Docketful of Poesy Page 21

  It was unbelievably cruel. Unbelievably cold.

  “What does Miles say?” I asked.

  Roberta stubbed her cigarette out. “He doesn’t believe it. His credit card doesn’t work either, but he’s convinced it’s all just a big mistake, and everything will be ironed out on Monday. Tomorrow.” She smiled bitterly. “Miles has always been good at seeing what he wanted to see.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I have no idea. We can’t keep filming. We can’t keep running up bills.” She rubbed her forehead wearily. “Maybe Miles is right. Maybe everything will be back to normal tomorrow.”

  “Maybe so,” I said, and I sounded as unconvinced as she did. Rising from the bed I went to the door. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “You don’t have to say it. I know I should have told you the minute weird things started happening.” Her eyes met mine briefly.

  “That would have been the day you first auditioned with Mr. Green.”

  “True,” she admitted. “I’m sorry anyway. Not that it’s done you any particular harm.”

  That remained to be seen. I opened the door, and she said suddenly, “Oh, I just remembered. I don’t know why it would matter, but Tracy was hired by Mr. Green as well.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tracy was not in her room.

  Or if she was, she was sleeping very deeply. I checked my watch. It was now nearly midnight. Too late to pay Sally a visit. Actually, too late to pay anyone a visit—if I wanted to hear anything beyond a lot of understandable cursing. I returned to my room and sat down at the table with all my notes and books. In addition to my scribbles on Laetitia Landon and her contemporaries, there were my efforts at charting everyone’s movements regarding Mona’s missing flask.

  I stared at them but my brain felt too worn out to process anything more that night. I had a chocolate from the open box, chewing slowly.

  On one point Roberta had clearly been wrong. It seemed certain that all this chicanery had not been in aid of meeting me. Not for romantic purposes, not for any purpose. In fact, I didn’t believe it was about me at all. I was pretty sure this entire murderous farce was entirely about Peter.

  After all, the book was as much about him as me. And there were just too many strange coincidences. The two bumbling attempts on his life by the February brothers. His odd, angry behavior—and his demand that I return to the States at once. His refusal to explain anything. And then his trip to France—surely to see Catriona. Even Walter’s fatal accident might have been an attempt on Peter’s life. Maybe someone had followed him to the States.

  True, that seemed a little farfetched; but one thing for sure, whoever had set up this elaborate film production hoax had money to burn—or believed any amount was worth it to…to what? Eliminate Peter? Apparently so. But why?

  Because this person hated Peter?

  Well, that seemed a given. But these events showed more than simple hatred. Because how hard would it have been really to kill Peter? A sniper with a rifle could have taken care of it within minutes. Clearly that was too simple. This was a cruel, cold personality who deliberately manipulated and ultimately cheated an entire group of people, completely innocent bystanders, leaving them stranded and legally liable on foreign shores.

  Cold, cruel, but imaginative. Very imaginative. The whole idea of this fake film was so weirdly involved and risky. It was almost like a game.

  A game. I thought of the beautiful antique chess set in Angela Hornsby’s living room. The engagement present from her fiancé, the man who loved to play chess. An antique Turkish chess set belonging to a man named George Robinson.

  If those photographs on the piano were of this George Robinson…and Peter happened to recognize Robinson…

  I tried to remember the man in the photographs, but there had been nothing memorable about him. Just another bland, innocuous-looking man in late middleage.

  A gray little man. The kind of chap you never took notice of. That was how Peter had described Gordon Roget, the fence who had double-crossed them in Turkey. The man who had stolen the Serpent’s Egg, and left Peter to rot in a Turkish prison.

  Gordon Roget. G.R. George Robinson.

  The initials were right, I thought with mounting excitement. And if he were Roget, that would certainly help explain Peter’s shocked fury—and why he had gone straight to Catriona. The other person in the world with reason to hate Roget as much as Peter did.

  Not a reassuring thought, however. Catriona was hardly a stabilizing influence, and the fact that Peter didn’t want to talk to me about Gordon Roget’s reappearance in his life—assuming I wasn’t completely wrong in my speculations—was not reassuring either.

  But it did make sense. In fact, I grew more excited as I considered my theory. If Robinson was Roget, and he was soon to marry Angela Hornsby and move to Innisdale, his need to remove Peter once and for all became obvious.

  What was also obvious was that he had been aware of Peter’s and my whereabouts for some time.

  *****

  “You have bloody well got to be joking,” Roy Blade, Innisdale’s biker librarian, remarked in less than civil tones when I finally succeeded in ripping him from his slumber some time later that night. “Why the hell don’t you ask your other boyfriend the copper to go with you?”

  “Because he is a copper,” I said, trying hard not to stare at the ornate tattoos covering his hairy chest and back. Blade was wearing jeans and an eye patch—and neither was properly in place, testament to how fast he’d rolled out of bed—once he’d finally heard the doorbell buzzing. “And don’t call him my other boyfriend. He’s just a friend.”

  “Keep your hair on, Miss Marple. Put the kettle on while I get dressed.”

  The tea water was boiling when he walked into the kitchen a short while later. “You do know the time, eh?”

  “I do, yes.” I was afraid to look at the clock, to tell the truth.

  “Explain to me what you want again?”

  “I want you to come with me to the old Monkton estate.”

  “That’s what I thought you said. I’d hoped I dreamed that part. Now explain to me why?”

  “I have a feeling —”

  “Christ on a crutch,” he moaned. “Tell me I am dreaming. Tell me you didn’t say you had ‘a feeling.’ You’re supposed to be a bird of reasonable intellect. You’re never dragging me out in the middle of the night on a bloody hunch?”

  “It’s a good hunch,” I told him earnestly. “It’s based on instinct, yes, but it’s also based on my knowledge of the personalities involved, and —” I broke off as he was slurping his tea far too loudly to hear me.

  I sipped my own tea and waited. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t refuse. Roy Blade had a soft heart and an adventurous streak—the perfect combination for co-conspirator.

  “Go on then,” he said.

  And go on I did. I told him it all. Or nearly all. Blade listened and drank his tea. Then I finished and awaited his verdict. And sure enough, when he was done drinking his tea and giving me all the reasons this was such a bad idea, he handed me a helmet and escorted me out to his motorbike.

  “We could always take my car,” I suggested feebly as he threw a leg over the giant silver bike.

  “Get on and hold tight,” he ordered.

  I obeyed gingerly, climbing in back of him, slipping my arms around his leather-clad back and waist. The bike rumbled into life with a metallic tiger’s roar, and we shot off into the night. I closed my eyes and held on for dear life.

  It took us less than five minutes to cross the village, winding through the lamplit, narrow streets, across the little bridge and down the wide lane to the Monkton Estate. We stopped briefly outside the tall iron gates, the bike grumbling exhaust into the frosty night air.

  The house slept peacefully on its manicured lawns. No single light burned in a distant window. Nor was there any sign of life on the grounds.

  Blade squeezed the han
dlebar throttle, and we veered away, prowling quietly down the lane, turning off to bump our way over the small stone bridge, then cutting through the woods. At last we came to the tall iron fence guarding the back of the house. I was disappointed to see there was no car parked here beneath the trees. I had been fairly certain….

  Blade turned off the engine, lifted his helmet. I did the same.

  “Enjoy that, did you?”

  “Oh, the song of the road!” I enthused. “The wind in my hair, the bugs in my teeth!”

  He chuckled, his smile very white in the darkness. “The helmet keeps the wind out of your hair,” he assured me. “Right. Still set on doing this?”

  “I don’t know. I kind of thought we’d see some sign that Peter was here, watching the house.”

  He made a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl. “One of us needs to be sure about what we’re doing tonight, and I happen to think this is a bloody awful idea, which leaves you.”

  “Well, okay. I’m pretty sure he’s here somewhere. I’m sure he’s watching the house waiting for Robinson to show up.”

  “If Robinson isn’t inside already, he sure as hell isn’t going to come pulling up at two o’clock in the morning.” Blade stared at me as I slid off the bike and walked over to the tall iron fence, peering through the bars at the acre or so of trimmed trees and hedges. The last time I’d been here, the garden had been an overgrown wilderness. The careful landscaping had eliminated much of the possible concealment.

  “Grace?”

  I looked back at him.

  “Fox’s a decent bloke. Intelligent. Knowing. I reckon if he thinks this Robinson needs killing, he’s right.”

  The cold I felt had nothing to do with the nippy March night. “I don’t think he’s planning to kill him. That’s not why we’re here—to stop him committing murder.”

  “Of course it is,” Blade said calmly. “You’re afraid you won’t be able to marry him if he’s nicked for murder. But so far you’re the only one who’s put the pieces together.”

  I hissed, “I don’t think any such thing! He wouldn’t kill someone in cold blood.”

  “’Course he would. This Robinson tried to kill him, didn’t he? Best way to put a stop to the problem. Can’t arrest him. What proof is there he ever paid to have Fox killed now that the February brothers are dead? Fox can put an end to this marriage to the Honourable Angela all right, but Roget will still be out there—more determined than ever to get rid of Peter Fox.”

  I turned back to the fence. Through the trees I could just glimpse the distant dark windows, the tall chimneys.

  “There could be a security system now,” Blade said. “There probably is a security system now.”

  Perhaps it had been a crazy idea. I had been so sure I would find Peter out here intent on…intent on what? I didn’t believe he would kill Gordon Roget, but Blade was right. There were not many options open to Peter other than telling Angela Hornsby that her fiancé was a crook. At best an ex-crook.

  But not every woman found that an insurmountable obstacle.

  I put my helmet back on and walked to the bike, climbing on behind Blade.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  And we did, speeding through the dark and slumbering streets of Innisdale.

  *****

  Tracy’s rental car was parked in the parking lot behind the inn when I pulled up. I rested my hand on the hood, and felt that it was still faintly warm. She had returned not long before me.

  Letting myself in the side door, I quietly made my way through the hushed dining room with chairs stacked on tables, up the stairs, and down the hall to my room.

  I felt half-dead with weariness as I unlocked the door and let myself into my room. I felt for the wall switch, and mellow light flooded the room picking out the box of chocolates on the table, my notes and books, and Peter Fox comfortably sprawled in the chair by the window.

  “Way past your bedtime isn’t it, Miss Hollister?” he inquired.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I opened my mouth but strangely no words came. In fact, I almost felt a little light-headed, but that was probably mostly due to exhaustion. I did have the presence of mind to close the door behind me—and lock it.

  “Yes,” Peter said calmly. “I rather feel the same.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was under the impression that you were looking for me.”

  I sat down on the foot of the bed. It was that or collapse on the floor. “So you were there? You were at the Monkton Estate?”

  “The question is, why were you there? And why in God’s name would Roy Blade encourage you in your derangement?”

  “Because he knows me well enough to know I’d have gone without him.”

  “Well, you’re nothing if not stubborn,” Peter said. “I’ll give you that.”

  “The real question,” I said, getting my wind back, “is why are you here? I thought we… ended things.”

  “I never said I wanted to….end things.” His black brows drew together. “I asked you to for once trust me and go home and wait till I could explain things to you properly.”

  “There seemed to be an ultimatum in there somewhere.”

  His mouth quirked in a smile that was unexpectedly rueful. “Yes, I suppose there was. Well, it was easier said than done.”

  “Two things you should understand,” I said. I held up one finger. “I do trust you.” I held up another finger. “This is my home.”

  “Someone ought to tell Mrs. Zinn,” he replied. “I believe she’s counting on having the room back.”

  “Now you’re doing it. I used to have to make a stupid joke every time you said something sweet or romantic to me. I’m trying to tell you how I feel, and you’re the one making stupid jokes.”

  To my surprise, he rose, came over and sat down next to me on the bed, putting his arm around me. I leaned against him—grateful for anything keeping me propped upright—and he rested his cheek against the top of my head.

  “Six months is a long time, Esmerelda.”

  “I know. I guess I was a little afraid to take that final step.”

  “I’m not actually asking you to walk into thin air.”

  “Maybe that was a little part of the problem too. I’m not exactly sure what you are asking?”

  I felt his cheek crease, heard the faint smile in his voice. “Your father asked me what my intentions were.”

  “Oh my God,” I murmured.

  “I think he felt very much the same.” And now the smile was a hint of a laugh. “He poured us two very stiff drinks before he could bring himself to inquire.”

  “That was totally my mother. Dad would never dream of it.” I closed my eyes. “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I wanted to marry you, if you’d have me.” He said it so simply, that it literally robbed me of my breath. “Will you?”

  “Yes.”

  He raised his head, our eyes met. “It’s not exactly how I planned this.”

  “Did you plan it?” I found myself smiling “That’s nice to know.”

  “I planned it for six months.”

  I winced.

  He chuckled. “It’s all right. You can make it up to me later on.”

  Which reminded me abruptly of how I’d spent the last few hours. I said, “I can’t make it up to you if you’re in prison. Roy Blade thinks you plan to kill Gordon Roget. ”

  He raised one eyebrow in that maddening way of his. “You have figured it out, haven’t you? I should have known. Once you get your teeth into a puzzle, you don’t let go. Regular academic pit bull terrier.”

  “You saw Roget’s picture in Angela’s drawing room, was that what happened?”

  “Oh, yes. There was no mistake. It was him.” The soft venom of that was so unlike him.

  I admitted, “I made a huge miscalculation in originally discounting Roget as a suspect. I thought that because he ended up with the jewel, he had no motive to get rid of you. I was
forgetting that motives are unique to personalities. He has an excellent motive in that he wishes to settle down into marriage and respectability with a woman who spends much of her time in the public eye.”

  Not to mention a woman who resided almost literally in Peter’s backyard.

  Peter said, “It gets old living life on the run, having to keep looking over your shoulder. He’s not young—and he always did have a taste for respectability.”

  “You haven’t answered my question,” I said slowly.

  His eyes were very blue. “Catriona wants to kill him,” he admitted. “I’m not sure it’s in our best interests.”

  The night began to take on a surreal feel. Were we really sitting up discussing whether Peter was going to murder someone? Then I sat up straight. “Is Catriona in England?”

  “She’s at Craddock House,” he admitted.

  “She’s staying at your house? With you?”

  “I’m actually here, if you’ll notice.”

  “But…you know what I mean. She’s staying with you at your house? That murdering, thieving, psychopathic bitch —”

  “She didn’t murder anyone,” he said quite reasonably. And then, “Look, Grace, I know you two have had your differences —”

  “Differences? That’s an interesting way of putting it. She tried to kill me. She tried to kill you. I can’t understand —”

  What I really couldn’t understand was how he could sit there shaking his head, rejecting the idea that Catriona Ruthven was dangerous to the health and well-being of both of us.

  He said, still cool and reasonable, “I needed her help. Cat and I are taking turns watching the Monkton Estate, waiting for Roget to show up.”