Secret Combinations (10 page)

“You were gardening at
night
?”

“No, no—I was serving as a valet, parking the cars.” He nodded toward the house. “The old squire's been letting go of most of the staff, you see. Miss Ilsa needed an extra hand sorely, and I didn't mind, keeps 'em from parking on me gladiolas, it does.”

Kenyon nodded. “Did you talk to Lydia that night?”

“Only when she banged her car.”

Kenyon was all ears. “What happened?”

Bernie turned and pointed to a spot on the edge of the cindered parking area. “Lydia was here first that night, so I put her Morgan on the edge.”

“Did somebody crack her taillight when they parked?”

“No, that happened while I was trying to clear her a ways out,” said Bernie. “It was takin' me a few minutes to move the other cars, see, and she got all lathered, and started her car up before I could finish.”

“You mean, she lost her temper?”

Bernie nodded. “She popped the clutch, like, and smashed it into the bumper of the car parked behind 'er.”

“What did she say?”

Bernie gave a short, barking laugh. “‘Bloody Hell!' is what she said.”

“I guess she was upset at the accident,” replied Kenyon.

“If you ask me, she was upset before she smacked her car.”

“What do you mean?”

Bernie plucked at his ear. “She just stuck it in gear and drove off, without so much as a by-your-leave to me. Not like her at all. Mad as a wasp in marmalade, she was.”

Mad enough to lose her concentration and crash her car? “Tell me, where can I find Mrs. Ilsa Ingoldsby-Legrand?”

Bernie pointed to the front door. “Go on up to the house, and Gladys will suss 'er out.” He returned to his pruning.

Kenyon headed up to the steps to the main entrance. There was a large brass knocker shaped like the head of a lion on the door, and he banged it, twice. He waited for a few moments, wondering if he should try a side entrance, when the door was opened by a woman dressed as a maid.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Are you Gladys? Bernie sent me up here to ask you where I might find Mrs. Ingoldsby-Legrand.”

Gladys was a small woman of about fifty with her hair pulled into a bun. “Miss Ilsa is with her father, out on the grounds,” she explained. “If you come through the house, I can show you where to find her.” She opened the door fully, and beckoned Kenyon inside.

The foyer to the mansion was devoid of furniture. The floor was covered in cream limestone, and the walls were paneled in brown-stained wood. It gave the entrance a chilly, dark atmosphere.

Gladys led the way down a wide hallway, to the right. They passed a set of doors opening into the ballroom that he recognized from the charity auction
DVD
. Kenyon paused to glance inside. The room was large; he estimated that one hundred guests could fit comfortably inside. A series of six paneled floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the lawn. Except for the large grand piano sitting in the corner, the room was also bare of furnishings.

“Nice piano,” said Kenyon. “It must sound great in this room.”

“I wouldn't know,” said Gladys. “It hasn't been played since 1939.”

“Is it broken?” asked Kenyon.

Gladys raised one eyebrow. “Sergey Rachmaninov played his Third Piano Concerto for the last time in public on this piano. Sir Rupert had the keyboard sealed the day after.”

Well, la-de-da, thought Kenyon. That explained the solo singer on the
DVD
.

They continued down the main hallway and into the kitchen. An ancient, blue-enameled cast-iron stove was flanked by two natural gas ranges and a rotisserie large enough to hold a dozen roasts.

They came to the rear entrance, and Gladys opened the door. “Follow that path through the stables,” she explained, pointing to a red gravel walkway. “There's a field behind the far trees. You'll find Miss Ilsa there.”

Kenyon thanked her and walked across the lawn. The stable was a long, low structure of red brick trimmed in white and roofed in slate, like the main house. The smell of horse manure hung strongly in his nostrils. It reminded him of Cyrus's ranch in Montana. On a whim, he detoured into the building.

It took a moment for Kenyon's eyes to adjust to the darkness of the interior, but he soon distinguished a series of enclosures laid out along one wall. There was room for almost two dozen horses, but most of the stalls were empty.

As Kenyon walked by a stall labeled “Evening Star,” a chestnut mare stuck her nose out, nuzzling for a treat. Evening Star was sleek and strong. Kenyon petted her snout, and the mare whickered. “You remind me of Lady,” he told the horse. “Been a while since I rode her, though.”

Kenyon continued down the stable to the tackroom at the far end. The door stood open, and he glanced inside. The room was deserted, but the rich smell of leather oil permeated the air, and several saddles hung on pegs on the wall. Kenyon entered.

One wall of the tack room was covered with framed photos of various riding competitions. He stopped in front of a picture showing a woman making a leap over a white barrier. A logo for an event held in Belgium was superimposed on the corner. Kenyon peered closely at the caption. It read, “Ilsa Ingoldsby-Legrand, Silver Medal.”

A row of upright clothes lockers had been bolted to the back wall. Feeling slightly guilty, Kenyon opened one and peeked inside. A woman's riding kit hung neatly on a peg, along with a pair of pantyhose. He closed the locker door and retraced his steps.

Kenyon returned to the bright afternoon sunshine and continued down the path toward a stand of walnut and birch. The shade of the trees was deep and cool; a flock of small birds flashed between shadow and light as they flew among the moss-covered trees. It was so peaceful and quiet and ancient that, for a moment, Kenyon felt as though he was walking through Sherwood forest. Any moment now, he expected Robin Hood to hop out from behind a tree and demand his gold.

His mood was interrupted by the sound of a shotgun blast, quickly followed by a second report. He crouched and cocked his head to the right, trying to judge the direction of the shots. As far as he could see, the trees ended at the edge of a field. Kenyon approached slowly, wary of making himself a target.

He didn't see his assailant until the end of the shotgun barrel was almost in his face. Kenyon staggered back in surprise, tripping over a root and landing on his back. Helpless, he stared up at the attacker, an ancient man with a ruddy complexion and large ears.

“Caught you trespassing!” the man shouted, pointing an ornate, double-barreled twelve-gauge at Kenyon's gut.

Kenyon noticed that the man's left arm hung limp at his side, but his right arm was still strong enough to hold the gun.

“I'm not trespassing, I'm here to see Ilsa,” said Kenyon, as calmly as possible. “Put the gun down.”

The old man ignored the order and stared malevolently at the agent. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“My name's Jack Kenyon.”

“Kenyon?” whispered the man, almost to himself. He stared at the agent, a mad hatred in his eyes. “You little bastard!” He cocked the hammers of the deadly gun. Kenyon cringed, awaiting the blast.

“Father!” a woman admonished. “Stop it this instant!”

Ilsa Ingoldsby-Legrand stepped up to the old man and grabbed the gun from his hands. She snapped the breech and emptied the shells from the barrels, then turned around and shouted to the bushes. “Harold! I told you to keep an eye on Father!”

A short, heavyset man in a camouflage hunting jacket came out from behind a hunting blind. “Sorry, Miss Ilsa,” he replied, doing up his fly. “I just stepped away for a moment.”

Ilsa shoved the empty shotgun into his hands. “Take Sir Rupert back to the house. And have the firing pins removed from this gun. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Miss Ilsa,” he replied. “At once, ma'am.” Harold took his charge by the arm and began to lead him back toward the house. As they walked away, the old man dragged his left foot slightly in the dust.

“You must forgive Father,” Ilsa said to Kenyon. “There have been so many burglaries around here.”

Kenyon turned his attention to the woman. Her long, slim legs were covered in black leggings, and she wore a navy sweater with a marksman's leather shoulder padding. Her long blond hair was tied up in a bun, but her skin was as pale and translucent as it had appeared in the video. One detail that Kenyon hadn't noticed in the
DVD
; her eyes were the color of lake ice.

She reached down and clasped Kenyon's hand, pulling him to his feet with surprising strength. “Might I ask who you are?”

The agent dusted himself off. “My name's Jack Kenyon. I'm Lydia's . . .”

Her smile immediately disappeared. “What do you want?” she coldly asked.

Kenyon was surprised by her abruptness. “Lydia left a bequest in her will. To one of your charities.”

Ilsa turned her back on Kenyon and walked toward the blind. “Oh, she did, did she?

“Yes. The Daughters of Mercy.”

Ilsa snorted, a short, sharp laugh. “How ironic.”

Kenyon felt vaguely irritated. “What's so funny?”

Ilsa didn't reply immediately. Instead, she paused before a rack of shotguns. There were six weapons, all silver-filigreed 20-gauge Perazzis with walnut stocks. Kenyon had once guided a party of European hunters for a two-week horse trek across the Rockies. One of them, an Italian count, was very proud of his .410 Perazzi; it had, he noted, cost him forty thousand American dollars.

Ilsa stroked the barrel of one of the guns, a smile playing across her lips. “Are you familiar with the Daughters of Mercy?”

Kenyon shook his head. “No, I'm not.”

“They help single mothers care for their children,” replied Ilsa.

Kenyon shrugged. “It sounds like a worthy charity.”

“It is.” Ilsa lifted a shotgun and placed two shells into the over/under barrels. She took her stance, then shouted out to the field, “Ready!”

In the distance, Kenyon could see some movement as beaters worked the long grass at the far edge of the field. “Does any of the money from your annual art auction go to the Daughters of Mercy?” he asked.

Ilsa turned one eye back to Kenyon. “Some. Are you interested in art, Mr. Kenyon?”

“I'm more interested in auctions.”

“How so?”

“I'm interested in knowing what happened the night of yours.”

Ilsa squinted down the gunsights, into the field. “Many things happened.”

“I want to know what happened to Lydia.”

“In what way?”

“When she left here, she was very angry.”

“And you naturally assume I was responsible?”

“I didn't say that . . .” replied Kenyon.

Ilsa turned to him. “You came here hoping that I would tell you we had an argument and that Lydia was so angry that she crashed her car and killed herself. Well, Mr. Kenyon, it simply didn't happen that way.”

“What did happen?”

“I don't know.” She nodded down the lane, toward the house. “Father was not feeling well, and I spent the latter part of the evening in his chambers, overseeing his care. I wasn't downstairs when Lydia left.”

“Look, I know you and Lydia didn't get along,” Kenyon pressed on, “but it's important to me to find out what happened.”

Ilsa returned her gaze to the field. “Then I suggest you ask my husband, Raymond Legrand.”

“Why?”

There was a sudden flurry, and a pair of ground birds burst from cover and hurtled toward the blind.

“Because he was the one fucking her, not me.”

The gun went off, twice, and the two birds dropped to the ground.

The phone rang, and Kenyon
stirred. It was late morning; Lydia's bedside clock said it was just after eleven. He lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hello, Jack. It's Tanya. How did everything go yesterday?”

Kenyon sat up and rubbed his face. After driving back from Ingoldsby Manor and returning the Morgan to the dealership, he had sat for several hours in the park across the street, nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels. “Not so good.”

“Why don't you come over for breakfast and tell me about it? We could kill two birds with one stone; I've got some papers for you to sign.”

Kenyon smacked his dry lips together; the inside of his mouth definitely tasted like the bottom of a birdcage. “You got any coffee?”

O'Neill did, and, after writing down directions to her flat, Kenyon promised to meet her within the hour. He shaved and brushed his teeth, then hustled outside to Cromwell Road and grabbed a cab.

O'Neill's apartment was located in Holland Park about one mile north of Lydia's home. The neighborhood was just west of Kensington Palace and consisted of old mansions that had been divided into flats. Kenyon buzzed O'Neill's apartment, then trudged up four flights to the top floor.

She was waiting for him at her door, barefoot. She was wearing a short skirt and a light cotton blouse. Without the formal legal attire, she looked younger, more appealing, thought Kenyon. “Come on in,” she invited.

The flat was bright and airy. One side was a combined living room, dining room and kitchen; the back half held a bedroom and ensuite bath. Kenyon glanced into the bedroom. Women's clothing was strewn about on the floor and the bed was un-made. There was no sign of a man's clothing.

Kenyon went into the living room. The hardwood floor was partially concealed by a large Persian rug, the furniture dotted with bright silk pillows. Lydia's nude portrait hung over an ornate marble fireplace.

O'Neill caught him staring at the painting. “What do you think?” she asked.

“Lydia looks almost at home here,” he said.

She handed Kenyon a large mug of black coffee and pointed to a set of French doors. “Why don't you sit down outside while I finish breakfast?”