Docketful of Poesy (25 page)

“You’re an actress. You should understand about
preparing for a role.”

“What role am I preparing for? The lead in
The
Song of Bernadette
?”

“Well-bred young nob collecting junk for the local
church bazaar.”

Cordelia muttered under her breath as I finished her
hair.

“I think you look sweet.” I fished in my traveler’s
jewelry case, and removed a pair of delicate pearl earrings. “Here.
Take out those—what are they supposed to be?”

“Handcuffs,” she said smugly.

“Planning on a career behind bars when you graduate
from school?”

“Ha ha.” She was grinning, and I shook my head.

*****

I had to give her credit though, she played her part
beautifully.

We drove through the gates of the old Monkton Estate
just before teatime, parked the Jag, and went up to the front door.
Cordelia looked every inch Sloane Ranger in her own jeans and my
pastel beaded blouse. Hair and makeup were just right, if I did say
so myself, and her manner was perfect. Maybe it was genetic or
maybe it was simply years of mimicking her cousin Allegra. She had
that perfect blend of well-bred arrogance and slight ditziness down
cold. All I had to do was try to look equally well bred and smile
politely.

We got past the housekeeper with the mere mention of
the Brougham name. Then we had to face the slim young male
assistant I remembered from that morning at Rogue’s Gallery, but
Cordelia’s spiel about the church bazaar and her Auntie Vee’s
regrets about some mislaid garden party invitations made short work
of him. Finally we were shown into a lovely, long room hung with
gray silk wallpaper. The furnishings were all white and black—muted
and elegant. There was a grand piano near French windows looking
over a velvet-green lawn. A cadre of

sterling-framed photographs crowded the top of the
piano. There were some exquisite watercolors on the walls and a few
choice pieces of antique furniture that reminded me painfully of
Peter. In fact, I recognized a small Chinese side table from
Rogue’s Gallery.

A carved ivory and sterling chess set sat on the
table. It, too, looked antique, but I didn’t recognize it. Not that
I was now familiar with every item in Rogue’s Gallery.

While we waited for the Honourable Angela I wandered
over to the piano and studied the photos. There were several posed
pictures of a plain-featured woman with an excellent haircut and
intimidating eyebrows—whom I took to be the MP. In the latest
(judging by the age of the subject) of the photographs she was
accompanied by a tall, sandy-haired man with a bland, very English
face.

And there was a very large, framed photographic
portrait of the same man on his own looking stolidly into the
camera.

“What are we looking for?” Cordelia asked softly from
behind me.

“I have no idea,” I whispered back.

“Is that her husband?”

“She’s not married. At least…I think someone said
that she was newly engaged.”

A door opened behind us and a rich, sonorous voice
announced, “My dear Miss Dumas. How delightful of you to come in
person. I’m a great admirer of Venetia Brougham’s work.”

Angela Hornsby was a very well-preserved
sixty-something. Her hair, nails, and makeup were all flawless. She
was not pretty, but she clearly made the most of what she had, and
the result was a poised and well-groomed woman, one whose success
was based on much more than looks or charm.

Cordelia responded engagingly, apologized on behalf
of her great-aunt who, if I’d understood her correctly on the drive
over, would die a martyr’s death before she fed a member of the
Labour Party her prawn canapés, and blithely invited Ms Hornsby for
the following weekend’s festivities.

“This is my
deah
little friend Grace
Hollister.” Cordelia was hamming it up shamefully as she introduced
me to the MP. We shook hands briefly. Angela studied me with her
cool gray eyes, and smiled.

“The author?”

“Why, yes.” Now
that
, I admit, surprised me.
It’s not as though my work was on a best-seller list anywhere.

Angela Hornsby inclined her head toward the large
photo. “George, my fiancé, mentioned your book and that you were
living locally. He’s a great fan of history and adventure
stories.”

“Does your fiancé live nearby?”

The man in the photograph was not familiar to me, but
that didn’t prove anything. A lot had happened in six months. I
realized belatedly that perhaps my question might be a little
personal, but Angela answered composedly, “No. George lives in
London. We’ll be using this house mostly as our weekend retreat
until we retire.”

Cordelia’s eyes met mine. “You must bring
George…er…Mr.…?”

“Robinson,” Angela supplied.

“You must bring Mr. Robinson next Saturday as well,”
Cordelia said. “I know Auntie would insist.”

“That would be delightful. He was supposed to come
down this weekend, but he was delayed on business. We hope to see
him on Tomorrow or Tuesday.”

We.
I wondered if that was the royal “we” or
if she was referring to herself and her slim, elegant young
aide.

I said, “I suppose we’ve come to the wrong house to
collect for the church bazaar. You’re bringing lovely things in,
not chucking them out.” I nodded to the little Chinese table. “I
recognize that from Rogue’s Gallery.”

She raised her eyebrows. “That’s correct. Mr. Fox did
deliver that table and two magnificent Rocco chairs just a day or
two ago. An exquisite piece, isn’t it? Such a personable young
man.” She smiled at me in a way that indicated she was aware of my
relationship to Peter. Now why would that be? I suppose Peter might
have mentioned something in passing, but it didn’t really seem like
him. He was not much given to casual discussion of his personal
life.

I indicated the chess set. “Do you play?”

“George is a chess fanatic. I’m afraid I’m a rather
indifferent player. It’s a lovely set, isn’t it? George gave it to
me as an engagement gift. The board is marble. The pieces are hand
carved ivory and sterling. It’s Turkish. Early nineteen hundreds, I
understand.”

“When is the wedding?” Cordelia asked, as Angela
beckoned us toward a pewter gray brocade sofa.

“May. I’m determined to have the house ready by the
end of April.” Angela waited till we’d seated ourselves on the long
sofa, and then tucked herself neatly into a matching armchair.
“Shall I ring for tea?”

We assented—trying not to seem too eager about it—and
a tea tray arrived shortly after. Angela poured and discussed
several political issues that “meant a good deal to her,” and then
chatted about her bird-watching hobby. I watched and listened to
her, and wondered if I was totally on the wrong track.

I simply couldn’t imagine anyone less nefarious than
Angela Hornsby. She seemed a little dull, a little stuffy, but
well-informed and purposeful. She reminded me of Margaret Thatcher.
And I had no reason to believe she would make any less redoubtable
a foe. Not that I could see why we should be foes. But
unfortunately, the only clue I had to Peter’s mysterious behavior
was that the day before he changed so drastically he had come to
this house. Perhaps to this very room, if the little Chinese table
indicated anything.

Sipping my tea, listening to Cordelia make small talk
with our hostess, I tried to recall Peter as he had been that last
morning. He had been tired. I hadn’t recognized it at the time, but
looking back he had looked desperately tired, as though he hadn’t
slept in days. And he had been angry. But more than angry, he had
seemed like he’d received a bad shock. And he was not easily
shocked—or angered, really.

Of course his anger and shock might have nothing to
do with this house, this room, this woman. For all I knew he had
gone straight back to Rogue’s Gallery and received whatever
shocking or angering news there. Or he might have gone someplace
entirely different that I knew nothing about.

I gazed around the pleasing, newly furnished room
again. There seemed nothing here to indicate anything but gracious
and genteel living. I studied Angela Hornsby as she nibbled on a
biscuit and listened politely to Cordelia’s blithe chatter about
how theater reflected our understanding of the individual groomed
to cope with the stifling pressures of modern society.

“I’m afraid I don’t really know what that means, my
dear,” she said as Cordelia paused for breath.

Could anyone seem less like the possessor of a guilty
secret than Angela Hornsby?

After forty-five minutes of tea and small talk,
Cordelia and I escaped with a small petit point footstool for the
church bazaar.

“Is it my imagination or was that a total waste of
time?” Cordelia asked as she slipped behind the wheel of the
Jag.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Did anything about her
strike you as strange?”

“No,” Cordelia replied promptly. “Except that anyone
that
normal has to be off her nut.”

*****

When we reached the inn I found there was one message
from my sister-in-law Laurel, and another from Brian.

“Nothing else?” I asked the girl at the desk.

She shook her head.

I started up the stairs to my room, struggling not to
give in to the wave of disappointment. Now past my initial hurt and
anger, I couldn’t believe that things between Peter and me would
end on such a strange note. I couldn’t believe he wanted this
separation any more than I did.

Did he really feel my refusal to instantly abandon
the country and our plans merely on his say-so demonstrated lack of
faith in him? Or had he forced this estrangement in an attempt to
protect me?

I thought of his unfair interpretation of my delayed
return to Innisdale. Six months did sound like a long time, but
there had been so many legitimate reasons to postpone the trip. So
many things to arrange. Or was I telling myself comfortable fibs? I
had missed Peter horribly, that was true. Surely he knew that was
true? But…I had enjoyed the time with friends and my family. It had
been two years since my impulsive decision to stay in Britain. Two
years since I had seen my loved ones. Was it so amazing that I’d
put off leaving them again?

Maybe it
had
appeared like I wasn’t in a hurry
to come home to Peter. Maybe I
had
seemed hesitant,
uncommitted.

And the truth was…maybe…I
did
have a few
doubts. Not about Peter. Not really. Maybe about myself. Maybe
about whether we could ultimately make each other happy. I didn’t
take commitment lightly. He knew that. And for me this was a huge
step. A huge decision.

As it was for him.

I misstepped on the stairs, and reached for the
banister as that thought struck home. Funny how until that very
moment it simply had not occurred to me that if commitment seemed a
big step for
me
, how unfamiliar and treacherous the
territory must have appeared to Peter. Like walking out onto an ice
floe.

Norton Edam, on his way down the staircase, glanced
at me as I stood there having my untimely epiphany.

“Forget something?” he asked.

I blinked at him. He looked better than he had at
breakfast. He’d shaved anyway, which was a start.

“Yes,” I answered. “I think I did.”

He smiled politely, edging past me.

“Any word on the production?” I asked.

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“Are you still planning to leave?”

“As soon as we get permission. Yes.” He kept moving,
clearly not in the mood to stay and chat. I continued upstairs to
my room.

Brian didn’t answer when I called on my cell phone. I
left a message on his machine, changed out of my shirt and blouse
into leggings and a sweatshirt, and seated myself at the little
table before the window with a pen and paper—and the hitherto
unopened box of chocolates.

I began to chart who had been present each time Mona
had mentioned losing her flask. Granted, it was a long shot, but I
remained convinced that Mona had been killed in mistake for
Miles—especially having remembered that her flask had an “M”
engraved in the front of it. Not that someone might not have wanted
Mona dead for her own sake, but I felt the attack on Miles, and
prior problems with the brakes on his car, were a pretty good
indication he had been the true target.

Aided in my reflections by a chocolate-raspberry
truffle, I tried to remember the first time Mona had mentioned
misplacing her flask. Had it been just after we arrived at the
Hound and Harrier? I remembered for sure that she’d mentioned that
was missing at breakfast the morning before we’d been shooting the
big lakeside gun battle. Roberta had made some joke about it. Who
else had been there? Pammy. Tracy. Tracy had made some smart ass
comment that I couldn’t remember.

Miles had been in the restaurant, but I had an
impression that he’d walked out before Mona mentioned her
flask—yes, because a few minutes later I’d heard him and Todd
arguing in the little room off the lobby.

Not that I thought Miles was trying to kill himself.
Of course he could always make it look like the attempt had been
made on his life when the real target was Mona. But…no. While Miles
could conceivably have faked the brakes going out on his car, he
didn’t fake knocking himself out. And I felt certain the two things
were connected.

So that left Todd.

No. Because I remembered passing Norton walking into
breakfast as I was walking out. He’d said something about grabbing
a bite before we left for location.

Todd and Norton. Both of whom had run-ins with Miles.
I jotted my notes down, and popped another truffle into my mouth.
Creamy hazelnut: divine. All I needed now was a glass of fine
merlot. And someone to share my sleuthing with. Someone like
Peter.