Death and the Lit Chick sm-2

by G. M. Malliet

  By now they were leaving the Satanic mills of the industrial revolution behind, heading into lush terrain as the train neared Scotland. Huddled piles of sheep sped past the window, white dots against a green-gray landscape. Portia anticipated the moment when the sea would open up on her right, offering an endless horizon dappled with fading sunlight. She recalled that Rosslyn Chapel, that supposed site of Masonic mysteries, was not far from Edinburgh, and didn't wonder at the myths that clung to the area.

  Eventually the train chugged and screeched its way into Edinburgh's Waverley Station, waking her companion. Portia helped Kimberlee muscle her luggage onto the platform, but when she turned to offer to share a ride, Kimberlee was nowhere to be seen. Minutes later, on reaching the taxi ranks, Portia was dumbfounded to see her-or at least, the back of her white-blonde head-speeding off in a limo. Suddenly the rumors Portia had heard of Kimberlee Kalder, Overnight Sensation, began ringing true.

  Bemused and more than a bit annoyed-so much for the sisterhood of writers-Portia hailed a small taxi brightly decorated with an advertisement for jeans, a taxi imaginatively and exuberantly driven by a large, gray-haired man with an apparent death wish. He sped away from Edinburgh and hurtled like a bullet toward the outskirts, passing increasingly small and picturesque villages on the way. They looped under a bridge and zipped past the mildly curious gaze of a large herd of cows.

  The driver accelerated on a final curve, and Dalmorton Castle came suddenly into view, perched dramatically on a small rocky mound and surrounded by a moat. She'd been prepared for this by photos from the castle's Web site, but not for the sudden reality. They had slipped the bonds of the modern world. The castle stood as it had for centuries-gray and austere, its dark drum tower and arrow-slit turrets starkly outlined against a blue-moonstone sky.

  The castle was effectively sitting on its own little island, Portia realized. What had she been reading recently-something about how one lost touch with the world on an island, for an island was a world of its own. Then she remembered: The words were from And Then There Were None. And Christie had called the world one "from which you might never return."

  "Cor," said the driver.

  "Yes," agreed Portia.

  They arrived at the drawbridge that spanned the moat- a moat, for heaven's sake -before which other conveyances were depositing little knots of people. Another little knot had gathered just inside the castle entrance.

  Magretta Sincock stood about fretfully, no doubt waiting to be recognized. Portia, who knew her slightly from previous conferences, cast around her mind for words to sum up Magretta's style. She seemed overall to be aiming for an earth-mother-slash-brothel-madam look, with armorlike bracelets and brooches that suggested something unearthed at a Celtic dig. Her bouffant hair was a frizzy halo of geranium red, which she seemed to think showed to best advantage against shades of green. Today it was a billowing dress cinched at the waist by a wide Friar Tuck leather belt and a matching felt hat. A green boa scarf fluttered in the quickening breeze.

  With a final rakish toss of her boa, Magretta attached herself to a blonde, urbane young man who greeted her with evident reluctance, dodging her questions about print runs before making his escape into the castle. Kimberlee Kalder having already sloped off with the only available bellhop, Portia was left standing with a small, nut-brown woman with gray hair cut in the shape of a German helmet. She introduced herself as Mrs. Joan Elksworthy, recently of New Mexico, formerly of Scotland.

  Heads together, one gray and one dark, the two women began walking companionably over the drawbridge, stopping briefly to inspect the rope-and-pulley arrangement that raised the bridge in case of invasion. They continued through an arched stone walkway into the castle proper before descending a short flight of stairs to the reception desk. Here they were greeted by a round, bubbly woman, tightly spandexed, who introduced herself as Donna Doone, the castle's event coordinator.

  "I'm here to make sure things run smoothly for our distinguished guests," she chirped. "I am so thrilled to have all of you here. I'm a writer myself, you know."

  Cautiously, they shook hands all around-cautiously because Donna had the air of an author about to produce her unpublished manuscript for their delectation, there and then. As Portia stood back to admire the ancient room, a large green presence fluttered to her side.

  "Now this," Magretta Sincock pronounced, "is more like it."

  Her arm swept round to encompass the wood paneling, the rough-hewn fireplace, the stone stairway, and the weapons and armor ranged against the walls. An outsized painting, its varnish alligatored with age, depicted one of the many hopeless but heroic battles of Scotland's calamitous past.

  "The perfect setting for a murder, don't you think?" said Magretta. " So inspiring. For one's books, I mean, of course."

  Magretta's words made Portia vaguely uneasy. But, really, what were the odds anyone would actually be murdered at a gathering of murder mystery writers, when you really thought about it? Surely these people all batted out their hostilities on their keyboards.

  The hotel receptionist called her over a few moments later and Portia stepped up for her turn at the registration desk. As she followed a porter up the main staircase toward her room, she never noticed the large man from Cambridge who stared after her, transfixed.

  WALKABOUT

  DCI St. Just's room was on the top floor of the castle, and while small, it more than lived up to the themes of plunder and pillage introduced by the main rooms below. To his delight, it proved to be one of the corner rooms featuring a turret. The turret itself had been transformed into a writing nook, complete with antique desk, lamp, and phone.

  He began to unpack, laying out his kit in the marble-tiled bathroom, and folding his clothes into a beautiful old rosewood chest of drawers, on top of which rested several brochures describing the amenities of the hotel. A glossy blue tri-fold advertised the full-service spa.

  He ran a hand down the back of his neck. He'd badly wrenched it once subduing a high-spirited villain, and after a month of pain-filled, sleepless nights, his wife had given him a certificate for a spa massage. He'd let the certificate expire; to him there was something decadent, something un-English, about such self-indulgence. Beth had asked him about it a few times. He wished now he'd at least had the kindness to lie and say he'd used her well-intended gift.

  Beth had been dead three years now.

  That wasn't possible, was it? Three years?

  Poor Bethie.

  His reaction to that lovely dark-haired woman-he'd overheard the clerk call her Ms. De'Ath-filled him with guilt, much like that spa certificate. He and Beth had never had the conversation where each spouse releases the other from the obligation of prolonged mourning in the event of the death of either. He and Beth had thought they'd live forever. They'd joked about having walker races when they reached the old people's home together.

  He had never in three years given a thought to remarrying, but not for want of well-meaning friends, usually happily married women, who saw his single state as an affront to nature. A good-looking, intelligent man in possession of a steady job, a weekend home, and a good pedigree must be in want of a wife. Or famous words to that effect. They had waited a decent interval-eight weeks-before the invitations started pouring in. It was not from lack of respect for Beth, he came to realize, but more a case of supply-and-demand economics. These friends liked nothing better than to invite him to dinner and spring an unattached female on him. None of these arranged matches had "taken," of course. In fact, under the rapt gaze of these matchmaking friends, most of the women had seemed as uncomfortable as he.

  Sadness settled over him like a monk's cowl. He simply was not in the market for a wife, and the whole concept of dating-dreaded word-struck him as both ridiculous and terrifying. Beth had been all he'd ever wanted. Her death had been the defining loss of his life. He wasn't going to allow the gods a second chance to destroy him.

  Looking for a diversion from his thoughts-any diversi
on-he pulled out of his suitcase the conference brochure that had arrived the other day through the post. It was printed in pitch black and shrieking red, the bulleted points illustrated with little dripping bloody daggers.

  He settled at the desk in the turret and began flipping through the pages. Among the scheduled topics were "Fifty Ways to Leave Your Agent" and "Print on Demand, or, First Let's Kill All the Editors." They were also to be treated to "Is PoD the KoD?" What on earth? This was followed by the equally opaque "Time to Deep-six the Chix?" He stopped to read the description: "Is it Women's Literature, or is it Chick Lit? Some in publishing circles feel it's time to nix the chix-chick lit that is. Hear what publishing experts see as the future-or not-of this hot genre!"

  He continued to struggle through the recondite schedule, trying to get a feel for what his audience might expect from him. On Sunday, they were to be treated to "Cat's Meow or Dog's Dinner?", apparently a discussion of which animal had a greater impact on sales of crime novels. St. Just would have thought neither. At least a parrot might prove a useful witness to a crime.

  As an appetizer before the luncheon break, there was to be a session by one Annabelle Pace on "Every Which Way: Detection via Blood Splatter Analysis." His own session, he saw with dismay, had been titled, "Bad Boys." He sighed, reading the description: "Top cop DCI Arthur St. Just discusses police procedure in nabbing the baddies. Hold your fire as he fires off tales of his most famous nabs."

  This was dreadful, even worse than he'd imagined. Who did they think he was? Eliot Ness?

  He heard a tentative knock on the door. He opened it to find a woman with an exceedingly permed head of hair who introduced herself as Donna Doone.

  "Just checking to make sure everything's all right," she said with a bright smile. "I see you did get upgraded to one of the lovely turret rooms-I made a special point of putting you in for one when I saw your name in the program. The famous detective here at Dalmorton? Too thrilling. Free upgrade, never fear."

  Without invitation she bustled in, parked herself on the canopied bed, and surveyed the room. She was wearing, St. Just could hardly help but notice, an extremely tight-fitting and low-cut dress in a shiny fabric more suitable for a night at the opera. While he found the woman's familiarity a bit startling, St. Just was used to this kind of thing. Women trusted him, children trusted him, dogs and cats followed him home.

  Nodding at the brochure, Donna Doone said, "Chronic, isn't it? Are you signing up for any of the excursions? You won't want to miss the Vaults in Edinburgh. They're like an underground village, really. Haunted, you know."

  "I hadn't thought about it, in-"

  "I must say, I've been looking forward for weeks to having all of you here. Have you seen Kimberlee Kalder yet? And Winston Chatley-now, there's a dark horse if you like. And Joan Elksworthy with those Scottish books-so lovely, you forget they're about murder. Still, I don't think they're as unrealistic as the pathologist capers that Annabelle Pace writes… But as a writer myself I know how difficult this can be. Reality, I mean."

  Politely, wondering if she was planning to stay the night, St. Just asked her what she was writing.

  "It's an historical mystery set during prehistoric times." She hesitated. "I could use some advice on the forensics, you see."

  He didn't doubt that for a moment.

  "I'm not really an expert in that area…"

  It certainly explained the red-carpet treatment he was getting. What could he tell her, though? Mercifully, she had skipped ahead to another topic.

  "Have you seen the castle grounds yet? Do let me give you the Cook's tour."

  He started to refuse, worried he was incurring some kind of indebtedness, for clearly she was after advice for this novel of hers-advice no one alive could provide. Still, his legs wanted a stretch after the train ride.

  Also, it might be the only way to get her out of the room.

  ____________________

  The grounds of the ancient fortress consisted of acres of wooded parkland nestled near the banks of the river Esk. St. Just and Donna walked slowly, savoring the unusually warm but windy day, as she pointed out the flora and fauna and the golf course in the distance. Snow dotted the grounds like melted ice cream.

  Eventually their walk brought them to a mews and weathering yard near the castle. Dalmorton, she explained, boasted a collection of hawks, buzzards, falcons, eagles, and owls-all medieval weapons of choice until the invention of the gun. The birds passed expert eyes over St. Just, like connoisseurs assessing the contents of a butcher's display cabinet.

  He and Donna stepped into the aviary, where the cages looked barely strong enough to resist the birds' wire-cutter beaks. St. Just instinctively kept his distance. He was being closely scrutinized by one ferocious-looking buzzard when a woman feathered in a vivid shade of green flew in. He placed her in her late fifties, with a hairstyle that owed much to the influence of Maggie Thatcher, who in photos always appeared to be standing in front of a large balloon.

  "There you are, Miss Doone," the woman trilled. "I've been looking all over for you." She waved her boa about to indicate the width and breadth of her search. "My room doesn't have a turret. I specifically asked for one of the turreted bedrooms."

  "I say, I have-" St. Just felt a sharp little elbow in his ribs.

  Donna Doone said, "Magretta. Miss Sincock. I'm afraid all room arrangements were made at the direction of Lord Easterbrook. I can't change them without his authorization."

  Magretta was letting fly a salvo of protest when a brisk figure in brogues came bustling along the path and into the aviary. An Alice band in a fabric of Native American design held the chopped gray hair framing her betel-nut face, browned and scored from too many years in the sun; turquoise stones in intricate settings adorned her ears and wrists. The woman stopped with a friendly cry and introduced herself as Mrs. Elksworthy of Santa Fe. Donna took the opportunity to glance at her watch and detach herself from the group.

  "Cocktails," she threw over her shoulder. "Seven o'clock. Tomorrow, don't forget, is the awards dinner. Smart dress code, everyone!"

  If she'd hoped to escape she was mistaken. Magretta maneuvered a U-turn and churned off in Donna's wake.

  Mrs. Elksworthy said conversationally, "Magretta lives in her own little Ruritania. Has done for years." Her eyes were a startling lake blue against the ravaged desert of her complexion. "As if we could forget that blasted dinner. What was Lord Easterbrook thinking-bound to cause trouble. I gather you're new this year?"

  He nodded. In the distance, they could see a young man strolling the grounds by himself, his hair streaked nearly white by the sun. A golden-haired boy, indeed. Perhaps strutting was a better word: St. Just was reminded of a peacock looking for a mate.

  "That is Jay Fforde," Mrs. Elksworthy informed him. "Agent to the stars."

  "A nice-looking man," St. Just commented.

  Joan Elksworthy again gave him the benefit of that disquieting gaze.

  "He would surely agree. Anyway, Jay represents the turretless Magretta Sincock, among others, including me." She turned to him. "They couldn't get anyone from Lothian and Borders Police to do a little talk about police procedure?"

  "For some reason they asked for me."

  "Then you're being modest. I'm a friend of the conference organizer. You must be very well-known indeed for her to have asked specifically for you."

  Together they left the aviary and crossed the weathering yard. He found Mrs. Elksworthy to be a comfortable woman, the type probably most at home in a world of herbaceous borders, potting sheds, and bedding plants. Except he imagined in Santa Fe the herbaceous borders might be replaced by rows of cacti. She carried about her a no-nonsense, captain-of-the-hockey-team aura. Such as she, reflected St. Just, had seen Britain through the Blitz.

  They followed a sign pointing to the Old Spa area, which proved to be a room lined with antique photographs of large, stern-looking ladies from the turn of the last century wading, fully clothed, like hippos int
o the steaming bath waters. From there he and Mrs. Elksworthy ("Call me Mrs. E, everyone does") walked up a stone staircase to an area housing the modern-day indoor pool and spa. The azure pool water sparkled invitingly under recessed lighting.

  It was as they walked down the hall toward the main part of the castle that St. Just noticed an ancient wooden door to the right. A small plaque on the wall next to it read: Bottle Dungeon. The door opened at his touch with a satisfyingly ominous creak.

  "After you," said Mrs. Elksworthy, hugging herself in a mock shiver.

  A spiral stair led down to an empty, stone-walled room-empty except for a metal railing at the top of what appeared to be a literal hole in the ground. St. Just eased his way down the narrow steps, Joan Elksworthy at his heels. A cold, musty smell assailed their nostrils. They peered over the railing, from which point they could look far down into the cell. It was windowless, about ten feet square. A posted brochure to one side of the barricaded opening contained a diagram illustrating that the little prison cell featured such amenities as a latrine and a ventilation shaft. St. Just spotted the shaft high up on the wall, but it emitted no light.

  "'Prisoners were lowered into the dungeon by rope,'" Mrs. Elksworthy read aloud from the brochure, "'and the score marks of the ropes can still be seen in the stonework. Once in, there was no escape through the eleven-inch thick walls.'

  "How perfectly dreadful," she said. "And right here, practically in the dead center of the building. You'd think the screams would have kept everyone awake at night."

  Surely she was right-the prisoners must have disturbed the other denizens of the castle. But then St. Just realized that the remoteness of the dungeon, off what then must have been a little-traveled hallway at the bottom of the castle, probably muffled the cries.