Skylark (10 page)

"So she...Miss Beale might have lain there all day." I swallowed hard. "Could...did she
live long after the fall?" Could we have done anything for her was what I meant to ask, though
my guilt was unwarranted. Neither Ann nor I would have tried to enter the main door. Miss
Beale's note had specified no further personal contact. I wondered if we still had the note.

"We have no way of knowing until the autopsy, Mrs. Dodge, and even then..." Thorne's
voice trailed as if finishing the sentence required more energy than he could summon. He rose. "I
shall have to ask both of you to remain in London until further notice."

"We were supposed to leave the flat Monday morning." I took some pleasure in
reminding him of that.

"I've spoken to Miss Worth. She has no objection to your stopping on at the same rent if
your presence will assist me in my enquiries."

"Oh, and how about Mr. Worth?"

"She says he'll agree. She was most cooperative." There was a definite stress on the
pronoun.

Ann heaved a sigh. She had spent a lot of thought and energy arranging our excursion to
Wales. However, she made no objections. I didn't either, God knows. Thorne hadn't arrested me.
I supposed I should be grateful. I wondered if Jay was home yet.

As we saw the police to the door, I decided it was time to state the obvious. "It's a little
hard to believe in rampant coincidence, Inspector. Surely there's a connection between Milos's
stabbing, the burglary, and Miss Beale's accident." Once more I forced out the euphemism.
Thorne wasn't going to hear the word murder from my lips.

"If there was a burglary."

A hot wave of anger energized me. "What the hell does that mean?"

He stood in the tiny hallway, flatfooted, regarding me from tired, unsmiling eyes.
"Happen 'twas faked, Mrs. Dodge. Nowt was taken save the murder weapon. And the white
stocking."

I translated, fuming. What about my twenty pounds? Of course he had only my word
that there had been twenty pounds.

Ann leapt into the breach. "Now, Inspector, honey, you're letting your imagination run
away with you. Milos was stabbed, and some lowlife broke in here looking for his papers. When
he couldn't find them, he came back. If the scoundrel took the sock and the carving and used
them to whop Miss Beale upside the head, why I reckon he just had a purpose we don't know
about yet."

Thorne had shrugged into his raincoat. Ann gave his lapel a small pat. "You go home
and get some rest now, hear? When you look at the situation in the morning, I just know you'll
find a solution."

Thorne smiled the ghost of a smile. "Happen you're right, lass."

I wished I could speak Georgia. Or Geordie. Sgt. Baylor's bright brown eyes shifted
from Ann to her boss, but she didn't comment on the flowering of dialects.

It was three in the morning. When the two detectives had gone I stomped back into the
living room. Fright and frustration drove me to the coffee pot. I poured a reckless cup and gulped
it without cream. "He has to be out of his mind. Does he really believe I'd kill Miss Beale over
possession of this ghastly cave? The man is nuts, loony, bonkers..."

"Now, honey."

I rounded on her. "If you dump the butter boat over me, Ann, I swear I will commit
murder. Inspectah sugah, ah jest know yoah gonna solve this little old crahm any minute now."
My imitation was neither accurate nor kind, but I was fed up. I am not fond of the stereotype of
Southern womanhood under the best of circumstances. Ann was an intelligent adult. I saw no
reason why she should do a bad imitation of Scarlett O'Hara.

Ann sank onto the couch-cum-bed. "Lord, Lark, what's the use of antagonizing the
man?"

I said through my teeth, "There has to be a middle ground between antagonizing Thorne
and covering him with praline syrup. What is with you, anyway?"

She stared at me through the pink-tinted lenses, opened her mouth, closed it. Finally she
said, "I do conciliate, don't I?"

I gave a short sharp nod.

She sighed. "Buford--my ex-husband, that is--was apt be a trifle irascible." She wrinkled
her nose as if the word tasted bad. "Hell, he was a loud-mouthed bully and as notional as a mule
in a hurricane. I got so I placated him without thinking. I'm sorry, Lark. It's a terrible habit. I
didn't mean to say anything inappropriate. I guess I'm a little tired."

"It's okay." I felt two inches high. "In fact it probably helped. Just don't feel as if you
have to seduce the man on my behalf."

She gave a crooked smile. "Have a little dignity?"

I squirmed.

"I admire you, Lark. You're so independent-minded."

"Like a mule in a hurricane?"

The smile turned into a grin. "You said it, honey. What're we going to do?"

I shook my head. "Hide? When the press finds out I'm a suspect I'll have to hide. You
may not have noticed but the British press is largely composed of gossip mongers and paparazzi.
Thank God there's no phone."

Ann had gone pensive. "I'm going to visit Milos. I'm sure there's a connection between
his stabbing and Miss Beale's murder. I want to find out what it is, starting with those
papers."

"Do you think he'll be able to talk?"

"Or willing? That's the real question. I thought he was just a simple refugee, but if he's
smuggling state secrets..."

I wasn't liking the idea either.

My understanding of international espionage was drawn entirely from spy thrillers.
Since I detest spying of any kind, I had not read many. I'd stopped halfway through one
bestseller when the so-called hero blew away the villain and a dozen assorted bystanders in front
of the Louvre, and left on a plane for New York the next morning without so much as a mild
hélas
from the S�reté. As fiction, the story lacked verisimilitude, and if it
was reality, I wanted no part of it. The thought of being caught up in such shenanigans was even
more appalling than being held prisoner by British tabloids. There had to be a tamer alternative,
but Inspector Thorne's alternative featured me as the goat.

Ann had pulled out the Hide-A-Bed and disappeared into the bathroom with her robe
and slippers. Tactful. I rinsed my cup, turned off the burner, and drifted to the bedroom.

Needless to say I slept badly and briefly, my dreams full of bloody images. Milos, eyes
twinkling, flitted among the corpses chanting snatches of Shakespeare. Rollo yipped pitifully.
When I finally admitted to myself that I was awake, it was six and my body felt as if it was in a
mid-Pacific time zone. I slid into sweats and running shoes and oozed out the door. I didn't even
think about lurking reporters.

Fortunately, the press was not yet on the loose, though Thorne had posted a constable by
the front entrance. The man--it was not Ryan--gave me an unsmiling nod as I walked past
him.

I tried to reach Jay from the pay phone and got our answering tape. I left word that I'd
call later, thinking as I spoke that the recorded message Jay and I had concocted the previous
winter was too cute for words and would have to be replaced. No shops were open, nor did I
think the gates of the park would be, so I headed toward the river and jogged along the
Embankment as far as the Chelsea Hospital. The weather was as gray as my mood.

I swung by the newspaper stands in the Tube station on my way back and bought the
Times
and the
Independent
. I didn't even allow myself to focus on the tabloids.
I tried Jay again without success and remembered that he had been scheduled to attend an
obligatory end-of-semester gathering, the kind administrators imagine will delight their staff,
who are so exhausted from grading term papers they only want to collapse. I didn't record a
message.

I was visualizing Jay on the dean's redwood sundeck when I bumped into the
reporter.

"Sorry," I muttered.

"Mrs. Dodge?" She was young and dressed in punk black with her hair sheared off
asymmetrically in the style fashionable that season. She used red eye-shadow. She pulled out a
notebook.

I kept walking. I could see the constable watching us from the pavement in front of the
house.

"Will you tell our readers your sensations when you were informed of your landlady's
death?"

"What paper?"

"Pardon?"

"What newspaper do you represent?"

"Ah. Wendy Wills,
Daily Blatt.
" The
Blatt
was two shades yellower
than the
Daily Mail
.

"Miss Beale's death is a great tragedy, Ms. Wills. Mrs. Veryan and I extend our
condolences to her family. I have no further comment." I kept my voice as pleasant as possible.
The constable was still watching, but he made no move to intervene.

I unlatched the gate that led down to our areaway. A flashbulb popped. Ms. Wills had a
photographer with her. Enterprising.

I turned and made sure the gate had locked behind me.

"Why did you come to London, Mrs. Dodge?"

Why indeed. Another flash. I blinked.

"I'm told you had a grievance against Miss Beale."

I didn't respond.

"Was she going to evict you? Did you kill her? Did you kill the dog? What of poor little
Rollo, Mrs. Dodge?"

I was wrestling with the door lock by then, and my newspapers slid to the pavement. I
opened the door, gathered up the papers, and entered. The reporter's shouted questions pursued
me.

I made sure the door would hold then went into the bedroom to check the window. It
opened on a private park with high iron railings. The railings hadn't slowed our burglar. They'd
be duck soup to a reporter of Ms. Wills's stripe. After I had secured the latch and closed the
curtain tight, I tossed the papers on the bed, stripped off my sweats, and ran a bath. When I no
longer felt smirched and slimy, I dressed in jeans and a pullover and went back to the papers.
Ann hadn't stirred, as far as I could tell. At least the flat was sound-proofed.

The
Independent
story, though it made a lower corner of page one, was short,
restrained and reasonably factual. "A confidential source" had leaked the tale of our eviction.
Probably not the police. Daphne? Trevor? Daphne's friends in the tenants' league? The report
mentioned our burglary but drew no connection to Milos's stabbing. Apparently Thorne had not
yet identified us to the press as the unnamed witnesses. I wondered how long it would take for
the journalists to figure that one out. Perhaps they had forgotten Milos.

I also wondered when I would be able to sneak out and telephone Jay. It was midnight at
home, and if I didn't call soon he would worry. If I did call he would also worry, of course.

I stewed for half an hour. Then I dug out my sunglasses and the blue beret I had bought
as a souvenir for Jay's secretary. Not much of a disguise. Nothing could camouflage my height. I
nosed out the door. There were no reporters in sight, though the constable regarded me with
interest from his perch on the steps that led up to the front door.

I said good morning to him and scurried down the street to the telephone kiosk. Two
householders were walking leashed dogs. Otherwise the area was deserted. The Old Brompton
Road was livelier--cars, buses, some early shoppers on the sidewalk. No one seemed to notice
me, though. I got through to Jay on the first ring.

I poured out my story to my silent husband, not excluding Rollo's demise and my
encounter with the press vanguard.

When I wound down he said grimly, "That does it. I'm coming tomorrow."

"But what about finals?"

"I'll do the grades I can tonight and give the rest of the students Incompletes. Kayla can
monitor the tests for me."

Kayla was his secretary.

"But we're already in debt..."

"Old Mason in the music department has a couple of cheap excursion fares available.
His wife broke her leg last week, and they won't be able to use the tickets. I told him I might
want one of them..."

"At the dean's soirée last night?"

"Yeah. I'll have a two hour layover in LA and four hours in Dallas, so I won't get in until
eleven Monday morning London time."

"Oh, darling." I knew he hated to fly. Guilt washed over me. "I'll meet you at
Heathrow."

"Gatwick," he corrected. "If you're not arrested."

We talked for another twenty minutes--big spenders--and I took down the flight number.
When we hung up I felt better and worse. I wanted Jay with me, but bankruptcy stared us in the
face. Also it sounded as if Mason had booked a Flight from Hell. Taken with the inevitable
jet-lag, the ordeal was bound to flatten Jay. At least I had flown non-stop from San Francisco.
However, a flat spouse is better than none.

On that philosophical conclusion I started back. Then it occurred to me that Ann and I
would need to escape sooner or later, if only to lay in supplies. I returned to the kiosk, dialed the
taxi dispatcher, and asked for a cab at eleven o'clock. She wanted me to name a destination. I
said Harrods. If reporters pursued us we could surely lose them there. It's the most confusing
store I've ever been in.

Ann was sitting in the kitchen staring at the
Times
as if she had forgotten how
to read.

"Jay's coming."

She focused on me. "How nice."

"I mean soon. Monday."

She blinked and readjusted visibly. "Why that's wonderful, Lark honey. I'm sure he'll
straighten everything out in no time at all."

"Now, cut it out."

She took a gulp of coffee and said, with dignity, "You may reproach me for my style of
discourse after ten thirty. Not before."

I told her about the press siege and the taxi. I was beginning to feel almost cheerful.

Ann liked the taxi idea, but she intended to make for the tourist information bureau as
soon as the cab set her down in front of Harrods, then go on to the hospital. I didn't object to that,
and we concocted plans. They did not include a visit to the Chelsea Police Station.