High Rhymes and Misdemeanors (24 page)

“An interesting development,” Monica remarked to no one.

“No,” Blade said, and then intriguingly, blushed.

Noting this, Monica said to Grace, “I think you may be on to something.”

Grace turned to Peter, “You and I were the only people who thought we might be looking for a manuscript rather than the … gewgaws. Everyone else involved knew what we were hunting for. Right?”

“Right.”

“But you and I suggested to Lady Vee that we might be looking for a long-lost masterpiece.”

Peter’s gaze seemed to turn inward, rerunning some telling memory. His mouth quirked slightly. “I recall.”

“And the first time I noticed Blade was after we went to Lady Vee’s and suggested that we were looking for a manuscript.”

“But Lady Vee knew what we were looking for, even before we did.”

“Sure, but …” Grace hesitated, still working it out in her own head. “Suppose it was to her advantage to let someone else believe that a lost Byronic masterpiece was at stake.”

“A lost Byronic masterpiece!” Monica and Calum echoed.

“It’s a little more complicated than we led you to believe,” Grace confessed to Monica. “I’ll explain later.” Calum’s eyes were incandescent; Grace recognized the symptoms.

“You’re on the wrong track,” Blade said shortly. “I’ve barely ever spoken to the old bat. Certainly not about this.”

“Not Lady Vee,” Grace agreed, warming to her theory. “Allegra. Lady Vee would have told her niece everything we said, and Allegra must have thought the lure of a lost manuscript would be what she needed to recruit some help. They need help, that’s for sure.”

Blade folded his lips stubbornly but his face was very red.

Peter said wryly, “Al’s been observing the Byron mania for enough years to know how to trigger it in one of the afflicted.”

“You’re daft,” Blade said. “Leave her out of it.”

“And Al’s family has lived here for how many generations?” Grace added. “You said that a number of people were familiar with the stories about Crad-dock House.”

Peter turned to Roy Blade. “How about it, Blade? What did she offer you?”

“Go to hell. I told you I’m out of it.”

“Maybe. When did she bring you in on it?”

Blade didn’t answer. Peter prodded, “Before or after Delon was murdered?”

Blade’s mouth dropped, displaying white and amazingly beautiful teeth. “Who? What are you—I had nothing to do with murder! I’m not into wet work.”

Grace felt the hair on the back of her neck rise at this ugly term. She could see the revulsion on Monica and Calum’s faces, but Peter looked stone cold.

“No? What are you into?”

“I
told
you. A missing manuscript, well that would have been right up my lane, but this stuff. Jewels!” Blade snorted. “They’re in over their heads, and that’s what I plan on telling them.” He lifted his arms. “Now either untie me or call the cops, because I’m tired of sitting on this bloody floor.”

“Don’t let him go,” Calum cautioned. “I don’t trust him.”

“Listen, mate,” Blade said to Peter, “you owe me. I’m the one who called the coppers when that bloody wog started trashing your pad.”

“But you followed us to Penwith Hall,” Grace objected.

“I drove down after the cops nicked Gunga Din. I know he’s Sweet’s man.”

“Don’t trust him,” Calum repeated.

“I don’t,” said Peter, “but I tend to believe him, as far as his story goes.” He spoke to Blade, “So if you’re out of it, why were you skulking around here today?”

Blade said bitterly, “It wasn’t until today that I found out what it was all about.” His good eye rested on Grace for an instant. “I had my suspicions but then this afternoon I heard her explaining to the other bird about stolen jewels. I knew that was a crock, but there was enough truth in it to—”

“You were listening to us?” Grace exclaimed.

“My God, that’s creepy,” Monica said. She shivered.

A little maliciously, Blade said, “Too right I was. This place is riddled with peepholes and listening stations.”

“I thought you said it was as safe as a fortress!” Grace accused Peter.

“It depends on the fortress,” Blade said. “Maybe he meant one of those old Roman ruins.”

“Do keep out of it,” Peter said.

“It’s a little late for that,” Grace said.

Blade laughed.

“I can’t believe you just let him go,” Monica said for the third time.

They were having supper in Peter’s kitchen. Though Grace’s Spaghetti Puttanesca was on the blackened side, it was still edible, and the pasta was helped a good deal by several excellent bottles of red wine.

“We can’t keep him prisoner.” Peter said a little testily. “He told us what he knew, for what that’s worth.”

“The police could keep him prisoner; that’s what they do,” Monica pointed out.

Peter ignored her.

“Suppose he goes back to Allegra and Lady Vee?” Grace asked.

“We can only hope. What can he tell them except to confirm that we don’t know where the stuff is either?”

“So we’re ruling out this Allegra and her loony auntie, is that right?” This was Monica again. Over dinner Grace had filled in the parts of her story that she had left out before. While Monica had asked a number of questions and proposed countless theories, Calum had sat mostly in silence. Grace wondered if he suspected her and Peter of making the whole thing up—or perhaps of being genuinely demented.

“Although, it seems to me that this Allegra is your best candidate for murderess. She clearly knows all about the hidey holes and secret passages of this house, and she isn’t above kidnapping and theft.”

“She’s not the type,” Peter said slowly.

“Okay, I’m convinced,” Grace said promptly as Monica groaned. The two women shook their heads at each other over the heartbreaking gullibility of the male of the species.

“The man’s right,” Calum suddenly came back to life. “From what I’ve heard, this Allegra exhibits none of the classic signs of the homicidal psyche.”

“Which are?” Grace was curious.

“Don’t ask,” Monica told her. “According to Calum, I exhibit at least four of the classic signs.”

Calum gave her an admonishing but indulgent glance. Grace felt a little twinge of envy. It would be lovely to be so
adored
by a man. Except for the times that it would be utterly inconvenient—which were probably frequent.

“The fact remains,” Calum said, “since each and every one of these villains is convinced these artifacts are secreted here, one is forced to conclude that they must
be
here.”

“That’s not reasoning, that’s peer pressure,” Monica protested.

“Nonetheless, I think he’s right,” Peter said.

“I know what we’re doing this evening,” Grace informed Monica. “And it doesn’t include looking at wedding pictures.”

She was feeling less jolly about it after four hours of lugging stacks of books over to Peter who was scaling the ladder to restock the tallest shelves. The hall library was slowly resuming something like its old order, but it was time-consuming and increasingly hard on the lower back and knees. They had even quit discussing “the case.” Bed began to sound like heaven. Balancing yet another armload of books, Grace thought longingly of stretching out on clean sheets and resting her weary head on a soft pillow. A look at Monica, who had been yawning for the last hour, confirmed her feeling that it was about time to call it a night. Her head was beginning to ache again. She remembered, a little bit aggrieved, that she had been knocked unconscious a mere twenty-four hours earlier, and that no one had seen fit to coddle her at all.

Peter was still doggedly shoving books back on shelves, and Grace reflected that for him, tonight’s labors had as much to do with reopening for business as quickly as possible, as treasure hunting.

She glanced at Calum. He was browsing the lower bookshelves, momentarily distracted by several gilt-stamped green book spines.

“I’m bushed,” Monica announced, dropping down to sit cross-legged on the floor. “My back is killing me.”

“Great gods, the tragedy of it!” roared Calum, scaring them all into momentary standstill. He turned to face them, a calf-bound book in hand. “I’ve searched my entire adult life for this collection, and now that I find it, a volume is missing.”

“What collection, sweetheart?” Monica picked herself off the floor and joined him, staring down at the title he held.

“Sherlock Holmes, The Complete Collection.”
Calum groaned it out as though he were lying spread-eagled on the rack. “Published between 1893 and 1930. It’s the complete collection of all the Holmes stories in book form with the original illustrations.” He held the book out toward Monica. “Look.
Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,
1909.” His accent sounded thicker with emotion.

“How do you know it’s not complete? The volumes aren’t labeled.” Monica studied the bookshelf behind Calum.

“I know! I know everything about this collection. There are nine volumes in total, and there are only eight here. Eight! And six of them first editions.” He gazed up at Peter who was frowning down from the ladder. “I tell you I’d pay anything for this set if it were complete!”

“It is complete,” Peter said. “There are nine volumes.”

Monica was counting. “Nope,” she reported. “I count seven and then Calum’s holding one. Eight.”

“The ninth must have been put on the wrong shelf.”

Calum turned eagerly back to the shelf. “Yes, perhaps that’s it. Perhaps it’s been misplaced.” He and Monica began to scour the shelves.

Grace picked up the book, which Calum had set ever so carefully aside. She stared at the gilt-top edge, the half-calf front board. There was something awfully familiar about that book.

Feeling a sort of dreamlike detachment, she turned on heel and headed for Peter’s living quarters. It seemed a mile across the expanse of polished wood floor and Oriental carpet. She knelt down beside the curio table.

There it was, sure enough. Lying between the child’s silver spyglass and an old compass: one gilt-edged and somewhat battered book with a familiar silhouette on the front cover. She could just make out the title.
Study in Scarlet
.

Grace slid open the cabinet doors and reached in, feeling around the shells and toys. Her fingers grazed the smooth leather and anticipation feathered down her spine. Gently, she lifted the book out. It felt oddly light, and something slid inside it; she could feel the motion from outside the book board.

Swallowing hard, Grace opened the book to see … a fragile yellowed title page. It took her a moment to realize what must have happened, and she turned the first few pages. And there was the answer. Someone had carved out a big chunk of the center pages of the book so that a cavity was created. And in that cavity something sparkled. Grace’s eyes focused on a little carved face peeking up at her. A white carved profile against a sardonyx background. Some venerable goddess. Artemis. Or Aphrodite. Or Athena.

Or … Astarte?

Grace reached for the piece with trembling fingers. The carved eye stared back, unmoved.

It made sense, she thought. Poor Danny, in fear of his life, panicking, had looked for some place to conceal the goods. He would have seen the hollowed books in the hall outside, and with that memory in mind, he must have hit on the notion of creating his own hollowed book. What had he done with the pages he ripped out? Wedged them beneath the logs in the hearth perhaps? Flushed them down the toilet? Tossed them out the back window?

Wedged beneath the first oval was another cameo, a bit larger. Framed in silver, a famous intaglio profile rose out of a deep blue backing. Grace took it out and reached for the next. One by one, she picked them out of their hiding place.

Then, unbelieving, she examined the row of carved faces lined on the table top: ten exquisite antique cameos of various shapes and sizes and colors. Lord George Gordon Noel Byron’s final birthday gift to a ten-year-old girl named Medora Leigh. His daughter.