Sonnet of the Sphinx

by Diana Killian

  She moved on to shopping bags, lifting aside tissue to find Levi’s and leggings—and she was touched again, because she knew Peter abhorred women in leggings and Levi’s.

  She moved on to discover two dresses, a sweater, and a number of T-shirts and blouses. She had asked for a change of clothing and he had purchased a week’s wardrobe right down to the shoes. And with the exception of the undergarments, all the kinds of things she liked. He had had her measurements, of course, but the fact that he had picked the colors and styles that suited her, that she would have picked for herself, was surprising and immensely flattering.

  Grace dressed in the Levi’s and a jewel-necked knit top in olive green, slipped on her new sneakers and the one pair of earrings she had left, and set out to examine the ruins of her home.

  She was glad that she had Peter with her as she poked around the debris of the Gardener’s Cottage; it was the sort of chore that required the presence of a staunch friend. Sally Smithwick was also there with an insurance adjuster. She and Grace hugged in what had once been Grace’s living room.

  DI Drummond appeared while Grace was sifting through the rubble.

  “It was arson, all right,” he said shortly, his gray eyes resting on Peter, who stood a few feet away.

  “The perpetrator poured petrol through the letter box slot in your door, then threw a match in. Quite simple. The only two windows were wired shut. It’s a miracle you got out in time.” Drummond scowled at the blackened steps that had once led to Grace’s front door.

  “Yes.” She remembered the heat and panic of those moments when she had feared the worst. The cut on her hand seemed to pulse in sympathy.

  “Out of curiosity,” Peter said suddenly, approaching them, “where were you the night Kayaci bought it in the park?”

  “Where wasI? ” Drummond’s face paled with anger. His eyes were diamond-bright. He looked from Peter to Grace. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Is it an awkward question?”

  “It’s none of your damn business.You’re the suspect here.You’re the criminal.”

  “You seem angry,” Peter remarked mildly. “Any reason?”

  Drummond’s hard gaze moved to Grace.

  “She’s not interested; I am,” Peter said. “The thought hasn’t occurred to her yet.”

  Understanding flooded Grace, and with it came an instant horrified rejection that she didn’t understand.

  Whatever he read in her expression changed Drummond’s mind. He cleared his throat, and said gruffly, “I was…performing.”

  “You were performing?” Clearly whatever Peter had expected, it wasn’t that.

  “With the string quartet. In the gazebo that evening.” Drummond directed his words to Grace. “I play the violin.”

  Grace turned to Peter.

  “I need a drink,” said Peter.

  “Very Holmesian,” Peter said, putting two beer mugs on the table and sitting down across from Grace. “A violin-playing detective.”

  “You have to admit, it’s a pretty good alibi.”

  “It puts him in the park at the right time. We’d have to know the exact time of Harry’s death, alongside the exact time that Drummond quit the stage.”

  “You can’t really think—”

  Peter said grandly, “I suspect no one. And everyone,” and Grace surprised herself by laughing. There had been little enough to laugh about that morning.

  “Do you have some reason to suspect Drummond, or is this based on mutual dislike?”

  His eyes flicked to hers, then his lashes lowered, veiling his thoughts. “A bit of both, perhaps.”

  She made an exasperated sound.

  “Sorry?”

  “Do you have any idea how annoying that is? That secretive streak in you. Mine is the life in danger here. If you’ve found something…”

  “Something, yes. I’m not sure where it leads us, but I made a few phone calls this morning, and I’ve got some intel on your boy Sartyn.”

  “What kind of intel?”

  “It appears that young doctor Sartyn was booted out of Turkey on suspicion of smuggling antiquities.”

  “Now, that is interesting. The official version is that Sartyn turned Kayaci in to the authorities. But if that were the case, surely Kayaci would know, so why would he and Sartyn be in partnership together? This makes more sense to me.”

  “What makes you think they were in partnership?”

  Grace related Roy Blade’s story.

  “You think they were partners in the smuggling business, as well?”

  “Why not?”

  “I thought Drummond investigated Sartyn’s story.”

  “Who knows what that means? For all we know, he got his information from Sartyn. How reliable is your source?”

  Peter grimaced. “Let’s say he’s in a position to know.”

  “He has no ax to grind and nothing to gain by implicating Sartyn?”

  “As you say.”

  “Then Sartyn must be after the Serpent’s Egg.”

  Peter’s expression seemed odd. “It’s possible,” he said vaguely.

  “Can you think of another explanation for an ambitious archaeologist to bury himself in a quiet country village like Innisdale?”

  “Maybe he was hiding from someone.”

  “Kayaci?”

  Peter gave that sidelong smile. “It would be quite a coincidence if Sartyn chose to hide in the very village where Kayaci came looking for me.”

  “Coincidence happens.” It was a long shot, though, and it didn’t jibe with Sartyn and Kayaci being in cahoots. Grace thought hard. “The first morning I went to see Miss Webb, she said Sartyn had been asking about Sir Vincent Monkton.”

  “And who’s this Sir Vincent when he’s at home?”

  “I told you about him. The Egyptologist. A contemporary of Howard Carter. He’s credited with discovering something called the Tomb of the Sorceress. He wrote a book calledKingdom of the Dead, describing how he found the tomb and what it meant. Or at least, what he thought it meant. He was kind of a loony.”

  “The chap whose collection was conveniently lost in the Blitz?”

  “Right.” She smiled wanly. “What a suspicious mind you have. But remnants of recognizable pieces were identified in the rubble of his London home, so at least a portion of his collection was truly destroyed.”

  “And why was this Monkton more of a loony than any of the other tomb raiders?”

  “Well, from what I’ve read so far—the book was burned last night, by the way—Monkton really delved into the whole Egyptian thing. He taught himself to play the reed flute and write in hieroglyphics. He tried his hand at mummifying small animals. He kept about twenty cats—live ones, I think. And he lined his eyes with kohl.”

  “That’sgoing too far,” said Peter.

  She smiled, but said austerely, “I’m sure it’s Sartyn.”

  “Trying to kill you, you mean? You don’t know it, Grace, and mistakes at this point could be fatal.”

  “Well, who else? The Yakuza?”

  Peter’s eyes narrowed. “I shouldn’t shout that about.”

  “I’m not shouting. I’m asking. Who else would have reason besides maybe Mr. Matsukado? Miss Webb? Professor Archibald? Professor Plum? Seriously.”

  “All right. Seriously, I don’t think the Yakuza waste time on subtleties like running cars off the road or setting cottages on fire. They’d yank you out of your bed one night and put a bullet in your brain.”

  Grace swallowed hard. “Thanks. That’s an image I needed.”

  “You can’t make the mistake of trusting anyone, Grace. You like this cop, Drummond, but—”

  “No, I don’t!” What an annoying idea. She said shortly, “Anyway, he has an alibi.”

  “He’s new to homicide. He used to be with the Yard.”

  “I know that.”

  “The Art and Antiquities Squad.”

  22

  “The original draft of my book manuscript.”<
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  Peter tucked a strand of hair behind Grace’s ear. His thumb lightly traced the outline of her ear.

  “The gown I wore to the Hunt Ball. I loved that dress.”

  He smoothed the frown line between her eyebrows. The room was dark, so unless he had eyes like a cat, he couldn’t see her frowning. It seemed he knew her well.

  His muscles tightened as Grace restlessly shifted position once more.

  “Sorry. Did I jab you?”

  “Uh, think nothing of it.”

  It had been a long and depressing day for Grace. She had spent most of it talking to police, firemen, and insurance people. Even these last few hours spent in Peter’s arms had not fully distracted her. The shock of finding herself homeless and possessionless was not nearly as great as the strangeness of realizing that someone wanted her dead.

  The instinct that had guided her decision to bring a minimum of her possessions from home had been a good one. “Maybe my parents are right. It would be easier to sort through my stuff and decide what to bring back, if I went home.”

  “Is there so much to sort through?” His fingers lazily, gently combed through the waves of her hair.

  Only her entire life. Her entire life before coming to England and meeting him.

  “I haven’t been home to visit in nearly two years. I’m not sure…” She let it trail, wondering if they were talking about her furniture and clothes, or something less tangible and much more important. She waited for him to say something, but he didn’t speak. His fingers continued to stroke her hair in that absent, gentling way.

  She wondered whether it really mattered to him if she stayed or left. He cared for her in his way, she was sure, and he had clearly enjoyed sharing this physical union; but as he had said, he wasn’t much for commitment.

  No one could have been more supportive, more generous, more kind than Peter had been that day, but somehow she knew he would have been there for any friend. Surely if he wanted their relationship to be more than friendship, it was the time to speak up? When she was cut adrift, wouldn’t that be the time to suggest that they try and make a go of it—assuming he had ever believed such a time might come?

  She remembered Brian Drummond’s saying that Peter would never ask her to marry him. Maybe he knew something she didn’t. Well, given his time with the Art and Antiquities Squad, he almost certainly knew something she didn’t.

  Was anyone what he or she seemed? Sadly, Peter seemed to know what he was talking about when he said there was no one she could trust. She closed her eyes, breathing in his warmth and scent, and told herself that the moment was enough.

  When she opened her eyes, the room was full of moonlight and shadows, and the bed beside her was empty. Grace felt the sheet, and it was cool. She lay there for a few moments feeling alone and lonely, then it occurred to her that she was in Peter’s bedroom. It made no sense for Peter to abandon his quarters to her.

  She rose and went into the front room, pausing at the silhouette of Peter looking out the telescope at the night sky, then going toward him.

  Although she had been walking softly, he turned, quick and ready—ready for what?

  “Sorry. I just…wasn’t sure where you went.”

  “I should have warned you. I don’t sleep much.”

  The thin silk of his pajama bottoms outlined lean muscle in a way that somehow exposed more than nudity. He wore no shirt. She touched his back lightly and was surprised at the rigidity of his muscles, the dampness of his skin.

  “Bad dreams?”

  She felt rather than heard the breath of his laugh. “Not really. I’ve never needed much sleep.”

  Gently, she pressed. “Bad dreams tonight?”

  “Memories.” He moved, adjusting the telescope so that Grace could peer through to the milky spread of stars. She fit her eye to the eyepiece and gazed up. She swung the long tube and could see the purple shadow of the nearest mountain.

  How quiet it was. Just the sound of their breathing.

  She straightened at last. “Well, I’ve got nothing to do for the next six hours.”

  He took her place at the telescope, adjusting the eyepiece.

  “There were six of us,” he said at last, as though commenting on what he saw in the zoom. “We planned the job for a year. It was the biggest thing we’d tried to pull off, but we thought we had an inside track.”

  Grace was afraid to speak or even move, lest she break the spell.

  He straightened, one hand resting lightly on the telescope, still facing the window. “They said that the summer came early that year. I remember it was hot, and crowded with tourists. People and cars everywhere. But you still felt the magic of the place.”

  “I’ve seen pictures,” she murmured.

  “Pictures can’t do it justice. It’s ancient, fantastic. Like something out of theArabian Nights . It’s green, too. Greener than you would think. Almost as green as home. I used to dream about those green hills surrounding the city. The sun. The breeze off the Bosporus.”

  That would have been later, she thought. After it all went wrong.

  “The air’s electric with the shopkeepers shouting their wares and the smell of the food stalls in the Flower Bazaar. You can buy anything in that bazaar except flowers.” He smiled faintly at some memory

  Had he tried to buy someone flowers? “I’ve heard it’s amazing.”

  “It is that. A mix of old and new, of Europe and Asia. The streets are narrow and labyrinthine, there are tea gardens and coffee bars, and then you turn a corner and there’s some ugly modern blight on the landscape. The sun sets and you hear the muezzin chanting from the mosques, and then it’s night and the city comes alive. The nightclubs and bars and discos are all packed. Music pours out of the shops; it’s a regular street scene.”

  She could see the fleeting smile in the moonlight, an enigmatic smile like those of courtiers in Renaissance paintings. “We stayed at the Hilton Istanbul, like all the other tourists. Picturesque view of the Bosporus. Twenty-four kilometers from Ataturk International Airport and ten minutes from the palace.”

  She didn’t need to ask which palace. Topkapi.

  He was silent for so long, she thought he had regretted his decision to open up. Then he said flatly, “We were sold out. They were waiting for us. Cat and I were cornered in the main treasury room. I gave her the stone and a head start.”

  Grace knew from the newspaper account that he had been captured in the main treasury. She could imagine the desperate confusion and panic of those minutes when they had realized they were trapped. What had passed between Peter and his former lover in the final moments of their partnership?

  “What happened?”

  She did not expect him to answer at all, so she was not surprised when she got the abridged version. “She handed off the stone to Roget.”

  “Roget?”

  “Gordon Roget. He was our fence. We’d worked with him before. A gray little man. The kind of chap you never took notice of.” He smiled faintly. “The last person in the world you’d expect to have the nerve for a double cross.”

  “She was in it with this Roget?” She could well believe that and worse of Catriona Ruthven.

  “Cat? No.” Peter sounded startled. “No, she gave the stone to Roget as arranged. Roget contacted us, you see. In a sense, he hired us. Anyway, the job went south. The others scattered one step ahead of the Turkish cops and the army. That was the agreement. But Cat stayed on and tried to use the rest of the haul to bribe—” He broke off.

  “And that,” he finished lightly, “was the last any of us saw of the Serpent’s Egg.”

  “Gordon Roget stole the stone?”

  “One must assume.”

  Apparently that had been the last anyone had seen of Gordon Roget, as well. “And Hayri Kayaci?”

  “Ah yes, Harry. The trouble with Harry,” Peter said, “was that his greed outweighed his common sense. He wanted to believe I knew where the stone was, so it wasn’t hard to convince him I did.�
� He said softly, “We made a deal, Harry and I. A devil’s bargain.”

  “But you escaped,” Grace said. “You got away from him.”

  “Oh yes. His greed was like a ring through his nose. I led him like a dancing bear.”

  She thought of the things she had read, the stories of beatings and starvation, of torture and humiliation. The bitterness in Peter’s voice revealed the cost of that fourteen-month balancing act. There were clues to what he had undergone: his dread of confined spaces, the pale marks of scars on his back and ribs, the revealing dreams of food and fresh air. She wanted to know it all, every moment, every detail, and at the same time felt that she had already heard too much. It had taken him eighteen months to share that much with her—longer than he had been in prison.

  “Where is the Serpent’s Egg now?”

  “I don’t know.” He expelled a long, weary sigh. “And I don’t bloody care.”

  “You never found out what happened to Roget?”

  “I never tried.”

  She put her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his back. His skin was warm and smooth against her own. She could hear the beat of his heart, strong and steady. More than anything, she felt grief for him. She could never begin to understand what he had suffered. That kind of thing changed a person forever.

  She was sure that he had killed Kayaci. She didn’t know if it was justified; she knew only that she couldn’t begin to judge.

  And she knew that despite everything, Peter was a good man. A man worth loving.

  It was one time she didn’t want to know the truth.

  23

  Scott Sartyn locked the front door of the library and walked briskly down the street, his figure moving in and out of stripes of lamplight. He got into a black sedan parked a few shops down. After a moment or two, the car headlights came on and the sedan drew away from the sidewalk. Grace gave him a good head start before putting the Citroën in gear. She winced at the accompanying combustion and hoped that Sartyn had his radio cranked loud.