by Aaron Elkins
“Oh, and you might as well leave the check too,” Abbott added offhandedly to Rafe. “So you don’t have to come back if we decide on doing it.”
Rafe’s world brightened. Maybe he hadn’t blown it, after all.
CHAPTER 15
Miranda was right. There was Randall Campion, across from the building’s entrance, waiting for her on a bench along the waterfront walkway. He was sprawled like a teenager, half-lying, half-sitting, weight on the base of his spine, legs stretched out in front of him, and arms spread casually across the back of the bench. Not a care in the world.
Campion was the latest in Miranda’s string of what the media called “boy toys,” although “man toys” would have been closer to it, since most of them were at least as old as she was. This behavior on her part started when she’d become a member of the “avant-garde celebrity community,” another term from the media. Rafe knew of at least three of them, a succession of shiftless reprobates who came to live with her (and sponge off her) until she got sick of them and threw them out, which was usually a matter of five or six months.
The latest, Campion, was showing more staying power. He’d shown up with her when she’d come back from a publicity trip to London two years ago, and he’d been with her ever since. Like the others, Randall was a past-his-prime Lothario, good-looking in an oily, lounge-lizard sort of way. Indeed, he claimed to have been a nightclub singer who had once opened for Jerry Lewis and for Liberace at the Palladium. Maybe he had, who knew? Who cared? Rafe had met him a number of times and had been put off by his slick, smug manner. Smug about what? he wondered.
“Hullo, there, Senator, Edna,” Randy called, smashing any hope Rafe had of making a getaway without being spotted.
“Ah, good afternoon, Randall,” he said brightly. “Didn’t see you there. I say, that is what I call a handsome mustache. I wish I could grow one like that.” He had his arm linked with Edna’s, and with his other hand he gently patted her forearm. “What do you think, Aunt Edna? Doesn’t he look nice with that mustache?” In fact, it was a ratty-looking thing, tobacco stained.
“I always liked David Niven’s mustache,” Edna said, smiling. “But when he didn’t wear one, his nose was too big.”
“Oh, I used to have one like this in my singing days, don’t you know.” Randall spoke with one of those accents that was impossible to place; British at base, Rafe thought, but with Continental shades and nuances as well, and American too. “Thought it might bring back my distant youth, but it’s come in all gray, as you see. Mandy wants me to keep it, though. She says it makes me look distinguished.”
Mandy, Rafe thought. Mandy and Randy. How cute. Surprising, though, that Miranda permitted it. Even as a young woman, she’d disliked the nickname (Rafe had been forbidden from using it when he was barely old enough to say it), but it had been what her mother and Peltier had called her, and so she went along with it. But the day of her mother’s funeral, a few years after Bertrand had disappeared, was the day she made it clear, in an uncomfortable scene at the ceremony itself, that no one (very explicitly and publicly including the officiating minister) was to call her “Mandy” any longer. And as far as Rafe knew, no one had, not until this slippery old coot came along.
“It does, indeed,” he said. “Extremely distinguished. Well, it was nice—”
“I say, what in the world is going on up there? How much longer will she be? Long enough to pop in at the pub there for a pint, would you say?”
Rafe, uncomfortable with shouting back and forth across the street, steered his aunt over to him.
“Hard to say,” he said in response to Randall’s question. “You might make it if you drink fast.”
“I can do that.” Randy stretched and stood up. Between two fingers of his left hand was the nub of a dead cigar, the last slimy, nasty gobbet, which he waved a few inches from Rafe’s face. “You wouldn’t have a light, I suppose?”
“I do, yes.” Rafe smoked the occasional after-dinner cigar himself (but not with others present or to the revolting extreme that Randall took it). He produced a leather-encased lighter from his jacket. “Try not to let the smoke get blown in Aunt Edna’s face.”
“Smoke gets in your eyes,” Edna sang.
Randall took the lighter, made an unsuccessful effort to get the stub going again, and gave it another try.
“No, wait a moment,” Rafe said. “I would hate to see that superb new mustache catch fire. Here, have a new one.” From a matching leather case, he extracted one of the three cigars it held and extended it.
“Why, thank you, Senator.” The repulsive stub was dropped into a flower bed (Rafe forced himself not to notice) as Randall read the band on the new cigar. “Montecristo Reserva Negra,” he said. “My, my, thank you.”
The paper band followed the stub into the flower bed while he got the cigar lit, carefully exhaling the smoke away from Rafe and Edna. “Ah. This calls for more than a pint to do it justice. I believe I’ll have a good brandy with it, a cognac. No, a whiskey, I think. Would you and the lovely care to accompany me, Senator?”
Edna tugged at Rafe’s sleeve. “Two thirty,” she said anxiously.
“That’s right. I wish we could, Randall, but Aunt Edna has to get back to the Hamlet, and we can’t be late. Awfully sorry.”
“Apricot tarts,” Edna explained with a friendly smile.
CHAPTER 16
Gideon’s plan for a long walk and a quick lunch lasted exactly two blocks, at which point it turned into a quick walk and a long lunch. He started by turning off Kensington Place onto the Parade, which took him down one long flank of the Parade Gardens, the eighteenth-century regimental parade ground that was now a park with benches, colorful raised gardens, a children’s play area, and acres of lawn.
And that was as far as he got. This being the early afternoon of a pleasant, sunny day, a good many people—local workers, families, travel-stained backpackers—were spread out on the lawns enjoying picnic lunches, some out of brown bags brought with them from home, others from boxed snacks provided by the cafés alongside the park. In the window of one of these cafés was a display of lunch suggestions, among which was a classic ploughman’s lunch: a six-inch chunk of crusty baguette, a good-sized wedge of crumbly, blue-veined Stilton and a slice of cheddar, a pickled onion, a hard-boiled egg, a dollop of pickled-vegetable relish, and a few pear and apple slices.
It was too much to resist, and five minutes later, he was in the park too, sitting on one of the benches that circled the plinth of a nineteenth-century monument to an early lieutenant governor. He had the box on his lap and a bottle of lemonade beside him. The sun felt good, the breeze felt good, and the food, as humble and basic as could be, was terrific. He took his time with it, simply soaking up the lazy ambience of the place and content to have his mind amble about on its own for a while, free from considerations of skeletons and murders.
He might even have dozed a little, because when his cell phone gently clunked (it was the most unobtrusive call tone he could find, something like what you’d get if you used a rubber mallet to softly tap on a metal pipe), it made him jump despite its muted tone, and he fumbled getting it out of his pocket.
“Gideon, it’s Rafe . . .”
“Rafe, hello.”
“I wondered if you’d had a chance to look over those remains yet.”
“Barely, just got them out of the carton, nothing to report at this point.”
“Ah.” Only one syllable but clearly a let-down one. “Well, look, that’s not what I’ve called you about. Listen, I’ve just come from Abbott, and, unless I’ve misread the signs, he’s willing to go ahead with the exhumation, but he hasn’t made it official yet. He’d like to talk with you about it tomorrow morning at ten, if that’s convenient for you, and I think your silvery tongue might be just what’s needed to get him to commit.”
“Sure. Be better if it was today, though. We need to get started.”
“Unfortunately, he’s tied up for the rest of the d
ay, but I think we’re still in reasonable shape, as long as Mike can live up to his promise to hurry things along.”
“That, somehow, is not something that worries me.”
“Ha-ha. Just a minute, let me . . . ah, here it is, Abbott’s number: one, five, three, four, six, one, two, one, one, two. He wants you to ring him a little before eight in the morning to confirm.”
“Will do,” Gideon said, writing the number on the lid of the box. “And where does he live?”
“In the harbor area, right on the marina, on La Route du Port Elizabeth. I forget the address, but it’s in the ugliest one in that row of condominium buildings there, and the only one with a tangerine facade.”
“Ugliest one. Tangerine facade. Got it.”
“Yes, you can’t miss it. But we should probably strategize a bit first. I want to clue you in on Abbott a little. And perhaps even more importantly, on the dreaded—and dreadful—Miranda.”
“Now you’re scaring me. Who’s the dreadful Miranda?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you. I’m tied up here at the States Building at the moment, but should be free in half an hour. Let me come over to the hotel then.”
“Why don’t I come there instead? The States Building is in Royal Square, right? It’s on my agenda of places to see: the seat of government, correct?”
“It is that, from which all power emanates. All right, that will be fine too. Use the States Chamber entrance. It’s at the south end of the building.”
“I’ll head over now, give me a chance to look around the square a little first.”
“Good, I’ll meet you in the entrance foyer.”
Royal Square was Saint Helier’s version of the Plaza Mayor in Spain, the heart of the town both geographically and historically. On the French half of the bilingual street signs it was still identified by its original name, the Place du Marché, Market Square.
It wasn’t square, however, but triangular, perhaps five hundred feet long and not much more than a hundred feet wide at its base, with shade trees and benches attractively spaced at regular intervals. Gideon had taken a pocket guide with him on his walk and had read a little about it in the park. As expected, it was a sort of open-air historical museum of the last few centuries. At the wide end (in front of a couple of old pubs with lively terraces) was a blindingly gilded statue of George II, erected in 1751. Not far from the statue was a worn granite plaque:
The Battle of Jersey was fought in the Royal Square formerly the Market Place on the sixth of January 1781.
There were more up-to-date markers as well. On what had once been the public library:
On May 8th 1945 from the balcony above Alexander Moncrieff Coutanche bailiff of Jersey announced that the island was to be liberated after five years of German military occupation.
The long, two-story States Building, which formed the western border of the square, was its most prominent feature. It had been cobbled together from two adjoining structures—the library (with its original 1878 designation—Biblioteque Publique—carved into the stone lintel above its doors and still encrusted in gold) and the old Royal Courts building. An addition had been tacked on at the south end of the building and was christened as the States Chamber in 1887, on the fiftieth anniversary of Queen Victoria’s accession, and still served in that capacity. (The pocket-sized guide was chock-full of facts.)
The entrance he’d been told to use was easy enough to find, and there was Rafe, waiting inside, hands clasped behind his back and looking his usual bright-eyed, chipper self.
“Welcome to my castle,” he said with a wave that took in the entire anteroom.
“Thank you. Nice place you have here.”
Nice, but surprisingly small. It wasn’t much bigger than an ordinary, good-sized living room, but the carpeting was a richly patterned burgundy, the wainscoting and the stairway that led to the upper floor were of dark, richly glowing wood, and the three groupings of three chairs each were burgundy-red wingbacks of lush-looking leather, most of which were occupied by sober, suited, whispering men who looked as if they were deciding on the final fates of nations. On the walls were at least two dozen oil portraits of the statesmen of previous eras, and one of a contemporary stateswoman, the young Elizabeth II, in full royal regalia. An unlit crystal-teardrop chandelier, handsome but too big for the room, hung from the ceiling, but the restfully soft lighting came from wall sconces.
“Not exactly your typical governmental establishment,” Gideon said. “It makes me think of one of those posh old clubs on Pall Mall or Saint James’s Square—or on upper Fifth Avenue, for that matter—full of rich old guys who rule the world but never stop complaining about it, and this is where they come to hide out.”
Rafe smiled. “I don’t know that I’ve ever heard a more incisive description of the Assembly. Come, the Chamber’s not in use this afternoon, so let’s talk there. We legislators do have offices, but they’re tiny, and they’re at the other end of the building, miles from here.”
Like the anteroom, the intimate little States Chamber was resolutely Edwardian, with lots of dark, richly carved wood. Other than the wood, the color of choice was, again, a regal burgundy. At the front was a dais with two formidable, high-backed leather chairs on it, facing a double horseshoe of wooden benches.
“Might as well be comfortable,” Rafe said, leading Gideon up to the front. “Whose chair would you like, the bailiff’s or the lieutenant governor’s?”
“Who ranks higher?”
“The bailiff. She’s the president of the Assembly, the person who calls the shots. The lieutenant governor is more the Queen’s man, a ceremonial figure, neither seen nor heard from very often.”
“I’ll take her chair, then.”
“What a gentleman you are,” Rafe said, taking the lieutenant governor’s chair himself. “Now then, strategy.”
“Wait. This terrifying Miranda person—what is that about? When I go, should I be carrying?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Rafe said. “Miranda is Edna’s sister—”
“Sorry, Rafe, who’s Edna again?”
“My apologies, old man. Edna Skinner is Abbott’s mother, George Skinner’s widow. A grand old lady. Under ordinary circumstances, it would be her permission we’d need, but she’s quite old now, and her capacities are . . . well, not what they were. As her sole offspring, Abbott has the legal authority to act for her, but he seems to feel it’s appropriate to consult Miranda on this particular matter.”
“Miranda the Dreadful.”
“Yes. She’s the only one left who was indirectly involved in those old doings; by the way, she was Bertrand Peltier’s wife at the time—”
“She’s the woman who wouldn’t accept his bones?”
“Precisely. She refused to acknowledge the idea that could really have been him in the pond.”
“She must be pretty well along in years now.”
“Not so much as you might think. She’s quite a bit younger than poor Edna—sixty-nine, I believe, but a young sixty-nine, if such a thing exists. And she’s . . . let’s say, not inclined toward being helpful. She’s the most consistently, unyieldingly negative person I know. And one of the most forceful, a dismaying combination. And she’s very much used to having her way, and she speaks her mind all too readily, and—”
“—that’s why she’s Miranda the Dreadful.”
“Exactly. And she’s our essential problem here. She doesn’t want George exhumed—mainly, I believe, because Abbott is willing to have it done.”
“But you said he doesn’t need her consent.”
“Yes, that’s so, but . . . well, he’s the problem too. He’s not against having it done, no. I don’t think he cares much one way or the other, really. And so my concern is that whereas she is something of an irresistible force, he is not so much an immovable object, especially when it comes to her. I’m afraid she’ll wear him down just to get her way, and he’ll give in, simply to get away from her.”
“Okay, and wh
at am I supposed to do to get her to be reasonable?”
Rafe chuckled. “How would I know? I’ve never been able to do it. I simply thought you ought to be forewarned, that’s all.” But then he gave it some more thought, staring out at the empty rows, stroking his chin. “Do everything you can to avoid antagonizing her, and try not to let it affect your behavior when she becomes antagonized anyway. Those would be my suggestions. If you can get her on our side, it’s a fait accompli. If you can’t—well, I’m not sure which way things will go.”
“I’ll do my best, Rafe. Don’t look so worried. Even if it doesn’t work out, what I came here for is to look at your father’s remains, not Abbott’s father’s. And that I can and will do. That’s the important thing.”
“Yes . . . Uh-oh . . .” Rafe was looking toward the double doors, one of which had opened to show a formidable middle-aged woman peering disapprovingly at them.
“Is there something scheduled in here, Henrietta?” he asked.
“Yes, and in ten minutes. You lot had best clear out right now. You shouldn’t be up there in the first place.” Henrietta, a large, scowling woman built along the lines of a Laundromat washer-dryer combination, looked like someone who was used to being obeyed.
“Certainly, my dear,” Rafe said. “Just give us another second.”
“Lieutenant Governor Phillips will be attending, Senator. If I were you, I’d get out of that chair rather in a hurry.”
“My God,” Rafe said, jumping up, “he’d skin me alive, the brute.”
Gideon took that as his signal to get up as well, and they hurried out, past a censorious Henrietta. “The Chamber schedule is posted for a reason, Senator,” she informed him. “You’d do well to consult it once in a while. This,” she added, her voice laden with portent, “is not the first time.”
He hung his head. “You’re right. I consider myself well and truly rebuked.”
“And you are expected to be in attendance.”