Wherever Lynn Goes (26 page)

“It worked,” Lloyd said. “It took three months, but it worked. I've got what I wanted.”

“A lot of this was my own reconstruction. I was right, then?”

“In every detail. It's almost uncanny.”

“I'm pretty good at this sort of thing—you might say it's the way I make my living. I'd like to take all the credit, but actually I had some remarkable and quite unexpected help. I picked up a point or two as I listened to Herbie there chat with Lynn. Of course,
she
deserves the real applause for finding the map. That came as a complete surprise. You'll have to tell me how you discovered it was there, love.”

“I'm afraid there's no time,” Lloyd said grimly.

“No? I see. You've got the map, you'll get the jewels, and now you intend to murder us.”

“Right again.”

“You intend to shoot us in cold
blood?
”

“In cold blood.”

“That's it!” Bart called. “We've got it all.”

The hall was suddenly alive with policemen. They came swarming noisily from the parlor, from the library, from the back of the house, at least half a dozen of them. One grabbed Lloyd's wrist and wrestled the gun from him; another pounced on him from behind, throwing a blue-clad arm around his throat, pulling him back. I heard the shouts, the pounding footsteps, and saw the struggle. Constable Plimpton stepped into the room, looking flustered and disturbed and all at sea. Lloyd fought desperately, and the policeman who had him by the throat lost his grip. Breaking loose, Lloyd dashed to the door. Another stout bobby made a flying tackle, and both of them crashed to the floor. Two of his colleagues ran to help, and there was a tangle of arms and legs and flying fists. Hopelessly outnumbered, realizing the futility of further struggle, Lloyd finally stood still, his face ashen.

“Pugnacious chap, isn't he?” Bart remarked.

I pulled away from him. “They were here all along. You
knew!
That's why you were so cocky.”

“Naturally. I'm not that brave.”

“You—you used me as
bait!
”

“More or less,” he said amiably.

Leaving me standing there, he moved on down the stairs and stepped nimbly over the unconscious Sheppard. He pulled a tape recorder out from under a heavily carved chair. I was livid, all other emotions eclipsed by the cold, icy rage that surged inside. They had allowed me to be frightened half to death, just so they could get all the facts on tape. They had been hovering nearby, listening, watching, while I went through unspeakable mental torture. I had been kept in the dark. I had been heartlessly used.

As Bart removed the reel of tape, there was pounding on the front door, and one of the bobbies opened it, to admit a severely disapproving Sergeant Duncan. Mandy, of course, was right behind him. She wore his heavy police mackintosh over her pink slack suit, her hair was a mass of wet, tawny gold ringlets, and, naturally, she looked positively ravishing. Arching one brow, she quickly took in the scene in the hall: Sheppard's body, Lloyd being held by three bobbies, Bart with the reel in his hand. Then she saw me standing on the stairs.

“It looks like I've missed all the action,” she said dryly. “I insisted Douglas bring me in earlier, but he wouldn't hear of it. It's really shockingly unfair. After all, this was my brainchild. I'm the one who figured everything out, and then Bart hogged in and the police took over and—Lynn, I have so much to
tell
you.”

“You certainly do!” I snapped.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I stood at the back window, looking out at the gray cityscape. Smoke curled, making a blue-gray haze against an already hazy sky, and a lonely pigeon perched on a window ledge, looking discouraged. It had rained for the past four days, and London seemed bleak, all liveliness and vitality dampened by the depressing weather. I felt pensive, a tenuous sadness inside. Thank goodness I was leaving. At last it looked as though I would be able to work. I had rented a small cottage in Cornwall for the summer and, alone, with nothing to distract me, I should be able to finish the book.

My bags were packed. My recently purchased secondhand car was parked out in front of the building under the wet trees. Mandy, crushed that I was leaving, and promising to write faithfully, had already said good-bye and dashed off to rehearsals of the new comedy to open in the West End next month. It wasn't the BBC, alas, nothing so prestigious, and Mandy wouldn't get to play Nell Gwynn, but it was the latest work of one of the most commercially successful playwrights in the business, and a surefire hit. She was wildly enthusiastic about the role, her most important to date.

Although she hated to see me leave, Mandy would have very little time to miss me. She would have her hands full with the play, and with Douglas Duncan, no longer a sergeant. That was Mandy's doing. After seeing him in the dress rehearsal of
She Stoops to Conquer
at the school auditorium, she had phoned her agent, vowed she'd discovered a fabulous new talent, and insisted he come down for the opening. After seeing the sergeant in action, Herbie had signed him on the spot. I wasn't at all surprised. On stage, Douglas had complete confidence and aplomb, a terrific presence. He seemed to be blessed with a natural gift for acting. He had turned in his uniform, moved to London bag and baggage, taken a flat directly beneath ours in the building, and was already filming a commercial for Male Man shaving lotion. He was also taking voice lessons for his Scots accent. Although Doug seemed rather nonchalant about it, Mandy was elated with his new career, certain he would be a roaring success. They spent all their free time together. No, Mandy wouldn't miss me.

Sighing, I turned away from the window and walked down the hall to the living room. My bags were piled in the center of the floor, the three file boxes, typewriter, bundles of books beside them. Douglas, who had driven Mandy to rehearsal in his battered old car, had promised to help me carry the things down as soon as he got back. It was after one now. He should be back soon. Restless, I stepped to the front window and looked down at the tiny park surrounded by its wrought-iron fence. Even the trees looked dispirited, as if they were huddling together to avoid the drizzle. What a day for starting a motor trip, I thought, but I had put it off long enough. I needed to get away. I needed to get to work.

He hadn't come to see me. He hadn't called, not once. I knew he was here in the city, in his posh flat in Chelsea. Frightfully busy, Mandy had informed me. Oh yes,
she
had seen him. He had been in London for a week. Well, if he did call he would discover I was gone. It was ridiculous for me to stay around, hoping. Everything was over. The house had been sold. Clive, Mandy's antiques-dealer friend, had purchased all the valuable furniture and antiques, paying a more-than-generous sum. The books and the few items I had wanted to keep were in storage, and the rest had been given to the needy in Cooper's Green under Myrtle's dictatorial supervision.

Sheppard and Lloyd were in jail, awaiting trial, and the jewels had been claimed by the insurance company that had reimbursed for their loss twenty years ago. Almost a month had passed since that nightmare night, and I was not going to make a fool of myself simply because Bartholomew Cooper hadn't shown any further interest.

I sat down on the sofa, impatient, wishing Douglas would hurry. Spying the brightly jacketed thriller there on the coffee table in front of me, I picked it up, resentful. The new Brad Carter, just off the press, not even in the stores yet. He had given it to Mandy. I turned it over, studying the photograph on the back of the jacket. Brad Carter, author of a dozen best-selling thrillers, his face incredibly handsome. It was rather sinister here, but that was what the photographer had intended, a matter of lighting and shadow. The eyebrows, comically tilting in real life, arched diabolically in the picture, and that wide, good-natured mouth seemed here to curl in a derisive sneer. His face, yet not his face at all. That's why Mandy had been puzzled when she saw him for the first time.

They had been in league together almost from the first Sheppard
had
broken into the house that first night, and Bart had discovered signs of it. He had been far more disturbed than he had appeared, so, while I took my walk, he and Mandy had had a long talk. She had learned his true identity, and she had told him all about the phone calls, about Daphne's hysterical call the night she was murdered. Stubbornly convinced that Colonel March had been innocent, Mandy had found a strong ally in Bart, who had never once entertained the thought that the old man could have murdered her. They had agreed to put their heads together, collaborate, so to speak, and both had felt I would be better off not knowing anything about it.

Myrtle's tale had given Mandy food for thought, and Bart had phoned one of his police friends in London to request any information available on Bill Morgan. I had gone to the funeral. I had met Cassie in the square. That afternoon I had met her in the woods and, on my return, related everything to Lloyd over the telephone. Eavesdropping, Mandy had thought it peculiar that Lloyd had told me not to inform the police. His tale about Scotland Yard men had fooled me, but Mandy had been doubtful. When I had received another anonymous call that night, she had been convinced that Lloyd was behind it. With the exception of Herbie, her agent, Lloyd had been the only other person who had known the number.

Bart had gone the next morning, using our quarrel as an excuse, making a big scene of arriving at the inn with his baggage, letting it be broadcast that he was no longer staying at the house. He had had every intention of returning at night, on the sly, hoping to catch the man who had broken in, who, thinking no male was around, might be bolder. After we had discovered the letters, Mandy had begun to add things up. She had phoned Bart at the inn to explain what had happened. He had had news of his own: His police friend had uncovered the whole story about the robbery, and added that Herb Sheppard had escaped from prison just three months previously and was still at large. Bart also had been interested to hear that Sheppard's nephew was an up-and-coming young lawyer, Lloyd Raymond. Quick as lightning, Mandy, the inveterate addict of thrillers, and Bart, who wrote them, had understood the whole complicated plot.

They had decided to set a trap.

Mandy had made a second call—to Lloyd. She had told him that Bart had gone and she was going to have to leave for London and I would be alone. Could she count on his arriving? She was worried about me, she had said. I had been talking about my father, saying something about a robbery and missing jewels, and, quite frankly, she feared that the strain had been too much for me. She didn't want me to be alone in the house. Lloyd had assured her that he would arrive before nightfall.

Mandy had driven me to the jumble sale, then gone directly to the police station. Bart was already there. Cassie's body had just been discovered, and the place was in chaos. Together, they had explained everything to Constable Plimpton.

Then the police had taken over.

When we had come back from the jumble sale, Mandy had had to draw upon every bit of acting skill she possessed, knowing what she knew, knowing that she was going to have to leave me alone. I had sensed something wrong, so she had told me about my father, hoping that bit of information would keep me from asking more questions. As they had arranged, Bart had called, and she had pretended he was Herbie. During the next hour, she had given a performance that, had it been on film, would surely have won her every award in the book. I had driven her to the station, and she had made sure I left her before the train actually came in. When I had returned to the house, it had been literally full of policemen. Bart had been there too, of course, and it was a wonder I hadn't seen any of them. I had been nervous and tense, waiting for Lloyd, and Myrtle had come and told me about Cassie, and then I had been alone again—or thought I was—and I had begun to figure things out for myself. I had discovered the map, which was something none of them had counted on. Finding the map really had been my only contribution to the whole affair.

Sheppard had been hiding out in an empty cottage in the area. He had kept in touch with Lloyd by telephone. Lloyd evidently had phoned him, told him what Mandy had said and that he himself would be arriving that night. Sheppard had been impatient. He hadn't wanted to wait any longer. As soon as night had fallen, he had left the cottage, driven through the woods, parked his car under the trees, and come to the house … I shuddered, remembering the horror. I had been in no real danger, of course, but
I
hadn't known that. I was still angry when I thought about how they'd used me.

Lost in thought, I found that I was still holding the book. I put it down; front side up, hiding that handsome face, which seemed to mock me. Bart had arranged everything with Hampton through his own lawyer, and the second will, Daphne's hasty, impulsive gesture, had been declared void. Despite my reservations about the man, Hampton had proved himself most efficient, finding a buyer for the house in less than a week. I got a most generous amount, which, combined with what I'd received from Clive, would enable me to do exactly as I pleased for a number of years. I had bought the second-hand car, the first I'd ever owned, and through an agency in London I'd rented the cottage in Cornwall for the summer, sight unseen. I was eager to work. Even if this first book proved a failure, I'd be financially free to start another one immediately.

I would immerse myself in work. Work would be wonderful therapy. I'd soon forget those merry blue eyes and dark, improbably tilting eyebrows. He
wasn't
shiftless, a ne'er-do-well living off his brother. I understood now why he had rented the rooms over the carriage house, why he had preferred the quiet and isolation to his flat in London, but, just the same, he was impossible, far too sure of himself. I was glad he hadn't called, I told myself. I didn't want to have my life disrupted by the likes of Bartholomew Cooper, or Brad Carter, or anyone, for that matter.