Verse of the Vampyre (5 page)

The back garden had evolved from the original vegetable patch to beds of herbs and flowers. In the spring the fragrant pastel of sweet peas entangled with climbing vines and rambling roses. Blue delphiniums, red poppies and yellow daffodils bloomed in joyous abandon. Thyme and rosemary burst from their beds in scented bouquets. But at this time of year the yard was muted in brown and rust red. The rabbits and squirrels and birds had departed, leaving a sort of desolate quiet.

Grace stood to the side where cabbages and potatoes grew behind the potting shed. She could smell the damp earth and the odd myrrh scent of the antique roses overgrowing the shed’s roof and doorway.

Beyond the hedgerows she spotted sheep grazing peacefully near the remnants of the old Roman wall. No place could have seemed further removed from crime or the underworld.

The police finished diligently poking through the clay pots and watering cans and at last marched round the front and reentered the gallery, followed by Grace.

“Everything in order?”

Heron did not respond to the raillery in Peter’s voice. “We would like you to come down to the station this afternoon, Mr. Fox. It would be helpful to…have your perspective on these crimes. It’s only a request, you understand.”

“I understand,” said Peter. Grace saw the look the two men exchanged before the older man turned away. All these dark and meaningful looks. It was like watching a foreign movie without subtitles.

The shop bells rang cheerfully behind the police officers.

Peter went to the front window, observing them cross the lawn and get into their car.

Grace watched Peter watching the cops. His profile gave nothing away.

“Don’t think I’m not grateful for the alibi,” he said, turning from the window, “but what the hell were you thinking?”

“That you’d do the same for me?”

The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “I don’t suffer from an overly tender conscience,” Peter pointed out. “You, on the other hand, agonize over every little white lie.”

“Well, you were free to speak up. You could have told them the truth.”

His blue eyes mocked her. “I hope I’m not so ungallant as to naysay a beautiful woman intent on ruining her good name in my honor.”

“I don’t know how good my name is around here anyway,” Grace muttered. “I’m sure everyone in the village thinks we’re sleeping together.”

“That’s the spirit.” But his mind was not on her; his eyes narrowed at some inward vision. “Didn’t it occur to you that they’ll check your story? When they verify we weren’t together—”

“We were together,” Grace said. “In a manner of speaking.”

“What manner of speaking would that be? The forked tongue variety?”

From the first she had known her deception would have to come out, but she had hoped to delay the moment until their relationship was again on solid ground. Assuming that day ever arrived. “I wasn’t lying. I was—” Grace swallowed on the word.

“You ‘was’?”

“Spying.”

“Spying?” His expression was blank. Gradually understanding dawned. “On me?”

Grace nodded.

“You were spying on me Thursday night?” Peter seemed to be struggling to absorb it.

“Yes.”

Very rarely had she seen him at a loss for words, but she saw it now. “Why?” he asked at last. Face and voice were expressionless.

“It was by accident.”

“This should be interesting.”

“Not the spying, the phone call I overheard.”

He started to speak, then stopped himself. Grace hurried on, “What I mean is, I accidentally picked up the phone when you did. I didn’t mean to listen in.”

“Perhaps you should have hung up.” The suggestion was put in a silky tone. She did not like the look in his eyes. This was going to be worse than she had imagined, and she had gone into it knowing that he would see her actions as betrayal.

Grace plowed on. “I heard her…” She hazarded a guess, “Catriona—” His eyes flickered, and she knew her guess had been correct. “Telling you to meet her at the graveyard. She sounded—it sounded—I thought—”

“You put it so well,” Peter murmured. “So you decided to follow me?”

“Actually,” Grace said with a hint of spirit, “I was there ahead of you. Which is how I know you weren’t robbing the Thwaites.”

He watched her warily. “I was only there for a few minutes. I could have joined my confederates at the scene of the crime.”

“You waited for thirty minutes,” Grace said. “When I drove by here about twenty minutes later your car was parked outside. I waited on the road maybe another thirty minutes until your lights went out; so unless you took a taxi to join the robbers for the last half hour, I think you’re clear.”

“You do, do you?”

She didn’t like the derision in that. She retorted, “Unfortunately, I can’t alibi Lady Ruthven, since she never showed.”

His expression altered. “Be very careful, Grace,” Peter said. His tone caused the small hairs at the back of her neck to prickle.

The gallery door jingled behind them, and Grace nearly leapt out of her skin.

“Cheerio, you two!” fluted Theresa Ives.

Grace watched Peter’s features rearrange themselves into a smile. Her knees felt weak with the release of tension.

“To be continued,” he warned, and brushed past her.

“N
othing I say could persuade you to join us on the field next weekend?” Lady Ives held up the opal glass perfume atomizer for closer examination. “Lalique?”

“Schneider. Circa 1895,” Peter replied.

“Schneider. Of course.” She bit her lip. “But you do ride. I’ve seen you riding with Allegra Clairmont-Brougham. You ride
beautifully
.” This last was said with a certain appraising glint in her narrow-set eyes.

“I’m afraid I don’t care much for hunting,” Peter apologized. “Too much sympathy for the fox.”

Grace gritted her teeth as Theresa Ives gave her neighing laugh. “How much?” Lady Theresa inquired.

“For you? Three hundred quid.” Since the regular price was two-fifty, Lady Ives was indeed getting a special deal. Grace inwardly shook her head as Lady Ives gave that annoying laugh again.

Grace had been observing them bat the conversational ball back and forth for about forty-five minutes. Her ladyship, a collector of antique perfume bottles, was one of Peter’s regular customers. Since she did spend a fair amount of money at Rogue’s Gallery, Grace knew it was cynical to suspect that part of Theresa’s interest was in the shop’s owner. But then a disproportionate ratio of Peter’s clientele was feminine.

“Grace will be joining us on Saturday,” Theresa murmured.

“Grace does so many things I would not.”

Theresa gave that laugh, and said to Grace, “He’s awful, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

She confided to Peter, “Gerald says that Grace has an
admirable
seat.”

“Oh for a seat in some poetic nook,” quoted Peter. “Just hid with trees and a sparkling brook.”

Theresa squealed with pleasure. “Poetic nook. That’s brilliant. Did you hear that, Grace?”

“Wasn’t I meant to?” She was tired of being the butt—or rather
seat
—of Peter’s wit, and tried to change the subject. “Is there really a lot of antihunting sentiment locally?”

Theresa shrugged. “Not a lot. A few malcontents who care more about the rights of animals than other people.”

“In the States many of the hunt clubs use a drag scent.”

Theresa widened her baby blues. “In the States some clubs hunt
coyotes,
” she pointed out, as though such barbarians were capable of anything.

“I thought it was all about the Thrill of the Chase. What does it matter what you chase?”

“It doesn’t. A hare, a stag, a fox. But it has to be
real
.”

“Otherwise, the local game get so apathetic,” Peter put in.

Theresa laughed, making a snorting noise. “You’re
wicked!”

Grace bit her tongue. The best thing was to keep out of hearing range, and there was certainly plenty to keep her occupied and out of Peter and Theresa’s vicinity, but somehow she kept tuning back in. Theresa’s voice carried. More annoying was the fact that Peter’s didn’t.

She could hear Theresa complaining now about what a nuisance Lady Vee was over the play and how they couldn’t get any rehearsing done.

“…And you should have heard them going on and on about who was responsible for whose death, when the truth is they’d
all
be dead by now!”

“Assuming one could tell the difference.” He was egging her on, but Theresa didn’t seem to notice. Apparently
not
the keenest hunter in the pack.

“We had poetry in school, of course. Poets. Ugh! Utter wet weeds. Someone dying because someone wrote a bad review, then someone else writing a poem about
that!
Of course I don’t pretend to be an intellectual like Grace.”

“Does Grace pretend to be an intellectual?”

Lady Ives gurgled her delight. Grace was less delighted. She slapped the dust rag down hard and came around the corner (in a cloud of dust) to find them at the front counter. Peter was wrapping the fragile swirled glass in tissue. He looked up with a bland expression.

“I think I’ll leave early,” Grace announced a little loudly.

“Oooh. Not feeling well?” Theresa was all sympathy.

“Not awfully.”

Grace retrieved her things from the back. Peter met her at the door, holding it in place when she started to open it. In a voice for her ears alone he said, “Need I tell you to keep your mouth shut about what we discussed this morning?”

“Since you put it so nicely, how can I refuse?” She shoved hard against the door, and he let go, which caused her to stagger out onto the cobblestones.

The gallery door closed firmly behind her.

He was angry, Grace thought, as she sat in the library basement later that day studying past editions of
The Clarion
. Angrier than she’d ever seen him. Well, so was she. The thing that made her angriest was the knowledge that she was handling this all wrong. Skulking around graveyards, lying to the police, running away and now snooping.

But was trying to learn more about the robberies technically snooping or was this simply doing the required homework? After all, she had more than a little at stake, too. She pushed her glasses back into place and resumed reading.

The first robbery had occurred early in August, one week before Lord and Lady Ruthven had set up house in Innisdale.

Coincidence? thought Grace. I think not. But it probably was.

Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Potter-Grahaem had been on holiday when their home was burgled. The house’s somewhat antiquated security system had been easily disarmed, and the thief or thieves had made off with several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of silver and art.

As robberies went it was rather a no-brainer. The house had been uninhabited by other than an elderly and hard-of-hearing butler who slept through the excitement; and the security system had presented no challenge at all. The police assumed that at least two persons had been involved in the crime, mostly owing to the amount of loot removed from the premises.

To Grace this did not sound like Peter’s “MO,” but since her knowledge of Peter’s past was based mostly on imagination, that didn’t mean much.

The truth was, she knew very little about Peter’s background, criminal or otherwise. He had admitted once that jewels were his specialty, and that he had been known in “the business” as the Ice Fox, following a spectacular diamond heist early in his career.

But she had no idea how he had operated and whether he had occasionally branched out to old masters or small appliances.

The second burglary had required more effort on the part of the thieves. The security system was up-to-the-minute, and both servants and the Crosby family had been in residence. In fact, Mrs. Crosby’s jewels had been stolen from a small safe in her bedchamber. Along with the jewels had vanished a number of valuable
objets d’art,
including a Faberge egg and a priceless Isfahan rug.

The rug struck Grace as sheer cheek.

Unfortunately, the estate’s security guard had been hit by the escaping thieves’ vehicle. This was the incident to which Heron had referred. The guard had been in a coma at the time the newspaper article had been written.

That’s not murder, Grace thought. Manslaughter at the most, surely?

The police went on record declaring the two robberies to be the work of the same cunning and expert gang.

Gang? That fact must eliminate Peter. Peter had always worked alone, although, come to think of it, Grace wasn’t sure whether she had formed that opinion on her own or whether Peter had said something to give her that impression.

What were Peter’s finances like? She had no idea. He lived very very well, and the shop seemed to turn a brisk dollar. Then again, business was slow during the tourist off-season. He had told her once that he had made a number of fortunate investments. It could be the truth, but considering it objectively, she could see why the police might find his bank accounts worth checking into.

The third and most recent robbery had taken place at the estate of Reginald and Evadne Thwaite. This had been by far the most daring job. In addition to a complicated security system, the Thwaites owned two dogs, which the thieves had neutralized with doped butcher’s bones. They had managed to clear off with a half million dollars’ worth of jewels, paintings and antiques in just over two hours.

Where are they stashing the stuff? wondered Grace. The idea that occurred to her left her lunch lying like a lump of lead in her stomach.

What better place to hide antiques than in an antiques gallery? No wonder Heron had wanted to search the shop after the Thwaite robbery. And how convenient: Peter was frequently on buying trips; he would be expected to return with a van of merchandise. While he was traveling he could fence the jewels and unload the items that would be too hot to move through Rogue’s Gallery.

For a few moments Grace sat, unhappily chewing the end of her reading glasses. Her task was to prove that Peter couldn’t be involved, but the more she learned, the easier it was to understand why the chief constable thought Peter might, as the mystery novels said, “look good for it.”

Returning upstairs, she handed over the basement key to Roy Blade at the inquiry desk.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, she asked, “Are you taking part in the hunt next weekend?”

Blade laughed his buccaneer’s laugh. “Do I look like the foxhunting type to you?” His good eye glinted. “Anyway, I’m always on the side of the fox.”

“That’s what Peter said.” She remembered something else Peter had once said about having been in love with a woman who had hair the color of a fox and a temper to match. Maybe she should have paid closer attention.

“What do you think of Catriona Ruthven?” she heard herself asking.

Blade shrugged his broad leather-jacketed shoulders. “Good stage presence. Good speaking voice.”

“I mean as a woman.”

Blade raised his eyebrows. “A handful, I’d say.” His black eye gleamed with curiosity. Grace dropped the subject. Excusing herself after a moment or two, she went to reexamine the much-thumbed current issue of
The Clarion
.

As she read over the account of the security guard’s death it seemed to her that there was something noncommittal in the official police comments. Had the guard been in on the burglary? Was his death not an accident?

Grace was frowning over this when a young woman reading
British Vogue
suddenly leaned across to her, and said softly, “What they’re afraid to tell you is his body was drained of blood.”

The hair on the nape of Grace’s neck stood on end. “I beg your pardon?”

The young woman swept her heavily frosted hair off her face, glanced over her shoulder as though the king’s spies were everywhere, and whispered again, “His body was drained of blood! They’re afraid to put it in the paper, but it’s true.”

“What do you mean, ‘drained of blood’? How do you know that?”

“Everyone knows it.”

Across the way an elderly gentleman glared at them and made a shushing sound.

The woman gave her a meaningful look, then returned to her keen perusal of armor-plated cocktail dresses.

Grace hesitated, glanced at the elderly gentleman who had resumed scowling over
The Economist,
then leaned toward the
British Vogue
reader. “But
how
do you know it’s true?”

“My boyfriend works for
The Clarion
. The police won’t let them print it. They don’t want to start a panic.”

Rehearsal that evening broke up early, with both Derek and Theresa excusing themselves for urgent appointments. They departed in much-emphasized opposite directions, which only served to focus suspicion on them.

Catriona laughed off her husband’s dark expression, teasing, “Oh, to be young and in love with someone you’re not married to.”

“Are you speaking from experience?” Ruthven retorted.

This served only to entertain Catriona further.

As the Innisdale Players cast and crew packed it in for another night, there was a general invitation to head over to the pub for a pint. To Grace’s disappointment, Catriona declined. Having had her suspicion that Catriona was the woman Peter had expected to meet in the graveyard confirmed, Grace was increasingly curious about her.

Of course Catriona was married, but who knew what that might mean in this day and age. It meant something to Grace, and she hoped it meant something to Peter.

She had managed to convince herself that the change in Peter coincided with the first robbery. But Grace couldn’t help wondering if she was trying to deflect the blame for her troubled relationship by coming up with some wild theory of a connection between Peter and Catriona—the connection being these burglaries? How much easier on her pride to blame Peter’s waning interest on his criminal past rather than on her own inadequacies.

It was almost certainly coincidence that the arrival of the Ruthvens had shortly followed the first robbery.