“Caldwell—he owns the B and B I’m staying at—I don’t want him to know what happened with Dave. It’s too embarrassing. It’s nice to be able to talk to someone about it. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“Of course not.”
I asked, “What is your line of work?”
“Let’s just say I do keep company from time to time with the seedier elements of this fair city.”
“Oh.” It felt like he didn’t want to say any more about what he did.
Guy smiled and kept his eyes on me. “Is this awful man still back in the States?”
“Well, no, that’s part of what’s so awful. Dave—his name is Dave Richter—is here in London. We were supposed to come here together on the plane, but he broke up with me, and I came anyway, and he did too, on the same plane.”
“Together?”
“No. He doesn’t know I’m here.” I had to take a deep breath to say the next part, which hurt like below-freezing air rushing into my lungs. “And the worst thing—the worst thing of all . . . I still can’t believe it.” I didn’t know if I could say it—it would make it more real.
“What?”
“He didn’t come alone.”
“Really?”
“He came with another woman.”
“No.” He said the word like a door slamming hard. “Of all the—”
“Yes, and she’s half his age. He’s fifty. I suppose some people would find her attractive, you know. She’s got long blond hair and she’s super thin. And she wears those shirts that don’t cover your belly button. Not appropriate travel wear, I’d say.”
“Right,” he responded.
“Then . . . You’re not going to believe this, but I followed them to their hotel. The Queen’s Arms. What was I thinking? What if he had seen me?”
“We all go a bit bonkers at such a time. Go gentle on yourself.” He nodded. “The Queen’s Arms Hotel. Know the place. Not far from where I live. Bit gone to pot. Loos down the hall.”
Not having a private bath would drive Dave wild. He didn’t even like having me share his bathroom when I stayed over.
“So, if you had your way, what would you like to have happen to this bloke?” Guy asked.
Talking about it had made me feel better. “I don’t know . . . something horrible, I suppose.” I laughed. It came out sounding like a cackle. “You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve actually been fantasizing about killing him.”
Guy rolled his wineglass in his hands. “Very understandable. I’ve been there myself.”
Just then Caldwell handed me my third pint of beer. “Good evening,” he said to Guy. To me, he said, “Karen, we’ve commandeered a table on the other side of the room. When you’re ready.”
I swayed slightly as I stood there. I couldn’t believe what I had just told this stranger. But it had felt good to get some of that anger off my chest. “I hope I haven’t said too much.”
“Not to worry,” Guy said. “You’ll be surprised. Dave will be taken care of. I’ll make sure he is.”
Caldwell took my arm as I started to walk. I was glad of his assistance. The floor of the old pub seemed to slant in all directions.
Twad and Tweed were sitting together on one side of the table. Caldwell and I slipped into the other side—a tight fit that forced Caldwell to keep an arm on the bench back behind me. The three men talked about cricket for a while, trying to explain the game to me, but I felt like Alice fallen down the rabbit hole. Or maybe Dorothy gone over the rainbow. Somehow I’d landed in a strange land in which I didn’t know the rules.
“Wickets and crumpets and toppers,” I mumbled. “Oh my.”
Halfway through the third pint of beer I started to fade.
“I think it’s time to call it a night,” Caldwell suggested.
“But I haven’t bought a round,” I protested.
When I looked around, I saw that Guy was gone. No matter. Talking to him had done me good. I knew I would never kill Dave for real, but murdering him in my mind had helped a little.
EIGHT
Nodded Off
In the deep middle of the night I woke up. My head ached, my toes hurt, and everything in between was not feeling very good either. I didn’t know where I was or what time it was, but I knew I needed to try to mend myself. I stumbled out of bed, crashing into the nightstand, then righted myself.
My head was trying to lift off my shoulders and go into orbit. I put both hands on it to keep it in place. Aspirin and orange juice might do the trick, might quell my body aches enough to get me back to sleep. I turned on the bedside light and squinted my eyes against the glare. My purse was by the door to my room, so I stumbled over there and found the bottle of aspirin I carried with me just in case of a sinus headache. However, I was well aware that what I was feeling was the result of too much drink on top of severe jet lag.
The clock read three in the morning. Everyone should be sound asleep. I could safely make my way down to the kitchen and see if I couldn’t find some form of juice in the refrigerator.
Wrapping my bathrobe around me, I hoped I looked presentable enough if I ran into anyone. I opened the door as quietly as possible and stepped out into the hallway. A night-light shone on the floor so I could make my way without fear of running into anything or anyone. Down the stairs I went and turned toward the kitchen. There appeared to be a light left on in the sitting room, and I could see well enough to find a switch in the kitchen.
I found no orange juice in the refrigerator, but I did find elderberry syrup. It would have to do. The label said to mix with water. I found a glass and mixed the liquid half and half. Two aspirin and a large tumbler of some very sweet juice later, I thought I might live. But I didn’t want to go back to my room quite yet. I decided to wander into the sitting room and look out the window until my head stopped swirling.
However, when I walked into the back room I found it was already occupied. Mr. Worth was stretched out in the most comfortable chair, his head tilted back, his eyes closed, his mouth a crack open.
He was a tall, lanky man who didn’t quite fit into the chair, but slouched and sprawling, he managed. I put his age at about seventy, a spry seventy, although at the moment, his face looked awfully slack.
A book was cradled in his lap. I couldn’t help but lean forward to see what it was. With its cellophane wrapper, it appeared to be one of Caldwell’s prized first editions. I read the title—Winnie-the-Pooh. Seemed an odd choice for such a learned, older man, but maybe he found it amusing. I had always found the book completely hysterical.
I sat down opposite him on the love seat. I thought of waking him, but he seemed so peaceful and quiet that I decided to let him be. Plus, Caldwell had said he had a bad heart and it might startle him to have a strange woman wake him in the night.
But as my head cleared and I continued to watch him, a feeling grew in me that something was wrong.
Mr. Worth was much too peaceful, much too quiet. I stared at his chest and could detect no movement. But maybe he was a very shallow breather. Or maybe he had sleep apnea.
Then the thought struck me: Maybe he had sleep apnea and it was preventing him from breathing at all. I forced myself to walk up very close to him. Looking down, I noticed that he was holding the book upside down. I slipped it out of his hands, closed it, and reshelved it in its proper place.
When I could still see no movement in Howard, I put out my hand and touched his neck. Neither warm nor cold. I could detect no pulse, but I wasn’t really sure where to feel for it.
When I took my hand away from his neck, he fell forward. His chin hit the edge of the chair and then his head turned, somehow landing crooked in his own lap. Not a natural position at all.
I shrieked. The elderberry syrup threatened to come back up. My breath came in gasps.
A hand tumbled free and hit the floor and I shrieked again.
Swallowing another scream, I managed to say, “Mr. Worth?”
But I knew I was talkin
g to a dead man.
NINE
Dial 999
Three doors banged open almost simultaneously. A thunder of footsteps hit the hallway upstairs, then came pounding down the stairs.
I stepped back from Howard Worth. Caldwell stopped in the doorway and looked at me.
“You screamed?” he asked.
I pointed at Howard, slouched over in his chair.
Two older women in matching plaid bathrobes pushed past and stood right in front of Howard. I guessed they were the Tweedles.
One of them asked, “Is he all right?”
The other said, “He doesn’t look all right.”
Then, as Caldwell came forward, Annette appeared behind him, wrapped in a pink chenille robe and shivering.
“What’s going on?” she asked in a high, thin voice. “What’s Howard doing sitting like that?”
Caldwell pushed between the Tweedles and knelt down in front of Howard. He checked his pulse in a couple places. He pushed the lifeless man back so he was sitting upright in the chair. Turning to me, he said, “Call emergency. It’s nine-nine-nine. I think he’s gone, but we need to try.”
As Caldwell held Howard up in the chair, I pulled out my cell, but realized it would be a long-distance number and I’d never manage it. Then I grabbed the phone that was on a small table by the fireplace and dialed the number.
As I gave the woman who answered the information, I watched a small tableau form in the room. Annette crumpled at Howard’s feet; Caldwell half knelt, pumping at Howard’s chest; the Tweedles stood behind Annette, like two bookends leaning into each other for support.
Time slowed and eddied around us. Caldwell finally propped Howard with a pillow and stood up. Annette was sniffling and leaning on Howard’s knee. The Tweedles sat down on the love seat and bent their faces into their hands. I stood by the doorway, ready to let anyone in if they would only come and knock.
About the time I had started to shred my bathrobe belt with nervousness, there was a pounding at the door and I let in three large firemen and a medic. They took over the room, pushing Caldwell out into the hall. The Tweedles retreated to the stairs, and Annette stayed huddled in a corner of the room, watching.
The medic, who looked like he had barely graduated from high school, tried to get a pulse—or a nonpulse, as the case might be—poked and prodded Worth, opened his eyes, shone a light on them, then dropped his hands and stood up.
“How long has he been like this?” the medic asked.
I answered, since I was the one who’d found him. “It’s been at least ten minutes. But I found him this way, so I have no idea how long.”
“He’s dead,” the medic said and snapped his bag shut. “I’ll call it at three-fifteen.”
TEN
The Morning After
The next morning, I found Caldwell tucked behind the Guardian at the small table in the kitchen, with an empty cup and saucer sitting in front of him. He looked like he had been up for a few hours and like his head wasn’t pounding at all.
He gave me a grim smile. “You had a long night. They took Mr. Worth’s body away very shortly after you went back to bed. Unfortunately, his death was not unexpected. His wife should probably not have let him come on this type of trip. His heart, you know. It’s not been in good shape for a while. But it’s still very sad.” Then he said, “No one else is up yet. Are you ready for your tea?”
“Gallons, please. I’m still fighting off jet lag.” He stood up and shooed me out of the kitchen. A few minutes later, he came into the sitting room with a silver pot and poured me a stream of tea.
“Jet lag can be nasty,” he concurred.
“And three pints of beer didn’t help either,” I reminded him. “Which is about six times what I normally drink.”
“Oww, I wondered,” he said. “I forget that you Americans aren’t used to the real stuff.”
He was trying to tease me, and I was hardly in the mood. “Of course, I suppose it didn’t help that Thad and Treat kept ordering more rounds.”
“Thad and Treat?” I asked, wondering who he meant.
“You know, the two old chaps who joined us last night.”
I almost laughed. “I thought their names were Twad and Tweed.” I had to hold on to the sides of my head, as any movement was causing it to throb.
“They really are nice old fellows. It’s hard to find people to talk cricket with these days.”
“I suppose, what with the sticky wickets and all.”
Caldwell laughed, then said, “I’ll go get your breakfast.”
As he went back down the hall, I vaguely remembered him asking if I would like a real English breakfast in the morning. Not knowing what else to say, I had agreed to it. Usually I had peanut butter on toast for breakfast.
He came back carrying aloft a large plate, which he plunked down in front of me with great ceremony. My eyes widened and my stomach shivered. There were two eggs swimming in grease, with four sausages nestled next to them, and a piece of bacon with a grilled half tomato. Thank goodness for the bread cooling on a rack next to the plate.
“You are going to eat some of this, aren’t you?” I asked.
“No, that’s all for you. I don’t usually eat much for breakfast.”
I knew the eggs would be good for me and I thought I could probably stomach the tomato. I wanted to tip the plate and pour off all of the grease, or at least pat it with my napkin, but I knew that would not be the thing to do. I held up one of the eggs on a fork and let it drip a bit before I carefully placed it in the middle of a piece of toast. When I took a bite, it tasted better than I expected. I found I was somewhat hungry.
Caldwell asked, “I’m sorry about your first night in England. But I suppose you could use it for research.”
For a moment I had no idea what he was talking about. Then I remembered that I was a mystery writer. “Well, before finding Mr. Worth, it went fine. When you went up to the bar, I talked to some blond guy there who said he hung out with the seedier elements of London. He said his name was Guy. I never quite figured out what he does though. Maybe he’s a con man or something. Do you know who I mean?”
“I have seen him in the pub before, enough to say hello. I do think I had heard that he hung out with a rough crowd. Being as calm and mild mannered as I am, I don’t tend to hang around those sorts.”
“Of course,” I said.
“What’s on your schedule?” he asked.
I thought of the long itinerary I had printed out for Dave and me: the museums, the shops, the teas, the gardens. Some of it I would still do, but the stuffing was coming out of me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to fill myself up with all that culture. I had finished my one egg sandwich and had done a pretty good job of dissecting the tomato, but the sausages I was avoiding.
“I’m not sure.”
“Oh, really.” Caldwell looked at me in surprise. “I imagined you with a long list of things to do. I had you down as a planner.”
“Usually I am. But—” I really didn’t want to explain about Mr. Toad, so I used Howard Worth’s death. “A death like that really changes the way you look at everything. I’m not sure what I’m going to do today.”
“Yes, I know what you mean. You feel like you need to make sure you’re not wasting time.”
“Or if you’re wasting time, you’re enjoying doing it. I think I’ll go for a walk.”
“That always gets me thinking, but it’s raining again.” He nodded toward the drizzling outdoors.
“I bought brand-new pull-on rubbers for the trip, and I have an umbrella. I’ll be fine. I’ll go for a long walk, then maybe come back and sink into the couch and read. If that’s okay?”
“That’s what the sofa is here for.” He offered me a titch more tea. “Did you bring any work with you?”
Again I had to remind myself that I had claimed I was a mystery writer. I was all ready to come clean about my life, when he smiled and said, “I feel honored having you stay with me—a real w
riter and all.”
I couldn’t confess, what with him being so impressed by who I wasn’t.
“Are you going to do some more research on ways to murder someone today?” he asked with a charming smile. “Any chance you’ll try to visit Scotland Yard? The Tower of London?”
“Perhaps.” The tea was hitting my system, and I was feeling very much more myself, ready to have a conversation, and I knew just what I wanted to talk about. “But as I recall, you said something about once wanting to kill someone yourself. How so?”
“I’ll tell you someday,” he assured me.
“Sounds like a good story.”
“Aren’t they all, when they’re our own?”
“If you would care to talk about it now, it might help me with my research. I’m really trying to understand the psychology of such a desire for revenge. What would someone have to do to one to make one want to kill them?”
Caldwell tucked his chin and looked at my plate. I couldn’t tell if he was thinking about what I was asking him or trying to avoid the question all together.
After a moment, he lifted his head up, smiled and said, “Run off with your best friend.”
“I’m sorry.” At least Mr. Toad had picked someone I’d never met.
“You don’t have to finish all that food. I know it’s a bit much. But I thought you should know what a real English grill was like.”
Just then Annette slogged into the sitting room. She looked like she hadn’t slept at all and that instead she had cried. My heart went out to her.
She had dark brown hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail at her neck and was wearing a chenille bathrobe over what appeared to be an old T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. Her long face was pale as snow, but, unlike the fairy-tale princesses, she had red eyes instead of red lips. Her lips were nearly the color of her skin and she seemed to be chewing on them.
Caldwell hopped up. “Annette, you’re up so soon?”
“The sedative put me to sleep, but it didn’t keep me there.” She hunkered down on the love seat, looking like she was going to try to take a nap. “I can’t believe what’s happened. It’s like the worst dream in the world and it’s happening to me and I can’t wake up from it.”
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