High Rhymes and Misdemeanors Read online

“Well, Miss Hollister, what an impression of our country you must have!” Chief Constable Heron said, ushering Grace into his inner office and closing the door on Peter, who had already had his turn at being questioned. “Have a seat, young lady.”

  It was some time since anyone had referred to Grace as a “young lady.” She decided it was sort of sweet. She had a seat and a cup of tea and tried not to let her wariness show. Heron was practically rubbing his hands in satisfaction at having separated her from Peter.

  She suspected that leaving Peter to cool his heels while she was interviewed was a deliberate ploy, designed to make him fear what she might be blabbing.

  She knew it was vital that she did not reveal anything about Lady Vee’s connection to the lost manuscript, but she had seen enough episodes of Columbo to know how tricky the police could be in their interrogations. Of course she was not being interrogated, she was filing a report. Still, she felt as though she was going to be interrogated despite the tea and sympathy.

  The chief constable smiled at her with fatherly reassurance, though his currant-colored eyes stayed sharp and shrewd on her face.

  “Now tell me about the evening before last, Miss Hollister.”

  Grace related the version of events she and Peter had agreed upon.

  The chief constable jotted down some notes and said, “So this man demanded your handbag, and you declined to give it to him?”

  Keep it simple, stupid, Grace warned herself.

  “It all happened so fast,” she excused.

  “Of course, of course. Most upsetting. But you did run a short way down the street? With your handbag?”

  “I guess so. I don’t remember that part really.”

  “And during this, the other man held a gun on Mr. Fox?”

  “Right.”

  “And did you have the impression that these gentlemen knew each other?”

  “The muggers?”

  The chief constable frowned. “Mr. Fox and the man with the gun, Miss Hollister.”

  “Uh…well, no.” She added hastily, “I couldn’t hear what they said, of course.”

  “Of course.” Heron stroked his mustache like the villain in a nineteenth century melodrama. Except Heron was the good guy and Grace was keeping company with thieves. “I imagine we’ll lift a print or two off his revolver.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Grace drank more tea.

  Outside Heron’s window the sun was shining and bees were humming. It was a lulling sound, but Grace knew she could not afford to be lulled. She had to stay “frosty,” as her students would say.

  “How well do you know Peter Fox, Miss Hollister?”

  Cautiously, Grace answered, “As I told you, we only met the other night.”

  “The night you pulled him out of the stream at Kentmere?”

  Grace nodded.

  “But you are staying with him now? I thought you were going to meet friends in Scotland?”

  Grace smiled and shrugged. “It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind. Chief Constable.” Good God, she sounded like someone out of a book! The kind of book she discouraged girls from reading.

  “Would you by any chance have an idea as to the identity of an unidentified man we found in the lake behind Craddock House?”

  “Me? No. I saw you searching for him yesterday. Did someone report him missing?”

  The chief constable said patiently, “If that were the case he would not be unidentified, Miss Hollister.”

  “Of course. I was thinking perhaps one of the village inns…”

  “You think he might have been vacationing locally?”

  “I have no idea. It seems logical don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t. I believe the man was a criminal.”

  “Well, I guess criminals take vacations like everyone else.”

  Heron eyed her for a long moment, then cleared his throat. “You seem like a nice girl, Miss Hollister. Will you take a word of advice?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll listen to it.”

  “Shake loose Peter Fox. He’s a ‘wrong ‘un.’ Oh, I know he seems an affable chap, but he’s been involved in some most unsavory dealings.”

  She had been determined not to discuss Peter, but she heard herself saying, “But he’s legitimate now surely?”

  Heron shook his head. “Once a thief, always a thief. He’s been in trouble, one way or another, since he was a boy. And now…well, matters may be more serious.”

  She knew she must not address the implication of murder. She tried to express natural curiosity. “Oh. Then he’s lived here all his life?”

  “Er. No. Fox is a stranger to these parts. Only lived here four or five years. But we got the complete dossier on him when he settled here.” He shook his head. “Some people find that kind of thing romantic. Stealing jewels. But all it comes down to is taking what isn’t yours because you don’t want to do a decent day’s work.”

  “I don’t approve of stealing, naturally,” Grace said. “But I do believe people can change—if they want to.”

  Heron said heavily, “But that’s the catch, miss. How many crooks really want to?”

  Peter was not in the waiting room when Grace left Heron’s office. The constable looked up out of his paper and shrugged when she asked where he had disappeared.

  Thanking him, Grace stepped outside the police station. Tourists strolled along the shady street, carrying shopping bags and cameras. The architecture in this part of Innisdale was a little more modern, mostly Edwardian period. On the far side of the promenade was a park, and through blossoming trees, she could see a small black wrought-iron bandstand. She almost expected to hear Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band tuning up.

  There were a number of inviting shops housed in the Edwardian buildings: bakeries, jewelers, a confectioner, another antique store, even a fortune-teller’s. There was also a Barclay’s Bank, which reminded Grace that she had yet to replace her traveler’s checks, although she had faithfully canceled all her credit cards after the theft.

  She considered walking up the street to the library, but she had no idea how long she would have to wait for Peter. Instead, she walked toward the car park. Grace spotted the Land Rover but no Peter. She reached the vehicle and checked the doors, but the Rover was still locked. Odd.

  It seemed safe enough in the broad daylight. She crossed the street and paused in front of a shop window offering hats: wonderful hats. Dream hats. The kind of hats the late Princess Diana had made fashionable once more. Hats with feathers or wisps of veil or fabulous bows. Grace gazed longingly through the glass. Inches from her nose perched a black felt wide-brimmed hat trimmed with violets and white cabbage roses and green velvet leaves. The perfect hat to go with her black dress coat at home. The hat she had been looking for all her adult life.

  For a few moments Grace stared in the window, reflecting that she had no money, no charge cards—nothing with which to purchase the perfect hat.

  Appropriately enough, a shadow blotted out the sun. Grace realized that someone loomed up behind her. She could see his reflection in the glass. A tall, tall figure in a white suit and…a turban.

  Grace gasped and whirled around.

  The man behind her was enormous, tall and broad as a genie poured fresh from the bottle. He was Indian, perhaps that was what triggered such outlandish analogy. He was an outlandish-looking man.

  His cheeks were tattooed and he wore gold earrings. He stared down at Grace, who stared up at him.

  He opened his mouth. His teeth were very white. He seemed to be baring them at her.

  “C-can I help you?” she got out. She spoke loudly to attract the attention of others on the street. Not that anyone seemed to be paying much attention.

  The man handed her a card.

  After a hesitation, Grace took it and read it: Aeneas Sweet.

  She turned the card over. Written in fussy script were the words, “Come and see me. Ae.”

  Grace looked up to find the man in the turban threadi
ng through the crowd, escaping…

  “Wait!” she cried.

  He didn’t pause, didn’t seem to hear.

  Grace started after him, then stopped and rethought.

  Someone touched her arm and she jumped.

  “What are you doing?” Peter asked. He carried two sacks of groceries. She could see a long loaf of French bread sticking out of one sack. He had gone shopping? It seemed so…mundane.

  “Someone approached me,” Grace informed him.

  “Approached you?”

  She showed him the card and watched Peter’s winged brows raise.

  “Well, well.”

  “Well, well what? Do you know this Sweet?”

  “I know of him.”

  Peter nodded toward the Land Rover and they headed across the street. He looked preoccupied.

  She was getting to know his expressions. “What are you thinking?”

  “It’s just possible you may be on to something. I’ve heard Lady Vee mention Sweet. I think he’s another Byronic scholar.”

  “Of course!” Grace said. “I thought the name sounded familiar. Sweet is the author of The Last Corsair and Poet’s Pilgrimage. And he’s also a neighbor?” She glanced up as a bottle-green Bentley sedately pulled past. “That’s him!”

  “Sweet?”

  “No, the Indian!”

  Peter’s gaze followed the car.

  “Maybe we should follow him.”

  “We have his business card,” Peter pointed out.

  Grace considered this. It seemed sort of anticlimactic.

  “Well, anyway, we already have our proof. The fact that Mutt works for Lady Vee—”

  “It’s certainly proof that he works for Lady Vee. Other than that—”

  “What are you talking about? We saw him in a pub in Kentmere the night someone tried to kill you.”

  “Exactly. We did not see him try to kill me.”

  “Oh come on! You’re suggesting it was a coincidence?”

  “I’m saying it’s circumstantial. We need proof, Grace. We need something tantamount to a signed confession.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of Danny Delon’s murder.”

  Grace was silent.

  Then she said, “They think you did it. The police, I mean.”

  “That was inevitable.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “If Mutt wasn’t trying to kill you, what was he doing in Kentmere?” she asked finally.

  “People do occasionally go to Kentmere for other reasons.”

  Grace’s thoughts skipped along another path. “Peter, that man must be the man in the turban who conked your pal Allegra!”

  “Let’s not leap to conclusions.”

  “Well, but seriously, how many men in turbans could be wandering around the Lake District?”

  “Britain has a sizable Bengali and Indian population.”

  “Oh…get real! Grace exclaimed, borrowing one of her students’ expressions.

  Reaching the Land Rover, Peter stowed the groceries in the back. Kneeling on the front seat, Grace poked through the contents of the brown bags. “Mmm. Smoked oysters, marinated artichokes, grapes. You do eat well.”

  “I’ve got a growing Girl Detective to feed.”

  “And I will be growing, if this keeps up.”

  He cast an experienced eye over her elevated derrière. “Not to worry.”

  Grace sat hurriedly back in her seat.

  Putting the Rover in gear, Peter headed for Rogue’s Gallery. Briefly Grace considered what it would be like if they were just going home to cook lunch like an ordinary couple. The idea was unexpectedly alluring.

  “We could always try doing some research at the library.” Being an academic, Grace just couldn’t help feeling that the best place to begin any investigation was the library. “Well then, what are we going to do?” she queried, in answer to his look.

  “Have lunch. Plan our campaign. What did the police have to say for themselves?”

  “Oh. That.”

  Peter’s blue eyes were quizzical. “Yes? I expect Heron had a fatherly word with you about me?”

  “Sort of.”

  Peter laughed. “Anyway, he’s right. The smartest thing you could do would be to grab a plane home. My offer still stands.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not entering into a life of crime.”

  “Suit yourself. I expect your embassy could sort matters out if they had to. Why not put the pressure on them?”

  “Why are you suddenly trying to get rid of me?”

  Peter murmured, “My dear girl. I’ve been trying to get rid of you since the moment you arrived.”

  “Yes, but now that things are getting interesting, I resent it more.”

  She loved it when she made him laugh—although it was more of a snort than a laugh. “You’re actually willing to risk your safety on the promise of some long-lost…manuscript?”

  There, he had said it! Instead of feeling triumphant, Grace felt as though he might jinx it. She said quickly, “Of course, it might not be a manuscript. Another ‘Manfred’ or ‘Don Juan’ would be too much to hope for. It might just be…a letter. A poem. Heck, his grocery list would be worth a…a black eye.”

  She earned another laugh for that one.

  Chapter Eight