The fire crackled and snapped as I curled my legs beneath me in the armchair. I glanced at the diamond-paned window over the old oak desk, half expecting to see the king of the bottomless pit leering at me through the fluttering ivy, and opened the blue journal.
“Dimity?” I said, and felt a knot of tension ease when the familiar lines of royal-blue ink curled and looped reassuringly across the blank page.
Good evening, my dear. How was your day?
“Well . . .” I pursed my lips judiciously. “If you leave out the part where Bill, the boys, and I are being chased from our home by a homicidal maniac who wants to erase our names from the book of life forever”—I took a breath—“it wasn’t too bad.”
Excuse me?
“It’s true, Dimity,” I said. “Incredible, but true. Some looney’s been e-mailing death threats to Bill for the past few weeks. This morning he expanded the threat to include me and the boys, so Bill’s sending us into hiding while he stays in London to work with Chief Superintendent Wesley Yarborough of Scotland Yard.”
Good grief.Who on earth would wish to murder Bill?
“A former client, we think,” I said. “He calls himself Abaddon.”
Ah. The angel of the bottomless pit. The Book of Revelations, alas, provides a wealth of unsavory imagery for the unhinged imagination, and I think we can safely assume that Abaddon is unhinged. Dissatisfied clients don’t, as a rule, express their displeasure by threatening to kill one and one’s family.
“It’s a first for Bill,” I acknowledged. “When his clients get mad, they get mad at each other, not at him. They may blame Uncle Hans for leaving ten thousand marks to a shelter for homeless dachshunds, but they don’t blame Bill for drawing up Uncle Hans’s will.”
Abaddon’s evidently blaming Bill for something. It may be a case of shooting the messenger, if you’ll pardon the unfortunate turn of phrase.What does Bill intend to do in London?
“He’s going to help a team of detectives from Scotland Yard,” I said. “They plan to go through his work files, to see if they can identify a likely suspect. Bill’s not too keen on the idea—the files are highly confidential—but he can’t think of a better place to start. He still can’t believe that someone he knows—or knew—wants him dead.”
Poor man. I do sympathize.When my life was threatened, I found it extremely difficult to—
“When was your life threatened?” I interrupted, startled.
I believe I told you once of a series of poison-pen letters I received when I was working in London?
“Yes,” I said. “You told me about them while we were staying at Hailesham House, when Simon Elstyn started getting those creepy anonymous notes. You said that a woman who worked for you, an assistant you trusted, was responsible. But you never mentioned death threats.”
I didn’t want you to worry retroactively. After all, it happened a very long time ago. Nevertheless, I can remember without effort the overriding sense of disbelief I experienced when I realized that someone, some faceless monster, wished to end my life. Even after the culprit had been apprehended, the situation continued to seem . . . surreal.
“I know what you mean,” I said. “It’s the kind of thing that happens to other people. If I didn’t have a pile of suitcases in the front hall to anchor me, I’d still doubt that it was happening to us. I’m not used to being hated. Okay,” I admitted, after a moment’s consideration, “Sally Pyne was annoyed with me when I said that her flower arrangement in the baptismal font at St. George’s looked top-heavy, but she didn’t hate me.”
Nor could anyone who knows you.Would it help you to think of Abaddon’s hatred as abstract rather than personal?
“Nope,” I said. “I feel as if I have a bull’s-eye on my forehead, Dimity. It doesn’t get much more personal than that.”
No, I’m afraid it doesn’t.When do you leave?
“Tomorrow morning,” I replied.
Will you be safe here tonight?
“Presumably,” I said, and told her about Ivan Anton and his crew of security specialists. “And before you ask,” I continued, “I don’t know where we’re going. Bill won’t tell me, because he’s afraid I’ll slip up and tell someone else and then—Finch being the gossip capital of the world—our secret location won’t be a secret anymore.”
Your openness is one of your most endearing qualities, Lori, but it’s a bit of a liability when it comes to the keeping of secrets. I must say that you’re responding to the situation with remarkable tranquillity.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” I said. “I should be tearing my hair out right about now, but I don’t have the energy. There’s been too much to do. On top of the packing, I’ve had to make at least a thousand phone calls to cancel this and reschedule that. I’ll tell you, Dimity, you never realize how complicated your life is until you’re forced to rearrange it.”
Very true.
“I’ve penciled in a fit of hysteria for tomorrow evening, though,” I added. “I think I’ll owe it to myself by then, don’t you?”