Pulling open a drawer, she grabbed the lovely Hermиs scarf that Alex had found for her on New Bond Street in London. Dolphins and whales. She wrapped it around her head and went off in search of the nearest stairwell.
She hadn’t been on the yacht long, but she already knew where to find Ambrose. She knew his habits well enough to know that right now, he was sitting out on deck under the stars, probably at the business end of a vintage cognac. It was Ambrose, after all, who’d introduced her to Alex in London. There’d been a dinner dance at the home of the American ambassador. Vicky was a guest there because the current ambassador to the Court of St. James, Patrick Brickhouse Kelly, and his wife had been great friends of her father’s.
And, besides, she had a new children’s book out called The Whirl-o-Drome that had won all sorts of English literary prizes and was all the rage in London. She’d found herself invited to countless dinner parties because of it.
Alex was the guest of honor that evening, and she’d been seated next to him. He was devastatingly good-looking, and she was sure this seating had been carefully arranged. When the beautiful man proceeded to ignore her all through the first course, she’d turned once more to the charming older man on her left, Ambrose Congreve, and asked if he knew why the rude guest on her right was ignoring her. He said he happened to be the man’s closest friend and would be happy to assist.
He scribbled something on the back of his engraved place card, and handed it to Vicky. It was folded and said “Alex Hawke” on the outside. She tapped the rude man on his shoulder and handed it to him. He read it, looked pale, and then said to Vicky, “Excuse me, I’m a dreadful bore. But I would be twice honored if you would do me the singular honor of the next dance.”
Ambrose would never tell her what he’d written on the place card. But when she’d turned and asked the gorgeous man if “twice honored” meant two dances, well, that was the beginning of everything.
In the event, the three of them spent the next two weeks in a merry whirlwind of pub crawls, parties, and weekend trips to lovely old country houses. She and Alex spent the last weekend alone at his rambling home, Hawke’s Lair, deep in the Cotswolds. They had, of course, fallen deeply in love by then. And Ambrose had become a frequent companion as well.
So she knew Ambrose’s nocturnal habits. Now, he’d most likely be up on the topmost deck in the open stern lounge. It was his favorite haunt and he’d nicknamed it the Fantail Club. He’d be smoking his pipe and having his Hine cognac, which is exactly what she wanted at the moment.
She emerged into the cool night air. The stars were so bright she wished she’d brought sunglasses. Seated at the rounded banquette in the curvature of the stern were two familiar silhouettes. Their heads were bowed together, deep in conversation, and neither saw or heard her barefoot approach.
She bent and kissed the nearly bare pate.
“Ah, the very lovely Doctor Victoria Sweet!” Ambrose said, standing up. “Up for a midnight stroll round the decks, no doubt? The sharp sea air? Smashing idea!”
“I couldn’t sleep a wink,” Vicky said. “Hello, Ambrose. Hello, Stoke.”
“Evenin’, Doc,” Stoke said. “Sit down, girl. We’ve got us a fine night goin’ up here. Hell, you sit up here long enough, you bound to see meteors, comets, sputniks, and at least three or four shooting stars. Leastways Ambrose sees ’em, but then he’s on his fourth star and his fifth brandy.”
“I don’t want to sit,” Vicky said. “I feel lucky to be alive. I want to have some fun. Go somewhere and dance by the light of the moon. Isn’t there someplace where a girl could get you two to dance and buy me a seriously good rum drink?”
“Staniel Cay Yacht Club fits that description,” Ambrose said. “Amen Lillywhite, the barman there, serves a notable concoction called the Suffering Bastard, which I’ve found to be extremely serious.”
“Let’s go, then!” Vicky said. “How do we get there?”
“Ain’t far. See all them Christmas lights hanging in the trees on that island over there? Only a couple of miles. We could swim it,” Stokely said. “But Mr. Congreve, he old-fashioned. He likes to take the launch.”
“Can we go, Ambrose? Will you and Stoke escort me?”
“Of course, my dear, we would be delighted. Stokely, would you please ring down to Brian at the launch deck and arrange a transfer?”
“It’s all happening as we speak,” Stoke said.
“Should we see if Alex would like to join us?” Ambrose said.
“Yes, of course,” Vicky said. “Might cheer him up. He’s having an awful night.”
“Ah. A bad night,” Ambrose said, looking at her. “Bad dreams, no doubt.” Vicky nodded.
“That old joint going to be jumping long about now,” Stoke said. “There’s a junkanoo on tonight. You listen very carefully, you can almost hear the music floating over the water.”
“Junkanoo? What’s that?” Vicky asked.
“Junkanoo’s where a cat can get so rum-brained his eyes and his brains stop communicating to each other and the cat don’t know half how ugly the person he dancing with is,” Stoke said, getting up and going over to the intercom phone. “That’s junkanoo,” he said over his shoulder. “Might cheer us all up. I’ll go arrange the launch.”
“Sounds pretty good to me, Stoke,” Vicky called after him.
33
“Tell me about Alex’s bad night,” Congreve said quietly, once he and Vicky were alone. Stokely had gone below to arrange the launch and they were still sitting under the stars.
And she did.
“You say ‘panic attacks,’ ” Ambrose asked, concern furrowing his brow. “How many?”
“I’d say this is his second or third,” Vicky said. “He passed out tonight. Not good. I’m hoping they are panic attacks, Ambrose. We could be looking at something serious.”
“How serious?”
“If I had to hazard a guess, epilepsy. Possibly meningitis. Worst-case scenario, a cranial tumor. I want him to get a complete blood workup tomorrow.”
“He seems in perfect health.”
“Seems being the operative word given his symptoms.”
“Stick with panic attacks a moment,” Congreve said. “Alex was in these islands once before. When he was a very small boy. A terrible thing happened. His parents were murdered in cold blood.”
“Good God. He’s always been so circular and oblique about his childhood. I just assumed he’d been adopted and didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t ever push it.”
Ambrose looked at her closely and made a decision. Discretion here was pointless. She was a doctor. And Alex was in love with her.
“It’s worse, Victoria. Alex was an eyewitness to the murders. He has buried this horror successfully for most of his life. I think returning here, to the exact place where it happened, is bringing the submerged images floating to the surface.”
“How horrible.”
“Unimaginable.”
“All I want to do is help him, Ambrose,” Vicky said.
“That’s all any of us want to do, dear girl. You can perhaps bring some of your professional gifts to bear. I know that some of your work involves children with problems. I am certainly trying to utilize my own experience.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, my dear, that I’ve been trying to solve these blasted murders for nearly three decades. On my own, of course. The case was consigned to the Yard’s dead file long ago. Sometime in the early eighties.”
“Does Alex know what you’re doing?”
“On some level, perhaps. We’ve never discussed it.”
“Do you think it’s wise? Proceeding without his knowledge, I mean?”