Skylark (5 page)

He was a tall, blue-eyed man, greyhound lean, with a voice like Michael Caine and a
suit that murmured Saville Row, my dears. I think he was wearing an Old School Tie, which old
school I couldn't tell. The poodle, Rollo, gave a half-hearted yelp and snuffled at Worth's heels.
Both of us ignored the dog.

Despite the forty watt bulb, Worth was backlit so that his smooth hair glowed like a
halo. It was that shade of reddish gold no hair-dye has ever duplicated. His complexion was as
pale as Devonshire cream. He beamed at me and held out his hand.

I almost dropped Ann's tote in my haste to make contact with this strictly British god.
"I'm Lark Dodge. You must be Miss Beale's nephew." I was conscious of the run in my panty
hose and the fatuity of my comment.

Behind me, Ann wheezed her way onto the landing.

"This is my temporary roommate, Ann Veryan." Now why did I say
temporary
? I felt my cheeks flush. Ann was temporary because Jay, my sole and
singular husband, was going to show up a week from Friday, and Ann was staying on three days
after Jay arrived.

Before I could utter something even more misleading, such as "Drop in anytime," Ann
caught her breath. "Hello."

"Delightful. Two American nymphs." Worth cuffed Rollo out of the way. The poodle
retreated, whining.

Ann shook hands, retrieved her bag, and filled the air with southern comfort. I could see
her eyes gleaming. It was a wonder the glasses didn't steam up.

Trevor led us down a handsome hallway and into Miss Beale's tasteful parlor. I could
hear Rollo giving tongue in another room. The noise ceased. Ann looked around her, blinking at
the splendor.

As I had discovered on my earlier visit, there was nothing Dickensian about Miss
Beale's flat. The furniture would have stocked a San Francisco antique shop, and there were
rather too many porcelain doodads for my taste, but the contrast with the dank stairwell was
startling.

A dark woman of about my age rose from among the knickknacks and fixed us with
steely grey eyes.

"My sister, Daphne," Trevor murmured.

Daphne Worth shook hands as if she were used to doing her duty. She didn't smile.
Perhaps she realized her smile would be invisible in her brother's golden presence.

She was short, round, and dressed in a black gabardine suit that had to have come off the
rack at Marks & Spencer. She wore steel earrings and a matching pin that looked as if it
might have been designed by an East German boilermaker. The pin was so heavy it dragged her
collar askew. Her blouse was a mustard acetate that swore at her delicate coloring. She wore no
makeup.

As Trevor seated us with great charm on the horsehair settee, Miss Beale drifted in. She
bore a silver tray upon which reposed a decanter, wine glasses, and a plate of digestive
biscuits.

"Oh, there you are," she murmured. "So glad you could join us. Daphne, dear, do pour
for me."

Daphne took the tray from her and set it on what had to be a tea, as opposed to coffee,
table. Miss Beale sat in a wing-backed chair. Her niece poured. Trevor and Ann exchanged
politenesses about the dreary weather, and the beauty of the tulips in Kensington Gardens, and
the variety of plays to be seen that season. He was gently scathing about the RSC production of
Macbeth
. Ann made delighted protests.

Daphne handed out the Waterford wine glasses. Each held a thimbleful of what I took to
be Bristol Cream. When she had reseated herself she passed me the biscuits.

"Americans are daft about Shakespeare." Her voice was low and rather flat, more in
expression than timbre.

"Some are." I risked a biscuit.

"Take this Rose Theatre flap."

The Rose Theatre, where Shakespeare's first plays may have been produced, and
Marlowe's definitely were, had been found in Southwark on the site of a proposed office
building. Preservationists, including Sam Wanamaker, invincibly American even after twenty
years' residence in London, were doing battle with Thatcher's Department of the Environment to
save the remains. Local feeling was at best tepid.

"I've heard of it." I nibbled. The biscuit tasted like sweet spiced straw.

"Bunch of nonsense. Hundreds of men idled because the Americans want a few bits of
rotted timber preserved in amber."

"I noticed an English voice or two among the protesters."

"Actors," she snorted, dismissing Lord Olivier, then nearly on his deathbed, a clutch of
other distinguished British thespians, and half the Dames of the British Empire.

"I was rather surprised how few Londoners objected to covering the site with a boring
high-rise." I took a sip of sherry. It tasted like cough medicine.

"What Londoners need has nothing to do with Shakespeare. Jobs and housing."

I could think of a few other things Londoners needed, like very large litter bins in
Trafalgar Square. The populace would benefit from a good stiff jolt of
Macbeth
, too. I
made a neutral noise.

"Rents," said Daphne, "are iniquitous."

I had no trouble agreeing with that. "But I don't see how preserving the theatre will
affect housing. The builders are putting in an office complex. A museum on the site would draw
thousands of tourists every summer and that would create jobs."

"Jobs for Spanish cleaning maids and Lebanese waiters. Not real jobs at real
wages."

"A true dilemma," I murmured, wishing that someone would rescue me and tuck me into
my nice bed. Didn't Lebanese--or Czech--waiters need real wages, too?

"There's no dilemma. We won't be compelled to live in a bloody museum."

Miss Beale clucked. "Really, Daphne dear. Such language. Daphne teaches at the infant
school in Greer Street, Mrs. Dodge. Delightful children, and such good families."

"The little girls who wear the boater hats? I saw them walking to the Natural History
Museum yesterday." The longer I talked to these people, the more American my accent and
vocabulary sounded to me. "Cute kids."

Daphne's mouth twitched in a morose smile. "Little devils."

"Lark...what a lovely name." Trevor, blue eyes earnest, turned to me, pleading. "I may
call you Lark, mayn't I?"

"Why not?" Call me anything, O prince, but call me.

"This woman has never seen
Cats
. Help me persuade her."

"You should see
Cats
," I echoed, obedient.

Ann gave a faint shriek. "But it's so expensive!"

"Nevertheless." He smiled like a sunny seraph.

"I'd rather see Daniel Day Lewis do Hamlet." Ann batted her eyelashes at him, I would
have sworn to it. "But if you insist, Trevor." And they were off on a discussion of the Lloyd
Webber musical, then four years into its run and rather stale. Miss Beale beamed at her nephew,
and he preened and grew even more eloquent.

The word expensive had reminded me of the rent. I was groping for a genteel way to
raise the subject when Ann segued smoothly from theatre to finance. She hauled her giant
handbag to her lap and turned on Miss Beale her warmest smile.

"I know this isn't the proper occasion, ma'am, and it's sadly pushing of me, but I'd be just
so relieved if you'd let us give you next week's rent?" Her voice rose, turning the statement into a
question. "You've been so kind, and it's such a lovely apartment, just what we wanted..." And so
on.

At the first mention of the word
rent
, Miss Beale stiffened, but she was
unprepared for the full battery of Ann's deference. By the time we left, Miss Beale was
projecting regal graciousness and had accepted the rent for both weeks. She wrote out the receipt
in a clear copperplate hand.

Trevor watched Ann's performance with every appearance of amused interest, Daphne
with sullen distaste. Bloody Americans flashing their wealth. I could almost hear her contempt. I
writhed a bit myself, but Ann was so convincing I bade our hostess goodbye feeling obscurely
grateful to her for taking our filthy Yankee lucre.

Trevor offered to accompany us down what he called the Stygian Staircase.

"I'll come, too." Daphne rose. "I must go, Auntie." That delayed us another five or ten
minutes while Miss Beale protested and fetched coats. Trevor took his and gave his aunt a kiss
on the cheek that made her bridle and blush. I would have blushed, too. Daphne shook hands.
Rollo yipped in the distance.

Trevor joggled the light switches with a practiced hand, and we descended, Ann much
more rapidly than she had come upstairs. While Trevor held the heavy front door against the
wind, we slipped out into the rain. Daphne followed close on his heels. We had left the little gate
that led to our flat unlocked.

I was so tired by then I was seeing double, which made fitting the key in the door lock
difficult. I turned it and tried the door. Locked. I turned it the other way. Success. I felt a tiny stir
of alarm, but switched the hall light on.

Ann was making her adieux in the areaway. I was about to turn and go back out for a
farewell or two of my own when I saw that my bedroom door was wide open. A faint draft of
fresh air touched my cheek.

I backed out the door and into Ann.

"What is it?" She sounded peeved.

"Something's wrong."

Trevor and Daphne stared at me.

I stared back. "Someone's broken in. They may still be there."

"Are you sure?"

I explained about the bedroom door. I had closed it because the bed was unmade. I didn't
mention Milos's papers, but they were on my mind.

I heard Ann give a small moan as the same thought struck her. Rain gusted in our
faces.

"There's must be another explanation," Daphne was saying in brisk, no-nonsense
tones.

Trevor's hair ruffled in the wind. "The crime rate is rather lower here than in the States,
you know. I daresay you left the door ajar, and a draught stirred it open."

"There shouldn't be a draft. All the windows were closed. Locked."

"But..."

"There's a pay phone on the corner. I'm going to call the police." The flat did not have a
phone. I had liked that. No intrusive wrong numbers or telephone solicitors. Now I yearned for a
telephone.

"I'll run back up to Auntie's," Daphne offered, reluctance and doubt palpable in her
voice.

"Up five flights of stairs? It'll be quicker to call from the corner. Please stay with Ann,
though. I don't think she should be here alone." Before they could object I started down the
sidewalk, head bent against the wind.

I was not wearing a raincoat, and the cold cut right through my wool suit. By the time I
reached the space-age phone booth I was half running.

I got there and remembered I hadn't brought my purse with the handy-dandy card for use
in pay phones. Sheer frustration made me want to bawl. I huddled for a moment in the dim
shelter, panic rising in my throat, teeth chattering. To calm myself I read the instructions printed
on the telephone. No toll necessary for emergency calls.

I lifted the receiver and tapped the number. Not 911. 999. The dispatcher said
something.

"I'm sorry. I didn't understand what you said. I'm trying to report a burglary. It may still
be in progress."

She had trouble understanding me, too. Eventually she took the message and told me she
would notify the appropriate people. I had to be content with that.

I scurried back to our building and down the steps. Ann and the Worths had gone in. I
could hear them talking in the foyer in low voices. I banged on the door, and Trevor let me
in.

"Did you reach the police?"

"Yes. They're coming. You shouldn't have entered the flat."

"It was bloody cold in that wind." Daphne's voice had an edge, and her eyes were cool
with disbelief. "Besides, there's nobody here."

"Have you checked?"

"We're about to," Ann said. "We didn't hear anything. I turned on the light in the living
room." She could do that from the hallway.

"Then let's go in and sit down and wait for the police. I don't want to mess up the
evidence."

Trevor gave a short laugh. "Evidence of what? I beg your pardon, Lark, but I think
you're imagining things."

"Possibly." I was still shivering, though no longer from cold. "Let's go into the living
room."

Ann led the way. At the arch she stopped short. Daphne bumped into her. "Uh oh."

Trevor craned. "'Strewth. You were right."

I said through my teeth, "Don't just stand there blocking the way."

The living room had been tossed. The Hide-A-Bed had been pulled down and the
bedclothes churned. The drawers of the chest lay upended on the heap of sheets. Beyond, I could
see that the cupboard and refrigerator doors hung open. Drawer holes gaped.

Ann was moaning. She moved to the couch-cum-bed and reached toward the tumbled
pile of clothing.

I backed into the hallway. "We shouldn't disturb the evidence. They'll want to
photograph it."

The others were picking their way through the room. Daphne had got as far as the
kitchen.

"Come out of there!" I heard my voice sharpen. "Come out into the hall."

With backward glances and much clucking they complied.

"I daresay I should take you ladies back upstairs to Auntie." Trevor's eyes darkened with
earnestness. "I apologize for doubting you, Lark."

I took a long breath. My shivering had eased. "It doesn't matter. We'd better wait here,
though, until the police come. You could run up and let your aunt know what happened,
Trevor."

"She'll be most concerned for you."

I nodded. And for her real estate. That was natural. "Is there any point in disturbing her
tonight?"

Daphne said, "She'll be walking Rollo very soon anyway. I'll go up, too, shall I?"

When neither of us objected, she went to the door. After a moment her brother followed
her out. We heard their voices fade.

Ann and I looked at each other. Ann's lip was trembling.

"I know," I said wearily. "Me and my stupid photocopies."