Skylark (7 page)

Princess Diana had indeed worn shorts to her son's nursery school. Tailored shorts with
knee socks. Enquiries continued into the Hillsborough football disaster. The transport workers'
union was going to call a strike. Chinese students were demonstrating in Beijing. A British
writers' association had petitioned the Czech government to release imprisoned playwright,
Vaçlav Havel. Had I ever heard of Vaçlav Havel? Vague recollections from a senior
seminar on absurdist theater surfaced, but nothing definite.

Salman Rushdie I had heard of. Speaking of the absurd, the Iranians were still
determined to execute him for blasphemy. One of my more satirical basketball players had given
me a copy of
The Satanic Verses
as a bon voyage present. I left it behind. I didn't fancy
sashaying through Heathrow airport with it. Life is full of small cowardices. At least I had
displayed the novel in my shop window when it looked as if the chains were going to remove it
from their shelves.

I brooded over my coffee. Ann rustled the
Times
. "Another cup?"

"No, thank you, Lark. I reckon I ought to take a bath."

"Plenty of hot water." I poured myself another cup and stared at the crossword puzzle. I
like crossword puzzles, but this one didn't make any sense. I wished I were home reading the
Chronicle
or the
Examiner
. I wished I were home, tucked into my bed with my
warm husband.

"I wish I was home," Ann muttered. "I don't care about Princess Di's knees." She
dropped the paper on the cluttered floor and stood up. "I'm homesick."

"Me, too." I eyed her. She looked as if she were about to burst into tears. "Uh, it's just
bad luck. And culture shock."

Ann sniffed. "I miss my kids." She had two sons, both in college. "And I'm paying out
my life's savings to suffer. There's no justice."

I couldn't argue with that.

"Oh, well, bath time." She heaved a sigh and picked her way through the living room
clutter.

I had tidied her bed out of the way and cleaned up the worst of the mess the thief had
created in the kitchen by the time she returned.

"That looks better." She shoved her glasses on and inspected my work. She was wearing
a blue shirtwaist dress and looked crisp and collected. "Didn't Miss Beale say something about
sending a cleaning woman?"

"Yes, but we'd probably better reduce the chaos. I have to go to Knightsbridge in an
hour."

"To the American Express office? I'll come with you. I don't want to hang around here
by myself. We can visit the hospital afterwards. I'll buy flowers at the Tube station." She poured
herself another half cup of coffee. "Meanwhile I guess I'll straighten up my belongings. I feel as
if I ought to wash everything, what with that man pawing through my clothes."

It was half past eleven before we found the hospital. The woman at the reception desk
told us with grim satisfaction that we would have to leave, Mr. Flatkick's condition had improved
but was still Grave. He was not permitted visitors. Ann thrust the flowers at her, with instructions
to give them to Milos, and we trudged off, our inadequate tourist maps in hand, in search of the
police station.

It was a discreet brick building at the high priced end of the Fulham Road. The city
fathers had tucked it into the corner of a cul de sac opposite a posh terrace of fake-Victoriana.
Some architect of the Prince Charles school had made up his mind to clone Thomas Carlisle's
neighborhood in Cheyne Walk. The long row of red brick townhouses looked smug and
expensive. The police station looked like solid 1955 Council Housing. Only the nifty blue lamp
outside the entrance indicated the building's purpose.

The Crime Scene technicians had taken our fingerprints the night before, so our visit
was a formality, as far as the desk sergeant was concerned. Just another pair of tourists to add to
the roll of forlorn crime victims.

We waited on a stiff bench by the central reception desk. Finally Inspector Thorne
emerged, greeted us, and ushered us into his spacious office. He presented us with typed
transcripts of our statements, two apiece. Ann began reading hers. I scanned the account of the
burglary and decided it was accurate, though it didn't sound quite like me. I signed it then read
through the second account, visualizing what had happened. When I surfaced I found Ann and
Thorne looking at me.

I lowered the stiff narrative to my lap and met Thorne's eyes. "There's one thing I'd like
to add."

His eyes narrowed.

"On the way to our flat from the South Kensington station, I had Milos's papers
photocopied. I mailed the copies to my father last evening, before the burglary."

His mouth opened then closed with a snap. He did not look pleased.

I said doggedly, "I don't suppose that makes any difference to your investigation, but I
thought you ought to know."

His eyebrows knotted. "Why did you copy them?"

Good question. I paraphrased the disjointed rationalization I had given Ann the night
before, adding, "I can't shake the feeling that the thief was after those papers."

"Where did you post them?"

"At that post office on the Old Brompton Road--near the Tube station. I poked the parcel
through the out-going mail slot."

"Too late for us to retrieve it," he said, more to himself than to me.

"Why bother? You have the original document."

He hesitated. "Mr. Vlaçek may feel you invaded his privacy."

"He may. I'll apologize when I can talk to him. If he wants me to tell my father to burn
the papers unread I'll do that, too. There's plenty of time. Of course, we invaded Milos's privacy
when we gave the papers to
you
."

That was logical. He shifted gears. "What other information have you withheld, Mrs.
Dodge? Obstructing a police enquiry..."

"I had no intention of hampering your investigation, Inspector. I wasn't sure the papers
were relevant. I'm still not sure."

"Happen we'll find out," he said.

Ann and I exchanged glances. She had listened to the dialog without comment, and I
thought she looked worried. I gave her a weak smile, though I didn't feel wonderfully confident
myself.

Thorne took my amended statement out to a typist, who redid the last page in short
order. I signed. Thorne told us we should not leave town without letting him know. Though his
tone was not menacing and he showed us out himself, I could see that my little confession had
created doubts. I was sorry for that. I wished I could provide him with a clearer explanation. My
impulses often bewilder me, and photocopying those papers had been one of my weirder
moments.

By that time I was starved as well as exhausted. I yearned to go home to the flat, fix a
sandwich, and take a long, long nap, but Ann was determined not to waste the afternoon. She
wanted to visit the National Gallery and stroll along Charing Cross Road to look at used
bookstores. I had meant to browse in the bookstores, too.

One of my customers lusted after nineteenth century travel diaries. Though I dealt in
new books, I was slowly developing a book-search service. I had an appointment to talk to an
antique map dealer in Knightsbridge the next day, Friday, but it wouldn't hurt me to look for
diaries. I thought I might find some interesting oddities for my Christmas display, too. Besides, I
had not been to the National Gallery since I was ten.

So we headed east. We had a quick lunch in the basement cafeteria and went on upstairs,
galloping past the Spanish masters and dawdling over the impressionists. Ann was awed, except
by Van Gogh's "Sunflowers" which she said was too brown. I wasn't unmoved myself.

When you're with a person who is experiencing something for the first time, there's a
natural but not very nice tendency to want to come across as the bored sophisticate. Ann's
undisguised wonder provoked that kind of snobbery in me.

I had been fortunate enough to visit England three times when I was a child, twice for
extended stays during my father's sabbatical leaves. I had also dashed through London as a
college student on my way to international basketball competitions. All the same, I didn't know
London well enough to pose as a jaded cosmopolite.

As we entered the souvenir shop on the main floor, I caught myself stifling a yawn that
was part weariness, part pose. Ann rooted among the prints and the postcards, and I gave myself
a stern lecture. The consequent remorse made me introduce her to the National Portrait Gallery
next door--that and nostalgia. All those wonderful English faces had enchanted me as a ten year
old. I wanted to see if the magic still operated.

It did. I left the gallery almost light-footed, and Ann left in a soft murmur of teacherly
delight. She wished she could have brought her high school students. Except that she no longer
had students.

We paused for tea and rather dry scones in a little Shoppe that would have received Miss
Beale's assent. Ann talked. When her divorce decree came through, she told me, she had wanted
to start over, so she resigned her teaching post, took a temporary job as a clerk in an Atlanta
bookstore, and began planning to use her settlement money to open a small store in a resort town
on the Carolina coast. She had attended the booksellers' conference as part of the research into
her new life. Mostly, though, she had just wanted to see Britain. Three weeks in London and
three weeks driving around the countryside. It was the dream of a lifetime. I hoped she'd be able
to realize it.

We drifted through the bookshops, accreting purchases. I had the proprietor of one
musty place ship two books of nineteenth century engravings home for me. Then Ann dragged
me to the half-price theater booth in Leicester Square that handles tickets to most of the plays,
and she tried for
Cats
. It was indeed expensive. A tour group had overbooked for
Hamlet
, however. When I agreed to go with her, she settled for two good seats the
following night at the National Theatre.

Ann was delighted with her coup. Shakespeare-daft. I thought of Daphne Worth and
wanted to laugh. There are worse vices.

By that time my feet ached almost as much as my elbow, and it was half-past five. We
took a taxi home at Ann's suggestion, an unprecedented extravagance, but I was grateful to her. I
didn't think I could face the Tube during rush hour. Not yet.

When we entered the flat it was obvious that the cleaning woman had come and gone.
Everything looked as if it had been spit-shined. A neat stack of pounds sterling lay on the dining
table along with a note in Miss Beale's elegant script.

Miss Beale was very sorry, but we would have to vacate her flat Monday morning. She
had had a visit from Inspector Thorne regarding an Unfortunate Incident on the Underground.
She was willing to forgive the burglary, but she had strong reservations about persons who
associated themselves with Middle European waiters, especially the sort who got stabbed in
public. She was refunding ?25 in lieu of notice. Would we leave our keys in an envelope in the
mailbox by noon Monday? No further personal contact was called for. She was ours faithfully,
Letitia Beale.

"Faithfully, my foot," I fumed, when I had deciphered the message. "Where's the receipt
she gave us?"

"I left it on the chest." Ann waved a vague hand.

"It's not there, but I suppose it will show up. The maid probably tidied it away." Gloom
settled over me, dulling my anger. Getting Miss Beale to take the rent had been a forlorn
hope.

Ann was counting the bills. "'Oh what a tangled web we weave, When first we practice
to deceive.'"

"That's not very helpful."

"No, honey, but it's comforting." Her voice sharpened. "I'd be willing to bet Miss Beale
took the receipt. I left it right by the radio, in plain sight. Whatever are we going to do?"

I flung myself on her couch-bed. "Start hunting for a cheap hotel."

"We could go to Hay-on-Wye."

"What?"

"That town in Wales that's nothing but used bookshops."

I looked at my roommate with fresh respect. Ann was at least ten years older than I, and
she had been through an ordeal that had left me reeling, physically and emotionally. Since she
knew Milos better than I did, she was probably even more shaken by the stabbing. Yet here she
was improvising a course of action, suggesting that we abscond, debunk, scarper.

It was an excellent idea.

"Why not?" I stood up. There were road maps in the bedroom. "Who needs a London
flophouse? Jay and I can camp at the airport, if necessary. Let's do it."

"We'll have to tell Inspector Thorne where we're going."

"And why," I said with relish. "Maybe there's a law against instant eviction."

"She evicted you, didn't she?"

I glanced up from my newspaper to find Daphne Worth beside my sidewalk table, steely
gray eyes glinting. She wore an unflattering brown suit and sensible shoes, and looked as if she
were on her way to work, though it was only eight.

"Were you speaking to me?"

The French ladies at the next table paused in their domestic chatter to watch us. Daphne
flushed scarlet but held her ground. "Did she?"

I lowered the
Independent
and took a sip of M. Roche's excellent coffee. "We
have until Monday to leave. Did you hunt me down here to gloat?"

She perched on the spare chair. "I saw you, so I decided to ask. Why didn't you tell
Auntie Wednesday evening about the stabbing?"

"Miss Beale is a thoroughly conventional woman, the sort who imagines a rape victim
must be asking for it."

She compressed her lips but didn't contradict me.

"I thought she would toss us out on our ears the minute she heard we were involved in a
police investigation, however innocently. There was a chance she wouldn't find out. We took the
chance and lost."

"You should have told her at once."

I swallowed cooling coffee. "But we didn't. She found out. That's that. Go gloat
somewhere else. I want to read the paper."