And so I turned to my more distasteful connections. I contacted a former client of mine. A man who goes by the name of Scorpion. The police know who he is. He was more than willing to do the deed, plus he knew a fence who would dispose of the dagger. We agreed to split the profit.
A short time later Lady Gabrielle called me. Even though she still couldn’t do what I had asked, she had discovered the details of the dagger’s security at the museum. I passed the information on to Scorpion.
And then the dagger was stolen.
I saw the look on Neville’s face in the newspaper. I expected to feel a surge of triumph. Instead there was only shame and guilt. What had I done?
And then Scorpion contacted me and said the dagger was a fake. I had double-crossed him. I was terrified. I had no idea what he meant. Then he said the inscription I had described to him was missing. He demanded to know how I knew about it. I panicked and told him Lady Gabrielle had told me about the real dagger’s inscription.
Miranda put a hand to her face. “Oh, my God. He signed her death warrant.”
“There’s more,” Parker said gently.
Then I realized she must have changed her mind and taken the dagger herself. I confronted her. She swore she hadn’t taken it. I didn’t believe her. I threatened her. I told her the American detectives were onto her game and she would be arrested soon.
That was why she tried to injure Ms. Steele at the polo match. Scorpion called and made more threats. I feared for my life. I behaved like a coward. I told him Lady Gabrielle had the dagger. I gave him her mobile number. It’s because of me that she’s dead.
Damn straight.
Scorpion sent someone after her. I’m responsible. I don’t deserve to live.
They’re going to kill me anyway.
The script was getting hard to read now. Jewell must have been in horrendous pain. The only way he could have managed to get out of the hospital and to the subway was through a powerful, terror-driven adrenaline rush.
I don’t know where the real dagger is. I never saw it. By my barrister’s oath, for what it’s worth now, I never saw it.
I know I must pay for what I’ve done. But I will not go at the hand of a criminal. I will meet whatever punishment the afterlife has for me by my own hand. I will end it at daybreak.
Trenton Jewell
Miranda raised her head and found her eyes were full of tears. A confession from the grave. What a travesty. What a waste of life.
She handed the paper back to Wample. “He says he doesn’t know where the dagger is.”
Wample’s expression turned sour. “We don’t believe him. We’ve learned a hundred thousand pounds was recently deposited into Jewell’s bank account.”
That was a tidy sum. Still, too small for a priceless dagger. “But how—?”
“Our theory is that Jewell was working with someone in the delivery company. I’ve had men searching Jewell’s flat and his law offices all morning. There’s no sign of the dagger. We don’t expect to recover the relic,” Wample said. “We believe he sold it. After we conclude our routine investigation of Jewell’s death, the Marc Antony case is closed.”
Parker’s face was hard. “What about the murder?”
“We have not yet located our suspect Shrivel. We have men canvassing the area near his residence.”
“What about this Scorpion creep?” Miranda wanted to know.
“We can hardly arrest him on the letter of a dead man. The defence would laugh us out of court.”
He had a point. Sometimes, she hated the way the law worked.
For a long moment everyone sat in silence.
Finally Parker spoke again. “Inspector, I’m wondering, with your permission, if we might take a look at some of the evidence in Lady Gabrielle’s case.”
“I don’t see why you need to do that, Mr. Parker.”
Parker gave him his most charming smile. “Humor me, if you will. I’m thinking of using this as a case study for trainees at my agency. With your permission.”
Wample’s mouth went back and forth but Parker’s flattery got the best of him. “Oh, very well, Mr. Parker. Ives, take our guests to the evidence room.”
While Parker spent the next hour going over the vehicle and the other things the police had gathered in the street yesterday, Miranda pressed her fingers to her temple and tried to keep the strings holding her insides together from unraveling.
She felt as if she was going insane. She’d never left a case unsolved before. And when Parker said he was finished, she felt crazy with relief.
She couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel and hit that Bacardi.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Miranda sank down onto the Queen Anne sofa in the hotel suite and put her head in her hands. She wanted to cry. “We failed, Parker. We failed Sir Neville.”
He sat beside her, pulled her into his arms. “We did our best. All we could do.”
“There has to be something more. There has to be.”
But there was nothing she could think of. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder and let her tears stain his suit.
He rubbed his hands over her back, pressed his lips to her hair, and she knew he was just as broken inside. Wade Parker didn’t lose cases. Wade Parker didn’t give up. But if Trenton Jewell had sold the real dagger on the black market, how could they ever trace it? It would take years. Decades.
And Malcomb Shrivel? He was probably in France or Spain or Argentina by now.
It was over.
She couldn’t stand the thought, couldn’t bear the biting sense of futility. She lifted her head. “Kiss me,” she said and pulled Parker close.
His mouth took hers like a ravenous lion. He devoured her lips as his hands slid over her body, plundering, possessing, his touch nearly imploding her with sudden desire.
Sharp, thrilling pangs of need burst inside her. She pressed hard against him, dug her fingers into the hard muscles of his back. She let her need for him drive away her need to solve this case. Let her need to solve this case fuel her need for him.
They were sublimating, her shrink would say. Diverting an emotion too painful to face into another. Okay, fine. It would work for the moment anyway. Apparently Parker felt the same.
Rising, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. He laid her on the thick brocade and pulled at her clothes while she wrestled his off.
They came together, skin to skin, bare flesh to bare flesh and Miranda’s heart pumped so hard with tenderness and passion, her mind became a blur. A lovely blur where all she could feel was him.
He plunged into her, making her cry out with pleasure and hunger for more. He gave her more. His hands, his body, his mouth. And she gave in kind. More and more until their bodies fused into a single unit.
A oneness, a bond deeper than any they’d ever had before. A place Miranda never wanted to leave.
If only she didn’t have to.
Parker clicked off and put his cell back into his pocket.
He’d crept out of bed when his phone had rung a few moments ago and left Miranda to rest.
He strolled to the window and looked out at the city of London, its craggy world-famous landmarks growing luminous under the glow of the golden late afternoon sun.
He thought of the history of kings and empires. He thought of envy and its power to destroy. Its parasitic nature, how it feeds off those who give into it like a cancer. He thought of love and its power to make people do what they’d never dream of doing, both good and bad. And some things they promised not to do.
He thought of his friend Neville Ravendale’s comforting touch on his arm when he was a child grieving over his mother. The man who now grieved over the loss of his daughter-in-law and the lives of his family he thought he’d ruined.
And finally he thought of Malcomb Shrivel and Scorpion and began to turn a plan over in his mind.
Scotland Yard wouldn’t bring either of them in. He’d seen too many criminals disappe
ar into the wind after clumsy police attempts at capture. They’d escape. They’d get away with what they’d done. They’d walk free to steal and kill again.
He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let things be and go back home empty handed.
Besides, if what he had reasoned out was correct, it would only be a matter of time before Scorpion struck closer. He had to act now. Tonight.
He turned and gazed at the door to the bedroom where Miranda lay sleeping. He refused to put her in danger. He refused to take no for an answer this time. He let out a long sigh. Bringing up the topic would only lead to confrontation. A fight, a breach between them was the last thing he needed now. Better to do it secretly.
Alone.
She would figure it out, he knew. No way around that. But by the time she did, it would be done.
The decision was made. He pulled the cell out of his pocket again and stared down at it. He hated himself for what he was about to do but it was the only option he had.
He began to punch in the number he’d gotten off Lady Gabrielle’s phone in the evidence room. The police couldn’t prove who it belonged to, but they must have called it. It hadn’t been answered, but it might be if the call came from a different number.
He waited for it to ring. Once. Twice. Three times. Luck was with him.
At last a hoarse, ugly voice answered. “’Oo is this?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Miranda opened her eyes and found herself naked under the covers of her bed and Parker standing beside her fully dressed in dark suit and tie.
She rubbed her eyes and sat up. “What time is it?”
“Just before seven. I’ve ordered some dinner.”
She stared at the pillow. “I’m not sure I can eat. I think I just want to sleep until tomorrow.”
“We should attend Lady Gabrielle’s wake.” His voice was tender, a sliver of pain edging his tone. “Sir Neville called a little while ago with the details.”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess we should.” Her heart broke all over again and whatever residual glow was left from their love making earlier slithered away.
“I filled Sir Neville in about Jewell. Wample had already told him the basic gist of the suicide letter.”
“How’s he taking it?”
Parker shook his head. “He’s in denial. I can’t blame him. His whole world is falling apart.”
“Yeah.” And there wasn’t a damn thing they could do to bolster it. She tossed the covers aside and got to her feet, her body feeling as heavy as Big Ben. “I guess I’ll go shower.”
She did so quickly, then forced down a few mouthfuls of food he made her eat. She found a dark pants suit and top to wear, dragged a brush through her hair. She curled a lip at her image in the mirror. “I hope this is okay.”
“It’s perfect.” Parker came up behind her and slipped a golden chain around her neck, fastened it at the back.
She smiled sadly. “You always know the artful touches.”
“But you provide the canvas.” He turned her around, gazed into her eyes a long moment. Then he kissed her with a slow, gentle kiss that nearly broke her heart.
“What’s that for?” she laughed.
In the dim light his gray eyes glowed with a strange fervor. “Whatever happens tonight, I want you to know I love you.”
Her brow rose as her stomach tightened. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing. I just know it’s going to be difficult for you tonight and I want you to remember it is for me, too.”
Now there was a non sequitur if she ever heard one. But they were late and there was no time to argue.
“I’ll remember,” she told him with a flat smile as she gave her hopeless hair a final fluff and let him usher her out the door.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
As Parker navigated them through the evening traffic in the rental car, he informed her the wake was being held at Quinton Castle in Camden. The estate of Albert DeVere, Marquis of Camden and Lady Gabrielle’s father.
“Is that where she grew up?” Miranda asked.
“As I understand, yes.”
Except for the time in boarding school Lady Davinia had mentioned.
Parker eased through a roundabout with a well-lit arch at its center, and they made their way through the narrow streets past old factories and fancy estates and more fancy homes that had been turned into apartment buildings.
They didn’t talk much. Parker was lost in his private thoughts and Miranda was focused on getting through the next few hours.
There wasn’t much to talk about. She hated funerals and wakes and all the trappings of burying the dead. And she had no idea what to say to Lady Davinia or Sir Neville.
Finally they reached a sprawling red brick building with the requisite cake frosting decorations along its exterior and light streaming from its rows and rows of windows. The property was barricaded by a high stone wall with a foreboding iron gate. Along both sides of the street that ran in front of the wall cars were parked. People stood on the sidewalk along the barricade holding bouquets of flowers and taking pictures.
Lady Gabrielle was popular.
Parker spoke to an attendant and the gate opened to a long drive that led up to the front of the house. Valets stood on a wide porch beside tall Grecian columns waiting to park the attendees’ vehicles. Cars lined both sides of the drive.
A lot of people came when the person was young and high-born. No doubt there’d be some press, too. Whoopie. She might end up choking one of them.
After waiting in the line of cars for several minutes, they reached the porch and a valet opened Miranda’s door.
Parker caught her hand. “I don’t want to be stuck here when we’re ready to leave. I’m going to find a spot on the street.”
She frowned at him, suspicion gnawing at her stomach. “What’s going on, Parker?”
He looked annoyed and a little distracted. “Nothing. You don’t want to stay here all night, do you?”
She didn’t. And that wasn’t what this was about. But he had that hard-as-iron look of determination on his face.
Maybe she was reading too much into his behavior. She knew he was as distressed as she was over this case. He was a proud man who was proud of his work and he had every right to be upset. It was hard for him to admit defeat.
She let it go. “Okay. Guess I’ll go inside. Don’t know what I’m going to say to Sir Neville, though.”
His eyes went tender. “He understands. You’ll do fine.”
She nodded and got out of the car.
But as she turned back on the step to watch him wave the valet away and drive off into the night, a little bird in her gut told her something wasn’t right about this.
Chapter Forty
A tuxedoed servant met Miranda at the huge front door to open it for her, and another led her down a long echoing corridor until they turned a corner and she could hear the sounds of soft funeral-type music and muted voices.
She headed for the tall open double-doors the servant indicated and caught the smell of coffee, finger food, and expensive cologne.
She stepped inside.
The hall was circular, its ivory walls embellished with marble and statuary. High above, a large dome capped the room, its circumference outlined by tall columns and triple arches, its ceiling painted with pastel angels surrounded by gold filigree. Gabrielle would have been pleased with that canopy, Miranda decided.
Down below the space was crowded with dark clad figures, chatting to each other in low tones, while the too-warm air grew thick with grief and gossip.
Miranda recognized a few faces among the gathering. The Lovelaces, the Duchess of Oxham. But most she didn’t know.
She made her way around the edges of the room, through the forest of strangers until she reached a green marble fireplace and saw Sir Neville on the other side of it on a settee. He stared at the floor beneath his feet, looking wearier, more lost, more fragile than she’d ever seen him.
This
had been such an ordeal for him. Tragedy on top of tragedy.
She still had no idea what to say to him, but she steadied herself, went over and sat down beside him. “Hello, Sir Neville,” she said quietly.
He lifted his head and blinked at her in surprise. “Ms. Steele.” He reached for her hands. “Thank you so much for coming tonight.”
She squeezed his hands and studied his crystal blue eyes, their color vibrant, their rims deep red from too many tears. The emotion spilled out of her. “I—I failed you, Sir Neville. I’m so sorry.”
His expression turned to concern. “Oh, no, my dear. You did the best you could. You and Russell both. No one could have expected more.”
But this time, her best wasn’t good enough. She shook her head.
“No one could have known what Trenton was up to. I—I still can’t believe it myself. I had no idea how he felt.” The lost look returned to his face. He released her hands and patted her arm. “No, if anyone’s to blame it’s me. I should have left that dagger where it was.”
That was a silly notion. “You were doing your job.”
“Yes. My job,” he said bitterly and stared out at the guests, not really seeing anyone. “It’s funny how something like this makes you stop and look at your life. Makes you see the mistakes you’ve made, the opportunities you’ve wasted.”
“Yeah,” she murmured and wondered if he was talking about Davinia.
“If I had it all to do over again—” He let out a heartfelt sigh. “Ah, but what’s done is done. We can’t change it.” He shook himself as if coming out of a dream. “Is Russell here?”
“Uh—” She glanced around the room, didn’t see him. “He’s parking the car. He should be in here by now.”
“Why don’t you go look for him, my dear? I need to steady myself a bit more before I speak to the guests.”
“Sure,” she said. She understood the need for alone time. Rising she patted his shoulder. “I’ll send my husband to find you as soon as I find him.”
“Thank you.” And he gave her that warm, sad smile that broke her heart.
She turned away and began hunting for Parker among the group. She’d made it all the way to the other side of the room when she caught sight of Lady Davinia.
Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) Page 18