The Blue Virgin

by Marni Graff

  “Yes. They stood there a few moments talking, and then the shorter one turned to leave, and the taller one pushed him roughly and ran away. The short man fell over the railing to the basement stairs, and I couldn’t see him anymore.” Louisa swallowed hard. “I had my cell phone and I thought, ‘I have to call 999,’ as I ran out the door, but when I got to the stoop and looked down … ” Her face crumpled with the memory of the horror she’d seen. She covered her face with both hands.

  May coughed and shifted in her seat. Declan pushed on.

  “Excellent, you’re really doing well, Louisa. Forget the body and try to pull your mind back to the other man, the taller one. Can you describe him?”

  The girl looked at her hands before answering. “He was definitely taller than the other man, but the lobby is up a flight of steps from the street, so I only saw the top of his head. He had on a baseball cap with the brim curled in on each side, the way some do them, you know?” She made a folding gesture with her hands.

  “Yes, I know what you’re talking about,” Declan said. “How about color? Any logo on it? Or printing?”

  Louisa scrunched up her face and was suddenly eager. “Yes, there was an elaborate design, sort of like entwined initials, in silver embroidery. The cap was maroon, or burgundy, in that family.”

  Declan hunched forward. “Could you make out the initials, Louisa? Close your eyes and think back very hard.”

  Louisa did as she was told, and everyone in the room waited for her response.

  “I think a K and maybe an M or a W?” She was less certain and clearly agitated now. “I’m sorry. I just had a glance at it; I didn’t know it would become so important.”

  Her mother couldn’t stop herself from interjecting, “Of course you didn’t, darling.”

  “DI Barnes, perhaps a good night’s sleep would improve Louisa’s memory, don’t you agree?” Nichols spoke with quiet authority.

  “Just what I was about to suggest,” Declan said graciously, terminating the interview.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  “‘The sex instinct,’ repeated Mrs. Talliaferro in her careful cockney,

  ‘ … is quite strong in me.’”

  — William Faulkner, Mosquitoes

  7 PM

  Simon put the phone down. “That was Val. She’s still at the station with Louisa and May. She told us to go ahead and have dinner without her.”

  They threw together a cold salad, Nora cutting up cucumbers as Simon opened a can of tuna. “I can’t believe there’s been another murder, and right on Bryn’s doorstep, Simon. They have to be connected somehow,” Nora said, pushing tuna and cucumbers around her plate with a lack of enthusiasm.

  Simon brushed the hair off his forehead. “I know it seems too coincidental, but what connection could there be? We haven’t stumbled across anything linking Bryn with this Clay person.” Even Simon’s appetite had lost its edge tonight.

  “Poor Val, to be back inside that station so soon. This whole thing must be like sleepwalking through a nightmare for her.”

  “I suspect it felt that way even before today’s events, dar—Nora.” Simon caught the endearment and kept his eyes on his plate.

  Nora blushed. “Yes, of course you’re right. You’re always right, Simon; you have such good sense. Maybe you’ll be the one to solve these murders.”

  He looked up to see if she was making fun of him, but Nora appeared sincere. “I prefer to leave that to the professionals, despite your opinion of them.” He decided a change of subject would do them both good. “Would you like to see the sketches I made at Belcher’s today?”

  “Of course,” she answered. “Let me use the loo while you’re getting them.”

  Simon rose to clear the plates and retrieve his pad. He left it on the table and started a pot of herbal tea to get them through the evening. When he heard Nora resume her seat, he glanced over and saw her leafing through the tablet.

  “Simon! This one of the scene out the window is amazing—are you going to paint it?” She flipped the page. “And look at Miles here, all waving arms. I can almost hear his whiny voice.” She gave a fake shudder and flipped to the next page. The subject was done in profile with only a few lines to suggest features and wavy hair.

  Simon was certain Nora would recognize the firm expression and determined lift of the chin to be her own. He sat down while the tea steeped.

  “The glasses are a dead giveaway,” she said, pushing hers back up her nose.

  “I wasn’t trying to hide that it was you,” he said. “What do you think?”

  Nora sat back, considering. “I think I have been very selfish, dragging you all over Oxford to do my bidding, checking out cars and people, helping me pack and sort my life and Val’s. Tomorrow is a day for Simon, the artist. Here is your assignment: You are to take off in my car with your art bag and not look back until dinner, when I will expect to be retrieved for a proper meal.”

  Simon was already shaking his head. “And what will you do all day?”

  “See those books?” She pointed to the shelves running around the room. “They all have to be sorted into piles, some to give away, some to store, and a few to take. That will probably take me all day. I can sit here and sift through them slowly. And I’ll be available for Val if she needs to talk.”

  Simon’s resolve was weakening.

  “I won’t move any heavy boxes. I’ll just pack cartons and leave them for you to stack up when you get home.”

  It was a very tempting offer. “If you think you really wouldn’t overdo it—”

  “I’ll be slow and relaxed all day, and you’ll have a pad full of drawings to paint when we get back to Bowness.” Nora was already pulling a book off the shelf. “Here’s a place you might want to drive to, quite nearby, excellent views … ”

  Simon watched her shiny, auburn curls move as she pointed out attractions for him to explore, unable to shake the feeling that Nora was steering him out of the way.

  *

  Nora and Simon sat on the sofa, reading in quiet companionship as the evening wore on. Val had called and updated them on Louisa’s interview. The pages of Nora’s mystery blurred after that as her mind went round and round the murders, trying different theories on for size. Could this Oxford don be involved? What about Cam Wilson? She felt weary and finally put her book down, picking up one of her pillows. Propping her head against it on the sofa arm, she placed her feet expectantly across Simon’s lap. A smile broke across his face. He closed his book.

  “Would Madam be interested in the Ramsey Special this evening?” he asked, holding one foot by the heel.

  “You have such wonderful ideas,” she said with relish, but to her surprise he pushed her feet off and stood up. Her consternation changed to comprehension when he returned from the bathroom with a bottle of skin cream. She was glad she had shaved her legs that morning, curling her feet back onto his lap as the rosemary scent reached her. The cold lotion gradually warmed in his hands as he massaged Nora’s feet and legs, relaxing her tired calf muscles by reaching under her skirt, stopping at her knees. She liked the feel of his strong hands, too firm to tickle, touching her skin, his long fingers insinuating themselves between and under her toes in a way that seemed sensual and intimate.

  Nora relaxed her legs slightly, wanting him to slide his hands higher, feeling the heat build between her thighs. She closed her eyes to the sweet rush of desire that filled her, a sensation she hadn’t allowed herself to experience deeply in months. The memory of their only coupling swam over her, the recollection still powerful. Nora willed Simon to comprehend her hunger as she became more aroused, hoping he would somehow have the insight to know she was giving him permission, not knowing how to convey her need when she had kept him at arm’s length. He was working on the leg f
arthest away from him, and as Nora relaxed the closer one into his lap, she felt his erection. Surely if she began to massage him with her foot …

  At that moment Simon seemed aware he was unable to conceal his hardness and dropped her leg. “All done!” he said brightly, uncomfortably breaking the moment.

  Nora curled onto her side, stretching her arms and yawning, checking her watch to cover her embarrassment. “Almost 10 and I’m exhausted. Thanks.”

  Simon stood at his cue. “I’ll just take this with me. Have a good rest.”

  Grabbing his book, he hurried into her bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind him.

  Nora thumped her pillow in frustration. Was that just a physical reaction? Didn’t he desire her anymore? Or was he simply doing what she had clearly told him she wanted—leaving her to sort out her life without the added distraction of a relationship?

  She turned onto her back, wide-awake now as she questioned her logic against the tumult of emotions this man was capable of stirring up in her. Could she expect him to take any alliance between them seriously when she was pregnant with another man’s child? But that man was dead and would never be a father to this baby, she argued with herself. She remembered the longing she’d felt to share her pregnancy with someone when Simon had placed his hands on her and felt the baby move. Could he come to love the child, perhaps even to see it as his own if he were there from its beginning? Was she crazy to imagine or hope this was possible?

  From the bedroom she heard a groan; then all was silent. Nora wrapped her arms around the growing baby, contemplating the best decision for the future of her child. She wasn’t about to pretend she could sleep.

  Chapter Fifty

  “The bodies were discovered at 8:45 on the morning of Wednesday 18 September by Miss Emily Wharton, a sixty-five-year old spinster of the parish of St. Matthew’s in Paddington, London, and Darren Wilkes, aged ten, or no particular parish as far as he knew or cared.”

  — P. D. James, A Taste for Death

  Tuesday

  9:30 AM

  Declan just couldn’t see it. No matter which scenario he envisioned, he couldn’t find a connection between the murders of Bryn Wallace and Tommy Clay. He sat at his desk and stared at the lists he’d scribbled. The only two things the victims had in common were that they lived on the same street, and their deaths were apparently provoked by acts of anger.

  But the methods were so different; could they really be the same person? Declan didn’t want to think he had two murderers running around Oxford. Why would Bryn Wallace’s killer want to silence Tommy Clay? Had Clay seen something he shouldn’t have? Perhaps Clay had ferreted out information about the murderer. He picked up his intercom and buzzed Watkins in the murder room, supervising the logging of information on Tommy Clay’s murder.

  “McAfee heading up the house-to-house? … Good. Any joy from those photos the team is showing around? … Figures. Charlie’s doing the Clay post; want to tag along?”

  Hanging up, Declan pushed his notes aside and sifted through the files on his other cases. They had arrested two teens for the computer thefts, and that looked like a solid case. He initialed a few reports and put the folder for employee evaluations aside for the fourth time that week. They would have to wait.

  Declan drained his coffee mug, and his eyes lit on the chair Nora Tierney had recently occupied. He pictured the woman with her arms held out in front of her for handcuffs, humor in her eyes, and felt a twinge of something he was reluctant to name.

  *

  The postmortem of Tommy Clay revealed few surprises, except for the magnitude of the man’s personal equipment.

  “Goodness, he was built like a donkey—no wonder he couldn’t stop from waving that thing around,” Watkins said, with what almost sounded like respect.

  Declan was not impressed. “He didn’t use it wisely,” he said grimly, yanking off his surgical mask.

  Charlie Borden stripped off his gloves. “As I thought. In very good shape other than the effects of the fall. Skull fracture rupturing the basilar artery is the immediate cause of death. Multiple other fractures consistent with the fall. Concrete is very unforgiving to the eggshell of our heads, gentlemen.”

  “Thanks, Charlie.”

  The two detectives stuffed their paper suits in a wastebin. “Any idea who you’re looking for?” the pathologist asked.

  “We’re going to interview the girl again, see if she remembers any more details. She got a better look at him than the Haskitt boy did, but she was standing in the lobby above him and only saw the top of his head. Not even hair color—he had a baseball cap on.”

  Charlie grimaced in sympathy. “Like there’s only a few thousand of them around, and women wearing them, too. Good luck hunting.”

  “We need more than luck to solve this one, Charlie,” Declan answered, picking up on something Charlie had just said. “Watkins, we have to ask the Rogan girl if there’s any chance the killer was a woman.”

  “You’re not thinking Val Rogan? She was in Chippy all day, wasn’t she?”

  “But we don’t know exactly when she arrived back in Oxford or what her actions were.” He saw the reluctant look on his sergeant’s face. “I’m grasping at straws, aren’t I?” he said miserably. They walked out into the bright sunlight and clean air.

  “More like a whole haystack, if you don’t mind me saying so, guv.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  “In the opinion of the late Queen Elizabeth, Captain John Smith was the most accomplished and versatile liar in England.”

  — Noel B. Gerson, Daughter of Eve

  9:45 AM

  Perhaps it was the result of being an only child, Nora thought. She had become so accustomed to creating other worlds and imaginary playmates that massaging reality felt permissible. She pondered her lack of guilt as she sent Simon out for the day. He carried his backpack stuffed with art materials and fresh sandwiches, including three hard-boiled eggs she had made that morning while reviewing her plan. In the grand scheme of things, she judged, waving from the window as Simon disappeared, surely a small white lie could be overlooked. A small falsehood that led to a greater achievement was often a necessity. Historians would back her on that. Or philosophers, or someone. Satisfied the Volvo was on its way, Nora closed the window.

  She had the day to herself. Even Val was occupied, accompanying Louisa to her second interview.

  “I need to be there, Yankee,” Val had told Nora on the phone. “I can sort out Barnes if he starts to get too tough on Lou. She’s an innocent bystander in all of this, and I’m not about to let him harass her. And before that I have to stop at the co-op and see Lottie.”

  Nora faced the room, ready to enact the next stage of her plan. Last night she had gone through the books, quietly making stacks and piles all over the room, gambling Simon wouldn’t emerge from her bedroom. If he had, she was prepared to use her insomnia as an excuse. She’d worked quickly, not allowing time to flip through her favorites or linger over choices, consigning each book to a pile: take, store, give away. She could not bring herself to toss a book, any book; the local Oxfam shop would take any the community library couldn’t use.

  There were some built-in shelves in her rooms at Ramsey Lodge, but she couldn’t take an abundance of books and so was judicious about her “take” pile, determined it should be the smallest. She also needed to leave room for the books she would need for the baby, and Nora smiled at the thought of introducing her child to her old favorites and the new ones they would explore together.

  There was one bad moment when a pile of storage books fell over, but their landing on the rug blunted the noise to a soft thud, and Simon had not appeared. When Nora’s heart rate slowed, she began re-shelving the books, grouping them according to their final destination. She had collapsed
into a deep sleep on her sofa a few hours later.

  Today it was a simple matter to fill a labeled carton and move on. Nora worked steadily and checked her watch when she was done. Less than two hours with only one break, she noted with satisfaction. The shelves stood empty, and she resisted the impulse to dust and wipe them down. She could do that when she got home. As she washed her hands she wondered if Ted Wheeler lunched at Exeter.

  *

  Nora got a taxi to Exeter, glad to sit back for the brief trip to the college. She was aware more and more now of the baby’s movements, an internal floating sensation she was learning to distinguish. It seemed that when she was quiet the baby was more active, but perhaps that was because she was concentrating on his movements then, and her awareness was heightened.

  She pictured him moving his arms as though he were waving a wand and had a sudden recollection from when she was six, when she had been allowed to touch her aunt’s swollen belly, turgid with eight months’ gestation. A foot pushed her aunt’s skin outward in a hard lump. Nora had pushed it back, and it had responded to her touch magically, kicking out again and again as though they were playing a game together.

  After that, pregnancy had taken on the aura of a paranormal process, imbued with an element of wonder that all of her understanding of biology could not explain. Perhaps if she knew more she would feel less fragile, more in control. For once she saw Simon’s need to be in control from a different side, as a way to diminish fear. Maybe that was why he was able to be so calm in the face of upheaval and fluster. As the taxi pulled up in front of Exeter, Nora tossed around the idea of calling the sonographer and confirming the sex of her child.