Memory and Desire (44 page)

“We all see what we want to see. That's what killed Elizabeth and Melinda both. And Elliot. That's why Diana was after killing you, or, failing that, herself. That's what may bring down the Hall.” Richard's sigh shaded into a groan. He laid his cheek against the top of Claire's head.

She sniffed and mopped and for a long moment watched the slightly blurred image of the fire sink into embers. Fire good, fire bad. “I know what those twigs are. Truth serum."

“Oh aye, that they are."

Diana had seen her own passions reflected in Melinda's mirror-like surface, Claire thought. Maybe if Melinda hadn't kept that mirror polished so brightly ... No, her wounded inner child was no one's business but her own. At least she hadn't spent her last moments consumed by dread, despair, grief. She'd died as she'd lived, both laughing at the world and reveling in it.

Claire managed a wobbly smile. “Maybe Melinda had the right idea all along. Maybe her perception was truer than anyone else's. To fight as hard as you can and then kick back and laugh."

“Oh aye, I can live with that, if you can."

So it really was time for them to start drawing up blueprints for bridges, discussing the options of cantilever or suspension—well, he was the architect, he'd know about bridging chasms, even the metaphorical one between possibility and actuality, between doubt and faith.

She was the librarian. All she could think of, utterly out of context, was the line about a consummation devoutly to be wished. Claire pressed herself so tightly against Richard's side she could feel the texture of the terry-cloth robe through her pajamas. “What was it Elizabeth said to Alec?"

“'Should we turn away from love or laughter because neither is perfection?’ She's right."

Richard, though, was no ghost. His shoulder beneath her cheek and his arms around her vibrated with the subtle rhythms of blood and breath. “'Art thou obdurate,'” Claire whispered, “'flinty, hard as steel, nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth.’ Or tears, as the case may be."

“Eh?” Taking off his own glasses, Richard laid them down next to hers.

The words of The Play, the words of the letters, all the words spoken in spite and misunderstanding and blessing as well—they'd worked their way through all the words and come out the other side. Yes, Melinda and Elizabeth had been taken before their time. They'd never resolved every issue in their lives. They'd never healed all the hurts. You could die at ninety-nine and you'd still be hurting. You'd still have issues. Seize the day, Melinda would've said. Seize the man.

“I always knew you'd turn out to be a sensitive guy.” Claire put her hand behind Richard's neck and pulled him to her. Their lips met, moved, parted. And again, and again. Leisurely kisses, tender, thorough, flavored with the sea spray-and-smoke astringency of whiskey. His long, elegant fingers skated across the silk pajamas, cupping the curve of her hips, tracing the furrows of her ribs and the angles of her shoulder blades, finally enclosing her left breast, so that her breath caught in delight against his mouth.

His lips pulled away. His hand didn't. His thumb was having an inspiring dialog with her nipple—she wasn't sending him mixed messages, not any more. The bronze-green color of his robe made his golden brown eyes look more tigerish than ever. Not that she felt at all like prey.

There was a world outside this little house, this bubble of spacetime, but at this moment the only things that mattered were right here. “It's been a long day,” she whispered, opening the placket of his robe and spreading her hands against his chest. Through the thin cotton of the T-shirt his muscles were warm, firm but not at all stiff. If anything were stiff, she'd be finding out real soon now. “Aren't you tired?"

“Yes. Aren't you?"

“Yes. I still noticed that nice four-poster upstairs."

“I pinched it from the Hall. The mattress is new. I've only ever slept there on my own."

“It's time to break it in properly,” Claire told him. “Bearing in mind that we're both tired."

“So then,” returned Richard, “tonight's not the night I should try proving anything to you?"

“You don't have to prove squat to me.” She ran her hands through his hair—there, it was standing on end again, spiky and yet soft.

Richard looked appraisingly at the fire. It had burned to glowing embers, casting a rosy glow over the room. They could leave it. Claire looked appraisingly at the dirty dishes piled on the tray. Nah, leave them, too.

“Come along then,” he said, and pulled her to her feet.

The bedroom smelled faintly of smoke, probably from the dirty clothes in the bathroom. Or, Claire thought a minute later, from the friction of cotton against silk. Or, she thought three minutes later, from the even more inspiring friction of skin against skin...

Momentary pause, while Richard produced the obligatory foil packet from the drawer of the nightstand. “How old is that?” Claire asked warily.

“I bought it this afternoon,” he told her.

“From Sarita?"

“From Roshan. Does it matter?"

“No,” she said with a grin. “Let the world know."

He tipped her up and laid her on the bed. The sheets were cool against her back. Richard's body was anything but cool against her front. His shoulders and chest, back and flanks were warm and supple beneath her fingertips, like living sculpture.

He did have a fine architect's hand. As well as an artist's fingertips and a tongue that could've painted the Mona Lisa. “Yes,” she sighed, “there, yes.” Speaking of following your bliss, she thought, as the sensation flowed from her nervous system to his and back again—“Yes, like that, oh yes...” Her voice trailed away into a moan.

In the shadows his face was very serious, very intense, and if he had to stop and cough a couple of times that didn't detract from the heavy breathing. Claire was doing some pretty heavy breathing herself, accompanied by assorted wordless squeaks and gasps. Not to mention a cadence of melodious creaks from the antique wood of the four-poster bed, which fit the occasion just as nicely as she fit Richard.

She grabbed convulsively at the suddenly sweaty skin of his back. With one last harmonic the bed fell silent. For one long precious moment they lay laced tightly together, forehead to forehead, sharing carbon dioxide and a few small residual wriggles, feeling no pain. Letting go.

Then Richard rolled over and collapsed. Claire levered herself up on an elbow, wondering if he was unconscious. Sure, he wasn't going to try and prove anything to her. But then, she already knew that anything Richard set his mind to doing, he did superlatively well.

His eyes gleamed in the darkness. He started to speak, croaked, swallowed, and intoned, “The condemned man ate a hearty meal."

So much for that bubble of spacetime, Claire thought. She'd known it was going to burst sooner rather than later. “Richard, no matter what happens, they're not going to hang you."

“Yes they will, near as dammit. I'll never find another job like this. I may never find another job at all.” He waved toward the window.

She followed his gesture. Just above the windowsill the battlements of the Hall looked like old gold filigree against the black drape of the sky. Losing the Hall would be to Richard like losing Melinda was to her.

With a sigh she folded herself into the crook of his arm, shaping herself against his side. He wrapped his arms around her. “Sorry,” he whispered, his words slightly slurred. “I spoiled the moment."

“No,” she told him. “That's the point of the moment. No matter what happens, I'm here."

“Good.” Richard's eyes closed. His breath lengthened into a gentle snore.

Claire watched the angles of his face soften and his mouth relax. It wasn't that the past was gone, she thought. The past would always be there, if not physically then psychically, preserved, conserved, restored. It was that she and Richard could now face the future together.

Smiling, Claire spun down into sleep.

“And what is so rare as a day in June?” Claire quoted silently as she shut the door to her flat. When it came to weather, at least, Monday was more than making up for Sunday.

Even while Richard made and fed her breakfast this morning she'd sensed him going back into bunker mode. Yes, the ashes of the fire were cold on the hearth. But the birds sang outside and the windows of the Hall sparkled like laughing eyes.... Which was just the problem.

She'd made it back to her flat two minutes before Pakenham pounded on the door. Maybe he'd actually gotten his hands dirty at the Hall yesterday, but today he was back in his usual fashionable if lumpy suit and tie, smirking at her wet, dirty, smoky sweater and jeans.

She'd told him the story—the church, Diana, the Hall—and sent him off to harass whoever was next on his list. Pakenham got in the last word, though, by ordering her to appear at the police incident room at one.

Glancing at her watch, Claire hurried down the stairs. Roshan, just climbing into his red Royal Post truck, waved cheerfully. His knowing smile was a matter-of-fact “Good for you!"

Claire cringed as she stepped from the postcard-perfect day into Blake's stark command post. And yet she'd known all along she was going to wake up from the IMAX night before and have to face a scratchy black and white morning after.

In the back room Richard was already sitting at the table with Blake and Pakenham. When Claire sat down beside him he offered her that same resigned smile she'd seen last night. Ignoring Pakenham's snicker, she touched his arm. Hard as stone. He might just as well be a statue on the Hall's upper balustrade—a pigeon could land on his head and he'd never notice. Last night his stiff upper lip had turned out to be surprisingly tender. Last night the clean, spare lines of his armor had cracked to reveal baroque flights of passion. Today both tenderness and passion were unaffordable luxuries.

The door opened. A uniformed woman constable looked into the room ... Good God, it was Kate. Seeing her in smart navy blue and brass was like seeing Clark Kent transformed into Superman. “Mr. Killigrew is here, Sir.” She stood aside for Nigel, then slipped in and sat down herself.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Killigrew,” said Blake. “I thought as Miss Varek's former husband you should be present at the conclusion of the case."

“Very kind of you.” Nigel seated himself on Claire's other side.

The conclusion of the case, she thought. The end of her old life and the beginning of her new. For better or for worse and all that.

The door opened again. Alec was still in civilian clothes, khaki pants and a tidy shirt and sweater combo. His clear hazel eyes were shadowed like an overcast day. He'd just lost his love, Claire reminded herself. That his relationship with Elizabeth was doomed from the start didn't matter. Surely Blake wasn't going to take away Alec's work as well—yesterday he'd sent him into action quickly enough. If nothing else no one still suspected Alec of murder, conspiracy, or black magic. Although, judging by Pakenham's disdainful sniff, that last was still on his agenda.

With a taut smile at Kate, Alec sat down between her and Richard. The two men exchanged a quick, silent conversation, ranging from
how's the love life then
to
don't let the bastards wear you down,
using only the angles of their eyebrows, the shapes of their mouths, and the tilt of their chins.

Once, thought Claire, she'd been able to talk like that with Melinda. And now—well, considering how profoundly she and Richard had communicated last night, soon they'd be able to speak telepathically.

The bags under Blake's eyes looked like thunderclouds, dark and heavy. With a sigh he loosened his tie. “Right. Mrs. Jackman is in hospital in Derby. A filthy bruise on her neck, smoke inhalation, a few burns and scrapes. She was cutting up so rough they sedated her and admitted her to the psychiatric ward. We interviewed her there early this morning."

“She looked like a dog's breakfast and no mistake.” Pakenham patted down the oily strands of his hair.

Shaking his head, Blake went on, “What Mrs. Jackman told us agrees in every particular with your version of the—ah—confrontation, Miss Godwin. She still seems to think that everyone in town, from her husband to the vicar, was conspiring against her. And she hated Miss Varek with a passion."

“Yes.” There was passion, Claire added to herself, and then there was passion. Yesterday had run the gamut.

“I got on to Applethorpe this morning,” said Pakenham. “Yes, Diana told him she was on to something about the Cranbourne will, but she never came through with it. As to why he never mentioned this to me, the pompous ass said, ‘I told you I discussed the matter with my relatives, what more do you want?’ I should do him for obstructing the police."

“Leave it,” Blake said. “He's not worth the effort."

With another sniff, Pakenham flipped several more pages in his notebook. “Wood, Shelton, Lacey. Digby. The temporary help at the pub. Everyone has the same story. All straightforward and aboveboard. I thought so all along."

Kate hid her face with her hand.

“Diana knew quite well that WPC Shelton was no volunteer,” Pakenham went on. “She said again and again, ‘I'm not as dense as everyone thinks I am.’ Stupid self-righteous tart. First she murders Moncrief in a perfectly obvious fashion, then blows the gaff in front of four witnesses. She's one of those people that dense she doesn't realize how dense she is."

Every eye in the room focussed on Pakenham's smug smile, waiting for the punch line. Except for Nigel, who was staring off into the far corner of the room. “So the motive was jealousy exacerbated by greed,” he said. “What a shame. A dashed shame. Can't be helped, though, can it?"

No, Claire thought, it can't. After a powerless life Diana had tasted power, corrupt though it was. After a life of frustration she'd thought her dreams were in her grasp at last. She wasn't the first person to believe that money could buy class.

Kate looked at Alec. Alec looked at Richard. Richard looked at Blake. “What happens now?"

“Mrs. Jackman will be able to stand trial, no worry there. We'll be needing you to stay on, Miss Godwin. I assume you have no problem with that?” The corner of Blake's mouth, barely visible beneath the curtain of the moustache, almost twitched into a smile.