Decorated to Death

by Dean James

  Unless the worm had turned. In that case, I could easily see Cliff Weatherstone or Piers Limpley in the role of murderer. In fact, I rather favored Cliffie as the murderer, but that might have been mere prejudice on my part.

  A knock on my front door interrupted further reflections. I supposed Robin had come to call, and I glanced down at my working togs. They were a bit on the ratty side, because I like old and comfortable clothes when I’m writing. I should have thought of that while I was changing, but my mind had been occupied by other matters. Robin had seen me like this before, however, so I supposed it didn’t matter.

  I went to the front door and opened it. To my surprise, it was not Robin Chase and his sergeant who stood there. Cliff Weatherstone had come to call.

  “This is indeed an unexpected pleasure,” I said coolly, standing back to allow Weatherstone to enter. He clumped past me into the hall and turned back to face me once I had closed the door.

  His face flushed in annoyance, Cliff faced me defiantly. “Trust me, Professor, I wouldn’t be here if the situation weren’t desperate.”

  “Indeed,” I said, observing him. He was upset by something. One hand fiddled with something in his pocket and his whole demeanor bespoke worry. “And you’re here to see me because you think I can do something about it? How too, too flattering.”

  He took a deep breath. “You don’t have to be insulting. I know you don’t like me, but I can’t help it if you’re jealous. I wouldn’t be here if Giles hadn’t insisted I talk to you.”

  This was Giles’s idea, then?” I said.

  Cliff scowled. “He seems to think you hung the sun and the stars, why I cannot imagine. But he says you have experience with this kind of thing.”

  “What kind of thing?” I said, deliberately refusing to help, though I figured I knew perfectly well what he meant.

  “Murders,” he said, fairly spitting out the word. “According to Giles, dead bodies seem to keep popping up all over the place whenever you’re around. He says you’ve been quite successful in solving murders before.”

  “Giles is much too kind,” I said, but Cliff ignored the irony.

  “You’ve got to help me,” Cliff said. “If you don’t, they’ll arrest me for a murder I didn’t commit!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  My, my,” I said, allowing my amusement to show. “You are in rather a state, aren’t you?”

  Cliff emitted a sound of disgust and started to thrust past me. “I should have known you’d respond like this. Just forget I ever came here, will you?”

  I placed a restraining hand on his arm, and he paused, taken aback by the strength of my grip. “Do calm yourself, Cliff,” I drawled. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you.”

  Rubbing his arm, he glared at me. “You’ve a funny way of helping.”

  “Come into the sitting room, and tell me all about it,” I said, marching into said room and seating myself in the most comfortable chair. He followed me and sat in the chair to which I directed him. It was not a very comfortable chair, but I didn’t mind if he squirmed a bit—physically or mentally.

  “There’s a humidor on the table,” I said. “I indulge in the occasional cigar. Help yourself if you feel in need of a smoke.”

  Almost as a reflex he leaned forward and stretched a hand toward the humidor. Then he drew sharply back. “How do you know I’m a cigar smoker? You’ve never seen me smoke one.”

  I waited, smiling, while he thought it over. “I suppose you might have sniffed me out,” he mused. But then a scowl spread over his face as he figured it out. “That bloody Pease woman. She must have told you about the little scene she overheard between Zeke and me.”

  “Clever Cliff,” I said. “Yes, dear Jessamy did confide in me. I must say, I imagine Detective Inspector Chase will take a dim view of a threat like that.”

  He did not respond to the bait. Instead, he reached for the humidor again, opened it, and took a moment to select a cigar. His choice made, he closed the humidor, then picked up the cigar cutter lying on the table and clipped the end off the cigar. He dropped the end into an ashtray on the table and picked up the lighter.

  I watched in amusement as he toasted the end of the cigar, then put the cigar in his mouth to light it. The ritual of preparing and lighting a cigar was a good delaying tactic, and Cliff was taking full advantage of it. Once he had the cigar burning to his satisfaction, he exhaled a long plume of smoke into the air.

  “Very nice,” he said. “Cubans are the finest aren’t they?”

  “One of the advantages of residing in England,” I said.

  “Yes,” Cliff said. “What I said to Zeke, which that interfering cow overheard, was a threat I suppose.” He paused for another draw on the cigar. “Sure you won’t join me?”

  “Not just now, thanks,” I said. His agitation had calmed, though I could still sense an undercurrent of unease. “Why were you threatening Harwood?”

  I knew the reason, of course, but I couldn’t admit to having overheard his conversation with Giles in the pub.

  “Zeke had dumped me. Professionally, that is,” Cliff said. “He was heading off to the States, and Yours Truly was not invited along, despite the fact that I had been with him from the beginning and knew more about directing him than anyone else ever possibly could.”

  “A professional insult,” I said. “How unfortunate. What kind of repercussions would that have had for your career?”

  “A momentary setback, nothing more,” Cliff said. “I’ve turned down a number of good offers because of Zeke, and I would soon have had something else lined up.”

  “If that’s the case,” I pointed out, “then why would you need to threaten Harwood? Seems to me you might have been glad to get rid of him and work with someone less unpleasant.”

  Cliff snorted, smoke billowing out of his mouth. “That person doesn’t exist. Zeke was no different from most of the other talent I’ve ever worked with. They all have egos the size of Russia and a vastly inflated idea of their importance to the world.”

  “I see. What a lovely bunch of folk with whom to associate.”

  “It pays well,” Cliff said.

  “So does prostitution, or so I’ve heard,” I said.

  Cliff half-rose from his chair, thought better of it, and subsided without saying anything.

  He had more self-control than I had imagined; I’d have to credit him that.

  “I fail to see the source of your agitation,” I said. “If your threat was an empty one, then why the panic? Why are you so worried that the police will consider you Suspect Number One?”

  “Because,” Cliff said, contemplating the ash on his cigar, “someone is bound to tell them that I once knocked

  Zeke flat on his fat, lying arse.” He leaned over and tapped the ash into the ashtray.

  “My, you do have a temper, don’t you?” I said. “When and why did you plant Harwood such a facer?”

  Cliff smiled in satisfaction. “The bastard had it coming to him. It was about two years ago, I reckon. Until then, he wouldn’t keep his hands off me. Always pawing me, whenever anyone else was around, making suggestive remarks to the effect that he and I were having a torrid affair. He even had the cheek once to tell someone the reason he kept me on was because of my skill between the sheets.”

  “Rather than your abilities as a producer and director?” I really did try not to sound skeptical, but Cliff flushed anyway.

  “Considering that Zeke was about as physically appealing as what the cat coughed up, no, I didn’t fancy him, not in the least.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” I said.

  Cliff smiled, then dropped his bombshell. “Moreover, Zeke was about as gay as Maggie Thatcher. It was all an act.” He sat back, drew on his cigar, and awaited my reaction.

  For once, I was momentarily speechless. I shook my head, as if to clear it.

  “That fairly boggles the mind,” I said at last. “Why on earth would he pretend to be gay?”

  Cl
iff laughed. “Because he thought that was what everyone expected of someone who was an interior designer. And because he got more press out of it. He could be as flamboyant as he liked, and no one thought anything of it. Because he was a flashy queen, you see.”

  “I do see,” I said. “It makes an absurd kind of sense. And I must admit that he had me completely fooled.”

  “Our Zeke was a good actor,” Cliff said. “I’ll grant him that. He might have had a fair career on the stage, but he genuinely loved what he did.”

  “And became enormously successful at it,” I said. “Which means much would have been at stake if someone had got wind of the truth.”

  “I suppose,” Cliff said. “Zeke preferred his image to stay as he had constructed it, but I’m not so certain that his public wouldn’t have forgiven him, pretty quickly, even if the truth had gotten out.”

  “Was that what you were threatening him with? Telling the press that he wasn’t gay and had been shamming all this time?”

  Cliff nodded. “I thought it might at least make him think twice about dropping me the way he had planned.”

  “Did it?” I asked. “Make him think twice?”

  “He said he would think it over,” Cliff replied. “And I’ve no idea now what he might have decided, because someone killed him before he could tell me. And that someone was not I.”

  I was halfway inclined to believe him. Though I didn’t much care for Cliff, I had to admit that he didn’t seem stupid enough to have killed Harwood over losing his job. Perhaps the lure of television success in the States was stronger than his intellect. That seemed unlikely, however, because by killing Harwood, Cliff would have definitely lost, while as long as Harwood was alive, there was the chance he might reconsider and keep Cliff on as a member of his staff.

  “Well, then,” I said, “if you didn’t kill Harwood, who did? It had to have been someone who knew him.”

  “That’s where you come in, according to Giles,” Cliff said, smoke coming from his mouth in small bursts as he spoke. “He seems to think you’ll figure it all out much faster than the copper.”

  “However flattered I might be by Giles’s faith in me,” I said, “I can’t just barge in and start questioning people. Detective Inspector Chase would be quite annoyed, for one thing.”

  “Again, according to Giles,” Cliff said, “that’s never stopped you before.” He smiled smugly around the cigar in his mouth.

  I decided to ignore that. “If I were to manage somehow to question the other suspects,” I said, placing slight emphasis on the word other, “without riling Detective Inspector Chase, where should I start? What can you tell me that would be helpful?”

  Cliff drew angrily on his cigar. “You might find that the other suspects had stronger reasons to be shed of Zeke than I did, Simon. You might start with Moira Rhys-Morgan. Zeke has treated her like dirt for years.”

  “Oh, how so?”

  “The bloody woman’s been in love with him for years, though I haven’t the slightest idea why. Zeke knew it and he manipulated her like a marionette. He hopped in and out of her bed when it suited him, and she just let him do it. But maybe she finally got tired of being treated so badly.”

  “That motive I could believe,” I said, “if what you say is true.”

  “You don’t have to take my word for it” Cliff said. “You can see she’s the only one of us who’s grieving for the bastard. That much should be obvious, even to you.”

  I refused to be ruffled by the venom in his tone. “So much for Mrs. Rhys-Morgan. Who else?”

  Cliff shrugged. “Poor Piers has been carrying a torch for Moira for years. But she wouldn’t look at him as long as Zeke was in the picture. Maybe he did it in a fit of jealous rage? He hated the way Zeke treated Moira.”

  “Another good motive,” I said. Trust a vicious queen to know the real dirt. “And Dittany?”

  “There you’ve got me,” Cliff said. “There was little love lost between brother and sister, I can tell you that much. But Dittany was the only one of us who would really stand up to Zeke and make him back down occasionally. Neither one of them would ever talk much about their childhood, though of course Zeke was quite a bit older than Dittany. In fact, Zeke never talked much about his family or the distant past”

  “That would certainly bear investigation,” I said. “Sounds to me like there was something he wanted kept hidden.”

  A knock sounded on the front door before Cliff could respond.

  “That will be Detective Inspector Chase,” I told him, my voice low. “He said he would be coming round to talk to me. It would be better for both of us if he did not find you here. Did you walk here, or drive?”

  “I walked,” Cliff said, his decibel level matching mine. “Why?”

  “Then there’s no car outside to give us away,” I said. “You can slip out the back door, in the kitchen, and go around the side of the house once he’s inside.” I stood up. “Come along, better get going.”

  “If you say so,” Cliff responded. He followed me to the hall, and I pointed the way to the kitchen. The knock sounded again as I watched Cliff disappear into the kitchen, but I waited until I heard the back door open and close softly before I opened the front door.

  Robin Chase stood there alone. “Good afternoon, Robin,” I said, motioning for him to step aside. “And where is the good sergeant?”

  “He’s gone into the village to buy some cigarettes,” Robin said.

  “Ah,” I said, “so you wanted to speak to me alone.” I leaned against the closed door and regarded him with interest He was fingering his moustache.

  “Well, yes,” Robin admitted. “I need your help, unofficially of course, and I didn’t want Harper to overhear me.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I regarded Robin with considerable amusement “So now I’m to play Miss Marple to your Inspector Craddock? My, my, what will the good citizens of St Mary Mead think?”

  “You must have your little joke, Simon,” Robin said. “I quite understand that after the grief I’ve given you over your past inter ... rather, assistance with my investigations.”

  “Nice save, Robin,” I said, walking past him and into the sitting room.

  Robin followed me, sniffing inquisitively. “I had no idea you were a cigar smoker, Simon.”

  I turned a bland face to him. “I daresay there’s quite a lot you don’t know about me, Robin. There’s certainly much about you I don’t know.” I sat down.

  Robin wisely avoided the chair earlier vacated by Cliff Weatherstone and instead chose a much more comfortable one. “Yes, well, Simon, that’s not why I called upon you just now.”

  “No, I suppose not.” I sighed with deep regret. “Help yourself to one of my cigars if you’d like.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Robin said. “I don’t often indulge, mind you, but the occasional cigar can’t hurt you.”

  I watched as Robin repeated the ritual so recently enacted by Cliff Weatherstone. He was smiling widely by the time he exhaled his first mouthful of smoke. I decided upon impulse to join him, and he waited until I had my own fired up. We then sat and smoked in silence for a moment

  “You were saying, Robin,” I finally prodded him, “that you wanted my help.”

  He tapped ash into the ashtray before responding. “Yes, Simon, I would like your help. But it has to be strictly sub rosa, of course.”

  “Of course, Robin,” I said. “I wouldn’t like to see you in trouble with your superiors for enlisting my aid.”

  “Quite,” he said, smiling around his cigar. “You do seem to have a certain knack for being johnny-on-the-spot when these things happen, Simon.” He held up a hand to forestall the protest he no doubt was expecting. “I’m not saying that you are in any way responsible for the murders that keep happening around you, naturally. But you do seem to be in the right place at the wrong time. Or is it in the wrong place at the right time?” He laughed at his own little joke while I smoked in silence.

&
nbsp; “Whichever. The thing is, Simon, you somehow manage to winkle things out of people that they won’t always reveal to someone official, like me.”

  “And you want me to winkle things out of people, as you call it?”

  “More or less,” Robin said. “This whole case has given me quite a few headaches. There are a number of contradictions that need sorting out.”

  “I’ll be delighted to do what I can, Robin,” I replied. “But I can do so more effectively if I know more about the case. I wouldn’t give anything away to the suspects, of course, but I have to know at least some of what you know, if I’m to accomplish anything worthwhile.”

  “I quite see that,” Robin said, “and I’m prepared to tell you as much as I can.” He drew on his cigar.

  “Very well,” I said. “First I must ask you, do you really consider Lady Prunella a suspect?”

  Robin laughed. “I can’t rule her out completely, Simon, because she definitely had the means and the opportunity.”

  “But not really the motive.”

  He shook his head. “Even as dotty as Lady Prunella is, I rather doubt she would have killed Harwood to stop him from airing that bit of film, or for painting her drawing room walls red.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “The woman can be a complete loon sometimes, but she’s not a killer. Whoever did this had the brains to plan a swift and efficient murder, and I can’t see Lady Prunella having the brains to do it.”

  “As you say, Simon, exactly,” Robin replied. “The problem is, I can’t quite figure which one of them is smart enough. None of them seem up to the task, frankly.”

  “Well, let’s come back to that,” I said. “First, tell me how Harwood died.”

  Robin blew a couple of smoke rings before he replied. “Thought I might have lost the knack. Well, we have only preliminary postmortem results at the moment, but the police surgeon says it was three or four blows to the head, two of which could have done it.” He frowned. “The trouble is, at least two of the blows came from different blunt objects.”