Skylark (30 page)

"Did someone mention my name?"

Oh God, Galahad. St. George. Robin Hood. Never was medieval hero more welcome
than Milos Vlaçek to my sight. He was standing in the doorway, assisted by my husband
and a person who turned out to be a nurse. Milos leaned artistically on a walking stick. Though
he looked pale and thin, he had lost none of his pizzazz. He beamed at the assembled
reporters.

"The free press, aha! I am glad to see you all. I am Vlaçek, and I tell you these
American women are marvelous. Ann, I kiss your hand. Lark, my dear, you have saved my life.
What can I say?"

He was awful, he was camp, he was terrific copy. Notebooks whipped out as Milos
stumped up to the Adam fireplace. I had stood, and so had Ann, who was making clucking
noises. We seated Milos in Ann's chair. She stood behind him like Elsa the lioness.

Williams and Lord Henning had lost control. Williams rallied first. "Ladies and
gentlemen, this is Milos Vlaçek, the Czech poet, whose safety provoked the attack on
Hambly."

Five reporters shouted questions. William said, "Please, gentlemen," and never mind
that three of the five reporters were women.

When the noise subsided, Milos drew his cane up under his chin and smiled. "You want
to know what happened? Very well, I tell you everything. In December, there is the airplane
crash at Lockerbie."

At the name there was a general gasp, as if the house had caught its breath. My father's
brows drew together.

Milos was now in dead earnest. His hand tightened on the cane. "The explosive that was
used was manufactured in my country, and there are immediately rumors that the government
supplied the terrorists. I am appalled. To kill innocent people, students, no, there is no
justification. So I gather evidence of my government's role in the bombing. Then I escape to
England where I am given every consideration. It is a great country, England."

The reporters were coming out of their shock. They had begun to scribble frantically.
The TV cameras ground on.

"I am working in the Hanover Hotel while I wait for my papers to be smuggled out of
Prague. I meet Mrs. Veryan and Mrs. Dodge. We go to see
Macbeth
, and my friend
brings the manuscript of my report to the Barbican. It is storming, so I allow Mrs. Veryan to
carry it in her bag. I am stabbed on the Tube, but Ann has the papers, and this the secret police
do not know. When I come to my senses, I expect only trouble, but these lovely American
women, they send the information to America, and they search me out. They find my place of
hiding, because they are concerned for my safety. They raise the alarm. I am saved, the
document is saved, and all because of these wonderful ladies. Ann, Lark, I salute you."

Well, hey, I was ready to salute, too. Milos had just blown our elaborate cover-up out of
the water and never mind that Ma had arranged for his poems to be published.

As if by unspoken agreement, the tabloid reporters faded into the background, and the
representatives of the responsible press began digging at his story. They had a full account within
fifteen minutes and seemed to believe it within half an hour. Print reporters broke for the few
telephones available, or for their cars. The television cameras ground away.

I looked over at Jay, who was still standing in the doorway. He met my eyes and made a
slashing motion across his throat. He was grinning.

We took Milos to dinner. Lord Henning apologized for his understandable lack of
hospitality and suggested a good restaurant about five miles outside Ludlow. He even had
Williams make reservations for us. Williams must have leaned on the proprietor, because we
were taken directly to a secluded alcove, and no reporter invaded our privacy.

Well before that we had left Hambly. The journalists evaporated to file their stories, and
there didn't seem to be much point in hanging around. The workers resumed hauling debris as
soon as Henning gave them the all clear, and the air filled with constructive noise. Lord Henning
was flying back to his family that evening.

Milos's miraculous appearance was easily explained. My father had told Milos of the
press conference, and Milos had charmed an off-duty nurse into driving him to Hambly from the
hospital. Since he had once again discharged himself, she drove him home to her mother
afterwards for a long rest. The mother lived in a modern house in an unquaint village nearby.
Dad and Ann picked Milos up at eight and brought him to Appleby's--that was the restaurant's
name.

I, too, had needed a rest. Milos's sensational revelations had diminished Ann's and my
newsworthiness somewhat. Even so, photographers and TV cameramen dogged us at the
Greyhound. I was depressed by that--and depressed in general. Jay, on the other hand, was so
cheerful he whistled in the elevator.

When Ann and my father showed up in our room with the makings of another picnic, I
said I wasn't hungry and just wanted to sleep. They carted their feast into Dad's room, meek as
lambs. They took the chairs again, too.

Jay waited until they had busied themselves setting out the food then sat beside me on
the bed. "What's wrong?"

"I hurt." I was lying on my right side waiting for the pain pill to work.

He began to massage my neck. "I know you hurt. Besides that."

"Nothing."

He rotated a thumb at the base of my skull.

"Ow."

"Tell me."

My eyes teared. "I made a fool of myself. I lost my temper with that...that..."

"Bitch?"

"Now
you're
doing it!" I wailed.

"A mistimed joke."

"Go away and eat something."

"Not until I know what's bothering you."

"I told you." I flopped onto my back and stared at the ceiling. The molding was
ornamented with plaster curlicues.

Jay turned my face toward him.

I blinked my tears back. "Go away."

"I guess I don't understand. She--that reporter--was goading you. I thought you kept
your dignity. You meant what you said, didn't you?"

"Yes, but..."

He brushed the bruise on my cheek with a feather-light touch. "But?"

"I hate getting angry."

"It's never a pleasant feeling, but you were justified."

"It's a woman thing," I mumbled.

Jay understood anger well enough. What he didn't understand was the shame a display
of anger produced. I was conditioned not to lose my temper in public, not to use four-letter
words, even somebody else's, not to avenge an insult. And maybe my conditioning was right.
Civilized.

I said, "I made an enemy of her. That was stupid."

"Does it matter? You don't have to read what she writes, and a lot of the other reporters
were nodding and taking notes."

Wonderful. "I embarrassed Dad and Lord Henning."

"They'll live."

"I embarrassed you."

"Nope." He kissed me. "I was ready to applaud."

"You're just saying that."

"You don't embarrass me, Lark." His eyes had gone dark the way they do when he's
thinking long thoughts. "You can make me angry. You puzzle me sometimes. Every once in a
while you scare the shit out of me. But you don't embarrass me. I was standing there in the
doorway at Hambly, watching you and thinking how lucky I am."

I kept my eyes on his. "No lie?"

"Cross my heart."

"
I'm
the lucky one." I was about to cry again, so I kissed him instead.

I slept three hours and woke feeling good. Good and hungry. Ann fixed me paté
and crackers.

* * * *

Appleby's was the kind of restaurant the English mention when foreigners criticize
English cookery. The menu was straightforward without being folksy, the ingredients were
absolutely fresh and prepared with loving attention, and the service, though obsequious by
American standards, was excellent. The odd thing about such establishments is that they aren't
where an American would expect them to be. They are hidden on unnumbered, sometimes
unpaved roads in remote corners of the kingdom, and they do not advertise.

My father claimed the best British restaurant he had eaten at was on the Isle of Mull off
the coast of Scotland, inaccessible three-quarters of the year and twenty miles along a single lane
road from the nearest population center. I had thought that was Dad indulging in unaccustomed
fantasy, but Appleby's, not quite so remote, convinced me otherwise.

At first we didn't talk about the events at Hambly. We were too busy soaking up the
ambiance and the mushroom tartlets. Dad and Milos discussed the role of the intellectual in
political change and we all ate. A couple of times I caught Milos watching the waiter with a
critical eye, notably as he removed our polished-off bowls of green pea soup. To die for. The fish
was sole, delicate, melting, wonderful. The discreet waiter brought us rack of lamb, mine
tactfully dissected.

Jay turned to Milos. "So why did you decide to blurt out the whole story, Mr.
Vlaçek?"

Milos sawed at the lamb. "I put them in danger--Lark and Ann, as well as the two who
were killed and my poor friend from the Institute. I am opposed to terrorism, but if I agree to
conceal the information from the press, and if something then happens to innocent by-standers..."
He gestured with his knife. "If I allow that, then I am in danger of becoming a terrorist
myself."

Jay chewed. "Okay, I can see that. But why didn't you warn George you had changed
your mind?"

Dad glanced at Jay and back at his wine glass.

"This is tender lamb." Milos kept his fork in his fist, European style. He seemed
unembarrassed. "I call the hotel. Already Professor Dailey has left for Hambly. A headache is
nibbling at me. I brood about the harm my singular crusade is doing, and I wonder how to pull
the plug." He loaded the fork with meat and veg.

"Maximum publicity," my father murmured. He sipped his wine.

Milos beamed. "Openness. Is it Bacon who says that the simplest solution is best?"

"Occam's razor." Ann had been uncharacteristically silent. "What are you going to do
now, Milos?"

He chewed and considered. "Find another job. I cannot return to the Hanover. A good
waiter is supposed to melt into the background. I have trouble with this. It is not my nature."

I had to laugh. After a moment, everyone did, though Ann cast me a reproachful
glance.

As we drove home, Jay said, "He's impressive--Vlaçek."

Though I had drunk only about a tablespoon of the wine, I was sleepy. I yawned.
"Impressive?"

Jay made a cautious right turn onto the road to Much Aston. "I don't know what I
expected. He's straightforward and down-to-earth."

"He likes openness. That's what all the furor was about, in a way. Secrets within secrets.
Secret plots. Secret alliances. Secret police. God knows, the free press is a pain sometimes, but I
prefer it to cover-ups. We were wrong to try to hide what we knew. I'm glad Milos set us
straight."

My kindly thoughts about the press wavered as we approached the Greyhound. Jay
parked the car in the hotel lot, and we used the rear entrance. My shoulder ached. As we stood in
the dark corridor, waiting for the elevator, I leaned on Jay's arm. "At least it's over."

"Mrs. Dodge?"

I straightened, prepared to say "no comment" until the elevator arrived. Jay and I
turned.

"If I may have a word with you, Mrs. Dodge." It was Chief Inspector Thorne. He gave
me a tentative smile. "And with Mrs. Veryan."

My heart sank. "Ann rode with my father. She'll be back soon."

"Good. That's very good. May I?" He gestured at the brightly lit elevator as it creaked to
a halt. The iron lattice groaned, and the door opened.

Jay was frowning. "Are you all right?"

"Yes."

He turned to Thorne. "Very well, but my wife is supposed to rest. You can have half an
hour."

Thorne sighed. "That should do the trick."

We entered the lift, and it creaked upward.

I said, "How's Daphne Worth? I was shocked to hear of her accident."

"'Twas no accident. I've come for the villains' automobile. The lad's seeing to the
paperwork."

"Sgt. Wilberforce?"

"Aye." The elevator stopped. Thorne held the ancient door open for me, and he and Jay
followed me down the hall to our room. "They transported Miss Worth to London yesterday, to
St. Botolph's. She's still unconscious. She's mumbled a word or two, calling for her Mum and her
brother, but nothing to the point. Happen forensics will be able to tie the auto to the crime. Parks
fingered our friend, Smith, for the burglary, but he's said nowt so far of Miss Beale's death."

Jay unlocked our door, and we entered the room.

I flipped the light on. "Why don't you retrieve the chairs, Jay?"

He had already opened the communicating door and entered my father's room. Thorne
followed him while I sat on the foot of the bed and tried to wake up. Obviously "it" wasn't over.
Inspector Thorne represented the loose ends. I hoped he would tie them up quickly.

Thorne took me through the events of the bank holiday, starting with Saturday. I gave
him my version, slowly, naming places and routes, which he wrote down in a small black
notebook. When I got to the part where we headed south I balked.

"Look, inspector, why don't you wait for Ann? She has the
AA Atlas
in her
room, and she can show you where we went. I drove, she navigated. I don't remember the
highway numbers. The inn we stayed at Sunday night..."

"That's crucial."

"Well, it was called the Royal Oak, and it was north of Kidderminster, but Ann can
show you where it is. She'll be here in a few minutes."

"All right." He set the notebook on the small table. "I heard of your adventures at
Hambly, lass." He appeared to hesitate. "Will you tell me your impressions of the two men you
followed into the grounds?"

I felt blank. "You know what they look like."

"Not that." He gave his head an impatient shake. "Personalities."