Skylark (12 page)

"Uh, did your aunt speak Czech?" I interposed, ideas shifting beneath the haze of
booze.

Daphne blinked at me. "To be sure. Czech and Slovak and Polish. And Russian. She
worked as a translator for the BBC, off and on. Grandpapa taught at Imperial College, you know.
He was deep in the Moral Rearmament movement, and he despised Stalin. Still, he made Mum
and Auntie learn Russian, just in case."

I tried to square this account with my perception of Miss Beale as the insular type. Why
had Ann's association with Milos bothered her to the point of evicting us if she was a student of
Middle European languages? Perhaps she had objected to Milos not because he was Czech and a
foreigner, but because he was a waiter.

The British, I reflected solemnly, had thought
Lady Chatterley's Lover
pornographic not because of the sex, not even because of the four letter words, but because it
portrayed a lady falling in love with a gamekeeper. There
was
a Tory grandfather.

I could see Ann's eyes gleaming behind her pink lenses, and I had no doubt she was
digesting the possible ramifications of Miss Beale's Czech connections.

Daphne gave a melancholy giggle. "My mother forgot her Russian as soon as she
learned it. Auntie used to try to persuade her to keep up her languages, but Mum couldn't be
bothered. Auntie said it was a great waste of talent. I'm rotten at languages myself, and Trevor's
not much better." The brooding look settled again on her squarish face. "Poor Auntie." She
dashed off the last of the burgundy as if she were toasting Miss Beale.

"Poor lady--and poor Rollo, too," Ann murmured with tipsy sincerity.

Daphne's rather protuberant grey eyes glittered with unshed tears. "Poor old Rollo." She
sniffed. "Auntie was a tough old bird. I'm sorry she's dead, God knows, but at least she could try
to defend herself. Whoever killed Rollo ought to be hanged." British law had abandoned the
death penalty many years before.

I made a ponderous philosophical foray into the murk of British ethics, and Daphne
responded with a passionate defense of dumb animals. I said I didn't think Rollo was all that
dumb.

Daphne withered me with a look. "You Americans, you're so violent."

I was about to protest when sanity intervened. I was drunk. Daphne was drunk. There
was no point in arguing. Perhaps she came to the same conclusion, for she rose, wobbled,
regained her balance, and stuck out her hand.

"Mussay g'night. Thanks awfly for the wine. An' the lolly." She waved the twenty pound
notes in her left hand.

I shook her free hand. I thought about curtseying, but concluded I would fall to the floor
if I bent my knees. Ann shook hands, too, murmuring southern nothings, and Daphne
departed.

When we had closed the door on Daphne, Ann took my elbow. "Wasn't that
interesting?"

"Miss B's knowledge of Czech? You bet your booties. But I'm sorry 'bout Rollo." My
tongue blurred the last sentence. "Godda goda bed."

"Weren't you supposed to call your husband?"

I stared at my wristwatch. "No' forn hour."

I heard Ann sigh. "Well, that leaves an hour for you to sober up in. My goodness, Lark,
you didn't have to match the woman drink for drink."

"I thought I saw you chugalugging along with us."

She considered that. "You're right. I did."

We had a fit of drunken giggles, repaired to the coffee pot, and sobered sufficiently so
that I could negotiate the distance to the phone booth without falling in the gutter. Ann went with
me for safety's sake.

Jay was tired and rather cross and seemed not to notice my exaggerated clarity of
speech. I took down the information on his flight and assured him I would meet him at the
airport. He said he would call my parents before he left. We made ritual goodbye noises. The call
took about ten minutes.

Ann and I sloshed back, ducked down our stairs under the constable's suspicious eye,
and went to bed. In spite of my potations, I slept like a baby and woke without the least trace of
headache at eight o'clock. Ann was being sick in the bathroom, so I pulled on my sweats and
went out for papers.

By ten Ann was on the road to recovery, and I was deep into the
Independent
's
Sunday edition. Much discussion of Britain's role in the upcoming European Economic Union.
The latest on the investigation into Miss Beale's death featured a photo of Ann, glasses gleaming
maniacally as she looked over her shoulder at the photographer. There was no word at all on
Milos, certainly no mention of his disappearance from St. Botolph's.

Ann was drinking weak tea and leafing through the
Times Literary Supplement
.
I don't think she focused. Flipping pages was just a way of avoiding conversation.

I turned to the opinion pages. An excellent article detailed the progress to date on three
disaster investigations: the King's Cross Fire, the train crash at Clapham Junction, and the
Lockerbie airplane crash. The article alluded to but didn't analyze the recent Hillsborough
football disaster in which more than a hundred Liverpool fans had been crushed to death by the
drunken crowd.

There is something about disasters of that magnitude that fascinates while it repels. I
read the section dealing with Lockerbie carefully. One of my father's favorite students had
transferred to Syracuse University expressly to take part in its overseas studies program--and
been killed at Lockerbie--so I had followed the story from the beginning with almost obsessive
interest.

The investigation was being conducted with great thoroughness by the Scottish lord
advocate, by the chief constable of Galloway and Dumfries--and by the FBI, the CIA, and half a
dozen other agencies associated with aviation or foreign governments. Shocking allegations had
been made in the world press--of CIA foreknowledge; of information passed on to the airline at
Frankfort, where the flight originated, and ignored; of possible security laxness at Heathrow.

At that point it seemed clear that the plane had been destroyed by a terrorist bomb
hidden in a cassette tape player. The assumption was that the terrorists were tools of Iran, taking
vengeance for the shooting down of an Iranian airliner by an American military jet. Many dark
hints were circulating about the involvement of other governments, but the
Independent
's reporter separated fact from rumor. It was good journalism, and I
appreciated it. I also began to brood about Jay's long flight into Gatwick.

To distract myself from visions of my husband being blown to bits somewhere over
Hudson Bay, I turned to the bitchiest of the gossip columns. The writer, a woman, had clearly cut
her teeth on the tabloids. Her air of snickering tittle-tattle was unpleasant, but she could turn a
phrase. I was admiring her snide innuendoes about a minor royal and his hairdresser when my
eye caught the phrase "murder investigation in Chelsea." My stomach knotted.

Across the table from me Ann moaned gently.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, honey. Just thinking about my sins."

"Try meditating on this." I began reading. "'Two rich American women living in pricy
West End digs are helping the police in their enquiry into the brutal murder of Letitia Beale
Friday evening. Miss Beale had the bad luck to let a flat to the Americans. And very bad luck it
was for Miss Beale's doggie, too. Little Rollo's skull was smashed by a single blow from a cosh.
The weapon, my dears, was improvised from a rare Esquimaux statue stolen from the flat and an
intimate item of apparel peculiar to Americans.'"

"Socks," Ann snorted.

"'The Hon. Patricia Windom, Secretary of the Chelsea Dog Lover's League, expressed
the sentiments of Britons everywhere.
It's bad enough
, said Winsome Pat,
that
undesirables are buying their way into our most exclusive neighbourhoods. Tell them to
leave our dogs alone, I say.
Hear, hear.'"

Ann said through her teeth, "That's actionable."

"I doubt it. There's more. This, mind you, is the
Independent
. Shall I run out for
the
Daily Blatt
?"

Ann groaned. "I'm a sick woman."

I was merciless. "'Americans are not as me and thee. When a dog is killed on the
motorway, they make jokes about road pizza. They are tenderer of their own safety. After the
Lockerbie airplane crash in December, bookings on flights from America to Britain took a
nosedive. Hotels and restaurants all over Chelsea filed for bankruptcy. Of course, the odds of
dying in an air disaster are rather less than of being coshed with an Inuit statue. Unless you're an
innocent poodle.'"

"There's something lacking in the logic there," Ann opined after a heavy silence.

"It would seem so, but probably only to me and thee." I tossed the paper at the
wastebasket and missed. "The
Daily Blatt
articles will have that flavor but they're
probably shorter. I think tabloids have a four paragraph limit."

"You're saying the business with the press can only get worse?"

"Seems likely. We can hope for a distraction."

"Prince Edward running off with a taxidermist?"

"Or Thatcher invading Vanuatu." I retrieved the article, smoothing the crumpled
newsprint and smearing my hand with ink. "What we need is a clipping service."

"Good God, why?"

"After this is over and we're safe at home, we'll want to appreciate the full horror of
British journalism. Your grandchildren will be able to read all about Granny's famous
vacation."

Ann got up. "We don't need a clipping service. We need action."

"I need breakfast," I announced. "Then I'll put on my articles of intimate apparel and my
running shoes and lead the press off for a trot through the park."

"You cannot run today, Lark." Ann reached into the kitchen cupboard and pulled out a
box of Weetabix. "This is no time to be dillydallying. Eat and get dressed."

"You don't like my apparel?"

"Wear the wool suit. It looks Canadian."

"Thanks a lot. Canadian?"

"You are going to impersonate Milos's long-lost sister, remember?"

"I was joking, Ann."

"It's a long-shot, but we're desperate. Inspector Thorne needs our help."

I thought of my interrogation. "He'll have to get along without mine."

"Don't be petulant." She poured a bowl of cereal and sloshed cream on it. Real cream.
The English do not believe in cholesterol.

I ate my Weetabix like a woman. With banana.

Ann was serious. She wanted me to go to the hospital and find out what I could. I must
admit my urgency about Milos had receded in my concern for myself. I did not wish to study
conditions in Holloway Prison at first hand. I was willing to take Dorothy Sayers's word that they
had been deplorable even in the 1920's.

We argued and expostulated. I had almost reached the point of putting on the Canadian
suit when the gate buzzer sounded. The whites of Ann's eyes showed, and I imagine mine did,
too. I went to the door.

My mother's ancient friend, Elizabeth Stonehouse, climbed down our steps despite her
arthritis. She came in. we gave her coffee, and she gave me the name of her solicitor. Her
kindness and concern blunted my exasperation with the
Independent
's gossip
columnist.

Dame Elizabeth was eighty if she was a day, and I didn't deserve her attention. It's true
she made it plain her concern was for my mother's child, but I was beyond being picky. I thanked
her and tried to ease her agitation.

Ann was agog over Dame Elizabeth's visit. "I read her books in graduate school."

"She's a genius," I said glumly. "And a real scholar. Lady Margaret Hall. She reads the
Daily Blatt
, though."

"No!"

"Or the equivalent. How else would she know I was in trouble? Our names weren't
mentioned in the
Times
." I cleaned the overworked
cafetière
. "Obviously
we ought to do something. I'll go to the damned hospital, if you think I can do any good."

"Of course you can." Ann cleared the
Times
and
Independent
from the
breakfast area. "Visiting hours are one to three. If you dress now and walk to the hospital you'll
be just in time."

I dressed. I would have preferred to spend the day in sweats, but I tugged on panty hose
and the wool suit. We did not have to look out to know that the press was lurking. At twelve
thirty Trevor Worth came down and verified the fact.

"By Jove, it's war out there." He ran a hand through his red-gold hair.

"No fun," I agreed.

Ann poured him a cup of tea.

He sipped and looked around as if seeing the apartment for the first time. "What a small
place this is for the two of you. But you're welcome to stay as long as you like."

"I'll remember that as I'm hauled off to the Old Bailey," I murmured. "Do have a biscuit,
Trevor."

"The Old Bailey!"

"Trial by press." I showed him the column. "I
like
dogs."

"Lord, don't take it seriously." He munched a wafer.

I didn't respond. Members of the Chelsea Dog Lovers' League would be picketing the
flat at any moment.

Trevor made soothing noises through the crumbs, and Ann flirted with him
half-heartedly. Presently he left. I geared up to visit St. Botolph's Hospital. Ann geared up
to divert the press.

As I slipped away I heard her telling the assembled reporters all about her springer
spaniel, Pattycake, and how Pattycake had saved the infant Ann from a nasty copperhead. She
was explaining the differences between copperheads and timber rattlers when I moved out of
earshot.

It would be idle to suppose I wasn't followed. A sharp-eyed reporter saw me slinking off
and trailed me to the South Kensington station. I took the Tube to Victoria and caught a taxi back
to St. Botolph's. I don't know if my game plan worked, but I was alone when I walked into the
hospital.

The receptionist was a blue-haired woman I had never seen before. Nor was the child
laborer behind the desk familiar.