Memory and Desire (32 page)

Inhaling eagerly of the fresh air and its scents of grass and green, Claire grasped the grille and pushed. It didn't move. It, too, was locked. Exhaling with frustration, she leaned her forehead against the cold, damp metal. Still she could hear the voice. It was coming not from the caves behind her but from the open countryside.

The sky was the color and texture of cotton candy. Mist softened the green edges of the land. A chill breeze stirred the leaves of the bushes surrounding the doorway. In the distance a lamb was bleating. Right in front of Claire's face lay the ancient stone circle, each rock a smooth, solid, sand-colored mass rising from the green grass.

She blinked. Her optic nerve must have gone into spasms after its hours of idleness in the dark. She was seeing an unearthly shape weaving its way through the stones, its antlered head bowing and rising again. The strange figure was singing. Or chanting, rather, repeating variations on the same note. Claire couldn't make out any words. The hair rose on the back of her neck and yet not with fear.

She took off her smudged and dusty glasses and looked. She put them back on. The apparition didn't change. She hadn't gone down a cellar or even down a rabbit-hole. She was in a never-never land where time turned back on itself, where fiction and reality knotted themselves incomprehensibly together. Elizabeth Spenser had been accused of consorting with the devil in the stone circle below the Hall—she had died, but the devil hadn't—there he was, all alone now that no one really believed in him any more.

No. The figure in the circle was a man wrapped in a deerskin robe. The antlers were attached to a headdress that was part hood, part cap. Maybe, thought Claire, the figure wasn't a man at all. Maybe it was the horned god of myth older than time.... She'd seen those antlers before, above Alec's fireplace.

The song stopped. The man pulled the hood away from his head and set it on top of the one standing stone, which was just a bit taller than he was himself. Then he wrapped his robe around the stone as well—it had protuberances that, if Claire squinted a bit, might be shoulders.

Yes, it was Alec, wearing a perfectly ordinary Aran sweater, blue jeans, and wellies. He genuflected, then reached into a bag resting at the foot of the stone. From it he took a small metal cup and a thermos bottle, which he opened. He poured something into the cup.

Claire sagged against the chill metal of the grille. Like most puzzles, the solution was obvious once she'd seen it for herself.

She hated to interrupt his ritual, but he needed to know he had an audience. And enough of these damned caves was enough. She kicked at the grille, making the metal chime dully, and shouted. What came out was a croak, “Alec! Help!"

He spun toward her and stared as though she was the one who was disconnected from reality. For a long moment she expected him to dematerialize into the haze. Then a ray of sunlight pierced the cloud, dew glistened on grass and tree, and the stones flushed the same warm gold as the Hall.

Alec grinned in relief. He made a “just a minute” gesture, turned toward the rising sun, and lifted the cup. Saying something that had the cadence of poetry, he genuflected again, and with a sweeping motion threw several drops of golden liquid—ale?—onto the grass. The drops seemed to strike the earth and then flame upward, spreading a reddish gold radiance into the mottled sky. Trailing flags of scarlet, the brilliant circle of the sun crested the horizon. Alec opened his arms to the light. It poured down over his body, brought a blush to his fair complexion, and polished the curls of his hair into the finest carved oak.

Earth, air, fire, liquid—each elemental power was recognized. In the ecumenical spirit, Claire bobbed a curtsey.

Alec drank off the remaining ale, turned to the bag, and pulled out a couple of small brown lumps. He walked toward Claire, his grin contracting into a rueful half smile. And yet his hazel eyes were lit like the land itself, reminding her that no matter how dark the night the sun would always rise. He extended his hand. “Have a cake. The blessings of the solstice upon you."

“Thanks,” she rasped, and reached through the metalwork. What she wanted right now was a drink of water, but the cake was part of the ceremony. She nibbled. The morsel was sweet and spicy and melted on her tongue instead of gumming her mouth. She managed to say, “Blessings and everything to you, too,” in a slightly stronger voice.

A shadow passed over the glow in Alec's eyes. “What a fool I was, never to have had a shufti round the cellars. Elliot said he saw you going into the Lodge, so I never thought ... I'll fetch the key from Richard, shall I?"

“Yes, please."

Alec collected the antlers, the robe, and the bag and shoved the robe in through the grille. “Here you are. Wrap yourself up, there's a bit of a chill. The antlers may be over three hundred years old. Elizabeth probably knew them. I'll be back soon as may be.” He disappeared from Claire's sight line. His steps reverberated in the earth. Then she heard only the wind rustling the leaves, like someone laughing just below his breath. Yeah, it was funny, in a way.

The stones glowed in the sunlight as though lit from within. By magic? Or simply by faith? Claire wondered. Or were faith and magic two words for the same thing?

With only a vestige of her petticoats left, the skirt of her gown seemed like gauze. Her head hurt, her throat was raw, and her skin shrink-wrapped itself to her bones with cold. She cocooned herself in the robe. It was warm and soft and smelled faintly of herbs. Alec's herb garden. She should've guessed then. Certainly she should've guessed when he used Melinda's gold ring to find her body. But you didn't meet too many cops who were witches.

She ate the rest of the cake. It slipped soothingly down her throat and warmed her stomach. She was half-dozing, imagining hot scones with jam and cream, pizza and chicken vindaloo and gallons of hot tea, when she heard voices shouting her name.

Richard came running down the slope from the Hall gardens above and behind her so fast Claire thought he was going to catapult himself over one of the ancient stones. He skidded around and crashed instead into the grille. His unshaven face was creased with worry, his hair stood straight up like multiple antennae, and his eyes were bloodshot behind a pair of glasses. He'd been up all night, hadn't he? Claire was touched. She'd have been touched even if she wasn't in a weakened condition.

Richard produced a large iron key and stabbed at the lock, ringing it like a gong. “Claire! Have you been in the cellars all this time, then? Blake's lads are searching them now, but they made a late start—Diana said she saw you outside the shop."

Kate shot down the hillside almost as fast. “Are you all right? I was dead certain you'd gone into the kitchen ... Your throat. Someone tried to strangle you."

“They sure did.” Funny, the outside of her throat was probably five shades of purple, but inside it wasn't even sore, not any more. She could talk without croaking. “It was you shouting my name that scared them away, I think. I must've fainted, with the corset and everything, and whoever it was just heaved me inside the cellar door. It was handy."

“It was also locked.” Richard threw open the grille. Its rusty squeal frightened the crows. They winged across the sky like a row of exclamation points. Kate pulled Claire from the opening and patted her down with a maternal glare balancing between
I'm glad you're safe
and
Are you going to catch it now.

“It wasn't Alec,” Claire insisted. “I don't know who attacked me, but it wasn't him. And he's had a damn good reason for stonewalling."

“Oh aye, that he has.” Richard's arm closed around her shoulders and shook her a little.
So now you know.

Between them, he and Kate got Claire's legs moving and supported her up the hill. Alec and Pakenham waited above, Pakenham gloating, Alec's face sober. She'd feel bad about ruining his moment of peaceful ritual, but Somerstowe's peace was already long gone. “Is the ‘S’ of your middle name for ‘Spenser'?” she asked.

“Got it in one,” he replied without either hostility or sarcasm.

“What?” Pakenham demanded.

“Alec's middle initial is
S,"
explained Claire. “Lots of times a man will use his mother's maiden name as his middle name. Like a woman will drop her original middle name for her maiden name after she's married."

Pakenham looked skeptical. “Spenser? Like the woman in The Play?"

“Yes.” Alec turned toward the village. “Let's get on with it."

Richard's arm urged Claire forward. Kate fell in behind them. Pakenham trotted along beside Alec, rubbing his hands together. “Got you, Sunshine. Caught you out at last. I must caution you that anything you say...

Claire stumbled. Oh God, Pakenham was reading Alec his rights. Richard's strong arm snugged her a little more closely against his side, probably reassuring himself as much as her.

When they came to the street Pakenham steered Alec toward Blake's storefront office. Kate started to follow. Pakenham's gesticulation sent her into an abrupt left face and back to Claire's unoccupied side. “Pompous git,” she muttered. “You're safe as houses with Richard, Claire."

“He may not be safe with me,” she said. “All this time, if you'd just—if I'd just...."

“A bit late for ‘if.'” Richard stopped at the foot of the stairs leading to her flat. “Have a wash. I'll ask Sarita to cook you a breakfast.” With another gentle shake he released her and trudged off across the yard.

Inside the flat, Kate hovered while Claire stripped off the torn and dirty dress and dived into the blessedly hot water of the shower. It almost took sandpaper to get the grime-laden grease off her face. By the time she surfaced Richard and Sarita had appeared with a tray laden with all the glorious excess of an English breakfast: eggs, sausage, bacon, grilled tomato, and a mountain of toast with lashings of butter and marmalade. And the gallon of strong black tea Claire had been fantasizing about. She began ladling it all in.

“I'm so sorry about the dress,” she told Sarita between mouthfuls. “And I tore up the petticoat to mark my path through the caves. I don't know what happened to the cap and the fake curl."

“The dress is not important,” Sarita assured her.

“We found the cap at the top of the stairs to the cellars,” Richard said. “When it finally occurred to us to look there."

“Rob was saying he saw you in the garden,” added Sarita.

Kate looked up from her own cuppa. “That was Janet, wasn't it?"

“The rumors were thick upon the ground.” Richard filched a piece of Claire's toast. The vertical lines cutting his cheeks eased only a bit as he munched. “We had a recce round the house, but the cellar door was locked as usual. Since I have the only key we didn't look inside."

“Obviously,” said Claire, “you don't have the only key. I bet keys to the Hall aren't that hard to come by, though."

“Not a bit of it,” Richard agreed. “Pakenham was havering about my knowing the cellars, so at last we looked in. And there was your cap. Several constables went mucking about the place until Blake sent word Alec found you."

“Actually I found him.” So the steps she'd sensed behind her had been those of rescuers. That figured. “I found a program in that box of scripts and sheet music with a message in Melinda's handwriting about meeting Alec after the cast party. That's why I was in that corridor, trying to make an end run around the crowd and get to Blake."

“We found the playbill on the floor. Blake compared it with our file sample of Melinda's handwriting.” Kate's pink mouth tightened. “He's expecting us. Thank you for the breakfast, Mrs. Nair. Let me carry that tray for you."

“Certainly, WPC Shelton,” said Sarita with a smile, adding, “I am very much afraid your cover was blown up to the skies last night."

“Can't keep any secrets in a village,” groaned Kate, and with a glance at Richard and Claire, “I'll be back straightaway."

Crockery rattling, Sarita and Kate vanished down the steps.

Claire burped quietly. She'd never appreciated the virtues of fat as a mood enhancer quite so much. She might survive the day, after all.

Richard picked up her glasses from the kitchen counter. He wiped them with a dishtowel, sighted through them critically, then set them on her face. His hands lingered on either side of her neck, caressing the angry red stripe she'd not been surprised to see in her mirror.

His eyes flickered like embers stirred. “I thought I'd lost you."

“You sure you want to find me?” She spread her hands on his chest. The wool of his sweater tickled her palms.

“Yes."

Any other time the slow movement of his fingertips on her throat would turn her on. Now she could only smile wistfully. “I'd like to find you, too, sometime. Soon, I hope, but...."

“I know.” The flame in his eyes banked itself and his hands retreated.

“There's Alec's deerskin,” she went on, “Kate folded it up, I need to give it back to him—that cake thingie he gave me to eat, my throat doesn't even hurt any more—Richard, he's innocent, I saw him..."

“I know.” Richard bent forward, lips parted. Claire tilted her chin and parted her lips. Their glasses met with an emphatic click of metal and glass. From outside Kate called, “Let's be off!"

They compromised by touching foreheads. Richard offered Claire his arm and together they met Kate at the bottom of the stairs.

Maybe the police were finally getting somewhere, Claire told herself. The problem was, they weren't getting where she wanted them to go.

The morning haze had resolved itself into a sunny day. Each shade of green, blue, gold and gray seemed to be of stained-glass intensity. The red phone booth and Elliot's red car added their usual accents. The streets were starting to fill with traffic—it was Saturday, there'd be even more people here today than yesterday.

A constable in the front room of Blake's command post waved Claire, Richard, and Kate past two glowing computer screens into a back room furnished with a table, chairs, and the empty racks and bins of a failed boutique. The smell of Pakenham's cologne hung in the still air.