Murder in the Smithsonian (22 page)

The phone rang. What a time. Heather kicked off waterlogged shoes and wrung water from her hair onto
the floor. She heard something fall in the kitchen, probably a pan from a wall rack. “
Hoot awa
,” she muttered, and ran in stocking feet toward the nearest phone, picked it up from its cradle, dropped it, put the wrong end to her ear, reversed it. “Hello…?”

They’d hung up. “Damn,” she said, slamming the receiver. She looked at her watch. She’d have to hurry to catch Robertson’s booth at the Assembly Halls. She went to the bathroom, where she brushed out her damp hair and vigorously rubbed her legs and feet with a coarse towel. One thing she’d wanted to do before leaving was to gather up a collection of antique, hand-painted miniature soldiers to give to Robertson. Calum had enjoyed the collection but considered it an adolescent indulgence. She was quite sure he’d approve of her decision to sell off the collection.

She walked down a long, cluttered hallway leading to what was called the reception hall, another room dominated by Calum’s collections. In addition to being a showcase for the miniature soldiers it housed an eclectic array of ancient armament, brickbats and broadswords, pepper boxes and perriers, scimitars and sgian-dubhs, foils and gaffs. The room was almost pitch-black; thick purple drapes cut off what light was available from the outside.

She reached for a wall switch, found it, flipped it up. A chandelier flickered to life, followed by a violent explosion of thunder and the room went dark again. During the brief moment of illumination Heather had advanced halfway across the room. She skirted a table in the center and approached the cabinets that held the soldiers. A door leading to an adjacent study was open. She stopped in front of it and stiffened at what sounded like a groan from the next room. The wind, she decided. A sliver of intense light slashed through a small gap in the drapes as lightning again lit up the sky.

Heather glanced up at a row of ten-foot-tall Italian
glaives
lined up on the wall next to the doorway. They dated from the sixteenth century, the fashionable weaponry of the day—long curved blades projecting from elongated, studded wooden handles inlaid with gold, silver and mother-of-pearl and laced with bands of gold damascene. Again a sound from the next room. She peered into its dark recesses, saw nothing, took a step toward the cabinet. The
glaive
nearest the doorway pitched forward from its clamp, the blade diving toward her head. Indeed, if she hadn’t taken that first step the outcome might well have been… well, the blade missed her by inches and clattered to the floor.

Heather’s heart, she was sure, had stopped beating for a moment. She looked through the open doorway, saw nothing, leaned over and picked up the
glaive
. “That would have been nasty,” she said once she was able to breathe again. She leaned the weapon against the wall, went to the windows and opened the drapes. The sky had cleared over the firth and another rainbow had appeared. She hoped it signaled the end of such natural terrors.

Heather put the soldiers in a box, left the castle and drove away… passing the green sedan that had followed her from the Cramond Inn but, of course, paying it no notice as it fell in behind her and maintained a consistent distance all the way to town.

***

The Assembly Halls were teeming with antique dealers. Ranald Robertson had taken a large space to the rear of the exhibit area. Heather couldn’t help but smile as she approached his booth. Robertson, who was about fifty, had the perpetual look of a man bemused by life. Half-glasses sat on the tip of an aquiline nose, and his constantly elevated eyebrows nearly doubled the distance between eyes and glasses. He was as eccentric
as her uncle had been, only more social. He lived with a dozen cats, a demented mother who sometimes believed she was handmaiden to Mary, Queen of Scots, and a parakeet named Macbeth, who, Robertson claimed, spoke Gaelic at odd hours.

He was in the midst of a transaction with a matronly woman who couldn’t decide between two icons from the expendable portion of Calum’s estate. Heather was tempted to recommend one over the other but resisted. The woman made her choice, paid Robertson and walked away.

“Well,” Robertson said over his glasses, “you look splendid, Heather.”

“Thank you. How are you, Ranald?”

“Tip-top, doing a brisk business. By the way, there was a fellow looking for you this afternoon.”

“Really? Who?”

“He didn’t give his name. A big, fat fellow, well dressed. An Englishman.”

Evelyn Killinworth? But he would have come to the castle… “What did he say?”

“Nothing much, just wondered whether I’d seen you. He seemed to know who I was and that I was handling your uncle’s things. He didn’t stay long, chatted about some of the items, mentioned the murder of that Arab in London.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. He wondered whether I’d known him. The Arab, I mean. I didn’t, although I certainly knew about him. A bad sort, dealing in anything stolen. I’m certain there’s a legion of people not spilling tears over his demise.” He peered into the box she carried. “For me?”

“What? Oh, the soldiers from Calum’s collection.” She handed the box to him.

“Just in time. I’ve someone stopping by who’s in
the toy-soldier business. He wants everything I have. Well, how are things at the castle?”

“The city has approved the takeover.”

“So I’d heard. I hope you’re doing the right thing.”

“What choice do I have? Unless the city runs and maintains it, taxes will eat up the estate and the castle will end up being bought by some Frenchman who’ll turn it into an inn with fancy food, modern rooms and postcards in the lobby.”

Robertson laughed. “Dreadful image you paint.”

“Imagine the image Calum would have drawn.”

“Spare me that. How long will you be in Edinburgh?”

“Not sure, Ranald, but no more than another two days.”

“Pity. I’ll try to get out to the castle before you leave.”

“Yes, that would be good. I’m not staying…”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. I’m not staying long. Please drop by.”

“With a check. Death and taxes, as they say.”

She walked slowly through the halls, stopping at tables but never really examining them. She could only think of what Robertson had said about a big fat Englishman inquiring about her. It had to be Evelyn. But why hadn’t he called, or stopped at the castle? What about the Arab, Ashtat, at… Belgravia, Belgravia, where—

“Heather, Heather.”

She turned to see Robertson pushing through the crowds. “I almost forgot. The fellow who was looking for you asked about Collinsworth.”

“Seth Collinsworth?”

“None other. He wanted to know his whereabouts.”

“Name a prison.”

He laughed. “I haven’t heard anything of him for more than a year. You?”

She shook her head.

Seth Collinsworth was Scotland’s most infamous art thief. He’d made international headlines ten years earlier by stealing a truckload of paintings from the Scottish National Portrait Gallery. He was arrested within twenty-four hours and served a six-year prison term, but everyone knew it was small payment for a life of crime. Collinsworth had been the Scottish conduit to London’s art underworld. He’d lived the high life in Glasgow—a Rolls-Royce, town-house, trips to cities around the world, including extended stays in the capitals of the Middle East, a clutch of beautiful young women on his arm who didn’t know that Matisse painted or Stravinsky composed, but who knew that Seth Collinsworth spent.

Seth Collinsworth… why would Evelyn want to find him? Unless… But that was too farfetched. Wasn’t it…?

She left the Assembly Hall. Outside George Street was alive with men and women leaving their offices and heading for home now that the storm was over. The gloamin’, Scotland’s unique, slowly fading evening light, was casting its soft spell over the city. She felt good being here. She was home. If only Lewis were standing next to her, sharing the feeling that she felt…

Was Evelyn Killinworth here?

That was her uneasy thought as she looked to her right, saw that no traffic was coming and stepped from the curb.

“Look
out
,” a woman called from behind.

Heather saw out of the corner of her eye a car coming down the street on the wrong side. She threw herself
back, just in time as the car sped by, its right fender nearly grazing her thigh.

“You stupid ass,” a man yelled, running into the street and shaking his fist at the driver. Heather looked up the street. The car had turned a corner and disappeared.

“You all right miss?” someone asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Stupid American, you can bet on that,” someone else said.

“Did you see him?” Heather asked.

A man shook his head. “Just another rich overfed American driving on the wrong side of the road.”

“Didn’t even stop,” a woman said.

Heather, properly shaken, returned to the George and immediately put through a call to the Chesterfield Hotel in London. She asked for Dr. Killinworth. His room did not answer. “Is he still a guest?” She was assured that he was, that, in fact, he had been good enough to inform the desk in advance that he planned to check out two days later.

***

She left Edinburgh at noon the following day, flying to London and connecting with a British Airways flight to New York.

“How was the trip?” Hanrahan asked after he’d gotten Heather a cup of coffee. She’d arrived at his MPD office early; her internal clock was still set to London time. Her McBean tartan pleated skirt, navy blue blouse and blazer were fresh looking. She looked tired and worn.

“Hectic, to say the least. But it’s good I went… Have there been any developments here?”

“Nothing firm… what did you find out from your private detective?”

“Precious little, I’m afraid. And please don’t say I told you so.”

“That’s not my style”—though he was tempted. “But what
did
he say?”

“Only that Lewis had seen Peter Peckham the week before he was killed, and that now Peter seems to be missing.”

“Missing?” Hanrahan was surprised that she hadn’t heard about Peckham’s death, and wasn’t anxious to be the one to break the news. She’d already had enough death in her young life.

“According to Mr. Paley, who by the way is a vile little man, Peter’s friends haven’t seen or heard from
him for over a week. I tried his home several times and went to his shop. No luck.”

Hanrahan leaned back and focused on a crack in the pale yellow wall behind her. “How’s the coffee?” he asked.

“Quite good, thanks.”

“I’ve got some news for you, Heather, and I’m afraid it isn’t good.”

She’d started to return the cup to the desk’s edge, stopped halfway there. “Go ahead,” she said, not looking at him.

“Peter Peckham is dead.”

The cup stayed poised midway between her lips and the desk top. “How do you know?” she finally asked in a low, flat voice.

“Scotland Yard.” He started to give her the details, then stopped. Better take it slow.

“How did it happen?… was he murdered too?”

“Seems that way.”

“Tell me.”

He told her what he knew.

Her voice was stronger now. She put the cup on the desk and went to a window. It was dirty, and the heat and humidity outside seemed dirty too, as though it would stick to your skin if it touched you. She took several deep breaths, then raised her head.

Hanrahan got up and grabbed what had become a thick purple file folder bearing the label
Lewis Tunney: Case #641-T
. He came around the desk and slapped the file on it. Heather turned at the noise. “I’m all right,” she said. “I guess one becomes toughened… How did Peter Peckham die?”

“A blow to the head. Whoever did it dumped him under a bridge on the Thames… I’m sorry, but you asked.”

She wrapped her arms about herself and slowly shook her head from side to side.

Hanrahan picked up the folder again and held it in the air. “See this? It’s your fiancé’s file. It’s got his name and a department file classification on it. It’s purple because somebody was selling purple file folders cheap. Another couple of months and victims will be filed in orange, or yellow, depending on the price. You know, I’ve been dealing with folders like this for most of my adult life. The only thing that ever changes are the colors. Somebody gets killed for the usual reasons, jealousy, greed, a short circuit in the brain, a mistake, fear, self-defense. It’s like plots for stories. How many are there? Nothing much seems to change. At least that’s the way I’ve always looked at it. But this one is different, not because the file’s purple instead of white, but because I see it different. Feel different.”

She started to say something but he shook his head.

“I was really worried about you while you were away. Now, Heather McBean, I’m here to tell you
that’s
different for me. It means I’ve got an interest in this case that goes beyond the usual. I care, damn it, about what’s in this folder. That’s different. I accept that many cases never get solved. The folders and everything in them goes into a dead file, and the only time anybody cares or remembers is when a cop gets drunk and asks whether I remember when so-and-so got it. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. But that’s not true with purple folder Number 641-T. Okay? I’m going to remember this case because I’m going to get to the bottom of it. I’m also going to try to make damn sure that nobody else gets hurt, especially you.”

“I appreciate that, but I—”

“You’re lucky you aren’t in this folder, you know that? You keep sticking your neck out and making it
easy. Do you know how they chop a guy’s head off in Arab countries for stealing or killing someone? They tie his hands behind his back, get him down in the sand on his knees and poke him in the back with a stick. His body reacts, his neck extends and the guy with the sword does his job. With you, nobody needs a stick.
Your
head’s stuck out all the time.”

She returned to her chair, crossed her legs and played with the strap on her purse.

“You know what, I’ll level with you. I don’t like feeling this way about a case. I like it better the other way, just looking at it as another file folder. I sure as hell don’t need to be worrying about you, and I’ve already told you that. I’ve got enough troubles of my own without picking up extra ones. End of speech.”