Memory and Desire (17 page)

Richard he already knew. Alec introduced Claire. Pakenham shook her hand delicately, as though he wished he were wearing latex gloves. “Clever, Claire, to suggest a likely hiding place for the body. Since the excavations two years ago the crypt has been readily accessible by a trap door beside the altar. A passerby wouldn't know that."

“Thank you, but it wasn't my..."

“However,” Pakenham went on, “Miss Varek's not there. Pity."

Trevor's tonsure was damp with perspiration. “May I set it all to rights now, Detective Sergeant? I'm sorry, Alec, Claire, I wish you'd asked me, I could have told you. Richard...” Sputtering gently, he bustled off.

“Could have told us what?” Claire asked Alec.

“The night Melinda disappeared Trevor held a vigil in the church. Prayers for starving African children. I knew several people attended, but I didn't know that some stayed all night. No one could have hidden her body in the crypt."

“So Digby says,” stated Pakenham. “Someone could have left her there later, couldn't they? The church is always open."

Alec wiped his forearm across his face. “Sorry, Claire, I'm afraid we got the wrong end of the stick."

“About a church crypt being an appropriate place for a dead body?” Pakenham said sarcastically. “PC Wood says you also suggested dogs, Claire. I've located a team in Newcastle, but they have more than enough to do without chasing wild geese, they tell me. So do I, for that matter."

Richard rocked back on his heels, hair once again standing at attention. The townspeople and tourists started to drift away. Derek and Trillian Nair waved cheerfully at Claire as they passed. Some other locals favored her with that particularly English look of disapproval, as though they smelled something rancid and yet were too polite to say so. Only Priscilla gave Claire a sympathetic smile as she walked into the church.

Claire made a face. “The crypt wasn't one of my brighter ideas."

“I'm the one who called in the search teams,” Alec pointed out.

Another constable slogged across the green toward them, even dustier and cobwebbier than his colleagues at the church. “It's no good, Sir,” he reported to Pakenham. “Those cellars are a right bit of muck and no mistake, but she's not there."

Pakenham pulled a notebook from his breast pocket and jotted something down. He didn't say, “That's all folks.” Instead he nodded coolly to her and Alec and said to Richard, “Come along then, Lacey, you're the caretaker, you can give me the penny tour."

“Certainly,” Richard said, and to Alec and Claire, “Later."

She watched Pakenham's broad back and Richard's tall, lean one retreat across the green. Just as they reached the alley leading to the main road, Richard stopped, turned around, and caught Claire watching him. Deadpan, he made a cavalier's extravagant bow. She could almost see the plumed hat and the sword. Whether he was acknowledging their agreement, flipping her his version of the bird, or simply making a curtain call, she couldn't tell. Men! she thought, with more appreciation than cynicism.

Alec was eyeing the church. “Melinda's not there,” he said under his breath, “but Elizabeth is. In a wooden coffin beneath the altar.” He turned and seemed somewhat surprised to see Claire still beside him. “I left flowers two years ago. It gave me a start to see them still there, all brown and dry."

“I would have left flowers for her, too. And for her cat. I bet they just threw him on the trash heap."

“No, he's there too. There's a small basket at the foot of the coffin, all falling to pieces. You can just make out the skull and the bones."

“One of her old sewing baskets?” Claire asked. “I think I like Walter. Fine sensibility for a man of his time."

Alec smiled. “Come to the station with me, I need a wash and a brush before my evening pint."

“You plan to protect me from the enraged populace?"

“They're less angry with you than frustrated over the entire problem. I know I'm frustrated. Not half like you are, though."

“No kidding,” Claire returned. They crossed the green, giving Elizabeth's cement memorial a wide berth, and walked down the alley to Alec's cottage. Claire paused in the garden. Roses she recognized, and the iris which repeated the blue of the neon “Police” sign, and bright orange marigolds. Masses of other leafy and flowering plants she did not.

“Rue,” Alec pointed out. “Thyme. Lemon balm. St. John's Wort. Mullein and rocket. Mistletoe, vervain, henbane, primrose, wolfsbane, pulsatilla, clover. The lettuces and beans are round the back."

“Don't tell me you cook,” said Claire.

“I'll pinch off a bit of this and that and throw into a soup or stew. Mind your head, the lintel's a bit low.” He ushered her through the front door and installed her in a small sitting room while he hurried upstairs. She looked around, half-hoping a clue would jump out at her ringing bells and blowing whistles, half-hoping one wouldn't.

Alec and Richard, she saw, were graduates of the same school of housekeeping. Above the fireplace hung a set of antlers. A couple of candles dripped wax onto saucers. Sprays of dried herbs emitted savory smells. Books on every imaginable topic overflowed a set of shelves. Newspapers spilled over the end of the couch. Claire stacked them up, straightened a lampshade, picked up two empty mugs and set them down again, not wanting to barge into the kitchen. From the closed lid of a roll top desk dangled printed forms and other papers looking as though they were trying to escape custody.

In fact, she discovered on a closer look, several already had. She bent to pick up the fugitives and traced several to beneath a chair. Below two traffic ticket carbons dutifully initialed “ASW” lay an empty envelope with a shopping list written in block letters down the back. Claire scooped them all up and turned to set them on the desk. Bells rang. Whistles squealed.

On the front of the envelope was a cancelled Scottish Parliament stamp. It was addressed to Alec in what looked like the same typeface as the letter that had been addressed to Richard. It was postmarked London, last summer.

Claire moaned, more with weariness than surprise. She dug Richard's letter out of her billfold. Yes, it was the same typeface, the same paper. So the mysterious blackmailer was after Alec, too. Unless...

Water was running upstairs. She had time to search the desk for the letter that'd come in the envelope, but she wasn't ready to become an out and out sneak. Instead she thrust Alec's envelope into her pocket.

She took one of the traffic tickets, found a pen, and wrote with perfect honesty, “I have a headache. See you at the pub.” Propping it on the stairs, she slipped out of the house and ducked around the garden wall.

There was Elliot, parking his Jaguar in front of the house across the street. He opened the door and called, “How now, blithe spirit, whither wander you?"

Claire made brisk “in a hurry” gestures and sped on her way. Tempted as she was to challenge Elliot with his own letter, she just couldn't stomach another confrontation today. Besides, Elliot wouldn't confront. He'd slide, and she'd find herself shadow boxing.

Claire dodged into the shop and stood wheezing at the counter.

Sarita bustled out from the back. “Hello! Did you enjoy Haddon Hall?"

“Oh, oh yes,” said Claire, having almost forgotten Haddon Hall. She pulled out the envelope. “Look—Alec gave me a stamp, too!"

“Yes indeed,” Sarita replied. “He received two or three of those letters last year, too, but only one this year."

“Some kind of charity ad, probably. Who else got them? Do you remember?"

“Elliot. Diana Jackman. And Rob, separately. Trevor Digby—he always is receiving elegant letters."

Which were from the diocese, most likely ... Claire muttered her thanks, backpedaled from the shop, and ran up the stairs to her flat. Tensed for anything, she opened the door. Silent tidiness. She shut the door and sat down hard on the couch.

Some detective she was. She let herself be attracted to a suspect. She hadn't asked the right questions of a helpful witness. Every time she found a clue it was by accident.

Yes, she'd been suspecting Alec on general principles—like Everest, he was there. But now? Maybe it was Alec, not Elliot, who'd sent himself a letter. Like the local vicar with his convenient prayer vigil, the local bobby was in a great position to know what the villagers swept under their rugs.

Alec had turned up the volume of the boom box to cover Melinda and Richard's argument. Maybe just to be polite. Or maybe to hide what they were saying. She only had Richard's word that they hadn't talked about the letters. Or about Alec himself, for that matter.

Now there was a thought. Who was Richard protecting? Why? Maybe you couldn't hide from your individual past in a village, but the village as a whole could hide its own past ... Don't get carried away with conspiracy theories, Claire told herself. Inhale, exhale, no problem.

Melinda would carol “No problem” to anything from a hangnail to a hurricane. Had she known she had a problem even when someone came to kill her?

Groaning, Claire got up, inserted her favorite Mozart CD in the player, and headed toward the desk.

It was as perfect an English evening as Claire could have imagined. The air had cleared and cooled. Like a strategically placed spotlight, the sun illuminated the western faces of village and Hall and threw long dark shadows toward the east. The temper tantrum of rain earlier that day was only a memory. The two-act play of the blackmail letters was not. Surely Alec's carelessness with the envelope was a point in his favor.

Time to rejoin the program in progress.
Claire locked her door, stepped down the stairway, and headed across the cobbled yard toward the pub. Alec, in civilian jeans and sweater, was standing beneath the swinging Druid's Circle sign. His level gaze scanned the rooftops and the surrounding hills as though searching for poetic inspiration.

Claire crossed the street. “Hello."

Alec lowered his eyes and considered her face just as carefully. “Well then, how's the headache?"

“Better, thank you. Sorry to run out on you."

“I know how you feel. It's been a bugger of a day. Of a year, actually, with Melinda going missing and all.” After a long pause and another sweep of the countryside, Alec went on, “Do you by any chance have something of hers? A bit of jewelry, like?"

“I have her wedding ring."

“Brilliant. Could you fetch it, please?"

“Sure.” Back across the street and up the stairs went Claire. What was he up to now? Fingerprints?

She retrieved the box with the ring, retraced her steps, and told Alec, “My turn to buy the drinks."

“Thank you kindly.” He opened the door of the pub, releasing a thin cloud of smoke scented with sausage, beer, and cleanser.

No matter what the weather was outside, the atmosphere in the Druid's Circle was always the same hazy gloom, either snug or claustrophobic depending on Claire's mood. Fortunately there weren't too many people inside tonight.

The Digbys sipped sherry with another elderly couple, their voices clipped and cool—probably discussing the weather or the latest cricket scores, not the day's disruptions. Another table of people turned toward Claire when she walked in, then quickly turned away again.

Detective Sergeant Pakenham held down one end of the bar, a pen in his hand. A glass of wine, a cell phone, and an open notebook were arranged like trophies in front of him. Rob Jackman craned from behind the taps, trying to read what he was writing.

The other Americans sat by the back door, which stood open onto a scraggly garden. “You sure stirred things up around here,” Janet told Claire. “Kind of like taking a stick to a beehive, all the police coming and going and everything. You've even dragged Pakenham out from under his rock."

Susan pointed out, “If Melinda hadn't disappeared last year Claire wouldn't even be here. You can't blame her."

“Sure you can,” said Fred. “Someone would've been just as happy to let Melinda stay disappeared, if you know what I mean."

“Thanks,” Claire told him. Yes, she knew exactly what he meant. She walked on toward the large round table by the fireplace where Alec was holding a chair for her. Richard and Elliot already sat there, Elliot making histrionic gestures, Richard nodding like a metronome, automatically.

“Should you be helping Pakenham with his report?” Claire asked Alec.

He replied tightly, “The sergeant doesn't want help, does he?"

Oh,
Claire thought. Pakenham feels superior to the simple village bobby and the not-so-simple bobby is miffed. Alec really did have an irritation threshold. And a sense of humor—he was holding the chair next to Richard. With a half-shrug, she sat down.

“Good evening.” Richard's smile was like a black bow tie, bland and formal. She returned it in kind.

“Ah,” said Elliot, “our fair visitor from the west and the village gendarme as well! Please, join us in a libation. I was just telling Richard, Alec, about forensics procedures. DNA-typing, now..."

“Is useless without a body,” Richard stated.

Alec sat down between Claire and Elliot. “Quite right."

Diana appeared at Claire's back. Claire ordered lemonade, Alec stout, Elliot another whiskey. Richard stood pat on a half-empty pint of dark ale. “And I'd like one of those tourist maps of Somerstowe,” added Alec.

“Eh?” Diana returned. “Have you gone crackers?"

“A map, please."

“Right.” Shaking her head, Diana walked away.

“May I have the ring?” Alec asked Claire.

She handed over the box, then exchanged a glance with Richard, asking silently,
is he teasing me?

But Richard seemed more bemused than baffled, his brows only a bit off the horizontal. Elliot yawned. In the garden the huge dog snuffled through some odd pinkish-purple lupins like the Hound of the Baskervilles on holiday.

Alec held up the ring. In his hand it looked lilliputian. Melinda's hand had been almost too small to span an octave on the piano. Few people realized she was a small woman, her personality was so large. Large enough to last a year after her death.