my eyes shut, opened them, and sat up. "Okay, I'll be with you in a minute."

  Ann was still fully dressed in the lavender suit she had worn to the play. As she whisked from the room I glanced blearily at my watch, saw it was half-past two, and decided the constabulary would have to suffer the sight of me in the jeans and sweatshirt I had changed into earlier.

  I had meant to nap and was lying atop the duvet, but I had fallen into heavy sleep in spite of my good intentions. My limbs felt like overcooked pasta.

  Ann had brewed coffee. Thorne, who looked as tired as I felt, though he wore a rumpled suit rather than jeans, was warming his hands on a flowered mug. A woman in her thirties sat on the couch beside him, also nursing a mug. Both of them rose, unsmiling, and set their cups aside.

  "Mrs. Dodge," Thorne murmured. "Detective Sergeant Baylor."

  The woman, who was about Ann's age and plumply pretty in a glen plaid suit, extended her hand. I shook it.

  I took the mug of coffee Ann held out to me and sank onto the armchair. The two detectives resumed their places on the couch.

  "This is a bad business," Thorne rumbled. "Poor lady, her neck was broken." Sgt. Baylor watched me with bright brown eyes.

  "Do you have a suspect?"

  Thorne's eyes narrowed, and I heard Sgt. Baylor take a sharp breath. "An odd question, Mrs. Dodge. Very odd indeed. That's an ill-lit stairwell, and the stairs themselves are in poor condition. What leads you to think Miss Beale did not meet with an accident?"

  I to
ok a sip of scalding coffee to ease my suddenly dry mouth. "Miss Worth, something I heard her say..." I quoted Daphne's anguished question. "So I thought, if the dog was killed..."

  "I see." Thorne didn't look as if he saw anything, and his tone was skeptical. Sgt. Baylor had taken out her notebook.

  I suppressed a yawn--nervous not sleepy. I was wide awake.

  Ann covered the awkwardness with sad exclamations about Rollo and Miss Beale and the horrors of climbing the staircase with those feeble little lights winking on and off. I think all three of us ignored her, but she set a warmer tone.

  At last Thorne took up his cup again. When Ann wound down he said, "Does either of you own a pair of short white cotton stockings? Anklets I believe they're called."

  Ann shook her head. Behind the pink lenses of her glasses her eyes widened.

  I stared at Thorne, baffled, too, but apprehensive. My stomach was doing unpleasant things. "I brought half a dozen pairs of cotton socks. I wear them with running shoes."

  Thorne took another swallow of coffee. "Will you ascertain whether one of those stockings is missing, Mrs. Dodge? Sergeant Baylor will accompany you."

  "I don't understand..."

  Thorne interrupted me. "Understanding is not necessary, madam. Your cooperation is. I can send for a search warrant..."

  I rose. "Sgt. Baylor may look through my laundry bag as long as she likes, inspector. I have nothing to hide, not even dirty linen."

  The mild witticism drew not the ghost of a smile from either of the detectives. Sgt. Baylor stood and brushed her skirt straight.

  When I had tidied up after the burglary I had stuffed much of what was lying on the floor, whether it was clean or dirty, into my laundry bag. The bag looked like a lumpy sausage. I upended it on the duvet and started sorting.

  I was wearing a lot of intense blue and fuchsia that spring, and my undies lean in the direction of lace and pastel colors. The white socks were easy to spot. There were five of them. I laid them next to each other on the bed and poked everything else back into the bag.

  Baylor didn't say anything. I moved to the dresser, hoping the stray sock had found its way into the top drawer. Three neatly rolled pairs lay in a corner, like sandbags holding back the froth of panty hose and pastel briefs. I searched grimly. I opened the other drawers and rummaged without success.

  "A sock is missing." I cleared my throat. "In addition to the Inuit carving and the twenty odd pounds we reported."

  Baylor nodded. I followed her back to the living room and said nothing as she told Thorne the results of the search.

  When she finished Ann said, "I think you'd better explain, Inspector."

  I drank cold coffee and didn't look at anyone.

  After a silence that may or may not have been pregnant, Thorne said heavily, "We found the Eskimo carving in the mop pail. It was hidden in the toe of the missing stocking, and there are stains on the fabric, possibly hair as well."

  My pulse thrummed. When neither Ann nor I commented Thorne went on, "We're fairly sure the dog was coshed--skull fractured. It's also possible that certain of Miss Beale's head injuries were inflicted by the same weapon. Mind you, we're not sure. We'll have to await the forensic analysis."

  "Before you arrest Lark for murder? That's crazy," Ann said in the tone of voice she would use to calm a dangerous lunatic. "She was with me all evening."

  Thorne leaned forward. "And all afternoon?"

  Sgt. Baylor's pen poised above her notebook.

  I said from the depths of my funk, "Ann was out shopping for food when I came in around three. I napped from about three until five. When..." I cleared my throat again. It felt tight. "When did Miss Beale's accident occur?"

  Thorne's voice was as cool as his eyes, but I noticed an odd thing. While his vocabulary had grown statelier than in our earlier sessions, his vowels had slid back in his throat, and his r's rolled like the River Tyne. "We don't know. She lay in the main entryway, head down with her feet still on the stairs. As far as we can tell, no one saw her today." He glanced at his wristwatch. "Yesterday."

  "That's hard to believe." Ann leaned forward. Her hair had begun to wilt. A blond strand hung over her forehead. She brushed it aside. "There are other tenants, tenants with access to the foyer and stairs. We have no key to the main building."

  "According to her niece, Miss Beale often left the door unlatched in daytime."

  That was news to me. Bad news. Ann grimaced.

  Thorne continued in the same heavy northern voice, "The ground floor flat is leased by a French chemical firm as a pied à terre for their commercial travelers. We believe no one is in residence at the moment. The first floor tenants are on holiday. The gentleman who lives above has not yet returned. A householder across the street saw his auto leave at half nine in the morning."

  "So she...Miss Beale might have lain there all day." I swallowed hard. "Could...did she live long after the fall?" Could we have done anything for her was what I meant to ask, though my guilt was unwarranted. Neither Ann nor I would have tried to enter the main door. Miss Beale's note had specified no further personal contact. I wondered if we still had the note.

  "We have no way of knowing until the autopsy, Mrs. Dodge, and even then..." Thorne's voice trailed as if finishing the sentence required more energy than he could summon. He rose. "I shall have to ask both of you to remain in London until further notice."

  "We were supposed to leave the flat Monday morning." I took some pleasure in reminding him of that.

  "I've spoken to Miss Worth. She has no objection to your stopping on at the same rent if your presence will assist me in my enquiries."

  "Oh, and how about Mr. Worth?"

  "She says he'll agree. She was most cooperative." There was a definite stress on the pronoun.

  Ann heaved a sigh. She had spent a lot of thought and energy arranging our excursion to Wales. However, she made no objections. I didn't either, God knows. Thorne hadn't arrested me. I supposed I should be grateful. I wondered if Jay was home yet.

  As we saw the police to the door, I decided it was time to state the obvious. "It's a little hard to believe in rampant coincidence, Inspector. Surely there's a connection between Milos's stabbing, the burglary, and Miss Beale's accident." Once more I forced out the euphemism. Thorne wasn't going to hear the word murder from my lips.

  "If there was a burglary."

  A hot wave of anger energized me. "What the hell does that mean?"

  He stood in the tiny hallway, flatfooted, regarding me from tired, unsmiling eyes. "Happen 'twas faked, Mrs. Dodge. Nowt was taken save the murder weapon. And the white stocking."

  I translated, fuming. What about my twenty pounds? Of course he had only my word that there had been twenty pounds.

  Ann leapt into the breach. "Now, Inspector, honey, you're letting your imagination run away with you. Milos was stabbed, and some lowlife broke in here looking for his papers. When he couldn't find them, he came back. If the scoundrel took the sock and the carving and used them to whop Miss Beale upside the head, why I reckon he just had a purpose we don't know about yet."

  Thorne had shrugged into his raincoat. Ann gave his lapel a small pat. "You go home and get some rest now, hear? When you look at the situation in the morning, I just know you'll find a solution."

  Thorne smiled the ghost of a smile. "Happen you're right, lass."

  I wished I could speak Georgia. Or Geordie. Sgt. Baylor's bright brown eyes shifted from Ann to her boss, but she didn't comment on the flowering of dialects.

  It was three in the morning. When the two detectives had gone I stomped back into the living room. Fright and frustration drove me to the coffee pot. I poured a reckless cup and gulped it without cream. "He has to be out of his mind. Does he really believe I'd kill Miss Beale over possession of this ghastly cave? The man is nuts, loony, bonkers..."

  "Now, honey."

  I rounded on her. "If you dump the butter boat over me, Ann, I swear I will commit murder. Inspectah sugah, ah
jest know yoah gonna solve this little old crahm any minute now." My imitation was neither accurate nor kind, but I was fed up. I am not fond of the stereotype of Southern womanhood under the best of circumstances. Ann was an intelligent adult. I saw no reason why she should do a bad imitation of Scarlett O'Hara.

  Ann sank onto the couch-cum-bed. "Lord, Lark, what's the use of antagonizing the man?"

  I said through my teeth, "There has to be a middle ground between antagonizing Thorne and covering him with praline syrup. What is with you, anyway?"

  She stared at me through the pink-tinted lenses, opened her mouth, closed it. Finally she said, "I do conciliate, don't I?"

  I gave a short sharp nod.

  She sighed. "Buford--my ex-husband, that is--was apt be a trifle irascible." She wrinkled her nose as if the word tasted bad. "Hell, he was a loud-mouthed bully and as notional as a mule in a hurricane. I got so I placated him without thinking. I'm sorry, Lark. It's a terrible habit. I didn't mean to say anything inappropriate. I guess I'm a little tired."

  "It's okay." I felt two inches high. "In fact it probably helped. Just don't feel as if you have to seduce the man on my behalf."

  She gave a crooked smile. "Have a little dignity?"

  I squirmed.

  "I admire you, Lark. You're so independent-minded."

  "Like a mule in a hurricane?"

  The smile turned into a grin. "You said it, honey. What're we going to do?"

  I shook my head. "Hide? When the press finds out I'm a suspect I'll have to hide. You may not have noticed but the British press is largely composed of gossip mongers and paparazzi. Thank God there's no phone."

  Ann had gone pensive. "I'm going to visit Milos. I'm sure there's a connection between his stabbing and Miss Beale's murder. I want to find out what it is, starting with those papers."

  "Do you think he'll be able to talk?"

  "Or willing? That's the real question. I thought he was just a simple refugee, but if he's smuggling state secrets..."

  I wasn't liking the idea either.

  My understanding of international espionage was drawn entirely from spy thrillers. Since I detest spying of any kind, I had not read many. I'd stopped halfway through one bestseller when the so-called hero blew away the villain and a dozen assorted bystanders in front of the Louvre, and left on a plane for New York the next morning without so much as a mild hélas from the S�reté. As fiction, the story lacked verisimilitude, and if it was reality, I wanted no part of it. The thought of being caught up in such shenanigans was even more appalling than being held prisoner by British tabloids. There had to be a tamer alternative, but Inspector Thorne's alternative featured me as the goat.