Sweet Revenge Page 13

  With his thumbs, he caressed the sensitive column of her throat. If she feared him, she gave no sign. In fact, the only sound she made was a soft little moan that could have been a blend of frustration and desire.

  His breathing grew ragged, a thing that seldom happened. It wasn’t wise to let it happen now. On top of everything else, their professional worlds were too disparate to be united. To say nothing of the differences in their personal lives.

  It was Victoria who ended the kiss. Truthfully Torbel doubted if he could have done it. She pulled her mouth away but made no move to step back.

  A frown marred her smooth forehead. “I don’t understand you, Torbel. You act like you don’t want me, and yet you kiss me like you do.”

  Although he could have explained the seeming discrepancy, he chose not to. Let her think the worst. Better for both of them in the end.

  “You’re a beautiful woman,” he said as unemotionally as he was able. “And I’ve always been partial to brunettes.”

  Her temper flared. Now she did step back. “What kind of a remark is that?”

  He shook his head, regretful but resolute. “Let it go, Victoria. I’m tired, and so are you. We’ve been through hell today, and we’re no closer to a solution now than we were in the beginning.”

  “’Misfortune makes strange bedfellows,’ is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, but that’s how you’ll see it until that temper of yours subsides.”

  “I don’t have a temper.”

  “The hell you don’t.” He resisted an urge to smooth the tangle of dark hair from her flushed cheeks and settled instead for running an irritable hand through his own. “Let’s both try to stay calm, shall we? There’s a killer wandering around out there, and I have no intention of letting him catch me off guard.”

  “What makes you so sure it’s a him?” Victoria challenged. “Anyone can throw a bomb, operate a forklift and compose a few freaky notes.”

  “Meaning?” he demanded, pausing beside a framed poster of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

  “Nothing really, except that we haven’t even got it narrowed down to a specific gender.” Her enmity faded to annoyance. “We don’t know anything, not who or how or even why.”

  He fingered the scar on his cheek. “We know why,” he said, then drew his hand away, impatient with himself. “It’s tied up with Robbie’s death. I’d say it was Augustus Hollyburn if he didn’t want that knighthood so badly.”

  “Maybe he thinks he can kill us and still get it. Murderers seldom believe they’ll be caught.”

  Torbel shook his head, aware that his body still burned for her. “It’s too risky.”

  “He could have hired someone anonymously.”

  “He could have done that. He’s a crafty old bugger.”

  “And don’t forget, Sergeant Peacock mentioned Robbie’s mother when you talked to him. Maybe he had information that Augustus didn’t want passed on.”

  “About Sophie.” Torbel considered a notion he’d been over several times that day already.

  “Still,” Victoria mused, “why would a woman who’s been dead for twenty-three years be of any interest to us?”

  Even preoccupied, Torbel heard the door open and Zoe straggle in. “I could have swum home and not gotten any wetter,” she declared, kicking off her sodden black boots. “What a downpour. Hi, Rosie.” She rumpled the dog’s small, furry head, then addressed Torbel and Victoria. “You two look like thunderclouds.” Her eyes sparkled. “Anything wrong?”

  Torbel resisted an urge to snarl at her. “We were talking about your mother. Peacock was going to tell us something about her today.”

  Zoe paused in the process of wringing out her thick red hair. The sparkle in her eyes died. “Yes, I heard about that. All they found were a few bones, a gold ring and cuff links and a piece of scorched leather that used to be his wallet. I feel badly for some reason. I never liked Peacock much, but I wouldn’t have wished death on him.”

  “Did Clover like him?” Victoria asked.

  “I doubt if she cared one way or the other. I’m not sure she liked anyone—except Grandfather, of course. Hers is a case of severe repression intensified by old Goggy’s unique brand of domination.” She shivered, then brushed the lapse aside. “What’s this about Peacock having information about my mother?”

  Torbel eyed the bottle of gin on the end table but made no move toward it. “Peacock must have had something, or he wouldn’t have called.”

  “I guess. Do you think it has any bearing on what’s been happening to you two?” Her gaze shifted to the blinking answering machine. “Who’s the message for, by the way?”

  “Me,” Victoria told her truthfully.

  “Oh, well, in that case…what was I saying? Something about Sophie, wasn’t it? She’s been dead for twenty-three years now. How could she possibly tie in to what you’re going through? If it’ll help, though, I might be able to arrange it so you can poke through her things. Her room hasn’t been touched since the day she died. I mean that literally.”

  A puzzled shadow invaded Victoria’s face. “Why was Robbie’s last name Hollyburn? What happened to his—your—father?”

  “Duffy? He took off twenty years ago. He was a third or fourth cousin on Grandfather’s side, the perfect mate in Goggy’s eyes for his only daughter. Duffy was a Hollyburn by birth, the last of his scandalous line. He moved out the same week Sophie died, and took off for parts unknown a few years later. We haven’t heard from him since.”

  “You’ve never been curious to find him?” Victoria asked.

  Torbel staved off a cynical laugh. How little she knew of troubled family relationships, although to be fair, the Hollyburns were worse than most in that regard. Infidelity ran rampant in their ranks, and Duffy’d been no exception. He’d left a trail of mournful hearts from London to Glasgow, which, as Torbel and Augustus both knew, was where he currently resided.

  Zoe tugged off her black raincoat and tossed it onto a wooden chair. “Why should I be curious?” she said unconcernedly. “I hardly knew the man. He wasn’t even there when I was born. But to get back on topic, I might be able to sneak you into Goggy’s fortress. Whatever you do, though, don’t let him catch you.”

  Removing her gloves with her teeth, she sighed and flexed her fingers. “You know, Torbel, it’d be easier for me to go back to burgling than it is to follow twisted idiots about the city.” She spun the gin bottle around, shook the contents and regarded the label. “I wonder if Ratz has any tonic. How’s tomorrow sound for the break-in?”

  “After dark,” Torbel returned with a narrowed sideways glance at Victoria. If Zoe noticed his disheveled state, she made no further mention of it. With a grin for Torbel, she took the gin bottle in one hand and Victoria’s arm in the other and started for the door. “Come on, Ms. Bouverie Street solicitor, let’s you and me have a nightcap. I have a feeling you could use one.”

  So could he, Torbel reflected in their wake. But he wasn’t about to have one with Victoria, not feeling the way he currently did.

  He contemplated the soggy London night, then went over to the answering machine and removed the taped message. He should take this to the police. They were far more interested in this case now that one of their own was involved.

  He stared at the cassette for a full thirty seconds, not seeing it so much as a host of other things. Images of the past, and present. Of Victoria, touching him, kissing him, wanting to know him…

  But was he ready to confide in her, or anyone, for that matter?

  The question plagued him all the way down to the street. Rain pelted the cobbled lane beyond the eaves where he stood in comparative shelter. All of London spread out before him. Historic, regal London. And lurking within the city, a madman, or woman, with secrets as yet undiscovered. Including his, Torbel thought bleakly.

  Mindless of the rain, he started for the water’s edge and home. The answers were out there somewhere, and he was going to find them. As surely as he’d
clawed his way out of the rag jungle, he would unmask this killer. For Robbie’s sake, as well as his own. But mostly, he thought, with a sense of inevitability that brought a sigh to his lips, for Victoria’s.

  “THIS IS CRAZY,” Victoria charged Torbel the following evening. “What if Judge Hollyburn’s watching? Or his butler. Zoe says he’s got eyes everywhere.”

  Crouching, Torbel surveyed the rear of the Hollyburn mansion, a Manderlay-type silhouette illuminated only by two meager pools of light on the ground floor. “You would be a mean old thing, wouldn’t you?” he murmured, presumably to the absent judge. To Victoria, he said, “It’s Chivers’s night off.”

  “He lives here, Torbel. What if he comes back early?”

  “Zoe says he won’t.”

  “Zoe hasn’t lived in this house for years,” she argued. “And don’t forget, Clover’s shift ended at six.”

  A hint of a smile played on the corners of his mouth. “You’d make a lousy cat burglar, Victoria.” Eyes fastened on the darkened house, he nudged her forward. “Head for the pantry window. Lower right. And don’t you forget, Zoe’s guarding the front entrance in my Pathfinder. She’ll beep me if anyone shows up unexpectedly.”

  Victoria was not appeased, but she swallowed the rest of her objections. It had been her idea to accompany him; she had no right to complain. Besides, it was her life on the line here, too.

  It must be the remnants of a hangover making her so cranky and critical.

  Zoe had taken her to Gooseberries last night, ostensibly for one glass of gin and dinner. Three Bombay gins and two limeand-lagers later, both women had forgotten all about food. Victoria did remember Inspector Fox coming in just before closing. He’d taken her aside and asked her about Sergeant Peacock’s phone call to Torbel that morning.

  “Did Peacock mention any papers?” he’d demanded harshly, which was not, Victoria knew, his usual style.

  She’d pulled free of his iron grip. “I have no idea what Sergeant Peacock mentioned. I didn’t speak to him.”

  “You spoke to Torbel.” Fox resembled a much more dangerous animal in the dim pub light. “Did he say anything about papers belonging to—? Well, never mind about that. Some valuable documents have gone missing, and in light of his phone call to Torbel, we—that is I—have reason to believe that Sergeant Peacock may have taken them.”

  “If they were with the sergeant, they burned with him in the fire.”

  His eyes glittered unpleasantly. “Only if he was carrying them on his person.”

  Thankfully Ratz intervened at that point. Victoria had no idea what he said, but the inspector had left, red faced and indignant.

  Zoe hadn’t been in sight at that point, and Ratz hadn’t been privy to the conversation. Victoria considered going to Torbel with her strange tale, but she had no idea where he lived, and neither did anyone else. Except maybe Keiran, and he didn’t frequent pubs, even those owned by the Rag Man.

  So she’d been forced to wait. Unfortunately, by morning the last thing on her mind had been the weird behavior of Inspector Oliver Fox. It was all she could do to find her sunglasses and face the bright, high overcast of day without groaning.

  She’d recovered somewhat by afternoon tea, which was when she’d finally located Torbel—or he’d found her.

  “Zoe’s going to help me get into Augustus Hollyburn’s house,” he’d said with the faintest quirk of amusement for her pale cheeks and shadowed eyes. “Can you cope with standing watch out front?”

  “While you and Zoe break in?”

  “Zoe won’t go in. She claims that Augustus can sense her presence.”

  Familial telepathy. Victoria had heard of it, but didn’t think she believed in it entirely. Since Zoe obviously did, however, she could stand watch. Victoria would break in with the Rag Man.

  To her surprise, Torbel had offered no objections. He’d simply told her to be ready at 11:00 p.m., because he wouldn’t wait if she wasn’t.

  She’d been on time. So had he, and now here they were, creeping across a broad expanse of lawn and flower gardens toward the pantry window.

  Torbel carried a beeper on his belt. The two burning lights came from hallways. None of the main rooms was lit, and not a sound except for insects and owls broke the stillness of the warm night air.

  Torbel jimmied the pantry window like a pro—which he very well might be, Victoria thought with an apprehensive glance over her shoulder. She still knew next to nothing about his past.

  “Victoria.”

  His impatient whisper came from the far side of the window. Switching off her flashlight, she tucked it into her black backpack—a gift from Zoe—and hoisted herself up and over.

  He nodded at the far wall. “Zoe said there was a rear staircase. Sophie’s room is at the top and five doors to the left.”

  Victoria rearranged her pack. “What about Judge Hollyburn’s room?”

  “Two doors farther on. We’ll have to be quiet.”

  “I don’t suppose he’s hard of hearing,” she ventured as they climbed a set of creaking stairs.

  “No. Stay to the left and hug the wall.”

  She’d rather hug him, but now was hardly the time, even if he did look incredibly good in his black jeans and cotton shirt.

  Torbel’s flashlight pointed the way. Once they’d navigated the squeaky stairs, he turned off the beam and, holding her still with a hand pressed to her stomach, let his eyes adjust.

  “Count five doors,” he instructed after a moment.

  Victoria did, then stood guard again while he plied a second lock. She thought she detected a tiny creak and looked around hastily; however, no red-faced Augustus Hollyburn burst through his door, ripe for a confrontation.

  The butler was out of the house, she reminded herself. The cook slept downstairs, but she’d been snoring away like a lawnmower and wasn’t likely to hear them.

  “Got it.” Torbel was on his feet and through the door before Victoria completed her surveillance of the corridor. He located a lamp, switched it on and closed the door behind him.

  Victoria halted just across the threshold, staring at the sheetdraped furniture and cobwebs hanging so thick and numerous she couldn’t see through them to the other side. Everything—the carpet, the sheets, the wallpaper, the shelves—every article in Sophie’s old bedroom was covered with layer upon layer of dust.

  With her gloved hand, she broke one of the larger cobwebs and peered through it to the nightstand where a clock and calendar sat, stopped in time. “Seven thirty-two,” she murmured. “July 17, 1973. God, Torbel, it’s the ‘Twilight Zone’ to a T.”

  “That T will stand for trouble if you don’t get a move on,” he retorted. “Check the closet. I’ll do the dresser.”

  She had to make her way through a sea of dusty gray cobwebs to get there. “Why do I get the dirty job?” she muttered. “What exactly are we looking for, Torbel?”

  “Anything pertinent.”

  “That narrows it down.” Vexed by his reticent attitude, she flung open the door—and barely managed to stifle the scream that leapt into her throat when a large, dark object toppled out and landed on her. She jumped back and would have kept on going if she hadn’t come up hard against Torbel.

  “What?” he demanded, obviously not seeing it.

  “I don’t know.” She pointed. “Something black.”

  Setting her aside, he went down onto one knee and probed the…whatever it was. Victoria didn’t want to look; however, curiosity impelled her to keep one eye on the thing. She kept her fingers wrapped around Torbel’s shirt collar. If it sprang, she’d…

  “It’s a skeleton.”

  A knot formed in her chest. “In the closet?” She shuddered. “What a gruesome woman.”

  “It’s plastic.” Torbel pushed aside the black body bag. “She must have been in pre-med at one time.”

  “Maybe.” Victoria allowed herself a final shiver of distaste. “From what I’ve heard of this family, though, she could have been tw
isted enough to have been keeping it as some sort of memento.”

  “They’re adulterers, not bone freaks.” His head came up suddenly. “Did you hear something?”

  Only her own bones knocking together. “No.”

  He waited for three tension-filled seconds, then swore and grabbed her hand. “The door,” he muttered.

  “But the closet’s—”

  Clamping a hand firmly over her mouth, he squeezed himself in behind her and doused the lights.

  To her left, the door creaked slowly open. The point of a rifle appeared. Then an old, suspicious voice—the personification of death itself to Victoria’s mind—rasped an eerie “Who’s there?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Victoria couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to. Torbel’s grip was that strong, and in the dark, the rifle barrel bore the aspect of a cannon.

  “Who is it?” the old man demanded again. His voice was raspy and hard. Unflinchingly so.

  Dickens’s Flintwinch, Victoria thought, then stiffened as the rifle jerked. She felt the muscles of Torbel’s body digging into her, but pressed herself tighter against him even so.

  “I know you’re here, girl,” the man snapped. “I can smell you. Come out where I can see you.”

  She heard Torbel’s quick expletive, then felt herself being moved aside.

  “Put the rifle down, old man,” he said grimly, stepping out. “Unless you think murdering an unarmed intruder will aid your chances for a knighthood.”

  With a bony elbow, Augustus Hollyburn poked at the wall switch. “You,” he breathed. His whole body trembled with rage. “You brought her with you, didn’t you?” The rifle swung wildly in Victoria’s direction. Only Torbel’s quickness made it possible for him to grab the barrel and yank it back.

  The old judge offered little resistance. “Is that you back there, girl?” he demanded in a savage hiss.

  Shoulders squared, Victoria detached herself from the shadow. “If you mean Zoe, the answer is no.”

  He blinked at her. “Who in blazes are you?”

  Forgettable, obviously. “Victoria Summers,” she told him, her eyes on his shaky trigger finger. “We met two years ago.”