In Their Footsteps / Stolen: In Their Footsteps / Stolen. Tess Gerritsen
lives? She couldn’t imagine James Bond, retired, pottering about in his garden.
Yet that’s what Uncle Hugh seemed to do all day. The highlight of his week had been harvesting the season’s first hybrid Nepal tomato—his earliest tomato ever! And as for her uncle’s friends, well, she couldn’t imagine them ever sneaking around the back alleys of Paris or Berlin. Philippe St. Pierre, perhaps—yes, she could picture him in his younger days; at sixty-two, he was still charming, a Gallic lady-killer. And Reggie Vane might have cut a dashing figure years ago. But most of Uncle Hugh’s old colleagues seemed so, well…used up.
Not me. Never me.
She galloped harder, letting Froggie have free rein.
They raced across the last stretch of field and through a copse of trees. Froggie, winded now, slowed to a trot, then a walk. Beryl pulled her to a halt by the church’s stone wall. There she dismounted and let Froggie wander about untethered. The churchyard was deserted and the gravestones cast lengthening shadows across the lawn. Beryl clambered over the low wall and walked among the plots until she came to the spot she’d visited so many times before. A handsome obelisk towered over two graves, resting side by side. There were no curlicues, no fancy angels carved into that marble face. Only words.
Bernard Tavistock, 1930-1973
Madeline Tavistock, 1934-1973
On earth, as it is in heaven, we are together.
Beryl knelt on the grass and gazed for a long time at the resting place of her mother and father. Twenty years ago tomorrow, she thought. How I wish I could remember you more clearly! Your faces, your smiles. What she did remember were odd things, unimportant things. The smell of leather luggage, of Mum’s perfume and Dad’s pipe. The crackle of paper as she and Jordan would unwrap the gifts Mum and Dad brought home to them. Dolls from France. Music boxes from Italy. And there was laughter. Always lots of laughter…
Beryl sat with her eyes closed and heard that happy sound through the passage of twenty years. Through the evening buzz of insects, the clink of Froggie’s bit and bridle, she heard the sounds of her childhood.
The church bell tolled—six chimes.
At once Beryl sat up straight. Oh, no, was it already that late? She glanced around and saw that the shadows had grown, that Froggie was standing by the wall regarding her with frank expectation. Oh Lord, she thought, Uncle Hugh will be royally cross with me.
She dashed out of the churchyard and climbed onto Froggie’s back. At once they were flying across the field, horse and rider blended into a single sleek organism. Time for the shortcut, thought Beryl, guiding Froggie toward the trees. It meant a leap over the stone wall, and then a clip along the road, but it would cut a mile off their route. Froggie seemed to understand that time was of the essence. She picked up speed and approached the stone wall with all the eagerness of a seasoned steeplechaser. She took the jump cleanly, with inches to spare. Beryl felt the wind rush past, felt her mount soar, then touch down on the far side of the wall. The biggest hurdle was behind them. Now, just beyond that bend in the road—
She saw a flash of red, heard the squeal of tires across pavement. Froggie swerved sideways and reared up. The sudden lurch caught Beryl by surprise. She tumbled out of the saddle and landed with a stunning thud on the ground.
Her first reaction, after her head had stopped spinning, was astonishment that she had fallen at all—and for such a stupid reason.
Her next reaction was fear that Froggie might be injured.
Beryl scrambled to her feet and ran to snatch the reins. Froggie was still spooked, nervously trip-trapping about on the pavement. The sound of a car door slamming shut, of someone running toward them, only made the horse edgier.
“Don’t come any closer!” hissed Beryl over her shoulder.
“Are you all right?” came the anxious inquiry. It was a man’s voice, pleasantly baritone. American?
“I’m fine,” snapped Beryl.
“What about your horse?”
Murmuring softly to Froggie, Beryl knelt down and ran her hands along Froggie’s foreleg. The delicate bones all seemed to be intact.
“Is he all right?” said the man.
“It’s a she,” answered Beryl. “And yes, she seems to be just fine.”
“I really can tell the difference,” came the dry response. “When I have a view of the essential parts.”
Suppressing a smile, Beryl straightened and turned to look at the man. Dark hair, dark eyes, she noted. And the definite glint of humor—nothing stiff-upper-lip about this one. Forty plus years of laughter had left attractive creases about his eyes. He was dressed in formal black tie, and his broad shoulders filled out the tuxedo jacket quite impressively.
“I’m sorry about the spill,” he said. “I guess it was my fault.”
“This is a country road, you know. Not exactly the place to be speeding. You never can tell what lies around the bend.”
“So I’ve discovered.”
Froggie gave her an impatient nudge. Beryl stroked the horse’s neck, all the time intensely aware of the man’s gaze.
“I do have something of an excuse,” he said. “I got turned around in the village back there, and I’m running late. I’m trying to find some place called Chetwynd. Do you know it?”
She cocked her head in surprise. “You’re going to Chetwynd? Then you’re on the wrong road.”
“Am I?”
“You turned off a half mile too soon. Head back to the main road and keep going. You can’t miss the turn. It’s a private drive, flanked by elms—quite tall ones.”
“I’ll watch for the elms, then.”
She remounted Froggie and gazed down at the man. Even viewed from the saddle, he cut an impressive figure, lean and elegant in his tuxedo. And strikingly confident, not a man to be intimidated by anyone—even a woman sitting astride nine hundred muscular pounds of horseflesh.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he asked. “It looked like a pretty bad fall to me.”
“Oh, I’ve fallen before.” She smiled. “I have quite a hard head.”
The man smiled, too, his teeth straight and white in the twilight. “Then I shouldn’t worry about you slipping into a stupor tonight?”
“You’re the one who’ll be slipping into a stupor tonight.”
He frowned. “Excuse me?”
“A stupor brought on by dry and endless palaver. It’s a distinct possibility, considering where you’re headed.” Laughing, she turned the horse around. “Good evening,” she called. Then, with a farewell wave, she urged Froggie into a trot through the woods.
As she left the road behind, it occurred to her that she would get to Chetwynd before he did. That made her laugh again. Perhaps Bastille Day would turn out more interesting than she’d expected. She gave the horse a nudge of her boot. At once Froggie broke into a gallop.
RICHARD WOLF stood beside his rented M.G. and watched the woman ride away, her black hair tumbling like a horse’s mane about her shoulders. In seconds she was gone, vanished from sight into the woods. He never even caught her name, he thought. He’d have to ask Lord Lovat about her. Tell me, Hugh. Are you acquainted with a black-haired witch tearing about your neighborhood? She was dressed like one of the village girls, in a frayed shirt and grass-stained jodhpurs, but her accent bespoke the finest of schools. A charming contradiction.
He climbed back into the car. It was almost sixthirty