Skylark (20 page)

Thorne rose. "That's the ticket." He took my elbow as we went out, guiding me through
the door. In the hall I could see that he was pleased with himself--and presumably with Ann and
me. Wilberforce and Ann were chatting in Thorne's office when we entered.

It took us less than fifteen minutes to finish the formalities, though Ann prolonged
leave-taking with a variety of exclamations to the effect that we were all terribly clever,
especially Thorne. She did prod him about Milos before we left, and he admitted that a police
bulletin had gone out. At least they were now looking for Milos.

We departed, having shaken hands. Parks would be charged as an accomplice to the
assault on Milos. Thorne had seemed confident that forensic evidence would also tie Parks to the
burglary, at which point that charge would also be entered. Parks was in for some heavy
questioning. I felt mildly sorry for him until I thought of Miss Beale and Rollo.

We walked home, both of us sunk in reflection. Jay was just crossing the zebra as we
reached the post office.

"Did you finger the perp?" He swung the laundry-laden duffel to his left hand.

"Right off the bat."

"It was definitely the man who held the door." Ann smiled at him.

"Good. Then we're all set for Yorkshire."

Ann said, "I found a B & B about five miles from Thirsk, but I haven't arranged the
car yet. Hertz is booked for the bank holiday."

"We'd better reserve seats on the train." I pulled out my key and opened the front door.
So far the reporters had not returned, but I had the feeling they would once Thorne announced
the arrest.

Jay and I sorted clothes into neat piles while Ann did the rest of the phoning. She
managed to reserve a Ford Escort from a northern car-hire outfit I had never heard of. By that
time it was almost eleven, so she decided to nag the Henning people. She took the phone into her
bedroom, and Jay and I carried our belongings into our bedroom and began to pack. I don't know
how long Ann's conversation lasted. When we finally came out she was sitting in the living
room, staring into space.

"What is it?" I asked. Jay had ducked into the kitchen to make sandwiches.

Ann started and focused on me. She looked strained. "I'm not going with you."

"Oh, Ann."

"They're giving me the runaround."

"They've been doing that for two days--and you can bet they won't work over the
holiday. You know what those volunteer outfits are like. Come on, Ann, you need a break."

"So does Milos."

I sat on the zebra couch. "Do you honestly believe staying here will help him?"

She began to cry. "I wish I knew what to do."

"Come north with us and get a fresh viewpoint on the problem. You're running in
circles."

She took her glasses off and wiped her eyes. "I guess you're right, honey, but I feel like a
deserter."

"We'll be back Monday afternoon."

"I just don't know, Lark."

"Well, pack for the weekend and come to Bloomsbury with us this afternoon. Stick your
head in the institute's door and glower at them or something."

She gave a damp chuckle. "All right."

At that point, Jay brought in three workmanlike cheese and tomato sandwiches and three
beers. Ann ate her share cheerily enough and joined us for the afternoon.

We agreed to rendezvous at five at the front gate to the British Museum. I pottered
around the used bookstores and showed up five minutes early, laden with travel diaries and a
nice edition of
The Pickwick Papers
. Jay was already there.

"Looking for your mummy?" I murmured.

"No, I am not, but about two hundred kiddies were. I fled the sarcophagi and hid in the
tumuli."

"The Sutton Hoo treasure?"

"I was more taken by Bog Man. Skinny little fellow."

We stood by the gate exchanging favorite oddities and watching the ebb and flow of the
crowd. Visitors to the BM tend to come in clumps. One very large Spanish family clustered
directly in front of the main entrance, blocking the sidewalk. A coach was gathering in fifty or so
Japanese tourists with cameras. Most of the groups, though, were schoolchildren in uniform, or
coach loads of seniors from remote British villages all decked out in their best bibs and tuckers.
Everyone seemed to be in a holiday mood and the sun continued to shine.

Jay ducked across the street to look at a shop that displayed tartans, most of them too
garish to consider wearing. He returned sans purchases.

"Ann not here?"

"Not yet. I'm beginning worry about her."

"Maybe she got fed up and went home."

"That's possible. I think there's a pay phone around the corner. Why don't you stand here
like a beacon and eavesdrop on the Spanish
turistas
?"

"They're just arguing over which restaurant to eat dinner at." Jay speaks street Spanish
of the kind common in the L.A. barrios and the more genteel kind he learned in college.

"Well, watch for Ann. I'll be right back." I headed toward Montague Street and one of
those futuristic phone booths that take charge cards.

This time I had my card in my purse. I let the phone ring twelve times--my mother's
magic number of rings--but no one answered. I had given up and was trudging back to the
entrance to the museum when Ann strode across the zebra, halting five taxis, a tour bus, two
vans, and a dozen assorted sedans. It is a tribute to the patience of British drivers that no horn
honked.

"What is it?" I asked. She looked wild-eyed and a bit breathless.

"I saw the kid with the bomber jacket."

Jay had spotted Ann, too. He broke free of the
turistas
and joined us. "What
kid? The one who gave Vlaçek the papers?"

"The one I chased away from the hospital?" I ran my free hand through my hair. "Did
you talk to him, Ann?"

Ann had caught her breath. "No. It was the most exasperating thing. I just don't know
what to make of it, Lark. He was coming out of the Henning Institute."

I stared at her.

Jay was frowning. "
Out
of the Institute? Where were you?"

Ann took a gulp of air. "Catty-corner across the square. I went straight to the Institute
when I left you all, and they were polite but equivocal. I got disgusted and left. I decided I might
as well look at the shops. I found a place that specializes in theatrical books and old posters, and
I lost track of time. They had a playbill autographed by Sarah Bernhardt, and a cast list with
Henry Irving playing Hamlet, Lark. I almost bought it."

"No kidding?" I wondered how I had missed that shop.

Jay said, "Did you decide to go back to the Henning people?"

Ann shifted her purse, which overflowed with small parcels, to her left shoulder. She
had bought more books. "Yes. It was feeble of me, but I decided to give it one more try before I
came to meet you. I was just entering the square when I saw Milos's friend coming out the door.
I called out to him and started to run, and this taxi just came out of nowhere, so I had to jump
back on the curb. I ran after him, Lark, but he was already at Great Russell Street by the time I
got across the square. I lost him."

Jay said slowly, "I wonder why..."

Ann's eyes kindled. "I think we ought to go back there and ask that woman in the office
what's happening."

"Yes," Jay said. "I smell fish."

We could not have taken more than five minutes to reach the Institute office, but when
we tried the door it was locked. Ann rang the buzzer--leaned on it. Nobody answered. I stood on
the areaway curb and tried to peer in the single window but a lace curtain obscured the room. I
saw no lights. The bland neo-classic facade of the building revealed nothing.

It was closing-up time, of course. The terrace of townhouses had been converted to
offices, each with its own door, all with discreet signs. Building association offices, solicitors, a
couple of academic institutes, the odd accounting firm--and the Henning Institute. Terribly
respectable. One or two offices showed lights but most looked as if the tenants had shut up shop.
Two men in dark suits, umbrellas furled, walked past us in the direction of Russell Square.

"No sign of life," Jay muttered. Ann looked as if she might cry.

I said, "The kid is probably a student. We can walk toward the university library and
keep our eyes peeled. Maybe we'll spot him again."

Jay was looking at Ann. "Did you catch his attention when you called out to him?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. He didn't run or anything. He was just walking fast,
the way Londoners do." Her mouth trembled.

"It's a big university." Jay eyed her. "Even if he's not trying to avoid us we're unlikely to
run across him. Let's go home."

"I just knew something was wrong," Ann muttered. "They know more than they're
telling me."

"Home." Jay gave me a glance. "We'll take a taxi this time around."

I would have walked all over the university in three inch heels before I would have
taken the Tube at that hour. Jay was reading my mind. Also, possibly, Ann's. She looked tired
and defeated.

We went back to Great Russell Street and hailed one of the taxis that circle the huge
museum complex like sharks. We didn't say much on the short ride home. I, for one, was
thinking in circles. When the cab pulled up at our house Trevor Worth was waiting on the
steps.

"Did he ever let you drive the Porsche?" Ann smiled over at Jay as the train slid out of
King's Cross Station. She was sitting opposite him.

Jay grimaced and eased his shoulders against the seat back. "For ten miles on the M4. It
was damned strange shifting gears with my left hand."

The previous evening, Trevor had taken Jay for a two hour drive after dinner in one of
his employer's sportier models.

The train entered a tunnel. A child shrieked, and the young man across from me
burrowed deeper into the paperback book he was reading. The train was chock-full of
vacationers, some standing.

"I'll bet Trevor's a lousy driver." I squirmed closer to Jay. I had been the teensiest bit put
out not to be asked to go on the test drive. How much male car bonding was necessary?

"Drove like a bat on the motorway." Jay gave my thigh a mild, husbandly squeeze as the
train swayed out of the tunnel and past a battened-down suburban station. "But so did everybody
else, especially the rigs with three trailers."

I stretched my legs, careful not to disturb the paperback reader. "No seventy-five mile an
hour speed limit."

"Really?" Ann looked alarmed. We were picking the car up in York.

"Not on the motorways."

"Are those the freeways?"

"Yes. We'll avoid them."

Jay said, "I had to admire the way Trevor slid through the roundabouts without
smashing up. I kept looking the wrong direction for oncoming traffic."

"How was the car?" Ann was watching the suburban villas flash by. The train had
picked up speed.

"Okay. Smelled like a new car."

We had had an active evening. On top of calling the police and explaining
Bomber-Jacket's suspicious presence at the Henning Institute to Sgt. Baylor, who was on duty, we had
had to entertain Daphne. Daphne had joined us for a glass of wine while the men went out
skylarking. Her word.

"Daphne thinks Trevor's going to buy the Porsche," I murmured. "She does not
approve." She had been full of her own plans for a walking tour in Dorset. Thorne had demanded
a detailed itinerary. That annoyed her. She showed us a copy.

Ann hefted her purse to her lap and began digging. "She's jealous. She doesn't even have
a driver's license."

"Tickets, please." The conductor appeared at my elbow as if by magic.

When he had moved on down the aisle, Ann leaned toward us, her eyes earnest behind
the pink lenses. "Do you all really think I was right to come?"

"Absolutely."

Jay added, "You called Thorne. There was nothing more you could do for the moment.
And I'll feel better knowing you and Lark aren't trapped in that B-movie foyer with the light
off."

Ann sighed.

"And look at that." I pointed out the window.

"My goodness, yes. Isn't it beautiful?"

She leaned back, and all three of us fell silent as the countryside, intense green patched
with the electric yellow of rapeseed fields in bloom, opened out on either side of the train.

The landscape wasn't beautiful--beautiful was far too melodramatic a word for that mild,
undramatic area--but after three weeks of London grime and noise it was wonderfully pleasant to
look at open fields. The sky was blue, and the world, or at least Yorkshire, lay all before us. I felt
the muscles at the base of my neck unknot, one by one.

The journey from King's Cross to the city of York takes two hours by train. Ann and I
had brought guidebooks and Jay the paper he was supposed to deliver at the conference. We read
and gazed out the window and didn't talk much. The rolling green fields and the dreamy church
spires--slightly out of focus in the moist air--created the illusion that we were traveling backward
in time. When the stacks of the nuclear power plant south of York finally loomed into view I
flinched. We had not, after all, reached the kind, indefinite past.

Jay looked up from his paper. "I wonder what they thought about Chernyobl?"

Ann shivered.

Chernyobl. The Salman Rushdie case. The Hillsborough disaster. Lockerbie. The fire at
King's Cross Station. And on an individual scale, Milos's injury and Miss Beale's murder. The
joys of modern civilization. I wondered what a Victorian thinker--Harriet Martineau perhaps, or
John Stuart Mill--would have said of such events. I wondered what distressful lyric the sight of
those cooling towers would have provoked my mother to. Not for the first time I wished I had
inherited her gift for words.

We eased into the York station shortly after noon. About half the passengers got off with
us, and an equal number waited to board--heading for Edinburgh. We strolled through the
brightly lit station, out the main entrance, and onto the sidewalk. There we stopped dead.