So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 (11 page)

Peter opened the cupboard behind him and found the remainder of Marvin's cognac.

"Courvoisier?" he said. "That's too good to spoil in a cup of cold tea. Have you some proper glasses?"

Robot-like, I got a snifter out of the china cabinet and handed it to him with a good deal less graciousness than the Manners Doctor would have prescribed.

"Who are these people and how did they get a picture of my cottage? That certainly wasn't on your website. Somebody had to come back here into the courtyard to get that shot. You can't even see this house from the street."

"Google sends its photographers everywhere." Peter filled his glass and walked back to the desk. "That picture is no doubt taken from Google Maps. They've got most of the buildings in the civilized world on there."

He tapped a few keys on my computer. A photo of the Maidenette building came up.

"As she used to look. Remember?" Peter gave an intimate smile.

I stepped back. I was not at all in the mood for romantic nonsense.

"What do you mean, 'used to look'? What happened to your building?"

Peter typed some more.

"Here's a piece from
The Swynsby Sentinel
from a fortnight ago. This is how it looked after the riot—or attack. I suppose it's more accurate to call it an attack. Henry Weems told me they were like an invading army."

I leaned over his shoulder to peer at a grainy newspaper photograph of what might have been the Sherwood parking lot, full of broken bottles and trash.

My questions started spilling out.

"Who attacked who? You were in Swynsby? Henry was there?  Where are Vera and Pradeep? And Liam and Davey? Why don't they answer their email? Where's my check? And...you're supposed to be dead, Peter. Here I've been thinking you were dead for three whole years! Why aren't you dead?"

That didn't come out the way I meant it.

Peter laughed. "I left you a message. Didn't you get it?" He drained his snifter and went back to the kitchen. "I stopped by your store and left you a card with a drawing of a coyote. A reminder of when we first met. I imagined that would tell you it was me."

He picked up the bottle from the counter and held it toward me.

"Are you sure you won't have any?"

I sighed and decided I might as well join him. Maybe it would help me calm down enough to communicate with this rakish ghost in my kitchen.

"Thank you. Maybe I will. There are more glasses in the cabinet."

As Peter took out another of my Waterford Lismore snifters, Buckingham sauntered up to him and meowed.

"Does your cat want cognac too?" Peter smiled as he poured a couple of fingers into the snifter for me. "He looks thirsty."

"Buckingham! I haven't fed you! I'm so sorry!"

The poor cat. I had forgotten him. All my pet supplies were still in my shopping bags on the front step. I rushed out to get them and took a couple of deep breaths of cool sea air. I was sure this was all going to make sense once I had time to think, but right now I still felt as if I were in the middle of that tornado to Oz.

I did remember Peter's "message," of course. I'd clung to a sliver of hope at the time that the coyote card with the odd message from a strange "fisherman" meant Peter was alive, but after all this time, that hope had died.

"You didn't pay for that card, by the way—if that was you." I didn't quite smile at him as I brought the bags in and put them on the kitchen counter.

I pulled out the two new cat bowls along with a can of Friskies Tasty Treasures. Buckingham had better like turkey and cheese with gravy. I opened the can and dumped it in the smaller of the new cat bowls.

Peter gave one of his enigmatic shrugs and filled the bigger bowl with water from the tap. He set the two bowls on the kitchen floor.

He and I watched in silence as Buckingham enjoyed his dinner.

"Yes," Peter said finally. "I owe you for the cost of that card. I didn't have any U.S. currency at the time. I was only ashore for a few hours. As a matter of fact, I owe you for many things. Like this delightful cognac. I haven't had liquor this good for some time..."

He swished his snifter. How could he do that? We were in the midst of chaos and there he was, calmly sipping Courvoisier.

I looked at the glass he'd poured for me, but didn't pick it up. I wasn't sure I wanted it.

"What do you know about these people who attacked the Sherwood offices?" My questions came rolling out again. "Do you know what happened to Plantagenet? What's going on over there in England? Was it a bomb?"

Peter slammed down his glass.

"What bomb? Have they bombed the Maidenette Building? They wouldn't be that bloody daft, would they?"

"I was talking about the bomb in London. At the Old Vic. Last night. Plant was there. Isn't that what you're talking about?"

"I..." Now Peter looked confused. "In London? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. It's all over the news."

Peter ran back to my desk and typed at my laptop.

"I haven't seen any mainstream media for days," he said over his shoulder. "I rushed up here when I heard from Vera about how you'd set off the review police....What have you heard about this thing in London?"

I was tired of the reminders of my review
faux pas
, but decided to ignore it. There were much more serious things at hand.

"Read
The Guardian
. They have the most sensible coverage," I said. "They think it was an accident. But other people say it was a bomb. And Plant won't return my calls. I saw him on TV, talking about Richard III
.
A clip from the BBC News."

"Richard III?" Peter's face lost all his British calm. "Your friend Plantagenet? The screenwriter? He was talking about Richard III?"

"Yes. The accident—or whatever it was—happened during the Kevin Spacey production of
Richard III.
At the Old Vic. Plant had been looking forward to it for months. And he had to go alone, even though it was supposed to be his honeymoon, because Silas is being a complete idiot about my engagement to Plant a hundred years ago. Plus my former lawyer came to the wedding and he's some buffed New Age guru now, so he and Silas ran off to Maui.... And I couldn't go with Plant to London because I was so devastated about Ronzo. Of course that was before I knew about the kittens... "

I stopped myself. I realized I probably wasn't making sense. Peter wasn't listening anyway. I went back to the kitchen, picked up my untouched cognac and took a sip.

It hit the spot after all.

"
The Guardian
is dead wrong." Peter tapped at my laptop's keys. "It was a bomb. I'm sure of it. These people have been threatening it for months. Pradeep was sure it was simply Internet blather, but I'm afraid he was wrong, too."

I felt a chill. All the anxiety I'd been fighting came rushing back. I tried to reassure myself as I took another sip and went back to the desk.

"Plant looked all right on TV. He was talking to reporters. There was some dust on his tuxedo, but otherwise, he looked fine. Although he didn't make a lot of sense."

Peter kept tapping. Somehow he managed to pull up the video of Plant.

I stood behind him in silence as it played.

"I suppose he may be in a hospital somewhere," I said, hoping to break the tension. "Should I try calling hospitals? I remember the hospital where they took the wounded was called Chelsea and something. Of course, he's probably perfectly fine and on his way to Swynsby..."

"Swynsby-on-Trent?" Peter turned and looked me full in the face. His eyes got scary. "Your friend is going to Swynsby? After saying that about Richard's burial? Good god, whatever for?"

"To see the Sherwood people, of course. About my royalties. I haven't been paid, you know." Now he had me seriously frightened. "Do you know something about what's happened to him?"

"No, but I know what's going to happen to him. You need to get hold of him now."

"Why?"

"He's in terrible danger. You saw what these people are capable of. Tell him he must not under any circumstances go to Swynsby."

––––––––

P
lant stood and tried to give the disapproving nun-like woman a friendly smile.

"I'm so glad you warned me. Being a werewolf would be awfully inconvenient, wouldn't it? Actually, I'm not the one who picked the monkshood..."

She gave him a skeptical look.

"It's just the sort of herb garden they would have grown in Richard's day. We try to keep things historically authentic."

The woman had the air of a person in charge. Maybe she could help find Vera.

"I don't suppose you know someone named Vera Winchester, do you?" Plant felt silly as soon as the words came out. "She used to work as the office manager at the publishing company a few blocks from here. Sherwood, Ltd." 

"Sherwood? The place that publishes smutty books? I wouldn't know anybody there." The woman shook her head and pursed her lips. "I did hear about some bad business over there. Hooligans from West Yorkshire, they said. Made a right mess of the old place."

"Do you work here at the Old Hall?" Plant decided to play tourist. "I'd love to know more about this event. Is it to commemorate something?"

The woman looked pained.

"Oh my. Don't tell me you've just arrived? It's nearly done now."

"It's over? But what about all these people?"

The musicians and dancers didn't seem in a hurry to leave.

"There will be Morris dancing and such until sunset, but you only have about fifteen minutes before they close up the Hall. You must see it." The woman handed him a brochure that showed a photo of the famous painting of Richard III—the same painting referenced in Josephine Tey's book.

"I'm a docent here," she said. "I volunteer of a Sunday. We don't often have such exciting goings-on. Do make sure you see the bedrooms upstairs, where King Richard slept. And don't miss the view from the tower."

"It is 1483," the glossy brochure said. "Richard III has announced a grand tour of his kingdom to mark his recent coronation. The Hall at Swynsby-upon-Trent is on the king's royal itinerary, and now the lord of the manor has engaged musicians, cooks, and fighters to entertain the king. See, hear, smell and experience the Wars of the Roses in a very special event!"

"Hurry." The woman pointed to the doors at the back of the building and a sign for The Old Hall Gift Shop. "There may still be some reenactors inside, although I think most are at the mead wagon by now."

Things did seem to be getting noisy in the food vending area, which smelled of beer and honey and roast pork.

Plant walked quickly past the drinkers and headed for the Hall—which was possibly the oldest building he'd ever visited. Parts of it were built before Columbus landed in the Americas, the brochure said. He was overwhelmed at the thought. He was walking into history. It was like time traveling.

But his way was blocked by a large man wearing tights and puffy little trousers.

"We close in fifteen minutes. Nobody allowed in," the man said.

"Can't I just have a peek inside the Hall?" Plant said. "I've come all the way from San Francisco."

"You've come from California to Swynsby? By choice? Are ye daft?"

"I only came from London today." Plant gave what he hoped was a self-deprecating smile. "I saw a wonderful production of Shakespeare's
Richard III
last night. And I heard I about this place. They say King Richard slept here? Everyone says I must see the inside. Unfortunately, I have to go back to London tomorrow."

Plant hoped he came across as a bumbling tourist. The airplane carry-on bag should give the man a clue.

He studied Plant for a moment. "Don't I know you from someplace?"

"Not unless you've been to California recently. Or you watch American awards shows. I won an Oscar once."

The man smiled. "Oh we watch the Academy Awards here. Because Brits usually win them, don't we? Are you an actor?"

"No. Just a writer."

The man studied Plant as if "writer" might be tattooed somewhere on his person.

Finally he stepped aside.

"I reckon I can let you in, but it'll still cost you six quid."

––––––––

I
felt like strangling Peter Sherwood—or whatever his name was now. He had left me at the computer and gone off to the kitchen to refill his glass as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb on my head.

I ran into the kitchen after him and yanked the bottle out of his hand.

"What do you mean Plant's in danger? What the hell is going on? No more cognac until you tell me. Everything!"

"Oh, my, what happened to the Manners Doctor?" He gave me one of his puckish grins.

It didn't work.

"The Manners Doctor is officially angry. Sit down and tell me everything." I filled a tall glass with tap water so I couldn't be accused of withholding hospitality. I pointed to the dining table that sat between the kitchen and living room areas.

Unfortunately Buckingham had taken up residence on one of the two chairs.

"Over there, then." I pointed to the couch. "Sit."

Peter accepted the water glass, went to the living room couch and sat. At least he was more obedient than Buckingham.

"Where should I begin?"

"The beginning is always good." I sat opposite him in my reading chair.

"That might be tedious. It began in 1483, when Richard III came to Swynsby-upon-Trent. The town was divided, even then, between Yorkists and Lancastrians. And of course Richard III was from the house of York and his successor, Henry Tudor claimed the throne through his mother, who was the great-granddaughter of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster."

He took a sip from the glass.

"Your water is bloody awful."

It was true Morro Bay water had a brackish taste that was hard to get used to. I usually bought bottled water, but money had been so tight, I had to drink it. So Peter would too.

"Talk," I said, even though I knew I was being rude. "And skip the history lesson. I've read Philippa Gregory. I know about the Wars of the Roses."