High Rhymes and Misdemeanors (14 page)

He opened his mouth. His teeth were very white. He seemed to be baring them at her.

“C-can I help you?” she got out. She spoke loudly to attract the attention of others on the street. Not that anyone seemed to be paying much attention.

The man handed her a card.

After a hesitation, Grace took it and read it: Aeneas Sweet.

She turned the card over. Written in fussy script were the words, “Come and see me. Ae.”

Grace looked up to find the man in the turban threading through the crowd, escaping …

“Wait!” she cried.

He didn’t pause, didn’t seem to hear.

Grace started after him, then stopped and rethought.

Someone touched her arm and she jumped.

“What are you doing?” Peter asked. He carried two sacks of groceries. She could see a long loaf of French bread sticking out of one sack. He had gone
shopping?
It seemed so … mundane.

“Someone approached me,” Grace informed him.

“Approached you?”

She showed him the card and watched Peter’s winged brows raise.

“Well, well.”

“Well, well
what?
Do you know this Sweet?”

“I know of him.”

Peter nodded toward the Land Rover and they headed across the street. He looked preoccupied.

She was getting to know his expressions. “What are you thinking?”

“It’s just possible you may be on to something. I’ve heard Lady Vee mention Sweet. I think he’s another Byronic scholar.”

“Of course!” Grace said. “I thought the name sounded familiar. Sweet is the author of
The Last Corsair
and
Poet’s Pilgrimage
. And he’s also a neighbor?” She glanced up as a bottle-green Bentley sedately pulled past. “That’s him!”

“Sweet?”

“No, the Indian!”

Peter’s gaze followed the car.

“Maybe we should follow him.”

“We have his business card,” Peter pointed out.

Grace considered this. It seemed sort of anticlimactic.

“Well, anyway, we already have our proof. The fact that Mutt works for Lady Vee—”

“It’s certainly proof that he works for Lady Vee. Other than that—”

“What are you talking about? We saw him in a pub in Kentmere the night someone tried to kill you.”

“Exactly. We did not see him try to kill me.”

“Oh come on! You’re suggesting it was a coincidence?”

“I’m saying it’s circumstantial. We need proof, Grace. We need something tantamount to a signed confession.”

“Of what?”

“Of Danny Delon’s murder.”

Grace was silent.

Then she said, “They think you did it. The police, I mean.”

“That was inevitable.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m working on it.”

“If Mutt wasn’t trying to kill you, what was he doing in Kentmere?” she asked finally.

“People do occasionally go to Kentmere for other reasons.”

Grace’s thoughts skipped along another path. “Peter, that man must be the man in the turban who conked your pal Allegra!”

“Let’s not leap to conclusions.”

“Well, but seriously, how many men in turbans could be wandering around the Lake District?”

“Britain has a sizable Bengali and Indian population.”

“Oh … get real!” Grace exclaimed, borrowing one of her students’ expressions.

Reaching the Land Rover, Peter stowed the groceries in the back. Kneeling on the front seat, Grace poked through the contents of the brown bags. “Mmm. Smoked oysters, marinated artichokes, grapes. You do eat well.”

“I’ve got a growing Girl Detective to feed.”

“And I will be growing, if this keeps up.”

He cast an experienced eye over her elevated derriere. “Not to worry.”

Grace sat hurriedly back in her seat.

Putting the Rover in gear, Peter headed for Rogue’s Gallery. Briefly Grace considered what it would be like if they were just going home to cook lunch like an ordinary couple. The idea was unexpectedly alluring.

“We could always try doing some research at the library.” Being an academic, Grace just couldn’t help feeling that the best place to begin any investigation was the library. “Well then, what
are
we going to do?” she queried, in answer to his look.

“Have lunch. Plan our campaign. What did the police have to say for themselves?”

“Oh. That.”

Peter’s blue eyes were quizzical. “Yes? I expect Heron had a fatherly word with you about me?”

“Sort of.”

Peter laughed. “Anyway, he’s right. The smartest thing you could do would be to grab a plane home. My offer still stands.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not entering into a life of crime.”

“Suit yourself. I expect your embassy could sort matters out if they had to. Why not put the pressure on them?”

“Why are you suddenly trying to get rid of me?”

Peter murmured, “My dear girl, I’ve been trying to get rid of you since the moment you arrived.”

“Yes, but now that things are getting interesting, I resent it more.”

She loved it when she made him laugh—although it was more of a snort than a laugh. “You’re actually willing to risk your safety on the promise of some long-lost … manuscript?”

There he had said it! Instead of feeling triumphant Grace felt as though he might jinx it. She said quickly, “Of course, it might not be a manuscript. Another ‘Manfred’ or ‘Don Juan’ would be too much to hope for. It might just be … a letter. A poem. Heck, his grocery list would be worth a … a black eye.”

She earned another laugh for that one.

“No, it’s just a point of interest. Ada is best known for being the world’s first computer programmer. She was a brilliant mathematician. In fact, the computer programming language ADA is named for her. Her mother, Anne Isabella Milbanke, was also a mathematician. When you think about it, that marriage was doomed from the start. A mathematician and a poet.”

“How cynical. Did you want wine with lunch?”

“It’ll put me to sleep.” Grace finished setting the table. “Furthermore, Ada had to pawn the family jewels in order to cover the gambling debts that arose out of her experiments testing mathematical theories of probability in horse racing.”

“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.” The thin mouth curved in ironic humor.

“She died of cancer when she was only thirty-six.”

He made no comment to this, busy uncorking the wine.

“Byron, of course, was also only thirty-six when he died.”

“I don’t believe in family curses, if that’s where this is leading.”

“No, of course not. Ada never knew her father, although at her request she was buried next to him in St. Mary Magdalen’s church in Nottinghamshire.” She was thinking how odd it was that though she never noticed men’s clothing, she seemed to notice everything Peter wore. Today it was jeans and a cashmere sweater. Yesterday it had been triple-pleat soft slate trousers and a white bonded collar shirt. He had dressed up for Lady Vee. She found that mildly shocking. He deliberately used his … sex appeal.

“Touching as hell,” he said now, setting a glass of wine before Grace.

“I said I didn’t want wine.”

“Grace, relax for five minutes and have a glass of wine.”

“I’m perfectly relaxed.” But to humor him she sipped the wine. “Mm. That’s pretty good. Wine and red meat for lunch. It’s going to take me six months to recover from this vacation.” She added wryly, “Assuming I survive it.”

“You only live once.”

Grace raised her eyebrows. It was the sort of thing many people said—Chaz often said it—but Peter said it with unshakable authority. She indulged in another sip. It really was a very good wine.

“Ada’s mother, Annabella Milbanke—”

“A minute ago you said her name was Anne Isabella.”

“It was. But she’s mostly referred to as ‘Annabella’ in the reference texts. Maybe it was a pet name. Anyway, Byron’s wife is the source for most of the information on his incestuous love affair with his half-sister, Augusta Leigh. Talk about having an ax to grind. She spent forty years writing and rewriting her account of their year-long marriage.”

“Augusta Leigh being the prime candidate for Astarte?”

“Right. At least that was the family’s view. I mean, needless to say, Annabella is something of a prejudiced witness. There’s no proof that Byron had an affair with Augusta. They neither of them ever came out and admitted it.”

There was a brief delay while Peter removed the pies and set them on oak-leaf plates. When the food was served and he was seated across from Grace he commented, “I can tell by the swamp-gas glow in your eye that you’re hoping we’re after some kind of written proof of this affair?”

Grace poked the golden, flaky piecrust with her fork. “Wouldn’t that be incredible? To solve one of the great literary mysteries of all time?” A sudden memory occurred to her. “Oh, by the way, can we stop by a bank? In all the excitement, I forgot to replace my traveler’s checks. And my credit cards are no good since I reported them stolen. I need to buy a hat.”

“This sounds urgent. Getting ready for the funeral?”

“And I want to—very funny. And I want to buy a copy of
Glenarvon,
which you happen to have—dating from 1906. I’ve always wanted to read it.”

Peter’s lean cheek creased but he said only, “Have it your way, Esmerelda. Perhaps we can find a bank to rob on the way. That’ll gratify Chief Constable Heron.”

“The way where?”

“I was certain you were about to suggest we pay Aeneas Sweet a visit.”

They drove toward the storm clouds in the west. The road was a lonely one, unraveling lazily, endlessly through fallow fields and woods turning autumn gold. The summer was over, Grace reflected as they tooled past a lone biker. In only a couple of days she would be back in the classroom and all this would be a memory. A lovely memory of lazy country lanes and ivy-covered inns, shining lakes and towering crags. Lakeland, Mountain and Fell: the guidebook had not begun to do Cumbria justice. Even Wordsworth’s poetry had painted a pale portrait of this magnificent landscape.

“It rains a lot here,” she commented, her eye on the pale flicker of lightning in the somber clouds ahead. The sky appeared to have an electrical short.

“You
are
a detective,” Peter mocked. “It’s the wettest corner of England.”

He seemed in a peculiarly good mood, whistling a jaunty air as they headed for the coast.

“I like the rain,” Grace said contentedly. She settled against the headrest, listening to another snatch of whistling. She remembered that tune from the night she had arrived. Right after her
Mistress of Mellyn
routine, Peter had walked in whistling that same melody. “What’s that tune?”

He thought it over. “The Little Gypsy Girl.”

She bit back a smile. “It sounds familiar.”

“I think it’s an old folksong.” He quoted,

“My father’s king of the gypsies, ’tis true
My mother, she learned me camping for
to do
With my pack on my back all my friends
wished me well
And I went up to London town some
fortunes for to tell.”

Grace caught his eye and he winked. She glanced in the rearview; her smile faded. “I think we’re being followed.”

“The Rolls?”

“You noticed?”

“It’s hard to miss. And preferable to the cops.”

She hadn’t even considered that the police might tail them. She wished she could be as blasé as Peter about it.

“What do we do?”

“There’s no secret about where we’re going. Let them follow.”

“Suppose they try something?”

“They’re welcome to try.”

He had a point. They could probably outwalk the antique Rolls pursuing them. And would they know if the police were following?

“Can I ask you something?” she began diffidently.

“I was a poor friendless boy,” he said promptly.

“Seriously. Why did you …?”

“Turn to a life of crime?”

“Yes.”

“Weak character.”

She eyed him steadily until he shrugged. “Unfortunately it … appealed to me. To my adolescent love of adventure and even, I suppose, romance. And as I knew all the wrong people, it was quite easy to find steady work.”

“You stole jewelry?”

“Jewels. Diamonds mostly. My least favorite stone actually.”

“And you … kept the money?”

He smiled sympathetically. “I’m afraid so. It was my job, you see.”

“Why did you quit?”

She didn’t think he was going to answer, but he said, “Things got a bit hot for me in England. I decided to travel. And while I was making the Grand Tour I realized there was a lot to be said for a quiet life. It gets old, having to look over your shoulder constantly.”

Grace thought this over. She supposed there was something to be said for the fact that he didn’t sugarcoat it. She glanced at his profile: Peter was whistling cheerfully once more. She could tell she was not going to get much more out of him. She was surprised he had shared this much.

Grace reached into her bag and pulled out
Glenarvon
by Lady Caroline Lamb, which she had been longing to examine all morning.

Lamb was yet another of Lord Byron’s famed light o’ loves (as the Regency novels delicately put it). In the early nineteenth century she had been as famous for her gothic novels as she was for her notorious liaison with the “mad, bad and dangerous to know” poet.
Glenarvon
was the fictionalized and highly overwrought tale of the love triangle between Byron, Lady Caroline Lamb, and her husband, the future Lord Melbourne. Lord Melbourne had Grace’s sympathy.

Between convoluted fiction and sensational fact, it was hard to keep straight the details of Byron’s life, Grace thought, turning a browned page. Byron had packed a heck of a lot of living into his brief span, and that wasn’t even including his single catastrophic marriage and string of lovers.

She turned another page. Grace told herself she was looking for clues, but the truth was, she had always been curious about this scandalous novel. She offered to read aloud to Peter. He declined.

On they drove.

They arrived at Penwith Hall as the sun was setting. Grace proposed calling first, which Peter seemed to find funny. Perhaps he was counting on the element of surprise. Or perhaps he just had the worst manners in the world. Either one would not have surprised Grace.

In the uncertain light the house looked like something out of a gothic novel.
Nightmare Abbey
perhaps. Ivy entwined the shattered turrets and cracked casements. Gargoyles hunched on the rooftops. There were hundreds of windows, many of stained glass, several broken. Mist swirled in serpentine coils.

“This is cozy,” Grace remarked.

“Isn’t it just.” Peter parked in the weed-choked courtyard and they got out beside a moss-covered fountain whispering its dying words.

The Rolls following them slid slowly past the iron gates down the end of the long drive and vanished into the gloaming.

Traversing the uneven flagstones of the court, they knocked hard on a formidable door. “Try the bell,” Grace said.

“What
would
I do without you,” Peter murmured, trying the bell.

A young man wearing a yellow bow tie opened the door. His expression, already displeased, grew even grimmer.

“Yes?”

“Aeneas Sweet?”

“Certainly not!”

Grace offered the card. The young man took it frowningly. He had thinning hair, a pencil-like mustache and round dark eyes. He reminded Grace of a youthful version of the Monopoly man.

“We’d like to see Mr. Sweet if it’s possible,” she said.

“What’s the old villain up to now?” The young man eyed them suspiciously.

Peter said, “Look, mate, tell him Grace Hollister and Peter Fox have arrived.”

The young man uttered a sound of exasperation and threw open the door with a ghastly screech of hinges.

“I suppose you’d better come in.”

“After you,” murmured Peter in Grace’s ear as she hesitated.

Grace expected to be escorted in grand old tradition to a side room, there to await the master of the house’s pleasure, but apparently they were to meet up on safari.

They followed their escort through an entrance hall the size of one of those playing fields of Eton—only minus the fresh air and sunshine. There were several suits of battered armor, a moth-eaten tapestry depicting a boar hunt that did not seem to be going well for any of the participants, and a gruesome assortment of gilt-framed ancestors who looked as happy to see them as the young man. The young man hurried up the monumental staircase—perhaps he was trying to lose them, thought Grace, speeding to keep up.

Down damp and dusty halls they trekked. Peter lingered now and then to examine a painting or vase.

At last they were shown into a chamber filled with antique furniture. A fire burned but it was unable to dispel the clammy chill. A tall display cabinet crowded with miniatures stood in one corner. A copy of the famous portrait of Byron in Turkish headdress hung on one wall. At least, Grace supposed it was a copy.

“You’ve got guests, Uncle,” announced the irritable young man.

A ruined giant of a man in a paisley dressing gown rose to greet them.

“At last you’ve arrived!”

Aeneas Sweet had a wild mane of snowy white hair, a hawkish nose and fierce eyes. He limped toward them, his shadow looming across the wall. As he reached them he bellowed suddenly, “Ram Singh! Tea!”

Grace inadvertently stepped back on Peter’s foot. He bore it stoically.

At Sweet’s invitation they found seats close to the fire. The fireplace was one of those enormous constructions that reduced people to the size of andirons. As for andirons, two little gargoyles squatted in the fire leering up at Grace. A macabre touch, she thought.

The old man flung himself back on the red mohair sofa. “I expected you hours ago!”

“We only got your—um—message this afternoon,” Grace excused.

Peter drawled, “So good of you to invite us.”

A man wheeled in an antique tea cart. Grace recognized the Indian who had delivered Sweet’s card. In this mausoleum he looked perfectly at home.

“There you are, Singh. What the devil took so long?”

The Indian said nothing. The gold earrings swung against his tattooed cheekbones as he lowered a colossal silver tray to a low table.

“Mute,” Sweet informed them. “All servants should be mute. Wouldn’t hurt in one’s family either.”