Grave Consequences (32 page)

“There wasn’t much I could tell from that—it was a pretty brief encounter we had,” I admitted.

“I only ask because, well, I seem to recall Mother B and I are connected, way back, you see. I think it’s a relation by marriage, third cousins, sixteen times removed, or something of that ilk—I don’t really go in for genealogy much, but the family records are all here. I shall be looking into it soon, as it seems there’s going to be a lot of interest in Beatrice, once Jane gets her work done. It would be nice if I could do my part to tell her story, and it’s a wonderful thing for the community, where everyone can take something from a local figure like that. That’s why I ask.”

“Oh, of course.” I played with one of the sherds, thinking of all the different ideas that I’d run into: was she a mystic, a pagan, a canny politician, a social worker, or a woman who wanted to avoid another marriage? Was Beatrice pious or ambitious or charitable or rebellious? Was there any way to tell for sure, in the absence of her own words, and was it necessary that she should be only one thing and not another? It seemed that everyone—Morag, Jane, Sabine—had their own ideas on the subject. Andrew would eventually reveal what her diet was like, what she died of, and whether she suffered from arthritis or had ever had children. Even Jeremy would have his family’s take on her. I grinned and decided to offer up my own idea for consideration.

“Maybe she was just someone who saw an opportunity to do something useful and she took it.”

Jeremy thought about it and nodded. “There are much worse epitaphs to have. Now, Emma, shall we head for the Old Smoke?”

“S
O, WE’RE ON FOR TONIGHT
?” M
Y BEST FRIEND
Marty’s voice came clear, fluty, and demanding across the line to my garishly wallpapered room in the B and B, Saturday morning.

“You bet.”

“And so we’re going shopping this morning?”

“Huh?”

“If we’re going out tonight, we need to get you some things today,” she explained. You could almost hear the QED she didn’t add.

“I thought one just washed one’s hands and brushed one’s hair before dinner. Apparently you’ve added shopping to this little tradition?”

“Emma, what have you got in your suitcase?” My former college roommate was being as patient as she could. “Besides the work clothes and books, I mean?”

She knew me very well, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of admitting it. “I brought a nice skirt for going out in.”

“Yep. Made of cotton, too, isn’t it?” Before I could speak
up in defense of my perfectly respectable walking skirt, she changed tack. “You haven’t let me go shopping for you in ages,” she wheedled.

I sighed. “No. My heart isn’t often strong enough these days. Look, if you really want to, I will—”

“Yippeee!”

“—But you have to remember that neither my taste nor my credit cards are as extravagantly endowed as your own.”

I could practically hear her pout. “Emma, have I ever made you look silly? And am I not the best shopper you know?”

I had to admit she had never made me look foolish, though everything she picked out for me was just a tad more adventurous than what I would have considered. And Marty has a nose for bargains like a pig has for truffles.

“It will be strictly high street department stores, no boutiques, I promise. And you’ll get to see Kam’s mother again. You know, she’s an absolute jewel!”

“Okay, then.” Given Kam’s description of what had been transpiring between his mother and his fiancée, I was eager to see them together.

A few hours later, we met in front of the Oxford Circus tube station. Kam’s mother was a striking woman, was very like him: tall, slender, with a regal bearing, with eyes that were the most penetrating I’ve ever seen and a mane of silver hair bound up in an elegant knot. We shook hands, and I remembered where Kam got both his lithe frame and his manners.

Then we got down to the real business of the day, starting with a rapid bargaining session between Mrs. Shah and Marty. Mrs. Shah’s pronunciation was unmistakably upper-class, but her accent was just musically eastern enough to remind me that she had immigrated to England some time ago. My old college roommate—Marty would have preferred “former college roommate”—was a petite brunette with precise features and flawless ivory skin. She had an air of urbane knowingness in her eyes that reassured and disturbed at
the same time. She always looked as though she’d stepped out of the pages of
Vogue
. I was always annoyed that so many of my friends were such clotheshorses; they always made my casual attitude seem just plain sloppy.

“H&M,” Marty offered.

“Hmm, no, we’re looking for elegant, but not so trendy.”

“Selfridges, then.”

“Er…too…youthful,” Mrs. Shah said, tactfully—in regards to what, I couldn’t have said.

“Right, right, we want a bit of dressing up,” Marty said, and I noticed that my former roommate, once and presently a citizen of New York City, was rapidly acquiring a posh London veneer to her speech. It suited her.

They circled around me like sharks critically eyeing the contents of a life raft. I understood completely that I was merely along for the ride, with nominal veto power.

“Harvey Nichols,” Mrs. Shah offered. “There’s a midsummer sale.”

Marty seemed to waver.

“You get first refusal on the dress,” Mrs. Shah upped the ante. “But I pick the shoes.”

“Done!” The two women didn’t actually shake on it but quickly flagged a cab, telling the driver, “Knightsbridge.” We got out and they led me down the busy street, crowded with tourists from every nation in the world. Warm, not as hot as it had been, glorious weather for city walking. And, safely between my two companions, I never crossed the street looking the wrong way.

Except we weren’t on a walking tour but a military expedition. My companions clearly knew their way through the store and found the department they were looking for with precise economy of effort. We passed racks of lovely things, each saying “No” with the merest glance, even before I had even registered what was on them. Then Marty paused before a display of sleeveless linen dresses, in gorgeous rich summer colors. Mrs. Shah said “Yes.” They rapidly flicked through until they found a peacock green one and hustled
me into the changing room. Mrs. Shah looked at my feet and said to Marty, “Six ought to do?”

“Yes, that’s right. Maybe six and a half.”

“I’m a size eight and a half,” I piped up, muffled, as I pulled off my shirt over my face. “Sometimes a nine.”

“Yes, dear, but we’re accounting for British sizes,” Marty explained as she pulled up the zipper in the back. “Thank God it’s been cool enough that you’ve been covered up. Otherwise we’d have to do something about your farmer’s tan line. God, that doesn’t half work, does it?”

I turned to the mirror, and Marty stepped back. I had to agree with her, it was fabulous. The linen was elegant, the silk lining felt cool and luxurious against my skin. Mrs. Shah reintroduced herself into the changing room and nodded. “That’s the one. Here, try these.”

I eyed the strappy little nothings she held out for me. “I couldn’t walk very far in those.”

“You’re not meant to go hiking in them, Emma,” Marty lectured. “Think: valet parking, doorman, maître d’. As if any man wouldn’t give up his seat for you looking like that.”

“All right,” I said. They’d see how silly I looked when I got them on.

Only I didn’t look silly. Although the heels were about three inches, they made me appear almost six inches taller and gave a sexy cant to my hips that startled me. Marty dodged out again and returned with a fluttery scarf, which she draped in front of my throat and down my back. “If you don’t fuss with it, you’ll be perfect,” she said, when I went to fiddle with the scarf. “We’ll get you a little handbag too.”

Before they arrived back with a ridiculously small evening bag, I had a chance to scope out the price tags. The total was higher than I would ordinarily pay, but quite reasonable, considering how nicely everything was made. Downright cheap, when I thought how it made me look and feel. I practiced walking back and forth in the heels, getting the feel for them, more daring than my usual pumps. It was
almost painful to put on my walking-around clothes again, though a bit of a relief to have nice flat shoes on.

After I paid for everything, I found myself escorted over to the cosmetics department, and I put my foot down. “I don’t wear a lot of makeup,” I explained to Mrs. Shah.

“She doesn’t wear any,” Marty corrected.

“Oh, my dear, but we don’t want you to wear a lot of makeup,” Kam’s mother replied emphatically. “We only want a hint, the tiniest bit, to show off your excellent features.”

“It’s only an emphasis, not a mask,” Marty said, all her attention focused on poking through the lipsticks. “You really should have just a little. You’ll never know it’s there, and you’ll look fabulous.”

“It would be the finishing touch,” Mrs. Shah added. “Just a little? For me?”

I suddenly realized why Kam had sounded so beleagured—there was no escape from these two, once their minds were settled on something. I gave in and bought a lipstick and some mascara and that sort of thing, secretly amazed at how it altered my face: mine and yet not mine. I had to admit, they were right in every choice, and though I hardly felt I would be transforming my everyday life, it was nice to play dress up and feel really sleek for a change.

We found our way to a cab, where Mrs. Shah insisted on treating us to lunch at “this really lovely little place” she favored. “You’ve been such a good sport, letting us have our way with you, as it were,” she said, reaching across and placing a delicate manicured hand on mine. She was the kind of graceful person who could make you feel like you were doing her a favor, when it might actually be the other way around.

Over a mouthful of cold crab salad, I remembered I had a question for them. “When Kam called the other evening, I thought I heard someone say, “Mills and Boon,” whereupon there were shrieks of laughter and he promptly changed the subject. What was that all about?”

Marty and Mrs. Shah exchanged mischievous smiles. “We wouldn’t tell anyone else in the world,” Mrs. Shah said, “but you’re one of Kamil’s oldest friends. It’s just I’m afraid my boy is a tiny bit puffed up at times, and it makes him self-conscious, you see.”

Kam? Self-conscious? “Tell me!”

“Mills and Boon are just these light little romance novels,” Marty said, “like Harlequins, and they’re known for being heavy on the sentiment and—”

“The mildly titillating love scenes,” Mrs. Shah finished. “I had a batch of them for the beach, you know, when you want something amusing that you can pick up and put down easily. Mariam asked about them—they’re in the guest room—and Kamil, I’m afraid, overreacted. You see, if he hadn’t—”

“No one would have known that he used to sneak them in his youth. Well, no one outside the family. I don’t know why he can’t admit he was just a boy looking for ideas of love and sex.”

“I see,” I said. This was too good to be true.

“You mustn’t tease him about it, though, Emma,” Mrs. Shah said. “Not even if he becomes very overbearing about something. Men are such fragile creatures.”

“I’m saving it up,” said Marty, as though she were planning for Christmas or an artillery strike.

Dinner that night lived up to my new dress. I felt elegant and looked after and had the unutterably blissful sensation of feeling absolutely and completely appropriate to the occasion. I blended in and was astonished at how much of a relief that was. True, the restaurant was never one I’d frequent on my own—it was just a little too nouveau, a little too luxe, a little too everything—but I had all the right protective coloring and the luxury of being guided by Kam’s expertise. It actually made me a little sad, to remember how out of place I’d felt for so long. Kam, looking as cool as ever, knew enough
not to inquire when I grew quiet, but Marty excused us both and dragged me to the ladies room.

“Okay, Fielding, let’s have it.” Marty crossed her arms.

At least she’d had the decency to wait until I was out of the stall. “Marty, I really don’t want to talk about it. I’ve just had a rocky couple of weeks, is all.”

“Just give me the executive summary.” She turned to the mirror to smooth her hair. I don’t know whether it was intentional, but her outfit even matched the muted earthy grays and sands of the bathroom’s stone tile. “I want to get this sorted out before the cheese.”

So I told her briefly of my investigations and the decisions I’d faced at the end of it all. “I may have to go back, and I don’t mind,” I concluded. “I just don’t know whether I made the right decisions, that’s all.”

“Of course you did.”

“Marty, you can’t say that. By the time I’d figured out everything, or rather, stumbled over most of the truth, I had it in my power to do a lot of damage to a lot of people, whether I wanted to or not. I think I lucked out—this time. But how do I know if I did the right thing?”

“You made the right choices. I know you did.” She eyed me in the mirror as she fixed her lipstick, smudged her lips together, blotted them carefully.

I risked straightening my scarf slightly so as to give myself something to do. My fiddling didn’t seem to do any damage. I sighed. “But how do you know?”

“Easy.” She closed her evening bag with an adamant snap. “I know you. Now please, let yourself off the hook. I want to get back and have a look at the port list.”

“Fine, just as long as you pick. Marty, I can’t tell you what a treat it was this morning, to have you and Mrs. Shah do all the shopping, all the deciding. Taking charge, taking care of me. I’m sick of trying to decide what is right. So you choose; tonight, for me, it’s any port in a storm. Just so long as I don’t have to think about choices, ponder any heavy de
cisions. No repercussions, no responsibilities, no consequences, nothing like that.”

Marty nodded, then her eyes widened, a flush rising through her cheeks. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, shit! Emma! Double and treble shit!”

“What, what’s wrong?” I looked around, trying to see what might be causing her so much distress.

“Kam’s surprise! It’s just awful—oh, he was so pleased with himself too!”

“What is it?”

“He meant it as a treat, just for you. Oh, Emma! They were
so
hard to come by—!”

I was almost frantic now, at her alarm. “Marty! Will you please tell me?”

“Oh, Emma! The Barbican. Kam got us tickets for
Hamlet!
”

Actually, the play was great.

I didn’t have much time to think over the next week or so. I hit all of the repositories I wanted, found a few nuggets at some, came up empty a few places, made notes for more detailed research to libraries and houses outside of London on my next trip. Ordinary, satisfying, busy. It reminded me of what I was good at, what I loved about my work.

I talked to Brian a couple of times and he told me that he’d received a call from Dora: She wanted to make sure that I had gotten her telegram and had seen what she’d intended me to notice in the little portrait of Jeremy’s. I told Brian about the painting and my thoughts on what it might represent, and it occurred to me then that as annoyed as I’d been with Dora, if it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t have seen any of the pictures. Wouldn’t have met Pooter, wouldn’t have run into Palmer and the scene between Sabine and George
Whiting, wouldn’t have had the chance to see these people outside of the dig. If she hadn’t been the kind of person who is selfish and commanding and demanding and sweeps one away in borrowed Bentleys and sends telegrams when everyone else in the world is content with cabs and coach class and phones and faxes and e-mails, I wouldn’t have gotten this perspective. So I had to admit, I owed her something for that.