High Rhymes and Misdemeanors (15 page)

Grace glanced inadvertently around, but the young man in the bow tie had vanished. She smiled politely at the servant who gazed stonily back. The last time she had seen eyes that black and emotionless they had belonged to a figurehead in Peter’s shop.

“You’ll pour, dear lady,” instructed Sweet. “I take sugar, lemon and cream.”

It nearly took two hands to lift the enormous silver teapot. Grace poured tea into fragile little cups and handed them round.

“Have some of these savories. Singh! You’ve forgotten the cakes, damn your eyes!”

Grace selected one of the little fried triangles. She bit into mozzarella, peppers, black olive paste and a cup of salt. It was all she could do not to spit it back out. Peter, she noticed, had stuck to plain tea. That strong survival instinct at work.

Singh departed and the old man hissed at Peter, “Shut the damned door!”

Peter shut the door.

When he had reseated himself at the fire, Sweet demanded, “Now, have you got it with you?”

“Have we got what?”

“Don’t be coy! Whatever she’s offered you, I’ll top it!”

“You’ll top a hundred thousand pounds?” Peter inquired.

Grace held her breath.

The old man never blinked. “Opening bid at a hundred thousand, eh?” Grace had the distinct impression that he was pleased. Pleased because … the opening bid was
so low?
It was all she could do not to look at Peter. She was afraid her face would give her away.

“Well, well,” Sweet was saying, and he could not keep the satisfaction out of his voice. “It’s a great deal of money, of course. I’m not a rich man. Why, the manner in which my own kith and kin have preyed on my resources …” He fell silent. Studying them under white brows he said, “But you did bring it with you?”

“No,” Peter said. “We wouldn’t take that kind of risk.”

“But you’ve taken a risk coming here, haven’t you?” Sweet’s fierce eyes bored into them.

“No.”

“Heh? No?”

In the staring contest Sweet blinked first. Almost pleadingly he said, “You wouldn’t sell it to her, surely? Not that … that … woman.” He leaned forward and tapped Grace on the knee. “Dear lady, you’ve read her work?”

“I’m somewhat familiar with it.”

“Ha! Familiarity breeds contempt.” He drained his cup and passed it over for a refill. “Appalling lack of scholarship.” He slid a couple of biscuit-shaped savories onto his plate, wiped his fingers on his robe and said, “I’m an old man. I need my rest. I sleep badly these days. You will stay for dinner, of course?”

“Of course,” said Peter.

The old man waved them off wearily. “Dinner’s at eight. I can’t abide lateness. Singh will show you to a room where you can freshen up. And tell him to bring those cakes. The cream-filled ones.”

Sure enough, Singh waited in the drafty hallway to escort them to a still damper part of the house. There, in a room with all the comfy ambience of a crypt, burned a dispirited fire in another oversize hearth.

They had a brief wait while their suitcases were brought up so that they might dress for dinner. The wind lamented down the chimney and the ivy scratched at the windows. A full-size bear rug, complete with snarling head, lay before the fireplace.

“He’d have snapped it up at a hundred thousand pounds,” Grace whispered excitedly. “Did you catch that? Whatever it is, it’s worth a fortune.”

“To him, at any rate.”

“Good point. I don’t think Mr. Sweet is completely sane. What do you think?”

Peter’s thin lips twisted. “I think we’re going to have a hell of a time getting any more information without revealing how little we know.”

“I think you’re right. We could just fess up.”

“We could, but he likely won’t believe us. I wouldn’t. And if he does believe us we’ll probably not get another word out of him.” He circled the enormous chamber as though taking inventory. Perhaps he was. Perhaps she should frisk him before they left this house.

“Do you think he killed Delon?”

“I don’t think he’s seen the light of day for the past twenty years.”

“He reminds me of Miss Havisham.”

Peter’s mobile mouth twitched.

“You don’t think he plans on our staying the night, do you?” She had been counting on spending the night at one of those cozy little inns they had passed on the long drive. Grace studied the boat-sized bed—complete with dusty canopy and faded gold hangings—skeptically. A gigantic harp crowding a window alcove had caught Peter’s attention.

Quitting his examination of the harp, he ran a light hand across the old strings. Even that random chord sounded ancient. “That’s worth a pretty penny.”

“I think the dust here is older than anything in my apartment,” Grace admitted.

Peter zipped open his shaving kit.

“Do you think he had Delon killed? That Singh looks like someone who would know how to wield an ax.”

“Maybe.” He headed for a side room that turned out to be a bathroom complete with a fireplace and picture window looking over the coastline. Grace followed, watching as he mixed up shaving lather in a silver cup. Over his shoulder, she could see her reflection in the mirror.

“The thing is,” she said slowly, “there’s still the question of the secret passage.”

Peter gazed at her alertly, smoothing a dollop of white cream over his already smooth-seeming jaw.

“What I mean is, how did Danny Delon wind up dead in your secret passage?”

“I wondered when you’d consider that.” He tilted his head back. The long line of his throat was exposed as he scraped the razor through the shaving lather. She thought there was something intimate about watching a man shave. “Is this one of those shadow-of a-doubt moments?”

Grace could see herself considering this in the mirror. Peter watched her reflection, too. There was certainly plenty to doubt, but the more time she spent with Peter the more confident she felt that he could be trusted in all the essential ways.

“No, I’m just wondering how many people know about that passageway? Did Delon know?”

“I certainly didn’t tell him. He could have stumbled upon it, I suppose. It’s the easiest to find.”

That gave her a moment’s pause. Craddock House had other hidden passages?

“Could his murderer have known about it?”

“It’s not impossible.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

Peter shrugged. “The house is centuries old. When I purchased it the estate agent showed me that particular passage, a hidden staircase and a priest’s hole. The house had other secrets I discovered for myself. And I’ve added a few touches of my own through the years. Anyway, it’s more than possible some of my neighbors are familiar with that particular hiding place.”

“Did you leave the door to your flat unlocked?”

“Of course not.”

“It was unlocked when I arrived.”

He thought this over. “You think Delon found his way upstairs by the secret stairway?”

“Yes. That means he could have hidden the item upstairs in your quarters.”

“I suppose so. But that means Delon’s killer must have had time to retrieve the item as well.”

“Not necessarily. Not if he—or she—was in a hurry, and I think committing murder would tend to make you hurry. It’s not that easy to find the entrance to your quarters from the passage. I found it by accident.” Grace considered this. “Does anyone have a key to your shop?”

“No.”

“No one?”

“No one.”

That pleased her for some inexplicable reason. “So Danny must have picked the lock?”

“Picked the lock and bypassed the alarm system. It wouldn’t be hard. It’s an old system. More for show than anything.”

“That seems awfully trusting.”

“I’m a trusting sort of fellow. Besides, we’ve a low crime rate in Innisdale. That’s why I moved there.”

“So Danny must have been wandering around when the murderer arrived. He tried to hide in the passage, but either his killer knew about it or he didn’t get the door closed in time.”

“Using the battleax seems to indicate a certain spontaneity,” Peter agreed. “Perhaps Danny surprised this second chap.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps they had arranged to meet while you were away.”

Grace left him to his ablutions and opened her suitcase, shaking out the little black dress she had brought to England in hope that she might have dinner one night with a handsome and mysterious stranger. Not that she had really expected that to happen. Certainly not to this extent.

Made entirely of stretch lace, the décolleté dress had sheer lace sleeves and a body-fitted shape. She had never dared wear it before. Just owning it had seemed daring enough. Until tonight.

Peter strolled out of the bath and did a double take. “Why shucks, ma’am. Need help with any zippers or buttons, I hope?”

“Everything’s under control,” Grace said breathlessly. The dress was a little more body-fitted than before, thanks to her recent diet.

He quirked an eyebrow.

“What?”

He shook his head. “If we’d had teachers like you when I was a lad, I might have stayed in school.”

They started downstairs, tracking—according to Peter—the savory crumbs he had thoughtfully sprinkled on their journey up. The lighting from the old wall sconces flickered spookily over the empty halls. This part of the house was nearly stripped bare; it had an abandoned air.

They passed a sizable leak in the roof. Rain trickled down in a steady stream.

Peter quoted solemnly, “Tell me how many beads there are in a silver chain …” He paused for dramatic effect. “Of evening rain.” And Grace giggled. The sound startled her. It was such an undignified noise. She realized she was having fun. More fun than she could remember. She was having an adventure. The first in her life. And so far she was surviving it.

At long last they found the drawing room. Sweet and his nephew were already taking advantage of the cocktail hour.

The room was furnished with extraordinarily ugly Victorian furniture. Sweet, garbed in outdated evening dress, sat in a giant clawfoot chair, his feet propped on a matching footstool. His nephew, still in bow tie and sweater vest, stood staring out the window.

Outside, the rain sparkled like silver glitter.

“Good, you’re wearing a frock,” Sweet greeted them. “I cannot abide women in trousers. Women in trousers are an abomination.”

“I agree,” said Peter.

“What do you mean, you agree?” Grace demanded.

Sweet interrupted, “You’ve met my nephew, Ferdinand?”

“Philip,” corrected the young man turning from the window. “Delighted to meet you.” Looking anything but delighted, he handed around a tray with cocktail glasses.

“Ferdy!” jeered Sweet under his breath. His gaze found Grace’s. He rolled his eyes significantly. For a moment Grace thought he was having a fit. It dawned on her that Sweet was cautioning her. That he must mean he did not want them discussing the manuscript in front of Ferdinand or Philip or whatever his name was.

She glanced at Peter who dropped his eyelid in a slow deliberate wink. She sipped her drink. It seemed to consist of alcohol and ice.

“I say, are you by any chance the Peter Fox of Rogue’s Gallery?” Ferdy (now Grace was thinking of him as Ferdy—he just seemed like a “Ferdy") asked.

“Guilty.”

“I believe I’ve been to your shop. Do you ever come across oyster plates?”

“Occasionally.”

“Bah!” Sweet exclaimed.

“Oyster plates?” Grace inquired.

A trace of animation entered Ferdy’s manner. “Oyster plates, yes! Decorative plates dating from 1860 to 1910 mostly. The good old days when a meal had several courses and every course had its own utensils and dishes.”

“I resent that! We always have several courses,” Sweet bridled. “What are you implying? You’re not wasting away!”

While Ferdy defended himself, Peter explained to Grace, “Oyster plates have depressions in the shape of shells to hold the oysters and their broth. They’re generally made out of porcelain, glass, pottery. I’ve even seen them in silver.”

Ferdy’s cheeks grew pink with excitement. “I recently purchased two nine-inch Haviland floral-decorated plates with two mussel wells. I should be delighted to show them to you. I’ve over three hundred plates in my collection, you know.”

“My stars,” murmured Grace. She felt as though she’d wandered into a Woody Allen movie. Even Peter seemed happy to discuss oyster plates all evening.

“You say oysters and I say bugger off!” the old man growled. “I need another drink.”

Ferdinand fetched another round of cocktails. Grace, already feeling the effects of her first drink, declined.

“Very wise,” Sweet said, coming up for air. “Nothing is more revolting than a woman who can’t hold her liquor.”

After another round of drinks and more utterly pointless small talk, they proceeded to the dining hall, which would have comfortably seated Robin Hood’s entire merry band. Sweet sat at one end of the long table and Ferdy at the other. Peter and Grace were positioned midway down the table across from each other. A monstrous centerpiece made it difficult to see more than each other’s eyes.