“I’m afraid I can’t be here for the wedding. I have important business in Arizona. I’m sorry. But I do want to wish you congratulations.
She said, “Thank you. Too bad, we would have enjoyed having you here.”
She changed the subject. “Well, how’s your book going—and how’s the remodeling of the castle progressing?”
He spent the next half hour talking about the castle. He didn’t know if she had been told about his being fired, or about Freddie’s injuries, so he didn’t bring either subject up.
There was a light knock at the door to the entry hall and the butler entered. “Excuse me, Mr. Thorne, but there’s a car here for you. If you like, I’ll load your luggage.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Thorne pushed himself out of the chair. “Well, I’ve got to be going, but—”
She wheeled over to him and took his hand. “I’ll always remember you David. You’ll always be a special friend.”
He bent over and kissed her on the forehead. “Me too, Gweneth,” he said. “I’ll always consider you my friend. I’ve enjoyed my time here with you.”
Chapter 43
Thorne went down the front steps to the waiting Land Rover. He placed his Harrods shopping bags in the back seat as the butler loaded his luggage in the trunk. As he opened the passenger’s side door, he was surprised to see the driver was none other than Beth Wright, the cheerful young woman he’d rented a car from in the auto rental store in Bridgetown.
“Hello, Mr. Riley,” she said brightly. “This is indeed a pleasure.”
He fastened his seatbelt and now realized who the young man at the rental agency had been speaking to when he broke off the conversation momentarily. When he’d given the name Riley, Beth Wright had been in the office and had heard the name.
She probably asked if she could deliver the car on her way home. Thorne wasn’t sure she offered to volunteer so she might see him again, but was still flattered.
“I hope this isn’t inconvenient for you, going out of your way to pick me up?” he said.
“Oh no, not at all, Love. I took off a few minutes early. I didn’t have my car today, and this gave me a chance to get a ride home. I would have had to call my Da to pick me up. I hope it’s not too far out of your way. Besides, I had to bring the paperwork by for you to sign.”
“What’s wrong with your car?”
She gave an exaggerated shrug. “Beats me. My Da’s working on it. That’s what he does. He’s an auto mechanic.”
“And, a Da is . . .?” he asked hesitantly.
She laughed. “Oh, I keep forgetting, you’re a yank. You’ve a bit of a problem with the English—English. That’s to say, the English we speak here in England.
“Da is what we call my father. He’s from Dublin—Irish, don’t you know. Me Mum’s from London, so I get it at both ends.” She bubbled more laughter. “Half the time people think I’m Irish, half the time people think I’m an East Ender.” It was a pleasant laugh, not quite the same as Gweneth’s—but different—a crisp, pleasant, feminine laugh.
“I’m afraid I’m still working on my English English . . . or my English English. Take your pick,” he said.
They both laughed.
He surprised himself. He wasn’t given to spontaneous laughter, and here he wasn’t five minutes away from a heartbreaking farewell with Gweneth and was carrying on with a stranger he’d only met recently. He decided he liked Beth Wright.
“So,” she asked bluntly, “where are you off to now, Luv?” Without giving him a chance to answer, she asked, “Also, what do you need with a Land Rover just to go back down to London?”
“I thought I’d spend a day or so looking around London, maybe picking up gifts to be shipped home to friends. Something bulky, and the Land Rover might come in handy
My work is finished, so I’ll be going back to the states.”
“Oh,” she said with a mock frown. “England’s loss. Well, Luv, we do hope you come back.” She paused momentarily before saying, “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a day off coming. I could show you the sights in Stratford if you’ve a mind to see them before you leave.”
He was flattered that such an attractive young woman would have an interest in him. He was also surprised at her boldness and his newfound ability to attract good-looking women. “That’s very nice of you, but I do have minor business whilst I’m in London.” He chuckled. “My, my, I just said whilst. Maybe I’m finally learning the English English.”
They both laughed again.
“I think you’d make a right proper English gentleman, you would,” she said half seriously and turned back to concentrating on the traffic. She pulled the car to the curb in front of her house in Stratford. “I must say, I really enjoyed seeing you again.”
She paused as she got out of the car and looked through the open window. “The offer to see the glorious sights of Stratford still stands, Luv . . . or maybe go to the pictures, or perhaps we could . . . Well, later, you’ve got my number on the rental paperwork—and my card.”
“That’s nice of you to volunteer for an assignment above and beyond the call of duty,” he said, trying to maintain a light-hearted spirit.
She was indeed a bold young woman.
He slid over to the driver’s seat. She turned and waved as she went to her front door. “Ta! Ta! World traveler,” she said with a laugh. He waved back and put the car in gear and drove to the hospital.
Thorne had never liked hospitals. They were full of unpleasant smells, traumatic experiences, and sad memories. This hospital was a crisp new all-glass building four stories high designed in the stark International style—a style he had little use for. It didn’t smell bad, and the pleasant background music in the lobby was relaxing.
He went to the receptionist’s desk and asked the older woman behind the desk where he might find Frederick Hollister. She punched the name HOLLISTER into a keyboard and said, “Room 325 in the east wing. You can use the lift down the hall.”
The elevator went to the third floor and opened onto a broad corridor with a nurse’s station directly across from the elevator. He approached and said “I’m here to see Mr. Frederick Hollister.
A nurse looked up from her work and asked, “Are you a member of the family?”
“No, I’m just a close friend.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said in the professional tone nurses adopt. “We’ve been instructed to allow only members of the immediate family.”
A large, solidly built woman with a broad pleasant face approached and asked, “I’m sorry for eavesdropping. But I heard you say you were a close friend of Freddie.” She held out a rough hand. “I’m Helena Hollister, Freddie’s wife,” she said quietly.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Hollister. I’m David Thorne. I’ve been working with Freddie on the Kilshire Castle project. I was sorry to hear about his accident.”
“Oh, yes, Freddie’s spoken about you. You’re the David Thorne from America, right?”
“Yes.”
One wouldn’t associate the tall, heavily built Helena Hollister with her more diminutive husband Freddie. She had a broad, attractive face. She wasn’t fat and had a well-proportioned figure. Her height and athletic build gave her an imposing presence. But, there was a disconnect with her appearance , her voice, and her personality. On meeting her, one expected a tough, maybe even hard-bitten woman. Instead, Helena turned out to be a soft-spoken young woman with a quiet, and shy demeanor.
“Freddie has spoken highly of you. He said you were helping him and Gilbert Bada with the building of the new wing on the castle.”
“Yes. May I ask how he’s doing?”
She broke into tears and reached in her large purse for a tissue. “The prospects aren’t good,” she said, daubing her eyes. “The doctor said Freddie might not survive.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You and Freddie have my sympathy.”
He guided her to a chair in a corner. “Has Freddie sai
d anything about his accident?”
She shook her head. “He’s only conscious for short periods of time. They have him well sedated with morphine—you know—for the pain.”
“Would it be possible for me to see him, just for a short period of time? I’ll try not to cause him any undue discomfort.”
“Yes. He’s spoken about you and I’m sure he’d like to see you. I’ll ask the nurse if she’ll take you to him.”
Helena went to the nurses’ station and spoke to the nurse behind the counter. The nurse looked up and smiled in Thorne’s direction before beckoning another nurse over. She whispered to the second nurse who motioned for him to follow.
Helena said, “I have to go back to the bookstore. I’ll be back as soon as possible.” She hurried to the elevator, and Thorne followed the nurse down the hall to Freddie’s room.
Inside the room, the nurse went to the monitor and touched a few dials. “He’s just had his medication, and he’s resting now. He’ll probably drift off to sleep in a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” he said.
The nurse went out and left the door ajar. Thorne went over to Freddie’s bedside and asked quietly, “Are you awake, Freddie?”
Freddie opened his eyes slowly, and when he saw Thorne, he smiled. “Well, the nurse just came in with a tube of morphine. I’m awake, but they’ve got me doped up. How are you, David?”
“I’m fine, Freddie. Look, I can’t afford to lose my best friend. I wish you were in better shape”
Freddie tried to laugh, but it died in his throat. “Me, too.”
Thorne pulled up a chair and moved it close to the bed. “Freddie, do you have any idea what happened to you? I mean, was there anyone who had a reason to do this to you, or do you think it was just an accident?”
“I don’t know—maybe . . . “ His voice trailed off.
Thorne knew about Freddie’s involvement in the search for the necklace, but hoped he would volunteer the details on his own. “Freddie, are you involved in anything—anything to do with something in the castle—something I don’t know about?”
Freddie avoided Thorne’s eyes. “Yes, there is something, David. I would like to clear—that is, I have done something I regret—I really regret.”
Thorne waited as Freddie’s eyes darted about.
“I haven’t told you or the others everything—everything about other portions of the letters. I’ve taken on two partners because I didn’t know what to do with the letters. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how to—“ He coughed and grimaced from the pain.
Thorne held a glass of water with a bent straw to his mouth and Freddie took a sip. Thorne asked, “What is it Freddie? Who are the partners? Do they know about—“
Freddie coughed again. “I should have been more direct. I should have told you . . . I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, David. I never meant—I was confused. I was . . .”
Thorne said, “Tell me, Freddie. Tell me their names.”
Freddie’s eyelids began to droop. The medication was beginning to take effect. “David, please continue the search in castle and—the poesies. Documents are there, I know—I know. In the—bookstore—look for the hills above Great Malvern. You need to . . . buff envelope. I’m tired—very tired.”
Thorne took his hand. “Freddie, don’t go to sleep yet. I need to—”
Freddie’s eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep.
Thorne met the nurse as he went out into the hall. “He’s asleep,” he said, and went back down the hall to the elevator.
On the elevator, he knew Freddie would not last much longer. He was going to lose a good, if flawed, friend. For Freddie’s sake, he had do what he could to help him and Helena.
Chapter 44
As Thorne left the hospital, he reflected on his relationship with Freddie. He and Freddie had frequently lunched together in Thorne’s office, and Freddie had continued to open up to him as he had often done in Scottsdale. Freddie told him about his short-term goals for the new bookstore and castle museum. At first Thorne had been uncomfortable in getting into Freddie’s personal life, but the friendly and open young man’s personality gradually won him over.
Freddie continued to say he had never made enough money. He repeated his desire to make big money. Thorne had just written it off to youthful exuberance. Now he knew different. Except for his indiscretion in withholding portions of the letter, Thorne realized Freddie had been the genuine article in a crowd of people Thorne didn’t fully trust.
The Classics Bookstore was located in the center of activity in Stratford. The bookstore enjoyed considerable overflow foot traffic from the Shakespeare Centre and was a major destination for Shakespearean scholars and tourists. The character of the bookstore was totally different from a Barnes and Noble or other commercial bookstores one would find in the States. The low ceiling and narrow aisles between the bookshelves of the Classics Bookstore gave the small store a cramped feel. One could find many such bookstores in the small villages in England.
Two young women behind the checkout counter were ringing up sales and packing the customers’ books in brown paper bags. The bags bore the image of Shakespeare on both sides of the bags over the name THE CLASSICS BOOKSTORE, STRATFORD-UPON-AVON.
A plump older woman sat in a comfortable chair tucked in a corner. Her head was inclined toward the front window, picking up the light as she held a book close to her face.
As the last customer left, Thorne asked one of the young women behind the counter, “Perhaps you can help me. Do you’ve a book titled The Hills Of Great Malvern?”
The young woman smiled. “I’ll look if you have a moment, Sir.” She typed something in on the computer and waited.
“I’m sorry, Sir, nothing under the title The Hills Of Great Malvern,” she said, shaking her head. “Could it be under another title?”
Thorne said, “I don’t know—Hills In—”
The older woman put her book aside. “What’s this you’re talking about? It’s not The Hills Of Great Malvern, it’s The Hills Above Great Malvern.”
“That’s right, Ma’am. Are you familiar with the book?” Thorne asked.
“I should say so. Only it’s not a book—it’s a painting, and I should be familiar with it, I painted it,” she said, pointing to a picture on the wall behind the counter.
Thorne and the other two women looked up to the darkened oil painting of a landscape on the wall. “Well, what about that?” one of the young women said. “I never knew that was what it was called.”
“What is the price on it?” Thorne asked.
The older woman laughed. “Oh, no. It’s not for sale. My son Freddie would never allow it. You see, I painted it when I was just a girl. I painted a lot in those days. Went to Art School, I did. I gave it to Freddie when he opened the bookstore. He even wanted to call the bookstore
The Great Malvern Hills Bookstore because he liked the painting so much, and gave it a place of prominence up here.” She pointed again to the painting.
“The town permit people—bunch of old buggers—refused to give him a permit. Said, ‘If you want a bookstore named Great Malvern, go over there and open it. We’re Stratford—name it The Shakespeare Stratford Bookstore.’ Freddie and the permit people settled on The Classics Bookstore.”
Thorne stood waiting patiently for the old woman to conclude her story. She went back to her chair. “No, the painting never has been for sale. Never will be. Freddie’s instructions—not for sale.”
“That’s true, Sir,” the young woman said. ”We get a lot of inquiries, but Mr. and Mrs. Hollister have told us it’s not for sale. Sorry.”
“Well, thank you,” Thorne said. ”Is Mrs. Hollister around?”
“Yes, I think I saw her go to the office in the back. I’ll call her. May I have your name, Sir?”
“David Thorne.”
She pressed an intercom button. “Mrs. Hollister, a Mr. David Thorne is here to see you.”
Helena Hollister’s vo
ice came back. “Please ask him to come to the office.”
The young woman pointed to the opposite rear corner of the store, and Thorne threaded his way through the narrow aisles and bookshelves to the small office.
Helena stood as he entered and closed the door. She shook his hand and said, “So nice of you to come by, Mr. Thorne. I had planned to come right back, but I’m afraid I got tied up here. I plan to go back and spend the night with Freddie.” She looked at him imploringly. “Did you get to see Freddie? Was he awake? How is he?”
“I’m afraid he didn’t tell me much. He took medication and went to sleep while I was talking to him. He was resting comfortably when I left.”
She started to sob and reached for a tissue from a box on the desk.
“I’m sorry about Freddie,” he said. “He was always nice to me. I considered him a good friend.”
She looked up quickly. “Oh, yes, he spoke about how he felt you were a trustworthy person—not like those others he was involved with. Of course, he liked Gil, but the others—well—”
She fidgeted with a tissue and looked into his eyes. “Freddie associated with a lot of people. He was an open person. What you saw when you met Freddie was what he was. He talked a lot— too much sometimes. I feel that in his enthusiasm he trusted the wrong people.”
She added quickly, “Oh, not you. I think it was good for him to trust you. It’s the others. They . . .” Her voice trailed off, then stopped.
Thorne said, “Freddie said something before he went to sleep about The Hills Above Great Malvern or—”
“He did?” she asked. “That’s strange, he told me to talk to you about the same thing. Evidently, it had to do with his mother’s painting? Freddie said I could depend on you to do the right thing with the painting if anything ever happened to him. Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”
“May I examine the painting?”
“Of course, but I think it best if we wait until we close and his mother goes home. Naturally, she would be curious. I’ve also instructed everyone not to tell her about Freddie’s condition. She’s not in good health, and . . .”
The de Vere Deception (David Thorne Mysteries Book 1) Page 15