Verse of the Vampyre (12 page)

“It’s cute,” Chaz conceded, as they trekked along past sleeping houses.

It is, Grace thought, but the thatched, timbered and fieldstone cottages so beloved by American readers and filmgoers were becoming a thing of the past. Standardized windows, uniform doors and a mass production approach to architecture would in time replace the unique character of the English village.

They found a news kiosk and Chaz stopped dead in his tracks as they both took in the banner headline.

MURDER AT THE HUNT BALL
! proclaimed
The Clarion
.

“This was the party you were at last night?” His expression was aghast as Grace paid for the paper and scanned the front page.

The Clarion
had little to add to what Grace already knew. The Peeler, hunting bugle of the famed John Peel, valued at over a hundred thousand pounds, had been stolen during the annual Hunt Ball. Lady Theresa Ives had been murdered.
The Clarion
put less emphasis on the possible connection between the two crimes and more on the fact that Lady Ives’s body had been discovered with two sharp puncture wounds over her jugular vein.

And this time it’s true, Grace thought. This isn’t any rumor, I saw the marks myself.

It was all news to Chaz. He kept making shocked noises as he read over Grace’s shoulder.

“Vampires? They think a vampire killed that woman?”

Grace listened with half an ear.

“What kind of psycho does something like that?”

Chaz’s Adam’s apple was decidedly mobile, giving him the aspect of a very handsome tom turkey.

“They’re just capitalizing on the more sensational aspects,” she said.

“And this Peter Fox is their main suspect for the robbery?”

“It doesn’t say that.”

“It says”—Chaz squinted, trying to get a better look at the paper—“the police spent several hours questioning local antiques dealer Peter Fox. It doesn’t say that about anyone else.”

Grace wasn’t about to get into Peter’s history with Chaz. She paid for the paper and slowly folded and tucked it into the spacious pocket of her jacket.

In uncomfortable silence she and Chaz headed back the way they had come.

As they retraced their footsteps past the village green, Chaz muttered, “Who let Mother Hubbard out of her cupboard?”

“What?” Grace glanced around. Her short hairs rose as she recognized Miss Coke trailing them at a discreet distance.

Chaz’s fair skin revealed his every emotion. Just then he looked rather pink. “Is she following you?”

“Why do you say that?” Grace was hedging, and they both knew it.

“Because she’s been behind us since we left your street. Didn’t you notice her?”

“No.” Apparently you could adjust to anything, even being stalked.

“I thought she was a bag lady planning to hit you up for a donation.”

“She’s the local witch.”

“The local
what?
What kind of place
is
this?”

Grace barely heard him. An idea had occurred to her. “I want to stop at the police station.”

Chaz opened his mouth, then changed his mind.

There was no hotel in Innisdale, but bed-and-breakfasts were numerous.

After Chaz was safely stowed in a cozy place a street or so down from Sally Smithwick’s, Grace swung by the police station.

She went inside and asked to see the chief constable but was told he was out investigating the recent tragedy. The constable in charge did not know when Heron would return.

Grace returned to the tree-lined street. Perhaps she was being overly hasty. Perhaps she was jumping to conclusions. It was difficult to know. She didn’t want to start throwing accusations around, harming some innocent person merely because she made Grace uncomfortable. How much did the strange events of the past few weeks have to do with Theresa Ives’s murder? Perhaps there was no connection except in Grace’s imagination.

She got back in her car and returned to Renfrew Hall, parking in the carriage house and cutting through Sally’s sprawling and secluded back garden.

It took only a few minutes to tidy up all traces of Chaz’s brief visit. His appearance was such colossal bad timing. And the fact that her family had not warned her of his impending arrival…had they all lost their minds?

Perhaps it was her own sanity being questioned.

Of course there was no point brooding over it. Do something productive, Grace ordered herself. She sat down to review her notes for her book. Though intended as a scholarly work, no matter how Grace tried to downplay the sensationalist elements of last year’s academic pursuit, the manuscript read like fiction. A story seemed to have happened to another Grace Hollister. Another Peter Fox. Grace shelved her notes.

Putting the kettle on, she stood for a moment at the kitchen window. From outside came a sweet warble.

Brown birdeen singing thy bird-heart song.

Who had written that? Grace couldn’t recall, indication that it had been too long since she stood in front of a classroom.

The kettle whistle blew, breaking the spell. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down at the table with a pad of paper and a pen.

Once again she considered the change in Peter. They got along as well as ever, laughed, talked, flirted as before. Sometimes she thought she was imagining his withdrawal. Instinct told her—forget instinct, she thought.

What do you know for a fact?

That everything seemed to be fine before the robberies began in late summer. Still, that wasn’t proof. Maybe their trouble didn’t have anything to do with the robberies. Maybe the timing
was
coincidence.

Maybe the distance she sensed didn’t even have to do with Catriona. After all, Peter had known an awful lot of women, and he had never yet made a commitment to one of them. He had said that whatever was between him and Catriona had nothing to do with his relationship with Grace, so maybe she should just take him at his word.

Okay, fine, Grace thought. Let’s move on to what we do know: that Peter was an ex-thief, and that he had seemed to change when these robberies began, and that Catriona was somehow involved.

Speculation?

No, because from what Grace had seen of Catriona—and from the little Peter had admitted—Catriona was clearly an important person in Peter’s past. His criminal past. And her reappearance had dovetailed with the local crime wave. So maybe it wasn’t
proof,
but it was surely a hunk of coincidence to swallow whole.

In fact, even Peter’s cryptic denials that Catriona had anything to do with him and Grace emphasized her mysterious role in his life.

Grace scowled at the blank sheet of paper in front of her and wrote, “Conclusion?”

He’s not involved in murder.

“Brilliant deduction, Holmes,” she muttered.

And she had reached this conclusion how?

Just the facts, ma’am…

Well, there was only about an hour during which she could not account for Peter’s whereabouts at the Hunt Ball. An hour was not a lot of time to commit robbery and murder—and still return to the ballroom without a hair out of place. But he had been up to something with Catriona. Grace did not believe they had simply been catching up on old times.

Catriona was Peter’s alibi and Peter was Catriona’s, which in Grace’s opinion meant
neither
of them actually had an alibi.

Although she was willing to believe Catriona capable of everything from leopard underwear to homicide, she couldn’t see Peter standing by while poor flighty Theresa was slaughtered.

He might be lying to her about being with Catriona, but somehow she didn’t think so. They had been together and, during that time, Theresa had been killed and the Peeler had been stolen. The two things might not be related, but that was an awful lot of bad luck for Sir Gerald in one night if they weren’t.

G
race had received all the therapeutic benefit possible from catching up on her laundry when Chief Constable Heron dropped by.

“I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea,” he replied to Grace’s invitation. He looked as though he hadn’t slept. Lowering himself into the room’s single easy chair, he took out his pipe. “May I?”

Grace nodded. It might not be healthy, but she did love the smell of a pipe. She served tea and the last of the chocolate praline biscuits in the sitting room, taking the sofa across from the chief constable. There were a million questions she wanted to ask, but she knew he would not answer them. It was quite maddening because in mystery novels when the amateur sleuth made friends with a cop, the cop was always obliging about handing over all kinds of privileged information about the case.

“How is it going?” she asked. “Or can you say?”

“Too early to tell,” the chief constable replied, adding heavily, “It’s a bad business.” His currant black eyes rested on Grace. “Did you have some information, Miss—Grace?”

“I don’t know. There’s one possibility you might not have considered.”

Tamping down his pipe, Heron said indulgently, “What would that be?”

“Miss Coke.”

Heron’s brows drew together. “Elizabeth Coke? What could she have to do with this matter?”

“Were you aware that Miss Coke is strongly antihunting, and that she expresses her disapproval through a form of silent intimidation?”

“What’s that you say?” Heron looked baffled.

Grace rose and rummaged through the heavy old secretary against the wall. When she found what she was looking for she brought it to Heron. “Do you know what this is?”

Heron picked the handmade doll up gingerly. It was not a particularly attractive item.

“It’s a poppet,” Grace said. “I’ve read up since she left this on my front door. It functions like a voodoo doll.”

“Good Lord. Voodoo?”

“Theresa received one. Miss Coke was stalking her—well, following her at least—just as she’s been following me. She was following me this very morning.” That didn’t sound as menacing as it had felt. “She accosted me at the fete.”

“Accosted?”

“She grabbed my arm.”

“Why didn’t you report any of this, Miss Hollister?”

“Because I thought she was a harmless old crank. That’s what Allegra Clairmont-Brougham told me—although she also said something about someone Miss Coke had ill-wished breaking his neck foxhunting.”

“Sam Jeffries,” Heron said absently.

“Maybe she’s not so harmless. She’s a fanatic, and fanatics can be violent in certain circumstances.”

“And you think that Miss Coke might have crept onto the grounds of the Ives estate and coshed Lady Ives over the head when she went for a stroll in the moonlight?”

“Is that what happened? She was hit over the head? I thought…”

“You thought a vampire bit her?”

“Well, no. But I saw the marks. We all did.”

“It appears those wounds were inflicted after death. They were not made by human teeth.” He added dryly, “Or even inhuman teeth.”

“What were they made by?”

“That we don’t know. Yet.”

“Why would someone want to make it look like a vampire attacked her? Obviously you would discover the truth as soon as her body was examined.”

“Perhaps to confuse the issue,” Heron said. “Perhaps the wounds were made by someone with little practical knowledge of how the police work. Perhaps someone was inspired by the rumors that a vampire attacked Bill Jones.”

“Someone like Miss Coke?” she suggested.

“Miss Coke certainly seems to have got on your bad side,” Heron said mildly.

Grace could feel her cheeks turning red. She said tartly, “It may be that I’m as stuck in the rut of my suspicions as you are in yours.”

“The rut of my suspicions, eh?” Heron studied her, unsmiling. Finally, he said grudgingly, “We’ll check into Miss Coke’s whereabouts Saturday night, make no mistake.”

“Thank you.” She picked up her teacup, but her hand shook, and the words burst out of her. “It’s no harder to believe that someone like Miss Coke might have done this terrible thing than it is to believe that Peter could!”

There was an embarrassing silence; then Heron said almost formally, “Thank you for coming forward with this information, Miss Hollister. If Miss Coke approaches you again, let us know right away.”

She was shocked to recognize the expression in his dark eyes as pity.

The children were playing hide-and-seek in the garden that evening when Grace left to meet Chaz at the Hungry Tiger for dinner. Grace waved to them, declined an invitation to join in the game, and on impulse went round to the front of the old house and knocked on Sally’s door.

Sally welcomed her and expressed sympathy for Grace’s dreadful experience the previous evening.

As she sank into one of the marshmallow chintz chairs her suspicions seemed ridiculous, but Grace made herself ask. “Sally, what do you know about Sam Jeffries?”

To her surprise, Sally flushed. “What is there to know?”

“Who was he?”

“A local farmer. He owned Mallow Farm. It’s gone to a Japanese gentleman now.” Sally’s voice expressed disapproval. “He has an overseer to run things.”

“What was Sam like?”

Was it Grace’s fancy, or did Sally hesitate. “He was a good-hearted chap. Always a joke and a word of greeting. Loved his pint and his pipe.”

“And he loved hunting?”

Sally’s eyes met Grace’s. “Yes. He was always out with the pack, rain or shine. Why?”

“Something you said about Miss Coke. Was Sam Jeffries whom you meant when you said bad things happened to people Miss Coke ill-wished?”

Sally’s lips pressed tight, then relaxed. “I suppose so. There was trouble with Miss Coke living so close to Mallow. Sam would set traps, you see, to protect his livestock. One of Miss Coke’s cats was killed. She began following him around like she does.”

“And he was killed in a hunting accident?”

“Broke his neck not long after.” Sally shook her head. “Sam was always at the front of the field.”

“There wasn’t anything suspicious about his death?”

“Oh no!” Sally looked shocked. “His horse didn’t clear the wall, and Sam broke his neck. It was a terrible thing, but hunting is a dangerous sport.”

It sounded perfectly straightforward. Grace couldn’t see anything that particularly incriminated Miss Coke.

“There was an inquest, I imagine?”

“Of course.”

The thought slowly took shape. “Did Sam have any other enemies?”

“Enemies!” Sally’s eyes filled with consternation. “Certainly not. He was very well liked. Very popular.”

“Was he married? Did he leave a family?”

“No.” Sally was curt, and Grace thought she had better let the matter rest.

She met Chaz outside the Hungry Tiger. He was frowning at his watch although Grace was not late; however, his expression brightened as he spotted her walking toward him.

They went inside and were greeted warmly by Ahmed, the proprietor, who wore a lime green turban and a superbly tailored suit. His delight changed to something like dismay as he absorbed the fact that Grace was dining out with an eligible man who was not Peter.

With an air of one performing a sorrowful duty he led them back to a table in the main dining room and took their drink order.

Still looking reproachful, Ahmed returned with their beers. Chaz took a swig, frowning at the unfamiliar flavor.

They ordered, Chaz going for the
Shahi Subze
, a spicy stir-fry, and Grace settling on chicken and mushrooms in a cream-and-herb sauce.

Grace tasted her tomato-and-dill soup. It was good, but she was wishing she had not brought Chaz to a place she and Peter frequented.

She realized her thoughts had wandered, as they had a tendency to do in Chaz’s company. He was waxing earnest again.

“I know you, Grace. Better than you know yourself. This…this…” He gestured to the window and Innisdale with all it represented. “This isn’t you. You’re smart, you’re focused, and you’re ambitious. You’re not going to throw away everything you’ve worked for, for…Brigadoon.”

“Brigadoon was Scottish.”

“You know what I mean.”

She did at that.

Chaz put his beer mug down with a bang as though coming to a decision. “Andrea Weicenski has used this past year to ingratiate herself with Ms. Winters.”

“Andrea from the Science Department?”

“She’s taken on a lot of extracurricular projects, a lot of the things you used to do, Grace.”

“Well, someone’s got to do them.”

“This year the students elected her Most Popular Instructor. Believe me, people are noticing. She’s taken every opportunity to solidify her position as Ms. Winters’s successor.” Chaz made it sound like there was trouble at the Machiavellis’.

“That’s natural enough,” Grace said. She wasn’t sure if she was really as cool about it as she sounded, but common sense told her it
was
natural.

“And I can see that Ms. Winters is losing patience. If she knew a
man
was involved.”

“This isn’t just about a man,” Grace said, finding Chaz’s gaze and holding it. “This is about me deciding what I want for my life.” Of course it was partly about a man and the role he would play in that life, but why confuse the issue?

They finished their soup and started their entrees. Grace glanced up to find Chaz studying her curiously.

“You always used to be on a diet.”

She considered the truth of his words. Back home nearly every woman she knew was on a diet. She said, “I don’t think about food the same way.” Or dieting or exercise or anything else. She appreciated food more and thought about it less. Maybe it had paid off; she had given up weighing herself, so it was hard to know.

“Whatever you’re doing, it’s working,” Chaz said. “You look terrific.” His gaze was admiring.

“Thanks.” She reached for her mug.

“And you never used to drink beer,” Chaz added.

Grace wondered if she was going to have to hear a never-ending litany of the ways she had changed. Her eye caught a small commotion by the door.

Lord and Lady Ruthven had entered the restaurant dining room. Catriona was wearing a leather mini-skirt, and Ruthven wore his usual cape. It was a toss-up as to who was garnering more attention.

Once again Grace reflected on the fact that she had never seen Lord Ruthven in the daylight. Was it something he did purposely? Perhaps he had some kind of skin or eyesight disorder that made it necessary for him to stay out of the sun. She wondered if there was a way to politely ask about that.

Ahmed attempted to seat the Ruthvens but was stymied by Catriona who, catching sight of Grace, indicated they would join her table.

“This is cozy, isn’t it?” she murmured, sitting next to Chaz. Chaz made a brave effort to avoid eyeing Catriona’s rising skirt hem.

Grace made some polite noise and introduced Chaz.

Lord Ruthven countered by introducing himself as Bob, which so amazed Grace she couldn’t think of anything to say for a few minutes. That wasn’t a problem; the conversation flowed on without her.

“Ruthven,” Chaz said slowly. “So you were at that ball last night.”

“The social event of the year,” Catriona quipped. She turned to give Ahmed their drink order, adding another round for Chaz and Grace to the chit.

“It must have been horrific.”

“It was rather.
Where
did they find that orchestra, I wonder?” Catriona queried of her husband.

Even if he had an answer, the waiter’s arrival to remove the soup plates sidetracked him.

“What about this vampire story?” Chaz asked, when the waiter had moved off.

There was a funny pause, then Catriona said, “I’ll tell you what I think. Someone is trying to sabotage our play.”

“You can’t think someone would go to the lengths of killing Theresa to postpone the play?” Grace objected.

“Have you invested a lot in the production?” Chaz asked.

“Enough,” Bob said curtly.

“You think these attacks are directed at you?” Grace said to Catriona, who shrugged an elegant shoulder.

“Isn’t it obvious? I mean all that malarkey about the Crosbys’ security guard. Did you hear the stories? A vampire bit him!” She chuckled. “And who, I wonder, is the most likely suspect?”

“Catriona,” her husband warned.

Catriona’s feline gaze met her husband’s black one. Amazingly, she changed the subject.

“Will you be riding tomorrow?” she asked Grace.

“Riding? You mean there’s a meet?”

“Of course. The show must go on.” She glanced at Lord Ruthven and mimicked his dour expression. “That show anyway.”