Warriors (42 page)

AMBROSE GUNNED THE YELLOW PERIL
perilously quickly through the corners on the narrow and rain-slick county lane. It was a pitch-black night. His yellow-tinted headlamps were not the very latest technology, better in fog than on a clear night like this. There were deer in these woods. Hit one at speed in his small yellow growler and he’d be done for himself as well as the deer.

He pressed on into the countryside.

He was headed for a small village he’d never heard of. Called Haversham and located about thirty miles outside of Cambridge proper. Inspector Cummings had given him an address to plug into his Garmin GPS and said he was headed to a country house, some drafty old pile or other called Ravenswood.

A blackbird, Pelham had said, attacked the child. Yes, certainly. A trained raven. It all made sense. The house was owned by a Dr. Moon. A well-respected professor at Cambridge, Cummings said on the phone. Chinese, actually. Hardly likely to be involved in a heinous crime like this one, he said. Ah. Well, it was all adding up now, wasn’t it?

Watanabe had died a horrific death, subjected to an ancient Chinese form of torture called the Shining Basket. Perhaps the woman Pelham had seen escaping was someone who very well may have killed his old friend? Entirely possible. But he couldn’t prove it. Not yet, anyway.

Why on earth had a distinguished professor tried to murder Alex Hawke’s son?

Alex Hawke, who only half an hour ago had been on the telephone with Ambrose Congreve. Alex, furious about what had happened in his absence but under control, of course, wanting to leave Florida and fly back to England immediately . . . find whoever had murdered Sabrina . . . and remove the threat to Alexei.

He’d managed to calm his lordship down after a bit. Told him about the child’s minor injuries, that he was spending the night in hospital with Pelham by his side, two men from Scotland Yard posted outside his door. That he’d already ordered massive security out from the Yard to put Hawkesmoor on a lockdown. The local constabulary was already doing a crime scene investigation while others were searching the grounds for any hint of evidence. Crime scene police were still with the murder victim, an ambulance on scene . . .

And then he’d reminded Hawke of the seriousness of his mission. He had the world on his shoulders again, and it was no time now to just slough it off. And, in the end, Hawke had agreed. But he demanded round-the-clock presence at Hawkesmoor from Scotland Yard Royal Protection starting tonight. Congreve had assured him once more that his home would be crawling with Royal Protection Squad men by daybreak.

Well before the child and Pelham returned home.

He mashed on the accelerator. 80 . . . 85 . . . 90 . . .

He was getting as much out of the old girl as he could squeeze. He looked over at his murder bag on the single seat beside him. The last time he’d opened it, at Watanabe’s cottage, it was because he needed his gun. He had an idea he might need it again tonight. He reached inside, felt the reassuring cold steel, and withdrew the weapon. Also, an extra box of hollow-point cartridges, which he stuffed into the pocket of his coat.

Half an hour later, speeding through the woods, he was just slowing for a tight right-hander when he saw the huge black iron gates looming up in front of him. His headlamps played across them, and he caught a glimpse of the ornate word
RAVENSWOOD
fashioned out of gilded wrought iron standing atop both gates. They were both ajar, as if someone had hastily forgotten to close them.

He put his wheel hard over, skidded a bit on some wet leaves from the afternoon showers, straightened her out, and headed for the narrow opening.

There was a lodge to either side of the drive. When he was perhaps twenty yards away, two men leaped out directly in front of him, automatic weapons coming up. He tapped the high-beam button with his foot and flicked on the powerful searchlight mounted on his windscreen.

Something must have done the trick because they dove to either side as he sped right through.

He heard the chatter of automatic fire behind him and waited to hear the thump of multiple slugs slamming into the thin-skinned Peril’s boot.

Or his own damn boot for that matter.

Neither happened.

He’d rounded a sharpish curve while heading into the deeper woods just as they’d opened fire. Dark clouds heavy with rain hid the moon. It was dark as devil’s night, and without the powerful spotlight hinged from his windscreen, he would have had an extremely rough time staying on the road. At least the rain had held off for the nonce.

It was the longest private drive by far he’d ever been on. Where the hell was the bloody house? At this rate, he’d need a petrol station before he got there!

He saw lights.

House lights, flickering through the skeletal black trees. He slowed the Peril and doused his spotlight and the headlamps. Only a few more turnings and he’d arrive at the porte-cochere entrance.

CONGREVE SLOWED TO A STOP
at the front of the very grim-looking residence of Dr. Chyna Moon.

There were only a few faint lights glowing from within.

He extricated himself from his machine and proceeded to walk down the gravel drive to the walled-in forecourt, the gate of which was open. Heavy drops of rain began to spatter the bricks, and he raised his beloved Swiss army knife umbrella, grateful Diana had once more insisted he bring it along.

The old silver Roller was tucked in between a vintage motorcycle and a pair of much sprightlier vehicles, an older British racing green Aston Martin DB4 and a shiny red Ferrari Berlinetta. Professor Moon was either a collector of vintage sports cars or she had guests who were. He went round to the long, louvered bonnet of the Rolls and laid his hand on it. Still quite warm. Faint ticking noises from within. No surprises there.

Ascending the wide steps to the entrance, he took his time. The murderer was to be found within these walls. No doubt the two armed thugs at the entrance had announced his arrival. He reached into his left-hand jacket pocket and pulled his snub-nosed revolver. Inserting it inside his waistband, he buttoned his tweed jacket over it.

He heard a muffle of voices from within. Two high-pitched female, one deep male.

Apparently, thanks to the minor gate episode, he was expected.

He rang the bell, then rapped smartly on the door with the stout wooden handle of his beloved brolly, the MI6 “Special Edition,” as he now thought of it.

C
H A P T E R
  5 8

T
he front door was swung wide by a man who blotted out all light from within. A man with a voice that seemed to resonate from the bottomless pits of hell.

“Good evening, sir. May I help you?” he said.

This beast of a fellow had the flutiest English accent imaginable. He seemed a footman in the old sense, cutaway jacket with polished brass buttons, knee breeches, white stockings, and brogues. He had a sleek, bullet-shaped head atop his bull neck and massive shoulders. And, beneath brushy black eyebrows, two small black and stone-dead eyes that belied his wan smile. Ambrose had the distinct impression he’d seen this character somewhere before.

But where?

On the telly, that’s where.

He had been some kind of a TV wrestler back in the mid-nineties. What was his name? Ah, yes, Optimus Prime. “The Brute,” they’d called him back then. Who could forget him? This Prime looked like his true heart’s desire would be to place his palms on either side of your skull and squeeze slowly but forcefully until you literally blew your top, volcano fashion. Ambrose forced a smile.

“Ah, yes. Terribly sorry about the hour. I would very much like to speak with Dr. Moon. Is she at home by any chance?”

“Whom shall I say is calling at this hour, sir?”

“Chief Inspector Congreve,” he said, “of Scotland Yard. A matter of some urgency.”

“Won’t you step inside, sir? She’s in the library, busy with her studies, I’m afraid. I’ll locate Madame and ask if she is receiving.”

“Thank you so much,” Congreve said, stifling an almost overwhelming urge to add “My good man.”

Optimus Prime stomped off down the hall and disappeared into the interior darkness. Congreve heard the squeal of a door, and suddenly an oblique rectangle of yellow light slid across the black-and-white marble checkerboard floor of the great hall.

Five minutes later, the famous brawler was back.

“Yes. Madame will see you now. She’s waiting in the library. May I offer you some refreshment? A sherry? Brandy?”

“No, thank you.”

“Right this way, sir.”

“GOOD EVENING, DR. MOON,” AMBROSE
said, making his way toward the vast crimson silk sofa where she’d arranged herself rather grandly, as if she were sitting for a formal portrait. He was aware of a large number of tall glass showcases filled with beady-eyed blackbirds perched atop realistic ceramic tree branches and inside smaller glass display cases in every corner of the room. And there was a lingering scent of perfume in the air. Shalimar. The very same fragrance he’d detected at Watanabe’s cottage.

He said, “Terribly sorry about the appalling hour, Professor. Please forgive me.”

“Not at all, Chief Inspector, not at all. I’m a night owl, as you can see.”

She extended a long slender arm, encased to the elbow in tight emerald silk. Her protruding bloodred fingernails looked capable of plowing whole fields, and her many-jeweled rings glittered darkly in the firelight from the hearth. Her black eyes were ferocious, he noted, somewhat taken aback at their intensity.

He took the proffered hand.

Her handshake was like taking hold of a few little breadsticks in a silk sachet. She smiled, turning her face up into the light so he could get a look at her delicately rouged cheeks and colored lips, a practiced seductress of many conquests. And perhaps older than one might guess at first glance.

It was immediately apparent that this was not the murderess described as leaving the scene. This was an elegant woman of a certain age, not the pretty young thing in the short dress with chopped-off shiny black hair. The young woman Pelham had so vividly described.

“How do you do, Chief Inspector? To what do I owe the dubious honor of this wholly unexpected visit?”

“Ah, Madame. There’s been a crime, I’m afraid.”

“Really? What kind of crime?”

“Murder.”

“The worst kind. Who was the victim?”

“A young woman of my acquaintance. She worked as a child’s guardian. Miss Sabrina Churchill. She was a Royal Protection officer from Scotland Yard. A woman in the employ of the child’s father, a gentleman named Lord Alexander Hawke. Shortly after midnight, his lordship’s butler heard a commotion upstairs in the nursery. He rushed up to find the poor Churchill girl already dead upon the floor. She’d apparently been viciously pecked to death by some kind of killer bird, although it’s too early to tell if that was the actual cause of death.”

“How horrid.”

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about all this, but, really, Chief Inspector, please tell me, precisely what it is that brings you here to Ravenswood?”

“Facts.”

“Such as?”

“Upon entering the nursery, the butler in question actually saw the alleged murderer leaving the scene. She was in the act of climbing out a window onto a balcony that overlooked the car park. He got a good look at her. Also, a good look at the number plate on her car. The vehicle in question was a silver Rolls-Royce Phantom. Number plate reads ‘MAO,’ as in Chairman Mao. Sound familiar?”

“Indeed it does, Chief Inspector. That’s my car.”

“Have you driven that car this evening?”

“No.”

“Where is that car now?”

“In the car park out there with the others.”

“Does anyone besides yourself have permission to drive it?”

“Yes, of course. My dear butler and chauffeur, whom you’ve met, Optimus Prime. And my companion.”

“Might I have the name of your companion as well?”

“Certainly. Her name is Lorelei Li.”

Congreve was jolted by the familiar name but managed to conceal it. A lot of questions he’d harbored about the glamorous young
Times
stringer now tumbled into place.

“I see. Is Miss Li available? I would like to have a word with her.”

“She’s not available, I’m afraid. She retired early this evening, shortly after supper. Some kind of a stomach bug, I think. Running a fever. Quite ill. I wanted to call our local physician in, but she was having none of it. So I gave her a sedative and some warm milk and put her to bed.”

“I see. And what time might that have been?”

“Who knows? Shortly after eight, I imagine. Yes, the clock in the center hall had just struck the bells.”

“Where is her room? Does she live in this house?”

“Yes. A guest suite up on the third floor.”

“And you say she’s been in her room ever since eight
P
.
M
.?”

“She has.”

“She is a suspect in a homicide. I must insist on seeing her.”

“Perhaps if you’ll come back tomorrow? We’ll see if she’s feeling better.”

“Dr. Moon, listen carefully. Scotland Yard is conducting a murder investigation. A woman fitting Lorelei Li’s description was seen leaving the scene of that murder less than one hour ago in an automobile now sitting outside in your car park. The bonnet is still warm, the engine still ticking. I checked.”

“How very clever you are.”

“Perhaps I may come up with a better suspect in days to come. Anything is possible. But right now your companion resides at the very top of my very own short list. Have your butler bring her down here for questioning. Now.”

“Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like something to drink before you go? A bone stiffener? Frightfully cold out.”

“No, thank you. I came here to arrest Miss Li on suspicion of murder and that is what I intend to do. Based upon your lack of cooperation with this investigation, I may well charge you with being an accessory after the fact and obstruction of justice.”

“The woman is ill. Why can’t you believe the truth?”