Sonnet of the Sphinx Read online

  “The thing is, Monkton and Egyptology aside, there’s no reasonable explanation for Sartyn’s hostility toward me.”

  “Perhaps he’s shamming.”

  Grace considered then discarded this. “I don’t get that impression.”

  Peter finally succeeded in maneuvering his bamboo-and-metal foe into the crate. He began to tuck packing materials around the armor.

  “You could always ask him,” he said, in the tone of one growing bored with the subject. Used to being the object of everyone’s suspicion, he probably couldn’t relate to Grace’s grievance.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he caught her expression. “I’m not serious.”

  “Actually, it’s a very good idea. Maybe there’s a simple explanation.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as maybehe killed Kayaci.”

  “Were you planning on asking him that?”

  “If the moment presents itself. Didn’t you once say you admired my frank and direct manner?”

  “Did I? How extraordinary of me.”

  He slammed shut the wooden lid to the packing crate.

  “According to the War Office, John Mallow never returned to his regiment. We can eliminate that possibility, at least.” Grace pulled out a dresser drawer and began knocking along the bottom.

  Three evenings after her conversation with Peter, she was back at Mallow Farm with her unlikely collaborator, Mr. Matsukado. She had spent her last two visits checking furniture for false bottoms, fake fronts, and hidden compartments. It was a slow and tedious process, made slower and more tedious by the fact that she was doing it on her own.

  He said, “But we knew that already.”

  “We didn’t know it for a fact. Now we’ve had our suspicions confirmed.”

  Mr. Matsukado did not look as appreciative as Grace felt he should. He seemed to grow more impatient and petulant as the days passed and they were unable to find the sonnet.

  Watching in silence as she tapped along the drawer bottom for a few moments, he said, “We have searched these rooms, these cabinets already.”

  “That doesn’t mean it isn’t here.”

  Aside from secret compartments in the furniture, there was a possibility that the sonnet’s hiding place could have been plastered over during the renovation, but she didn’t say this aloud. She did not want to further discourage Mr. Matsukado—or herself. After several nights of searching, she strongly suspected that John had taken the poem with him when he left Innisdale.

  Having read much of his journal, she was convinced she knew him—at least as well as any biographer could know her subject. But it was confusing. The John Mallow she had come to know would not be capable of running out on Eden Monkton and his unborn child. But perhaps he had not known about the child. There were occasional references to Bella Monkton, and Grace could not help reading between the lines.

  “Your Mr. Fox could be of help to us, could he not?”

  A certain inflection in Mr. Matsukado’s voice brought Grace’s head up. “I don’t see how. This isn’t really his field.”

  He smiled unconvincingly beneath that sparse mustache. “He has connections to the underworld. He is like the archrogue of your popular fiction, is he not? The Gentleman Thief. The Raffles.”

  Archrogue? What was that, Regency cant for the chief of a gang of thieves? “He’s reformed.” She turned back to the drawer and knocked again. No one home. She moved on to the next drawer.

  “Anyway, no one can do this for us. There’s no shortcut possible. The poem is either here or it’s not.” The drawer sounded perfectly normal. It sounded like all the other drawers, nice and solid. They built furniture to last, back in the old days. “What is it you imagine Peter could do?”

  “Something! It takes a thief to catch a thief; that is one of your sayings, isn’t it?”

  Grace knelt, pulled out the last drawer, and began knocking at the edges. Her knuckles were getting sore.

  She slid the drawer in and sat back on her heels, inspecting the face of the rosewood cabinet. There was quite a bit of bottom cabinet that wasn’t utilized by the drawers. She pulled the shallow bottom drawer all the way out and examined the apparently solid bottom slats. She knocked along the top. Hollow.

  She sat back again.

  “You are not listening to me, Miss Hollister.”

  “Hmm?”

  The center portion of each drawer was inlaid with pale, carved wood. Grace tried pressing against the lacquered surface, tried to slide it to one side, up, down, tried to slide it the other way. Nothing. She traced the raised wood carving, seeking a hidden button or latch.

  She felt under the cabinet.

  Mr. Matsukado fell silent and came to watch her.

  Grace’s fingers hesitated over a tiny tongue of metal. She pressed, and the side of the cabinet swung open soundlessly.

  “There is something here! You have found it.”

  Heart beating fast, Grace reached in and lifted out what appeared to be an old sketch pad. She felt around in the compartment, but there was nothing else inside. With unsteady fingers, she turned back the cover of the sketch pad and saw a sheet covered in tiny ornate script.

  “What is this?” demanded Mr. Matsukado.

  “Hieroglyphics, I think.”

  Mr. Matsukado nearly danced up and down in his frustrated excitement. “What do they mean?”

  “I don’t know. There are pages of them. I think someone was experimenting, maybe learning to write in hieroglyphics.”

  “Someone? You mean John Mallow.”

  “We don’t know who this sketchbook belonged to.” Not for sure, although Mallow had been stationed in Egypt and had been fascinated by all things Egyptian.

  Grace paused over a sketch of a young woman with dark hair and exotic eyes. Not quite how she pictured the matchless Eden Monkton. “These are really good. Whoever did these had genuine talent.” She turned the page. There were several smaller sketches of the same woman.

  “This cannot be all there is! Why would anyone hide this?”

  Grace turned to a sketch of a piratical-looking terrier. She knew that dog, she had seen enough photos of him.

  “Tip,” she said. “John Mallow’s Tip.”

  Mr. Matsukado cast up his hands. “Dogs and hieroglyphs? What is the point of this?”

  “Oh, my God,” whispered Grace as a thin sheet of paper slid out between the pages and landed at her feet.

  Mr. Matsukado fell to his knees beside her.

  Grace’s fingers were unsteady as she picked up the paper at the corner. A familiar hand had written, “Ode.”

  “Is it? Is it?”

  She read aloud, “If thou forsake me, let it be for love…”

  “It is!” cried Mr. Matsukado, jumping to his feet. “We have found it at last.”

  But a quick read-through had Grace shaking her head.

  “It’s not Shelley.”

  “It must be!” Mr. Matsukado stood over her, hands in fists.

  She shook her head. To have her hopes ascend so fast only to plummet back to earth was disorienting. “It’s not. This is—oh, it’s all right, but it’s not Shelley. Look, the paper is completely wrong, for one thing. And the handwriting is John Mallow’s. We’ve certainly read enough of it to recognize…”

  There was a second sheet stuck to the first. Grace separated it and glanced at the title. “Though I Must Leave.”

  Mr. Matsukado snatched the papers from her, read them over, then crumpled them up.

  “What are youdoing? ” cried Grace. She picked up the crumpled papers and gently smoothed them out.

  “You said yourself they are of no value.”

  Grace glared at him. “I said they aren’t what we’re looking for. I never said they weren’t of historical or cultural value. Or sentimental value. John Mallow’s son is still alive. He might like these.”

  “Amateur scribblings,” he said scornfully. “In any case, they’re mine to do with as I wish.”

  Yep,
Grace was beginning to get a bit fed up with Mr. Matsukado.

  “That may be true, but if you want my help, you’re going to handle yourself in a professional manner.”

  “You have not been of help so far.”

  “Really? Who discovered the secret compartment?”

  “And what use is it?”

  “Don’t you see what this means? If there’s one secret compartment, there could be another. If John was deliberately hiding things like this sketchbook, it must have been for a reason.” Or maybe John was by nature secretive. Maybe there had been a hidden side to his character—but Grace did not want to believe that.

  “Perhaps John believed someone would try and take the sonnet.” She was convinced that John’s own attempts at sonnet writing and his efforts at concealment indicated that they were on the right track, but she could see from the Shogun’s expression that he wasn’t buying it.

  “I do not need you to tell me this.” Mr. Matsukado grabbed the sketchbook from Grace and placed it on a table as though putting it out of her reach. “Our partnership is at an end.”

  18

  From her vantage point behind the Feminist Studies section (shockingly limited, even taking into account the size of the village and surrounding environs) Grace had ideal opportunity to observe Scott Sartyn in action. She had been doing so for fifteen minutes while she tried to make up her mind.

  It was like watching the latest in androids. Though capable enough, he operated without any sign of warmth or interest. Not that there was any crime in having personality deficits, but what was he doing here in Innisdale? Why would a young, ambitious man settle for being head librarian in a remote English village?

  Perhaps if he had family locally, or was in poor health, or was working on his sabbatical—but none of that seemed to be true.

  Granted, she was utterly biased against the man; still, Grace felt certain that Sartyn was up to no good. There were too many coincidences: the fact that he had been doing fieldwork in Turkey, that he had been acquainted with Kayaci, that they both turned up at the same time in the same small English village. But most conclusive was his enmity toward her. Something about her bothered him to such extent that he went around badmouthing her—even trying to turn police suspicion her way. Hehad to be up to something.

  Something that somehow involved Grace. But what?

  Peter had not been serious when he suggested that Grace simply ask Sartyn what the problem was, but that approach did have the merit of a surprise attack. Caught off guard, he might actually reveal something.

  Or he might not, but it wasn’t like he didn’t already know that she was suspicious of him.

  Maybe he was wary of her fearsome skills as an amateur sleuth. Grace smiled at this notion and made her way to the front desk.

  She waited till Sartyn was free, then leaned across the front desk, saying softly, “I’d like a word in private.”

  Sartyn whipped around. The flat colorless hair and huge glasses gave his face the appearance of a large benign insect. “I’m working, Ms. Hollister.”

  “This will only take a minute or two.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Despite her best intentions, Grace felt her temper rise. “You don’t think so?”

  “Please keep your voice down.”

  “My voice is down,” Grace hissed. “What are you afraid of?”

  “People have a habit of dying around you, Ms. Hollister!” And suddenly it was Sartyn’s voice attracting the interest of the library staff.

  So much for that plan. Well, it had been more of an impulse than a plan.

  “Very well,” Grace whispered. “But I’m warning you. You’re not fooling me. I know you’re up to something. And if you continue following me, wewill have this conversation—in front of the police.”

  “Don’t threaten me,” he said angrily, and several heads rose out of books.

  She turned on heel and marched out.

  Roy Blade met her on the sidewalk outside. He flicked his cigarette butt to the pavement.

  “That went well, don’t you think?” she said brightly.

  “You do have a knack with people,” Blade agreed.

  “He’s up to something.”

  “No kidding.” He looked uncharacteristically gloomy, grinding the butt with the heel of his leather boot.

  “You don’t have any idea what it might be?”

  Blade was silent. “I can tell you one thing I haven’t mentioned to the plods. I saw him with the bloke who was offed. The Turk. Thick as thieves.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Straight up.”

  “When? Where?”

  He thought it over. “I think it was last Tuesday. Behind the pub.”

  “Behindthe pub?”

  “The Boy Wonder doesn’t drink.”

  “Iknew he was evil,” Grace muttered.

  Blade sniggered. “Didn’t want anyone to see them together, is my guess.”

  Grace decided not to ask what Blade had been doing lurking behind the pub. “Do you have any idea what they talked about?”

  He shook his head. “It didn’t occur to me to get close enough to listen in.”

  Grace made a commiserating face, then realized she was sympathizing with his failure to sneak up and spy on another person.

  “I admit I never thought he’d last this long. What a nutter. You should have seen him last week—accused me of pinching his bloody fountain pen.”

  “Why would he suspect you?”

  Blade smiled a wolfish smile. “Sussed I’d enjoy watching him go into convulsions.”

  Grace shook her head.

  A silver sedan pulled up alongside the curb. The driver rolled down his window, and Grace recognized DI Drummond.

  “Get in,” he said. He did not say “please.”

  “Mr. Scott Sartyn has lodged a complaint against you, Ms. Hollister.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Never more so. He says you have been harassing him at his workplace. And where do I find you? Outside the library with Roy Blade.”

  “Has he also filed a complaint against Roy Blade?”

  “Not at this time.”

  Grace thought this over. “So you’re arresting me?”

  “I thought perhaps we should have a little chat.”

  “An official little chat?” They were pulling into the car park next to the police station.

  Drummond parked, turned off the ignition, and turned toward her. “I don’t want there to be any hint of impropriety in this investigation.”

  “What investigation? I admit I went to see Sartyn. I didn’t harass him, however—unless you consider it harassment to tell him I would file a police complaint if he continued to stalk me.”

  Exasperated, Drummond said, “In case it has slipped your mind, I’m still investigating a homicide. You’ll remember Hayri Kayaci, the Turkish national whose body you found in Cherry Lane Park?”

  “And you believe these two things are related?”

  “I’ve no doubt whatsoever.”

  The halfway pleasant and attractive Brian Drummond of the Curwen Fair was nowhere in sight that afternoon. They got out of the car—Drummond showing a fine disregard for such chauvinistic practices as opening doors for the female of the species—and went into the police station.

  He led Grace to a small spartan office down the hall from Chief Constable Heron. There was a silver-framed photo on the desk, but it was turned away from Grace’s chair. For the first time she wondered if there was a Mrs. Drummond. There were books on criminal law, art, and legal procedure on a small bookcase.

  Drummond leaned back in his chair and fixed Grace with that steady gray gaze.

  “You originally came to the United Kingdom to do research on your doctorate thesis, correct?”

  “Sort of. You’d call it a busman’s holiday.”

  His smile seemed too small for his face.

  “And with the help of Mr. Fox’s underworld connections, you were
able to recover a valuable national treasure.”

  “Aren’t all national treasures valuable?” Grace inquired tartly. “And furthermore, Mr. Fox’s underworld connections were nowhere to be seen. We recovered the cameos through our own efforts.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It’s a fact.”

  “And in part, because of your recovery of these items, you were able to obtain a temporary visa.”

  Warily, Grace replied, “I’m here on a four-year Ancestry Visa, which is based on the fact that my great-grandparents were born in the UK before March 1922. It’s a perfectly legitimate visa.”

  “Which you applied for, and which was granted, following your part in the recovery of the cameos.”

  “Correct.”

  “I think we would both agree that were you to find yourself in difficulties with the law—were you, for example, to be named as defendant in a murder trial…”

  Grace’s stomach knotted. She had to give Sartyn credit; his retaliation had been swift and well aimed. “Are you threatening to revoke my visa?”

  “I’m merely pointing out the obvious: It is to your benefit to cooperate with the police.”

  “Ihave cooperated. I’ve told you everything I know—which is nothing.”

  He shook his head regretfully. “How well do you know Peter Fox?”

  “Well enough to know he didn’t commit murder.”

  “Are you so sure? From what I’ve read of the conditions of the prison where Fox was held—and from what we’ve learned of Kayaci—one could hardly blame him for wanting revenge.”

  “In that case, perhaps you should look at others within the Turkish community.”

  “What Turkish community? There is no Turkish community in Innisdale, or the Lake District, for that matter.”

  Grace suspected she had already said more than Peter would have wished, and held her tongue.

  “Are you willing to bet your life on that?”

  She thought about it. “Yes. I am, actually.”

  Nothing moved in the stony face across from her.