A Photographic Death (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

I
T WAS TIME
to check my iPad for e-mails again, as I had been doing every twenty minutes. There was another volley of messages from BookEm.com, mostly lists of books other dealers were offering for sale, and a query about mailing books to Russia. Ads from Amazon and L.L. Bean—and an e-mail from Will’s Boy.

I went to that first. Nothing else mattered.

Meet me at the Christmas Market. First clue: If music be the food of love, play on.

First clue?

I typed back
What kind of music?

My kind.

Was there entertainment at the market? It was the time of year for carols. In my mind I saw a stringed group playing “Greensleeves” or “The Holly and the Ivy” on a small platform, shoppers sleepwalking in front of them. I’d wait there until Will’s Boy came up to me.

I tried tamping down my excitement, but couldn’t help fumbling with my jacket zipper. Could we really be about to find Caitlin? I wasn’t sure why he was making it into a game, but I didn’t care. Maybe he had grown up with Caitlin right here in Stratford.

Be still, my heart.

Outside the hotel it was even colder but the world was ablaze. Fir trees everywhere were outlined with strings of red and white bulbs, garlands with large stars in the center were strung across the streets. Even if I had not known how to get to Henley Street, I would only have needed to follow the crush of people headed in one direction.

When I stepped onto Henley Street, the Christmas Market seemed to stretch out forever, booths under blue-and-white striped awnings on one side and stands with separate blue-and-yellow umbrellas on the other. I paused, able to see my breath in the freezing air, and tried to hear the music. But though I could smell the burnt meaty odor of roasting chestnuts, and blinked at the lights, which seemed to be in competition as to which could shine brightest, I could pick out nothing but the cries of voices around me.

I was only at the beginning, I told myself. Maybe the music was softer and playing farther down.

The stalls I passed displayed expensive leather purses, hand-knitted scarves, mittens, and gourmet foodstuffs. Keeping to the center of Henley Street, I tried to avoid the clog of serious shoppers eager to fill their bags. I didn’t let myself think that maybe this treasure hunt was only a cruel joke, a way for someone to have a bit of fun.

Then I saw a display of antique instruments, mandolins, flutes, and miniature keyboards ahead on my right. Will’s kind of music? Dubiously I edged over until I was directly in front of a man in a tweed cap with a pleasant grizzled face.

“Can I interest you in a French lute, ducky?”

It was impossible not to laugh. “Maybe. I’m supposed to be meeting somebody, but I’m not sure who.”

“Ah.” He reached under the wooden table, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to me. “I think this is what you want.”

“Really?” I took out the paper inside and read it aloud.
“Then heigh-ho the holly. This life is most jolly.”

“
As You Like It
,” he said.

“But what does it mean?”

“Why not go to a booth that sells Christmas wreaths. Down another street.”

Was everyone in on this game?

“Who gave this to you?”

“Swore me to secrecy, he did. Said it was to be a surprise.”

“Well . . . thanks.”

I moved on, stepping around people, looking for Jane as I walked.

The booth in the next block that sold decorations and wreaths had been left in the charge of a teenage girl. She stood shivering and sullen in a red wool coat.

I smiled at her. “Do you have a message for me?”

She gave me a foggy look, as if I had asked for something not in her job description.

“Did someone leave a piece of paper with you for me to pick up?” I prompted.

A shake of the head, then she turned to straighten a boxwood kissing ball.

I stood watching her, uncertain what to do. If the man at the first booth hadn’t directed me here, I would have moved on and looked for another stand selling greenery.

“Nobody gave you an envelope,” I confirmed.

Her eyes flashed. “You didn’t
say
envelope.”

I love you too.

Reaching under the counter, she yanked it out by one white corner, nearly throwing it at me. I didn’t bother to ask any questions about who had left it with her.

Moving out of reach in case she decided to snatch it back, I extracted the message.
Dost thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale?

Cakes and ale? Every second booth seemed to be selling something to eat or drink. How could I possibly stop and ask at each one if they had a message for me? The crazy American lady looking for signs and portents.
Do you have a message for me? Yes—get a life.
I reminded myself that this was a matter of life and death, that my ego didn’t count.
Think.
Not every stand sold alcohol. I could bypass those dedicated to gingerbread castles, gourmet teas, and foods that came in a tin.

There was a jerk on my jacket sleeve. “Mom?”

I turned and saw Jane. She was red-cheeked and breathless and carrying several bags. “You didn’t say you were coming!”

“I wasn’t. But then I got an e-mail from Will’s Boy.”

“Really? He wrote back?”

“He gave me some ‘clues’ to follow.”

“Listen, I’m in the midst of getting something, it’s for you, so you can’t see. I was about to pay for it when I saw you. Go on ahead and I’ll catch up.”

She hurried away and I kept walking, finally understanding that
none
of the booths was selling beer or ale. Perhaps there was a regulation against it. But up ahead on my left, standing alone beyond the last striped umbrella, was a pub. Was that where Will’s Boy meant?

As I approached the weathered wooden door of the Singing Bard wreathed in decorative lights of its own, a high-pitched voice called from the alleyway beyond, “Over here!”

I stopped. Was Will’s Boy a
woman
? I had never pictured my correspondent as anything but a young man.
Caitlin?
Could it possibly be Caitlin herself? Breathless, I moved quickly around to the passageway, but couldn’t see anyone in the darkness.

There was a laugh. “Don’t be afraid. In here.”

How long had she been standing in the cold waiting for me? Had she been tracking my progress through the fair, watching me pick up the clues, staying a few feet behind? For all I knew, she had been at my shoulder and darted ahead when I stopped to talk to Jane. It made sense; she
wanted
me to find her. If she saw I was losing the trail, she might decide to confront me directly or change her plan.

In contrast to the lights of the Christmas fair, the tinkle of “Good King Wenceslas” coming from a faraway booth, the alley looked cold and dark. But I stepped into it eagerly. I could finally make out the silhouette of a figure slouched against the building. The excitement, bubbling through my chest and into my throat, was choking me. Would I actually meet Caitlin tonight? Now?
Had she been here in Stratford all along?

“Mrs. Fitzhugh?”

“Yes!” But why was she or he—now it sounded more like a young man—calling me by that name? In the spirit of the times, I had never taken Colin’s name, I had never called myself anything but Delhi Laine. I had put no name at all on the poster. But of course—it was Caitlin’s last name too. Whoever this was knew her name.

The figure turned toward me wearing the ubiquitous hoodie, but when I saw the face, I nearly screamed. Where the face
should
have been was a gaudy mask, the visage of Shakespeare, complete with a papier-mâché mustache and ruffed collar.

Will’s Boy.

“So you finally came back.”

“
Caitlin?
Is that you?”

“Mummy?” The figure moved toward me as if for an embrace, then stepped back with a laugh. “What made you come here now?”

“To find you! What?” The mask muffled a comment I could not make out. “Someone sent a note saying you hadn’t drowned.” I could barely get the words out. “So I came back and found you’d been kidnapped by a woman named Priscilla Waters.”

The figure stumbled back slightly, then recovered. “Who said that?”

“It’s a long story. But—”

“Tell me.” The voice was suddenly lower, unmistakably male, and I felt a sick disappointment. Not my daughter.

“The police know we’re here, but I just found out about Priscilla. She’s dead, of course, she got what she deserved, but still—what happened to Caitlin after she died?”

“All you can think about is your daughter?” The high-pitched voice squeaked higher in anger. ”You Americans are such pigs.”

“Who else should I care about?” My disappointment flared into anger matching his. “Not what happened to some bitch who kidnapped her!”

Suddenly he was moving around behind me and I was terrified he would leave by the back of the alley. “No, wait!”

When I felt the zipper of my jacket press against my throat, I wondered what was wrong. Then I realized the pressure was from his arm, bringing me against him. I started to cough, and then was choking. What was he doing?

Instinctively I bent my knee and jammed my foot against his leg. Too low for his groin, but it caught him off balance and loosened his grip, enough for me to thrust my head forward and then back against his chin. A crack sounded as the papier-mâché shattered in the cold.

He yelped as the material pinched his face. “
You’re
the bitch.”

I tried banging his leg with my other foot, but this time he was ready, shifting out of the way like a dancer.

His arm tightened more, and spots pulsed in front of my eyes, red, blue, yellow.
Out, out damn spot. I’m going to die.
Leaning forward, I made one desperate thrust with my body, pulling us both to the left.

As we went down, I knew it would hurt.

Chapter Twenty-Two

T
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my throat relaxed as his arm hit the ground, just enough to allow me to take a breath. “Help! Somebody help!” I knew it wasn’t loud enough for anyone to hear. Yet I thought I heard, “Mom? Mom!” A sudden excruciating pain on my arm as Will extricated himself and pressed down against me to stand up. A scrape of pebbles on cement as he ran from the light.

“Mom! Mom, are you okay?” Someone was pulling at my shoulder, creating a fast- spreading pain throughout my back.

I wanted the pain to stop, but I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t even open my eyes.

“Is she breathing? What happened?” A deeper voice, a man’s. “Maudie, call the station. Tell them we need the doctor too.”

“It’s my mother! This guy had her on the ground, choking her. He got up and ran away when I started yelling.” Jane sounded frantic.

“Here, let me.” A heavier hand, this time on my chest. “Okay now. She’s breathing, she’s okay. Your mother will be okay. The constable will bring a medic.”

Now I did open my eyes and looked up at a ruddy-faced man. Jane was kneeling at my other side, many other people behind them. I wanted to say that I was okay but my throat hurt too much to talk.

“The constable’s on his way,” someone from the crowd of people called over.

I thought about pushing up on one elbow, but I couldn’t make myself move.

“Did he get your purse, love?” An older woman with frameless glasses was holding on to the kneeling man. Kind, so kind, someone who would serve you a cuppa in a tearoom with a warm smile.

He hadn’t been interested in my purse. I realized it was the lumpy bulk I was lying on. “No,” I whispered.

“That’s a blessing.” But she was shaking her head. “For such a terrible thing to happen here of all places, and during the fair!”

The man again. “What’s keeping that constable?”

As he pushed himself up, I saw that he was wearing a white bar apron and was in his shirtsleeves.

The police, yes. I needed the police.

C
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by a man who must have been the doctor, arrived at the Singing Bard shortly after that. The constable didn’t hide his dismay at the attack, stooping down as he watched the doctor examine me and closing his eyes ingratitude when it was ascertained that I was only bruised. By then I had pushed up into a sitting position, Jane supporting my back. But both men insisted I go to the hospital to be checked out.

The drive to Warwick Hospital through the dark countryside took nearly fifteen minutes. When I shifted, trying to get comfortable in the police cruiser seat the pain was slightly less than at first, but I was dazed, as if I had been dropped from a high building. I had been attacked other times while trying to discover the truth of a situation, but this felt deeply personal, as if he would have
enjoyed
choking the life out of me. Yet he had seemed friendly enough in the beginning  . . .

I wasn’t allowed to walk into the hospital by myself, an orderly pushed my wheelchair, but I was left in the waiting room with Jane until a doctor could examine me. Constable Bradford, his expressive face etched with concern, once again made sure we had tea. Then he settled himself in the chair next to mine.

“D’you think this has to do with what you were telling DCI Sampson?”

“I know it does.” For several minutes I felt too exhausted to explain, too assaulted by the clinically bright lights of the room, but finally I did.

As soon as I began talking, the constable pulled out a small black notebook and started taking notes. “I’ll make sure DCI Sampson sees my report,” Constable Bradford promised when I was finished and sat back exhausted, eyes closed. Then I reminded him, “Don’t forget the man at the antique instruments booth. He seemed to know who he was.”

“We’ll check with him first thing,” he promised.

Given her earlier concern, I might have expected Jane to hover over me, to make sure that answering his questions wasn’t too much for me. To keep checking on how I felt and trying to do things for me. Instead she wandered around the waiting area, stopping now and then to text on her phone. Yet I knew Jane. Given how terrified she had been, how frightened she was that I was dying, she
had
to believe that I would be fine, needed to act as if that were true.

And I knew it was true.

A half hour later a doctor confirmed that nothing had been broken, though much was bruised.

Bruised, but not broken. The story of my life.