“Sure,” said Walter. “Jane, do you want to come?”
Jane thought for a moment. Although she no longer feared that there were any romantic feelings between Walter and Sam, she envied their ease with each other. There was a past there that she wasn’t a part of, and although Sam had been nothing but friendly to her, she still found herself a little bit jealous.
As if you have any room to talk, she argued with herself. You have entire lifetimes Walter doesn’t know about and wasn’t part of.
“You two go on,” she said. “I’ll be down in a bit.”
She welcomed the time to herself to enjoy the solitude the keep provided and think about all that had happened over the past few days. The appearance of Joshua, the revelation of Crispin’s Needle, the church at Cripple Minton, and the martyrdom of St. Apollonia—it was all terribly thrilling. Even the thought of the Tedious Three filled her with excitement. They were all pieces of a puzzle, one she was fitting together bit by bit. What it would look like when, or if, it was ever completed she didn’t know. But it was undeniably intriguing. If Crispin’s Needle did exist, and if she did find it, she would have an enormous decision to make.
It’s probably all just legend anyway, she told herself. One of those vampire stories meant to make us seem far more interesting than we are.
Suddenly a scream filled the air, startling her. Turning to her right she was just in time to see Ryan McGuinness leap from the wall of the tower. He hung in the air for a moment, more or less horizontal, his arms and legs moving as if he were trying to fly, or perhaps swim. Then he fell. Jane leaned over the edge of the keep and watched as he plummeted, still screaming and flailing, the two hundred and something (at that moment she couldn’t recall the exact number) feet to the ground. Being as how the fall was a great one, and being as how the ground was more like a courtyard made of cobblestones, Ryan’s arrival at the bottom did little to allay his anxiety. Rather, it resulted in a satisfying thwack and the creation of a bit of a mess in the form of a pool of blood that formed beneath his head.
Jane had only a moment in which to reflect on the peculiar and disturbing beauty of a dead body sprawled across the stones of a three-hundred-year-old castle before the sound of numerous voices raised in alarm reached her ears. This caused her to regain her senses and, now properly distressed, she raced down the 299 steps and out the tower door. There she found herself standing on one side of Ryan McGuinness’s lifeless body while the other members of the tour group stared at her.
The first to speak was Brodie. “What happened?” he asked.
“I … I don’t know,” Jane said.
“But you were up there with him,” Genevieve said.
“No,” said Jane. “I mean yes, I was up there, but we weren’t there together, if you see what I mean. And there were others there as well.”
Genevieve looked around, her mouth moving silently as she used one long finger to count heads. When she was done she returned her gaze to Jane. “Actually,” she said, “it was only the two of you up there. The rest of us were down here.”
“Then he must have jumped,” Jane said, her voice sounding more defensive than she intended. “You all saw him fall.”
“He didn’t jump.” Enid, who until now had been staring at the crumpled body of her lover, looked up at Jane. “He was afraid of heights. It took everything in him just to go up there, and I assure you he stayed as far way from the edge as possible.”
“Apparently not,” Jane said, returning Enid’s steely gaze.
Someone cleared his throat. Then Bergen spoke in his monotone voice. “I’m afraid I must agree with Ms. Woode’s evaluation of the situation,” he said. “The angle of fall is inconsistent, suggesting greater force than could be achieved by merely jumping.”
“See!” Enid cried. “He was pushed!”
Bergen nudged his glasses up his nose. “That is not quite correct either,” he said. Jane thought perhaps she detected just the merest hint of a smile on his face as he looked at her. “He was thrown.”
Chapter 12
Thursday: Ireland
Inspector Clooney Nesbitt sat on the sofa in the front parlor of the Inn of the White Roses and scribbled on the pad in his hand. His pen had stopped writing, and he was trying to get the ink flowing again. Jane sat in an armchair across from him. In between them, on a low table covered with a pretty lace cloth, sat a pot of tea, two cups on saucers, and a plate of digestive biscuits. Jane looked longingly at the biscuits but didn’t dare take one, afraid that doing so might suggest an air of frivolity. She was, she felt, in enough trouble as it was.
The inspector had already interviewed the other members of the party. That he had saved Jane for last struck her as a bit peculiar. If it had been she who was conducting the investigation into Ryan McGuinness’s death, she would have begun with the most likely suspect, which even she had to acknowledge was herself. It would, she thought, give her less time to concoct an explanation for how Ryan might have been launched from the top of the keep without her assistance. As it was, nearly two hours had passed, which was more than enough time for her to have made up a story should she have needed one.
“Now then,” said the inspector when his pen resumed working properly. “Why don’t you tell me about your relationship to the deceased.”
Clooney Nesbitt was not a young man. He had gray hair that was cut short so as to minimize the appearance of his bald spot, a fine, thick mustache that at the moment wanted a little trimming, and bright blue eyes that Jane, if she had conjured him as a character in one of her novels, would have described as the sort of eyes that tended to put innocent people at ease and make guilty people believe that he was not as smart as he really was. In both instances, she imagined, those at whom he directed his gaze were inclined to tell him more than they had expected to.
Jane might have found herself influenced by his eyes as well were she not focused on the digestive biscuits. As it was she found herself saying, “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”
Nesbitt did so, making a notation on his pad at the same time. Jane, knowing full well that whatever he was writing was about her, wished she could see what else was on the yellow pad. What, for instance, had Inspector Nesbitt written down about Walter, or Lucy, or Ben, all of whom he had interviewed? And what had he made of Miriam and her three-legged dog? That would be most interesting, she thought.
“Miss Fairfax?”
The inspector’s voice reminded Jane that she still had not answered his question. “None whatsoever,” she said.
“Begging your pardon?” he said.
“My relationship to the deceased,” Jane said. “There was none whatsoever. I hadn’t even heard of him before this trip.”
The inspector made another notation. “And what was your opinion of the gentleman?”
Jane considered the question. Inspector Nesbitt was looking at her with those clear blue eyes. He’s trying to trick me, she told herself. Well, we’ll just see about that.
“I really haven’t known him long enough to form an opinion,” she replied. “Hadn’t known him long enough, I mean. Being that the deceased is … deceased.”
“Indeed,” said Nesbitt. “But surely you had some interactions with Mr. McGuinness before his death.”
“No,” Jane said. “As I keep telling people, I was nowhere near him when he jumped. Or fell. Or whatever it is that he did.”
“Actually, I was referring to interactions that might have occurred in the previous few days,” said the inspector. “Since you first made his acquaintance. However, we will return to the moments before the incident shortly.”
Jane coughed anxiously. Why, he’s got me feeling guilty! she thought. How rude!
“Honestly, I don’t think Mr. McGuinness and I exchanged more than half a dozen words before today,” she said calmly. “Including today,” she added.
Inspector Nesbitt wrote on his pad. “You were, however, aware of his relationship with Enid Woode,” he said, sta
ting it as fact rather than as a question.
Jane nodded. “I was aware of that, yes,” she said.
“And how were you made aware of it?”
“I believe it was Mr. Pittman who informed me,” Jane answered. “The first night. In the American Bar.”
“Do you know anyone who might have reason to harbor ill-will toward Mr. McGuinness?” asked Nesbitt.
Jane thought for a moment. Now that she considered it, she did know a few people who had reason to dislike Ryan McGuinness. Chief among them, of course, was Chumsley Faber-Titting. But there was also Brodie, whose work McGuinness had stolen when they were students. But Brodie is a perfectly delightful man, she thought. I can’t imagine him doing such a thing.
Then she remembered seeing Chumsley emerging from McGuinness’s compartment on the train. She remembered too the words of warning Chumsley had uttered. Had they been a precursor to the day’s murderous events? It certainly seemed possible. But Chumsley knows you heard him, she reminded herself. He knows that if asked you would likely provide that information.
Chumsley seemed too clever a man to be tripped up so easily. Also, had he not been on the ground when Ryan McGuinness went over the side? Once again she was reminded that she and she alone had been on top of the keep. And so we’re back where we began, she thought grimly.
“No,” she said to Nesbitt, who had been patiently awaiting her answer. “I really can’t think of anyone who would want to kill Mr. McGuinness.”
The inspector wrote on his pad, then looked up and expressed the very thought Jane had just had herself. “It seems that everyone in the party was on the ground and accounted for at the time of the incident,” he said. “Except for you.”
Jane cleared her throat. “I’ve heard that,” she said.
“And yet you say you were nowhere near Mr. McGuinness at the time that he … exited the tower unexpectedly,” said Nesbitt.
“That’s right,” Jane said. “I was on the—I believe it was the north-facing side, and Mr. McGuinness fell from the west-facing side.”
“Right around the corner from where you were standing,” the inspector pointed out.
“Well, yes,” said Jane. “Regardless, I hardly have the strength to throw a man the size of Mr. McGuinness over a four-foot-high wall.”
“Did someone mention throwing?” asked Nesbitt.
“Not you,” said Jane. “But the others did. Bergen did.”
A small smile played at the corners of the inspector’s mouth. “The German fellow,” he said. “Yes, he was quite insistent on it.” He flipped through the pages of the notepad. “Something about the ‘angle of fall,’ I believe he said. Very interesting. And you’re correct. I don’t think you have the strength to throw a man over a wall.”
“Thank you,” Jane said, wondering if that was the proper response to such a statement.
“You could, however, have pushed him,” Nesbitt continued. “Had he been already standing on the wall, for instance.”
“But he wasn’t,” said Jane. “And I didn’t.”
“How do you know he wasn’t if you couldn’t see him?” asked the inspector.
“I don’t,” Jane admitted. “But I would think someone from below would have noticed if he had been.”
“Only if they were looking up,” Nesbitt countered.
Jane was becoming annoyed. These were all very good points. But I didn’t kill him, she thought.
“You’re a writer, aren’t you, Miss Fairfax?”
“Yes,” said Jane, eager to be going down a new avenue of discussion.
“I believe my wife has read your novel,” Nesbitt said. “She quite enjoyed it. I tend to stick to the likes of Patrick O’Brian myself. I enjoy a good sea battle.” He folded his notepad and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Well, I think that will be all. Thank you for your time.”
Jane, perplexed, said, “That’s it? Don’t you have more questions for me?”
The inspector reached for his notepad. “Would you like me to ask you some more questions?”
Jane flushed. “No,” she said. “It’s just that the conversation ended so abruptly.”
Nesbitt stood up. “I’ve been an inspector for a great many years, Miss Fairfax,” he said. “I’ve seen many a guilty person and listened to many a fanciful tale designed to cover up the truth. I don’t find either here in this room this evening.”
“I see,” Jane said. “Then may I ask, what do you think happened to Mr. McGuinness?”
“I don’t know for certain,” said Nesbitt. “If I were pressed for an explanation, I would say that he jumped.”
“But the angle of fall,” Jane said.
“Indeed,” said the inspector. “The angle of fall. And we will have to look into that. But you’re asking what my gut tells me, and my gut tells me the gentleman jumped to his death. Why, I don’t know. Perhaps I will never know. Perhaps no one will ever know save for him and God. In the absence of a likely suspect, however, all I can do is eliminate the people I think did not do it, and at this moment that includes everyone who was present at Swichninny Castle this morning.”
Jane walked with Nesbitt to the front door. This required passing through yet another sitting room, in which were assembled all of the other tour participants, as well as Ben, Lucy, and Miriam. As Jane and the inspector entered, all eyes turned to her.
“Are you all right?” Walter asked, putting his arm around Jane.
“I’m fine,” she assured him.
“Well?” Enid demanded of the inspector. “What have you concluded?”
Nesbitt put on his hat. “Nothing conclusively,” he said. “But you are all free to go about your business. If I have further need of you, I will be in contact.”
Enid’s eyes—and the eyes of several other people—darted to Jane. “So you’ve cleared everyone of suspicion, then?”
The inspector buttoned his coat. “As I said, if I have further need of any of you, I will be in contact. In the meantime, I thank you all for your cooperation.”
After he’d gone, the mood in the room changed perceptibly. Jane sensed a distinct chill in the air, most of it emanating from Enid. No one spoke for a long while, until finally Chumsley said, “Well, we need to decide where we go from here.”
“You know very well that our next town is Clonakilty,” Enid said.
Chumsley nodded. “I wasn’t referring to the location of our next stop,” he said. “I meant, should we continue with the tour in light of today’s tragic events?”
Enid snorted. “What do you care? You hated him anyway. If she hadn’t been the only one up there with him”—she cocked her head in Jane’s direction—“you’d be the primary suspect.”
“You can’t seriously suspect Jane had anything to do with it!” Walter said. “That’s ridiculous.”
“She was the only one up there,” said Miriam.
“Nonsense,” said Lucy. “We all know Jane could never do something like that.”
Jane gave her a thankful look. Although she knows full well I could do it, she thought. If I wanted to.
“No, we don’t all know that,” said Genevieve. “Some of us don’t know her at all. All we do know is that she was alone with Ryan on top of the keep.”
“Jane isn’t on trial here,” Brodie reminded them all. “If the inspector thought she had something to do with McGuinness taking flight, he would have taken her in.”
“I agree,” Sam said. “Let’s not be pointing fingers.”
“Which brings me back to my original question,” said Chumsley. “Are we going to continue, or are we going to end the tour here?”
“I know you have no problem going on,” Enid said. “And neither do I. What about the rest of you?”
“Let’s do a show of hands,” said Chumsley. “All for continuing the tour?”
Very slowly, hands went into the air. Jane looked around and saw that in addition to Chumsley and Enid, Brodie, Bergen, Sam, Genevieve, and Suzu had their hands raised. A mome
nt later Walter added his agreement.
“Then it’s settled,” said Chumsley. “We continue on. Now, who’ll be joining me down the pub for a drink to the memory of Ryan McGuinness?”
Brodie, Sam, and Orsino got ready to leave with Chumsley, while Enid, Suzu, Bergen, and Genevieve retired to their rooms. Miriam announced that she was taking Lilith for a walk.
“What do you want to do?” Walter asked Jane.
“I’d like to go for a drink,” Jane said. “But I’m afraid Enid and her gang will accuse me of dancing on Ryan’s grave.”
“Don’t pay any attention to them,” said Walter. “They’re going to think what they want to. We know the truth.”
“That’s right,” Ben said. “And given that not one of them voted to end the tour, I think it’s safe to say they’re not all that choked up about his death.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” said Lucy. “So come on, let’s go drinking!”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be quite so enthusiastic,” Ben suggested, kissing her on the cheek.
“All right,” said Jane. “Let me just go upstairs and change my shoes.”
“I’ll come with you,” Lucy said.
“You don’t have—” Jane began, but Lucy took her by the arm and rushed her out of the room. “What’s the matter?” she asked when they were on the stairs.
“Something occurred to me,” said Lucy, dragging Jane into her room and shutting the door. “You know how we’ve been saying that you’re not strong enough to have picked Ryan up and thrown him over the wall? Well, you and I know that’s not true.”
“You think I did it!” Jane exclaimed.
“Keep it down,” said Lucy. “I do not think you did it. But it got me thinking—maybe another vampire did.”
Jane stopped and looked at her. “That would also explain why no one saw anyone else come out of the tower,” Jane said. “A vampire could make himself invisible.”
“Or herself,” said Lucy.
Jane gasped. “You don’t think it could be …” She stopped herself before speaking the name of her nemesis, an author whose fan base rivaled her own.
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