High Rhymes and Misdemeanors (19 page)

“All these women,” Peter complained, setting the miniature on the table.

“Funny how life imitates art,” Grace drawled in a fair imitation of Peter. And then before Peter could respond to this, “If Byron and his half sister Augusta Leigh had an affair it would have been in 1813. They spent a lot of that year together, even planning a trip to Europe. The trip never happened, but then, the following year Augusta gave birth to a daughter, Medora. Medora, by the way, is the name of the heroine of “The Corsair,” one of Byron’s most popular poems. Not that that necessarily proves anything, because Augusta might simply have liked the name. Anyway, although he never acknowledged her as his or showed her any special favor, many scholars hold Medora to be Byron’s illegitimate child. Of course, the only way to prove that would be DNA testing.”

“DNA testing!” the two men echoed in horrified tones.

“That would be the only way of conclusively proving—”

“Is nothing sacred?” the old man demanded of the portrait on the wall. Byron’s pale face was unperturbed.

Grace blushed. “Well, sure. It’s just that it would solve one of the great literary mysteries of all time.”

“She’s American, of course,” Peter remarked to no one in particular.

“Young lady,” Aeneas Sweet said severely. “There are certain things not meant to be known.”

Owned but not known?

“I wasn’t suggesting digging anyone up. Anyway, Medora herself believed she was Byron’s daughter.”

“Tell us about these cameos,” Peter said. “Where did they come from?”

Sweet raked his hair out of his eyes. “The legend is Byron purchased the last of the collection shortly before his death. He died in Missolonghi during the Greek war for independence, you know.”

“Yes, of a fever,” Peter replied. “He never saw any actual military service. I suppose the cameos vanished after his death?”

“Yes. The story is that Trelawny—you’ll naturally have read his journal and his account of taking charge of Byron’s effects after his death—mistakenly handed them over to Teresa, Countess Guiccioli, who hung on to them for many years. After that … no one knows.”

“John Trelawny’s journal,
Records of Shelley, Byron and the Author
was recently republished,” Grace supplied. “In fact, not too long ago there was a book about Trelawny himself, called
Lord Byron’s Jackal
. He’s a fascinating figure in his own right, although historians question his credi—”

Peter interrupted, “And who was this Countess Guiccioli when she was at home?”

Grace filled in the blanks. “She was an Italian noblewoman Byron took as his mistress in 1822. It was a huge scandal because he was living as a guest in the home of the countess and her elderly husband. She wrote a memoir called
My Recollections of Lord Byron and Those of Eye Witnesses of His Life
.”

“Tripe!” exclaimed Sweet. “Whitewash! Antiseptic! Hogwash!”

Grace clarified, “She was about sixty when she wrote her account and she was trying to clean up her reputation and Byron’s.”

Peter put a hand to his head, as though it hurt. “What makes you think these gewgaws are genuine?”

“They’re genuine all right.” The old man glared at him. “I thought you knew about antiques.”

“A little.”

“Then you must know that even without the Byron connection a collection like this would be worth a fortune.”

Grace stared at Peter. She couldn’t tell anything by his expression.

“Possibly. How many pieces?”

“Nine or ten. Ten, I think. I only saw them once for a few moments.”

“When?”

“When that man Dylan came here like a thief in the middle of the night.”

“Who? Oh, Delon. He
was
a thief. Do you know how he came by the set?”

“He refused to say.” Sweet added, “I’m not a rich man, but whatever that woman has offered, I can better. Maybe not by much, but I can top her.”

“I think this is our cue,” Peter told Grace.

“Think about it!” Sweet commanded as they headed for the door. “Whatever that woman offers you, I’ll double it!”

“Cameos?” Grace said. “That’s it? Cameos?” How disappointing after her dreams of a long-lost masterpiece!

“What do you know about cameos?”

She shrugged. “Not much. I know that genuine cameos are reliefs carved out of shell. Or is it coral? I know they’ve been popular since the fifteenth century. Oh, and I know that a profile cameo is called an intaglio.”

Peter’s strong tanned hand operated the stick shift. “That’s more than most people know.”

For a moment Grace was distracted by the sheer male competency he exuded. There was something to be said for that brand of unconscious assurance. Was it uniquely male or simply unique to certain males? She was willing to bet Byron had possessed it as well.

Realizing that she had not fully answered, she said, “My parents gave me an antique cameo locket when I earned my teaching credential. It had a little card explaining the history of the cameo.”

“Yes. Well, that’s all true. Cameos—genuine cameos—can be quite valuable. Depending on the size and condition, a cameo from the 1920s might be worth anywhere from two to four hundred pounds.”

“What about something like Sweet described? Ten pieces?”

Peter slowed and turned off onto a still narrower lane. His eyes went to the rearview, but he and Grace had been free of pursuit since losing Mutt and Jeff. “I’m not sure. In the eighteenth century, English tourists visiting European souvenir shops used to purchase cameos in themed sets. But typically those cameos were made of pressed white chalk or red sealing wax. They were fastened in wooden trays and fit into specially designed cabinets or leather-bound books destined for some toff’s private library. None of that sounds like an appropriate gift for a small girl.”

“Byron wasn’t exactly an ordinary parent.”

“True.”

Grace mulled this over. “I suppose these cameos would be valuable because of their fragility; chalk and wax don’t tend to hold up through the ages.”

“Right. But most of those sets are larger than Sweet described. Say, sixty pieces in various sizes. On the gilt-paper edge of each piece would be written a number in India ink to match a master sheet identifying which icon it represented, for example, the Greek goddess Athena or the Roman philosopher Cicero. That kind of thing.”

“How valuable would something like that be?”

“Given the Byron connection?” He shook his head. “A hundred thousand pounds is probably a conservative estimate. Especially if it went up for auction.”

“Yes, but they can’t really auction stolen antiquities.”

“A private auction then. There are plenty of collectors who don’t ask questions. Do you think Lady Vee would be troubled by a piece’s murky history?”

Grace mulled this over.

“What if the cameos in this collection aren’t made of wax? What if they’re genuine?”

Peter’s answer seemed guarded. “It would depend on a number of factors. Some of the earliest cameos were made of Mediterranean stones like sardonyx, carnelian and agate.”

“Semiprecious stones.”

“Right. Usually you’ll find gold ribbon wrapped around the cameo and then embellished with strings of pearls, double-wire braids or even diamond settings. A single piece could be worth thousands of pounds—even without the Byron connection.”

“Supposing a collection existed of ten genuine cameos each handpicked by Lord Byron for his previously unacknowledged daughter on the occasion of her tenth birthday?”

“Would she have been ten at the time of Byron’s death?”

“The very month. April.”

Peter’s eyes slanted toward her. “Let’s put it this way: murders have been committed for less. A hell of a lot less.”

Peter parked and glanced down. She was the tidiest girl he’d ever met; that gorgeous riot of auburn hair always coiled or braided or tied back. Sensible little shoes on her well-grounded feet. Cute little spectacles on her prim little nose. Small, stubborn chin at odds with that cupid’s bow mouth; she looked a bit like a cameo herself.

Which was all beside the point, the point being … well, he wasn’t sure what the point was. He kept remembering her in that black dress. He kept remembering the feel of her body lying against his, her scent. She was, to quote her dead poets, something of a help and something of a hindrance. Now that he knew what Delon had been hawking, he didn’t need her. In fact, better for her to get clear and stay clear.

Not that she would be easy to shake. On the topic of The Great Romantics, Miss Hollister herself was a little bit of a fanatic.

Peter shrugged his shoulder and Grace mumbled protestingly.

“Rise and shine, Esmerelda.”

She rubbed her face against his arm, sat up and yawned—covering it with a polite hand.

“Where are we?”

“H—back at Craddock House.”

“That was fast.” She leaned forward staring out the windshield. “Hey, something’s wrong!”

Peter followed her gaze. Distracted by—well, who knows by what—he had merely glanced at the shop, seeing what he had expected to see. Now he noticed, despite the darkness and the overhanging trees obscuring the view, that the shop window appeared to be boarded up.

“Bloody hell!” He got out of the Rover and Grace got out with him. “Stay here,” he ordered.

“Whatever happened, it’s over and done,” Grace pointed out, “if someone’s got around to patching the place up.”

She was right—which was one more aggravation he didn’t need.

Peter strode up the walk. The night was cold and heavy with the scent of flowers. Dew sparkled on the grass and limned the leaves in silver moonlight.

As they reached the shop they could see the bow window was boarded but the front door was intact. Yellow police tape indicated a crime scene.

Peter unlocked the door, switched on the light. Behind him, Grace gasped.

“Oh no!”

“Oh no,” was putting it mildly. It looked like the proverbial bull had been let loose in a china shop. Legs kicking the air, the merry-go-round horse lay on its back in a bed of smashed pottery and broken masks. Shelves had been knocked over—along with about everything else in the place.

Hundreds, no thousands of pounds worth of damage. He felt light-headed for a moment. It wasn’t so much the money as the wanton destruction of all these beautiful fragile things.

Books had been tossed over the balcony above; they lay with pages spread wide like shot birds.

“Oh Peter,” whispered Grace. Her eyes looked huge and green.
Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown
… She put her hand on his arm and he had the craziest desire to turn to her for comfort.

Instead he pulled away, stepped over a smashed Prince of Wales chair and made his way to the stockroom.

To his relief the shelf guarding the passageway was still standing, the hidden door, still sealed. His intruder must have been stopped before he made it this far.

“It can’t have been the same person who killed Danny Delon,” Grace said. “He didn’t know about the passage.”

Or he had gone in through the front door of the flat. Peter turned and nearly knocked Grace over.

Steadying her, he moved her aside, headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“The intruder must have triggered the alarm when he broke in,” Grace said from downstairs. “The police must have grabbed him before he could—”

Before he could break into the flat.

The door was still standing, still locked tight. The relief was overwhelming. Sanctuary was still his. For a moment Peter stood there, his hand resting against the lacquered door.

Then he unlocked the door, pushed it wide. Everything was as he had left it.

“Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry,” Grace’s voice drifted up to him. She kept saying that. Oddly, it didn’t bother him. It was almost a relief to have someone else there to share this disaster.

He went through the rooms and everything was as they had left it the day before. Grace’s spectacles still lay on the curio table. Her green jumper hung on the back of a chair—and that seemed right, too.

He went into the kitchen and pressed play on the answering machine. Grace joined him, putting the kettle on.

“Your insurance will cover this, right?” she asked.

A tinny unfamiliar female voice interrupted. “Grace? It’s me, Monica. Who’s this Peter Fox? Where the heck is Innisdale? Grace, I’ve got some news. You’re not going to believe it. I don’t know if I believe it. But I want to tell you, not a machine. I’ll call back.”

Click.

At his shoulder, Grace groaned. “
Why
can she
never
leave a number?”

The machine beeped again and Chief Constable Heron’s voice filled the silence.

“Mr. Fox, this is Chief Constable Heron. We’ve been unable to reach you regarding the damage to your property. Please contact us when you get in.” He looked over at the clock.

“It’s too late tonight,” Grace interjected. “The morning is soon enough to deal with this mess. There must be something I can do. Can I make you something to eat?”

There was something vaguely funny about that but he couldn’t think what.

“I need a drink.” He went into the other room, poured a stiff one.

When he returned to the kitchen Grace had out a tin of Belgian chocolate and was heating cocoa.

“You should eat something,” she told him. She was mothering him. He couldn’t remember that ever happening before. His dear old mum had certainly not thought he needed mothering.

“I’m fine.”

She cut a slice of fruitcake, rich with nuts and rum and set it before him.

“Who do you think it was?” she asked, sitting down across from him.

“Not Mutt and Jeff.”

“Our friends the kidnappers?”

“I’ve got to call the insurance company.” Peter swallowed a mouthful of whisky. He welcomed the burn. “Sid,” he said abruptly. “Sid something. Hall maybe. I knew I’d seen him before.”

“Seen who? Who’s Sid Hall?”

“A little hoodlum with big ideas. The bloke you call the Queen Mother.” Absently he picked up his fork.

“Sid.” Mentally she matched the name with the little brute she so well remembered. “I remember overhearing him say something about crossing ‘The Man,’ “ Grace said, carving herself a wedge of cake. “Do you think they could be working for Sweet?”

“It would explain what they were doing crawling around inside the walls of Penwith Hall.” He rubbed his forehead wearily.

“Do you think they found it?” Grace asked tentatively. “The set of cameos?”

He shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”

She covered his hand with hers. A small, soft and unexpectedly strong hand. “It’ll be better in the morning,” she said.

The heavy-lidded eyes studied her for a long moment, as though he were seeing her for the first time.

“You could be right,” he said.

· · ·

“Ram Singh!”

Grace watched Peter over the rim of her coffee cup.

He was on the phone chatting with the Innisdale police. So far his end of the conversation had consisted of one-word comments like “What?” and “I—” Now at last things were getting interesting.

Although, if she were honest, things were already interesting. Peter was wearing only Levis. Feet and torso were bare and while he spoke to the local authorities he absently scratched his smoothly muscled chest. For some reason Grace found this fascinating—as though she’d never seen well-developed biceps before. Fine gold was sprinkled between pectorals to his navel. Grace’s thoughts were interrupted as Peter hung up the phone.

“Ram Singh,” she asserted, so that he would know her mind had been on his conversation and not his pecs. “They’re holding Ram Singh?”

“They caught him red-handed the night before last. The odd thing is they received an anonymous phone call about a prowler even before the alarm went off.”

“That’s weird. And they’ve no idea who called? Whether it was a man or a woman?”

“I didn’t ask,” Peter admitted.

Grace swirled the dregs of tea in her mug as though trying to divine an answer. “Sweet must have sent Ram Singh right after we claimed we didn’t bring the gewgaws. Did they find the cameos on him?”

“They didn’t say. I’ve got to go down there.”

“It could be a trap,” Grace said. “I’ll go, too.”

“That might not be a good idea. We don’t know what he’s revealed to the cops.”

“He’s mute.”

Peter’s expression was chiding. “Be serious.”

“I’m always serious.” Once that would have been almost true. “Ram Singh won’t have told them about Sweet. He doesn’t appear to have anyway. Sweet didn’t seem to know he was gone—although that was probably an act.”

“I don’t know if it was an act. He probably forgot he’d sent him. He’s nuttier than that cake we ate last night.”

Peter headed for his bedroom.

“Now that I’ve got money again, I’ll buy my hat,” Grace called after him. “That way, if they arrest you, I’m right there ready to bail you out. And dressed for the occasion.” She was kidding—at least she hoped she was, but he didn’t seem to be listening. Hurriedly she changed into jeans and a plush, oversize mocha sweatshirt, catching up to him as he walked around to the garage.

As they drove, flashing in and out of sunlight and shade, she studied Peter’s profile.

“Are you all right?”

He gave her a haughty look. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I just notice that the police make you nervous.”

He was silent. She supposed he was offended, but to her surprise he said, “I have a dislike of confined spaces.”

“Well, lots of people do.”

“An intense dislike.”

“Like claustrophobia?”

“Let’s just say I’ll do my damnedest to stay out of anything resembling a cell. Or a closet. Or a hatbox. They all feel about the same size.”

“Is that from being in pri—what happened to you in Turkey?”

“Got it in one.”

Grace digested this silently. She would have liked to ask him why he had been imprisoned, but didn’t have the nerve.

And then Peter changed the subject. “You might try the library when you’ve finished buying your hat. Our librarian is one of your lot.”

“My lot?”

“Barmy about the Cumbrian literary heritage.”

“Sounds like a man of discerning taste and refinement.”

Peter grinned at that but made no comment.

They were crossing the little stone bridge and opportunity for further discussion was lost.

“I’ll meet you back here in one hour,” Peter said, letting her off in Daffodil Street.

“Meet me at the library,” Grace suggested.

“Will do.” His eyes looked preoccupied.

She hesitated. “Good luck.”

“Yes. Thanks.”

She watched him drive down the street and park, then turned and went into the milliner’s shop.

The dream hat was still there and amazingly enough it was as lovely as she remembered.

“It looks as though it were made for you,” a shop girl with purple hair and a ring in her nose said as Grace modeled for the mirror. “The leaves are just the color of your eyes.”

“If only it was made for my pocketbook.”

The girl shrugged. “You only live once.”

Taking a deep breath, Grace paid the two hundred pounds and arranged to have the hat shipped back to the States. It was the last of her vacation “mad money.” But then this whole vacation had been a little mad.

Leaving the shop she began walking toward the library. All up and down the crowded streets the little shops were open and doing brisk business as the tourist season wrapped up. Grace lingered outside the sweet shop for calorie-laden moments, but reason prevailed. She couldn’t afford to keep a “fat” and “thin” wardrobe while vacationing in a foreign country.

Her gaze wandered to the big blue hand raised above a small white shop. The palm of the hand read:
FORTUNES
. There were matching blue plastic flowers in the window boxes, and a blue lacquered door. On impulse, Grace decided to check it out. If nothing else it would make a good story to tell Peter.

A bell chimed musically as she stepped inside the blue door. Décor by the Purple People Eaters, she decided, blinking at the plum-colored carpet and gauzy lilac draperies. The lavender walls were adorned with gold-framed pictures of Jesus and a giant astrological chart. What sign was Jesus, Grace wondered?

Grace cleared her throat. The scent of passionflower incense was almost overpowering. No one seemed to be around but she could hear a radio from behind more gauzy draperies, these spangled with purple sequins.