The Danger Next Door (Anne Lambert Mysteries) Page 6

  “Shit,” said Anne under her breath. “It’s my slimy next door neighbor,” she added when Jason looked at her quizzically. “There’s an empty table over by the bar,” she said, nodding at it with her chin. “Why don’t we sit there?”

  “Too late,” said Jason with a sigh. “He’s coming over.”

  “Anne. How nice to see you. Enjoying the exhibit?” The doctor leaned in and Anne realized a second too late that he was going to kiss her. Her head jerked back as his lips brushed her cheek and the plate she was holding tilted precariously. An asparagus stalk rolled off and plopped onto the doctor’s gray suede loafers. His mouth tightened in annoyance as he surveyed the damage. A snail trail of shiny asparagus juice meandered across his instep.

  “Why don’t I carry this for you,” he said as he confiscated her plate and headed back to his table with it.

  Anne glared at his retreating back, but followed. She had no choice. He had her mini-quiches.

  As Anne approached the doctor’s table she realized that he had a dining companion. A tall, straight-backed woman with bouffant white hair and hard gray eyes was sipping champagne, a disapproving expression on her bony face. Anne wondered if it was the champagne or the company which was sub-standard.

  “Lady Soames, may I present my neighbor, Anne Lambert.”

  Anne politely extended her hand. The elderly woman looked at it as if she was checking for dirt under Anne’s fingernails. Anne was about to pull her hand back when Lady Soames suddenly seized it and gave it a brief, grudging shake. Anne sat down, surreptitiously sliding her chair away from the doctor’s, who had set her plate down next to his. Jason pulled out the chair on her left.

  “This is Jason Gilbert,” she said as she speared an asparagus. “Jason, this is Dr. John Davidson, my neighbor.”

  The nod they gave each other was not much friendlier than Lady Soames’ handshake. Anne tried her baby roast potatoes. They had a crunchy, rosemary-flavored crust which was just heavenly.

  “Anne, you don’t have any champagne,” said Jason. “Of course. You couldn’t carry it, could you.” He nodded at the cast on her left arm. “Let me get you some. Can I get anyone else anything?”

  “I’d like another glass of wine,” Lady Soames announced imperiously. “The Sauvignon Blanc.”

  Jason nodded and headed off toward the bar.

  The doctor turned to Anne. “So, are you a Joseph Beuys fan?.”

  “No, I’m afraid I’d never heard of him. A friend of mine gave me the ticket.” One of Lindsey’s suitors had offered Lindsey the ticket as an expensive example of his devotion. Apparently the offering (or the offerer) had been deemed inadequate, for Lindsey had passed it on to Anne. The object of tonight’s gala was to raise money for one of Princess Anne’s favorite charities – Hugs For Horses – and even the cheapest tickets went for two-hundred pounds. The thousand-pounders got you a two-second handshake with the Princess and a table within spitting distance of her minders.

  “I have to admit, I don’t care much for the artwork, but the food is great.”

  “It’s tolerable,” said Lady Soames with a sniff, finishing off the last sip of wine in her glass. Her mouth puckered as if she’d just drunk undiluted lemon juice.

  Anne dropped her gaze in embarrassment. She brushed a smattering of quiche crumbs off her lap and wondered how soon she could leave without being rude.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Anne said, just to break the silence. She aimed a sympathetic smile at Lady Soames, who stared at her blankly.

  “The loss of your son,” said Anne. “Jimmy.”

  “Yes, it was a terrible tragedy for the entire Soames family,” said Dr. Davidson when Lady Soames remained silent. The doctor leaned back, draping an arm over the back of Anne’s chair. Anne’s back muscles stiffened so much that her ramrod-straight posture now mirrored that of Lady Soames.

  “Have you known the Soames family long?” asked Anne. It was more than just idle conversation. She was genuinely curious. The doctor seemed to be presenting himself as the family spokesman.

  “Nearly twenty years now. I first met Lady Soames when she came to visit her sons at their school in Kent.” He turned to Lady Soames and gave her a gallant smile. The severe expression on Lady Soames’ bony face relaxed into a graceful acceptance of the flattery.

  Anne felt her stomach turn. The two of them seemed to have some sort of weird parasitical relationship, though it was difficult to tell who was the host and who the parasite. “That would be Wyndham Preparatory, the school mentioned in that anonymous note I showed you?”

  The doctor’s pale, hairless hand contracted suddenly around his champagne glass. His grip on it was so tight Anne wondered if the glass was going to shatter. A long, silent minute passed. Lady Soames retreated back into her severe shell. Anne kept a wary eye on the doctor, as traces of anger flickered across his immobile face like cracks in the flat crust of the desert after an earthquake.

  “Yes,” Dr. Davidson finally replied, his voice tense but controlled. “I began my career there, as the school’s guidance counselor. Jimmy and Daniel Soames both got sent to my office several times. Just the usual boyhood indiscretions.”

  “Then why . . . “ began Anne, but the doctor covered her hand with his and gave it a condescending pat.

  “Now,” he said, “Let’s not upset Lady Soames with talk of Jimmy’s past. We’re here to forget our troubles and enjoy ourselves.”

  “But . . . “ Anne tried again, her voice suddenly failing when the doctor squeezed her hand, crushing her fingers together.

  “Here you go.” Jason was back. He set Lady Soames’ wine down and gave her a winsome smile, which she ignored. Undeterred, he resumed his seat next to Anne. “They were out of champagne, so I got you a coke instead. I hope that’s okay.” He offered a frosted tumbler full of coke and ice to Anne.

  She wrested her hand free from the doctor’s grasp and took the glass. “That’s fine. I prefer soft drinks anyway. Never been big on alcohol.” She wrapped her throbbing hand around the cold glass. She stared at her hand, silently calling the doctor every profane thing she could think of.

  Jason was tucking enthusiastically into his food. “Eat up girl,” he said as melted Edam dripped down his chin. “These little quiche thingys are great.”

  It was, of course, an accident. Anne’s elbow was completely blameless. The doctor’s champagne glass was just asking for trouble, sitting there so close to the edge of the table. Dr. Davidson leapt up, cursing as the damp stain spread across the crotch of his pale gray trousers.

  * * * *

  Anne hooked her Sainsburys bag over her cast, arm sagging from the weight of her weekly grocery shop, and opened the mailbox with her other hand. A bill from London Electricity, a garish purple flyer from a new Balti restaurant, and a square-shaped envelope made of heavy paper the color of buttermilk. Odd. Kind of fancy for junk mail. She checked the return address. Lady Belinda Soames. Yikes! Daniel’s mother. And Jimmy’s.

  She flexed her sore fingers as unpleasant memories of last night’s gala at the Tate came back to her – Lady Soames’ rudeness, Dr. Davidson’s boorishness, Jason’s . . . okay, not all of the memories were unpleasant. Jason had sent her a text message, which arrived the next day while she was at work. She’d had to ask Nick to decipher it for her. Nothing like hip, twenty-something hieroglyphics to make a person feel ready for the old-folks home. The gist of the message was a desire to see her again. Anne hadn’t replied yet. Jason seemed like a nice guy, but his age was a bit of a turn off. She wanted to feel like his date, not his babysitter. She decided to do a Scarlett O’Hara and think about it tomorrow.

  She slid the grocery bag off her arm and dumped it on the floor of the lobby. Opening the envelope from Lady Soames with one hand was a bit of a struggle, but she finally managed it once she got her teeth involved.

  Inside was a cream colored card. A falcon stretched its wings in the red and black family crest at the top. The handwriting was an elegan
t cursive.

  ‘Dear Miss Lambert,’ it began, ‘I enjoyed meeting you at the Tate exhibit. I and my husband feel great regret at your accident. My son Daniel mentioned that his car was involved, apparently stolen by thieves. We all wish you a speedy recovery from your injuries. We are having a small house party the weekend of March 9, and would be delighted if you could join us. Dress is casual. I look forward to seeing you. Sincerely, Lady Belinda Soames.’

  A thin sheet of paper with map and directions was clipped to the back of the card.

  Huh. Anne stared at it perplexedly. Why on earth would Lady Soames be inviting her to a house party? She absently tapped the card against her chin. The Soames family must be worried about the accident. And the fact that Daniel’s car was involved. Maybe his parents thought she was going to sue them. They were going to wine and dine her at this party in the hope that it would prevent her American litigious instinct from kicking in. It had never occurred to her to sue, and she wasn’t going to now.

  Something was off about the invitation. Lady Soames had barely acknowledged her last night at the Tate exhibit. Anne frowned at the card in her hand. She wondered if this invitation was the doctor’s idea. She awkwardly tried to tuck the card back into its envelope with her teeth.

  “Let me help you with that.” A large, faultlessly manicured hand reached over her shoulder and plucked the invitation out of her grasp.

  “I hope you’ll attend,” said Dr. Davidson as he read the card. “You’ll enjoy it. The Soames family estate is quite impressive. It might be a bit wet this time of year, but the rhododendrons will be in bloom.” He tucked the card into the envelope and handed it to her. “I’m driving down early Saturday morning. I could give you a lift.” He waited, a mocking look on his face. He had thrown down the gauntlet.

  Anne refused to pick it up. She turned her back on him and stalked off toward the stairs, her attempt at affronted dignity somewhat hampered by the grocery bag banging against her legs.

  Chapter Six

  The 9:15 from Paddington pulled out right on time. Anne stared blankly out the window, her overnight bag tucked beneath her feet. Ominous thoughts about the weekend ahead kept making incursions into her mind. She had decided to accept Lady Soames’ invitation. The chance to get an up-close-and-personal look at a big English estate had proven irresistible, but now that the moment had come she was having second thoughts.

  She was nervous about meeting Lord Soames, not looking forward to seeing Lady Soames again, and definitely not thrilled at the idea of seeing Daniel again, but they were just foot-soldiers in the army of her inner demons. Dr. Davidson was the Panzer tank brigade. She wondered if he was going to be orchestrating the whole weekend. Directing the Soames family like a courtroom defense lawyer. She couldn't help feeling that they were marshalling a defense against her. The irony was that she had no intention of attacking them. She felt sorry for Jimmy Soames and his early demise, but it was the job of the police to track down his killer, if in fact he'd even been murdered. She wasn't about to stick her nose into the tragedy. Surely his parents realized that.

  At Fairhill Station, the stop closest to the Soames estate, Anne was the only passenger to alight from the train. She passed through the deserted red brick station and paused uncertainly outside its front entrance. Fairhill was definitely not a major transportation hub. Lady Soames’ directions stated that taxis could be found at the station, but there were none in evidence. A ticket office – closed – and a vending machine offering Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut bars were the only amenities. She set her bag down on a weather-beaten bench and pulled out the sheet of directions. The Soames estate was two miles from the station. Not a difficult walk for someone used to jogging three miles every day. Plus her overnight bag was light. Anne checked the map Lady Soames had drawn and set out.

  Thirty minutes later she reached the gates of the Soames estate. The walk had been pleasant enough. It was a gray day, but not rainy, and car traffic was light. For the last half-mile a wall of roughly hewn stone blocks had bordered the road. The wall ended in two stone turrets flanking a wrought-iron gate. Pale green moss covered the crumbling turrets, and the left-hand one had a falcon carved into it – the Soames family crest which she’d noticed on her invitation. The gates were closed, but a pedestrian-sized door in the wall was ajar. She passed through.

  Trees bordered the gravel drive in front of her on both sides, ancient oaks and the occasional pine, with purple banks of rhododendrons looking phosphorescent in the gloom. The only noise came from drops of water falling from the leaves and rustlings where the squirrels were going about their business in the branches. The drive wound around for a hundred yards or so, then the trees thinned out and Anne emerged into open parkland. Shallow, grass-covered mounds, like snowboarding moguls, stretched in every direction. The effect was golf course minus the golfers. The house was straight ahead, its turrets reflected in a reed-bordered lake. Anne tried to guess the age of the building, maybe 18 century with a few older pieces here and there. Like many big estates, it had been added onto by each successive owner until the final result resembled a jigsaw puzzle with several pieces missing. It was imposing rather than pretty, which probably suited the family just fine. The facade was gray stone, with two large stone lions guarding the front steps. They had assumed the Sphinx position – muscular haunches lowered, front paws outstretched, regal faces fixed on some mystery only they could see. If they were protecting the house from the non-aristocratic then they should be roaring loudly by now, Anne thought as she climbed the stairs.

  She hesitated in front of a massive medieval oaken door. The carved figure of a falcon, its wings outstretched, hovered over a group of faceless men in bishops miters. A pair of muddy wellies stood next to the mat. No doorbell was in evidence, but a length of braided velvet rope hung beside the door. She gave it a tentative pull and heard a muted bell peal somewhere inside the house. A short silence, and then footsteps clacked across a marble floor. Anne stepped back from the door as it opened.

  “Good morning Ma’am. You must be Miss Lambert. Please come in.” A pleasant looking, gray-haired man swung the door open wider. “Lady Soames is in the Morning Room. If you’ll just follow me.” He turned down a hallway lined with portraits, probably the family ancestors, Anne guessed. Before trotting after him she let her gaze roam across the entrance hall of the building. An expanse of white marble led to twin staircases which curved to meet each other at a landing facing the front door. An ornately framed mirror on the landing reflected the pink clouds and blue sky of a painting opposite. It depicted a Greek god flying across the heavens in a chariot. Probably an early Soames ancestor, thought Anne wryly.

  She hurried to catch up with the gray-haired gentleman. He slipped noiselessly into a walnut-paneled room which branched off main the hallway, approaching a woman who was writing at a desk by the window. He waited patiently for her to finish, and when she set her pen down announced – “Miss Lambert.”

  Anne scurried forward, hand extended. Lady Soames rose in one graceful motion and briefly clasped Anne’s hand, her expression plainly showing that she wished she had on the gloves she normally donned before meeting Americans. Anne surreptitiously checked her fingernails for dirt. Nope. Clean. Even the ones protruding from her cast.

  “Carstairs, bring us some tea please,” ordered Lady Soames as she glided across the room and settled onto a sofa covered in pale blue satin. Anne gingerly perched at the other end. She rubbed a finger along the smooth fabric. It reminded her of the chair covered in silk in Dr. Davidson’s office. Didn’t these people ever spill anything?

  She studied Lady Soames warily. Her hostess seemed less irritable than she had at their last meeting at the Tate Modern. Her demeanor had shifted from rude to politely distant. She wore an elegant cream-colored jersey dress, with a boxy blue linen jacket on top. The jacket looked like a ten-pound special from TopShop. Anne wondered if this was one of those quirky upper-class affectations.

  “I understand
you’ve met my son Daniel,” said Lady Soames.

  “Um, yes,” replied Anne. “He came to see me at my office.”

  “I suggested that he do so. We wanted you to know that the family was grieved by your accident, even though we were not of course involved.”

  Since one of the family’s cars had been used to turn her into roadkill Anne wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this. She also decided it would be best not to mention that Daniel had tried to forcibly drag her out of her office. Possibly the rich considered that kind of thing just a social custom, like air-kissing.

  “I believe you also knew my son James.”

  Anne looked at her blankly for a minute before the piece clicked into place. “Oh, right. Jimmy. Again, I’m very sorry for your loss,” she added.

  Lady Soames nodded briefly.

  Anne paused. Carstairs had come in bearing a Royal Doulton tea service. He poured out two cups and set a tray with lemon slices, sugar cubes, milk, and a plate of delicate pink-frosted cakes down onto the coffee table next to the sofa. Anne carefully picked up the teacup closest to her. It was bone china covered with sprays of red roses and gilded around the rim. Pretty in an over the top sort of way.

  “I didn’t actually know Jimmy. We’d only met briefly, at Dr. Davidson’s flat.”

  “Yes. John Davidson told me. Dear man. We’ve been friends for years. He was such a help to James during his difficult periods. The doctor was the school counselor at Wyndham Preparatory here in Kent. James had great difficulty fitting in with the other boys, and John helped him through that. I don’t know what we would have done without him.” She added two sugar cubes and a squeeze of lemon to her tea. “James was always a bit of a dreamer,” she continued with a disapproving expression. “My husband tried many times to interest him in the family business, with no success. James just had no head for business. Daniel is much more practical. He has no compunction about going after what he wants.”