Sonnet of the Sphinx Read online

  The Citroën labored and puffed along like the Little Engine That Could. It was Thursday afternoon, and as promised, Grace had arrived at Brougham Manor to pick up Cordelia for the afternoon’s outing.

  Cordelia had taken one look at the pear-colored Citroën and suggested they take Auntie’s Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce, which was not being used that afternoon. Grace had declined. She had taken one look at Cordelia’s black fingernail polish and the plunging red midriff top that emphasized the girl’s bony chest, and nearly suggested an exchange of her own. Was anyone paying attention to Cordelia? Certainly no one was in evidence that day.

  Cordelia climbed into the Citroën and unfolded a newspaper. Was she planning to catch up on world events while Grace chauffeured her around? But no, it turned out that Cordelia was not quite as enthusiastic about Hadrian’s Wall as Lady Vee had made it sound. Adeah, sweet child she might be, but she definitely knew her own mind.

  “That old wall will always be there. We can see it anytime.”

  Ignoring this sacrilege, Grace inquired, “Okay, what exactly did you have in mind?”

  Cordelia quickly scanned the paper. “An Evening of Wine with Jane Taylor.”

  Grace opened her mouth, but intervention was unnecessary. In disappointed tones, Cordelia added, “But that’s next Tuesday.” She brightened. “Hey, maybe we could…”

  “I don’t think so.” Grace focused on her driving while Cordelia flipped through the paper.

  “Cruise with a Lake Ranger.Hey…”

  “No.” Grace had the uneasy sensation that she was rapidly losing control of the situation. If only she didn’t suspect that this was the first outing Cordelia had had all summer.

  Cordelia grimaced. Then she sniffed the air. “I think we’re on fire.”

  “This car always smells like that.”

  Cordelia gave her one of those classic teenage looks, which manages to convey a superior being’s tolerance of adult absurdity, and went back to perusing the paper.

  “Evening Jazz Cruise on Lake Windermere.” She added, “With buffet.”

  Grace made a mental note to see if she could persuade Peter to join her for that one. “Probably not what your aunt had in mind.”

  “All Auntie has in mind is to get me out of her hair for a few days. I want to go someplace with people.”

  “The tour of Hadrian’s Wall will have people.”

  “Not those kinds of people,” she said scathingly. “People my age.”

  Boys, translated Grace.

  “Here’s something. Boot Beer Festival.”

  Now there was a visual: a drunk and boy-crazy Cordelia set loose upon the unsuspecting denizens of Boot.

  “Definitely not.”

  Silence while Cordelia thumbed through the paper. “Tango Geno with Geno Fabrosi.”

  “Serve you right if I let you in for that one.”

  On impulse, Grace decided to stop by Rogue’s Gallery. They parked out front, and Cordelia led the way up the flagstone path, critically sizing up the male half of a pair of customers who were carrying their purchases out of the shop.

  The kid was going to reach critical mass at any minute, and Grace had the uncomfortable feeling she was the one who was going be left to deal with the resulting fallout.

  “Oh good,” said Peter, as they walked through the front door of Rogue’s Gallery. “It wasn’t a car bomb.”

  “Sofunny,” Grace returned.

  “One tries.” He turned to Cordelia. “And this will be Cordelia.” He smiled.

  Cordelia flushed. As her hand jerked out to shake Peter’s, she brushed against a green-glazed ginger jar on one of the spindly ebony nightstands. The nightstand tipped, the vase pitched forward.

  Grace and Cordelia gasped in dismay like a mini Greek chorus. But Peter made a swift yet unhurried dip, steadying the table with one hand and catching the jar with the other a moment before it crashed onto the floor.

  “Wow!” exclaimed Cordelia.

  “Nowthat’s a marketable skill,” Grace agreed.

  “It’s proved useful once or twice.” Peter replaced the ginger jar on the nightstand. He smiled at Cordelia. “No harm done.”

  She gazed at him as though she’d only just noticed his shining armor.

  Uh-oh, thought Grace. She’d had plenty of opportunity over the last two years to observe the bewitching effect of Peter’s seemingly effortless charm upon her sex. At misanthropic moments—generally following reading some self-help or relationship-oriented book—she wondered if something in Peter’s emotional makeup demanded constant reassurance of his attractiveness or proof of his power over other women. Cordelia was young and emotionally vulnerable.

  She explained that they were trying to find a suitable diversion for the afternoon, something edifying but diverting, something educational but…

  “You sound like Jane Austen,” Cordelia gurgled.

  Peter murmured, “Doesn’t she? I could listen to her for hours.” He winked at Cordelia, and she blushed again.

  Amused, his eyes met Grace’s. “Had you thought of the Curwen Fair? It’s a Medieval festival, but they do plays and operas.” He added enticingly, “Shakespeare.”

  “Oh, yes!” Cordelia clapped her hands together like a small girl. “Please!”

  Peter looked inquiringly at Grace.

  “It’s not exactly…” She caught sight of Cordelia’s hopeful expression and conceded defeat. She hoped that Peter might suggest going with them, but he did not. His strong sense of self-preservation kicking in, no doubt.

  As Craddock House disappeared in a cloud of exhaust fumes, Cordelia asked very casually, “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Peter Fox. Are you sleeping with him?”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious. Al says you are. Auntie says no. She says you’re askittish fillehh.” She mimicked Lady Vee’s affected accents perfectly.

  Grace said quellingly, “I can’t believe this would be of interest to any of you.”

  Unquelled, Cordelia commented, “Why not? I think he’s hot. For his age.” She added slyly, “Al still fancies him.”

  Grace bit back a retort and told herself that discretion was the better part of valor.

  She tuned back in to hear Cordelia prattling. “I think it’s very important to have a wide variety of lovers before one actually settles down.”

  That seemed to be a popular theme with Cordelia. Grace said mildly, “That sounds like a rationalization for emotional sloppiness, to me.”

  “What doesthat mean? Are you saying you’ve never slept with anyone?”

  “Of course not. But I haven’t slept with anyone merely to be able to say I had sex. Doesn’t that seem sort of predatory to you?”

  “Men do it.”

  “Some men do.”

  “It’s important to experience things, to experiencelife, if you plan to write about it.” Cordelia made a broad gesture, her hand knocking against the window. The glass rattled and slipped down an inch in its track.

  “Are you planning on writing romance novels?”

  “Of course not! Sex need not be romantic.”

  At Cordelia’s age Grace had been devouring Georgette Heyer and Barbara Cartland novels, so that withering worldliness took her aback.

  “True,” she said neutrally, “but sex without any kind of emotional connection is merely physical exercise. You might just as well play tennis. Or croquet.”

  “I thought you were interested in the Romantics.”

  “I am. I never pretended to be one.”

  “Yeah, right.” Cordelia snorted.

  Grace shook her head inwardly and devoted her attention to her driving.

  Workington was an ancient market and industrial town dating back to Roman times. It was originally a fishing village, but coal and the industrial revolution had turned Workington into the largest town on the Cumbrian west coast. Grace found Portland Square, the cobbled center of the town, enticing, but could not l
ure Cordelia into sightseeing.

  “Too many churches,” she said disapprovingly. “Too much architecture.”

  Grace sighed, but knew when she was defeated. She pulled hard on the steering wheel, and they made their way east to Curwen Park.

  “Are you going to Scarborough Fair,” Grace murmured, observing what appeared to be two monks walking alongside the road.

  “This is the place!” Cordelia rolled down her window, which promptly fell into the door track, and hailed the men.

  Following the monks’ advice, they parked beneath the trees and walked through the gatehouse into the old courtyard, which was crowded with tourists and festival participants clad in lavish Medieval costumes.

  While Cordelia scoped out a broad-shouldered young man in a jester’s outfit, Grace looked about with interest. This might not be too bad, after all. Workington Hall had once been one of the finest manor houses in the region. The Curwen family gave shelter to Mary Queen of Scots following the defeat of her forces in May 1568, before her imprisonment and execution in Fotheringay Castle in Northampton-shire.

  “Sweet cakes!” shrilled a plump young woman lugging a heavy basket and a still-heavier bosom. She loomed up in Grace’s face. “Sweeeeeeet cakes!”

  Grace dragged her gaze away from what looked like eminent exposure of the sweet-cake seller’s private wares. “Um, did you want to tour the Hall?” she inquired of Cordelia, who had locked eyes with the bell-capped and brawny jester and was apparently using some kind of traction beam on him.

  The traction beam broke. “Everyone’s out here,” Cordelia protested.

  Everyone did seem to be outside, including refugees from the Renaissance and Victorian periods, judging from the mélange of costumes.

  “We could catch one of the plays,” Grace suggested. “They’re performingRomeo and Juliet.”

  “Ugh. What light through yonder windowblows.”

  Grace wasn’t that keen on high drama teen romance either, so she gestured for Cordelia to lead on—and lead on Cordelia did, making a beeline for what appeared to be a sheep-shearing contest.

  The girl seemed to have an uncanny sensitivity to testosterone: all the sheep shearers seemed to be tanned muscular young men built on the lines of Jude the Obscure or Angel Clare. Not that Grace didn’t find all those sweat-glazed biceps interesting, but after a time she became aware of that uncanny feeling of being watched.

  She glanced around the crowd but saw nothing out of the ordinary—beyond an excess of falconers, Knights Templar, and ladies-in-waiting. Didn’t anybody want to be a plain old peasant?

  When the sheep-shearing exhibition ended, Grace and Cordelia weaved their way to a food vendor through madrigal singers, jugglers, and colorful tents with tempting displays. Grace ordered two lemon squashes. She was reaching for her pocketbook when a male hand reached past her, and a familiar voice said, “I’ve got it.”

  “Oh,” Cordelia said in pleased accents.

  “Oh,” Grace echoed in less-pleased accents.

  DI Drummond’s smile was more of a grimace, apparently recognizing Grace’s tone for what it was. “No, I’m not following you,” he said.

  “Just seeing the sights?”

  “Why not?”

  She remembered the chief constable’s saying that Drummond was new to the Lake District. She shrugged. It was possible that the DI was merely enjoying the sun and fun, but it seemed quite a coincidence that he would pick the Curwen Fair on the exact same day that she did.

  “Who are you?” Cordelia inquired with her usual diplomacy.

  Grace started to make the introductions, but Drummond cut her off.

  “Brian Drummond. I met your mother through her work.”

  Grace nearly spilled her lemon squash, and Cordelia burst out laughing.

  “She’s not my mother!” She proceeded to explain in great detail who she was and what Grace was doing there. Drummond listened attentively. Observing him, Grace thought he had played that hand very nicely. He had managed to switch attention from himself—and the fact that he was a policeman—while finding out whatever he wanted to about Grace’s trip and her connection to Cordelia.

  “Glad to see you’ve recovered from your accident, Ms. Hollister.”

  “Shrink-resistant and watertight, that’s me,” Grace said lightly.

  “And very, very lucky.”

  “That, too.”

  “I understand that Fox took charge of your car after it was towed out of Swirlbeck. Nice to have connections.”

  “No doubt you find something suspicious in it.”

  “Haven’t said so, have I? Still, it would have been helpful if he’d let us know that he was retrieving the car. The insurance company hadn’t time to really examine it.”

  Grace had merely been impressed by how quickly Peter and the local towing company had acted to salvage what could be saved from the wreck.

  “I told you I drove into the lake myself. What good would examining the car have done?”

  “You never know till you try.”

  She brushed this off a bit impatiently. Drummond, apparently noticing Cordelia’s attention to their exchange, did not pursue it.

  Professing an interest in the ruins, he accompanied them through the old manor house. Cordelia seemed to have lost her objections to architecture, and chattered happily whiled Grace consulted her information brochure.

  The Hall had been built around a pele tower dating from the fourteenth century. Pele towers were fortifications built by the people of Cumberland and West-morland to protect themselves from the invading Scots. In 1345, Robert the Bruce marched from Scotland to England with 30,000 men, and the Lake District had been directly in his path. Farms had been burned, people and cattle slaughtered, churches and abbeys plundered.

  Grace stared out through the crumbling walls at the pastoral landscape, and tried to imagine a world of fire and sword.

  “Why so grim?”

  Grace glanced at Drummond, smiled, and shook her head. They went through the archway opposite the gatehouse and walked up the stairway to their left. At the top of the stairs was a doorway. According to the brochure, this was the room where Mary Queen of Scots had spent her last night of freedom.

  Grace consulted her brochure. “It says here that Mary gave the Curwens an agate wine cup that guaranteed their good fortune so long as the cup was never broken.”

  Cordelia studied the room, open now to the wind and elements. “Someone must have dropped the cup.”

  “No,” Drummond said absently. “The family still holds the cup.”

  Grace flipped the brochure over. “How do you know that?”

  He moved his shoulders. “I must have read it somewhere.”

  Not in the brochure, thought Grace.

  They left the room, moving along the hall to the right toward the banqueting room.

  “There would have been a large wooden table for feasting running the length of the room,” Drummond told Cordelia. “And an enormous open fire.”

  “You seem to know your way around,” Grace remarked.

  “I’m interested in history.”

  “Is this what you do on your days off? Or is this a day off?”

  He gave her a level look. “This is my day off.”

  “Weare honored.”

  He laughed.

  Drummond kept them company for the rest of their tour, and even Grace had to admit that he was informed and pleasant. He made no references to crime or murder or Peter, for which she was grateful, and when they parted company at the end of the afternoon—Drummond declining Cordelia’s invitation to join them for a late pub lunch—Grace was startled to realize that she was maybe the tiniest bit disappointed.

  16

  “Iforgot to tell you,” said Grace. “I think Kameko Musashi is Yakuza. I saw her in her workout clothes and she’s covered in what look like mob tattoos. Does the Japanese mob have women members?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Peter. “Yakuza is an all-male society.
Yakuza believe in a traditional role for women. There are ‘comfort women’ of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t make the rules, love.” He took a pull on his beer, and added reflectively, “I did wonder about that missing bit of little finger.”

  Grace dipped a cracker into the white cheese and tomato dip. “You’re referring to the Yakuza tradition of cutting off the last joint of the little finger in apology for some transgression against the boss?” At Peter’s expression, she said, “I do go to the movies, after all.”

  “Yes, but I assumed it was merely to catch remakes ofEmma andWuthering Heights.”

  They were dining at a new place just outside of Innisdale called the Sahara. This was the latest of several culinary incarnations. The restaurant had been a seafood shack only a few months previously. The nets and dried starfish had given way to old travel posters of Egypt and wall murals. The waitresses in yacht caps had been replaced by waiters in red fezzes. The menu seemed a Middle Eastern hodge-podge. It occurred to Grace that although Peter was exceedingly discriminating about the food he prepared, she had never heard him complain about a meal or anyone else’s cooking. Was that the result of fourteen months under less than Club Med conditions?

  “Cheers,” said Peter, and clinked his mug against hers. Grace sipped cautiously. The beer was an Egyptian brand called Stella. She had read that a Japanese brewery had recently re-created the beer of the Egyptian New Kingdom by interpreting hieroglyphics. The ancient beer was 10 percent alcohol and, rather than being brewed by using hops, was flavored by dates, mandrake, and various spices. Bira Stella couldn’t compete with that, but at 5 percent alcohol, it was getting the job done.

  “Do you think Mr. Matsukado is Yakuza?”

  Peter said carefully, “I think he’s the offspring of a wealthy and influential family. Beyond that, I don’t know.”

  “But you could find out.”

  His eyes, very blue in the smoky light, met hers. “I could. That sort of inquiry wouldn’t go without notice.”

  “Now you’ve piqued my interest.”

  “You were born with piqued interest.”