The Barbarian (18 page)

While Jisella
spoke, her husband strode across to her. He stood a while beside Ami. Renard de
Robynet was a quiet, reserved fellow, but there were tears in his eyes too as
he watched his wife fill in the shallow grave she'd made. "Why here?"
he asked her, reaching down to help her to her feet.

She looked up at
the stars. "It felt right, Renard. You see the moon there? He always liked
to say he would ride to the end of the world one day—"

"And touch
the moon," her husband finished for her. "I remember." He turned
to Ami. "My brother, Remy, was lost in battle. His body was never found to
bring him home."

"I'm
sorry," she said. "He must have been special to you both."

"He
was."

The other guests
had walked up from the bonfire and now they all stood together looking up at
the stars, wondering how far they were away, discussing whether such a distance
could ever be crossed.

Stryker folded an
arm around his wife's waist and held her close. "I don't need the
stars," he whispered. "I have you, my lady."

Ami looked out
toward the cliff edge, her attention caught suddenly by a wispy flutter
momentarily balanced there in the dark. Was it a woman? It was over in the blink
of an eye, the image vanished. But she heard a cry as the wind picked up and
pulled on her mantle again with icy fingers. "Listen, Stryker," she
whispered. "I hear her screaming."

"Hear
who?"

"The Witch of
Cynndyr. The one who stabbed her lover and leapt to her death over the
cliffs."

He laughed softly
and gave her a squeeze. "Worry not. I won't let her get you."

Ami glanced again
in the direction of the cliffs, looking for another sign of the ghostly figure,
but she was gone.

Chapter Eight

Many, many years later...

The Cornish Coast, this
afternoon.

How did we get here?

She had an awful
feeling someone would be dead by the end of the weekend. Then, after a couple
of red-herrings, the indomitable Miss Marple would wander in with her knitting
and solve the crime, much to the chagrin of the local police. Not only could
the variety of odd characters slouching around the place have walked right out
of Agatha Christie, they didn’t really belong anywhere else. Where had they
come from? she wondered.
 
Even more
importantly, why did they have to choose this weekend to stay there, when it
was supposed to be her peaceful "retreat", a chance to clear her
head, stare at the sea for long periods and otherwise hide from civilization?

The main room of
the Inn—optimistically named ‘The Library’—was stuffed full of faded chintz,
ratty old books that no one had opened in half a century and tired, stained
lampshades, but the windows had a priceless view of sloping lawns that dropped
off, rather abruptly, to a cliff edge and the bristling sea below. That was
probably the edge over which someone would be pushed eventually, she mused,
taking a quick assessment of her fellow guests to decide which one would have
the honor. Someone colorful and loud, against whom every other soul present had
a bitter grudge, later to be revealed. With her track record, she would be a
lead suspect. Better get an alibi.

A few faces looked
back at her as she came in out of the rain; some avoided all eye contact.
Shiftily. Those were the ones to watch out for.

"Raining out
again." The receptionist, who was also the breakfast waitress, popped up
from under her desk like a Jack-in-the-Box on speed.

Was that a
question, or an observation?
 
In either
case it was redundant.

"Yes. Just
been out in it."
 
Can’t you see I’m wet?

"Been out for
a walk, have you?"

No, I was looking for freshly disturbed earth and signs of a
struggle in the azaleas.
When she smiled it hurt
the corners of her mouth. "What time does the bar open?"

"Not till
six."

Did she look that desperate that the girl had to add "not
till"? Couldn't just say "six"?

But oh, shit. Another hour? As it happened, yes, she was pretty damn
desperate.

"Staying in
for dinner?"

"I …
probably." Moving toward the stairs, planning a smooth retreat to her shoebox
room, she saw the poster on the notice board. Now she recalled seeing copies
peppered all around the small village and as her eyes finally read the words
printed there on scalding neon pink paper, her heart sank. So much for peaceful
retreat. How could she have forgotten about that?
 
"There’s a play this weekend?
 
In the hotel grounds?"

"That’s
right. It’s an annual Shakespearean event. Our busiest weekend!
 
Hope the weather improves or it’ll be a bit
wet out there."
 
The receptionist
laughed merrily, presumably at the idea of other fools getting soaked. "
Taming of the Shrew
. It’s only an
amateur production—local people, but they’re very enthusiastic. And it’s always
packed!
 
Lots of fun, even if it's just
for the forgotten lines and falling props. You’ll see."

No, I won’t
.

"I hope you
don’t mind me asking…" the receptionist chirped abruptly, leaning her
elbows on the desk, "…but haven’t I seen you somewhere before?"

She felt her bones
shrink, her veins snap and recoil, in a desperate attempt to disappear. "I
don’t think so."
 
One foot before the other. That’s it. Left,
right, left. You can do it. Just like a normal person.

"But I
could’ve sworn … hey, wait a minute … didn't you used to be that writer?"

As if she didn’t
hear, she kept walking up the stairs.

"Aren’t you
the one that stabbed her husband—that actor?"

For possibly the
one thousandth time in six years, she corrected that statement. "To be
accurate I grazed him with a lemon zester. It was barely a flesh wound. Had he
not bought such cheap and shoddy cocktail tools, I might have made a bigger
mark."

The girl’s mouth
opened a few seconds before sound came out. "Oh."

Composure
regained, she swept up the stairs, head high. Bette Davis couldn’t have done it
better.

****

She opened her
window to let in some fingers of fresh, cool, wet-tipped air and then fell back
onto the bed, sinking into the saggy mattress. Well, the news would soon
spread. Within half an hour, the other guests would all be apprised of her
identity, reminded of the incident and gleefully rehashing the entire weary
affair.

Some would smugly
report that they’d known all along—that they recognized her already. Others,
being British, would claim themselves "above" tacky, celebrity gossip
and act as if they knew nothing about it, neither did they care. But they’d
listen anyway. What else was there to do in this place, since it was
raining—forever—there wasn’t even a television and every jigsaw box was labeled
with a warning "incomplete set"?

Tomorrow, the
local amateur enthusiasts would descend on the grounds with their makeshift
stage and what would probably turn out to be a very damp production of William
Shakespeare’s
Taming of the Shrew
.
That might take minds off her presence for a bit anyway.

How could she have
forgotten the annual play that brought a larger than usual crowd of tourists to
this tiny, picturesque place?
 
Maybe,
just maybe, she hadn’t forgotten at all. There had to be some reason why she
suddenly dropped everything and came down here, all alone, telling no one. Four
days ago she was stepping out of an airport and into a car heading for the
Savoy
hotel.
How the figgity fuck did she get here from
there
?
 
That could be the title of
her autobiography.

Through the open
window she could hear the soft shiver of the sea and the gentle, insistent
patter of rain on stone and soggy grass. Surely the earth couldn’t absorb much
more water.There had to be a sun out there, somewhere behind the steel-grey
clouds. Is this how the world would end—washed away into the sea?

The phone began to
shake in a violent salsa. Her phone. She’d almost forgotten she had one, but
she must have turned it back on this morning, accidentally.

"Finally!"
A voice snapped at her down the crackling line. "Where the Hell are
you?
 
We’re supposed to be having dinner
tonight. I’ve got people coming in to meet you. I hope you haven’t…"

"I can’t make
it. I’m sorry, something came up. I’m not even in
London
."

There was a brisk,
angry, irritable pause. "Where
are
you?
 
I’ve been trying to reach you for
days. You're always bloody disappearing."

She sprawled
across the bed on her back. "I’m taking a break. I’ll call you … later.
Promise."

"A
break?
 
A break where?
 
What is going on with you?"

She sighed
heavily, staring up at the ceiling cracks and water stains. "I’m fine. I
haven’t been kidnapped and I’m not having a nervous breakdown. Nor am I
drowning in a vat of malmsey. I’m just having a vacation. Like normal people
do."

"But you’re
not a normal person."

"Thanks."

"You know
what I mean."
 
He groaned, his
exasperation blowing down the phone like a gale force wind. "And you
didn’t tell anyone where you were going."

"That’s the
idea. I need time alone. I've decided to write my memoirs."

"Fantastic!"
She could hear traffic horns in the background and imagined him marching down
the street, elbowing people aside, holding a hot coffee and summoning a taxicab
at the same time. "Do you know how many hoops I jumped through to get you
this meeting?"

"You’re the
best agent ever."

"And you’re
the most frustrating, ungrateful client…"

"I’ll call
you later."

"This is not
the way to be taken seriously as a writer."

"Goodbye. And
since I'm writing my memoirs, I suggest you start collecting blackmail
money." She dropped the phone to the bed and rolled over, sniffing the
faint mustiness of the chenille cover. What she needed about now was a nice
stiff martini. A dirty one.

Taken
seriously?
 
God Forbid. She couldn’t even
take herself seriously.

The sound of a
hammer hitting damp wood with rhythmic thumps eventually dragged her to the
window. Down on the lawn the stage was being assembled for tomorrow’s opening
night performance. Despite the rain.

It really was
beginning to look more and more like the scene of an Agatha Christie murder
mystery.

She heard a woman
laughing and squealing. Leaning further out she saw two people running across
the gravel of the small hotel car park. They'd just left a fancy, mid-life
crisis sports car. They made a haphazard course toward the entrance, so caught
up in one another—like a fictional couple in a cheap jewelry store ad—that he
left his driver's side window open. Someone would have wet seats later, she
thought grimly. Serve him right for being a prick. Only a prick would drive a
car like that.

Ducked under their
coats to shelter from the rain, they were merely two anonymous wet lumps, until
they reached the ivy-strewn porch and he, acting a gentleman, opened the door
for his partner. As his body turned, he glanced up just once at the grim sky
and she got a full view of his face.

No. Oh, no, no,
no. Figgity, Foggity Fuck!

She fell back from
the window and bumped her hip on the dresser. She’d know that starched bastard
anywhere.

Of all the hotels
in all of
Cornwall
,
why did he have to walk into this one?

Out of spite,
naturally.

****

"Don’t look now, but didn’t she used to be your wife?"

They had only just
sat down at the bar when she walked in. He’d seen her through the glass paneled
doors a second earlier and quickly decided he needed an excuse to leave. But it
was too late now. His companion had seen her too and if he retreated now it
would look like cowardice. His ex-wife was ordering a martini and smiling at
the barman—probably distracting him so that he would "forget" to
charge her room. Oh yes, he knew her M. O. She was a master puppeteer when it
came to men. They were powerless, with their strings up.

"Is she
allowed to be here?" his companion asked in a hollow whisper above the rim
of her wine glass.