Unholy Rites (9 page)

“You have Liz to thank for that, I'm afraid. I warned your mother not to upset herself needlessly, but she wouldn't listen. She even insisted on taking Liz's potions against my advice.”

“Do you think the potions had anything to do with her illness?”

“People think there's nothing to fear from herbs because they're ‘natural.' So is hemlock, but I don't recommend it.” Geoff pushed back his chair. “Sorry to run, but I must be off to my meeting.” As he put on his raincoat, he said, “Speaking of Liz, she must be pleased with her handsome bequest. I know she needed the money.”

“Bequest?” Arthur was startled. “How do you know about a bequest?”

“I witnessed your mother's will. Surely you noticed that?”

“Oh yes,” Arthur said, absentmindedly returning Geoff's goodbye wave. The truth was that he'd still been too upset by his mother's death to pay much attention when the solicitor went through the will. He'd registered that the cottage came to him, and that the bank account was sufficient for his immediate needs. Now, as he struggled to recall his mother's “minor bequests,” lines from Samuel Butler's
Erewhon
came floating into his mind: “It has been said that the love of money is the root of all evil. The want of money is so quite as truly.”

He'd been regarding his mother's death as odd. Geoff had offered a motive for murder.

Danutia zipped up her
new emerald-green dress, a soft jersey with a neckline a little too low for comfort. “This is to make sure you celebrate, even if I won't be there to see you wear it,” her sister had written in the card that came with the early birthday present. Danutia had packed the dress, even though it seemed destined to hang unworn, a silent rebuke. Turning thirty was nothing to celebrate.

Then last week, her promotion to corporal came through. When she told Arthur, he'd insisted on hosting a dinner for her at one of Buxton's poshest restaurants. The dress would get its outing after all.

She checked herself as best she could in the age-spotted mirror. A little eye shadow for a change, a touch of lipstick. She ran a comb through blond curls going wild. Past time for a cut. Self-conscious about the low neckline, she hunted for a scarf. In the hall below, the telephone rang and then her host came clomping up the stairs. Probably a message from Arthur saying he'd be late, one of his least endearing traits. If he'd missed his bus—

Blackstone knocked. “Long distance call for you,” he announced through the door, adding, as always, “Keep it brief. That's a business phone.”

Danutia tucked a green-and-gold scarf into the bodice and hurried down the stairs. An emergency, she thought. Her parents? They were fine when she'd spoken to Alyne last week. Her dad had been impatient for the snow to melt so that he could plant, as always, her mom busy with her church activities. Her nephew Jonathan had had another cold—

“Yes?” she said breathlessly.

“Congratulations on your promotion! Not to mention your birthday. Aren't you glad now that you have that dress?” Alyne hurried on. “You
are
going to celebrate, aren't you?”

“Yes, Arthur's hosting a dinner tonight, just us and my partner Kevin and his wife,” Danutia said. “I thought it must be bad news.”

“No, everyone's fine. People should share good news more often, so we don't perpetuate that negative response,” Alyne said in her psychologist voice. True to form, she added, “You keep insisting that Arthur is just a friend. Is that the way he sees it?”

“Don't be silly. Arthur goes for helpless young things. You should have seen the actress he fell for on Salt Spring.” She heard Mr. Blackstone cough pointedly. “Sorry, Sis, I think I've reached my three-minute limit. Give my love to Jonathan.”

She finished adjusting the scarf just as Arthur arrived, his unbuttoned topcoat revealing the black suit he'd worn for his mother's funeral. The formal attire suited his large frame better than the baggy casual clothes he usually wore.

“Don't you look smart,” she said, putting him in a fluster. He ducked his head but couldn't hide his grin, surprised yet wary, as though the Wicked Witch had given him a bag of candy but might snatch it back again. Strange. When did he start caring what she thought about him?

“Many happy returns,” he said. “Though not, of course to constable. It's wet out, so I took a taxi from the bus stand and kept it waiting. You don't want to break your neck tripping on wet cobblestones in those heels.”

“Don't let these clothes fool you,” she said, slipping on her fleece-lined rain jacket. “I'm pretty tough.”

“Tough as old boot leather,” Arthur teased. Just to show him, she refused his arm going down the steps to the waiting taxi.

The Old Hall Hotel, with its dark wood and richly upholstered chairs, reminded her of Victoria's Empress Hotel on a smaller scale, both recreating an era long gone. Kevin and Paula hadn't arrived yet, so they went into the wine bar and ordered drinks. For once Danutia felt that she fit into the elegant décor. No one except Arthur knew her occupation; no one gave her guarded looks. Indeed, she caught admiring glances from several men. She could relax and enjoy herself for a change.

Arthur inched his chair closer, his expression suddenly somber. “I had a disturbing conversation with Dr. Geoff on Monday. Somehow we got onto the subject of ritual sacrifice and so I asked his opinion about Mum's interest in that Celtic stuff. He blamed Liz Hazelhurst for being a bad influence. What's worse, he hinted that Liz stood to gain from Mum's death.”

Danutia felt like a balloon pricked with a pin. “Arthur, why did you wait all week and then dump this on me tonight?”

“What choice did I have? You asked me not to call you at work, so I didn't. I left a message at the
B&B
, but you didn't call back.”

“I did. You weren't home, and you don't have a message machine. I assumed if it was important, you'd call again.”

“Well, it is important. I had another look at the will. Geoff was right about one thing. Liz is ten thousand pounds richer since Mum died.”

“They were best friends. It's natural your mum would leave her a bequest.” She downed her wine quickly, like medicine. Alcohol gave her an awful headache, but for once she didn't care. “Why does everything have to be a mystery? Crime around every corner, a murderer under every bed.”

Arthur looked like she'd slapped him. “You're forgetting. This is my mother I'm talking about. If someone caused her death, accidentally or not, I want to know who it was.”

Danutia felt her impatience ebb away. There was no escaping, it seemed. She had chosen to be a cop, and this was part of it. You were never really off duty. Still, she couldn't wholly surrender her desire for freedom. “I'm sorry for being so insensitive,” she said. “Let's make a deal. Tomorrow is Sunday. I'll spend as long as you like going over what's happened. Tonight I'd like to relax, have a nice meal, laugh a little.”

Arthur's face softened. “Truce,” he said, waving his empty glass like a flag.

“Fighting already?” said a familiar voice. Danutia looked around. A few feet away Kevin smiled down on them, Paula beside him.

“Something like that.” Danutia rose to go in to dinner.

“Sorry we're late,” Paula said. “The boys wanted to stay by themselves, but at the last minute we decided to drop them off with their grandparents, even if they are eleven and thirteen.”

“Maybe
because
they're that age,” Kevin said. “You never know what boys will get up to.”

On that note, Arthur and Kevin traded tales about their boyhood misadventures, Danutia and Paula chiming in with their own exploits. As the meal drew to a close, Arthur ordered champagne and proposed a toast to Corporal Danutia.

“From what I've heard,” Paula said, “some women find policing a hard job. How did you decide that's what you wanted to do with your life?”

The bubbly slid down Danutia's throat like water. “I didn't grow up with that idea,” she said. “My best friend wanted to be Miss Canada. I wanted to be the first woman astronaut.”

Arthur laughed. “Didn't anyone tell you a Russian had beaten you to that title before you were born?”

“Russians didn't count,” Danutia said, making a face at him, “but Americans did. I almost gave up in high school when Sally Ride went into space, and then the next year women were doing space walks. Still, no woman had gone to the moon.”

Paula asked, “Was it the Challenger disaster that changed your mind?”

Danutia felt a sudden lump in her throat. “No, I'd had a couple of disasters of my own,” she said. “First I broke my ankle pole vaulting, and that put me off heights.” She tried to smile. “Bad karma for an astronaut. Not long after that, my older brother died in a motorcycle accident and I wanted to find somebody to blame. It seemed to me that's what cops did, find guilty people and make sure they were punished. It took me a while to learn it's not as simple as that. That's why I like this pilot program. It's more about reducing criminal behavior than punishing criminals.”

Arthur was about to make a flip comment when something in Kevin's expression stopped him.

“Sometimes punishing others is a way of punishing ourselves,” the sergeant said. “But we're not here to talk shop. Anyone for dessert?”

“We could share the cheese platter,” Paula suggested. “It comes with oatcakes, our local delicacy. Have you tried them, Danutia?”

“Fit for a poorhouse,” Arthur said, “or child apprentices. That's what the children at Monsal Mill were fed on, oatcakes and oat gruel. Reminds me of Dr. Johnson's definition of oats as ‘a grain, which in England, is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people.' Except that he could have added northern England.”

“I grew up on porridge,” Danutia said. “Bring on the oatcakes.”

Over dessert the conversation turned to Arthur. “How long will you be in England?” Paula asked him. “Until after the well dressing, I hope. Your mother's garage is such a perfect place for the petalling.”

“I hadn't planned to stay that long,” Arthur said, “but the longer I'm here, the more I'm reminded of the good things about England. Like the pubs. By the way, a friend of mine is rehearsing a Fringe play down in the Pauper's Pit and I said I'd pop in. Would you like to come along?”

Kevin pushed back his chair. “We'd better be off and pick up the lads. We told the grandparents we wouldn't be late.”

The foursome walked out together and said quick good nights in a fine rain, Danutia presenting her cheeks to Paula for the air kisses she'd learned to expect. Then, feeling a little lightheaded from the bubbly, she took Arthur's arm as they descended the rain-slick stone stairs leading to the Pauper's Pit.

“Welcome to the dungeon,” Arthur said, opening the heavy wooden door. “Palatial abode of the captive Mary Queen of Scots when she came to take the waters at Buxton. No, I'm kidding, it must have been storage cellars or some such. Now it's used for live music and other performances.”

A dim light shone in the entrance area. To the left, a long narrow room with a barrel-vaulted brick ceiling reminded Danutia of a railway tunnel. They threaded their way through the tiny bar to a larger space where three people stood on a low stage, two donning coats.

The third, a short woman with carroty hair, brandished a sheaf of papers. “You can't leave now. At least stay till we've finished this scene.”

The other woman tied the belt on her raincoat. “We've rehearsed for three hours. That's long enough. The bars will be closing soon.” She swept past them without a word, the man following.

“Looks like we're too late,” Arthur said, advancing towards the stage. “Lou, this is my friend Danutia.”

“Arthur! Just in time. I want to cut about a third of this scene, but those two left before we'd finished. You can read Petruchio and your friend can read Katharine.”

Danutia held her hands outspread in front of her. “Wait, I'm no actress. I don't even know what play you're talking about.”

“Shakespeare,
The Taming of the Shrew
,” the director said, shoving scripts at them. “You don't have to act, just read the lines so I can get the balance I want between the two characters.”

Danutia stared down at the thick sheaf of paper. Black lines wiggled about. “We had to read
Macbeth
and
Julius Caesar
in school, and I hated it,” she said.

“But you like
West Side Story
,” Arthur said. “That's
Romeo and Juliet
. And I'll bet you like
Kiss Me, Kate
.”

“You know I like Cole Porter,” Danutia said. “What does that have to do with Shakespeare?”

“Think about the play Fred and Lilli are acting in. It's a musical version of
The Taming of the Shrew
.”

“What's that song Lilli sings? ‘I Hate Men,'” Danutia said. “I love that song. Not that I do. Hate men, I mean.” She giggled. “Except sometimes.”

Lou laid a hand on Danutia's arm and gazed into her eyes. “See, you understand Katharine,” she said. “This isn't your usual a-spirited-woman-learns-who's-boss interpretation of the play. In my view, Katharine doesn't give in. She beats Petruchio at his own game. He forces her to conceal her true feelings, and in the end he realizes what he's lost. It shows how patriarchal domination makes losers of both men and women.”

“You've lost me,” Danutia said. Yet she was tempted, remembering how free she'd felt pretending to be drunk on her last case. This time she
was
a little drunk. “Okay, I'll give it a try.”

They hung their coats over chairs and the director positioned them on stage.

“Start with the line ‘I will attend her here,'” Lou said to Arthur.