by Dean James
“Um, er, well, I couldn’t help taking a butcher’s into the drawing room just now, and it’s plain as the nose on me face, Mr. Harwood’s dead.”
I noted with interest how Jessamy’s accent degenerated under stress. She was forgetting to strive for the posher-sounding tones she normally affected.
From beneath her fluttering eyelashes, she regarded me with hope. I stepped cautiously around her and peered in through the French windows, trusting that I would escape the notice of the police. Robin would not be pleased if I were caught snooping like this.
I ascertained quickly that one could, if one peered in at the correct angle, see the sofa upon which Harwood’s earthly shell still sat in repose. The scene-of-the-crime team pottered about, doing whatever it was they did, and no one seemed to be paying attention to the French windows. I stepped back.
“I concede,” I said, my tone severe, “that you can see the body from here, and even identify it. But that still doesn’t answer my original question. What were you doing here in the bushes?”
The moment I had taken to peer within the drawing room had given her just the bit of breathing space she needed to marshal her thoughts, meager as they might be. She smiled at me, no doubt hoping to entice my admiration to such an extent that I would believe whatever lie she was about to utter.
As I waited for her to speak, I glanced down at her neck. Faint light from the French windows glowed across said body part while the rest of her was veiled in shadow. The pulsing of the blood in that vein seemed to be calling to me. Transfixed by the sight of that beautiful, delicious vein, I heard an odd roaring in my ears.
Jessamy said something, but I made no sense of it. That lovely vein claimed all my attention, and without volition my lips parted and my head began to lower toward it. Jessamy expelled a breath and said something else, even as she stepped closer. All I could think about was how incredibly wonderful it would be to press my lips against that throbbing portal of pleasure. I shuddered and brought my lips ever closer.
The squeak of the French windows as they opened brought me back to my senses, and with a muffled squeak Jessamy drew her scarf around her neck and bolted through the bushes.
I stood there, blinking, like the complete ass I suddenly felt myself to be, as one of the scene-of-the-crime personnel stepped through the French windows onto the terrace.
Wishing for once that I could draw in a deep breath to steady myself, I stared at the startled woman.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said sternly, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to stand away from here. There is an investigation going on, and you shouldn’t be here.”
“Ah, yes, I do realize that,” I said, as my brain once again began to do its business. “Detective Inspector Chase has taken my statement and dismissed me, but my car is blocked in. I was just coming to ask whether someone might be able to let me out.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, following the direction indicated by my outstretched arm and pointing finger. “Half a mo.” She stepped back inside the drawing room.
I turned around to scan the immediate area, but Jessamy Cholmondley-Pease had made good her escape. I could see nothing moving in the shadows, nor could I sense her presence anywhere nearby. She had done a runner, and if she had any sense, she was halfway to the village by now.
She had achieved only a brief respite, I resolved, for I would catch up with her as soon as I could and get the truth out of her. I supposed I should let Robin know I had found her hanging about outside, and I would, in due time.
A few minutes later, when the vans had been moved, my Jag had room to maneuver, and I settled myself inside, ready for the short drive home.
What on earth was wrong with me? I asked myself as I negotiated the turns required to get my Jag out of its parking space and down the lane away from Blitherington Hall. Why this sudden fascination with veins in the neck? And the neck of Jessamy Cholmondley-Pease, of all people? I shuddered. I had never fancied women while I was alive and breathing, and I wasn’t about to start now. Death hadn’t made me suddenly bisexual.
Or at least I didn’t think it had. Perhaps it was a side effect of my pills. No one had ever warned me this might occur. There had been a few cases of hair growing in odd places and the occasional reports of the urge to bay at the moon, but nothing like this.
Upon reflection, I decided I had much rather go bay at the moon.
Within minutes I had parked the Jag at Laurel Cottage and let myself in. I was far too rattled by what had occurred between me and Jessamy to be able to settle down to write, which is what I would have done any other time.
I glanced at my watch, calculating the time difference between here and Houston, Texas. If I were lucky, I might just catch Tristan Lovelace, professor of medieval history and ever-so-dashing vampire, in his office at the university where he taught.
Tristan had had the distinct honor of inducting Yours Truly into the union, as it were. I had fallen madly in love with my graduate advisor, and for a time he had returned my passion, even to the extent of confiding his deep, dark secret. Though at first I was repelled by what he told me, eventually I came to the decision that becoming a vampire was far less risky than other things that might befall me. And thus I was initiated.
Alas for my hopes of happily-ever-after with Tris, however. He was a man of voracious appetites, and soon his predilection for me faded. He had, however, felt abashed enough about dumping me that he had gifted me with Laurel Cottage, hence my residence in Snupperton Mumsley.
All of the above being a rather long explanation for why I decided to consult Tris. If anyone knew why my pills had suddenly gone wonky, he would.
Luck was with me, for Tris answered straight away. “Hello, Tris,” I said. “It’s Simon.”
“Hullo, Simon,” Tris boomed back at me, and I smiled to hear the pleasure in his voice. Despite all that had happened between us, he was still genuinely very fond of me. “Hold on a moment, Simon, and I shall be able to give you my full attention.”
I heard the receiver being laid upon his desk, the rustle of papers, and Tris’s voice as he dismissed whoever was in his office when his phone rang.
Then he was back. “How are you, Simon? Stumbled over any more dead bodies lately?”
“Very funny, Tris,” I said sourly. “As a matter of fact, there has been a murder at Blitherington Hall.”
“Young Giles finally cut the leading strings and bashed his barmy mother over the head?”
I detected a note of jealousy in Tris’s voice as he spoke Giles’s name, and I must admit to the slightest frisson of pleasure. I had confided in him Giles’s pursuit of my affections, plus the feet that I was tempted to yield to said pursuit.
“Not this time,” I said, laughing, “but it is a tempting thought.” As quickly as I could, I sketched the scenario for him.
“Quite a bumblebroth,” Tris observed, using a word that had been in vogue in his human youth. “But I’ve little doubt Simon, that you shall soon have routed the murderer, and all shall be well again in the sacred confines of Blitherington Hall.”
“Your faith in my abilities touches me to the very depths of my soul,” I said, a trifle waspishly. “But I didn’t call to tell you about the latest exercise of the little gray cells. I have a problem, and I really haven’t the slightest idea what’s going on.”
“What is it?” Tris said, responding to the unease in my words.
“The past couple of days,” I said, “I find myself suddenly wanting to bite people on the neck. Tonight I came very close to doing that very thing... and to a woman.”
“Quelle horreur,” Tris said, laughing. “That is a problem.”
“I’m so pleased that you find this amusing,” I said. “But do try to suppress your amusement for the moment, and tell me, please, what the hell is going on? Why is this happening?”
“Nothing to worry about, dear boy,” Tris said, turning serious. “Occasionally one gets a batch of those little pills that aren’t quite
tickety-boo. Just bung an extra one down the throat, and all will be right with the world. Don’t waste your time worrying about it.”
Much relieved, I said, “Thanks, Tris. I really was worried that I was losing my mind. No one ever warned me this could happen.”
“There’s no guidebook to being a member of the union,” Tris said. “More’s the pity, I sometimes think.”
“Perhaps you should write one,” I said with some asperity. Tris fancied himself as quite the authority on a number of subjects, not just his academic specialty.
“No time, Simon, no time.” Tris dismissed it. “I was going to ring you up, actually.”
“Oh,” I said. That was a turnabout. “And why might you have been going to do that?”
“I’m going to be in England in a couple of months. I’ve been invited to present a lecture at Oxford, and afterwards I’ll be spending some time in London for a bit of research at the British Library. I thought I might pop down for a few days’ visit, if it were convenient for you.” I almost dropped the phone in my surprise. Tris, coming to visit me?
“You’re certainly welcome, Tris,” I said. “Any special reason for honoring me with your presence?”
He laughed. “Suspicious as ever, Simon. Actually, there is something I should like to discuss with you, but I would much prefer doing it face to face.”
I froze as a horrible thought struck me. Maybe he wanted Laurel Cottage back. I couldn’t bear that but how could I refuse if he insisted? He had been incredibly generous to give it to me, but perhaps he had had second thoughts about it. If necessary, I could offer to buy it. These days, at least, I could afford it.
I suppressed my unease and discussed the date of Tris’s arrival and plans for his visit A few minutes later, he rang off, and I set the receiver down, staring at it as if it were a viper in my hand.
I shook my head. In best Scarlett O’Hara fashion, I decided, I would think about that tomorrow. For now, I would force myself to focus my attention on writing. I went upstairs to change my clothes, take another pill, and get my head in the right space for creative work. Writing was the distraction I sorely needed now.
***
Sometime the next morning, an hour or so after the sun had come peeping in the windows of my office, the phone rang. I picked up the receiver and stuck it in my ear. “Hello,” I mumbled, my attention still focused on the computer screen.
“Simon!” Giles fairly shouted in my ear. “You must come at once. They’re going to arrest my mother!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Giles rang off before I could question him. I contemplated ringing him back and demanding an explanation but decided not to waste time. I hurriedly saved my work on the computer, shut the machine down, then sprinted upstairs to make myself presentable for a visit to Blitherington Hall.
Within ten minutes I was unlocking the Jag, ready to speed through the village. In contrast to the wet weather of the day before, the sun shone brightly this morning. I had provided myself with gloves, hat, and sunglasses, but even so, I felt the sun’s heat more than I should. I had taken my morning pill, but perhaps I should have taken two. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the small bottle containing an emergency supply and tapped a pill into my hand. I swallowed it quickly. Better to be overmedicated, I decided.
A few minutes later, as I approached the lane leading to Blitherington Hall, I discovered that the press had evidently found out about the murder. There were seven or eight folk milling about, but a couple of police constables were keeping an eye on them, making sure they didn’t make a dash for the house. Several cameras were pointed in my direction as I pulled the Jag up to the constable guarding the entrance to the driveway. Rolling down the window, I wished the PC a good morning and gave her my name.
She pulled a list from her pocket, scanned it, then nodded. “Go right on, Professor.”
“Thank you, Constable,” I said. Putting the Jag in gear again, I drove the hundred yards or so to the forecourt of Blitherington Hall, where I recognized the car Robin Chase and his sergeant usually drove. I found it difficult to believe that Robin was actually going to arrest Lady Prunella for murder. He had known the woman long enough, I should think, to realize that she would never soil her hands with something so sordid as murder.
Thompson responded to my knock immediately, as if Giles had prompted him to wait by the front door for my arrival.
“Good morning, Thompson,” I said, handing him my hat and gloves. “Where is Sir Giles? He rang me just now, and he sounded rather upset.”
“You’ll find him in the morning room, Professor,” he said, his face giving nothing away. “The inspector is speaking with her ladyship in the library just now.”
“Thank you, Thompson.” I strode down the hall toward the morning room. I knocked, then opened the door without waiting for a response from within.
Giles and Cliff Weatherstone were seated on one of the sofas, and Cliff had one hand on Giles’s shoulder. They looked up, startled, as I burst into the room.
“I beg your pardon,” I said, the frost obvious in my voice. “Perhaps I should come back later? Although I did make haste to come here, thinking you were facing some sort of dire emergency.”
Giles stood up, shaking off Weatherstone’s hand. “Don’t be an ass, Simon,” he said waspishly. “I do need your help, otherwise I wouldn’t have rung you. Cliff was merely acting as any friend would in this situation.”
“And what situation is that?” I asked, not buying the explanation. Giles might think Cliff was acting in a friendly manner, but from where I stood, Cliff wanted something besides friendship from Giles. “From the rather frantic nature of your call, I expected to see Lady Prunella being led from here in chains.”
“It just might come to that,” Giles said, his brow darkening in irritation, “if something isn’t done. I know you have all the faith in the world in your tame policeman, but I expect he would dearly love to humiliate my mother and me by charging her with this murder.”
“Don’t be absurd, Giles,” I said sharply, dropping down into a chair across from the sofa. “I know there is little love lost between you and Detective Inspector Chase, but whatever else you might think of him, he is thoroughly professional. I rather doubt that he would charge your mother with murder simply to humiliate either of you. If he should happen to charge your mother, then he would have a darn good reason to do so.”
Giles collapsed on the sofa, and Cliff patted his arm in a reassuring manner.
“I have to agree with Kirby-Jones, Giles, though it pains me to admit it,” Cliff said, flashing me a look redolent with distaste. “Chase seems like a bright chap. I shouldn’t think he would do such a thing lightly.”
“Some consolation,” Giles muttered. “It’s not your mother about to be hauled off to chokey. And with the press waiting like vultures to report everything.”
“Why are you so convinced that Lady Prunella is going to be charged?” I asked. “Do you know something about all this the police don’t?”
Giles shrugged and cut his eyes sideways at Cliff. He did know something, but he was reluctant to tell me in front of Cliff. Interesting, I thought Perhaps Cliff wasn’t on the A-list just yet.
“Why is Robin talking with your mother right now?” I asked, shifting the subject until I could think of a way to get Cliff out of the room without being too obvious.
Giles drew in a deep breath, then slowly released it. “She was seen coming out of the drawing room about a quarter hour before we met in the library before dinner.”
That was not good news. “Who saw her?”
Giles shrugged. “It was an anonymous tip to the police. That’s all I managed to discover before Chase took my mother into the library for further questioning. They’ve been in there for a bit over half an hour now,” he concluded, glancing at his watch.
“Has your mother spoken to you about any of this?” I said.
“No,” replied Giles.
“Surely you don�
�t think Lady Prunella killed Harwood?” I scoffed at the idea. “She would never do such a thing.”
“You know that and I know that,” Giles said, “but others might see the situation differently.” He threw up his hands. “And you know how obstinate my mother is, how much upon her dignity she can get. The very idea that Lady Prunella Blitherington should be questioned by the police!” Giles did a fair imitation of his mother’s voice, then he shook his head in disgust. “God knows what a muddle she will make of it.”
“Surely she wouldn’t be that stupid,” Cliff said.
“Not stupid,” I said. “Stubborn. She won’t like having to explain herself to a mere policeman.” Frankly, I had to stifle a laugh at the thought of what was going on in the library right now. The face-off between Robin and Lady Prunella would rival a scene from a farcical stage whodunit.
Taking myself to task for such mental levity in the face of Giles’s distress, I asked, “Does anyone know what she was doing in the drawing room?”
“I’m not quite certain,” Giles said. “I had no idea she had even been in the drawing room at all before we discovered the body.”
“And no one knows whether Harwood was in there, alive or dead, when she was in the room.”
“No, Simon,” Giles responded.
“Then this is a bit of a mess, at least until we can get the story straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.” Trust Lady Prunella, I thought, to make a difficult situation even more complicated.
“Ought I to call our solicitor, Simon?” Giles asked. “Not just yet, Giles,” I said, “no point in putting the cart before the horse, and all that.”
Reassured, Giles rubbed a weary hand across his forehead. “I suppose not. There must surely be some innocent explanation.” He turned to Cliff. “My apologies for burdening you with all this, Cliff. It will be sorted out soon, I trust. But now, if you’ll forgive me, there’s something I need to discuss privately with Simon.”
Cliff took affront at such a dismissal, no matter how politely couched. He smoothed the irritation out of his face and rose from the sofa. “Certainly, Giles. But if there is anything I can do to assist you, please do not hesitate to call upon me.”