Slaying is Such Sweet Sorrow (6 page)

She
obviously had him living pretty extravagantly these days. I knew, vaguely, that his clients paid him well, but we’d never been big spenders. That was how we’d discovered Far Wychwood. It had a great old inn, The Longbow, which didn’t cost nearly as much as one like this, in the heart of Oxford. We had stayed there when Emily was married, and again when Archie was born, and I’d loved the village so much that when Quin told me he was leaving, I’d gone back there to lick my wounds in rural peace.

He put a key into the lock of a door, and stood back to let me precede him into the room.

She was sitting at a small desk near the window, writing a postcard. She looked up, then turned in her chair, the brown eyes widening in astonishment when she saw me. Without makeup, her square jaw and rather rough complexion were more noticeable. She had a bathrobe on over a satiny beige slip, and travelers’ fold-up terry cloth slippers. She got to her feet, smiling uncertainly.

I wasn’t going to put up with any “civilized” behavior, if that was what she had in mind. I started barking at her, “I’m only here because I know you were—”

But Quin, taking advantage of his louder voice as he had his longer legs, drowned me out. “Something awful’s happened, honey. That guy we met at the college this evening, that Edgar Stone? Somebody’s killed him, and they’ve arrested Peter for it.”

“My God.” She sat down again. Her voice was low-pitched, throaty, probably sexy if you happened to be male. “But, Tib, why would Peter do such a thing?”

Tib?
I stared at Quin, unable to believe he’d let anyone give him such a nickname. He did have the grace to look embarrassed. I turned back to her.

“Peter didn’t,” I said in a voice dripping with scorn. “
You
did.”

“Me?” She looked bewildered. “I didn’t even know him!”

“Then what were you doing in his house this evening?” I shot back before Quin could interfere. “I drove past around nine o’clock, and I saw you running out of the place. You were the guiltiest-looking slut I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s enough, Kit!” Quin ordered. “Why can’t you—” He broke off and went over to the girlfriend. His face was furrowed in an uneasy frown as he looked down at her. “She says she saw that tote bag you got in London, so I guess she’s not making it up.” I snorted derisively. “
Was
that where she saw you?”

She didn’t turn a hair. In her place, I would have been giving as good as I got, either blustering to cover my guilt or loudly indignant at being accused of something I hadn’t done. I’d wondered what he saw in her, and now my triumph at having caught her out was dulled by the realization that he must like her because she was nothing like me.

“You were talking to him at the party,” Quin went on, as she sat there staring at me without speaking. “I wondered at the time what that was about.”

Now she looked up at him adoringly, took hold of one edge of his Windbreaker, and slowly ran her hand down it.

“It was about
you
,” she said. “I wanted to surprise you, but now—”

She went to the closet, lifted the Big Ben tote bag from a hook, and pulled a large leather-bound book from it. She held it out to Quin.

“I saw how excited you were when you heard about it,” she said, “so I asked the man if he would sell it to me. That’s what we were talking about.”

As he took the book his frown changed to an expression of amazement.

“It’s the Blackstone!” he exclaimed. “The first volume of the original edition—my God, Janet, this must have cost you a mint!”

“No, I was surprised at the reasonable price he offered me. He said anytime I wanted to come to his house I could have it, and he gave me directions. When you were going to your daughter’s after the party I thought it was a good chance, so I said I was coming back here, and instead I went to buy your book. I was going to keep it for your birthday, but…” She glanced over at me, and Quin turned to look at me too.

“There you are,” he said with satisfaction. “It was nothing like you thought. Just the latest example of you jumping to conclusions from inadequate evidence.”

“When I saw her,” I said stubbornly, “she was practically running out of the place, looking back over her shoulder. Why would buying a book make anybody that upset?”

“All right, I told you his price was low,” she said, still imperturbable. “Well, I found out why. After I had the book he kept talking, not wanting me to leave, and finally he made a crude pass at me. He—put his hands on me, and tried to make me do the same to him. I had to hit him to get away. That’s why I was hurrying, and a little upset.”

“Maybe you had to do more than hit him,” I said doggedly, knowing my case had pretty much collapsed.

She threw me a pitying smile. “It wasn’t my first experience of something like that. You don’t have to kill them to get them off you.” She turned back to Quin, dismissing me. “Tib, I tried to read some of that book but I couldn’t understand it, not even the first page! And you know I have a pretty good legal vocabulary. You are so
brilliant,
to want to read a book like that! I mean, I knew you were, but it’s not your mind I think of first anymore…”

She gave him a little secret smile and then dropped her gaze, as if modesty prevented her from elaborating on that, in front of an outsider. The big brown eyes flickered to his face again for a second, then down to his hand, now caught in hers. Damn, she was good.

I could see by his besotted little smile that he was eating it up. Much as the performance turned my stomach, I had to admit I believed her story. Being felt up was not a credible motive for murder, especially for somebody as unflappable as this one.

She looked at me again, savoring her triumph.

“That was a really malicious thing to say,” she murmured. “Wasn’t it, Tib?”

He smiled ruefully. “Not the classiest thing you’ve ever done, Kit,” he said.

“I was just trying to help Peter!” I retorted, and that was as close to an apology as I would go. “And I’m going back to the police station now to try some more.”

“Wait,” he said as I started toward the door. “I’ll come too.”

“Oh, Tib,” she pouted, “don’t go! It’s late.”

“Honey, you can see I have to help Emily and Peter, can’t you?”

“You’re
always
with them. We’ve hardly been alone since we got here. And you know she doesn’t like me. Can’t we go home before we get involved in all this—unpleasantness?”

“I know it’s not much fun for you, but I love my daughter too.”

I left, disgusted to hear him practically begging her for permission to go. I figured she’d have him in bed in a matter of minutes, and probably on the train to the airport by tomorrow morning.

So I was surprised, after I’d been at the police station for ten minutes or so, to see him come through the door. We looked at each other warily, like a couple of boxers reentering the ring.

The desk sergeant had told me, with his usual reluctance, that John Bennett had arrived. A minute or so later he emerged from one of the corridor rooms, smiling in his solemn way, and came and pressed my hand between his.

“I’m terribly sorry, Catherine,” he said, looking down at me mournfully from his six feet plus. He was my age, lean and shrewd, with silvery hair and an air of quiet strength. I felt more hopeful as soon as I saw him. “The whole thing seems incredible. I want to let you in on what they’ve told me since I got here, it probably won’t make it easier, but at least you’ll know why they’ve taken Peter into custody.”

“Quin Freeman,” I heard behind me, and his large, square hand appeared, thrust out so that civility forced John to let go of my hand and shake his. “Mrs. Tyler’s father. You’re in charge of this case, are you?”

“Well, no,” John said. “I’m actually a friend of Catherine’s from Far Wychwood. She called my wife and asked for my help, and I’m of course only too glad to offer it. Very pleased to meet you. I knew, of course, that you were visiting Emily. She’s waiting for us in incident room B, perhaps we could all adjourn there where we’ll have more privacy.”

We were both on our way as soon as we heard Emily’s whereabouts. She was sitting in a folding chair at a metal table, in a room a little larger but just as forbidding as the one where I’d been interviewed earlier. Her caftan’s bright African colors were startling in the gray bleakness of the place. She was keeping herself firmly under control, sitting up very straight, her jaw clenched.

I leaned over and hugged her.

“It’s like a bad dream,” she said in a tight little voice. “Peter doesn’t understand what’s going on any more than we do.”

“They let you see him?” Quin asked.

“Yes, for a few minutes.”

“I was going to insist on that, if they hadn’t.”

“I assure you, Mr. Freeman, we shan’t deny Peter anything he’s legally entitled to,” said John. “Please have a seat. I hate to say this, but there is some rather strong evidence against him. First, as your daughter has told us, and I’m sure you’ll confirm, we know a call came through to Peter at their apartment at quarter past nine this evening. It was from Edgar Stone, and we’ve verified that it was made from his house. Apparently he asked Peter to come there, as he had something to tell him that couldn’t wait, something that would affect the two of them and nobody else, and in a profound way. Peter went over immediately, and when he reached the house he says he found the front door open as well as the door to Stone’s study, where we’ve determined the lock was violently broken.

“He claims to have found Stone already dead. As he stood looking on in disbelief, he says, the victim’s wife appeared in the doorway, saw the body, and began screaming. Apparently she made her way to the stairs and was backing up them when the police, and Catherine, arrived.”

“Why all the ‘he says’ and ‘he claims’?” I demanded. “That’s a perfectly believable story and I don’t see why you would doubt it. Somebody else got there earlier and killed him, that’s all!”

“Except for this.” He lifted a tape player from the floor and set it on the table. “This call came in to the 999 emergency operator at nine-thirty-six precisely.”

He pressed a button, and Edgar Stone’s voice filled the room, a panicky near-whisper.

“Send the police to 225 St. Crispin’s Road. I’ve locked myself in the study. A man named Peter Tyler is outside the door, threatening me with a knife—he’ll kill me if he gets through the door. Send the police. Hurry!”

“Stay on the line, sir,” the 999 operator’s calm voice said. “I’m dispatching police. Are you in immediate danger of your life, sir?”

“Yes, damn it!” Stone’s voice growled. “He’ll break the lock at any minute. I tell you, he snatched up this knife, this letter opener, from my desk, and tried to stab me with it. I managed to elude him and lock the door, but he says he’s going to kill me!”

“And this is someone you know? Don’t hang up, sir!”

“Yes, yes, a colleague of mine, Peter Tyler—”

The line went dead. We sat in stunned silence, staring at the tape machine as John turned it off.

After a few minutes Quin blew out a heavy breath and said quietly, “Deathbed statement.”

“Exactly,” John replied. He looked at Emily and me. “The statement of a victim as to his killer’s identity, given on the verge of death, is very powerful evidence. Mrs. Stone has identified the voice on the tape as her husband’s. She also said something about an altercation of sorts between Peter and Stone, earlier in the evening?”

We didn’t answer, but I knew seven other people could testify to the way the man had goaded Peter and how furious he’d been, especially when he learned what had happened to Emily.

“We’ll have nothing to say about that at present,” Quin said decisively. “Emily, I’m going to find the best lawyer around, and we’re going to beat this.”

“Okay, what about fingerprints?” I broke in. “Peter wasn’t wearing gloves. If he’d broken in the door, if he’d used that knife, his fingerprints would be all over them.”

“Actually, that turns out to be another point against him,” John said, almost apologetically. “The knife and the door handle had been wiped clean of prints. A man’s pocket handkerchief was found lying on the floor. Our lab has already performed an iodine vapor test on it. I’m afraid it is full of Peter’s prints. His only explanation is that he did not wipe the objects and has no idea how his handkerchief came to be there.”

He stood up. “I know this has been a great blow to all of you. There is nothing more you can do here tonight. Why don’t you go home and get a little rest?”

I reached for Emily, but Quin somehow got there first and had hold of her left arm before I could get the right.

“Come on, baby, I’m taking you home,” he said. “I’ll be over first thing in the morning and we’ll straighten this out.”

“I’ll come and spend the night with you,” I began, but she waved me away.

“Just let Dad drive me home, I’ll take a sleeping pill. I know you want to help, Mom, but it’ll be best if you get some sleep too.” She kissed me, and her lips felt cold against my cheek. “We’re going to have a lot to get through.”

So I let her go with her father, smothering the selfish little voice inside me whispering that he didn’t deserve to be the one she turned to. They had always been close, even more as she’d emerged from childhood and it had become clear she was more like him than me. They shared this careful, analytical attitude toward life, a disapproval of impulse and a distrust of emotion, and since I was the embodiment of both, she and I couldn’t understand each other the same way she and her father did. Hurt feelings aside, I was glad he could be with her at a time like this. He would know better than I would when to offer love and when to step back.