Cloche and Dagger (10 page)

I’m a toucher, so I went for the tactile maneuver. I’ve found that people respond well to a pat on the hand or a half hug. It breaks down barriers and builds a rapport, especially if people are not being straight with you.

I put my hand on his forearm in a comforting gesture. I gave it a light squeeze and then met his gaze, making sure I looked sympathetic.

“You really are anxious about Viv, aren’t you?” I asked.

He blew out a breath as if relieved. “I’m trying not to be, but yeah, there’s something off here. She always contacts me when she travels.”

He glanced at my hand resting on his arm, and I quickly removed it. That is the other secret to being a toucher: don’t linger into awkward. That had been borderline. We exchanged a quick glance, and I began walking back to the shop. Harrison fell in beside me.

“She did e-mail Aunt Grace,” I said. The irony that I was now comforting him was not lost on me.

“Yes, and that’s definitely a good sign,” he said. “Listen, I’m sorry that I was dismissive when you were trying to tell me that it was odd that Viv wasn’t here to greet you. She is a wild card, but that was out of character even for her. She adores you, and she was so excited that you were coming.”

“Does that mean you don’t really think I had anything to do with her being missing?” I asked.

He had the grace to look a bit embarrassed. “I never thought that. I just wanted you to see how easy it was to twist the facts and accuse someone.”

“Oh.” I frowned.

“This is where you say you never thought I had anything to do with it either,” he said. His tone was as dry as toast.

I broke into a surprised laugh.

“I missed my cue, didn’t I?” I asked.

“By a kilometer or two,” he said.

I thought about our first few meetings. Did I really think Harrison had anything to do with Viv being missing? I dug deep all the way to my core. No, but there was a lingering doubt. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew more than he was saying. Of course, up until a week ago, I would have said I was pretty good at reading people, but the rat bastard had taken care of that. Still, I didn’t trust Harrison completely.

“I don’t think you’re the reason she’s missing,” I said.

“Clever.” He gave me a small smile, letting me know he was very much aware that I hadn’t absolutely absolved him.

“Do you think Inspector Franks will be able to find her?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess it depends on how far his reach extends. I have some business associates that I am going to meet with today. I think they might be able to help us, and you can contact your aunt and see if you can get more specifics.”

I gave him a sideways glance.

“What?” he asked.

“Are we working together on this now?” I asked.

He gave me a slow smile and again I was struck by how handsome he was.

“Truce?” he asked, holding out one hand.

“Truce,” I said. I took his hand in mine. It was large and warm and his fingers folded around mine gently but firmly. It was a good handshake. If you can measure a person by their handshake, then Harrison Wentworth was a good man. Still, I was going to keep an eye on him.

We continued on to the hat shop. When we turned onto Kensington Park Road, he stopped me with a hand on my arm.

“Do you remember this corner?” he asked. He had a twinkle in his eye as if the memory he had of it was a good one.

“Given that I walked past it just a half hour ago, it would be hard for me to forget,” I said. I knew full well that wasn’t what he meant, and he gave me an exasperated look that told me he knew I was teasing.

“We got busted here,” he said. “You, me, Viv, Dean, Clarissa, Chester and some others. I can’t remember their names.”

The names he did mention brought back faces from the past like specters. We had been such an unruly gang of preteens.

“Wow, I haven’t thought of that group in years,” I said. I glanced around the corner where we stood and then I remembered.

“Chester! He was the one.”

Harrison broke into a grin and I knew he was sharing the same memory.

“We were spitting out watermelon seeds and he nailed that passing car,” I said. “And it turned out to be Prime Minister John Major’s car.”

We exchanged a wide-eyed glance.

“The Specialist Protection officers were not amused,” he said. Again, classic British understatement.

“I can’t believe they let us go,” I said. “I remember thinking they were going to arrest us and that Mim would never forgive me and I’d never be allowed back into the country again.”

“As I remember it, you worked your magic on the officers and the Prime Minister,” he said.

“I don’t know about that.”

“Oh, sure, you started with big, limpid eyes,” he said. He batted his eyelashes at me and I felt my mouth tip up in one corner. “Then you were so polite as you asked questions about how dangerous their jobs were and then told them how grateful we were to have such brave men looking after our distinguished prime minister. I think Chester vomited on his shoes.”

“That’s gratitude. I was saving his bacon,” I said.

“Remember we all ran to Kensington Gardens and hid for the rest of the day?” he asked.

“We were afraid to go home.” I laughed at the memory. I began to walk again, feeling as if ten-year-old me had joined us. I had to squelch the urge to skip just to see if it felt the same.

“But we got hungry,” he said.

“Well, watermelon will only take you so far,” I said.

The foot traffic on the sidewalk was thicker than it had been earlier. Several times I had to swerve around mothers with toddlers and elderly people. After a block, Harrison took my elbow and turned me onto a narrower and less busy street.

The strong breeze that had been at our backs vanished and I felt myself relax. London in April felt like winter in Florida with cool days and brisk breezes.

I used to be pretty quick at converting Celsius to Fahrenheit in my head, but like any skill it goes dormant without use, and I had to really think about it now. The BBC weather report this morning had said it expected the day to be partly cloudy and fifteen degrees. I knew that was somewhere around sixty degrees but I had a feeling it was still in the fifties. I was glad I had worn my thick wool sweater and jeans.

Of course, this made my thoughts veer to Vivian. I wondered where she was and if she had packed the right clothes. Was she scared, lonely, drunk? It was maddening not knowing.

At the door to the hat shop, Harrison stopped.

“I’ll call you if I hear anything,” he said.

“Likewise.”

“She’s fine,” he said. I wondered if it was to comfort me or him.

“Sure,” I agreed. My voice lacked conviction and his gaze met mine.

He looked as if he wanted to say something but then thought better of it. In a surprise move, he put a hand on the back of my neck and pulled me close as he planted a kiss on my forehead.

It was an oddly comforting gesture and I found it made my throat get tight. I swallowed hard.

“We’ll find her,” he said.

I nodded, unable to speak. And I was surprised to find that I believed him.

• • •

Friday morning, I met Andre at his studio. It had been two days since I’d seen Harrison and I hadn’t heard from him or Inspector Franks in the interim. I tried to tell myself that no news was good news, but I wasn’t buying what I was selling.

I had called Aunt Grace every day and she still seemed to think everything was fine, but I was beginning to think she had a deep case of denial going. It was now five days since I’d arrived without a word from Viv. There was no way this was normal.

Andre said he knew where the Ellis Estate was and had agreed to drive since he had to haul equipment, and I had no car and no idea of where we were going.

We met in front of his shop at ten o’clock. He had several bags of equipment that he was stuffing into the trunk of his tiny car. Compared to the ridiculously giant gas-guzzlers I was used to in the States this felt a bit like trying to wedge myself into a go-cart, the wrong side of a go-cart for that matter.

He merged into the traffic on Portobello Road and took several turns through Ladbroke Grove, heading south toward Kensington.

“Are you sure of the address?” I asked.

“Harrington Gardens?” he asked. “Of course. Don’t forget I spend my days photographing London and all of its surrounding neighborhoods. Nick accuses the old girl of being my mistress.”

“Does he really mind?” I asked.

“Well, I offered to take pictures of him in the buff if it would make him feel better, but he said the mere offer made it unnecessary,” he said.

I could see Nick saying that and I smiled. A car honked and I whipped my head around to see if they were honking at us.

“You can’t take every bleat of the horn personally,” Andre said.

“Sorry, I’m just not used to it.”

“No worries, we’re almost there,” he said. “I swear surface traffic in London moves at about five kilometers per hour. Mercifully, we’re not at peak driving hour otherwise it would take us forever.”

We turned left onto Kensington High and I could see Kensington Gardens on the left. I promised myself that I would take a long walk there at the first possible chance. The large park disappeared as Andre wound further south into Kensington.

After a few more short turns, he pulled up along a row of beautiful homes in the heart of Harrington Gardens. I felt my jaw thunk into my lap. The narrow mansions were built of terra-cotta brick with ornate stone facings and stone mullioned windows.

“Wow,” I breathed, and Andre laughed.

“I know what you mean,” he said. “I did a little research and found out that Lord and Lady Ellis’s Dutch colonial home was built in 1883 by the architects Ernest George and Peto for the second son of the Earl of Leicester.”

“No wonder Lady Ellis seems to think she’s all that,” I said. “I would, too, if I lived here.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Andre said. “Being a toff is not your style.”

I took that as a compliment.

We stepped out of the car, and while Andre unloaded his equipment bags, I stared up at the four-story, pointy-roofed mansion with awe. A stone angel peered down at me from the third floor. Its chubby face was so much more pleasant than the sharp-beaked raven on top of Mim’s wardrobe that I made a mental note to see if the raven could be carved to look more like a fat cherub. Viv would never go for it, of course, but it made me smile to think of it.

The front door was recessed within a stone archway. A thick wooden door was set back, and I led the way up the three short steps into the alcove with Andre on my heels hoisting his bags onto his shoulder as we went.

I rang the bell, which I could hear echoing in the house. Andre rocked back and forth on his heels while we waited. I had to curb the urge to hum or whistle. I’m not very good at waiting, Harrison would probably say this was another sign of my lack of impulse control.

The door opened and a stout woman in sensible black shoes and a severe black dress that covered her from neck to knee greeted us.

“Good morning,” she said. She peered at us through rimless glasses that perched on the end of her long, thin nose. “You are the photographer and the hat-shop girl.”

It was dismissive the way she said it, and it wasn’t just her broad accent that made it sound so. Calling me a “hat-shop girl” made me feel as if she was calling me a “coat-check girl,” and I wondered if she thought we should have used the servants’ entrance.

“I’m Ms. Parker and this is my associate Mr. Eisel,” I said. “I believe Lady Ellis is expecting us.”

The woman reared her head back as if surprised that I wasn’t as easily intimidated as she’d thought. I felt like telling her that in the hotel I once worked in I was in charge of an entire fleet of chambermaids and I certainly was not going to take any attitude from a housekeeper, but I refrained.

“Follow me,” the woman said, and turned on her heel to lead the way.

I gestured to Andre to go first, so I could shut the door behind him. For such a stout lady, the housekeeper moved at a solid clip, and I had to hurry up the short steps and across the marble floor of the reception hall to catch up to her. I barely had a chance to take in the white walls, which were rectangles of wainscoting that reached from floor to ceiling with a brilliant crystal chandelier overhead.