Memory and Desire (15 page)

“Thank you.” Claire felt as though she'd ducked an egg hurled in her direction only to discover it was filled with confetti. She went after the tacks on the other side of the frame. Together they released the canvas, rolled it up, and carried it to a spic and span storeroom on the ground floor.

For a few moments Claire oohed and aahed over the treasures piled on shelves spaced around a dehumidifier. She peered closely at a set of bed hangings with needlepoint applique slips, the motifs worked on thin canvas, then cut out and sewed onto a linen backing. The stitches of the couched thread around the edge of each motif were so fine and even they must've been sewn by fairies with hands the size of thimbles.

Richard indicated a bundle of what looked like tapestry. “This one is a bit older. Are you up for it?"

“Why not?” Claire checked over one end and in her best professional voice said, “Late sixteenth or early seventeenth century. Needlepoint, not tapestry. Tent stitch. Cushion cover, probably. Some kind of mythological theme. There's a monogram in the corner...."

She bent closer to the fabric, bending closer to Richard at the same time. Beneath the mildew and mothball smell she sensed another, a fresh aroma that reminded her of the breeze through the Hall gardens. Every fine hair on the back of her neck twitched like antennae. That gentle humming was either the dehumidifier or her own unruly senses straining toward the envelope of energy around Richard's body.

Wrong time, wrong place, wrong guy, she told herself, and went on, “...initials ES—Elizabeth Spenser? No, wait. A crest with two stags, the symbol of the Cavendishes. Elizabeth Shrewsbury, also known as Bess of Hardwick. Did she make this one herself, do you think?"

“It was probably made at Chatsworth or Hardwick by her embroiderers.” Richard stepped back and bumped into a shelf. “You'll have a go at it, then?"

“If you'll let me,” she returned.

“Why not?” He smiled again, a quick sardonic flash of tooth and eye, and gathered the rolled canvas into his arms. Lugging the bundle upstairs, he draped it over the frame and announced, “This needs basting, not tacking."

“I'll take care of it,” Claire returned.

He balanced on the balls of his feet as though contemplating a quick getaway. “Well then. About the—ah—the chat I promised you..."

“Richard!” called Susan's voice from the stairs. “The new paint samples are here!"

“Later,” he said, and vanished out door.

So was he going to try and wriggle out of it, Claire asked herself, or was he actually going to talk about Melinda? And if so, was he going to be honest or was he going to do a smoke and mirrors routine like Elliot?

She turned to the cushion cover. A linen border had already been stitched to it. Judging by the yellowed thread, the border had been attached at about the same time some ham-handed person darned a few moth holes. Soon after the turn of the century, maybe, the Cranbourne daughters dutifully doing their mending instead of begetting heirs to keep the Hall in the family. Maud had been what? ninety? when she asked Julian Lacey to search the premises for valuables.

Claire found some heavy thread in the box of supplies and started basting the linen border to the frame. She'd have to pick out those old darns, she estimated, re-stitch some mangled areas, and even splice in some new canvas where there were actual holes in the fabric. At least the needlework had been cleaned fairly recently. It probably illustrated the myth of Venus and Adonis, with a woman reaching pleadingly toward a man who was more interested in a pack of dogs. The watching courtiers were dressed in the ruffs and pantaloons of high Elizabethan fashion.

This canvas was much more tightly woven than that used for the Morris canvas. The stitches were minuscule. Light or no light, by noon Claire's eyes were crossed. No matter where she looked all she could see was stitches, as though her retinal nerve was done in petit point. Elizabeth Spenser and her cat could've danced a pavane down the long gallery and she wouldn't have seen them.

How nice, she thought, to be so absorbed in her work she'd been able to
not
think about Melinda's murder mystery for a couple of hours. “No offense,” she said quietly into the air.

After lunch she'd ask Richard about that embroidery from the attic. It was a valuable historical artifact that needed to be cleaned and stored properly. Besides, she was curious about Elizabeth's handiwork, and wanted another look at it, as though some dynamic of cloth and thread would give her insight into the seventeenth-century woman's slandered soul.

Funny, Alec hadn't come by this morning. Surely he wasn't embarrassed about that peck on her cheek last night. She'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He'd been trying to reassure her, not threaten her, not even come on to her—even though his long distance relationship could be last year's news.

Shaking her head, Claire walked down the stairs and looked around for Janet or Susan or any available lunch partner. But it was Richard who was loitering with apparent intent on the bottom step.

“Claire,” he stated. “I'll be popping over to Haddon Hall this afternoon to view a tapestry. Would you care to ride along?"

Claire looked at him. His expression was sober, his eyes direct and guileless, and he wasn't smiling. If he intended to knock her over the head and leave her body in a hedgerow, he'd at least be smiling. And he could've committed any kind of mayhem on her person yesterday afternoon. All he'd done was keep her from cracking her skull on the rock pile.

He was, she hoped, as tired of playing games as she was. “Sure. Let me run back to my apartment and freshen up."

“Half past twelve, then. I'll collect you.” He walked off with a grimace he probably intended to be a winning smile.

Collect me?
Claire saw herself chloroformed and dumped into a bottle labeled, “Annoying American woman, genus
frienda Melinda,"
and laughed out loud. Hey, the day was going well. Maybe she was on a roll. She hurried down the street to her flat, declined Susan's invitation outside the tearoom, and grabbed a meat pie from Sarita's warming cabinet. The newspaper headline, she noted, was of some new political scandal back home.

While she paid for the pie she told Sarita where she was going and with whom. Sarita nodded. “You will like Haddon, it is altogether a fine old manor house. And since you are going with Richard, here is a letter for him. From his London lady friend, I am thinking."

Sarita grinned. But the letter Claire took from her hand was no joke. The Scottish Parliament stamp was a patch of crimson and gold against the white envelope. The London postmark looked like a bruise on fair skin. Richard Lacey, The Lodge, Somerstowe, Derbyshire S31 4BR was actually typed, not printed. It might be a solicitation from an exclusive charity, except there was no return address.

“I'll see that he gets this,” Claire croaked, and walked out of the shop with the letter a live ember in her hand. She would see that he got it, all right. As Elliot had said, the play must go on. And it wasn't even remotely a game.

Claire stood in her cool, quiet room, senses alert. No one had been there, she decided.

She eyed the teakettle. In novels investigators steamed open letters. She knew if she tried opening Richard's, though, she'd end up giving him a soggy mess. Better to just hand it over and see how he reacted.

The meat pie was lukewarm in the middle and she managed to choke only half of it down. Quickly she changed from her jeans into a cotton blouse and khaki skirt, brushed her teeth, and locked the door behind her.

Across the street stood Richard's Rover with its National Trust oak leaf emblazoned on the door. Some nice perks came with his job, Claire told herself. She opened the passenger side door and climbed in.

He looked around with a nod. “Bang on time, I see."

She started to reply with some dazzling display of verbal ability when the back door of the car opened. Diana Jackman dumped two empty shopping bags onto the seat and followed them inside. Damn! Claire said to herself. She twisted her face into a smile. “Hello, Diana. Going shopping?"

“Yeh, market day in Bakewell. Have to keep the customers fed, don't I? Thanks for the lift, Richard."

“No problem.” He started the car and drove off.

Claire glanced around. In the light of day Diana's make-up looked even thicker ... Was that a discoloration along one cheekbone, a bruise hidden by an extra layer of blusher? She hoped not. “Ah—that's right, Fred or Janet said you don't drive."

“All because that bloody rozzer was too bone idle to chase after criminals and did me instead. Mind you, I'd only had a couple of pints."

“Oh,” said Claire. A couple of pints of strong ale would leave the Terminator tipsy—and cost him his driver's license, too.

Expressionlessly, eyes front, Richard negotiated the high street and sped out into the countryside.

Huge dark clouds sailed across the vast Derbyshire sky, making Claire feel as though she was at the bottom of a bowl. It was going to rain again. She'd be disappointed to come to England and find it warm and dry, but she was willing to give it a try.

Richard plugged a tape into the cassette player. The bagpipes, electric guitars, and thick dialect of a Scottish folk-rock group filled the car. That figures, Claire thought. She'd finally found someone else who liked rock ‘n’ reel and it turned out to be Richard.

“What are they saying?” asked Diana.

Richard, the son of a Scot, smothered a grin. “It's a code used by the Scottish Nationalist Party to alert their operatives here in England. They're plotting to put the Jacobites back on the throne. Assuming they can find any."

His grin led Claire into temptation. “It's like playing Beatles songs backwards for the secret messages."

“Richard!” Diana exclaimed. “Do Scotland Yard know about this?"

“It wouldn't be much of an uprising if they did, now would it?"

For a moment Diana was silent. Then she said, “You're winding me up."

“Yes, I am. Sorry."

“Me ancestors weren't Scotch,” she muttered. “Me people have been in Somerstowe a long time. Me grandfather was a proper gentleman."

Elliot had Diana pegged right in one way, Claire thought. She was humor-impaired. But then, domestic abuse wasn't exactly a joke.

They dropped Diana off in Bakewell, Richard making sure Rob would be picking her up. As soon as they pulled away Claire asked, “Was that a bruise on her face? Any chance she just walked into a door or something?"

“Not bloody likely,” he said with a sigh. “Alec and Trevor both have had words with Rob. Diana stays with him, though. There's only so much they can do."

Yeah, Claire told herself, sometimes you just can't see any alternatives.

Once at Haddon Hall, she set aside her feminist indignation and helped Richard check over a slightly decayed but still gorgeous Flemish tapestry. He jotted statistics in a small notebook and told the caretaker he'd recommend the Trust buy it for Somerstowe. “It'd look a treat in the main bedchamber, same motif as the bed hangings."

Then, mission accomplished, they set off on a busman's holiday tour through the house. Richard commented on paneling, glass, mantelpieces, and the quality of the restoration. Claire gaped appreciatively. By the time they reached the Technicolor rose gardens terraced above the River Wye they were chatting as companionably as though they were on a successful first date.

What they were on was their best behavior, Claire thought as they walked back to the car. They were trying not to rub each other the wrong way. Not that rubbing each other the right way was an option. A good detective wouldn't be responding to her suspect's erotic vibrations. What if Richard had gone from vinegar to honey simply to distract her from her quest?

As they turned out of the parking lot the rain began, first a few drops, then torrents of cats, dogs, and other furry animals. The countryside blurred into a gray-green smear. When a building sign-posted The Devonshire Arms loomed through the streaming water Richard announced, “Time for tea."

They raced through the downpour to the entrance, ordered tea from the receptionist, and found a table next to the fireplace in the deserted bar. Even while she mopped her glasses Claire could see that Richard's hair was damp enough to lie down flat, as though it'd suddenly gone shy. She knew her own hair was curling like a medusa. Maybe that's why he was staring stone-faced at her.

Or maybe it was because they were hanging between breaths, between heartbeats, time suspended, waiting for a director to yell, “Action!” But they had no director, they were making it up as they went along ... “I suppose you thought Melinda was the attractive one,” Richard said.

Here we go.
Claire replaced her glasses. “Sometimes I felt sort of eclipsed, like a star by the sun. Glamour was her thing, though, not mine."

“Glamour can wear a bit thin, even start to look dishonest."

“Not necessarily. Melinda was one of those people who polished the outside to hide what she thought were imperfections inside."

“And you knew what was inside."

“Yes. I did. I liked her all the better for knowing."

“Did you now?” Richard asked. There were the tiger's eyes again, evaluating, questioning, doubting. Claire ducked, and kicked herself for ducking.

An aproned woman emerged from the kitchen door. She was carrying a tray loaded with tea, scones, and dishes of thick cream and strawberry jam. “It's a proper spate outside, isn't it?” she asked cheerfully.

“Yes.” And there was going to be a spate inside too. Claire poured tea, gulped, and cauterized most of the mucus membrane in her mouth, so that she could barely taste her scone. Across the table Richard cradled his cup in his hands and gazed at the fire. “A penny for your thoughts,” she said at last.

“I'm wondering where I should begin."

“With this.” Claire pulled the letter from her pocket and scooted it across the table.

“Oh, for the love of....” Richard grabbed the letter and tore it open. “I almost had myself convinced that Melinda wasn't doing it. That you weren't taking up where she left off."