Skylark (11 page)

At eleven o'clock, we leapt up the steps, dived through the reporters, and escaped into
our waiting taxi amid a chorus of shouted questions, most of them unanswerable. By that time a
dozen representatives of the Fourth Estate and their auxiliaries, plus an ITV camera unit, had
assembled in front of the house. Flashbulbs strobed as the taxi pulled out.

"Harrods?" the driver asked in a bored voice, as if he were accustomed to abetting
notorious fugitives. Perhaps he was. When I said yes, he made no further attempt at
conversation--just flipped his meter on and drove. I love London taxi drivers. Not only do they
know every obscure side street in Central London, they are tactful.

Ann and I sank back in the huge seat and looked at each other.

"Do you think they'll follow us?" she asked.

"The police or the press?"

Our taxi turned a corner, and she clutched at the convenient door-grip. "Whatever."

The driver pulled onto the Cromwell Road. Traffic was thick. I craned around and
spotted half a dozen other shiny black taxis, their Engaged signs lit, on the wide street behind us.
Any one of them might hold a reporter.

"Plan B."

"Right."

The light changed and we sailed majestically past the Victoria and Albert Museum, then
obscured by billboards the canny director had let out for an enormous sum to replace funds the
Thatcher government cut from his budget. Beyond the V and A and the ultramodern Ismaili
Center, past the Brompton Oratory with its demure dome, lay the posh shopping district of
Knightsbridge and the arrogant gray bulk of Harrods department store.

When the cabbie wheeled grandly around and pulled in behind a Jaguar, I already had
the fare and a suitable tip in my hand. We climbed out, and I thrust the money through his open
window. It's possible he touched his cap, but we didn't dally to thank him.

I made a path through a coach load of tourists--German or Scandinavian, I thought--who
were milling about the main doors. Inside, Ann and I split up. I squirmed and elbowed my way
through clumps of chic English shoppers and bewildered foreigners toward the back of the store.
Ann headed west for the escalator.

When I passed the mouthwatering array of goodies in the food section, I hung a left.
Then I veered round into men's shirts and slipped out the east doors into the horde pouring from
the adjacent Tube station. I didn't spot anyone following me.

For once the crossing light was with me. I surged across the street and cut back to the
American Express office. The queue inside gave me fifteen sweaty minutes. I scrunched down
and tried to look shorter, but the line moved with reasonable speed. There were three tellers on
duty. I had cashed the last of my travelers' checks, zipped back to the Tube station, and thrown
myself on a Piccadilly Line train within half an hour. I didn't pause long enough to work into a
good phobia.

I spent the morning the way untold thousands of London housewives did--grocery
shopping. Ann's purchases the day before had been limited, because we thought we were leaving
for Wales. Also we had not anticipated Jay's presence. I laid in enough for a siege.

I bought a pasty at one of the delis near the Lycée and ate it as I walked along,
London-style. At about half past two I retrieved my raincoat from the dry cleaners. It would be
some time before Ann returned. She had intended to undo our Welsh travel arrangements and
visit Milos at the hospital. I thought about walking to Waterstone's Bookstore on the Old
Brompton Road, but I was laden with loot, and my arms ached. Reluctantly, I headed back to the
flat.

The reporters had dispersed. Perhaps they had pursued us and been bamboozled. More
likely they had grown bored waiting. The constable's eyes widened when he saw me, and he
reached for his radio, but I had the key routine down pat. I managed to slip into the flat with a
minimum of delay. I was stowing the last of my booty in the kitchen cupboard when the gate
buzzer sounded.

Inspector Thorne was not pleased with me for disappearing. I played innocent and
offered to show him the groceries, but he and Sgt. Wilberforce, who was back on duty, hauled
me off to the Chelsea Police Station anyway.

I suppose all police interrogations have common elements. Thorne remained massively
courteous, but he and the sergeant took me through my statement so many times I lost count.
They did a Mutt and Jeff on me, though it was hard to tell which of them was supposed to be the
nice guy and which the intimidator. Behind their masks, Thorne seemed angry, Wilberforce cool.
Neither was amused.

Around four thirty they took a tea break. A uniformed woman brought mugs of horrible
sweet tea with milk. The infusion was strong enough to dissolve teaspoons, but sugar and milk
disguised the tannin. I drank four swallows of the awful stuff and came wide awake.

"Now, Mrs. Dodge, let's go over your decision to attend the theatre one more time."

"Promise?"

Thorne blinked. "Eh?"

"Do you promise this is the last time?"

He sighed. "No promises." Wilberforce looked bored.

I summoned patience. "There was no decision involved. Ann wanted to see
Cats
before she left London, but the tickets cost too much, so she found cheap seats for
Hamlet
instead. That they were for Friday night was purely fortuitous." I had already
paraphrased the same information umpteen times.

He nodded. "Now, in the afternoon, you returned alone around three. Did you ring the
bell for Miss Beale?"

"I went straight down to our flat and straight to bed. I saw nothing suspicious. I didn't
hear the dog. I slept until Ann came home, because my internal clock was haywire."

"You woke around five." He no longer pretended to sound skeptical about my two hour
nap. Progress. He led me through the rest of the evening, from the lamb chops to our return on
the Tube, and this time, when I wound down, he rose from his chair. "All right, Mrs. Dodge.
That's all for now. I must ask you to leave your passport with us."

That was a blow--not as heavy as being booked into jail on a week-end, but a blow
nonetheless.

"How am I supposed to cash checks?" I had no travelers' checks left, but he didn't need
to know that.

He was unmoved by my possible fiscal plight and added that I was not to leave London
without notifying him.

Caffeine from the tea jangled in my bloodstream. I was damned well going to meet Jay
at Gatwick on Monday. I thought about telling Thorne, but it was none of his business. I rose and
brushed my skirt straight.

"Sgt. Wilberforce will drive you to your flat."

"I'll walk," I said coldly. "I need the exercise."

Ann met me at the door. "Where have you been? Milos has disappeared!"

"What?"

She took my pristine raincoat and hung it in the hall closet. "I went to the hospital.
When I asked to see Milos I got a runaround from the receptionist."

I followed her into the living room and sat in the armchair. "Maybe they moved him to
another hospital."

She hunched on the loveseat/bed. "I don't think so. When I asked to talk to the sister in
charge of that ward, the receptionist hemmed and hawed, and allowed as how I'd have to see
Matron. That took a while. Finally, I was sent up to the third floor to a glassed-in office, and this
dragon lady just stonewalled me."

I had a brief flash of Stonewall Jackson charging through the hospital.

She leaned forward. "That woman would shame a clam. She said Mr. Vlaçek was
no longer in hospital, and she was not authorized to give out information about patients to
strangers. I said I was no stranger. I did the whole act, Lark, honey. I begged, I pleaded, I
cajoled. I did everything but claim Milos was the father of my unborn child. It didn't do a particle
of good. She told me zip."

"I wonder if Inspector Thorne knew about Milos's disappearance?" When Ann frowned,
I explained my little sojourn at the police station.

"They took your passport? Oh, honey..."

"I won't need it for a couple of days. Unless Daphne tosses us out on our ears. Why don't
you think Milos was transferred to another hospital?"

"Matron would have had no reason to withhold that from me. Telling me would have got
me out of her hair. She was hiding something."

I said slowly, "I hope he hasn't taken a turn for the worse."

"What if the assassin made another attempt on his life? I reckon the police moved Milos
for his own protection and told the hospital to cover up."

That seemed far-fetched to me. Perhaps my doubt showed on my face.

She went on, hands clenched on her knees, "The only other explanation I can think of is
that Milos died, and they're waiting to notify whoever is next of kin before they admit their
incompetence to anybody else." She teared up. "God, Lark, what if he's dead?"

"He's not dead." I got up and went to the kitchen. "They probably just moved him to
another hospital."

"Then why did Matron..."

"Maybe she wouldn't tell you anything because she hates Americans. Matron hasn't seen
me, and neither has the ward sister. Shall I go over during visiting hours tomorrow and tell them
I'm Milos's sister from Canada, eh? I do a great Toronto accent. They'll tell me everything."

That provoked a small smile.

"I hope you like fish. I bought plaice for dinner."

Ann had no objection to plaice. We comforted ourselves with cookery and settled down
for a quiet evening. Ann had collected a bundle of maps and brochures from the tourist office.
She pored over them as if they provided mental escape. I was listening to a string quartet, but my
mind kept puzzling over Milos's disappearance. I had pooh-poohed the idea that he was dead, but
I was by no means sure he wasn't. The knife had punctured his lung.

Around eight thirty the bell rang again, and Ann went to the door. Daphne Worth
entered, looking rumpled and forlorn.

Ann showed her into the living room. I felt awkward at first, and I think Daphne did,
too. We paid her a week's rent from the stash Miss Beale had returned, and I poured a round of
wine from the carton I had opened for dinner. Ann murmured baroque condolences and tut-tutted
about the press, and all three of us had another glass of plonk. I mentioned that Jay was arriving
early. By the time we finished off the carton we were on first-name terms, and Daphne was
telling us her troubles.

Miss Beale's will named Daphne and her brother as co-heirs. While proving the will
would take some time, the lawyers saw no reason the flat should remain unoccupied. Daphne had
moved in. She would be able to walk to work in five minutes instead of commuting for an hour
from Chiswick--and someone had to dust the knick-knacks, after all. The problem was that
Trevor had just announced his intention of moving in, too.

"Don't y'all get along, honey?" Ann was pink from the effects of too much wine, and her
accent had thickened.

Daphne blinked at her like an owl.

"You and your brother?"

Daphne gave a small shrug. "Oh, we go on well enough these days, though we fought
like cat and dog when we were children. I'll fetch up darning his bloody socks and cooking his
meals, and I can't abide his posh friends."

Ann and I made universal female noises. Men.

Emboldened, Daphne went on, "And he'll stick me with the housekeeping tab. Brother
Trevor is not precisely scrupulous about money." She glanced at us and made a moue. "I don't
mean he's dishonest, but he did borrow from Auntie. As far as I know he never repaid her.
Trevor went to public school. He picked up the accent and a lordly attitude toward debt."

The phrase public school triggered off Ann's teacher persona, and she launched into a
series of questions about the differences between the British and American educational systems
which Daphne answered with relish and less prejudice that I expected. After all, Daphne was a
teacher, too. I poured a round of bad burgundy from a half-empty bottle that had sat in the
cupboard for a week.

Burgundy induced melancholy. Daphne began to reminisce about her aunt. According to
her, Miss Beale was a saint. She had nursed Daphne's grandparents through the cantankerous
ailments of old age, devoting herself to them, while Daphne's Mum married a wastrel
car-salesman and bore two kiddies. When the car salesman scarpered, Miss Beale came to the
rescue.

"I was eleven," Daphne enunciated, holding her glass out. I poured the last of the
burgundy. "Trevor was thirteen and set to leave for his posh school. Auntie paid the fees. I'll
never forget Mum's relief."

"Couldn't Trevor have applied for a scholarship?" Ann was interested. Also pinker.

Daphne wrinkled her nose. "Trevor's not a scholar. He was always good at
games--tennis, you know, and cricket. He's a stylish cricketer. He left school when his A
level passes weren't good enough for university."

"What does he do for a living?" I asked. I had imagined Trevor in the wig of a
barrister.

Again the shrug. "Sells posh automobiles. Like father, like son."

"Rolls Royces?" Ann took a ladylike sip of burgundy.

"And Mercedeses. The odd Maserati." Daphne hiccupped and patted her acetate blouse.
"Sorry. I'm tiddly. Do you know that showroom on the Old Brompton Road, the one with the red
Porsche in the display window?"

Ann and I nodded.

"Trevor works there," she said dispassionately, "but he never could persuade Auntie to
buy a car. She walked or took a taxi or rode the Tube. Poor Auntie."

"I suppose your aunt lived here all her life," Ann murmured.

"In this house? Yes, except for the time she spent studying in Europe. Auntie was a
linguist. She worked as an
au pair
in France when she was a young woman, but her real
love was the Slavic languages, not French. She worked as a translator until last year." Daphne's
face darkened. "She said she wanted to savor early retirement."