Skylark (17 page)

"I'll bet that was interesting." Jay, still soothing. He was watching her intently.

"Well, I
was
interested, and we talked, and one thing led to another. I ended up
telling him about Milos and asking if he knew the address of Amnesty International."

"Zow," I said. "The human rights people."

"I thought maybe they could do something." Ann took another, less drastic swallow of
wine. "He said they had an office nearby, but that I'd be better off to talk to this organization he
knew about that dealt with British civil rights violations, and he helped me set up an appointment
for this morning."

"The Henning Institute," Jay murmured.

She looked at him, wide-eyed. "What do you know about them? Are they
reputable?"

"Yes. They're a watch-dog group, tend to focus on Ulster. That business in Birmingham
with the alleged IRA bombers--the claim is that the evidence was rigged by the police and the
courts." Jay's voice was neutral now.

Jay is interested in the problem police forces have of working within the limits of
constitutional protections. Since my mother shares the interest from a strong civil libertarian
viewpoint, they had exchanged a lot of information since my marriage. Neither of them is
hard-nosed, so the interchange had done both a lot of good. When Jay wrote his paper on DNA
fingerprinting, he dealt with the potential for violations of the Fourth Amendment. He dedicated
the article to Ma.

"Well, that's a relief." Ann finished the wine. "Because I just reported Milos as a
possible human rights violation."

Jay and I sank onto our chairs like well-rehearsed puppets. Ann watched us. She was
flushed with wine and, quite possibly, embarrassment.

I was thinking how ingenious it was of Ann to have come up with a lever. I had not
heard of the Henning Institute, but I should have thought of Amnesty International or, given my
family associations, of the American Friends Field Service Committee.

My feelings were an odd mixture of admiration, chagrin, and mild hurt that Ann hadn't
confided in me. After what Thorne had told me earlier, I thought it possible that Ann's rescue
effort was unnecessary, but she hadn't known of the ambulance, and Thorne--or, to be fair,
Wilberforce--
had
been stonewalling us. But was Milos in good hands? I wasn't sure,
and I didn't think Thorne was either.

I looked at Jay. His eyes were bright with what looked like suppressed amusement. I
glared at him, daring him to laugh.

He didn't. "By this time next week Thorne's ass will really be in the wringer."

Ann made a distressed noise. "Oh, no! Why? That's not fair. I didn't suggest that Mr.
Thorne was at fault. I don't think he is."

"He's the officer in charge of the investigation." Jay smoothed his mustache. "Where the
buck--or the pound--stops. He has the press on his back already because of the murder. When the
Henning people start investigating, he'll be fielding calls about Vlaçek from Important
Persons."

"Questions on the floor of the House of Commons?" I was trying to imagine a sequence
of events.

Jay considered. "Probably, and when the politicians take up the cry, the press will catch
on very fast. I don't envy Thorne."

"Should I warn him?" Ann put her glasses back on and peered at Jay.

"It might be kind. Of course, the Institute may decide not to do anything. As I said, they
tend to specialize in Irish cases."

Ann sat for a long silent moment, frowning. "The woman I talked to promised they'd
make inquiries. Maybe I should call them off, but I can't help wondering who ordered that
ambulance. And how voluntary Milos's discharge was." She stood up. "I wish Mr. Thorne and
those people at the hospital had been open with us. If they'd been frank, I would have waited a
day or two. Well, what's done is done. I'll call Inspector Thorne tomorrow morning. Now I'm
going to lie down and read for a while."

"Dinner at seven thirty," I murmured. Then I remembered I hadn't told her Daphne and
Trevor were coming after dinner. She agreed, without enthusiasm, that we owed them
hospitality--and a look at my husband.

"Good God, you mean they have to approve of me?"

I laughed. "Don't let it get to you, Jay. When they're well-oiled with that wine, they'll
think you're wonderful."

"Especially Daphne." Ann shot an impish grin over her shoulder. She shut the bedroom
door with a neat click.

"Does that mean," Jay asked in bemused tones, "that I'm going to bowl Daphne over
with my natural charms or that Daphne oils easily?"

I refused to answer.

But when the Worths joined us, Daphne was back to being Miss Starch. Perhaps she was
shy, perhaps Trevor brought out the worst in her. She kept her knees together, sipped like a lady,
and sat up very straight in one of the arm chairs. Trevor, by contrast, was expansive and genial
on the zebra-striped sofa.

While Ann and Daphne talked over the pros and cons of herding fifty ten-year-olds
through a museum, I sat on the hassock and watched Jay and Trevor go through the same ritual
Jay had played out with Inspector Thorne that morning. In that case, the disputed territory had
been professional. This time, I expected the arena would be sexual--a touch of guilt on my
part--but, to my surprise, it was literally territory. The house.

Jay said, "I believe I ought to thank you and your sister for making the larger apartment
available to us."

Trevor took a sip of the bordeaux. "Not at all. I've had my eye on the basement flat since
Auntie refurbished it. It's ideal for one, cramped for two, but until this flat was free, Daph and I
didn't feel we could ask the ladies to move. My dear sister has strong feelings about
eviction."

"And you don't?"

Trevor smiled. "I'm no crusader. Daphne is. A difference of temperament."

"I'd like to see the basement flat sometime--just for curiosity's sake. Lark's description of
it after the burglary was, uh, vivid."

"I say, do you fancy a look at the Scene of the Crime?"

"I've seen that already," Jay murmured.

Trevor looked blank for only an instant, but Jay pressed his advantage.

"Tell me, Mr. Worth, why did your aunt leave the foyer and stairs in such a dangerous
state of disrepair? You said she refurbished the basement flat. This flat is modern, too, and, uh,
handsome. The hallway is a real puzzle." He had spent more than an hour before dinner poking
around the fatal stairwell.

"But my dear man, Auntie didn't own the building. Just the three flats--hers, this one,
and the basement. The chap above you, Carruthers, owns his, and Mr. and Mrs. Givens own the
other. All of the houses in this terrace belong to the earl of Rotherhithe."

"I'm damned." Jay let out a low whistle. I was surprised, too. I had assumed Miss Beale
was erratically parsimonious.

"Rotherhithe is second cousin to the duke of Westminster." Trevor added, in fake
Cockney, "'im as owns Myfair."

Jay picked up the wineglass I knew he was going to nurse all evening and took a
cautious sip. "We call that sort of arrangement a condominium. That is, people buy apartments in
a larger building, but they also pay for the upkeep of the common areas. Stairs, hallways,
landscaping, and so on."

"Things are rather different here." Trevor flashed the famous smile and took a gulp of
bordeaux.

"So it seems. Do you and your sister plan to sue the landlord?"

"Heavens, no. That isn't done. Besides, Auntie was murdered. His lordship can scarcely
be blamed for that."

Jay chuckled. "I never thought I'd have a good word to say for ambulance chasers, but
any American lawyer worth his salt would poke your argument full of holes in five minutes. That
stairway is a deathtrap, with or without a murderer on the fourth floor landing. It's a tort waiting
to happen."

"You must have a legal background, James."

"You might say so." Jay shot me a sardonic look. I hadn't mentioned Jay's police
connections to the Worths. The subject had not arisen. "Fear of personal injury suits would force
American landlords in a wealthy neighborhood like this to keep the buildings in decent repair.
Their insurance companies would insist."

"Americans must be a litigious lot." Trevor sipped his wine.

"American lawyers sure are."

"Will you pass those munchies, Lark?"

I rose and retrieved the tray from the end table. "Sorry, Ann. Do try the Stilton, Daphne.
The man at the deli assured me it was ripe."

"Oh, thanks." Daphne cut a wedge of the blue cheese and laid it on a water table biscuit.
"Mmm, very nice."

Ann helped herself to the brie. "Daphne says we should go to Hampton Court before the
tulips fade."

"Good idea. That's near Windsor, isn't it?"

Daphne made a face. "Close. Stay clear of Windsor. It's crammed with tourists." She
blushed at her own tactlessness.

Before she tangled herself in 'I don't mean tourists like you' apologies, I stepped into the
breach. "I'd probably better stick to London for the time being. Inspector Thorne might toss me
in the clink if I tried to leave town."

"He held Lark's passport over the weekend," Ann explained.

Daphne's eyes went round. "'Strewth. I thought he suspected Trevor and me. He grilled
me for hours Friday, and he's been interviewing all of our friends."

"I'm sure that's just routine, honey. They always suspect next of kin." Ann cut another
bit of brie. "Trevor would like more of the white wine, Lark."

"Right," I said meekly. I left the tray with the ladies and carried the bottle to Trevor. He
and Jay were discussing the rival merits of Ferrari and Maserati. I filled Trevor's glass.

He gave me an absent smile, but I don't think he noticed me. I faded back into the decor
and listened.

It was obvious that Trevor's employment was not just a means of making a living. He
was passionate about automobiles. Jay isn't, but he can talk car if he has to. In this case he didn't
have to. Trevor was singing a solo.

I decided to leave him to it and edged back to Ann and Daphne.

"Will there be a memorial service for Miss Beale?" Ann was asking.

Daphne grimaced. "Auntie has been cremated. Her solicitors said it was what she
wanted. I daresay I ought to arrange something with the vicar for her friends."

"Are you and Trevor her only family?"

"There's Mum." She sipped. "My mother is in a nursing home. A stroke."

"Oh, I am sorry, my dear."

Daphne sighed. "Don't be. I visit her every week, of course, but she's a difficult woman.
I can't cope with her tantrums." She reached for the Stilton. "And Trevor's no help. The nursing
home is the best solution all round."

It was hard to think of an appropriate response to that.

Ann tried. "I remember when Buford's old granddaddy had a stroke, Nana wasn't strong
enough to care for him, and all the children were working. A nursing home was the only logical
solution." She took a breath and shifted to a less perilous topic. "I imagine you must find it easier
to get to your school from here, Daphne. You had a flat in Chiswick, didn't you? Where's
Chiswick?"

"West. I shared digs with two other teachers. One bedroom, one bath. It was ghastly."
Perhaps Daphne thought she had been revealing too much, for she finished her wine and rose.
"Thanks awfully for the wine. We must be off. Tomorrow's a working day, you know. Come
along, Trevor."

It took Trevor perhaps ten minutes to wind down, but Daphne was determined to leave.
All three of us saw them to the door amid polite shaking of hands. When they had gone at last,
Ann said, "Whew. There's a family feud going on there."

I blinked at her. "Really?"

Jay yawned. "Maybe they're like Midwesterners. You know, at a cocktail party the men
congregate in one corner, women in the other."

Ann smiled. "Southerners are like that, too, but it doesn't seem to be the pattern here. I
don't think Daphne and Trevor exchanged two words this evening--beyond necessary politeness,
I mean. And Daphne really resents her brother. No wonder he wanted our flat."

"Maybe he bored her to death talking about cars," Jay suggested.

Ann laughed, but stuck to her guns. "No, there's something else going on."

"Did you find Trevor boring, Jay?" I picked up the demolished cheese platter and carried
it toward the kitchen. "I thought you encouraged the car talk."

"It seemed like his topic." Men can be bitchy.

"Why, my goodness, Jay, Trevor was just trying to relate."

Jay grinned at Ann. "Touché. Good night, ladies. I'm beat."

I glanced at the wall clock. It was only ten. "We could boogie all night at the Hard Rock
Cafe."

"Fat chance," he said amiably, kissed me, and went off to bed.

Ann and I tidied the kitchen.

I ran a dishpan of hot, soapy water and set the wine glasses in it. "Tell me about the
Henning Institute."

"Their headquarters is near Bloomsbury Square, and someone called Lord Henning is
the major sponsor. I wish I knew more about those papers of Milos's." Ann picked up a
dishtowel. "I did my best to convince the woman to do something, but I don't think she took me
very seriously."

"Jay called Dad from Dallas. The papers hadn't come. It really is too soon, Ann. My
mother's always complaining about the length of time it takes for a letter to reach her from
England. And that was a parcel."

Ann sighed. "Our suspicions are too nebulous. Mrs. Burke--that was her name--said the
Czech embassy is riddled with secret police. They're called St. B's, after the street in Prague
where they're headquartered, and they play rough. She said it was unlikely that the British
government would bother Milos unless the information he had was extremely
embarrassing."

"Like that ex-spy in Australia whose memoirs Mrs. Thatcher tried to ban?"

"Like that." She wiped the last glass and set it in the cupboard.