Skylark (9 page)

I ate every morsel she set before me and felt much better. "My compliments to the
chef."

Ann grinned. "I couldn't find tofu."

While I did the dishes, she reported her adventures at the tourist office. We debated
whether to hire a car at Heathrow and drive west or take Britrail to Cardiff and pick up a car
there. She had collected a sheaf of brochures. Escape from London began to seem possible, and
my spirits rose. Ann was downright exuberant.

She consulted her watch and beamed at me. "Ready for the play?"

"Oh God.
Hamlet
. Do we have to?"

"Absolutely. It'll be a high-point of the trip."

"And there have been so many low points." I made a face. "Okay. Let's take the
Underground. I think I'm over my funk."

"We can buy something sweet and sinful for dessert during the interval."

"Brilliant idea." I wasn't really over my Tube phobia--I had almost had to walk to
Knightsbridge--but I wasn't sure how many prodigal taxi rides Ann could afford.

The National Theatre is a glass and concrete structure of the sort that provoked Prince
Charles to his famous outburst against contemporary architecture. I rather liked it myself. The
terraces in front of the complex and the theater balconies gave on an incomparable view across
the Thames, with the Houses of Parliament and, downstream, St. Paul's Cathedral, floating on the
river.

When the play let out, we drifted back toward the Hungerford Footbridge, taking our
time. The historical buildings across the Thames were floodlit by then, and their reflections
shimmered on the water. We strolled, soaking in the postcard-perfect view.

Ann said dreamily, "'London, thou art the flower of cities all.'"

"Who's that? Wordsworth?"

"Dunbar. A Scottish poet. Much earlier than Wordsworth."

We climbed to the bridge and started across. It was misting a little and chilly. Ann
stopped midway and stood staring at the pinkly lit dome of St. Paul's as the last of the chattering
play-goers streamed by us, bound for Charing Cross.

I glanced at her and saw that her cheeks were wet, whether from tears or mist I couldn't
be sure. I cleared my throat. "It was a thought-provoking production."

"Mm."

"I'm in love with Polonius."

Ann laughed and mopped her glasses with a tissue. "What a glorious Hamlet he must
have been. He played Hamlet, you know, just before World War II. The Ophelia was wonderful,
too."

"You haven't said anything about the leading man."

"He surely did put an antic disposition on. I think I liked it--an antidote to the
melancholy Dane cliché. Oh, look." A brightly-lit launch pulled out from the embankment
and headed downriver. We watched it out of sight.

Ann heaved a sigh. "I guess we'd better head for home. Shall we take the Tube?"

"Sure," I said bravely. "No sweat."

Tube trains stop running after midnight, and it was half past eleven by then. I could see
why the other playgoers hadn't stopped to admire the view. Charing Cross was almost deserted
and several of the exits had been chained off. We descended to the right platform, our shoes
clacking in the empty corridors. On the platform, two shadowy figures lurked beside a pillar.
Ann and I drew together.

The wait dragged on. Finally we felt the rush of stale air and heard the rumble as the
train approached. A bunch of punk kids occupied the car that stopped in front of us. They stared
out with cultivated sullenness.

"Next car." Ann dragged me down the platform.

The two men who had stood together near the pillar were already seated in the car we
boarded. Ann and I hunched together by an elderly Jamaican woman. There was no one else in
the carriage.

I was gritting my teeth. I stared at the Underground map and checked off the stations as
we passed them. Westminster. St. James. At Victoria the elderly woman got off. No one
entered.

Beside me, Ann clutched her purse and swayed with the rocking motion. Neither of us
said a word. As the train pulled into Sloane Square, the site of the assault, the two lurkers moved
toward us.

I almost leapt from my seat and ran off the train. My heart thumped. Then the men
stepped off the car, a woman with a shopping bag got on, and the doors closed.

I looked at Ann. "No suitable quotes?"

She rolled her eyes. "'And in the night, imagining a fear, how easy is a bush supposed a
bear.'"

"That's not
Hamlet
."

"No, but it's apt." She smiled. "I do get pedantic, honey. It's the English teacher
habit."

"I like it. All I can ever remember are irrelevant bits that sound funny."

"'I'll lug the guts into the neighbour room?'"

"Like that."

South Kensington station was just as empty as Charing Cross had been, and the arcade
was spooky without the flower vendors and newspaper stands. We jaywalked, London style, to
the south side of the street and moved past the shuttered shops at a good clip. A pub spilled
comforting light and noise at the first corner, and a police car, blue light revolving, passed us as
we walked. I saw it turn down our side street.

An empty bus rumbled by, and a taxi full of well-dressed revelers. Still, it was quiet for
Friday night in a city.

As we turned the corner Ann stopped dead. "Look. Isn't that our house?" The question
was not rhetorical. Ours was only one of a long row of nearly identical Regency-style
townhouses, and both of us had tried to enter the wrong areaway at different times.

The police car sat by the front steps, and the main door to the building stood open. It did
not take genius to realize that something was wrong. We walked, feet dragging, toward the
blue-lit scene. I think we were both afraid to find out what had happened. My stomach had tied itself
in a knot.

"That's Daphne Worth talking to the officer," Ann murmured.

"Another break-in?"

"Lord, I hope not."

We reached the wrought-iron railing, and Constable Ryan moved towards us from the
gate. His face looked menacing in the inconstant blue light. "Move along...oh. You live
here."

"Until Monday," I said. "What's going on?"

"There's been an accident."

Accident? Ann and I stared at him.

"Your landlady, Miss Beale, has had a fall."

Ann clucked her tongue. "Those awful rubber strips on the stairs were a disaster waiting
to happen. I hope she's not badly injured."

"She's dead, madam."

Silence. My heart paused then thudded into danger mode. I heard Ann draw a long
breath.

"You'd best go down to your flat," Constable Ryan said. "We'll send someone down to
question you."

I swallowed hard. "Question us? We've been gone all evening."

"Even so, Mrs. Dodge."

Ann had fished out her keys. She undid the gate with a minimum of fumbling, and I
went down the concrete steps after her. The front-door lock, the one the burglars had picked the
night before, opened smoothly.

Ann entered the flat. As I followed her, I heard Daphne Worth's voice from above, shrill
with strain and anger.

"...but why did they have to kill Rollo, too?"

I shut the door and leaned against it.

"He's here, Lark. Wake up!"

"Mm...who?" I blinked awake. I had been dreaming of Jay, such is the power of positive
wishing.

Ann turned on the bedside light. "Inspector Thorne."

I squinched my eyes shut, opened them, and sat up. "Okay, I'll be with you in a
minute."

Ann was still fully dressed in the lavender suit she had worn to the play. As she whisked
from the room I glanced blearily at my watch, saw it was half-past two, and decided the
constabulary would have to suffer the sight of me in the jeans and sweatshirt I had changed into
earlier.

I had meant to nap and was lying atop the duvet, but I had fallen into heavy sleep in
spite of my good intentions. My limbs felt like overcooked pasta.

Ann had brewed coffee. Thorne, who looked as tired as I felt, though he wore a rumpled
suit rather than jeans, was warming his hands on a flowered mug. A woman in her thirties sat on
the couch beside him, also nursing a mug. Both of them rose, unsmiling, and set their cups
aside.

"Mrs. Dodge," Thorne murmured. "Detective Sergeant Baylor."

The woman, who was about Ann's age and plumply pretty in a glen plaid suit, extended
her hand. I shook it.

I took the mug of coffee Ann held out to me and sank onto the armchair. The two
detectives resumed their places on the couch.

"This is a bad business," Thorne rumbled. "Poor lady, her neck was broken." Sgt. Baylor
watched me with bright brown eyes.

"Do you have a suspect?"

Thorne's eyes narrowed, and I heard Sgt. Baylor take a sharp breath. "An odd question,
Mrs. Dodge. Very odd indeed. That's an ill-lit stairwell, and the stairs themselves are in poor
condition. What leads you to think Miss Beale did not meet with an accident?"

I took a sip of scalding coffee to ease my suddenly dry mouth. "Miss Worth, something I
heard her say..." I quoted Daphne's anguished question. "So I thought, if the dog was
killed..."

"I see." Thorne didn't look as if he saw anything, and his tone was skeptical. Sgt. Baylor
had taken out her notebook.

I suppressed a yawn--nervous not sleepy. I was wide awake.

Ann covered the awkwardness with sad exclamations about Rollo and Miss Beale and
the horrors of climbing the staircase with those feeble little lights winking on and off. I think all
three of us ignored her, but she set a warmer tone.

At last Thorne took up his cup again. When Ann wound down he said, "Does either of
you own a pair of short white cotton stockings? Anklets I believe they're called."

Ann shook her head. Behind the pink lenses of her glasses her eyes widened.

I stared at Thorne, baffled, too, but apprehensive. My stomach was doing unpleasant
things. "I brought half a dozen pairs of cotton socks. I wear them with running shoes."

Thorne took another swallow of coffee. "Will you ascertain whether one of those
stockings is missing, Mrs. Dodge? Sergeant Baylor will accompany you."

"I don't understand..."

Thorne interrupted me. "Understanding is not necessary, madam. Your cooperation is. I
can send for a search warrant..."

I rose. "Sgt. Baylor may look through my laundry bag as long as she likes, inspector. I
have nothing to hide, not even dirty linen."

The mild witticism drew not the ghost of a smile from either of the detectives. Sgt.
Baylor stood and brushed her skirt straight.

When I had tidied up after the burglary I had stuffed much of what was lying on the
floor, whether it was clean or dirty, into my laundry bag. The bag looked like a lumpy sausage. I
upended it on the duvet and started sorting.

I was wearing a lot of intense blue and fuchsia that spring, and my undies lean in the
direction of lace and pastel colors. The white socks were easy to spot. There were five of them. I
laid them next to each other on the bed and poked everything else back into the bag.

Baylor didn't say anything. I moved to the dresser, hoping the stray sock had found its
way into the top drawer. Three neatly rolled pairs lay in a corner, like sandbags holding back the
froth of panty hose and pastel briefs. I searched grimly. I opened the other drawers and
rummaged without success.

"A sock is missing." I cleared my throat. "In addition to the Inuit carving and the twenty
odd pounds we reported."

Baylor nodded. I followed her back to the living room and said nothing as she told
Thorne the results of the search.

When she finished Ann said, "I think you'd better explain, Inspector."

I drank cold coffee and didn't look at anyone.

After a silence that may or may not have been pregnant, Thorne said heavily, "We found
the Eskimo carving in the mop pail. It was hidden in the toe of the missing stocking, and there
are stains on the fabric, possibly hair as well."

My pulse thrummed. When neither Ann nor I commented Thorne went on, "We're fairly
sure the dog was coshed--skull fractured. It's also possible that certain of Miss Beale's head
injuries were inflicted by the same weapon. Mind you, we're not sure. We'll have to await the
forensic analysis."

"Before you arrest Lark for murder? That's crazy," Ann said in the tone of voice she
would use to calm a dangerous lunatic. "She was with me all evening."

Thorne leaned forward. "And all afternoon?"

Sgt. Baylor's pen poised above her notebook.

I said from the depths of my funk, "Ann was out shopping for food when I came in
around three. I napped from about three until five. When..." I cleared my throat again. It felt
tight. "When did Miss Beale's accident occur?"

Thorne's voice was as cool as his eyes, but I noticed an odd thing. While his vocabulary
had grown statelier than in our earlier sessions, his vowels had slid back in his throat, and his r's
rolled like the River Tyne. "We don't know. She lay in the main entryway, head down with her
feet still on the stairs. As far as we can tell, no one saw her today." He glanced at his wristwatch.
"Yesterday."

"That's hard to believe." Ann leaned forward. Her hair had begun to wilt. A blond strand
hung over her forehead. She brushed it aside. "There are other tenants, tenants with access to the
foyer and stairs. We have no key to the main building."

"According to her niece, Miss Beale often left the door unlatched in daytime."

That was news to me. Bad news. Ann grimaced.

Thorne continued in the same heavy northern voice, "The ground floor flat is leased by a
French chemical firm as a
pied à terre
for their commercial travelers. We believe
no one is in residence at the moment. The first floor tenants are on holiday. The gentleman who
lives above has not yet returned. A householder across the street saw his auto leave at half nine
in the morning."