Drowning Pool (Miss Henry Mysteries) (12 page)

Juliet shone her light around the small enclosure and then departed
as quickly as she could. Enough was enough. She had had to look in case the roundel was being stored there, but a last, quick glance was all she was going to give the awful graveyard. She didn’t have a shovel and wouldn’t dare disturb the ground anyway in case it was noticed. Or booby-trapped. She could thank Raphael for that grisly idea.

She should probably search the
damp uniform for some kind of identification, but she hadn’t the nerve for it and the same objections applied. Chances were good that since either the victim or the killer had taken the time to remove all markings from the clothing that identification had not been left behind.

And what would she do
even if she knew the dead man’s name? There was no one to tell.

“I’m done,” she whispered
to David Merton.

It was all
Juliet could do to work the obstinate lock back into place. She was shaking by then. Juliet told herself it was just the wet and cold, but that was a lie. The night was balmy. She was shivering with fear.

It was one thing to suspect that her hosts were ruthless killers—or the kind who hired ruthless killers
—and another thing to know it.

Naturally there were guards having a smoke break in the courtyard
when she returned to the castle. Fortunately the odor was heavy on the damp air and she was warned before walking into them.

Juliet weighed the merits of getting out of the damp by way of one of the rotting staircases, or the risk of a chill if she remained on
terra firma
while the guards fed their addiction. After a moment’s consideration, solid but damp ground won out over stairs that were decidedly
infirma
. But the postponement of her return was difficult and tensions made her muscles stiffen while she waited for them to stop sucking on their home-rolled cigarettes.

She kept her back turned to the lily painting
on the far wall while she waited. A trick of the moonlight had made it stand out in a vivid and eerie way. Instead she meditated on the idea that she was actually warmer than the air around her and therefore in reality more comfortable than anything else in the garden.

Eventually the guards were high enough to continue their rounds. Juliet gave them thirty seconds
’ head start and then forced herself to stop imitating a turtle and to get on her way. She moved warily. If two guards were out, there could well be others, and the closer she got to the castle, the fewer pools of concealing shadow there were to hide in. Her discovery would matter less if she were found in the kitchen gardens, but it was awfully late to be using excuses of listening to birds or an evening constitutional to explain why she was wondering around with lock picks, flashing, and a crowbar while dressed as a cat burglar.

Juliet
made it to the garage and returned her borrowed spanner. She was careful to wipe her shoes before entering the castle so she would not track mud inside. There was no need to leave an obvious trail. She entered the house the way she had left it, but found the place a good deal more active than it had been an hour before. Perhaps it was a shift change, but it could equally mean that something had happened to rouse the household.

Heavy footsteps approached the corridor to the kitchen.
Though she hated deviating from known routes, she took an unfamiliar staircase upstairs. All she wanted was to change into dry clothes and hide in bed until morning.

Unfortunately,
one of the guards followed her up the narrow stair. He was too close behind her for her to run.

Smothering curses, she
reached the next floor and looked for a place to hide. There was nowhere large enough to conceal a person and only one door on that long stretch of straight corridor. It was a huge one, heavily carved and probably stolen from a cathedral somewhere.

She didn’t see any light under the door
, but the carpet was thick and she couldn’t be sure that there wasn’t someone awake behind the carved panel. However, as the saying went, needs must when the devil drives.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed down the
door latch and stepped inside the unlocked room. And nearly tripped over a woman in a white uniform who was dozing just inside the door.

The nurse
blinked herself awake and got to her feet. She blocked a shocked Juliet’s way into the room beyond, but a creaky voice demanded in German that Juliet be allowed to enter.

Juliet shut the door behind her, hoping the guard hadn’t noticed her
and the arguing nurse.

“You are one of the artists
, aren’t you?” the wavering voice asked in German. “Come here, woman. In the light where I can see you.”

Juliet had a working command of the German language and decided that this might be a good time to obey.
Bracing herself, she stepped around the nurse and stepped into what had to be the castle’s solar. That wasn’t surprising. No doubt von Hayek saw himself as a lord and demanded suitable chambers.

The nurse hovered
at the bedroom’s entry but did not follow, either because of orders or perhaps because of the heat. The room Juliet entered was hot, starved of oxygen that had not already passed through diseased lungs or been eaten by the blaze on the giant hearth. What little air she could pull into her chest was grudging and smelled of old age. She hoped that she wouldn’t faint. If she fell to the floor she would likely die from asphyxia.

Klaus
von Hayek was old. Seen by firelight, it seemed it was a face that was shrinking in, all the features drawn to the center of the wrinkled skin. The only exceptions were the wattles in his neck where his spare flesh was seeping away like a candle’s spent wax. The eyes were bandaged with cataract and would not see her well no matter how bright the light. He looked like a mummy wrapped in a Chinese emperor’s gown.

She took a seat in the straight-back wooden chair he indicated
with a spasmodic twitch of his veined hand. It was not comfortable and she had a feeling that this was deliberate. She pulled it a little way back from the giant fire which had made the wood of the chair feel dangerously hot. The giant clock on the far wall said it was nearly two in the morning. She needed to get back to her room and reassure Raphael that she was well.

The wrinkled head turned her way.

“You look like a painter,” he said abruptly. His voice was weak but his will was not.

“
I am,” she admitted. Her clothes began to steam and she hoped he wouldn’t ask what she had been doing to get so wet.

“Are you any good? Should I make my son bring your paintings to me?”

“Painting, singular. And how can I say if it is any good? That is in the eye of the beholder. After all, which of us really knows ourselves in this way?”

“In other words
, does a skunk know that he stinks?” the old man asked.

“Exactly,” she said, startled into a half smile. “Or does a rose know she is fair? Snakes crawl on their bellies but think themselves kings
of their world. You would have to judge my art for yourself.”

He snorted and that led to some coughing.
The sounds were awful, like someone drowning, and Juliet looked to the nurse. There was a nebulizer on the end table that might have helped. The woman was distressed but did not approach the bed. Juliet wondered why she was there. Perhaps just to tell someone when the old man died?

Eventually the fit subsided.
When von Hayek had caught his breath, he put away his stained handkerchief and leaned closer to Juliet. His cloudy eyes seemed suddenly unfocused and his breath smelled of blood.

“They would smite me, Rosa, but it is too late.” The wheezing noise he made was probably laughter.
Amusement or not, it was an unpleasant sound and not one a healthy person would make. “They can’t take what is mine. Not while I am alive.”

Rosa? Who was she? His wife? Daughter? Ex-lover? And was he speaking about his stolen treasure? Or something else? Maybe his castle built on the temple the locals had not wanted him to have?

His glee was unpleasant, but Juliet supposed one took comfort where one could. There weren’t too many things left for this man to look forward to. Even a bad man. Maybe especially a bad man.

He reached out and snatched at her hand.
The old man was burning up with fever. Juliet had an impulse to pull away but controlled it. This might be her only chance to get von Hayek alone and question him about the roundel.

“
For myself, I always loved the Renaissance artists,” Juliet said softly, hoping to keep their conversation from the nurse’s ears since she might speak German. The nurse was still sitting across the room in her alcove away from the roaring fire which was beginning to make Juliet sweat and itch. More than ever she longed for dry clothing. “There are no others like them. Michelangelo, da Vinci, Donatello. I think we have that in common, don’t we?”

“Yes, yes—but they rarely worked in gold.” This seemed to bother him. “Canvas is so fragile
and plaster rots. I don’t know why they bothered.”

“But gold endures
, so it is better?” she asked.

“Yes. It is gold that lasts,” he whispered, tightening the grip on her hand.

From the corner of her eye she saw a small door hidden by curtains on the other side of the bed open slowly. She did not look up at Henrik von Hayek as he stepped into the room, instead keeping her expression soft and her gaze on Klaus’s face so his son would not see her nervousness and annoyance at the interruption, emotions which were present in equal measure.

“So who is your favorite then? Cellini?” She picked an artist at random, knowing it would be a bad idea to mention Donatello with Henrik standing there.

“Yes, yes … Rosa, come closer. I can’t see you.”

Juliet obligingly slid her chair
a few inches closer. Her knees were touching the bed. She didn’t like being hemmed in with Henrik at her back and did her best to breathe shallowly.

“It’s alright, I’m here. It’s just the fire that is making your eyes tired. It is late. You need to rest.”
She was frustrated, but there was nothing more she could do with Henrik there.

“Yes. Rest.
I’ll be doing that soon enough.” After a moment the eyes shut and the grip loosened. More than ever, he looked like a mummy.

Juliet got up carefully and von Hayek was there to lift the chair
away so it didn’t scrape on the floor. She tucked the old man’s hand under the covers, feeling unexpected pity.

Henrik
jerked his head toward the door he came through and Juliet nodded. They went out together. There was a short corridor that opened into a space being used as an office. It looked unused and was without a computer. She suspected that it was Klaus von Hayek’s office and not the one Henrik used daily.

“I see you found my father.”
She couldn’t read his still face. His eyes passed over her, probably noting her change of clothing. He gestured toward a chair on the opposite side of a large desk.

“Yes, on accident
,” she said softly. “But he seemed to want company so I stayed.”

“You speak German? I didn’t know that.”

“After a fashion. I have dribs and drabs of several languages.”

Von Hayek nodded absently.

“He thought I was someone called Rosa,” Juliet said tentatively, and seeing no tightening of his features she dared to ask, “Was she your mother?”

“Step-mother. But she was a good woman. I was fond of her.”
He did sound particularly fond.

“And she is gone now? I am sorry. My parents have
also passed and I still miss them very much.” This was true, but the loss had sunk so far into the past that their deaths sometimes seemed to belong to someone else. She had lived a whole other life at the NSA since then. And she was living a third life now. Or would, if she wasn’t killed on Merton’s damned assignment.

“What did you and my father speak of?
He seemed … animated.” The eyes weren’t accusing but Juliet knew to tread carefully.

“Well, at first he understood I was one of the artists here for the show and wanted to know if
my work was good enough for him to even bother having my painting brought to his room. You owe me one,” Juliet added as his lips quirked. “I told him no.”

“And yet, I think perhaps I should arrange this
for him. He might very well like the painting as much as I do and he still sees enough to appreciate a large canvas.”

“You are gallant,” Juliet said. “But I
would have said that I am not much in your style. Or your father’s.”

“No
, you are correct. Yet I find myself drawn to the bleakness of the setting. I regret now that I did not ask you to bring more work.”

Juliet nodded
, believing him. This was a man who had a blizzard in his soul. He would respond to the fear and despair with which she had endowed the canvas painted after the murders at Tahoe. The paintings were exorcism on canvas.