by Dean James
As one would have expected, Lady Prunella wore a look of extreme affront, but wisely, for once, she kept quiet. She did sniff rather loudly, however.
Thus we sat in uneasy silence for another ten minutes or so, until Thompson ushered into the dining room the handsome detective inspector. Robin Chase took one look at the assembled company, then his eyes came to rest on Yours Truly. I would have been willing to swear I saw him mouth the words “I might have known.”
He introduced himself and his subordinate, Detective Sergeant Harper. “I regret I must ask you all to remain here a while longer. After I have had a chance to inspect the scene, I shall want to speak with each of you in turn.”
“You are welcome to use the library, Detective Inspector,” Giles offered, his voice cool. There was little love lost between the two, because Giles was well aware how attractive I found our ace homicide detective.
“Thank you, Sir Giles,” Robin said. “Your assistance is greatly appreciated.” With that he turned and left the room, Harper close upon his heels. Plodd remained at his post.
Again the uneasy silence fell. Mrs. Rhys-Morgan had finally stopped her crying. I took my time and examined each of Harwood’s little retinue in turn. I tried to get a reading on the emotional state of each, but there was such turmoil in the room, all the vibes were difficult to separate. Someone in the room was, however, quite pleased with him—or herself, that much I could discern. But overlaying that pleasure in a task accomplished was the fear of discovery.
Which one of them? I wondered. Mrs. Rhys-Morgan continued to be the only one of the four who appeared to be grieving, but she might well be a good actress, putting on a show for the benefit of us all. Had she really loved Harwood? She wouldn’t be the first woman to have fallen hopelessly for a gay man. Perhaps she had finally snapped, thinking that if she couldn’t have him, no one would. Lady Prunella would make a convenient scapegoat
Weatherstone also had his reasons for hating Harwood. He had been, no doubt a significant part of Harwood’s success here in England, but he wasn’t going along for the ride in the States. He could have decided to take the ultimate revenge for being left behind.
Piers Limpley seemed devoted to Harwood and his interests. But Harwood had hardly treated him with respect. Maybe the worm had turned.
Dittany Harwood also had evinced little love for her brother, judging by the nasty scene I had witnessed earlier in the day. She had hinted at family secrets that would embarrass Harwood. If she could have riled him that way, would she have chosen to murder him instead?
Or had someone from outside Blitherington Hall sneaked in through the French windows and killed Harwood? It could have been the person who dumped green paint all over him at the event at the bookshop.
Such speculation was useless at the moment. Until I knew more about how the murderer got in and out of the room, I couldn’t do much about narrowing down the list of suspects. Giles and Lady Prunella I dismissed automatically. Neither of them had any real reason to kill Harwood. Lady Prunella had been enraged over Harwood’s behavior, but she would never forget herself and her station so far as actually to commit murder.
Everyone had grown quite restive by the time Robin Chase returned. We all looked up expectantly as he entered the room and cleared his throat.
“I have completed a preliminary investigation, and it is quite clear that we are dealing with death under suspicious circumstances. I will now ask you to continue to wait, as I talk to each of you in turn. After I have spoken with you, I would ask that you retire to your rooms and stay out of the way of our investigation for the time being."
Everyone nodded Robin glanced at me. “Dr. Kirby-Jones, if you would be so good as to join me in the library.” He turned and walked out of the dining room.
I inclined my head at Lady Prunella, who was so sunk in gloom that she failed to notice. Giles raised one eyebrow in a sardonic gesture, and I winked at him. He turned his head away.
In the library, Robin had divested himself of his overcoat and sat down behind Giles’s desk.
I approached the desk and sat in the chair he indicated. Harper sat discreetly to one side, notebook and pen at the ready.
“You’re looking well, Detective Inspector,” I said. Robin twitched at his moustache, something he was prone to do whenever he spent any time with me.
“Thank you, Dr. Kirby-Jones.” He glanced down at something on the desk. “Might I say that I am not surprised to find you here?”
“I thought you might not be,” I said demurely. “Once again I do seem to be johnny-on-the-spot.”
“Quite,” Robin said. “I’m sure I can rely on your skills of observation once again, Simon.”
“Naturally, Robin,” I said. “Now, what can I tell you?”
“Describe for me what happened when you discovered the body.”
I launched into my report. I began with the time we spent waiting in vain for Harwood in the library, then moved on to our actual discovery of the body in the drawing room.
Robin made no comment until I had finished. “Four persons approached the body and actually laid their hands upon it? Mr. Piers Limpley, Miss Dittany Harwood, Mrs. Moira Rhys-Morgan, and Mr. Cliff Weatherstone, correct?”
“Yes,” I said. “And afterwards they were all trying to get the red paint off their hands.”
Robin had no need for me to explain the implications.
“Was the drawing room door kept locked?” Robin continued.
“Harwood was quite insistent about that,” I explained. “He didn’t want anyone except members of his crew seeing what they were doing, until all the work was finished.” I paused. “They used the French windows leading onto the terrace to go in and out of the room.”
I waited for a moment, but Robin did not respond. “Which makes me wonder, of course, whether the murderer got in and out of the room through the French windows, given that the drawing room door was kept locked.”
Robin drew a deep breath. “This is to go no further for the moment, Simon.” He paused.
“Of course not, Robin. You may trust me, as you have in the past.”
“The French windows were locked from the inside. Furthermore, we found the key to the drawing room door in the victim’s jacket pocket.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Well, well. Shades of John Dickson Carr—a locked room puzzle! I voiced the thought to Robin, who rewarded me with a blank look.
“Carr was one of the classic writers of the Golden Age detective story,” I explained. “His specialty was the locked room puzzle. You know, the kind of murder story in which the corpse is found in a locked room, where no one could get in or out, and it was seemingly impossible for the murder to have been committed.” I smiled. “Naturally, there was a way, usually a most ingenious, if not totally believable, way. Carr wrote many stories of that type.”
“I see,” Robin said, now appearing somewhat dazed from my flood of information.
“I’ve little doubt, however,” I continued, “that you’ve already figured out how this could have been done, haven’t you?”
Robin’s eyes blinked at me. “Well, um, naturally, I do have my own theory about it, Simon, but why don’t you tell me yours?”
I took care not to smile this time. “Remember I told you that four people approached the victim and attempted to revive him?”
Robin nodded. Then the light dawned. “And one of them put the key into the victim’s jacket pocket. By Jove, Simon, I think you’ve got it.”
Inclining my head graciously, I watched Robin with considerable amusement. “And what was your theory, Robin? Was it something different? Or had we hit upon the same notion? Great minds thinking alike, and all that.”
Robin cleared his throat. “I had thought rather much the same as you, Simon.”
“Good. Any hope that the forensics team will turn up fingerprints on the key?”
“It is certainly possible,” Robin said. “There is also an awful lot of red paint to work with.�
� He shook his head in disgust. “I gather our chappie is some kind of interior decorator.”
I had to smile at the slight sneer in Robin’s voice as he uttered the last two words. “Yes, he was an interior decorator, and quite a famous one at that Haven’t you heard of his television program, ‘Tres Zeke’?”
Robin’s handsome brow furrowed for a moment. “Ah, yes. I’ve heard my sister going on about him.” He grimaced. “Once she finds out I’m on this case, she’ll pester the life out of me, wanting all the details.”
“She won’t be the only one.”
“No, once the press gets wind of this,” Robin said gloomily, “they’ll be after us constantly.”
“Just think, Robin, of how famous you’ll become once you’ve solved this case.” I grinned at him. “The media will love you. A handsome, very photogenic police detective, and a murdered celebrity. You’ll be sure to get a promotion out of this.”
Detective Sergeant Harper seemed suddenly overcome by a fit of coughing. I had almost forgotten he was in the room with us. Robin cast him a severe look, and Harper’s cough cleared up right away.
“That’s as may be,” Robin said, his tone severe. “But for now, Simon, what else can you tell me about the situation here?”
I had plenty to tell him, but I tried to keep to the essentials. Even with my editing out what seemed to be extraneous details, it still took me twenty minutes to tell it all. He appeared a bit dazed when I had finished.
“Thank you, Simon,” Robin said. “That gives me quite a lot of information to be going on with.” He stood up, dismissing me. “Now I simply have to determine which of them did it, and why.”
“What about how?” I asked as I too stood.
Robin glanced at Harper, then back at me. He expelled a deep breath. “This is to go no further for the moment, Simon.” I nodded. “It was a blow with the proverbial blunt instrument, to the back of the head. Or rather, several blows, in this case.” He shook his head. “Rather dodgy, but based on what I could see, he was hit several times. We’ll have to wait for the postmortem for complete information, naturally.”
“Sounds like our chappie was a bit angry with poor old Zeke, then,” I said. “Several blows would indicate that, don’t you think?”
Robin nodded. “It’s very likely. Thus, among other things, we must find out who was angry with the victim shortly before he was killed. If this was not premeditated, that is.”
“I’ll certainly do my best,” I said, flashing Robin one of my most winning smiles.
“Now, Simon,” he said, his voice taking on a peremptory tone. “I do appreciate your information, but you must be careful about getting yourself involved in my investigation.”
I projected an air of hurt innocence. “Robin, naturally I would not think of interfering with your investigation. But I would certainly consider it my duty to share with you any tidbits of information I might happen to stumble across. I know you would expect no less of me.” Harper once again was overcome by a fit of coughing, and Robin simply stood and stared at me. I smiled and walked out the door.
Now what to do? I thought. Since I was not staying at Blitherington Hall like everyone else, I couldn’t be expected to go up to my room until the police had finished questioning everyone. And I certainly didn’t want to go home to Laurel Cottage just now.
As I stood there in the hallway, hovering indecisively, Detective Sergeant Harper came out of the library. He stopped and stared at me. “Was there something you needed, Dr. Kirby-Jones?”
I started. I so rarely had heard Harper say anything, I was not accustomed to his voice. I had forgotten how deep and rumbling it was, rather odd for such a slight man.
“Oh, nothing, Sergeant Harper,” I said. “I was just wondering whether I should take my leave of my host and hostess and run off home to Laurel Cottage.”
Harper frowned. “Detective Inspector Chase would prefer it if you didn’t talk with anyone else involved in the case just yet.”
“Of course,” I said. I would have to yield as gracefully as possible and go home, despite my raging curiosity. “Then I shall bid you good evening, Sergeant Harper.”
“Good evening, sir,” he said, following me down the hallway.
As I passed the drawing room, I could hear sounds from inside, as the scene-of-the-crime team continued with its work of gathering evidence. I paused at the front door to look back, and saw that Harper had gone to the dining room to summon the next person for questioning. I lingered a moment to see Giles emerge from the dining room, preceded by Harper.
Giles saw me and made a quick gesture with his right hand, holding it up like a telephone receiver to his ear. I took that to mean that he would call me as soon as he had the opportunity. I nodded to show that I had understood, then let myself out the front door.
Blinking and allowing my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, I examined the scene. There were several additional cars and one van parked in the forecourt of Blitherington Hall, all belonging to the various members of the police and the investigative team. I strode across to where my Jag was parked, then stopped and frowned.
I couldn’t go anywhere at the moment, not unless I could lift the Jag from where it was, wedged in between two other cars, and set it down in a clear area.
This was a fine little situation. I couldn’t go home, and I couldn’t hang around inside, hoping to nose out more information. I could always go in and explain the situation to Robin, and surely he would have someone come and help me get my car out.
How annoying. I stood there a moment longer, wavering, then made up my mind that I would simply have to risk Robin’s irritation and ask him to have the cars moved.
A sudden, small movement in the shadows along the side of the house caught my eye. I stood very still. The forecourt of Blitherington Hall was not very well lit, and only someone with keen eyesight like mine would have detected anything among the shadows.
There it was again, a subtle movement. Whatever it was, it was too big to be a dog or a cat. I focused for a moment to get some kind of emotional reading, and I could detect excitement and fear in equal measure. The shadow belonged to a human being, and one who was definitely somewhere he or she should not be. A member of the police investigative team would not be lurking about in the shadows in the first place, nor would he or she be reeking of such strong emotion.
Had whoever it was seen me? I thought perhaps not. The police van was one of the vehicles blocking my Jag, and I was standing in the shadow of the van, away from the side of the house where someone hid in the bushes. I had a good view of the side of the house, but I didn’t think whoever it was could see me.
I waited, my senses alert, to see what would happen next. Should I try to apprehend this person and turn him over to the police? What on earth could this person be doing, hiding in the bushes like this? Could this be the murderer, still hanging around the scene of the crime?
If that were the case, it meant that someone from outside Blitherington Hall had killed Zeke Harwood.
As I waited, the shadow got bolder. I could hear the bushes rustling now, because the night around us was still. I risked craning my neck around the edge of the van, and I caught a flash of light-colored material in the bushes. The shadow was making slow but careful progress toward the French windows, now only about three feet away.
I waited until the lurker had nearly reached the French windows before I began my own stealthy movements in the same direction. The lurker was so intent on his own goal that he did not hear my approach.
The nearer I came to the lurker, the closer he came to the French windows. By the time I was less than six feet away from him, he—or rather, she, as I could now see—was peering cautiously around the edge of the door, spying on the scene-of-the-crime team at work.
I cleared my throat, and the lurker started violently. “Good evening, Mrs. Cholmondley-Pease. Lovely night for a stroll, wouldn’t you say?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jessamy Cho
lmondley-Pease shrieked but quickly stifled the sound as she stepped backward into some kind of bush.
“Dearie me, Mr. Kirby-Jones, you didn’t half frighten me.” She stepped out of the bush and attempted to act as if there were nothing untoward in her behavior.
“I deeply regret having frightened you, dear lady,” I said in my most courtly manner, “and heaven forfend that I should appear in the least rude by expressing the thought, but what, might I ask, are you doing here in the bushes?”
Her eyes glazed over a bit as I spoke; regrettably, our Jessamy appeared to have trouble following the syntax of a complex sentence. Nonetheless, after a moment’s stiff cogitation she managed to decipher what I had said into language she could understand. She emitted a laugh that, no doubt, she considered quite fetching, but to my ears sounded like cats involved in a certain procreative process. I winced.
“Oh, Mr. Kirby-Jones, you are a right caution. What am I doing here in the bushes?” She laughed again. I expressed the fervent wish, silently, that she would forbear to do it again.
I could see she was struggling to find an answer to my question. “Yes, what were you doing in the bushes here? You cannot have failed to notice that the police are here.”
Her head, wrapped in a dark scarf, bobbed up and down. Her ensemble, except for a cream-colored blouse, was black. Some dire need had compelled her to attire herself in something other than her signature fashion statement of leopard skin. Could that dire need have been sneaking into Blitherington Hall and bashing old Harwood on the bean?
She must have read something of my thoughts from my expression, for her mouth twisted in a grimace of denial. “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking!”
“Didn’t kill whom?” I asked. “Who said anyone had been killed?”
Our Jessamy had never played chess, I was certain. She had led herself blindly into that trap.