Memory and Desire (26 page)

From the window Claire saw the workmen piling into their trucks and heading down the drive. Richard was coming up the drive. He had to leap aside to avoid the spray sent up by the trucks’ wheels. She'd better tell him what she'd done about the thread. If he made her pick it out, fine—she might as well backtrack on that, too. Then she could slink away to her room and bang her head against the wall or something similarly productive.

What she really wanted to do was grab a double handful of Richard's sweater and demand, “Why are you doing this to me? Why?” But she wasn't the issue. And that in itself was an issue.

Claire hurried on downstairs and out the front door. The roofs of the village hid coyly behind a Scotch mist that was too light to fall as rain. The water droplets hung in the air, gathering on her glasses and turning her view into a pointillist painting. Even so, she saw the bolt of material folded over a horizontal bar at one end of the bleachers. That was the Morris Strawberry Thief canvas she'd finished stitching last week, she was sure of it. What was it doing out here?

The flagstones of the forecourt flowed with water. She glanced around. No Fred, no Alec, no one with wellies who could rescue the fabric. Well, her athletic shoes would dry soon enough in front of an electric fire.

She waded through the puddles and stepped over a cable. The cloth was on a bar inside the network of tubing. She reached for the outside bar, to steady herself as she leaned between two others...

“Claire, don't move!” shouted Kate. “Don't bloody move!"

Claire froze in mid-reach, Kate's urgent command jamming her motor nerves.
What the... ?
Her shoes were tingling, sending pins and needles up her legs. Water. Electricity. The electricity was on. Her body was bent forward at the waist, surrounded by a metal web. She was inches away from grounding herself. She was inches away from death.

Footsteps splashed in agonizing slow motion. “Where the hell is—Fred, move your bum, where's the fuse box? The power's on? Well switch off, sod it all, switch off now!” Kate's serrated voice would have cut stone. Judging by the scramble Claire heard behind her, it motivated Fred to speed. A distant thunk, and the sizzle beneath her feet disappeared.

Hands seized her shoulders and pulled her from the trap. Kate's hands. Kate's face, eyes blazing, stared at her. Claire stared back. The only muscle in her body that worked was her heart, which was doing a syncopated somersault from her throat to her stomach and back again.

Richard pelted into her peripheral vision and skidded to a stop, sending up a bow wave. “The electricity was switched on? How did you know?"

“I didn't,” Kate said. “They pay me to be paranoid is all."

“I just went inside to get a cup of tea,” Fred called from several miles away. “Really, I was only gone for a minute."

Richard took Claire's other arm. “Claire, are you all right?"

“Accidents happen on construction jobs,” said Fred plaintively.

“This was no accident,” Kate hissed beneath her breath. “That bit of cloth was bait. She was meant to electrocute herself. Thank God she was wearing trainers."

Stupid, stupid, stupid ...
Suddenly Claire's knees crumbled. Richard and Kate buoyed her up and carried her toward the Lodge.

Detective Chief Inspector Blake walked back and forth in front of the fireplace. He glared at the gargoyle on the mantel, at the papers on the floor, out the windows that overlooked the drive. He seized the poker and stabbed at the fire like a fencer trying to impale an evasive opponent. Kate dodged away from the hearth and sat down on the desk chair.

Richard emerged from the kitchen juggling the tea tray, which he clattered onto the table in front of Claire. “Here you are,” he said, handing her a squat glass filled with amber liquid. “Good for what ails you."

She doubted that, but this was no time for debate. “Thank you.” Her first sip of the sharp, smoky whiskey drew moisture back into her dry mouth and steamed into her sinuses, clearing her head. Her second sent rivulets of warmth into her shivering limbs.

Setting the glass down, she peeled off her sodden shoes and socks and extended her icy feet toward the fire. Her face was wet, too, with rain, tears, or blood she wasn't sure. She mopped at it with the sleeve of her sweatshirt and looked blearily around for her glasses. There they were, perched on a drawing pad. She didn't put them on. She could see herself well enough, a tiny, almost comical figure lost in a landscape of skewed realities.

Richard poured tea for Blake and Kate and sat down on the couch beside Claire. Surreptitiously, concealed in the folds of her jacket, he took her hand and squeezed so hard it hurt. His body was humming with tension. Hers was the consistency of oatmeal. She tried another swallow of whiskey.

“All right, then?” Richard asked.

“Yes, thanks. Kate, I owe you."

Kate cradled her warm cup in both hands. “Just doing my job. Hard as it is, with you popping off like that. I had to walk away whilst Susan was still talking to catch you up."

“Sorry,” Claire told her. “I guess I never really believed I was in danger. The letter—the letters—were so melodramatic, you know?"

“The Play's a melodrama,” Kate returned.

“The killer took a hell of a chance with that tapestry,” said Blake to the gargoyle. “Anyone could've seen him. He's a bold one."

“Bold?” Richard murmured. “Desperate? Stupid? Lucky?"

From outside came Pakenham's bray, cut with an indignant Liverpool accent belonging to the foreman of the workers, who, Claire deduced, had been tracked down to and dragged from the pub. “I don't know a bleeding soul in this town, do I? I was hired to put up the seating, wasn't I? Why should I do a bird I've never even heard of? And with a bit of rug?"

“Tapestry,” Pakenham corrected wrongly. “Was it on the metal bar when you left the forecourt?"

“Haven't the foggiest. Me and my lads was at the other end of the lash-up, weren't we?"

“And the electricity was switched off when you left?"

“When we stopped work it was, right enough. The American bloke, the one with a face like a basset hound, the switch was his look-out."

“Fred was detailed to watch the fuse box,” said Kate. “Means, motive, opportunity. No one saw him fetch the tapestry, true, but..."

“But,” Blake said, “this afternoon Pakenham turned up an American chap, name of Wilson, who was here last year. Stayed at the same B&B as Siebold and Miss Harlow. They passed him on the staircase on their way to the church service. Siebold came back a few minutes later, slamming the front door. Wilson looked out at the noise, had a good view of Siebold going into the next room. Wilson heard him walking up and down, heard the loo flush, heard him snoring. Water-tight alibi for the time of Miss Varek's murder. Which seems to take away his motive for doing Miss Godwin."

“Shit,” Kate said.

Claire didn't have even that much of a response. She seemed to be miles away from her own body. Richard's steady hand would've helped, if she hadn't been feeling miles away from him, too.

Footsteps raced outside. “Is Claire all right?” Alec's voice exclaimed.

“She's all right,” replied Pakenham, with little enthusiasm. “Would you step inside for a moment, Wood?"

The door opened. Alec loomed out of the dim hallway. When he spotted Claire he exhaled in relief. “I'm sorry. You're not hurt, then?"

Claire pondered whether he was sorry she was all right or whether he was expressing some broader, if undefined, regret. “I'm fine, thank you, if kind of in shock. No pun intended."

Alec's out-of-focus face looked blank, puns beyond him. Richard's face was close enough to be in focus but was just as blank. Blake clanged the poker into its rack. His moustache drooped under the strain of suspecting one of his own. “What were you about this afternoon, PC Wood?"

“I helped assemble the seating until three or three-thirty,” Alec replied, “then I went home to sort my paperwork. Elliot just stopped in and told me what happened. No needlework was hanging on the pole when I left. Everyone in the village has been at the Hall today, though."

“That's what Mrs. Nair told us,” Kate said.

Alec turned to her. “Here, I reckon you're police as well."

Kate's sudden interest in her teacup admitted everything.

“This village is my patch,” Alec said to Blake.

“The only reason this dump has a police presence at all,” said Pakenham's voice from behind Alec's back, “is because of the tourists. You've been relieved of duty, Wood. Give it a rest."

Alec bit off his words rather than Pakenham's head. “If you'll excuse me, Claire. Richard.” Like an unusually graceful bull escaping a china shop he vanished out the door. Pakenham followed.

Claire imagined a SWAT team chasing Alec to his cottage, trampling his garden, shooting out the blue light above his door. It wouldn't be long now. She drained her glass.

“Another wee dram?” Richard asked, flat.

It wouldn't be long until his solicitousness evaporated, too. “No, thank you."

“Well then,” Blake said. “Everyone knows the lumber room where the tapestries are kept. It's usually unlocked. Siebold says the fuse box was switched off, but Mrs. Nair says he was in the kitchen with his cuppa for at least half an hour. Anyone—including Siebold himself, mind you—could've baited the trap for you."

“There is one thing,” said Kate.

Claire squeezed Richard's hand and let it go, so he wouldn't have to let go of hers. She reached for her glasses, put them on, and looked over at Kate.
Get it over with.

“Wood's been around and about the Hall today, as he said. Claire was showing me a little room in the attics that belonged to Elizabeth Spenser and he came on us sudden-like, seemed a bit narked to find us there."

“The Elizabeth Spenser in The Play?” Blake asked.

“Miss Varek was writing a novel about her. Wood has some strong opinions on the subject. Could be they rowed about it. He still says they were never lovers, by the way, just chums."

“Why should Elizabeth Spenser matter after all these years?"

“I don't know, sir. You'll have to ask Wood. Or maybe...” Kate's eye turned to Richard. “I overheard you and Alec talking just outside the library."

“We overheard you,” amended Claire. “Accidentally. I was looking for you to ask about the yarn for the Venus and Adonis canvas."

Richard's eyes widened in comprehension. Then he closed them and set his jaw. No, he wouldn't request a blindfold, would he?

Blake straightened. “Yes?"

“They started off talking about an embroidered cloth from the secret room and went on asking each other how much Claire knows, and how much Melinda knew last year. And Alec said, ‘if we'd told the truth, the whole truth, Melinda might still be alive.’”

Galvanic shudders ran down Richard's body.

“Then they went on about hiding secrets and choosing whether to remember or forget the past and the sins of the fathers or some such. And Alec said, ‘Let me bear my own sins, you have your own.’”

Richard opened his eyes and fixed them on the pictures on the desk. One was a studio portrait of his parents, a dignified silver-haired man and a slender smiling woman with glints of red in her dark tresses. The other was Claire's favorite, a little boy with Richard's sculpted features still a work in progress, grinning and making a “ta da!” gesture at his kilt and knee socks.

Ta da
was the last thing he was thinking now. His voice was icy. “The point is that the sins, the secrets, are not my own."

“No,” Blake growled, “the point is that there's been a murder and an attempted murder, and you've been playing silly beggars with us."

Richard catapulted to his feet and ran his hands through his hair, which was already in full anxiety mode. His eyes flashed like a drawn sword.

But Blake stood his ground. “What do you have to say for yourself?"

“Oh, I could say quite a bit, Chief Inspector. Most of it would be pointless speculation about what's relevant and what's not, and how the blackmailer found out what they found out."

“Did they actually know anything?” Kate asked. “Or did they just throw a rock into the dark and hit your guilty conscience?"

“The question,” retorted Richard, “is whether my guilty conscience killed Melinda. Not only who killed her, in other words, but why."

Blake crossed his arms. “We're asking the questions here, Lacey."

Claire slumped into the couch. Every time Richard turned around he fell over first Melinda's and then her own curiosity. Every time she turned around she fell over his damnable secrets or privacies or whatever he wanted to call them. So what was the point, anyway? That Melinda died to bring Claire and Richard together? How arrogant, how off-base, how out-of-focus was that? No wonder Melinda's irrepressible ghost kept coming between them. They didn't deserve a relationship.

Richard braced both hands on the mantel and gazed into the fire. The angle of his shoulder was turned toward Claire like Alec's shoulder had been turned toward her this morning. “It was almost twenty years ago when my parents faked The Play. Most of it, at the least. Mind you, they never intended to publish it, but when Maud did do, they kept silent for the Hall and the village."

“Yes, yes,” said Blake impatiently. “Maud left the Hall to the Trust, The Play provided an endowment, and everyone except the Cranbourne heirs lived happily ever after—until Miss Varek started asking questions. You told us this already."

“What I told you was the tip of the iceberg,” Richard said. “My parents and I sold our honor not once but twice. The first time by never telling the truth about The Play, even after Maud died. The second—well, Maud's death is the crux of the matter."

Blake leaned forward. Kate set her cup and saucer down on the desk and glanced from Richard to Claire and back.

Oh no, Claire thought.
Willpower.
It was the word “will” that'd landed in Richard's scruples like a rock in a pool of water.

No surprise his accent was taking the high road again. “Maud died ten years ago, as unexpectedly as one can at the age of ninety-six, just after the fifth production of ‘An Historie.’”