Sweet Revenge Page 5

  Victoria held her breath while he helped her to her feet. Danger had an understandable appeal, but the concept of the predatory male had never fascinated her. Why now? She must be more frightened by the note writer than she cared to admit.

  She watched his eyes move in a slow arc from street to park and back again. “What was that thing that flew past us?”

  For an answer, he crouched, hunting absently through a sodden bush. Eyes still fixed on the park, he extracted a weapon that could have come straight out of the Middle Ages.

  Victoria stared at the length of sturdy wood with its lethally spiked head. “That’s a flail, isn’t it?”

  “Mace.” Curling his fingers about her wet upper arm, he nudged her toward his Pathfinder. “No more arguments. It missed you by less than a foot.”

  Victoria’s eyes fastened themselves in morbid curiosity on the ancient weapon. “He wants me dead,” she whispered, unbelieving.

  “I think,” Torbel said grimly, “he wants a little more than that.”

  THE STOREHOUSE WAS a veritable rabbit warren of short stairwells, low ceilings and oddly shaped rooms. One of those rooms, half a flight up from the ground, contained a fridge, a stove and a collection of mismatched cupboards. Keiran called it a kitchen; Victoria called it a page out of a Grimm’s fairy tale, Hansel and Gretel to be precise.

  Despite the stifling heat and a cup of coffee spiked with brandy that the Scotsman Ron had concocted, she was shivering. Torbel leaned against the heavy wood table, examining the mace as if it were a Chinese puzzle. That he also examined her from time to time was the only reason Victoria managed to maintain her composure.

  “You didn’t see anyone?” Keiran asked from the counter.

  “A shape,” Torbel said without inflection.

  Aware of a vague alcoholic tingling in her limbs, Victoria set her cup on the table. “Don’t you think,” she suggested prosaically, “that you should stop handling that thing and call the police? There might be fingerprints.”

  “The shape I saw was dressed in black from head to toe. There won’t be any incriminating fingerprints, Victoria.”

  “There won’t be now,” she agreed. She fought the tremor that ran through her. She should go to Zoe’s flat and change out of her wet clothes. Instead, she veiled her eyes and said, “You still haven’t told me what you meant when you said he wants more than my death.”

  “What’s more than death?” Keiran demanded.

  Torbel sent them a meaningful look. “Two deaths.”

  Comprehension dawned, slowly because of the alcohol, but now something he’d said earlier struck Victoria with force. “He missed me by less than a foot, right? And the mace flew past me on the left. You were behind me and slightly to my left, weren’t you?”

  Keiran swore softly as he let a collection of cats and dogs in from the lane.

  Torbel shrugged. “It could have been a bad throw.”

  Victoria’s blood chilled. “Whoever’s after me wants you dead, too.” Fear flowed unhindered through her mind. “He directed me to you, and now he’ll try to kill both of us.”

  Torbel shot Keiran a glance, then, passing the mace over, started toward her. “Don’t go off half-cocked, Victoria.”

  She stood. The brandy burned in her stomach; it must have been a hundred and eighty proof. She wobbled but caught herself and faced him resolutely. “I never go off half-cocked. I’m not naive, Torbel, and I’m certainly not stupid. He wants me dead and he wants you dead, too. And what’s worse, he’s crazy…or she.”

  Her bravado wavered as he drew closer. She didn’t want him to touch her. Well, maybe she did, but she wouldn’t allow it. She stepped away, dragging the chair between them, not caring what significance either man might place on her action. “Admit it, Torbel. This is big and horrible and dangerous, because no one who uses medieval weapons to attack people could possibly be considered sane.”

  Torbel’s face was an implacable mask. He’d halted several feet in front of her. He made no further move to close the gap. Very lucky, she reflected in retrospect, that he didn’t.

  With no forewarning whatsoever, something crashed through the window, shattering the pane to Victoria’s left.

  “Son of a…” Torbel grabbed at her, but instinct already had her on her knees. “Get back!” he urged, pulling her arm.

  She scrambled for the wall. The crash had resembled the report of an elephant gun. The hole in the window seemed to confirm that. Except…

  “Torbel—” she began urgently.

  “Keep your voice down.”

  She hadn’t realized he was directly beside her.

  “Do you see anything?” Keiran demanded in a low voice.

  Torbel gave his head a shake and Victoria a firm push on the head with his hand. “Stay below the level of the window.” He regarded Keiran, who was on his haunches across the room. “Take the front. I’ll cover the lane. You,” he told Victoria, “wait here until we get back.”

  His breath stirred the dark hair lying across her cheek. She tucked the loose strands behind her ear and tried again. “I really don’t think—”

  “No arguments.” Torbel gave Keiran a barely perceptible nod.

  “But it isn’t…”

  He’d stopped listening. With a sound like an exasperated grunt, he made for the door. Keiran headed for the front of the building. Victoria considered trying one last time, then decided to let them go. If they wanted to be brave, that was their business. Hers lay some fifteen feet ahead in a dark, cobwebbed corner near the stove.

  It was an old trick, overused but effective as hell, she thought as she crawled cautiously forward. A note, wrapped in a stone and launched through a window.

  Sounds from the city street accompanied her across the stone floor the moan of cargo ships, a Cockney couple shouting, the singsong voice of a hawker plying her wares in the rain—plastic raincoats, cheap umbrellas and live flowers.

  She’d almost reached the rock when a voice in her ear nearly made her jump out of her skin.

  “I told you to stay put.”

  She counted to five before turning to glare at him. “You told me to stay down. I am down.”

  “You’re also in full view of anyone who might be lurking outside the window.”

  “It wasn’t a shot, Torbel. It was a rock.” She picked up the rock, cobwebs and all. “I saw it before you and Keiran took off, but you wouldn’t listen to me.”

  He slanted her a suspicious look from under his lashes. “You didn’t try very bloody hard to stop us.”

  “No,” she answered honestly. She had the strongest urge suddenly to touch his face. The Rag Man wasn’t classically handsome, yet every one of his features spoke of strength, determination and force of will. He was a leader, pure and simple, and something about that and him excited her on the most elemental level.

  She shouldn’t do this, though, entertain fantasies where Torbel was concerned. It must be the heat and high humidity affecting her judgment, prompting a sexual craving that had no basis in logic.

  She offered no protest when he took the rock from her and broke the string.

  “Well?” she demanded as he skimmed the note. “What does it say?”

  He handed it back to her. Against her will, she began to read, “Twinkle, twinkle, pretty star…”

  THE SCRAGGLY chimney sweep, wearing baggy pants and a jacket whose sleeves hung several inches too long, slogged from puddle to puddle, along a narrow alley and down a cracked set of stairs to the unfurnished room that contained a battered metal sea chest, an overturned crate, sweep’s tools and absolutely nothing else—unless you counted the pair of rats that scurried away every time the door opened.

  Must change, thought the begrimed sweep. Must not be caught. Too much at stake for that. Justice, that’s what I am, the angel of death, instrument of revenge.

  The sweep gave an evil chuckle. Off with the jacket, pants and leaky boots. Discard the strategically placed padding. Back into normal street cloth
es. No more putty, wig and cap—goodbye gloves. Wipe off the soot and brush out the hair. Was that all of it? A good-sized mirror, that’s what was needed. Mustn’t overlook any detail that might betray the game.

  But this was not a game. It was payment. Two years had crawled by, two years of watching and waiting. Of plotting. They could all be gotten now, big and small. They had no right to live, not after what they’d done.

  A painful memory stirred, as vivid now as the night Robbie Hollyburn had died: the victim lying on the wet pavement, the mournful wail of a passing ship—and something dreadfully wrong, an image that must be blocked.

  One man had run. Another had been captured. But the one captured had not been the one to stick the knife in Robbie’s back. The sweep flinched, then straightened. Robbie’s killer had had the luck of the Irish on his side. He’d fled like a jackrabbit.

  Fox, rabbit, weasel, snake—Torbel was all those things and more. He must die, and the woman, too, because she was the only one left alive to punish.

  Caution now, thought the transformed sweep. No need to rush. Lock the chest, straighten the clothes, slip out the door and into the drizzly shadows. Think of the guilty ones under torture. Dream of that. Quote the eerie, poignant rhyme:

  I wish I may, I wish I might,

  Get the wish I wish tonight…

  Chapter Four

  “The call came in a few hours ago,” Sergeant Peacock explained from his seat in the storehouse kitchen. “Naturally we took pains to contact Ms. Summers immediately. When we couldn’t do so, Inspector Fox sent me here. His—our feeling was that she had likely come to you for help.”

  His voice trailed off to a cough as he ran uncomfortable fingers over the mark on his cheek.

  Who wouldn’t feel distressed under scrutiny from the Rag Man, Victoria thought in sympathy? The worst of her fears had subsided when Torbel had returned with Sergeant Peacock. The discomfort within her had not.

  “Who was this warning call from, Sergeant?” she asked.

  “Er, Augustus Hollyburn, actually.”

  Torbel’s dark brows came together. “Are you sure?”

  The sergeant stiffened. “I took the call. He wanted to speak to Clover, but her shift ended two hours ago. I relayed the message at once to Inspector Fox. It was Judge Hollyburn’s contention that Ms. Summers might be in danger.”

  Torbel eyed him doubtfully. “How did Judge Hollyburn know the note was intended for Victoria? For that matter, how did he get hold of it in the first place?”

  “He said it was delivered anonymously to his home. His butler found it. The envelope had no postage stamp, only Judge Hollyburn’s name. Apparently it was pushed through his mail slot sometime after the regular delivery.”

  “And from that lot of rhyming babble, he was able to determine that it was meant for Victoria?”

  “It was only a copy, Torbel. I gather the original note came flying through your window rather later.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Victoria said. A small black cat that had been rubbing her head on Victoria’s calf strolled over to wrap herself around Torbel’s ankles. “Why would whoever’s behind these threats send a copy of a note intended for me—well, all right, Torbel and me—to Augustus Hollyburn before he delivered the original here?”

  The sergeant shook his graying head. “All I know is that I was finishing my beat and, upon checking into the station, was instructed by Inspector Fox to proceed at once to the Rag Man’s agency.”

  Sergeant Peacock’s large brown eyes had quite noticeable pouches beneath them, due either to a lack of sleep or heredity. Still, he possessed a distinguished air, something between David Niven and Prince Philip, leaning more toward David than Philip in Victoria’s opinion.

  His tone reproving, he said, “I’ll take your note, your rock and your mace down to headquarters and see what the boys—I beg your pardon—the people in the lab can do about locating some useful fingerprints.”

  Scooping up the cat, Torbel set her where she wanted to be, atop a high oak cupboard. “There won’t be any prints, Peacock. Whoever this prat is, he’s not likely to make a mistake like that.”

  “It has been known,” Peacock replied, offended. “You might not have operated by the book at the Yard, Torbel, but the rest of us are obliged to. May I have the articles, please?”

  Torbel cast him a sidelong look, then, with a second glance at Victoria, reached into his pocket and withdrew the paper. “The rock and mace are behind you on the counter. You won’t find any prints.”

  “Except yours, of course.”

  The cat meowed. A smile Victoria could not interpret played on the corners of Torbel’s mouth. “Don’t count on it,” he murmured cryptically.

  The sergeant bristled but made no further comment. Using his handkerchief, he picked up the evidence and dropped it into a plastic bag. He paused only briefly when Zoe sauntered in. She must have been outside, because her hair was wet and her makeup smudged.

  “Evening, Sergeant,” she greeted in her husky, melodious voice. “What brings you out on such a foul night? If Fox is interested in that bugger-with-the-butcher-knife case I’m working on, he’s elusive as hell, probably ex-foreign legion.”

  “I’ll pass that on, er, Zoe.” Avoiding her eyes, the sergeant rose, touched his cap to Victoria and exited through the rear door.

  Zoe poured herself a cup of coffee, caught her reflection in the teakettle and stifled a shriek. “Waterproof mascara, my Aunt Fanny. Hi, Smudge.” Reaching up, she scratched the cat’s chin. “What was Peacock doing here?”

  “Being a pompous ass.” Torbel shoved back his chair and took his cup to the sink.

  Victoria watched him. “He wasn’t wrong, you know, Torbel. One stray fingerprint might have solved this case.”

  “You live in a dreamworld if you think that. We’re not dealing with a fly-by-night here, Victoria. Someone’s been planning this for a very long time. Probably waiting for Street to get out of prison so he could either pin this whole thing on him or go after him, too.”

  Since she couldn’t refute his remarks, Victoria subsided in her chair. “Has anyone seen Lenny Street lately?” she mused out loud.

  Zoe wiped her eyes and balled the tissue between her palms. “I have—he looks like hell. He’s not very happy with you, either, Torbel. He figures you got off too easy by comparison. He’s turned into a rat, that one. Forget framing him—he might very well be your culprit. I wouldn’t trust him if he had both hands on the Bible.”

  “You wouldn’t trust your own grandmother if she were an emissary to the archbishop,” Torbel remarked with a glance out the window.

  Zoe lowered her catlike body in the chair opposite Victoria. “My grandmother married old Goggy, then promptly gave birth to a slu—to Sophie. Would you trust someone who had no better sense than to tie herself to an out-of-date, sexist tyrant with delusions of knighthood? No wonder Sophie went off.”

  “What happened to her?” Victoria asked.

  “She died shortly after Robbie was born.”

  “Complications?”

  “Alcohol and a fast car. She was streaking pell-mell for Shannon Airport. She must have stopped at a pub on the way. If you don’t know Ireland, they brew a lethal poteen.”

  “Whiskey,” Torbel translated. Victoria decided that the glint in his blue-green eyes might also be described as lethal.

  “This must have happened a long time ago,” she remarked, counting backward. “Almost twenty-three years.”

  “Nineteen seventy-three,” Zoe confirmed. “I was sent packing, so to speak, shortly thereafter. Eight years thereafter, actually, but it was a living hell before that with Goggy threatening to have Scratch—that’s his lawyer, Lucius Scranton—change his will. As if I cared. I could never have lived up to Clover’s shining example of grades, groveling and general subservience. ‘Go into law,’ Goggy told her, so she became a police officer. ‘Go into law,’ he told Robbie. ‘Go to hell,’ Robbie told him back. Thank God the kid had spu
nk. It wasn’t easy with grandfather pushing and prodding him at every turn. Robbie was it, you know, the last legitimate male in the Hollyburn line.”

  Her words jogged a memory. “Robbie planned to go into law until he met, uh—” Victoria glanced at Torbel. He seemed unperturbed, albeit fully aware of her meaning.

  “Robbie did what he wanted to do. I never offered any inducement.”

  “But he did want to join your agency.” Although that might have had something to do with Zoe’s presence, she supposed. “Would you have let him?”

  “Probably.”

  She pushed the hair from her cheeks. The air felt sticky and cloyingly hot. “I think Judge Hollyburn would have made life very difficult for you if you had. Not that I imagine you’d have cared.”

  Fishing a rubber band out of her jeans pocket, Zoe used it to confine her hair. “One thing you learn early on is that you can’t let old Augustus intimidate you if you want to retain your individuality. Too bad Joey didn’t live. It might have taken the pressure off the rest of us. God knows, we heard enough about it, Clover and me, that is. Joey was our third, you see.”

  “You were triplets?” Victoria asked, surprised.

  “Yes, but Joey was feeble. He died when he was six weeks old. Grandfather would have given anything to get him back. He’d have sacrificed Clover and me in a minute. He’d have cut off his right arm—I think he’d have sold his soul if he thought it would have worked. Then, just when he’d given up all hope, along came Robbie, and he was over the moon.”

  “Nice man,” Victoria muttered.

  “He’s not alone in his thinking,” Torbel commented dryly.

  Her head came up. “My da’s not like that. He was happy with a daughter.”

  One dark brow rose. “Does your da own an ancestral home?”

  “Of course not. And if ancestral homes make jerks out of men, then I’m glad he doesn’t.”

  “Ancestral homes, ancestral names. Did you know that we were all named for some ancestor or other? My mother had a great-aunt Zoe. I’m not sure about Clover and Robbie, but I think Clover might have been Goggy’s second cousin.”