Sidney Sheldon’s The Tides of Memory

Half an hour later, so was Roxie. They’d searched the entire house, twice, and all the likely places in the grounds. No doubt about it, the dog was gone.

“Might Mummy have let him out by mistake when she left for London this morning?” Roxie asked. “Should we call and check?”

“Done it already. She said she didn’t check his basket but she doesn’t remember seeing him, and he definitely didn’t get out.”

“Your lordship.”

Alfred Jennings hovered in the kitchen doorway. Teddy De Vere had given up his title decades ago, when Alexia first stood for Parliament, but Alfred was congenitally incapable of addressing a De Vere in any other way.

“Have you found him?” Teddy’s round face lit up with hope.

The old gatekeeper stared at his shoes. “Yes, your lordship. I’m afraid we have.”

ALEXIA DE VERE PEELED BACK THE Frette sheets on her London bed and slipped inside. It had been a long day—since her appointment as home secretary, all the days were long—and the soft touch of Egyptian cotton against her bare legs felt wonderful. Alexia usually wore silk Turnbull & Asser pajamas to bed, but London was enjoying a three-day heat wave, and the one luxury that the De Veres’ Cheyne Walk house lacked was air-conditioning.

“I’m buggered if I’m paying for that nonsense when we’re away all summer,” Teddy insisted. “If it’s hot, we can open the bloody window.”

He can be so English sometimes, Alexia thought affectionately.

Teddy had called her earlier from Kingsmere. Sir Edward Manning had passed on three messages, but Alexia literally hadn’t had a single free moment to return his calls. The phone rang just as she was reaching for it.

“Darling. I’m so sorry. You wouldn’t believe how hectic things have been here, I’ve had two select committees, my first full cabinet meeting, I’ve—”

“Alexia. Something’s happened.”

Teddy’s tone stopped her instantly. Horrors flashed through her mind. An accident. Michael. Roxie.

“Somebody’s poisoned the dog.”

For an instant Alexia felt relief. It’s only Danny. Not the children. Then the full import of what Teddy was saying hit her.

“Poisoned him? Deliberately?”

“I’m not sure. But none of the gardeners are admitting to putting rat poison down and the vet says his stomach was full of it.”

“Was full of it? Is he dead?”

“Yes, he’s dead! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. All damn day.”

Alexia could hear Teddy’s voice quavering. He loved that dog. Suddenly she felt afraid. The mystery caller. Danny being found dead. There was probably no connection. But what if there was? What sort of psychopath would kill a sweet little dog?

After a few minutes comforting her husband, Alexia De Vere hung up. As soon as she did so, the phone rang again. She snatched it up, silently praying that it wasn’t her mother-in-law, who often called late at night. The Dowager Lady De Vere was ninety-six and profoundly deaf, a disability that had in no way reduced her enthusiasm for the telephone as a means of communication. She particularly enjoyed shouting recipes down the line at her daughter-in-law, conveniently ignoring the fact that Alexia had never cooked so much as a piece of toast in her six decades on this earth, and was probably even less likely to do so now that she had the small matter of a country to run. A typical call would begin, “Teddy’s very keen on eels in aspic. Have you got a pen and paper handy?”

But it wasn’t Teddy’s mother. The faint click on the line told Alexia immediately it was a long-distance call, but there was no voice on the other end.

“Hello?” Sometimes there was a delay on the line, especially with calls from the U.S. “Lucy, is that you?”

Lucy Meyer, Alexia’s summer neighbor from Martha’s Vineyard, was the only other person she could think of who might call her at home at this hour. With the holidays approaching, Lucy had been in closer touch, a welcome reminder of the peaceful life that existed outside of politics. If only Lucy lived in England, how much easier my life would be.

“If it’s you, Luce, I can’t hear you. Try again.”

But it wasn’t Lucy Meyer. It was a low, synthesized growl. “The day is coming. The day when the Lord’s anger will be poured out.”

The voice distorter was designed to frighten. It worked.

Alexia tightened her grip on the handset.

“Who is this?”

“Because you have sinned against the Lord, I will make you as helpless as a blind man searching for a path.”

“I said who is this?”

“Your blood will be poured out into the dust and your body will lie rotting on the ground. Murdering bitch.”

The line went dead. Alexia put the phone down, gasping for breath.

She closed her eyes and the view from her office window popped into her mind: the silver Thames and its deadly currents snaking their way around her, cutting her off like Rapunzel in her tower.

Somebody out there hates me.

The waters were rising.

CHAPTER TWELVE (#ulink_4dfde9a4-71a5-528d-9e9d-ac2f45800038)

ALEXIA DE VERE TAPPED HER DESK impatiently with a Montblanc silver fountain pen. Commissioner Grant, the senior Metropolitan Police Officer in charge of her personal security, was late for their three o’clock meeting. If there was one thing Alexia disliked, it was lateness.

Her first boss in politics, an odious Liberal MP named Clive Leinster, had been a stickler for punctuality and it was a lesson that had remained with Alexia throughout her career. God, Clive was an asshole, though! Working as his personal assistant had changed Alexia’s life, but he himself had been a horror. In his midforties, married, and an appalling letch, even by Westminster standards, Clive Leinster was short and wispily bald, with knock knees, bad breath, and a receding chin to match his hairline. It was a miracle to Alexia Parker (as she was then) that Clive Leinster had found one woman prepared to sleep with him, never mind several.

“Power’th an incredible aphrodithiac, Alexia,” Clive would breathe huskily over her desk after one of his long, boozy lunches. After a month it was painfully clear that the type of personal assistance Clive Leinster was looking for was not the sort that Alexia was prepared to offer. “You’ll never get ahead in Wethtminthster if you’re not prepared to play the game, you know,” Clive sneered as Alexia packed up her desk.

“At least I can say ‘Westminster,’ ” Alexia shot back. “And I’ve every intention of playing the game. Just not with you.”

Marching out of Leinster’s office with her head held high, Alexia was convinced she’d get another job in a heartbeat. In fact, she spent the next six months back behind a bar at the Coach and Horses on Half Moon Street.

“No MP will touch me,” she complained to one of her regulars, a shy young financier named Edward De Vere. “It’s like I’ve got the plague or something. That fucker Leinster must have poisoned the well.”

“I can ask a few questions at the Carlton Club, if you like. See if there are any rumors knocking around.”

“You’re a member of the Carlton?” It was the first time Alexia had realized that Edward De Vere must be well connected. Politically well connected, that is. The Carlton Club was an exclusive—the exclusive—Tory Party members club in St. James’s. Like all would-be Conservative politicians, Alexia would have sold her soul to have access there, but there were no women allowed. Even if there had been, unknown barmaids with no family or connections to recommend them were probably not at the top of the Carlton membership committee’s wish list.

Two nights later, Edward De Vere was back in the bar.

“So, did you hear anything?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

“Well?” Alexia leaned forward across the bar, accidentally affording her customer an excellent view of her breasts. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”