High Rhymes and Misdemeanors (23 page)

Could Charlie and Sid be planning to cut “The Man” out? Something they had said had given her that impression. If only she could remember their exact words.

Last but not least, there was also Ram Singh who was most certainly working for Aeneas Sweet.

That completed the cast of characters. Who, of that motley crew, was the someone who had tried to kill Peter? According to Lady Vee’s henchmen it was Ram Singh. That would put Ram Singh and Mutt and Jeff all in Kentmere at the time Danny Delon had been murdered.

But Lady Vee had also accused Ram Singh of murdering Delon; he couldn’t have if he had been in Kentmere.

Which meant that Sid and Charlie must have killed Danny Delon.

Except, Charlie had also been in Kentmere. Charlie had said he had seen Grace giving Peter “the kiss of life.” So that gave Charlie a sort of alibi, too.

Violence was certainly in Sid’s repertoire, but judging by the farmhouse Grace had been dragged to, the plan had been to kidnap Peter, not kill him.

Who, then, had killed Danny Delon? It was hard to picture octogenarians racing around committing homicide with battle-axes, but perhaps that was ageism rather than logic. What was it Sherlock Holmes said about eliminating possibilities?
When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth
.

Grace doodled on her notepad and contemplated the possible impossibles.

Could there be another buyer?

Both Sweet and Lady Vee seemed to regard each other as their sole threat. But could there be a third party unbeknownst to them?

Ferdy?

If they were on the trail of Lord Byron’s long-lost oyster plates, Grace might buy it.

Allegra?

She was probably familiar with the history of Craddock House; she had grown up in this district. She might know about the secret passages. She was clearly in her aunt’s confidence—what was to keep her from running her own side operation?

Grace stared into the curio table without registering its contents. All those little fascinating odds and ends of bygone eras. She nibbled on the end of the pen.

Charlie and Sid introduced a troubling element—a professional element. Ram Singh, Mutt and Jeff were clearly amateurs working for nuts. But Sid and Charlie were career criminals.

Could they be working for Allegra?

Peter had been convinced he wrestled with Sid at Penwith Hall. Of course, Peter could be
wrong
. It had been dark, after all—and Mutt and Jeff had been later proven to be on the premises. Or at least around the premises. On the other hand, Peter had made short work of Mutt and Jeff this afternoon.

The question remained: could Sid and Charlie be working for Allegra?

But no, because they had mentioned “The Man.”

Not only that, even if it had been Sid and Charlie that Peter tangled with, someone had to have guided them through the secret passages at Penwith Hall. That
had
to indicate Sweet. Or Ferdy. But Ferdy would have to be a heck of an actor.

And what about the night Allegra had come snooping around the shop? What if she had been checking on her handiwork rather than Peter’s love life? Was Allegra capable of murder?

Grace caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned toward the grandfather clock in Peter’s living room. The door in the large wooden case was slowly opening….

“Uh, Peter,” she called. “You guys!” Due to the sudden lack of air in her lungs, it didn’t come out as forcefully as she wished.

She could see the face of the man trying to wedge himself through the narrow opening of the clock case, and it was not reassuring. He looked like a pirate. Long, curly black hair, a dark hawkish face, and unbelievably, an eye patch. Her gasp sounded clearly in the silent room.

“Oh, hell,” the intruder rasped, his scowling gaze falling upon Grace. And then, “Wait!”

Grace was already edging to the hall door and her friends, who were maddeningly chattering away at the top of their lungs.

The man lunged out of the clock case and Grace bolted into the hall. The others broke off whatever they were doing and stared at her, as for a split second Grace mimed her plight. At last her paralyzed vocal chords recovered and she cried, “There’s a man inside the flat!”

Monica and Calum gaped at her. Peter, who was on the ladder, leaped down as lightly as a cat and sprinted toward her.

Without pausing to ask questions, he went right past Grace, who followed him inside only to find the room … empty.

The secret door stood open and footsteps could be heard scuffling and scrambling down the stone steps of the passage.

“He’s getting away,” Grace exclaimed.

“What’s going on? What’s happening?” Monica and Calum joined them.

“Someone broke in,” Grace tried to explain. And then, “You’re not going down there after him?” This was directed to Peter’s retreating back as he knelt and maneuvered his wide shoulders through the narrow doorway.

“Someone came in through your
clock?
” Monica was saying.

“A secret passage!” Calum sounded ecstatic.

Grace heard all this as a kind of background music. Her attention was pinned on Peter, and she very nearly grabbed his retreating boots to try and keep him from disappearing down the passage. “But we can head him off!” She ducked her head into the aperture and heard Peter’s answer though it took her a moment to process it.

“There’s an outside entrance.”

An outside entrance?

“Is that really a secret passage?” Monica squatted down beside Grace. “Should we call the police?”

“No, no police.”

“Here, let me through.” Calum knelt down and Monica and Grace shifted out of the way. Calum tried to crawl through the opening, but his wide shoulders, wider even than Peter’s, thwarted him.

Grace didn’t wait to see whether he worked out the physical geometry or not. Scrambling to her feet, she flew downstairs, making for the stockroom with its entrance to the passageway.

This is reactive behavior, not proactive
. Even as she hurried, she was lecturing herself, as though she stood before a roomful of freshman girls.
This is not the way to
—but here her critical mind balked, possibly unable to put a coherent spin on what was an utterly unreasonable situation.

Before she reached the door to the stockroom, Grace realized she might need a weapon of some kind—if her goal really was to keep the intruder from escaping out this part of the secret passage. She turned around and headed back for the stairs and the display of impressive weaponry hanging there.

She tried to grab a sword off the hooks, but discovered it was wired at the hilt. It took a few precious moments to work it loose.

“Grace, what in the world?” Monica was at the head of the stairs calling down to her. “What’s the matter with you two? Why can’t you call the police?”

“It’s a long story.”

“What?”

“No police!” Grace gasped out, freeing the sword at last. She sprinted on to the stockroom, the sword inconveniently banging into furniture and shelves as she went.

In the stockroom, Grace paused.

The secret door was still firmly in place. That was a good thing, she decided. That meant the intruder was still within the walls of Craddock House.

Come to think of it,
was
that a good thing?

After all, Peter was inside these walls, too.

Peter paused, listening.

In the darkness he could hear the intruder a flight or two below, breathing softly, and trying no doubt, to conceal that telltale sound. The man was likely disoriented. The passage was confusing, even when you knew where all the ways of egress lay.

For a moment the darkness seemed to press in on him. Reason struggled with panic. The dark was simply an absence of light; it had no texture, no weight. He could breathe as easily at night as in the daylight.

He hated these old passageways. They were useful, of course, but the walls were so close, built to last forever of thick cold stone. You could yell your bloody head off inside here and no one would ever hear …

Impatiently, he shook off these thoughts. He couldn’t afford to get careless. He had already been careless in trusting that no one else knew of the outside entrance. Criminally careless. He must be getting old.

So which of them was it, skulking there in the shadows beneath him? Sid Hall or Charlie Ames? Or Mutt and Jeff? Was it only one of them or some combination? But Grace had said “a man,” which seemed to indicate she hadn’t recognized their intruder. Was that because she hadn’t seen him clearly or because she didn’t know him? Was there another player? Were they about to meet “The Man?”

Peter heard the furtive scrape of shoe on stone at the bottom of this flight of stairs. That was good. That gave him something else to think about besides the narrow confines of the passageway. He could focus again.

The intruder was taking the turn toward the stockroom entrance. Peter was good at judging sounds in darkness. He could risk jumping the bloke, but caution stayed him. Sid or Charlie would be armed and Peter didn’t want to risk a gunshot in these close quarters.

And then from above came the sound of charging rhinoceroses. Peter wheeled but the herd was upon him. He went down hard against the wall, but caught himself, twisting his knee in the process. The herd went on over the precipice. Only it turned out to be just one rhino, Monica’s don, the bonnie Scotsman, taking a header down the staircase.

Peter’s hand shot out, locking in Calum’s thick sweater, yanking him back. Calum’s roar cut off mid-bellow and he landed awkwardly on his hands and knees. Some colorful and erudite language followed in decibels that rang off the rock, but Peter didn’t stay to listen. He could hear his quarry, the rasp of leather soles on stone, fast withdrawing.

As Peter vaulted over Calum’s fallen form his knee twinged painfully, but he ignored it and sped on. He knew this passage well, but was careful even in his haste.

A flashlight flicked on ahead of him, a little circle of light bouncing down the stairs. The intruder was abandoning stealth for speed. The light searched out the treacherous accordion of steps winding down to the ground floor of Rogue’s Gallery.

Peter’s interest was piqued. Did the intruder know the trick to opening the secret door from the inside? Or had he taken this route by accident?

They were nearly to the bottom of the passage now. Peter slowed and then stopped, watching the circle of light slide along the walls of the hidden chamber. Yes, the other was searching for the catch. Peter could just make out the bulky form, blacker than the surrounding murk. A big man, tall and heavy.

The flashlight beam swung back his way, and Peter stepped aside lightly. But the other man had to sense Peter’s presence as easily as Peter had felt his. The intruder moved more frantically in the gloom. Apparently he didn’t know where the catch was, but he knew where it should be. Interesting …

Sure enough, a moment later the door to the stockroom slid open.

And there stood Grace, emblazoned in the outside light like some prim Valkyrie, sensible shoes planted firmly on the ground, a two-handed Viking sword upraised over her head.

“Oh no you don’t,” she said grimly. She made a motion like a housewife about to squash a bug with a broom. The weight of the sword nearly overbalanced her.

Peter wasn’t surprised when the intruder turned to collide into him. Peter didn’t like fighting, so he did his best to keep these kinds of encounters to a minimum. He used his right leg to sweep the other’s own right leg out from under him, and at the same time Peter whammed the guy across the throat with his arm. The man went down like a shot bear, a snarling heavy thud.

The overhead light blazed on. Grace stood there with her hand on the switch, sword in hand.

Peter spared her a quick, “You couldn’t find anything smaller?” The sword was nearly as tall as she. He dropped to his good knee and pulled the intruder’s left arm back at a painful angle. “Stow it, mate.” The intruder, who was dressed from head to toe in black leather, stopped flailing.

Grace stared down at the fallen man. “Who’s he?”

The man lifted a pain-seamed face. It was not the most comely of faces at the best of times, but it was a face known to Peter.

“Meet Roy Blade, the village librarian,” Peter said.

“Maybe we can strike a deal,” Roy Blade was saying.

“I’m all ears.” Peter sounded mildly interested.

They were gathered in the shop. Roy sat on the floor with his hands tied behind him. Monica and Grace were seated on a wrought-iron garden bench, like Victorian ladies enjoying the botanical gardens. The iron bench had survived the recent break-in without a scratch, which was more than one could say for Roy Blade. His good eye was puffy and his nose bore traces of its recent encounter with the stone floor of the passageway. Calum and Peter stood poised over him, prepared for action. And Grace didn’t blame them. Even seated and battered, Blade made an imposing figure in his black leather and eye patch. When standing, he had to be well over six foot, taller even than Calum, and certainly broader.

“I’ll be the first to admit things got out of hand,” Blade added.

The thing that didn’t fit was his surprisingly educated accent. “Barmy for Byron,” Peter had said, referring to Blade a day or so ago (was it only the day before?). He sounded more like an Oxford don than Calum. Was he some sort of renegade scholar?

“That was your bike in the woods at Penwith Hall,” Grace guessed.

The onyx-black eye turned her way. “That’s right.”

“But it wasn’t you I tangled with,” Peter said slowly.

“We’ve never tangled,” Blade said. “Not until a few minutes ago and that was … er … unavoidable.” His eye flicked back to Grace. “I was just doing a bit of surveillance that other time.”

“And the day in these woods?”

Blade’s face grew wary. “Which day in which woods?”

“Our woods. I mean, the Innisdale woods. I saw you watching the police,” Grace said.

Blade shrugged. “Like I said, a bit of surveillance, that’s all.”

“How did you get in here?” Peter interrupted. “How did you find out about the outside entrance to the passageway?”

“I did my homework,” Blade said. Something about the way he said it caused Grace to wonder what he was hiding. Probably a great deal. Blade added, unconvincingly, “A lot of local people know the history of this house. And I’ve access to certain resources through the library.”

It made sense but somehow it didn’t ring true, and if it didn’t ring true, Grace surmised, it was because Blade was hiding something. Obviously he was hiding how he got the information about the secret passage. But this seemed puzzling because, all things being relative, this was a fairly innocuous piece of information. The fact that Blade was concealing his source meant that his source must be involved in the rest of this mess. And that he felt compelled to protect him. Or her.

“Anyway, look,” Blade said, “What I’m trying to tell you is this is all one big misunderstanding. I was under a—er—misapprehension.”

“Now this is interrresting,” Calum put in. “And a coincidence, seeing that you have been apprrrrehended.”

Blade, beginning to sweat in his black leather, said, “I’ll tell you what I know, although it isn’t much, if you’ll let me go. See, I’m out of it now any—way.”

“That you are, laddie.”

Peter, eyes narrowed, said, “What misapprehension?”

“I thought you might be on to something that I might, well, might have an interest in. It was merely an academic interest, you understand.”

“Like what?”

Uncomfortably, Blade said, “I thought there might be the possibility that you were on the trail of a lost manuscript. One of
his
.”

“One of whose?” Monica questioned. She was asking Calum and of course he had no notion.

“Why should you think that?” Peter inquired.

Blade shrugged. “Word gets around.”

“I think you’d better start at the beginning.”

“That would be helpful,” Monica chimed in.

Grace studied Blade. His hands, tied efficiently behind him, were big and nail bitten. The edges of inky and ornate tattoos peeped out from beneath his leather cuffs and scrolled across the back of his hands. No wedding ring. Did biker dudes wear wedding rings?

“Are you married?” she asked.

“Huh?” said Peter and Blade in unison.