Memory and Desire (7 page)

She cleared her throat. “Alec walked by here a minute ago. I guess the house is on his beat."

“He grew up here in Somerstowe, knows the Hall better than just about anyone, I should think.” Richard stroked the new stitches with a long and no doubt very sensitive forefinger.

Claire caught herself leaning toward him, pulled by some subtle gravity, and inched away. Pheromones, she assured herself. A simple scientific phenomenon. And it wasn't as though she was on the rebound or anything.

“That's fiddly work,” Richard said, “Not everyone has the patience to do it well."

“Did Melinda have the patience?"

“Not especially, no. But then she was after bigger and better things, wasn't she, with the book and all?"

“I taught Melinda how to do needlework. There was nothing she wouldn't try. She had a voracious appetite—figuratively speaking,” Claire added. “For education, for experience. For living. That's why she wanted to try her hand at a novel."

Richard's gravitational field seemed to fluctuate, as though disturbed by a passing moon. “Your work is much finer than Melinda's,” he said, and was gone before Claire could look up at his expression.

She sat, needle aloft, yarn dangling, staring after him. So was the compliment his way of making nice or was he simply trying to lull her suspicions? She turned the canvas on its frame so she could see its underside and sewed the end of her thread through the stitches.

Richard meant “finer” in the sense of smaller and more delicate. The ends of Melinda's stitches were rammed through the tightly woven threads on the back of the canvas in typical damn-the-torpedoes fashion. With a shake of her head, Claire untangled one or two of the knots.

The bee was still bumbling around the windowsill. She got up and with a length of yarn brushed it through the window into the air. It made an indignant loop-the-loop, then winged away. Below the window stood Richard and Fred, arms folded. Fred was eyeing Richard as though the architect was a headsman sharpening his axe. Richard was eyeing the wall. From the row of tools on the ground he chose one that looked like a thin spoon. With it he smoothed the fresh mortar packed between the stones. Then he gave the tool to Fred and watched as he repeated the motion.

Claire pulled her head back into the room. Richard was an artist, no doubt about it, unkempt house and all. But when it came to the Hall he was a martinet with his swagger stick. It was a matter of priorities, wasn't it?

So, then, where had Melinda come in his priorities? Claire couldn't see them as lovers. Melinda dealt in broad pictures and bottom lines. Richard had a keen eye for subtlety and detail. He probably had a girlfriend, too, even though she'd have to be something to compete with the Hall. Melinda was something, yes, but while she'd have wanted attention, physical and otherwise, she wouldn't have demanded a commitment.

Claire threaded her needle with gold yarn and began filling in the frayed decorative border at the edge of the canvas. She kept her back to the window and glanced from doorway to doorway more than once. But not even the bee returned to interrupt her reveries of plot, motive, and character. The one time she saw a movement in the doorway it was the calico cat, which considered her gravely for a few moments and then went on its way.

At quitting time she closed and locked the window, stowed her supplies, and turned the face of the canvas away from the sun. Several other volunteers walked her out this time. She did not see Richard.

Every window in the high street displayed a poster advertising The Play. Performances at eight p.m., June 20 and 21—ten days away. A red Jaguar was parked half on, half off the curb in front of the shop. Through the window Claire saw Elliot Moncrief buying a newspaper from Trillian Nair. His sweater was loosely draped over the shoulders of a polo shirt as though he was on his way to a tennis court, unlikely as Somerstowe was to have one.

Weighing tea and scones against beer, Claire ducked into her flat to tidy up and then headed across to the Druid's Circle. Perfect timing, she thought when she saw Alec coming up the street.

He was dressed in a rugby shirt and khaki pants, off duty. “It'll rain within the hour,” he said with a glance at the increasingly cloudy sky. Opening the door of the pub for Claire, he added, “I recommend the local ale. And Diana makes a cracking shepherd's pie, if you've an appetite."

“I wasn't exactly doing hard physical labor,” Claire answered, “but yes, I have an appetite, and I sure didn't come all this way to drink Coors Light."

From the gloom her eyes resolved a low beamed ceiling, a fireplace complete with electric fire, floral wallpaper hung with faded landscapes, and a bar backed by a kaleidoscope of beer advertisements. Above it hung a television tuned to a talk show. A public telephone occupied the far end. A slot machine sparkled and chimed in a short hallway to one side. Beyond it a stairway overflowed with the largest German Shepherd Claire had ever seen. His huge brown eyes gazed benignly, almost sadly, down at her, as though she wasn't a big enough mouthful to make it worth his effort to bite her.

Behind the bar a stood a middle-aged man, his belly protruding coyly over his belt, his scalp peeking through his graying hair. His craggy features—those that were visible above his bristling beard—and shoe-button black eyes made Claire think of Rumpelstiltskin.

“Claire, this is Rob Jackman,” Alec said.

“Hullo,” said Rob, striking a note between bored and belligerent.

“Nice to meet you,” Claire said. “I'd like some ale, please."

Rob recited, “Marston Mercian Mild, Owd Rodger, Winkle Ivanhoe, Sheffield Best Bitter."

Envisioning dusty casks filled by elves, Claire looked up at Alec. “What do you suggest?"

“Two Marstons and two shepherd's pies,” he ordered.

Wordlessly Rob put down the glass he was polishing and disappeared through a swinging door.

Alec and Claire sat down at a table in the corner. Except for the obligatory horse brasses by the fireplace, Claire noted, the Jackmans had resisted tarting their pub up for the tourist trade. Being the only pub in town must cut down on competitive expenses. A couple of elderly men sat at other tables, but so far the place hardly resembled happy hour at Chili's.

“The name ‘Druid's Circle,'” said Alec, “comes from the ancient stone circle just beyond the Hall. People used to believe the Druids went about building stone circles, when in reality the circles were built by Neolithic tribes long before the Druids arrived."

“The Druids being the priests of the Celtic tribes who were here at the time of the Romans,” concluded Claire. “Not that they couldn't have used the circles for ceremonies."

“Oh, I should imagine the circles were used for centuries, by many different people.” Alec's gleaming smile rewarded Claire either for her knowledge or for her not playing dumb-female games.

As much as Claire enjoyed academic discussions, this was not the time for one. “What did Blake say about the letter?” she asked.

Alec shrugged. “He rang me at half past three, said he'd give the forensic chaps a go at it, and asked me to have a shufti beneath your carpet. Sarita let me in, hope you don't mind. All I found was dust."

Even Sarita wouldn't clean beneath a carpet any more often than necessary. Claire kicked herself for not noticing someone had been in her room. “That's all? Blake's not going to re-open the case?” she asked, lowering her voice as though keeping Melinda's murder a secret would cancel it out.

“He didn't say."

Rob appeared at Claire's elbow and plunked down two heavy mugs brimming with dark liquid and froth. The door opened, admitting a thick ray of sunlight and several more customers. From the room behind the bar shouted a female voice, “Rob! Get a move on!"

The publican stamped away, the floor protesting beneath his feet. “Think you can order me about, eh? And where were you yesterday afternoon when I was after chopping the fruit and veg?"

Funny how fast relationships can go downhill, Claire told herself. She lifted her mug and drank. The ale was cool on her tongue, filling her nose and throat with summer fields, autumn smoke, and the bite of winter. What was that verse of Tolkien's, something about cold water being all well and good, “but beer is best when drink we lack.” Appropriate—Alec reminded her of a giant economy-sized hobbit.

When he put down his mug it was half-empty. He wiped a bit of froth from his upper lip. That lip then compressed itself against the lower, showing proper concern for the situation. “It's right embarrassing. Here you are, come all the way from America to look for her, and I let her go missing."

“You had no idea she was in danger, did you? She didn't know."

“So it seems,” he conceded.

“I'm sure you investigated thoroughly.” Claire tried to make that a statement. It came out more like the question it was.

“The last performance of The Play was on the Saturday. No one saw Melinda after the cast party in the entrance hall—and it took a fair bit of questioning to settle that. Blake or one of his lads or I talked to everyone in town and quite a few of the day trippers who came for The Play."

“When did you realize she was missing?"

“Monday morning. I was walking about the Hall and Richard told me she hadn't come to work.” Alec grimaced. “I know—someone should have missed her before then, but she usually spent the weekends away."

“With some man or another?” Claire couldn't help asking.

Alec raised his glass, drank until it was empty, then gazed into it as though the foam scraps on its sides were prophetic tealeaves. “Maybe. I saw her myself a time or two—mind you, for nothing more than a few laughs. When I realized she'd gone missing I rang Blake. His lads found her car by the reservoir. That's all I know, little as it is."

His hazel eyes were clear and guileless. No, Claire thought, she shouldn't expect Alec to have been immune to Melinda's beauty. Neither should she take him off her list of suspects, pleasant though it was sitting next to him ... Rebound, she reminded herself.

The delectable odor of beef stew filled the air, warring with an aroma of perfume and hair spray. A woman set two casserole dishes capped with browned mashed potatoes onto the table. Tomato and cress salads and thick slices of bread edged the plates beneath. She nudged Alec's elbow with her hip. “Hullo, Constable. In mufti tonight, I see."

With great presence of mind, Alec lifted his eyes from the low-cut blouse right in front of his nose. “Diana, this is Claire Godwin. Claire, Diana Jackman."

“Hullo,” Diana said, with an up and down appraisal that counted every freckle and measured each curve. She folded her arms beneath her impressively cantilevered breasts. “You're the needleworker, then. Melinda's pal. Sarita told me you were letting her flat."

“Yes, that's me. Nice to meet you.” Claire craned her neck to look Diana in the face. So this was the woman who'd played Elizabeth Spenser before Melinda came along. Melinda might have been ten years older than the nineteen-year-old Elizabeth, but Diana was twenty years older, and those years were gaining on her. Although growing older gracefully was not a concept she seemed to place much faith in.

Her hair was permed into an anxious blond frizz. She wore as much eye make-up and lipstick as a Kabuki dancer. That the cosmetics, like her tight blouse and pants, only emphasized her middle age seemed not to have occurred to her. Wishful thinking at its best, Claire thought. Not that it was any business of hers what face Diana chose to present to the world.

“I've mended a few tapestries meself over the years,” Diana said. “Went to work for old Miss Cranbourne when I first came here to Somerstowe, before Rob and me opened up the pub. She said I did the finest work she'd ever seen, including Elizabeth Spenser's. Have you met the Hall ghosts yet?"

Claire's brain lost traction for a second. “Ghosts? Plural ghosts?"

“Proper ghosts they are, and no mistake. Sometimes just a bit of light in the air, sometimes solid as this table. Elizabeth Spenser and her cat. Her familiar. Little calico beggar."

“Her cat?”
Come on.
But why should the ghost of a cat be any more unbelievable than the ghost of a human being? And Claire knew darn well she'd seen both the solid cat and the shimmering woman, even if she wasn't quite ready to admit either was an actual ghost. “You aren't pulling a tourist's leg, are you?"

Diana laughed. “You've seen them, haven't you? I can smell the fear on you."

“Not fear, exactly. Just—surprise. I mean, if the Hall didn't have a ghost then some supernatural registry agency is missing a bet."

“There's nothing to be frightened of,” Alec said. “Old places like Somerstowe Hall have ghost stories because the human mind senses the emotions that are trapped there. And there were enough emotions during Elizabeth's day to provide stories for a dozen houses. The question is whether the ghost is simply a—well, a psychic video playing inside your head, or whether it's an actual external presence."

“Whether the ghosts can see you back again, he means. I think they can, they've come on more substantial recently."

Alec picked up his fork. “No surprise there, with folk in and out of the Hall all day long. Stirred them up a bit, I expect."

Okay, Claire told herself, everyone believes in ghosts here. Until she got a better explanation—joke, illusion, whatever—she was just about ready to believe in them herself.

“Elizabeth did needlework for that bitch Lettice Lacey,” Diana went on. “Learned from her grandmother, who worked for Bess of Hardwick. Now there's a woman. Money, class, the lot."

“I always liked her,” Claire returned. “Married and buried four husbands, getting richer each time. She built gorgeous houses and even meddled in politics. Queen Elizabeth gave her and one of her husbands the job of keeping Mary, Queen of Scots, under house arrest. Legend has Bess and Mary sitting together over their needlework, probably saying nasty things about the bloody-mindedness of men."

“Well, then, you're quite the scholar, aren't you?” said Diana.

Oops, Claire thought. She'd been playing the know-it-all. There had to be some way of splitting the difference between dumb and overbearing.