In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (46 page)

At last he turned and looked at the house. “I think it’s time,” he said softly.

She, too, turned to face the house. The wind swept the lawn, bringing with it the smell of dead leaves and chill earth. The scent of autumn, she thought. Too soon, winter would be upon them….

She eased away from the hedge and began to move through the shadows. Jordan was right behind her.

They crossed the lawn, their shoes sinking into wet grass.

Beneath the bedroom balcony they crouched to reassess the situation. They heard only the wind and the rustle of leaves.

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“I’ll go first,” he said.

Before she could protest, he was scrambling up the wisteria vine. She winced at the rattle of branches, expecting at any moment that the balcony doors would fly open, that Whitmore would appear waving a shotgun. Lucky for them, old Whitmore still seemed to be a sound sleeper.

Jordan made it all the way up without a hitch.

Clea followed and dropped noiselessly onto the balcony.

“Locked,” said Jordan, trying the doorknob.

“Expected as much,” she whispered. “Move away.” He stepped aside and watched in respectful silence as she shone a penlight on the lock. “This should be even easier than the one downstairs,” she whispered and gently inserted the makeshift L-pick she’d fashioned that afternoon using a wire hanger and a pair of pliers. “Circa 1920.

Probably came with the house. Let’s hope it’s not so rusty that it bends my…” She gave a soft chuckle of satisfaction as the lock clicked open. Glancing at Jordan she said wryly, “There’s nothing like a good stiff tool.” He answered, just as wryly, “I’ll remember to keep one on me.”

The room was as she’d remembered it, the medieval curtained bed, the wardrobe and antique dresser, the desk and tea table near the balcony doors. She’d searched the desk and dresser before; now she’d take up where she had left off.

“You search the wardrobe,” she whispered. “I’ll do the nightstands.”

They set to work. By the thin beam of her penlight she examined the contents of the first nightstand. In the drawers she found magazines, cigarettes and various other
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items that told her Guy Delancey had used this bed for activities beyond mere sleeping. A flicker of movement overhead made her aim the penlight at the ceiling. There was a mirror mounted above the bed. To think she had actually considered a romp in this bachelor playpen!

Turning her attention back to the nightstand, she saw that the magazines featured naked ladies galore, and not very attractive ones. Entertainment, no doubt, for the nights Guy couldn’t find female companionship.

She searched the second nightstand and found a similar collection of reading material. So intent was she on poking for hidden drawers, she didn’t notice the creak of floorboards in the hallway. Her only warning was a sharp hiss from Jordan, and then the bedroom door flew open.

The lights sprang on overhead.

Clea, caught in midcrouch beside the bed, could only blink in surprise at the shotgun barrel pointed at her head.

Ten

The gun was wavering ominously in Whitmore’s unsteady grasp. The old butler looked most undignified in his ratty pajamas, but there was no mistaking the glint of triumph in his eyes.

“Gotcha!” he barked. “Thinkin’ to rob a dead man, are you? Think you can get away with it again? Well, I’m not such an old fool!”

“Apparently not,” said Clea. She didn’t dare glance in Jordan’s direction, but off in her peripheral field of vision she spied him crouched beside the wardrobe, out of Whitmore’s view. The old man hadn’t yet realized there were two burglars in the room.

“Come on, come on! Out from behind that bed! Where I can see you!” ordered Whitmore.

Slowly Clea rose to her feet, praying that the man’s trigger finger wasn’t as unsteady as his grip. As she straightened to her full height, Whitmore’s gaze widened.

He focused on her chest, on the unmistakable swell of breasts.

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“Ye’re only a woman,” he marveled.

“Only?” She gave him a wounded look. “How insulting.”

At the sound of her voice, his eyes narrowed. He scanned her grease-blackened face. “You sound familiar.

Do I know you?”

She shook her head.

“Of course! You come to the house with poor Master Delancey! One of his lady friends!” The grip on the shotgun steadied. “Come ’ere, then! Away from the bed, you!”

“You’re not going to shoot me, are you?”

“We’re going to wait for the police. They’ll be here any minute.”

The police. There wasn’t much time. Somehow they had to get that gun away from the old fool.

She caught a glimpse of Jordan, signaling to her, urging her to shift the butler’s gaze toward the left.

“Come on, move out from behind the bed!” ordered Whitmore. “Out where I can get a clear shot if I have to!” Obediently she crawled across the mattress and climbed off. Then she took a sideways step, causing Whitmore to turn leftward. His back was now squarely turned to Jordan.

“I’m not what you think,” she said.

“Denying you’re a common thief, are you?”

“Certainly not a
common
one, anyway.” Jordan was approaching from the rear. Clea forced herself not to stare at him, not to give Whitmore any clue of what was about to happen….

What
was
about to happen? Surely Jordan wouldn’t bop the old codger on the head? It might kill him.

Jordan raised his arms. He was clutching a pair of Guy Delancey’s boxer shorts, was going to pull them like a 432

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hood over old Whitmore’s head. Somehow Clea had to get that gun pointed in another direction. If startled, Whitmore might automatically let fly a round.

She gave a pitiful sob and fell to her knees on the floor.

“You can’t let them arrest me!” she wailed. “I’m afraid of prison!”

“Should’ve thought of that before you broke in,” said Whitmore.

“I was desperate! I had to feed my children. There was no other way….” She began to sob wretchedly.

Whitmore was staring down at her, astonished by this bizarre display. The shotgun barrel was no longer pointed at her head.

That’s when Jordan yanked the boxer shorts over Whitmore’s face.

Clea dived sideways, just as the gun exploded. Pellets whizzed past. She scrambled frantically back to her feet and saw that Jordan already had Whitmore’s arms restrained, and that the gun had fallen from the old man’s grasp. Clea scooped it up and shoved it in the wardrobe.

“Don’t hurt me!” pleaded Whitmore, his voice muffled by the makeshift hood. The boxer shorts had little red hearts. Had Delancey really pranced around in little red hearts? “Please!” moaned Whitmore.

“We’re just going to keep you out of trouble,” said Clea.

Quickly she bound the butler’s hands and feet with Delancey’s silk ties and left him trussed on the bed. “Now you lie there and be a good boy.”

“I promise!”

“And maybe we’ll let you live.”

There was a pause. Then Whitmore asked fearfully,

“What do you mean by
maybe?
”
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“Tell us where Delancey keeps his weapons collection.”

“What weapons?”

“Antique swords. Knives. Where are they?”

“There’s not much time!” hissed Jordan. “Let’s get out of here.”

Clea ignored him.
“Where are they?”
she repeated.

The butler whimpered. “Under the bed. That’s where he keeps them!”

Clea and Jordan dropped to their knees. They saw nothing beneath the rosewood frame but carpet and a few dust balls.

Somewhere in the night, a siren was wailing.

“Time to go,” muttered Jordan.

“No. Wait!” Clea focused on an almost imperceptible crack running the length of the bed frame. A seam in the wood. She reached underneath and tugged.

A hidden drawer glided out.

At her first glimpse of the contents, she gave an involuntary gasp of wonder. Jewels glittered in hammered-gold scabbards. Sword blades of finely tempered Spanish steel lay in gleaming display. In the deepest corner were stored the daggers. There were six of them, all exquisitely crafted.

She knew at once which dagger was the Eye of Kashmir.

The star sapphire mounted in the hilt gave it away.

“They were his pride and joy,” moaned Whitmore. “And now you’re stealing them.”

“I’m only taking one,” said Clea, snatching up the Eye of Kashmir. “And it didn’t belong to him, anyway.” The siren was louder now and closing in.

“Let’s
go!
” said Jordan.

Clea jumped to her feet and started toward the balcony.

“Cheerio!” she called over her shoulder. “No hard feelings, right?”

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“Bloody unlikely!” came the growl from under the boxer shorts.

She and Jordan scrambled down the wisteria vine and took off across the lawn, headed at a mad dash for the woods fringing the property. Just as they reached the cover of trees, a police car careened around the bend, siren screaming. Any second now the police would find Whitmore tied up on the bed and then all hell would break loose. The threat of pursuit was enough to send Jordan and Clea scrambling deep into the woods. Replay of the night we met, thought Clea. Hanging around Jordan Tavistock must be bad luck; it always seemed to bring the police on her tail.

The sting of branches whipping her face, the ache of her muscles, didn’t slow her pace. She kept running, listening for sounds of pursuit. A moment later she heard distant shouting, and she knew the chase had begun.

“Damn,” she muttered, stumbling over a tree root.

“Can you make it?”

“Do I have a choice?”

He glanced back toward the house, toward their pursuers. “I have an idea.” He grabbed her hand and tugged her through a thinning copse of trees. They stumbled into a clearing. Just ahead, they could see the lights of a cottage.

“Let’s hope they don’t keep any dogs about,” he said and started toward the cottage.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Just a small theft. Which, I’m sorry to say, seems to be getting routine for me.”

“What are you stealing? A car?”

“Not exactly.” Through the darkness his teeth gleamed at her in a smile. “Bicycles.”

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* * *

In The Laughing Man Pub, Simon Trott stood alone at the bar, nursing a mug of Guinness. No one bothered him, and he bothered no one, and that was the way he liked it. None of the usual poking and prodding of a stranger by the curious locals. The villagers here, it seemed, valued a man’s privacy, which was all to the better, as Trott had no tolerance tonight for even minor annoyances. He was not in a good mood. That meant he was dangerous.

He took another sip of stout and glanced at his watch.

Almost midnight. The pub owner, anxious to close up, was already stacking up glasses and darting impatient looks at his customers. Trott was about to call it a night when the pub door opened.

A young policeman walked in. He sauntered to the bar where Trott stood and called for an ale. A few moments went by, no one saying a word. Then the policeman spoke.

“Been some excitement around ’ere tonight,” he said to no one in particular.

“What sort?” asked the bartender.

“’Nother robbery, over at Under’ill. Guy Delancey’s.”

“Thieves gettin’ bloody cheeky these days, if you ask me,” the bartender said. “Goin’ for the same ’ouse twice.”

“Aren’t they, though?” The policeman shook his head.

“Makes you wonder what’s become of society these days.” He drained his mug. “Well, I best be gettin’ ’ome. ’Fore the missus gets to worryin’.” He paid the tab and walked out of the pub.

Trott left, as well.

Outside, in the road, the two men met. They walked across the village green, stepping in and out of shadows.

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“Anything stolen from Underhill tonight?” asked Trott.

“The butler says just one item was taken. Antique weapon of some sort.”

Trott’s head lifted in sudden interest. “A dagger?”

“That’s right. Part of a collection. Other things weren’t touched.”

“And the thieves?”

“There were two of them. Butler only saw the woman.”

“What did she look like?”

“Couldn’t really tell us. Had some sort of black grease on ’er face. No fingerprints, either.”

“Where were they last seen?”

“Escaped through the trees. Could’ve gone in any direction. I’m afraid we lost ’em.”

Then Clea Rice had not left Buckinghamshire, thought Trott. Perhaps she was right now in this very village.

“If I ’ear more, I’ll let you know,” said the policeman.

Their conversation had come to an end. Trott reached into his jacket and produced an envelope stuffed with five-pound notes. Not a lot of money, but enough to help keep a young cop’s family clothed and fed.

The policeman took the envelope with an odd reluctance. “It’s only information you’ll be wantin’, right? You won’t be expecting more?”

“Only information,” Trott reassured him.

“Times are…difficult, you see. Still, there are things I don’t—won’t—do.”

“I understand.” And Trott did. He understood that even upright cops could be tempted. And that for this one, the downhill slide had already begun.

After the two men parted, Trott returned to his room in the inn and called Victor Van Weldon.

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“As of a few hours ago, they were still in the area,” said Trott. “They broke into Delancey’s house.”

“Did they get the dagger?”

“Yes. Which means they’ve no reason to hang around here any longer. They’ll probably be heading for London next.”

Even now, he thought, Clea Rice must be wending her way along the back roads to the city. She’ll be feeling a touch of triumph tonight. Perhaps she’s thinking her ordeal will soon end. She’ll sense hope, even victory whenever she looks at that dagger. The dagger she calls the Eye of Kashmir.