“Where is it, Grace?”
“I don’t know.”
“We need that horn. We’re going to get it from you, whatever it takes.”
Donnie MacDhomnuil shoved her forward. She stumbled, and Catriona caught her by the arm, saying flatly, “I’m going to count to three, and if you don’t tell me where it is, I’ll break your little finger.”
Instinctively, Grace made her hands into fists, trying to protect her fingers. “I don’t have it! You searched my bag.”
Like a playground bully, Catriona pushed her back toward Derek. “Search her.”
“I think it would be rather difficult to conceal on one’s person,” Peter pointed out lazily. “Those unsightly bulges. Or bugles.”
“Search her,” Catriona repeated.
Grace struggled. It was instinctive. She knew she wasn’t going anywhere.
When she risked a peek his way, Peter’s face was impassive. His own position seemed to be precarious, unless she misunderstood some of the crooks’ comments to each other; even so it was hard not to look to him for help.
Derek’s hands slid over her breasts, her hips. It was humiliating, which was no doubt the point. He patted her down roughly and the butter knife fell out of Grace’s sleeve, clattering on the flagstones. Peter laughed.
“Brilliant!” Catriona exclaimed. She glared at her henchman, who stared at his feet.
“Where the hell did you hide it?” Derek demanded.
“I couldn’t find it!”
She wrested her arm away as Derek tried to grab her. “So help me God, I’ll do more than break your finger,” he threatened.
Peter moved between them. “No fair. Two against one.”
Derek halted. “What about him?” He jabbed his thumb at Peter. “He could have taken it.”
There was an interesting silence.
“He’s in this as deep as we are,” Catriona said with a glance at Grace.
“Not quite,” Derek said. “There’s a crucial difference, and let’s not forget it.” There was a note in his voice…Anger? Desperation? Grace struggled to classify the emotion underlying his words and was startled by her own conclusion.
“You killed Lord Ruthven!”
It was a guess, but Derek recoiled.
“Of course.” She gained conviction. “It had to be someone familiar with the theater, and someone strong enough to carry a body out. Someone strong enough to impale—”
“It was an accident,” Derek exclaimed. “It was self-defense.”
Peter sounded interested. “Which was it, an accident or self-defense?”
Derek cast him a baleful look. “Both.”
“You do seem to have your share of accidents.” Peter sighed. “Not like the good old days, is it?”
“Shut up, Derry,” Catriona warned the other man as his face darkened. “Let’s stick to finding the Peeler.”
Grace had already figured out that her best chance lay in exploiting the emotional tension she sensed. She began, “Lord Ruthven—”
“Christ, stop calling him that!” Catriona exclaimed, suddenly losing her temper.
The fire popped loudly, and a shower of sparks flew up.
“That’s right, there is no Lord Ruthven,” Grace said. “So who was he?”
“A liability,” Peter remarked.
For some reason this annoyed Catriona into reply. “An associate.” Her eyes held Peter’s. “A former friend. A former lover.”
“Not much of a retirement plan in that line of work,” Grace said to Peter. She couldn’t help it; she wanted to snap the invisible link that seemed to tie the other two’s gazes.
“Not much, no.”
Derek laughed. “Lover! He was trying to kill you.”
“Some girls have all the fun,” Grace said without thinking. Peter made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh.
Catriona wheeled on Grace. “Enjoying yourself?”
“I’ve had better nights.”
Peter said, “Tell her. She’s come this far.”
Catriona sneered, “You tell her. You’re so good at sussing out what makes people tick.”
“Not always.” They broke eye contact, and Peter said, “I’m guessing that Bob didn’t appreciate being blackmailed into taking part in another of Catriona’s schemes. Especially after the guard was killed. He decided to pull the plug.”
Catriona stared at him. “You think so?”
Derek said, “That goes to prove you don’t have a clue, mate. Ruthven tried to pull the plug all right. On Cat.”
The accidents plaguing Catriona…who had better opportunity than the man she lived with? But there was something in the way Ruthven had watched Catriona, something that, despite the current of hostility between them, would have led Grace to believe he still cared for her.
“Why?” she questioned.
Peter suggested, as though it was only of academic interest, “I suppose if it wasn’t that he objected to being blackmailed, he resented being phased out?”
A falling-out of thieves? It sounded as melodramatic as anything Polidori might have devised.
Grace worked it out. “So it was Lord Ruthven—Bob—who killed Lady Ives? Thinking she was you?”
There was another one of those moody silences.
“And, in character as Lord Ruthven, he left the vampire marks?”
Again it was Peter who responded. “It sounds rather like a bad movie doesn’t it? Curse of the Vampyre. Deranged thespian runs amuck acting out his stage persona.”
She supposed it made sense, except Ruthven, like Catriona, was a schemer, a plotter. His previous attempts on his “wife” had all been staged to look like accidents. Why had he suddenly lost patience, bashing her head with a garden ornament? It was such a brutal, clumsy crime. Not really Ruthven’s style at all. And why the night of the Hunt Ball, with so many people wandering around the garden?
How convenient, Grace thought, to blame the murder on a dead man.
Surprised at her own cynicism, she barely heard Peter’s insolent, “Except jolly old Ruthven wasn’t the actor in the house, was he?”
Derek swung at him. Peter sidestepped neatly. The dog jumped to its feet, barking as Derek knocked into a table.
“Derry, don’t be an ass! He’s baiting you.” Catriona raked a hand through her mane. “Donnie, take her back downstairs—and I don’t mean leave her in the pantry this time.”
Donnie Hood escorted Grace down through a labyrinth of poorly lit halls and stairways to what appeared to be an actual dungeon. He gestured for her to step inside a long, rectangular room and locked the heavy door with an air of finality.
Grace slowly took in the collection of antiquated devices, possibly intended for torture but looking as much like farm equipment as anything. There were brackets on the wall for torches and casks for wine. It was damp. She could hear something dripping, the small plop of sound magnified in the moldering darkness.
Time for some quick thinking, Grace instructed herself; but all she could focus on was that the situation upstairs was deteriorating fast, and the more desperate and panicky the crooks became, the greater her danger.
And Peter’s.
18
Grace had plenty of time to reflect on the error of her ways: hours if her watch was correct. She kept holding it up to her ear, and it did seem to be ticking. She was relieved Chaz was not with her. Not only would she be responsible for imperiling him, she would have had to listen to a never-ending I Told You So.
She wondered, with Chaz returning to England and the Bells on their way to Canada, how long it would be before anyone reported her missing? Of course, they would notice at the inn when she didn’t turn up for breakfast, and Donald MacLeod would know his boat had been used during the night. Hopefully they would come straight to the island. But if the lady of the loch swore that she hadn’t seen Grace—?
How long would they hold her? That was probably a dumb question since she was in a dungeon, and they could probably leave her there
forever and not be even slightly inconvenienced. Grace refused to consider the alternative, that they might do away with her—although there was something in Catriona’s eyes that made her uneasy.
A key grated in the lock. The door swung open.
“Come on,” Peter said softly. “Chop-chop.”
Grace, seated on a large barrel, looked at him warily. “What’s going on?”
“Jailbreak.”
“I thought you were on their side now.”
“I’m on my side. Are you coming or not?”
“I may as well.”
In the uncertain light his shadow loomed ten feet tall as he started for the stairs. He was moving fast but very quietly, and Grace instinctively switched to tiptoe as she sprinted after him up the serpentine coil of steps.
It was not easy to converse and climb, but Grace managed a whispered, “Where is everybody?”
“Derek and Cat have retired. Hood is on watch. Donnie Mac is drowning his sorrows. That’s the story anyway.”
“You mean this could be a trap?”
“Of course it’s a trap.” He sounded surprised that she could doubt it.
“Then what are we doing?”
They started another winding flight. “What are you doing with these lunatics? Why did you leave Innisdale?” Grace questioned, not waiting for his last answer. She knew the answer, in any case. Trap or not, this was the best opportunity they’d have.
“Sshhh.” He pressed his head against a dome-shaped wooden door, listening. He nodded at her and opened it.
They seemed to be back in the kitchen. Peter headed for what appeared to be a back door. There was no doubt he knew his way around the castle like the back of his hand.
They stepped out into what must have originally been the castle garden. A tangle of vines covered one wall. The herb beds were overgrown with weeds, and the fishpond, which once would have been stocked with trout and pike, was dry and filled with debris.
Grace, following her own line of thought, said, “So Derek was in on it from the start? He was just pretending to dislike Catriona, and she was pretending to dislike him.” She reflected. “She does truly seem to dislike me, though.”
“Hard to believe, I know.”
“Derek and Catriona are lovers?”
No comment. Maybe he didn’t like the idea.
Grace chose not to pursue that line of thought. “Was he pretending to have an affair with Theresa Ives? Or did he have an affair in order to get close to her for the robbery?”
“Will you be quiet?”
“I am being quiet,” she hissed back. “Did Derek kill Theresa? Did she find out about the robbery; is that what happened?”
“I thought you had deduced that Ruthven killed her in mistake for Cat?”
“Is that what they said?”
“It hasn’t come up in conversation.” He raised a hand, and she paused, her heart beating fast. Someone was walking along one of the overhanging ledges. Peter knelt in a single fluid movement and seemed to melt into the shadow. Grace squatted, and her knees popped. It sounded as loud as a firecracker to her, but the person on the ledge kept walking. For a moment Donnie Hood was silhouetted by the moon.
When his footsteps died away, Peter stood, placed his hands on the wall and swung himself up. He reached down, helping Grace scramble up. Sticking to the deep shade of the castle, they edged their way around the expanse of green.
When they stopped to rest, Grace said softly, “But it doesn’t make sense. Ruthven loved Catriona. I know he did. Well, maybe love’s not the word, but there was passion there.” She remembered his face when Catriona had nearly fallen through the trapdoor. “Or obsession.”
“It’s a fine line sometimes.” She didn’t like the way he said that.
“So the truth is Ruthven became jealous? He and Derek fought, and Derek killed him?” She reconsidered. “Or did Derek try to kill him for trying to kill Catriona? Or did he kill him to try and take Catriona away from him?”
Peter threw a look over his shoulder that suggested he was having second thoughts about the rescue attempt.
“But no,” Grace continued, “that can’t be right because they did try to save him. Sort of. And why would they do that if they were trying to kill him? And they wouldn’t need to kill him since they weren’t really married—the Ruthvens, I mean. But how could it be self-defense? They would have had to follow him to the theater—unless that whole scene was a setup?”
Peter stopped dead and stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you see? It’s more than the fact that Theresa’s death doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense! What was the point? What was the big scheme?” Grace pressed. “It can’t be a coincidence that they chose Innisdale for their home base. And surely there’s more to all this than a bunch of robberies? Why the charade of the play? Why did Lord Ruthven pretend to be a vampire?”
Peter quoted huskily, “Sweet is revenge—especially to women.”
Grace was still mulling this over when they entered the ruins of a long hallway.
Something took flight from the broken rafters overhead.
“Was that a bat?” Grace gulped.
Peter started left, stopped, then went the opposite direction.
“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
He cast her a withering look.
“Is there a phone? Maybe we could call for help?”
“Why, I never thought of that!” He looked exasperated. “There’s no bloody phone.”
“What about my stuff? My camera. It’s proof—”
“Proof of what?” Peter interrupted, and his voice raised briefly for a moment. “You’ve just admitted you still have no idea what’s going on, and it’s painfully clear you’ve missed a vital point.”
“Which is what?”
“Which is that they can’t decide whether to kill you or simply leave you locked in the dungeon for the next decade.”
“All I can figure is—kill me? But why? If Lord Ruthven killed Lady Ives, and his death was an accident?”
Peter didn’t respond and Grace stopped in her tracks. “I knew it. So Lord Ruthven didn’t kill Lady Ives?”
“No.”
“But—” She broke off as they spotted Donnie Hood at the far end of the hallway.
Hood held up his lantern and recognized them. They turned and saw MacDhomnuil at the other end of the hallway. Hood pointed, shouting, and MacDhomnuil bellowed back.
“Children of the night, what music they make,” Peter murmured, grabbing Grace by the shoulders and sending her climbing out through the shattered wall of the passageway.
They ran across the green, and Peter, like the fox he was, suddenly jinked left and cut back toward the pile of stone. Grace risked a look over her shoulder and saw their pursuers huffing and puffing many yards behind them. She sympathized; she was getting a stitch in her side.
They raced on, weaving around obstacles that Grace belatedly realized were gravestones. She made out a rudely carved skull and crossbones twinkling with the frost now glazing the grass. Beneath this grim obstacle course of markers and stones Menteiths and Ruthvens boarded together in “that dark inn, the grave.”
Full circle, she thought crazily, her feet squelching through the wet grass. Peter sprinted a few feet ahead, clearly checking his speed to match hers.
After what seemed miles but could have only been a few yards, Peter stopped running. Grace took advantage of the break, leaning against the stone wall and trying to catch her breath. Her calf muscles were burning.
How many calories do you burn running for your life? she wondered.
When Peter touched her shoulder, Grace straightened. He gestured, unspeaking, showing the way into what must have been the original chapel.
Keeping to the shadows, they crept across the floor of the old chapel, overgrown with wildflowers and weeds. High above, stars scintillated through the open roof.
Behind them came the circles
of flashlight beams probing through the ruins.
She could hear the Donnies calling back and forth to each other.
Crawling out through a stone shelf that had once been a window frame, Peter led her up some broken stairs and across another flagstone patio. Grace stared up at the grim stone facade. This part of the castle looked vaguely familiar.
“This way.”
They seemed to be balancing on a wall looking down into an enclosure or private garden.
Peter put his finger to his lips. Grace nodded but nearly squeaked her surprise when he leapt down off the wall.
He stood up, waist high in grasses and brambles, and gestured for her to jump.
Grace hesitated, but there did not appear to be stairs. She took a deep breath and jumped.
Peter caught her, helping to break her fall, but even so her shins hurt.
“Down this way. Quietly.”
Taking her hand, Peter led her through the yard of the lion’s den. He moved soundlessly; but to Grace, the soft scrape of her shoes on rock, the shifting of earth sounded as loud as explosions.
Peter squeezed around the iron gate nearly barring the entrance, and Grace wriggled in after him. It smelled weird and animal in the cell.
Afraid she could be seen in the startlingly bright moonlight, Grace backed up. Something sharp stuck her in the shoulder. She turned. A polar bear towered over her, paws outstretched, jaws gaping. Grace sucked in breath for a scream.
Peter’s hand clamped over her mouth. His lips at her ear whispered, “It’s stuffed.”
She slumped against him. His heart was beating fast beneath the damp wool of his sweater. His arms held her tightly, with reassuring strength. Something brushed the top of her head, and she wondered if he had rested his cheek there for a moment. But the touch had been too fleeting.
They waited with the dead bear, watching the shifting light of moon and clouds.
It seemed like hours but it could only have been minutes before Peter said, his voice low, “Right. Where’s the boat?”
“I hid it in the pine trees by the tunnel.”
“The—? The postern, you mean?”
She nodded.
“We’ll have to assume they’ve found it by now or are looking for it. Our best chance is to take the launch. Can you steer a motorboat?”
Verse of the Vampyre Page 22