“Don’t,” he said, and Nora froze.
The elderly woman hurried over, one gloved hand on her tweed-covered heart, the other holding a dangling leash.
“Buster!” she cried.
Another whine from the fog. Then Buster came trotting into view, materializing from the swirling mass like the Hound of the Baskervilles, and Nora realized that he was indeed a hound of some kind. He was limping slightly, and he had something in his teeth. They all rushed over to him. His mistress reached him first, sinking to her knees on the pavement, and everyone else crowded around. Nora noticed that the pretty teenage girl had finally joined them as well, her hand clutching the hand of her hot-tempered boyfriend.
“Oh, Buster, are you all right?” the old lady whispered, reaching out with her gloved hands to inspect him for damage. A sharp bark from Buster, then he began to lick her face. She felt his right foreleg, and he yelped in obvious pain. “He kicked you!” she cried indignantly. She leaped to her feet, faced the wall of fog in the general direction the man had taken, drew herself up to her full four-foot-ten-inch height, and shouted at the top of her voice. “You’d better keep running, you son of a bitch! Arsehole!”
They all stared at her, even the dog. There was a moment of shocked silence. Then everyone but Nora started to laugh. The men began it, joined by the girlfriend and the nanny. Even the little girls were giggling. Miss Marple turned around to face her audience, blushing. Then she too burst into ladylike chuckles. She knelt down beside Buster and took him in her tiny arms, crushing him in a hug. She removed the object from his mouth and held it up in triumph for all to see: a strip of dark material, part of the fleeing man’s trouser leg. They all laughed harder, and some of them began to clap their hands, a round of applause for the fearless Buster.
Nora blinked around at the crowd. The big man beside her held up her shoulder bag, and she took it from him, staring blankly at his handsome, laughing face. Then she smiled, and the smile became a grin. The first titter of laughter escaped her lips, and she gave herself over to it. She sagged against the nanny and the two girls, laughing with the rest of this motley group of strangers in this cold, foggy park. Buster shook himself, barked, and began furiously wagging his tail, which set everyone off again.
Just as they were all about to collect themselves and go their various ways, a uniformed park security guard appeared from the mist. He was an older man, barrel chested, red faced, with a thick mustache and muttonchop whiskers. Arthur Treacher in the flesh, the perfect Central Casting bobby.
“Eh, wot’s all this, then?” he wanted to know.
Nora took one look at him and screamed with laughter, but the fresh explosion of mirth around her drowned it out. The guard stared at them all, his mustache twitching, utterly at a loss. Nora hitched her bag over her aching left shoulder as the jogger stepped forward and took charge.
“It’s okay, sir,” he said. “It’s all over now. A little excitement, that’s all. Some deadbeat tried to steal this lady’s purse, but we sent him on his way.” He jerked a thumb to include the beaming Gary in the rescue.
The guard turned to Nora. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“Yes,” she said, “I’m fine. Thank you-all of you. I just want to go back to my hotel.”
“I’ll come with you,” the jogger said.
Nora was about to protest, but the look on the young man’s face stopped her. He was escorting her home, and that was that. The teen girl was tugging on Gary’s arm, and the nanny had taken the twins firmly by the hand. Miss Marple was putting Buster’s leash back on his collar.
“Please see these people safely out of here,” the jogger said to the guard. It was more a command than a request. The guard nodded and led the little group away down the sidewalk, not even questioning the young man’s authority. In moments, they were lost in the fog.
Nora stood beside the fountain with the young man, forming words to thank him for his help. He was watching the others go. As soon as they were out of earshot, he turned to her, pointing at her shoulder bag.
“Have you got a handkerchief in there?” he said quietly. “Or maybe some plasters?”
It took her a moment to translate from British to American English. Plasters: Band-Aids. She blinked and looked down. He was gingerly rolling up the right sleeve of his sweatshirt, and now she saw a dark spot next to a slit in the material. A thin red line ran up his forearm, six inches long, beaded with drops of blood.
“Oh God, you’re hurt!” she cried.
“Just a scratch,” he mumbled. “But I could use a sop.”
Nora pulled a travel pack of tissues from her bag, then felt around in the bottom of it and came up with two Band-Aids and an atomizer. She took his arm in one hand, dabbed the blood away from the scratch, and sprayed it. He winced.
“Ow! What the hell is that?”
“Chanel Number Five. Hold still.” She placed a wad of tissues against the cut and taped it in place with the bandages. “There, that’s the best I can do till we get to the hotel.”
He sniffed the dressing. “I smell like a tart.”
Nora laughed. “Well, a high-end tart, anyway. Here.” She found a tiny bottle and handed him two Advil gelcaps. He popped them into his mouth and swallowed.
“Cheers,” he said. “Come on, let’s get out of this soup. Um, where are you staying?”
“The Byron, in-”
“I know where it is.” He retrieved her soaked beret from the ground and handed it to her, and they began to walk toward the park’s southwest entrance. “Are you traveling with people? I mean, is there someone at the hotel…”
Nora stopped walking, and everything came back to her. She looked down at her left hand, at her wedding ring. “No, there’s no one. I just arrived from America this afternoon. My husband died here two nights ago, a car accident, and I’ve come to-to take him home. My name is Nora Baron.”
“I’m sorry,” the young man said. They were silent for a moment. Then he said, “I’m Craig Elder. Well, me da’s Craig Elder, so I guess I’m Craig Elder the younger.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “Irish?”
“Through and through,” he replied, and he smiled too.
“We’re from Donegal, originally,” she said, “but I’m a New Yorker. Pleased to meet you, Craig Elder.”
“Likewise, Mrs. Baron.”
“Nora,” she said, and they walked out of the misty garden together.
Chapter 6
“Who was that character?” Craig Elder asked her.
Nora looked over at him. They were at the corner of Gower Street, turning in the direction of the hotel, and this was the first time he’d spoken since they’d left the park. She thought of her acting training, arranging her features in what she hoped was blank surprise.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“Oh, come on.” He stopped walking, pressing his left hand against his damaged right sleeve, checking that the makeshift bandage was still in place under it. “I saw your face when you looked at him, and later, when he took off. You recognized him.”
Yes, I did, she thought, but she merely shrugged and said, “I thought I recognized him for a moment, but I was wrong. I never saw him before. I have no idea who he is.” At least that last sentence was true. She wasn’t going to go into it all here, now, with this stranger.
“Okay,” he said, and they began walking again, “but be careful with that purse.”
She smiled. “I will. What do you do, Mr. Elder? I mean, when you’re not saving ladies in distress.”
“Student,” he said. “In, um, Dublin. I’m here on summer hols, um, bunking with a mate who lives just off Russell Square. I run in that park every day, to stay in shape.”