A Date with a Werewolf Page 3

  He sat down limply at the worktable. "We would like to oblige you, miss," he said in a tense whisper, "but we mustn't. We could lose our positions if Lord Pembroke were to find out."

  So that was it. They were terrified of their employer. The realization made Elizabeth even more determined to discover exactly what Pembroke's role was in all of this. What was he hiding? She knew she would have to proceed slowly with Alistair and Maria.

  "Somebody is trying to cover up the facts of some murders here and in London," Elizabeth said. "I'm investigating to find out the truth. I won't tell anyone you spoke to me."

  "You won't tell young Master Pembroke?" Maria asked.

  "Maria, no!" Alistair begged. "It's too dangerous."

  "Please, Alistair. A young woman is dead. If we can help Miss Wakefield find the killer—" She hesitated.

  "Nobody will ever know you talked to me," Elizabeth assured her. "A good journalist never reveals her sources."

  Maria swallowed hard and then began to speak haltingly. "The moon was full last night," she said, "and Alistair and I crept out for a romantic walk in the gardens, an hour before I was to begin the morning's work in the kitchen. Of course, we stayed quite close to the house, what with the poor sheep that were found dead, and all. We had just come inside, around about four o'clock, and were at the end of the upstairs corridor."

  "We had come upstairs for clean table linens for the morning meal," Alistair interjected, drumming his fingers nervously on the wooden table. "We planned to bring them down the servants' stairway at the end of the hall, and—"

  "And somebody was in the hallway leaving Miss Jessica's room!" Maria blurted out.

  Elizabeth felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. "Who was it?" she asked breathlessly.

  "I heard footsteps in the hallway—" Alistair admitted.

  "Alistair didn't see the person," Maria said. "Only me. He already had the stairway door open and was about to head down the steps. Of course, it was very dark," she added. "I really couldn't tell who it was in the corridor."

  "Can you give me any information at all about the person you saw?" Elizabeth asked. "Hair color? Height? Clothing?"

  Maria shook her head and refused to meet Elizabeth's gaze. Tears glistened in her dark eyes. Now more than ever, Elizabeth was sure Maria knew—or could guess at—the identity of the person in the hallway. But she was obviously too frightened to say more.

  "It was very dark," Maria repeated.

  "It's awfully early for it to be so dark." Jessica clasped Robert's hand tighter, as if she were frightened by the drifting English mist in the boxwood garden.

  It was twilight on Saturday. Except for anguished Andrew Thatcher, who had driven back to London after brunch, the guests at Pembroke Manor had spent a quiet day indoors, recovering from the morning's horror and avoiding a torrential downpour that had finally stopped late in the afternoon.

  Jessica wasn't really cold, but she shivered. Robert draped his strong arm around her shoulders, which is just what she had wanted him to do.

  "We can go back inside, if you'd like," he said. "I know you've suffered a terrible shock. It's beastly of me to keep you out in this sort of weather."

  "Oh, no!" Jessica said. "It feels good to get out in the fresh air after being cooped up inside with everyone all afternoon—even if it's so misty I can hardly see the garden! Besides, I feel perfectly safe, with you. I know you would never let anything hurt me."

  Robert smiled down at her, and Jessica felt her knees turn to jelly. He was definitely the best-looking guy she had ever dated. And being fabulously wealthy—and part of the British aristocracy—didn't hurt. Despite the damp weather, Jessica suddenly felt warm under his gaze.

  "You poor girl. You're still unsteady. I'm horribly sorry you've had to endure such trauma while a visitor at my home. I suppose it doesn't say much for the Pembroke hospitality."

  "Oh, Robert. It's not your family's fault that such an awful thing happened to poor Joy. And just because it happened in my own bed doesn't mean I'm frightened or anything."

  Of course, Jessica admitted to herself, she had been frightened at first. Now she felt completely recovered, but there was no reason to act like she was—not when he was being so attentive. Traumatic experiences had their uses.

  "You are so brave, Jessica," he said, squeezing her hand. "I'm proud of you. Even I am feeling a bit troubled about the situation—a murder has taken place in my own home! But you are determined not to let it spoil everyone's weekend."

  Jessica smiled shyly. "Robert, I want you to know how much I appreciate your invitation to visit your family's beautiful country home." She gestured around the garden, knowing that sculpted hedges and tasteful flower beds hid beneath the shroud of mist. "Despite what happened to Joy, I've had a great time this weekend—with you."

  He frowned. "I'm just sorry it's about to end. Do you have to take the first train in the morning?"

  "Well," Jessica pretended to hesitate, "Elizabeth is a real stickler when it comes to punctuality. . . ."

  Robert grinned. "I've got an idea. Allow me to make it up to you for the horrendous weekend. I know this smashing restaurant in Windsor. It takes weeks for most people to get reservations, but the owner is a friend of my family's. I'll arrange a table for tonight. In the morning, you can sleep as long as you like, and I'll drive you back to London at your leisure. How does that sound?"

  "Heavenly," Jessica declared, thinking of an evening alone with Robert—and his luxurious silver Jaguar convertible. "You know, I really could get used to this lifestyle, Robert. You always seem to get the best and the nicest of everything!"

  Robert stared into her eyes. "You deserve nothing but the best and the nicest."

  Then he leaned over and pressed his warm, soft lips against hers. A warm tingling spread through Jessica's body as she returned his slow, ardent kiss. Afterward, she stood for a few minutes in Robert's arms, breathing the heady scent of his cologne and gazing over his shoulder at the wisps of fog that drifted across the yellow face of the moon.

  Late that night, Elizabeth stood in the dark corridor outside the door of the room that Joy Singleton had died in. She looked down the long, dim hallway in both directions and then breathed a sigh of relief. It was empty.

  The train for London would leave first thing in the morning, so this could be Elizabeth's last chance to search for clues. Robert and Jessica were out for a late dinner in nearby Cambridge. The Pembrokes and their servants had gone to bed, or were busy in other parts of the great house. Andrew Thatcher had returned to London that afternoon. And Luke was in his room, studying the werewolf lore that had always been a hobby for him, but had lately become an obsession.

  Elizabeth felt a pang of guilt at investigating Joy's death without letting Luke know. After all, they were in this together. It wasn't that she wanted to keep secrets from him, exactly. But Luke was so convinced about his werewolf theory that Elizabeth was afraid he wouldn't keep an open mind about any clues they might discover.

  "Of course," she said under her breath, "Luke may be right. It just might be a werewolf. But a good journalist has to consider every possibility."

  She entered the room and quietly pulled the door shut behind her. "Clues," she said aloud. But where should she look for them?

  The crime had taken place on the bed, of course. Elizabeth's heart began pounding as she approached it. The scene was there before her: the body that looked like Jessica's . . . the golden hair . . . the crimson blood that soaked into the sheets and dripped steadily into a small pool on the parquet floor.

  She shook her head to clear it of the image. Of course, the bed was empty now, cold and bare of linens. The only sign that remained of the morning's crime was a round reddish-brown stain on the floor beside the bed.

  Clearly, no clues were left on the bare mattress. She scanned the tastefully furnished room. An armoire stood in one corner, its doors wide open to reveal an empty interior. No doubt it had already been searched by the police. Of
course, the police must have searched the entire room. But they might have missed something, Elizabeth told herself. Something important.

  She traced what might be the murderer's footsteps. The killer must have entered through the door, walked across the rug to the bed, murdered Joy, and skulked out—to be seen by Maria Finch, who had been standing near the door to the servants' stairs at the far end of the hallway.

  Elizabeth peered at the rug that covered much of the floor. There was no trace of the killer's having crossed it—not that Elizabeth had really expected to find any.

  "What else in the room did the murderer touch?" she asked herself. Then she realized she was staring at the answer. The door.

  Elizabeth inspected the shiny brass door handle. As expected, she found nothing. The constable's assistant had dusted it for fingerprints that morning, and the servants had polished it carefully afterward, to remove the powdery black dust.

  "What's this?" she whispered, running her hand up and down the wooden door frame. Caught in a crack in the wood were some silky threads from some kind of dark-green fabric. At last, she had found some evidence.

  But there was more. She pulled a small wad of a wiry material out of the crack. Chills raced up and down her spine as she realized what she was holding in her hand.

  It was a piece of animal fur, with long, coarse hairs.

  The applause was over; the curtain had closed on Saturday night's performance of A Common Man. But the biggest standing ovation yet was still ringing in Portia's ears as she stood backstage, tired but exhilarated.

  She felt a small hand clasp her shoulder. "Great work, Penelope!" said tiny, dark-haired Adrian Rani, a cast member who was about Portia's age. "That was your best performance yet!"

  After chatting for a moment, Adrian walked to the stage door, where a beaming middle-aged couple waited for her. Portia sighed as she watched Adrian embrace her parents.

  "What's the sigh for, Portia—or should I say, Penelope?" asked a voice behind her.

  "Rene!" Portia exclaimed, glad to see the tall, handsome French boy. "How did you like the performance?"

  "The play was tres bon—excellent. And you were even better. I am pleased that I was finally able to see it. But why did you sigh so sadly?"

  Portia smiled. "Oh, I do feel great about tonight's show. I just wish my parents could be here and feeling great about it, too. Without my father's support, even the standing ovations seem empty."

  "So, invite your papa to tomorrow's show."

  Portia bit her lip. "You know, my father is actually here in London at the moment. He arrived today from Scotland for a meeting with the Royal Shakespeare Company." Then she sighed and shook her head. "But it's not that easy, Rene. You know how he feels about my chances of making it as an actress."

  "The important thing, Portia, is this: How do you feel about your chances of making it as an actress?"

  "I don't know," Portia said, biting her lip. "Maybe my father's right. Anyone can get lucky in one little play. Perhaps I don't have enough talent to make a career of acting."

  "And perhaps you do. Personally, I believe you must. Only an actress par excellence could have created the illusion that you created at HIS in the last few weeks. You portrayed Isabelle so well that we all—as Jessica would say—hated your guts! Only now can I truly understand why you were being such a royal pain in the neck." He laughed. "But after seeing you in action tonight, I think I can forgive you."

  Portia blushed under her heavy stage makeup. "I know I was beastly to everyone, Rene. Playing a role is no excuse for that kind of behavior. I'm glad you can forgive me for it." She stared him straight in the eye. "But now can you forgive Liz, as well?"

  Rene flinched. "Ah, Portia. Let's not bring that up. I loved Elizabeth. She was everything I could ever want in a girl, but she betrayed—"

  "No, she didn't betray you," Portia protested. "You and Elizabeth didn't have a relationship when she started seeing Luke."

  Rene forced a laugh. "Come now, Portia. Hasn't anyone ever told you it's presumptuous for a Brit to advise a Frenchman on matters of love?"

  Portia shook her head. "Oh, no. You are absolutely not going to extract yourself from this conversation by trying to engage me in Franco-English sparring. I'm quite fond of Elizabeth. She was the only person who made an effort to befriend me at first—even while I was treating everyone so abominably." She folded her arms. "Rene, before the Wakefields arrived in London, you hadn't set eyes on Elizabeth in months. Isn't it a wee bit possible that you've fallen in love with a memory, rather than a real person?"

  "She didn't allow me to get reacquainted with the real person!" Rene protested. "She had hardly stepped off the plane when she began keeping company with that . . . poet."

  "You make 'poet' sound like a dirty word."

  "I can't help it. I love her. I don't want to see her with another beau."

  "If you love Liz, you should want her to be happy. And she seems happy with Luke. Don't spoil that for her."

  "But she said she cared for me."

  "She does," Portia assured him. "Your friendship is very important to Elizabeth right now. And who knows what might happen in the future? If you can't be her mate—I mean, friend—now, you'll lose her completely, forever."

  Rene cocked his head. "I don't know, Portia. I'm not sure I could handle being 'mates' with Elizabeth—especially if I have to watch her swooning over Luke Shepherd's poetry. But I suppose you've given me something to think about."

  "Good," Portia said. "Now, let's think about stopping somewhere for a bite to eat. I'll introduce you to the old English standby, fish and chips."

  Rene grimaced. "Hasn't anyone ever told you it's presumptuous for a Brit to advise a Frenchman on matters of food?"

  "How did Jessica enjoy her date last night with Little Lord Pembroke?" Luke asked Elizabeth, who sat beside him on the Sunday morning train back to London.

  "I don't know," Elizabeth said. "She was still asleep when we left this morning. I suppose she had a wonderful time, but I'm worried about her. I don't think Robert Pembroke is the right kind of guy for her. I've heard he's led kind of a wild life. What do you know about him?"

  Luke narrowed his eyes. "Quite a bit, actually. His father tries to quell the gossip, but the Pembrokes are the sort of people everyone adores talking about. Robert has been booted out of some of the finest schools in Britain. He's known for his attendance at the wildest parties. And he drives that Jaguar of his like a bloody maniac. In addition, his picture is in the tabloids every fortnight or so with a different female companion hanging on to his arm or gazing adoringly into his wealthy, aristocratic eyes. What do girls like Jessica see in his type?"

  "Jessica's never been a very good judge of character," Elizabeth admitted. "In fact, we never like the same people. She's not a bad person, Luke, but she gets carried away. She places too much importance on appearances."

  Luke touched Elizabeth's cheek for a brief, exquisite moment. "And appearances, as we know, can be deceiving," he replied in the soft, lilting accent that made everything he said sound like poetry. "I'm glad you're so different from your twin sister—despite your identical appearances."

  "And I'm glad that you're nothing like Robert Pembroke," Elizabeth asserted. Her cheek felt warm where Luke had touched it.

  "In one area, Robert has me topped," Luke admitted. "He took his girlfriend out last night, while I remained cloistered in my room, reading about werewolf imagery in Native-American rites and rituals. I hope you weren't too lonely, on your own."

  Elizabeth pulled an envelope out of her backpack, and handed it to him. "Actually, I was busy last night," she said, unable to conceal her excitement. "Look what I found in the door frame of the room where Joy was murdered."

  Luke twisted the green threads in his fingers. "Fibers from some sort of fabric—it looks like silk." His eyes widened. "And this is animal fur!"

  Elizabeth nodded, feeling every bit like Nancy Drew. "When we find out where those green threads
come from, we'll be much closer to identifying the murderer."

  "And the fur proves that it's a werewolf!"

  "It doesn't necessarily prove anything," Elizabeth argued, trying to remember that first and foremost she was a journalist. "We don't know for sure what that fur comes from."

  "We most certainly do!" Luke insisted. "What else but a werewolf could have murdered Joy Singleton by ripping her throat open? Not to mention the London victims. The question is, who is the werewolf?"

  "I'm still not sure I believe in werewolves, but I'm willing to accept the possibility."

  "Are you familiar with the words of your American poet, Thoreau?" Luke asked. " 'The moon now rises to her absolute rule. And the husbandman and the hunter acknowledge her as their mistress.' The werewolf is the ultimate hunter, Elizabeth. He can change shape whenever he's so moved, but when the full moon shines, he's at his greatest strength. And the full moon was shining on the night of Joy's death."

  Elizabeth suppressed a shudder. "Well, whether the murderer is a werewolf or not, the constable said everyone is a suspect. So let's go over all the possibilities. Who could have killed Joy Singleton?"

  Luke counted on his fingers. "Besides Joy, the only people at Pembroke Manor this weekend were you and me, Jessica, the three Pembrokes, the servants, and Andrew Thatcher. I guess we can safely say it wasn't you, me, or Jessica."

  Elizabeth nodded. "Right. And I can't believe Thatcher could have killed Joy. He was in love with her."

  "Agreed," Luke said. "That leaves the Pembrokes and the servants. You questioned Maria and Alistair. What's your opinion about them?"

  "I don't think they're murderers," Elizabeth said thoughtfully. "But they were in the upstairs hallway around the time of the murder. And I'm sure they're hiding something. Maria saw someone—or something—in the hallway outside of the room where Joy was killed. She says she doesn't know who it was. I think she's lying."

  "Interesting. What about Alistair?"

  Elizabeth shook her head. "I don't believe he saw anything. I'm not sure if Maria told him who she thinks she saw, but I know he's afraid to let her talk about it."