Verse of the Vampyre (4 page)

Grace declined tea. Sally sent the children to change out of their Halloween costumes, then at last came to the point. “Grace, I caught Miss Coke snooping around your cottage last night.”

“Who?”

“Miss Coke.” Sally looked over her shoulder in the direction the children had gone, and said under-voiced, “The local witch.”

“Are you serious?” Grace was smiling.

Sally was about sixty, friendly and sensible. During the past year Grace had come to consider Sally a friend. She reminded Grace of many of the women she had taught with at St. Anne’s, the kind of woman Grace understood. Or usually understood. This was something new.

Sally shook her head at Grace’s tone. “I know what you’re thinking, Grace, but she’s the real thing.”

Coke is the real thing?
Grace had to bite back a laugh. She said curiously, “Do you mean she puts spells on people?”

“Sometimes. She’s a queer old duck. Anyway, I found her trying to hang this on your front door.” Sally reached into her cardigan pocket and handed Grace what at first glance appeared to be a wooden toy.

Grace stared down at the shriveled figure. It was amorphously female. Brown threads were glued to the walnut-sized head. A snip of flowered material that appeared to be from a skirt Grace had thrown out a few months earlier was stuck to the body. A hatpin was jabbed through the doll’s throat. Fashion statement? Unlikely.

“I guess this is the season for it. But, Sally, surely you don’t believe in—well, whatever this is supposed to be. What
is
it supposed to be, by the way?” Grace asked, studying the doll again.

“It’s a…a poppet.” Sally’s hazel eyes were grave. “I think it’s a warning. Miss Coke is mad on the subject of animals. She probably has fifty cats in that ramshackle place of hers, and of course she’s working night and day to save Squirrel Nutkin.”

“Of course,” Grace said blankly. Squirrel Nutkin? She had heard something about a campaign to preserve the area’s native red squirrel from the encroaching grays. Perhaps that’s what Sally meant?

“Naturally she’s staunchly antihunting, and every year she gets worse. Well, they all do. The sabs, that is.”

“The sabs?”

“Saboteurs. Of the hunt.”

“Oh.”

“I suppose Miss Coke learned that you’re going to be taking part in the hunt this season.”

“ ‘Taking part’ is probably an exaggeration. I just want to see what it’s like, really.”

Sally didn’t say anything.

If the grandchildren were correct, and Sally had formerly hunted, Grace supposed that she must not be antifoxhunting, but it was a heated debate in Britain. The use of hounds for hunting had even been banned in Scotland.

Grace had yet to make her own mind up on the subject. She liked animals, but she was not above eating meat or wearing leather. She had heard both sides of the foxhunting argument, and agreed that both sides made good points. She knew that opponents of the sport were highly organized and as fanatical as proponents. She said slowly, “Did you—?”

“We had words,” Sally said tersely.

“Oh dear. Sally, I’m sorry. Do you think it would help if I spoke to her?”

“I do not. I’d stay clear of her, Grace. She’s more than a tad odd. I only…wanted to show you this and tell you to be careful. You won’t be the only one she’s harassing. She had poor Theresa Ives in tears last week.”

“Harassing?”

“Stalking.”

“Stalking? Can’t the police do something?”

Sally shook her head, a gesture that seemed to indicate that Grace just didn’t get it.

And, in fact, Grace didn’t get it, unless Sally was sorry for the old woman, or there was some village social hierarchy at work.

“All right,” she said. “Thank you for telling me, and I promise to be careful.” She was still smiling although Sally’s manner was troubling. Sally seemed too grounded to be taking this kind of thing so much to heart. And of course it was unpleasant to think that a stranger actively wished one harm.

Sally said again, “Please do be careful, Grace. Bad things have happened to people Miss Coke has ill-wished. Very bad things.”

Though the circumstances had not been conducive to falling in love, Grace had been in love with Craddock House from the moment she laid eyes on it, a winding, climbing affair of white stone and silver slate framed in tumultuous rose and wisteria. Despite the exhaustion, fear and confusion of that long-ago day, she still had a vivid memory of her first impression of the old house: the stately chimneys, diamond-paned windows, and graceful crooks and angles of seventeenth-century architecture. That day she would have welcomed the sight of a police car parked out front, but today Chief Constable Heron’s black Bentley filled her with unease.

Not that Grace didn’t like the chief constable; she did. He was a shrewd but kind man, and had been most sympathetic to her during her first visit to Innisdale. The problem was, his main ambition in life seemed to be to see Peter behind bars. It put a crimp in an otherwise beautiful friendship.

Heron, accompanied by one of his rosy-cheeked constables, was crossing the trim lawn as Grace started up the cobblestone walk. She sped up and reached the front door to Rogue’s Gallery as the representatives of the law did.

“Morning, Miss Hollister,” Heron said in his gruff way, as she opened the door for them. She sensed he was not thrilled to see her, and her anxiety grew. Something was up.

Behind the counter, Peter was reading the
London Times
. He glanced up casually. Though the lower level of Craddock House was half-concealed from the road by trim hedges and banks of flowers, she could tell by his cool expression that he had already observed their approach and was braced for whatever was coming.

“Ah, Chief Constable,” he greeted in that insufferable tone he got when he was talking to the police, like the Scarlet Pimpernel facing down Chauvelin. He folded the paper in crisp quarters. “Always a delight. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for this time? Some bauble for Mrs. Chief Constable, perhaps?”

“May we speak privately, Mr. Fox?”

“Certainly.” Peter’s eyes found Grace’s. “Mind the store, love?”

Grace assented and watched Peter lead the constabulary to his back office. As soon as the door closed behind them she darted around to an alcove and lifted down a heavy gilt-framed painting of a foxhunt. Soundlessly, she inched open the panel concealed beneath.

She had learned the hard way last year that Craddock House was riddled with secret passages and “hidey-holes.” Peter had once said he wasn’t sure that even he knew all the old house’s secrets, but this was one secret he had shared. Though she couldn’t see into the back office, Grace could now hear the men’s conversation, and it was not encouraging. Heron was not wasting any time on pleasantries.

“May I ask where you were the night of the fifteenth, Mr. Fox?”

“Thursday night?” Peter sounded indifferent. “What time?”

“Between the hours of midnight and two.”

“Here. At home.”

“Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts?”

Peter was silent for a moment; then he said, “No.”

“Did you receive any phone calls or visitors during that time?”

“Not that I recall.”

Why meet in the cramped office? Grace wondered. It was more of a stockroom than an office, really. Why not his flat upstairs? Her mind worried at it for a few moments; then she knew. The entrance to at least one of the old house’s numerous secret passages was in that office. He must be considering making a run for it.

But that didn’t make sense. Surely the situation was not that desperate? Unless…unless Peter
was
involved.

She listened tensely. There was silence in the office. Then Heron said bluntly, “You don’t ask us what this is about, Mr. Fox.”

Peter’s voice was suddenly edged. “We both know what this is about, Chief Constable. You’re hoping to nick me for the Thwaite job.”

“Not just the Thwaite job,” Heron said, sounding almost jovial. “The jobs you pulled at the Potter-Grahaems’ and the Crosbys’ as well.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I might have an alibi for one of those evenings.”

“We’re all ears, sir.”

“Then again, I might not,” Peter admitted.

“You enjoy games, Mr. Fox.”

“Backgammon is a game, Chief Constable. I find the idea of prison less amusing.”

“You’ll find it less amusing still with a charge of homicide against you.”

“Homicide?” Peter sounded stiff. After a moment he said, “I wasn’t aware anyone had been killed.”

“You need to keep up on these things, Mr. Fox. The security guard at the Crosbys’? The man injured in the robbery? He died this morning.”

Peter seemed to have nothing to say to that.

Grace was having a bit of trouble herself. Someone had died as a result of the local robberies. She was ashamed to realize that until this moment she had not taken the crimes seriously. They had seemed the stuff of drawing room comedies: daring cat burglars scaling the roofs of wealthy nobs, scooping up jewels from well-insured people who could easily afford to buy more, and vanishing into the night. But a man who had simply been doing his job had been killed. Someone’s husband or father or son—it was too terrible to think about.

“Constable,” Heron barked, startling Grace out of her reflections.

They were going to
arrest
Peter? Just like that?

She didn’t wait to hear more. Abandoning her listening post, she flew up the aisle and around the corner as the door of the office opened. She narrowly missed crashing into Heron’s solid bulk. “Wait!” she got out.

Peter stood behind him. His blue eyes met hers, any emotion veiled.

He didn’t run, Grace thought in amazed relief. She had been so afraid he would that she had to rethink what she planned to say.

“Wait!” she repeated more calmly.

As though he had expected this, Heron shook his head regretfully. “I do wish you wouldn’t, Miss Hollister.”

“But I—I must.” The constable smiled sympathetically. He had a nice face. Encouraged, Grace went on. “You’re making a mistake!”

Avoiding Peter’s gaze, she forged ahead. “I have an idea what this is about, but Mr. Fox was with me on the night in question.”

“The night in question?” Like she had stumbled out of the pages of an Agatha Christie novel. “Thursday night, I mean,” she clarified. “We were together. Me and Peter. Peter and I, I mean.”

“I think they’ve got that part,” Peter told her.

If he had an alibi for Thursday night, then he was probably in the clear for the night the Crosby house was burgled. She knew it, and so did Heron. He sighed a long and weary sigh, then nodded to his constable, who stepped past Peter. Apparently they had not actually slapped the handcuffs on him. Perhaps Grace had been premature.

“If you had an alibi, you should have spoken up, Mr. Fox,” the chief constable said sternly.

Peter studied the older man sardonically. “Life is simple for you, Chief Constable.”

“It is for most honest folk.”

“Honest folk or folk lacking in imagination?”

Heron disregarded this, turning his attention back on Grace. It was not easy to hold his shrewd gaze. “You’d be willing to testify to Mr. Fox’s whereabouts between the hours of twelve and two on Thursday evening, Miss Hollister?”

Grace nodded. “If it comes to that.”

“It may very well come to that.” Heron seemed to brood over this. Then, reaching a decision, he said, “We’ll have a look around then, Mr. Fox, unless you’ve an objection.”

“I’m sure my objections won’t delay your search long.”

“Not long.”

Peter made a gesture that managed to be both graceful and rude. “Have at it.”

It was more than a look around. Accompanied by Grace they made a thorough search, opening every single crate and box in the stockroom, checking article after article of furniture in the shop against a long list. When they had finished inside they went out in the back garden to inspect the potting shed and garage.

At a nod from Peter, Grace grabbed her coat and followed them out.