Docketful of Poesy

by Diana Killian

  “Poison. That’s clear enough,” Chief Constable Heron said. “Though it’ll be a few days before we know what kind of poison.”

  “It was something that acted almost instantly, from what Cordelia said,” I told him.

  “Yes, we’ve got the young lady’s statement.”

  With the privilege of being—literally—to the manor born, Cordelia had been questioned first and was now tucked up in bed upstairs with a hot water bottle, a cup of cocoa, and a couple of nice sedatives.

  I, on the other hand, was still sitting in Lady Vee’s elegant study several hours after the tragedy. A fire had been laid in the grate, and a tea tray—much less sumptuous than the one provided earlier—sat on the table where Chief Constable Heron and DI Brian Drummond, both my friends very much in their official capacities, were making notes.

  Naturally the police had to question each of us before allowing anyone to leave the estate. Not everyone was taking this in civic-minded spirit. I was lucky. I’d been brought in to the study almost immediately. Not that I ever looked forward to being interviewed by the police, but it was even more nerve-racking with all of us crowded in the drawing room under the watchful eye of a young constable—forbidden to talk about the thing on every mind.

  Having numbly answered most of Brian’s and the chief constable’s questions, there wasn’t a lot I could add to whatever they had already learned. I had only known Mona a few days; my relationship with her had been friendly but not close, although I’d liked her very much. As far as I knew, everyone did. I’d seen nothing to indicate she hadn’t got on well with the entire cast.

  “She found her flask right before we left the inn. It had been missing for a day or so—but it wasn’t the first time. She was always losing it. And it was always turning up.”

  “Where did it turn up this time?” Brian asked, topping off Heron’s teacup and then his own.

  “On the fireplace mantel in the little room next to the lobby of the Hound and Harrier. But that’s exactly where someone might leave it if they found it and there was no one at the desk. Or Mona could have set it there herself.”

  “Was this Ms. Hotchkiss especially forgetful?” Heron asked. He was a large man with a waxed mustache and shrewd, black-cherry eyes. He could easily have played the master detective in any number of Mystery! productions. Through the years we had forged a cordial if occasionally adversarial relationship.

  “I didn’t have that impression. Maybe a little absentminded about where she’d left her jacket or set her purse.”

  “Did she keep the flask in her purse?”

  “No, she didn’t. She usually carried it in one of her pockets. She had an enormous suitcase of a purse, but she rarely bothered bringing it with her—partly because it was so big and unwieldy. I think that’s why she tended to forget it when she did lug it somewhere.”

  “And this silver flask that she was always drinking from: what was in it?”

  “Some kind of special homemade energy juice—she was very health-conscious.” My throat closed unexpectedly. It took a moment before I was able to say, “She called it her ‘magic elixir.’ I can’t remember everything that she said went into it. White ginseng, juniper berries, that kind of thing.”

  Brian glanced at Heron. “I’ve heard of juniper berries making someone ill. Never killing them. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time someone accidentally poisoned herself with a herbal home remedy.”

  I have to admit, the idea that Mona might have accidentally poisoned herself had simply never occurred to me. And what a sad state of affairs that was: that every death appeared to me to be suspicious.

  I said, “She seemed very knowledgeable about homeopathic remedies and herbal medicine, but I suppose those are the very people who are most vulnerable to that kind of accident.”

  Heron, studying me, said, “What’s really bothering you, Grace?”

  “One too many accidents,” I admitted, and told him about Walter Christie dying in an unsolved hit-and-run on Highland Avenue.

  “Two violent and unexplained deaths,” Brian commented. His tone was neutral, but I could see him thinking it over.

  “There’s something strange about this whole production,” I told them, warming to my subject. “I spent hours this morning researching on the Web, but I couldn’t find any history on the production company, and this film is apparently their first.”

  “That’s not conclusive,” Brian said. “Just because this is their first project doesn’t mean they’re not legitimate.”

  “But there are all kinds of weird things. Almost no one really seems to know what they’re doing. Granted, I don’t know a lot about making movies, but they seem to be making this up as they go along. I mean, frankly, hiring me as a script doctor was strange.”

  Brian said, “I don’t see anything strange about it. The script was based on your book. Who better to doctor it?”

  “That’s not how it works,” I said. “They should have—ordinarily would have—hired someone with scriptwriting experience. Writing a book is a very different thing, especially since my book was nonfiction. But they practically insisted that I take this project on.”

  “They?”

  “Roberta Lom, the producer. And possibly the director, Miles Friedman, is in on it, too.”

  Brian exchanged a glance with the Chief Constable who was watching me in that quiet, thoughtful way of his. “In on it?”

  “They’re paying me an exorbitant amount of money to work on this script.”

  “And you see that as sinister?”

  “I see it as unusual. Improbable. Strange. And even more strange is moving the production over here after starting in California. It must be costing a fortune, and this is not the kind of movie that gets a large budget. There isn’t any possibility of Kismet making its investment back, I don’t think.”

  “Perhaps it’s a tax deduction,” Heron said. “Perhaps they expect to lose money on it. Perhaps they need to lose money on it.”

  As in the classic film The Producers? I considered the idea, but dismissed it. “There’s something not right,” I said. “I don’t know that it ties into two accidental deaths—maybe Walter and Mona really did die accidental deaths—but something is…off.”

  Heron pulled his pipe out, took time to light it. “You’ve given us something to consider, Grace,” he said politely at last. “You can safely leave it in our hands.”

  *****

  Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it!

  I was surprised Chief Constable Heron had refrained from just saying it out loud. Clearly he and Brian both thought I was paranoid. Or, at the least, borderline hysterical. And I hadn’t even admitted the worst of my suspicions: that the only reason the production of Dangerous to Know had been moved to the Lakes was so that I’d have no excuse for not taking part, so that I would remain part of the project.

  Which, even I had to admit, made no sense at all. Not that I agreed with Peter; I happened to think my first book made a terrific subject for a film. A documentary would have been preferable, but as fiction, it wasn’t any worse a subject for a feature film than A.S. Byatt’s Possessed.

  Still, as little as I wanted to concede the point, there did seem to be something very wrong with this film production. And as much as I’d have liked to think that perhaps Mona had tragically mixed up her herbs, I just couldn’t quite make myself believe it. Not that I was thinking clearly; I still felt cold with shock. I’d liked Mona. In fact, she was about the only cast member I really had liked.

  “What did the police ask you?” Roberta’s voice jarred me out of my reflections. We were packed into the back seat of Tracy’s rental car. We had all given our statements to the police, and Miles was driving the four of us back to the inn. He and Tracy had spent most of the drive speaking in low voices in the front seat. This was the first comment Roberta had made since we left the estate.

  I answered, “Probably the same questions they asked everyone. Did Mona have any enemies,
did she argue with anyone, did she seem afraid or nervous.”

  “That’s odd,” Tracy said, turning in the front seat to stare. “They hinted to me that they thought her death might have been accidental.”

  “Same here,” Miles said.

  “I think I gave them that idea when I told them what Mona kept in her flask.”

  “But you don’t think it was an accident?” Roberta asked.

  “I have no idea,” I answered, equally terse.

  They continued to discuss it amongst themselves, and by the time we reached the Hound and Harrier they all seemed convinced that Mona’s death was a tragic mistake. I left them to reinforce their relief in the taproom, and went upstairs to call Peter.

  The answering machine picked up. I checked the clock on the night table. It was nearly nine-thirty, but Peter rarely went to bed before midnight. His sleep patterns were erratic at best, and he hadn’t mentioned going out for the night.

  In fact, he had mentioned he would see me that evening.

  Which could be construed as an invitation. Did I really need an invitation? Weren’t we going to be “making a go of it” any minute? Whatever that meant to him.

  I washed up, tidied my hair, changed my clothes, and tried phoning again. Again it went straight to the machine.

  I began to get irritated. I didn’t want to be on my own that night—not after the trauma of the day. And I wanted to talk my suspicions over with Peter. I wanted him to either reassure me that I was imagining things or convince me that I was justified in fearing the worst.

  Could he have been held up at the Honourable Angela’s this late? It seemed unlikely, even given his masculine charms and the susceptibility of middle-aged ladies.

  Had he made other plans for the evening? It was possible, but one thing about Peter: he was scrupulous about keeping his bookings straight. No doubt a skill developed in order to make his life of crime more manageable. No, he might have been held up, but he wouldn’t forget our plans for the evening, and he wouldn’t cancel them without a word.

  Not that I really needed to wait for Peter to reiterate that I was welcome in his home. After all, I had a key. Both to Rogue’s Gallery and Craddock House. And he’d said he would see me that evening….

  I recalled Cordelia’s guilty, uncomfortable look at tea—it seemed a lifetime ago—when Lady Vee hinted that Peter hadn’t really expected me to return to the Lake District. That he had resumed his old ways.

  I never thought of myself as particularly insecure, but something about Peter and his history of relationships—which always struck me as more on the lines of a romantic epic—made me uncharacteristically hesitant to assert my…rights. “Rights” didn’t even seem like the proper word for my position in Peter’s life. It was all so undefined, and I hated things to be left undefined.

  Rising from the bed, I began tossing clothes and makeup into my overnight bag. After I’d tossed in my books on Laetitia Landon, I tried phoning one last time.

  And again it went straight to the machine. I didn’t leave a message. At this point I was liable to sound desperate.

  Instead I carried my bag downstairs, sneaking past the taproom where the mood, even from the doorway, seemed grim. I realized I would never be able to think of Irish coffee again without being reminded of Mona.

  Letting myself out of the inn, I walked across the grass, a light frost crunching beneath my shoes, my breath smoking in the wintery night air. The car park was filled, moisture beading windshields and the tops of cars. I’d parked down at the end near the little copse that separated the car park from the footpath leading to the river.

  It was very quiet. I could hear the street lamps buzzing through the rustle of the trees, and the distant trumpeting of the swans on the river—and someone groaning.

  It was an eerie sound, freezing me in my tracks.

  “Is someone there?” I called.

  Silence.

  Of course, in books and films it’s always so annoying if the protagonist doesn’t instantly run for help at the first sign of something out of the ordinary, but in real life none of us do that. No one wants to appear foolish or cowardly. It’s one thing if there’s a tangible threat, but just a little groan? Especially when the groan sounds like someone or something in pain?

  After an undecided heartbeat, I started down the long line of cars, keys clutched between my fingers weapon-like, checking to see if someone had hit a dog or if an elderly person had fallen.

  I saw the cowboy hat lying just beyond the front fender of Tracy’s rental car—and I knew immediately.

  Hurrying down the aisle of fenders, I leaned over the silver hood, and there lay Miles Friedman face down in the gravel. Even in the stuttering lamp light I could see the dark, wet patch on the back of his head.

  I knelt down, putting my hand to his throat, feeling for the jugular, and I could feel a faint pulse tripping away beneath my fingertips.

  He moaned again, and I nearly overbalanced in my surprise.

  “Miles, can you hear me?”

  There was no answer, and I rose, staring at the shadowy corners of the car park, the rows of unmoving vehicles. One thing for certain, this was not an accident, and I was afraid that if I left Miles even for the time it would take to run back to the inn, whoever had attacked him might take the opportunity to finish the job.

  Of course Miles’s assailant might be long gone—was hopefully long gone—but what if not? I gave it a moment’s thought, then I stepped over Miles and tried jamming my key in the rental car door lock. As I’d hoped, it triggered the car alarm, electronic wailing shattering the peaceful night.

  Before long one of the waiters from the inn’s restaurant strode outside. I waved to him, and as he approached, holding his ears, I shouted and pointed down at Miles.

  In a matter of minutes the parking lot was full of people, and an ambulance had been summoned.

  The police were also called, and as Miles was carted off, still unconscious, to the nearest hospital, I found myself once again facing Brian across a table.

  He looked tired and very grim.

  “Do you still think my imagination is running away with me?” I asked before he had a chance to do more than jot down a couple of notes on the little blue pad he was never without.

  He sighed and put his pen down. “Explain to me once more what you were doing in a car park at ten o’clock at night.”

  “I was on my way to Craddock House.”

  His mouth tightened. “I see. And you heard Friedman groaning, so instead of going for help —”

  I also sighed—not very patiently. “I heard the sound of something in pain. It could have been an animal for all I knew. There wasn’t any reason to suspect foul play.”

  “No? Yet you’re the one who this very afternoon was suggesting that Kismet Production Company is the front for some nefarious activity.”

  Was that what I had been suggesting? I suppose it was, although I hadn’t thought of it in exactly those terms.

  “But I didn’t make that connection at that moment. I just heard what sounded like a groan or a moan, and then I noticed Miles’s hat lying out in the open. And a moment later I spotted Miles.”

  He knew all the rest of it. “You didn’t see anyone when you first walked outside? Did you pass anyone? Was anyone coming inside the inn as you were going out?”

  “No.” I thought about it. “I glanced inside the bar as I was walking past, and I saw Roberta and Todd sitting at a table.”

  “Did you notice anyone else?”

  “It was just a split-second look. I barely stopped. Everyone could have been in there; I just happened to see Roberta and Todd.”

  “And once you left the inn?”

  “I didn’t notice anyone. I think I would have because it went through my mind how quiet it was.”

  Apparently that should have been my tip-off that evil was afoot, because Brian gave me another of those disapproving looks. I have to admit, however, his next words caught me off guard.<
br />
  “Where’s Peter Fox?”

  I stared at him, trying to decipher what those words meant. They couldn’t possibly mean what it sounded like.

  “I don’t understand,” I said finally.

  “It’s a simple question. Where’s Fox? Were you supposed to meet him somewhere?”

  I said slowly and carefully, “I was on my way to Craddock House. I—tried phoning him earlier and he didn’t answer. Are you saying he’s—what are you saying?”

  Brian’s eyes held an expression I’d never seen before. He said bluntly, “We found the February brothers. They were in the barn behind their house. They’d been there for several days—how many we’re not sure yet.”

  “They’re dead?” I said. I knew it was a silly question even as I got the words out of my very dry mouth.

  “Oh,” Brian said with a cold smile, “very dead.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  One thing I’ve learned—learned the hard way—is that while people sometimes disappoint, good poetry never does.

  When I finally separated from Brian on that long, horrible night, I went up to my room and tried one last time to phone Peter. The phone rang and rang and then the machine picked up.

  I replaced the receiver quietly.

  For a long time I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to make sense of this latest news bulletin from hell. One thing I had no doubt about: I didn’t believe for one second that Peter had killed the February brothers. I didn’t even think that Brian really believed it. He just wanted to convince himself of Peter’s guilt on general principles—sort of like when the U.S. government goes after mob bosses for tax fraud. Although, assuming Peter was a killer because of his larcenous past seemed to me a stretch.

  Certainly, I didn’t believe him capable of cold-blooded murder, and it couldn’t have been self-defense because he was far too pragmatic to have tried to tackle the Februarys on his own. Which didn’t explain where he was or why he’d disappeared.

  Assuming he had disappeared voluntarily. Brian refused to entertain any other possibility, but the Februarys had allegedly tried to kill Peter. Twice.