Trophies (48 page)

I nearly gagged but managed to get it
down.

"Come on, Lieutenant, wouldn't you rather
work for me?"

Which was, of course, exactly what I had been
dreaming while downing the man's brandy. I'm certain I gaped at
him.

"Dad's got you behind a desk, right? You're
bored, I know you gotta be bored—"

"Yes," I said, the brandy mellow on my
tongue, my heart beating like a drum. "I'm bored."

"That's what I thought." He took the bottle,
capped it, and slid it, too, into the rucksack. "I drafted your
transfer request this afternoon. I just needed the name to put on
it." He considered me one last time, drawing the strap of the
rucksack over his shoulder. Suddenly he grinned, and it was such a
spontaneous, mischievous thing that I grinned right back. "I bet
you'll feel right at home the first week." He sauntered off into
the night and vanished before I could think of a thing to say.

That was the last time I was bored in the
Army. However, he was wrong about one thing. I felt at home the
first day.

And I never looked back.

current time

"What can you tell me about a man named Basil
Glendower?" I asked.

Father stiffened. "She told you of that Welsh
rogue?"

"Not precisely." Surely we hovered on the
verge of something important; for once I was glad my emotions were
so plainly read. "Will you tell me? I wouldn't ask if it wasn't
important."

He stared as seconds ticked by, his outraged
flush fading as he examined my expression. Then he glanced down at
his knuckles, white about the knob of his stick.

"When our father would not allow her to
attend university—" He paused and glanced toward me, eyebrows
slightly lifted. "Did she mention that?"

I nodded. "She never forgave him."

He nodded in turn. "It caused strife and
bitterness in the family, and everyone took sides. I went with
Father, of course, from youth and inexperience as much as loyalty,
and so did our mother. But Preston and our Aunt Caroline sided with
Edith, and there were hard words. When he would not give in, Edith
began seeing that rogue."

He leaned back, setting his stick across the
arms of the chair. The memory's intervening years softened his
tension, but grief intertwined with remembered indignation in the
depths of his eyes. "After that, she listened to no one, not even
Aunt Caroline, who'd always been able to influence her before. I
knew Glendower was the thief raiding the nobility's homes, and I
knew she was helping him—"

He glanced at me again, almost with
guilt.

"I found the jewelry."

"I see," he whispered back. "My God, but
she's left you a legacy indeed."

I didn't want to think about that yet.
"Please go on."

"As I said, I knew she was abetting him." He
sighed. "I told her I knew and she laughed in my face, saying she'd
learned a trade after all, despite Father. I threatened to tell the
police, but I had no evidence and she knew it."

The undertones to our conversation were
changing and, with our focus on the mystery, any remaining
hostility between us vanished. If I'd spoken this honestly with him
earlier, perhaps some of my anguish over Aunt Edith's duplicity
could have been avoided, the same way she could perhaps have
avoided being murdered if she'd made peace in the family
sooner.

Father stared into empty space. "Then, one
night, a man was killed."

"The security guard," I said. "Ezra
Higdon."

Remembered pain clouded his eyes. "Yes, that
was his name. Too late, I went to the police and they questioned
Glendower on my word, but still we had no evidence — the jewelry
was nowhere to be found — so they had to release him. He did own a
pistol of the same sort used in the murder, but the ballistics were
all wrong."

"He owned a brace of pistols. She hid the
jewelry and the actual murder weapon for him." There was no point
telling Father that his little sister was the one guilty of
Higdon's death, especially as he seemed to feel a measure of
responsibility for the crime.

"I see," he said. "It was obvious Glendower
would flee. I believe the Scotland Yard inspector knew it even as
he released the rogue. There was simply nothing we could do about
him. But I could prevent Edith from fleeing as well. And I
did."

That possibility had never occurred to me.
But this time, I held my tongue. An experienced barrister, after
all, needed no guidance.

"On the night he was released, I bullied my
way into her room. She had started packing and I even searched her
Gladstone. But I found nothing."

False bottom. In the intervening years, had
he realized how close he'd come to a momentous discovery?

"I heard a whistle from the rear garden at
about two that morning, repeated every fifteen minutes for several
hours. Then it began to rain, and silence fell, and it was just
another night. Edith and I sat on either side of her fire without
speaking, staring at each other for hours, and all I could think
was that she would hate me for the rest of our lives." His chin
sank. "There have been days when I wondered if I hadn't imagined
all those suspicions, if perhaps Edith was innocent of any crime
and my cynicism forced her into an intolerable position."

He deserved the truth. "It wasn't your
imagination."

He stared at me again, as if to read my
thoughts through my skull. "She taught you lockpicking, you
say?"

As I'd blurted out in the gallery, hoping to
hurt him. It seemed I'd succeeded. "I'm not a thief, Father."

He smiled. It was unlike any smile I'd ever
seen on his face before. Neither studied nor calculating, it lit
him from within; without doubt, he was very proud of me.

"Colonel Holmes said his team needs and
values your skills."

And finally the enlightened look on Father's
face in the law office, and the considering one on William's, made
perfect sense. I shot a glare at Sherlock, still reading that
touristy trash with an absorbed expression as if my life wasn't
being transformed, and contemplated mayhem. A rousing fistfight in
a bed-and-breakfast entryway full of lovely breakables could be
intensely satisfying. "Told you that, did he?"

"Now, will you tell me why this is so
important?"

There were no gentle words to couch the
message. "Glendower murdered her."

Slowly his mouth tightened, until he
resembled the barrister I'd known as a child. "How do you know
this?"

"Because she was killed with the second of
that brace of pistols, the one he took with him when he fled."

"And where has he been hiding all this
time?"

The ballistics report had mentioned central
European ammunition from an ex-Soviet manufacturer, confirmed by
the passport hidden in Glendower's lair. "I think Bulgaria,
probably employed by the KGB or some similar organization.
Certainly he needs money now, so I'd guess he's been unemployed
since the Soviet empire fell."

He gripped his stick, still lying across the
arms of his chair. Concern tightened the skin across his
cheekbones. "Have you gone to the police with what you know?"

"Of course I haven't." His eyes flared and I
backtracked. "I mean, if I go to the police, from there it would go
to the press—"

His hand on my arm was gentle but too firm to
ignore. I fell silent.

"Charles, you're making the same mistake I
made."

I froze.

"You're putting the family honor before the
needs of society. Ezra Higdon died because I made that mistake. I'd
rather not see you carry such a burden."

My heart pounded. The intensity of his
concern — his concern for me — hit home. It helped. But not enough
to alter my conviction.

"Perhaps it's time I paid some attention to
the family honor."

He set his stick aside and drew a small pill
bottle from his breast pocket. I'd seen von Bisnon produce just
such a bottle under emotionally stressful circumstances, containing
nitroglycerine to ease an over-strained heart, and my own picked up
speed.

"Father?"

"I'm all right." He sounded testy. He opened
the bottle and shook a tiny white pill onto his fingertip. "I
simply hadn't expected to hear all this."

"What's going on?" William's tense voice
spoke from Father's other side, startling me. But Father placed the
pill in his mouth without speaking, leaving me no polite
alternative. And there were family affairs that needed settling
here, as well. I stood and faced my brother.

I'd mistaken William's tone. He wasn't tense;
he was concerned, for there was no hardness to his expression.
Again he wore his casual slacks and two-toned sport shirt, the same
outfit I'd worn for the police identity parade; it fit him much
better than me, especially about the middle.

I felt a stab of anger when our gazes meshed,
which must have shown. He flinched, his eyes flared in return, and
he tilted his chin up to glare down his Roman nose at me. But now I
knew that stabbing sensation was old anger, lingering from the
beating he gave me years ago, and not any emotion I currently felt.
I also knew this was something we'd have to settle someday, but now
wasn't an appropriate time. No matter how much fun wrecking the
bed-and-breakfast might be.

Instead I pulled forward the memory of
William, bowed with grief and worry in the hospital corridor
outside his son's room. The remembered sympathy helped me manage a
smile that I hoped didn't look too strained. "Thank you for telling
him."

He subjected me to the same long scrutiny
Father employed. Then his chin lowered and he managed a small,
tight smile of his own. "If I insisted upon acting the fool, I
should have discussed it with him at the time." He hurried on. "You
never were a bad kid, you know. Not like I was."

But that wasn't right. "I don't remember you
as a bad kid. Quite the opposite."

He swallowed. "Perhaps you don't remember all
that well."

For a moment we considered each other. I
could think of absolutely nothing to say.

"Look," he said suddenly, "I was going to
grab a bite on my way to the hospital. Linda's already at the
restaurant with Uncle Preston and Aunt Viola. Why don't you join
us?"

Without thinking, I glanced down at Father.
But his eyes were closed and his face still, his lips just turning
up. The nitro pill would be dissolving beneath his tongue.

"Father usually prefers to rest after his
medication." William lowered his voice. "It generally gives him a
headache."

Father, eyes still closed, nodded.

Across the lobby, paper again rustled.
William and I both glanced aside. Sherlock folded his newspaper,
not looking our way.

"I see. Another time?" William said.

"Definitely," I said. "Hello to Trés, and my
love to Linda and the others. Father, should I walk you
upstairs?"

His eyes opened at that. But their expression
was frosty. I froze, heart accelerating.

William cleared his throat. "His usual answer
to such a suggestion emphasizes the fact that he is neither old nor
a dotard, at least not yet, and one should reserve one's sympathy
for unhappy people deserving same."

Trans-Atlantic relationships, it seemed, were
normalizing. I grinned. William's eyebrows shot up and surprise
washed across his expression. Then he smiled, too.

I took my leave and joined Sherlock at the
magazine rack. "And how long were you listening?"

He slid the folded newspaper back into its
spot. "Couldn't hear a word, but it's time we got moving." He
nodded out the glass door.

Jacob stood there, paying off a cab.

More family affairs to settle. For this one,
I felt ready. "Let's do it."

We stepped out into the July sunshine, fading
beneath gathering clouds, and waited on the landing. Jacob turned
from his cab. He smiled when he spotted us and started up the short
flight of stairs.

"Charles." He held out his hand, glancing
down with his dark, almost pupil-less eyes at the same time.

My skin crawled. "Don't bother. I've taken it
off."

Jacob froze. His eyes widened the barest
touch. "Beg pardon?"

"The ring," Sherlock said. "We tumbled to
you, Jacob. How did you get rid of your Suburban?"

"I suppose you junked it." I eased nearer; a
fight on the steps of the previously mentioned bed and breakfast
would be almost as satisfying as one in the lobby, and a lot less
expensive. "It certainly was in no condition for a decent
trade-in."

"Bastard." His voice and face were suddenly
vicious. But the step he took was in reverse.

He didn't intend to fight now any more than
he had beneath the sword-maiden's fountain. A sense of power washed
through me; this would be an easy victory.

But Sherlock turned away. "It doesn't matter
if he runs. We can get a copy of the bill of sale from the previous
owner and a tour of the junkyards should locate the wreck if the
police want it. Come on, let's get out of here. The ladies await
and they are much cleaner company."

I didn't move. "What did Aunt Edith have
against you, Jacob?"

Sherlock's gaze flickered to me for one
irritated moment, then he glared at Jacob from the corner of his
eye. The effect, I knew from experience, was nerve-wracking.

Jacob blinked. "She never liked me. No one
did."

"She wasn't that sort of person. When she
didn't like someone, she had a bloody good reason for it."

He backed away again. "It wasn't my fault."
His voice rose with each syllable. "I was just a kid. Besides, I
didn't know what he was planning. How should I have known?"

I followed, step for step, Sherlock beside
me. "Who?"

"That professor. I don't remember his name.
It was something odd."

Sherlock and I looked at each other; my
skepticism was as obvious, I'm certain, as his. "Rainwater," I said
helpfully.