Skylark by Sheila Simonson

district of
Knightsbridge and the arrogant gray bulk of Harrods department store.
    When the cabbie wheeled grandly around and pulled in behind a Jaguar, I already had
the fare and a suitable tip in my hand. We climbed out, and I thrust the money through his open
window. It's possible he touched his cap, but we didn't dally to thank him.
    I made a path through a coach load of tourists--German or Scandinavian, I thought--who
were milling about the main doors. Inside, Ann and I split up. I squirmed and elbowed my way
through clumps of chic English shoppers and bewildered foreigners toward the back of the store.
Ann headed west for the escalator.
    When I passed the mouthwatering array of goodies in the food section, I hung a left.
Then I veered round into men's shirts and slipped out the east doors into the horde pouring from
the adjacent Tube station. I didn't spot anyone following me.
    For once the crossing light was with me. I surged across the street and cut back to the
American Express office. The queue inside gave me fifteen sweaty minutes. I scrunched down
and tried to look shorter, but the line moved with reasonable speed. There were three tellers on
duty. I had cashed the last of my travelers' checks, zipped back to the Tube station, and thrown
myself on a Piccadilly Line train within half an hour. I didn't pause long enough to work into a
good phobia.
    I spent the morning the way untold thousands of London housewives did--grocery
shopping. Ann's purchases the day before had been limited, because we thought we were leaving
for Wales. Also we had not anticipated Jay's presence. I laid in enough for a siege.
    I bought a pasty at one of the delis near the Lycée and ate it as I walked along,
London-style. At about half past two I retrieved my raincoat from the dry cleaners. It would be
some time before Ann returned. She had intended to undo our Welsh travel arrangements and
visit Milos at the hospital. I thought about walking to Waterstone's Bookstore on the Old
Brompton Road, but I was laden with loot, and my arms ached. Reluctantly, I headed back to the
flat.
    The reporters had dispersed. Perhaps they had pursued us and been bamboozled. More
likely they had grown bored waiting. The constable's eyes widened when he saw me, and he
reached for his radio, but I had the key routine down pat. I managed to slip into the flat with a
minimum of delay. I was stowing the last of my booty in the kitchen cupboard when the gate
buzzer sounded.
    Inspector Thorne was not pleased with me for disappearing. I played innocent and
offered to show him the groceries, but he and Sgt. Wilberforce, who was back on duty, hauled
me off to the Chelsea Police Station anyway.
    I suppose all police interrogations have common elements. Thorne remained massively
courteous, but he and the sergeant took me through my statement so many times I lost count.
They did a Mutt and Jeff on me, though it was hard to tell which of them was supposed to be the
nice guy and which the intimidator. Behind their masks, Thorne seemed angry, Wilberforce cool.
Neither was amused.
    Around four thirty they took a tea break. A uniformed woman brought mugs of horrible
sweet tea with milk. The infusion was strong enough to dissolve teaspoons, but sugar and milk
disguised the tannin. I drank four swallows of the awful stuff and came wide awake.
    "Now, Mrs. Dodge, let's go over your decision to attend the theatre one more time."
    "Promise?"
    Thorne blinked. "Eh?"
    "Do you promise this is the last time?"
    He sighed. "No promises." Wilberforce looked bored.
    I summoned patience. "There was no decision involved. Ann wanted to see Cats before she left London, but the tickets cost too much, so she found cheap seats for Hamlet instead. That they were for Friday night was purely fortuitous." I had already
paraphrased the same information umpteen times.
    He nodded. "Now, in the afternoon, you returned alone around three. Did you ring the
bell for Miss Beale?"
    "I went straight down to our