Docketful of Poesy (22 page)

I saw no indication that the police were watching the
house waiting for Peter’s return, but I supposed they could be
hiding in the woods with binoculars. And if Brian was out there I
hoped rain was trickling down the back of his neck.

At length I got out of the car, opened my umbrella,
and ran up the flagstones to the door of Rogue’s Gallery. I
unlocked the door, and let myself into the shop, my eyes adjusting
to the gloom. I could see a platoon of little tin soldiers, an old
ship’s wheel, and a gentleman’s top hat sitting on a hatbox marked
B. Basile,
Brussels
. For some reason these items
struck me as terribly poignant as I stood there in the silent,
empty shop listening to the rain.

Why had I come here? I wasn’t even sure. I suppose I
wanted to see if I could find some hint of where Peter might have
gone—as unlikely as it was that he’d carelessly leave a copy of his
escape itinerary—or an extra airline ticket.

If Peter wanted me to know where he was, he’d have
told me. If he were able. And if he weren’t…

But I refused to believe that. Peter was the most
self-sufficient person I’d ever met.

After a moment I shook off my apathy and went
upstairs. Using my key to let myself into Peter’s living quarters,
I closed the door behind me—and instantly realized there was
someone in the flat. Floorboards squeaked. In Peter’s bedroom, a
drawer slid open and a moment later, closed.

Heart pounding, I stood there—caught between fear and
hope. In the end, hope won. I started softly across the floor. I
hadn’t taken more than a step or two when the outline of a man
filled the bedroom doorway.

For a moment Peter and I stared at each other. His
eyes were blue as the heart of a flame. I’d never seen that look on
his face. He looked…terrifying somehow: his face hard with tension,
his mouth thin and unsmiling—and those blazing eyes.

“I…” For once I ran out of things to say.

He didn’t exactly relax, but the fierce lines of his
face eased. “I was coming to see you.”

Was he? He was carrying his black Gladstone bag. He
was going away.

I said, “Then you know the Februarys are dead?”

He looked blank for a moment. Then, if possible, his
face grew more implacable. He said, “I want you to go home, Grace.
I want you to go back to the States.”

Whatever I’d expected to hear, it wasn’t that.
“You’re serious?”

“
Never more so.” He certainly
looked serious. Grim as death.

“Do I get an explanation?”

“Not just yet.”

“Really?” I began to get angry. “But someday? Maybe
in a decade or so when you make another trip to the States?”

He said curtly—and his tone was as foreign to me as
his expression, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, I’ll try not to be.” I added, “But you have me
at a disadvantage here. I thought we were going to —”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” he interrupted. “This has
nothing to do with us! Surely I don’t have to explain that to
you?”

“You sure as hell need to explain
something
to
me!” I yelled. “You just disappear for a day and then you calmly
show up and tell me to go back to California, and that you’ll
explain it to me the next time you’re in town. Do you realize the
police think you killed the Februarys?”

“I didn’t even know they were dead,” he said, all at
once sounding perfectly calm. “Look, I know I’m being…rather
mysterious. Can you not just this once trust me?”

I gaped at him—there’s probably no other word to
describe my open-mouthed and indignant stare. “
This once
?
When have I not trusted you? Maybe it would be easier to trust you
if you’d let me know what’s going on. Something has obviously
happened.”

“Yes, something has happened. And no, you don’t trust
me.” He smiled, but it was a peculiar smile. “You love me, but
that’s not quite the same thing, is it? I can’t keep proving myself
to you, Grace. Sooner or later you have to take me on faith—or
admit that this isn’t what you really want.”

I felt like something had rushed out of the darkness
and thrown me to the ground. Where had this come from? What were we
really talking about? Suddenly everything I cared about seemed to
be at stake, and I hadn’t even realized my dreams were on the
table.

My mouth felt dry, my heart tripping against my
breastbone as I choked out, “Maybe what you mean is, this isn’t
what
you
really want.”

He shook his head. “You were gone
six months
.”
And then his gaze met mine. “Would you have come back if I hadn’t
followed you?”

“I was booking my flight that week.”

That strange smile again. “But you didn’t. Even after
I arrived it took you a few days to actually buy the airline
ticket.”

I opened my mouth to argue this, to explain why…but I
couldn’t seem to find the words. I knew he wouldn’t believe me.

Peter said quite gently, “I think this is the truth.
The romantic in you would like to believe you can be happy here
away from your home and friends and family. But I think the
pragmatic Miss Hollister who lives deep down inside knows that you
can’t be happy without trust, and you can’t trust someone you don’t
know—and I don’t think that even now you feel that you know me well
enough to trust me. And I don’t believe that you ever will.”

This was not the conversation I had anticipated
having with Peter—not that I had anticipated having a conversation,
but if I had thought about it, I’d have pictured him on the defense
trying to explain to me why he hadn’t gone to the police with
whatever had happened to make him stand me up the night before. It
hadn’t occurred to me that he might simply pull the plug
because…

It was getting to be too much work? Because he didn’t
love me? Because this was a smoke screen to keep me from pursuing
why he was trying to pack me off to the States?

Anyone of those—or even a combination—might be the
real answer.

I said quietly, “So if I’m not willing to take on
faith your assertion that I need to go home and not pester you with
questions about attempted and actual murder…then, what? Our
relationship is over?”

“If you’re not willing to take me on faith,” he said
equally calm, “Our relationship
is
over.”

I felt as if I were staring at a stranger—and I
supposed that confirmed at least part of the point he was trying to
make. “I take it you’re not planning to stop off and talk to Brian
before you head out to wherever you’re going.” I nodded at his
Gladstone.

“I’m not, no.”

“I see. Well, good luck, then,” I said. “If you
change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Something changed in his face. There was an emotion
in his eyes I couldn’t quite pinpoint. He said, “I’ll see you
out.”

But I was already moving to the door. “That’s all
right,” I replied. “I believe you already did.”

Chapter
Seventeen

“A
re you all right?” Cordelia
asked.

I turned from watching the rain running in silver
rivulets down the window overlooking the wet and glistening gardens
of Rothay Manor. “Yes. Why?”

“Because you’ve been scowling at that soup since it
arrived.”

I made an effort to shake off my preoccupation. When
I had returned to the Hound and Harrier this morning I’d found a
message from Cordelia asking me to lunch. And because I thought it
would be good for her to get out after the trauma of seeing Mona
die—and because I thought it would be good for me as well, the
awful scene with Peter coming on top of my sorrow over Mona—I’d
suggested a nice long drive and lunch at Rothay Manor in Coniston
by Ambleside.

Ambleside is one of the loveliest and most popular
destinations within the Lake District. Centrally located, and only
about six hours from London, it offers everything from charming
shops to rambling lakeside walks—or even a challenging mountain
climb. The town predates the Roman occupation, and of course
Ambleside was the home of William Wordsworth in the later years of
his life. He’s buried beneath a yew tree in the churchyard at St.
Oswald’s where the River Rothay flows.

It was a not a day for sightseeing, though, even if
either of us had been in the mood. The drive had been longer than
usual due to the dreadful weather, but that too had given me
something to think of besides Peter—and murder. Not that the two
things were inextricably linked in my mind, although I wasn’t
feeling terribly friendly to Peter at the moment.

Cordelia had been unusually quiet on the drive,
whether because she believed I needed all my concentration to keep
us from floating off the road into the nearest lake, or because she
was still feeling overwhelmed at the previous day’s tragedy.

I said, “The soup is excellent. I’m just…”

“I know,” she said, and she shivered. “I’ve never
seen anyone dead before. Let alone…die.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you want to talk about
it?”

She shook her head, but then her fawn-like gaze met
mine. “She looked at me like she wanted me to help her. She put her
hand out.” She stopped, swallowing hard.

I said, “It must have been very quick. She probably
didn’t…” I stumbled a little “…suffer very long.”

Cordelia nodded, unconvinced. After a moment, she
asked, “Why would anyone kill her?”

“It’s not certain that anyone did,” I said. “It could
have been an accident, I suppose.”

“Is that what you really think?”

“No,” I admitted. “But my view has become warped
living here.”

She giggled shakily, and returned to spooning her
passion-fruit sorbet which served as palate cleanser between
courses. Then her hand stilled. “They found those men. Did you see
in
The Clarion
that their bodies were discovered—the men who
shot at us the other day, I mean.” She shivered. “They’d been
killed ‘execution-style’ according to the paper.”

To my astonishment I heard myself say, “The police
think Peter might have been involved.”

Cordelia scoffed loudly at this notion. “Oh, pshaw!”
Despite the tone of teenage cynicism, she sounded so much like her
great-aunt, I blinked. “You mean
Brian
thinks,” she said.
Her instant and total repudiation of the idea of Peter’s guilt
reassured me. Illogical as that might have been.

I finished my soup—cream of mushroom with a hint of
dill—and my glass of wine.

Cordelia said, “Why do you think someone would have
killed her? She didn’t seem like the kind of person to be
murdered.”

Was there a particular kind of person who got
murdered? I didn’t know.

I said, “Supposedly the basic reasons people kill are
greed—maybe that includes jealousy—lust, revenge and fear. Well,
and insanity, but I guess you could argue that anyone who resorts
to murder is partly insane.”

“Or accidents,” Cordelia said. “People who are killed
by mistake.”

“You don’t poison someone by mistake.”

“Well, if you mixed ingredients up. If you were
making salad for someone and you mixed up mushrooms and toadstools
or something like that. Or if you used some kind of corrosive
cleaning fluid and didn’t get it all washed away.”

I gazed at her in mild horror. “But that would just
be an accident.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “Well, but what if you knew
about the toadstools, but meant for someone else to eat the salad,
only your friend dropped by and ate it instead.”

I said, “Who are you and what have you done with my
dear little friend Cordelia?”

She giggled. “
Little
. I wish I was little.”
She was in fact very nearly six feet tall, and model-thin—and had
not figured out how to use this to her advantage yet. “It’s
possible, though, isn’t it? Because Mona really didn’t seem like
the sort of person who gets herself done in. Do you suppose they’ll
cancel the film now?”

“Roberta doesn’t want to, but I don’t see how they
can help it.” Or perhaps I didn’t want to see how they could help
it. I was still trying to decide whether there was any point in
staying on in the Lake District if Peter and I were no longer
lovers. Surprisingly, it wasn’t a straightforward yes or no.

Cordelia said, “That’s a pity. I could have used the
experience.”

I didn’t respond to that and she chattered on about
acting and school and—eventually—Douglas, the married-but-separated
playwright. I listened with half an ear, running through my last
conversation with Peter while I poked at my savory crepes with
spinach and bacon filling, and watched the windows of the
restaurant fog with rain and mist.

“I think he missed you a lot.”

It was the silence that followed Cordelia’s words
that jerked me out of my reflections. It took me a moment to rewind
the last few seconds of her conversation. “Who?”

“Peter. He didn’t say much, but it was obvious.”

I couldn’t imagine him saying
anything
about
it, let alone “much.” I hated myself for asking, but I couldn’t
help it. “How was it obvious?”

She shrugged a bony shoulder. “He was just…different.
Quiet. Preoccupied. He used to go out walking a lot.”

“Walking?”
I couldn’t picture that.

She nodded. “Well, until it got to be winter. Then I
think he just stayed home and read.” She added neutrally, “I think
he expected you to come back sooner. We all did.”

She was frowning at me from beneath her dark brows,
and something in that look of hers made me feel guilty. I said
briskly, “Somehow I can’t picture him moping around.”

“He wasn’t moping. He was just…quieter.” Yes, her
tone was definitely critical.

“I meant to,” I admitted. “Things just kept…coming
up.” I remembered something. “Yesterday at tea your great-aunt
mentioned Allegra and Peter. You made a face...”