Moriarty Returns a Letter (24 page)

What was bothering her was how her childhood memory seemed to be shifting.

For all her life she had believed—perhaps because all the adults around her had told her it was so—that it was her father who had carried her out from beneath the rubble to the street, before the upper floor collapsed.

But she had never been able to square that thought with other memories—the sight of her father’s body, lying still and motionless on the floor of the pub in front of her, as she sat dazed against the wall, and in that exact same moment the sensation of two strong hands gripping her below the armpits, and then of being lifted, and then carried, out of the dust and chaos.

If those memories were true, then it was not her father who carried her out.

She stared at the photo now, at the glimpse of the tan uniform visible on the body of the man behind the snooker table, and she knew. She remembered. It came flooding back.

It was the American captain. Who she didn’t even know. Who her father had just then met. It was the American captain; he had carried her out.

And then he had immediately gone back in.

She had turned, crying, wanting to run back in herself, for her father—but a passerby restrained her. So she could only watch, as the American went back in—and then her grandfather, too—and then her brother.

And then—after what seemed like an eternity had passed—her grandfather and her brother came back out.

But no one else.

Not her father. Not the American.

And then—a deafening roar, a shudder, a flood of particles in the air, and the second floor, under the weight of the heavy slate snooker table, had come crashing down in front of her.

Helene remembered it all very clearly now. All of it. In sequence.

And with that memory fresh in her mind, she stepped outside again.

She smelled the explosive gas from the shepherd’s hut.

And she began to run toward it.

27

Nigel took the bus from Canvey Island to Barking, and then the tube from there to Paddington Station in London.

If you wanted to go from Canvey Island to Darby House in Newquay and didn’t want to drive—and he was sure Darla Rennie didn’t want to—this was the way you would go.

And if your arrival time was dictated only by the need to be there before Reggie and Laura themselves arrived at the castle—which might well be all that Darla Rennie required—you might even be taking this exact train.

With that in mind, after taking his seat, and just as the train was pulling out of the station, Nigel took a stroll through the other cars.

He didn’t see her. But of course there are ways to duck out of sight on a train.

And for that matter, she might even have thought ahead—anticipated that Nigel, or the Yard, or someone else might be in pursuit of her and checking at Paddington, in which case she might well get on at another station.

But for the moment, Nigel didn’t see her. He returned to his seat.

It was possible Darla Rennie was one train ahead of him. He hoped not. But even if she was, given the limitations of the roads through Dartmoor, Nigel expected to arrive a few hours before Reggie and Laura would—and that’s what mattered. Rennie could make no attempt on them until they got there. And that would give Nigel time.

An hour and twenty minutes later, in Exeter, Nigel had to change trains. He checked the departure board and scrambled quickly, just in time to get on a train just then pulling out for Newquay.

He waited for an older couple with an umbrella and travel cases to get on ahead of him. Then he moved quickly toward the back of the car, bumping shoulders just briefly with a gray-suited man who had chosen a location in front.

Nigel noticed something unusual in the encounter, but he kept moving.

Nigel found a seat in back, with an empty seat next to it and another empty one across. It was a good location, with a view of anyone else who might enter the car. He settled in.

The flight from Los Angeles had been long and bumpy; Nigel had not slept on the red-eye, and he had not slept since arriving. He did not intend to sleep now. But the rhythm of the train was soothing. He faded.

*   *   *

And then he woke.

“Sorry,” said the woman who was now sitting across from him. “I didn’t want to disturb you. But a snack service was being provided, and I didn’t think you’d want to miss it. I think I recall from careers therapy that you would want the chicken salad and American-style coffee.”

Nigel recognized her voice, and then he saw the emerald green eyes—set with perfect symmetry in a pale face, all of it surrounded by the hood of a dark velour sweater.

From a distance, he would not have been able to pick her out, given what she wore. She might have even been on the same train as him the whole way.

The freshly poured coffee was on the fold-out table in front of Nigel, steam still rising from it, and the aroma called to him. But he didn’t move. He tried to register as little surprise as possible.

“You didn’t disturb me,” he said. And then he quickly took a gulp of the coffee, even though it was still a bit too hot.

“Oh,” she said. “My mistake. I thought I did, once.”

“Where are you heading?” said Nigel.

“The same place you are, I presume,” said Darla Rennie.

“What are your intentions there?”

“Regarding?”

“Regarding anything.”

“I’m not going there to jump your bones,” she said, “if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It isn’t.”

“I’m sorry I was late for that little rendezvous we had scheduled that evening after therapy,” she said. “What was it, more than two years ago now? I presume you just went ahead and started without me?”

She crossed her legs, brushing against Nigel’s in the process.

“That was some time ago,” said Nigel, ignoring that contact. “Do you remember everything you’ve done in the interim?”

Darla Rennie looked down and stirred her tea. Then she looked up.

“Yes,” she said. “I know the things I’ve done.”

“People say you’ve taken a nasty bump and had a spot of amnesia. Do you now know who you are?”

“I know who I’ve been. And I know now who I was supposed to be.”

“Do you know who Reggie Heath is?”

“I know exactly who he is. And I know what he has done.”

That didn’t sound good.

“Are you on your meds?” asked Nigel.

“Yes,” she said. “And I know I need them.”

“Six months ago—before you fell into the Thames—you wanted revenge for the death of your great-great-grandfather,” said Nigel. “Which is carrying a grudge for much too long, if you ask me. Are you still intent on it?”

“Why else would I be on this train?” she said.

Nigel took a deep breath and looked toward the front of the car. The man in the gray suit was still there.

“The man in the front of the car,” said Nigel. “Is he traveling with you?”

“The tall one in the expensive gray suit?” said Darla.

“Yes,” said Nigel, “the one with a gun under his jacket.”

“I’ve never met him,” said Darla Rennie.

“Good,” said Nigel. “My guess is that he’s Scotland Yard, undercover. I believe I will call him over.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I think you’re wrong about him being Scotland Yard,” said Darla Rennie. “In any case, be aware that he no longer has his gun.” As she said that, she placed a 9mm Beretta on the table in front of her, with the point of it in Nigel’s direction.

“Not with you, and not with Scotland Yard,” said Nigel. “Who, then?”

Darla Rennie didn’t answer. They were rounding a bend now, and the train sounded its whistle.

“We’re almost there,” she said. “And there’s something I think you should know.”

She brought a cardboard box, somewhat smaller and flatter than a shoe box, out of her bag and placed it on the table between them, next to the gun. And then she took the gun back and held it in her lap.

“That is a Scotland Yard evidence box,” said Nigel.

“Of course it is,” said Darla Rennie.

“I’m impressed. How did you get it?”

She shrugged. “The tricky part about Scotland Yard is just getting in and out the first time,” she said. “I learned everything I needed to know when I turned myself in. If you’re observant once inside, you pick up quickly enough where things are, what procedures are followed, what disguise to use, and how to get about. When all of this is done, it will probably be a bit of an embarrassment to them that I could just walk back in again, when they’re all out in a lather looking for me. But in my opinion, Scotland Yard has been deserving of a bit of embarrassment, for a very long time.”

Nigel thought that last remark was curious.

“How so?” he said.

She glanced out the window now, and so did Nigel.

They were approaching a tunnel.

“If you really want to understand me,” she said, turning back to the box, “you can look in here.”

She kept her hands on the box, her fingertips caressing the taped edges. “You might want to. As I recall from our therapy days together, it bothers you when you win your case and then find out that the parties involved were not who they seemed.”

Finally—reluctantly—she opened the box.

Nigel restrained his impulse to lean forward to see what was inside; she was becoming skittish, and he didn’t want to botch the opportunity. He waited.

Darla Rennie reached inside the box and took out a one-page document. She kept the written side of it to herself, folded it once, and tucked it into an inside pocket of her coat.

“I need to keep this one. For now.”

Now, finally, she pushed the open box slightly toward Nigel.

Nigel cautiously put his hands on both sides of the box, and prepared to draw it in closer for a look.

Now there was a very slight change in the lighting of the car. A barely perceptible flicker.

Instinctively, Nigel looked first at Darla Rennie—whose look of surprise showed that she had noticed the change as well.

And then he looked toward the far end of the car, where the tall man in the gray suit had been standing.

The man was no longer standing there.

And now the train entered the tunnel.

Everything went completely dark. And silent. Nigel heard no voices, at least nothing distinguishable, just the whirring rush of the train and the echoes of it as it entered the tunnel.

The train car’s lights should not have gone out. Something was wrong.

Instinctively, Nigel clamped his hands down on the box.

It occurred to him that perhaps he should have been taking possession of the gun instead. But it was too late for that choice now.

The train whirred past small yellow lights in the wall of the tunnel, creating a strobe-like effect in the otherwise pitch-black. Nigel sensed movement in the aisle of the train, one person, perhaps two, and, just a moment after it was certainly a moot point, a whiff of Darla Rennie’s perfume. She was in motion.

The train came out of the tunnel. And Darla Rennie was gone. The gun was gone. The letter she had taken from the box was gone, but Nigel still had the box and its other contents tightly in his possession.

Nigel stood up into the aisle and looked in both directions, but he could see no sign of Darla Rennie—or of the individual who had been standing at the opposite end of the car.

The train was beginning to slow. A conductor’s voice crackled over the PA system.

Nigel stood, with the cardboard evidence box securely under his arm. There would be no time to search for her again on the train; the best chance would be to spot her when she disembarked. He began moving toward the front.

The train came to a complete stop; the doors opened, and Nigel jostled his way immediately out onto the platform, into chilly, foggy coastal air.

He stood against the platform wall, and watched.

It was not a large station—just an outdoor platform, with a sheltered ticket booth and snack bar. And she had to be disembarking here. It would make no sense for her to stay on the train and go on past to the next stop.

But even so, he couldn’t find her. The fog was so thick that visibility was only a few yards, and there were more people disembarking, in both directions, than he had expected.

Too many people in hats and overcoats were milling about. Darla Rennie might be among them, or she might be holding back until the very last moment, waiting for him to leave. Or she might have already gotten out ahead of him unseen.

He couldn’t take the chance of waiting; if she was heading directly to the castle, it was important that he get there before her. He went quickly down the stairs from the train platform to the taxi ranks at the street.

Two vehicles ahead were already pulling out. A third taxi had just pulled in to off-load passengers, and Nigel had to wait until they got their luggage out.

Finally he managed to get into the cab. He tossed his small duffel bag into the backseat, held on to the cardboard box, and told the driver to take him to Darby House castle.

28

Nigel’s taxi approached Darby House on a long, pebble-paved driveway, lined with tall sycamores.

Out to the far left, beyond the lawns, the edges of a small forest were visible, probably the estate’s deer park that Nigel had heard about.

To the right were lawns, then a stone gardener’s cottage, and then a mile or so of rocky, sparse moorland—ending, Nigel understood, in the cliffs above the Atlantic Ocean.

Darby House was straight ahead. There was no wall or fence around the interior portion of the estate, but there was a gate on the narrow road, and on this day, Nigel was glad to see, the gate was closed and manned.

His taxi came to a stop, and a uniformed guard, carrying a clipboard, came out from a little temporary shelter that had been set up next to the gate.

“Good evening,” said the man cheerily. “Do you mind very much if I ask your name?”

“I’m Nigel Heath. I’m expected.”

“Ahh, yes,” said the man, looking at the list on the clipboard. “Indeed you are. Go right on through then. You’ll see the roundabout at the fountain.”

“Wait,” said Nigel, before the taxi driver could proceed. “You’re not checking for picture IDs then?”