Docketful of Poesy

by Diana Killian

  “You can do better? Be my guest,” Miles told her with a sweep of his hand.

  Roberta took her glass and considered. “This is an Irish toast taught to me by my old granny,” she said finally. “‘May we all be alive at this time next year.’”

  There was a silence.

  “At the rate things are going,” Todd said, “I’d be happy with next week.”

  We all laughed—with varying degrees of shakiness—and Norton said clearly and coldly from the doorway, “Well, if you want to blame someone, blame Friedman.”

  Miles stiffened, his face reddening. We all turned. Norton was framed in the doorway, holding the old hunting rifle that hung over the fireplace in the anteroom off the lobby.

  Roberta squeaked out something, Tracy said something very unladylike, and Todd called, “Not funny, mate.”

  “Not meant to be, mate,” Norton said shortly, and despite the crisp delivery, he was weaving as he stepped into the room.

  Guests at the other tables were jumping out of their chairs, some knocking them over in their haste, moving over to the side of the room or under tables. Todd’s hand fastened on my arm, pressing me to get down.

  “What’s your problem, Norton?” Miles demanded. “I’m in the same boat you are. I’m losing my shirt on this deal.”

  “Is that gun loaded?” Todd asked the stricken barmaid.

  “I don’t know,” she quavered.

  I couldn’t believe it was, but what a way to find out.

  “And it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy! After everything you’ve done. It’s your fault Mona’s dead —” But Norton’s words were cut short as several of the men who had maneuvered to the side of the room managed to get behind him. They rushed him together, and knocked him down on the floor. He kicked and wriggled furiously, convulsively squeezing the trigger, but nothing happened, and the rifle was wrested from his hand.

  Tracy was swearing quietly to my left under the table where Todd had shoved me down when the men jumped Norton. I glanced back at her quickly; her eyes met mine, then her expression changed.

  I looked back in time to see Norton being roughly hauled to his feet. Brian and two uniformed police officers appeared in the doorway.

  “What’s going on here?” Brian demanded in his best official tone. A number of the bar patrons began talking at once while Norton yelled and wrestled with his captors.

  “Typical,” Todd observed. “Never one when you need ’em.”

  I barely heard him as I pushed a chair out of my way, crawling out from under the table. I felt strangely shaky, but it wasn’t due to Norton so much as what I thought I’d seen in Tracy’s hand before she quickly turned away. I was almost positive she had been holding a gun.

  I got to my feet and said to her, “Do you have a gun?”

  She jerked around. “Who? Me?” She held up a small silver cell phone—laughing. “I was trying to call for help!”

  *****

  It was some time before I got back to my room. After Norton had been arrested, and we had all given our statements to the police, the remaining members of the Kismet Production Company had spent the next couple of hours getting sloshed and reliving our greatest moments in the bar downstairs.

  I could feel Tracy’s eyes on me, but each time I looked at her, she was smiling at Miles or talking to someone else.

  “When are you flying out?” I asked her.

  “Tomorrow. Tuesday.” She shrugged. “Maybe the next day. I haven’t quite decided.”

  That started another discussion as to whether everyone would have to come back for Norton’s trial—assuming he was brought to trial. I had spent a good forty-five minutes telling why I believed he had accidentally poisoned Mona. Inevitably, everyone began remembering instances of sinister behavior on Norton’s part, little things he’d said, odd expressions, generally suspicious behavior.

  “The police found a bottle of something that they’re speculating contained cyanide in the trash bin behind the inn,” Roberta said. “They’re going to dust for fingerprints. It’s hard to believe he could be that careless.”

  “Forget about love. It’s hate makes you do the wacky,” Tracy said. She smiled at Miles, who smiled twitchily back. He had been very quiet during my explanation of what I believed to be Norton’s motives.

  Finally, I escaped to my room to debate my next move. I considered going to Craddock House and talking to Peter again, but the conversation I envisioned was not one I wanted to have in front of Catriona. Of course, she might be off watching the Monkton Estate. Peter had said they were switching off, but if it were his turn to watch for Roget, all the more reason for me to steer clear of Craddock House.

  According to Angela Hornsby, her fiancé was arriving Monday or Tuesday, which I felt certain meant Peter and Catriona would make whatever move they intended tonight or tomorrow night. I sat down at the little table with all my books and notes, and tried to weigh the pros and cons of doing nothing. Even if I had believed that was the best alternative, it simply wasn’t in my nature.

  I was glad I had been careful not to drink much, as I believed I had a long night ahead of me. I phoned the library.

  After speaking at length—and as persuasively as I knew how—to Roy Blade, I called downstairs for a pot of coffee.

  Replacing the receiver, I picked up one of my books, settled back against the stack of pillows on the bed, and began to read the final chapter of L.E.L.’s life. And despite the night I had planned, before I knew it I was engrossed in my study.

  It seemed impossible to believe that a sensitive romantic like Landon, sheltered and sophisticated, the darling of the British reading public, could at the height of her fame and popularity happily resign herself to life in the wilds of Africa. Her letters home were full of little complaints and apologies, but always there was a certain reserve, an impenetrable façade of charm and wit and good humor that made light of what must have been exhausting and at times terrifying.

  Had she been truly happy in her marriage, it would no doubt have been different, but it seemed likely from the accounts of those around her, the journals and letters of the gentlemen observers on the Gold Coast, that she was married to a cold and distant man who viewed her attempts at housewifery and playing Governor’s lady with increasingly critical dissatisfaction.

  Though she had recently formed a friendship with young Bodie Cruickshank, the governor of the fort of Anamaboe, Landon was essentially on her own in the wilderness. Neglected by her husband, with months between communications from home, her only feminine companionship provided by Mrs. Bailey, the steward’s wife who had accompanied her to the Cape, she must certainly have been lonely and lost. Even if she loved MacLean, which seemed hard to believe, it must have occurred to her more than once to return home to England.

  But according to her two biographers, there was no turning back for Landon. Both took the view that her literary popularity had been on the wane, that she had worn out her welcome with London society, that her only choice was exile. The assumption there—and I personally felt it was a faulty one—was that popularity, both literary and personal—once lost could never be regained.

  Whether they were right or not, the brutal facts remained. On the morning following a small dinner party for Bodie Cruickshank, who was to sail that day for England—along with Mrs. Bailey, whose position as maid had been a temporary one—Laetitia Landon was found dying on the floor of her bedchamber, a bottle of prussic acid in her hand.

  Attempts made to revive her were in vain. She died without regaining consciousness and was buried that same evening following the most cursory of inquests. Enfield’s book offered the opinion that Landon had committed suicide; Ashton proposed that she had taken the poison by mistake—her doctor had apparently prescribed a few drops of hydrocyanic acid for heart spasms. All London—and her friends and family in particular—believed she had been murdered by MacLean.

  The truth could never be known; Landon remained as enigmatic in death as she had be
en in life. Perhaps the greatest tragedy was that her work became overshadowed with her colorful life and mysterious death.

  I closed Ashton’s Letty Landon. Choices and consequences: That was life. Roberta and Miles had made choices; Mona, Walter Christie, and, to some extent, Norton Edam suffered the consequences. Gordon Roget, Todd, Tracy, Angela Hornsby, the February brothers, Cordelia, Catriona, Brian…Peter—we had all made choices and were facing the consequences. Landon’s life, my life…and the lives of those we loved and who loved us. Decisions and destiny. It seemed ironic that we had all been brought to this time and place by an unseen hand running something called Kismet Production Company.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Not that I’m not flattered,” Roy Blade said, staring through binoculars at the silent house across the vast green sward, “but why me?”

  “It was you or Cordelia,” I informed him, “and it’s a school night for her.”

  “Nice to see you’ve retained your priorities, Ms Hollister.”

  I leaned forward, pushing aside branches of the tree we perched in. “Did you see something move? Over by the terrace...”

  Blade trained the binoculars on the end of the long brick terrace. “Hmm. Yes.”

  “Hmm, yes what?”

  “It looks like someone is skulking behind that tall urn.”

  My heart sank. Peter and Catriona were apparently going ahead with whatever their plan was…and whatever their plan was, I was quite sure it was neither safe nor legal. “Can you see who it is?”

  He made a dismissive sound. “All cat burglars are gray in the dark.”

  “There will be two of them,” I said. “They always worked as a team.” There was a certain pain in facing it: that in this, Peter had turned to Catriona, that in this they were still one. And somehow reminding myself that both of them had slightly askew—or in her case, totally polarized—moral compasses, didn’t really make me feel better.

  Blade said, “I don’t see anyone else. They picked a good night for it. It’s black as pitch out there.”

  “Let’s get down,” I said, cautiously shifting position on the sturdy branch where I was sitting.

  “And do what?” he inquired, still peering through the field glasses.

  “I don’t know. Get a closer look?”

  “Are you sure you really want to see this?”

  Was I? I opened my mouth, but he said suddenly, “Hang about.” He leaned forward, refocusing the binoculars. “Someone’s coming out.”

  “What do you mean ‘coming out’?”

  “Someone just opened the French doors onto the terrace.”

  “You mean one of them is already inside the house?”

  In answer he pushed the binoculars my way. I brought them up to my eyes, staring at the terrace brought suddenly into giant and crystalline view. A tall man with fair hair stood outside the glass doors talking to another tall, slim figure in black. For a confused moment I thought it must be Peter and Catriona, but then I realized the man was older than Peter, his hair silver, not blond, and his face bland and lined in place of Peter’s clever, elegant features.

  I watched the man’s mouth moving as he spoke briefly to the shadowed figure in black. I couldn’t tell who that tall, thin outline—hair and face concealed by a black cap—belonged to, but the figure nodded and slipped away down the terrace. I followed him—or her—until it vanished into the shadows.

  Robinson/Roget disappeared inside the house, closing the door and drawing the draperies across.

  “What was that about?” I murmured.

  “She’s heading for the carriage house.”

  “She?”

  Blade raised a burly shoulder. “Maybe not. Very slight build, very fast.”

  “Catriona,” I said.

  Blade reached out and I handed back the binoculars. “Yeah. She’s going inside the carriage house.”

  “They’re up to something,” I muttered, and Blade began spluttering.

  “I mean, I know they’re up to something,” I said. “But I’m guessing they’ve set up some kind of trap.” And suddenly it made sense to me. Of course Catriona hadn’t forgiven Peter. She was merely pretending to be helping him against Roget, but in fact she was working with Roget, and now the trap was about to be sprung.

  “We need to get down there,” I said.

  To my relief Blade seemed to feel my urgency. He dropped from the tree, landing with a heavy thud and reaching up a hand to me as I clambered down more cautiously.

  Quietly, carefully we made our way past the mounds of fountain grasses, skirting ornamental ponds, then cutting through the woods to the edge of the lawn.

  Blade caught my arm. “Wait. There —”

  Kneeling in the wet grass, we watched as the front door of the house opened, and a lone figure, Roget surely, in a parka came down the stairs and started across the lawn towards the carriage house. He strode briskly, casually without any effort at concealment.

  “We can go around the back,” Blade said.

  I nodded.

  We turned, and started back, keeping to the edge of the prettified copse of trees, holding to the deep shadows. The carriage house was lost to view as we crossed behind the main house. I felt a frantic need to hurry. I felt certain Peter was being set up, that any minute he was going to walk into an ambush. Horrifying images came to mind as I pictured Roget shooting him as a trespasser. I could too easily imagine Brian and Chief Constable Heron swallowing some story about Peter coming to rob the place or Roget having to act in self-defense.

  It seemed to take forever, but it could have only been a few minutes before Blade and I arrived—I, somewhat out of breath—at the old carriage house. Silently, Blade indicated that we should move to the back entrance, which we did, creeping along the side of the building. There was no sound from inside, but I could see the wavering light of a lantern through the silvered glass of the windows.

  We reached a side door, and Blade eased it open, one rusty centimeter at a time. At each squeak, we froze; but the wind was strong that night, and the old building creaked and groaned with phantom pains.

  When the opening was just wide enough, Blade gestured for me to wait, and he squeezed through. I watched him silently cross the sawdust-littered floor to the side of an empty box stall. He crouched down, staring around the corner of the stall. After a moment, he turned to me and gestured for me to come ahead.

  Slipping into the musty shadows of the building, I sneaked across to where Blade knelt. Wordlessly, he pointed down the aisle of stalls and tack rooms. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the uncertain light. At the far end of the building, I could see Roget sitting on a hay bale. He was smoking a pipe, and in the flickering light of the lantern next to him, he looked perfectly relaxed.

  But then he had an ace up his sleeve.

  I said, forming the words almost soundlessly, “She’s in here somewhere.”

  Blade nodded, and pointed up to the second level. I moved my head in acknowledgement. But if Catriona were lying in wait up there she was not doing a very good job by letting us creep inside the building. Not that I was complaining.

  We waited.

  The smell of pipe smoke mingled with the faded scents of leather, sawdust, and horse. Overhead, a floorboard creaked once and was silent.

  Time passed. I could hear my wristwatch ticking. Next to me, Roy Blade breathed softly, evenly, his muscular shoulder brushing mine. His profile was intent on the front of the carriage house. Feeling my gaze, he turned and smiled at me. I managed to smile back, although I felt much more tension than he apparently did. But then everything that mattered to him was not at stake.

  And then the double doors pushed open, and Peter walked in. He seemed to carry the freshness and energy of the night with him, startling in the musty chill of the old building. The lamplight caught the gleam of his hair and eyes, although he stood partly in shadow—and I didn’t think he took that position by chance.

  “Peter Fox,” Roget greete
d him. He had a pleasant, cultured voice. “We meet again. At long last.”

  Peter’s thin mouth curled. “Gordon Roget. Or, I gather, George Robinson these days.”

  “I prefer Robinson, yes. I must say, you look disconcertingly well,” Roget remarked. “But then you always did have more lives than a cat.”

  “Speaking of which, Catriona sends her greetings.”

  “Does she?” Roget didn’t sound too interested in that.

  Peter said conversationally, “I admit I’m surprised. I didn’t think you’d show.”

  “You didn’t give me much choice,” Roget said. “Blackmail is a new line for you, isn’t it?”

  “One must move with the times. And I move faster when someone tries to kill me.”

  “That was…perhaps a mistake on my part. I didn’t realize at the time you might be open to negotiation.”

  “Does it mean that much to you?” Peter inquired. “Marriage? The quiet, comfortable life of a country squire?”

  Roget shrugged. “Once again you’ve underestimated me. Now can we get down to business? What is it you want?”

  “Fourteen months of my life back. Or, failing that, the Serpent’s Egg.”

  Roget looked pained. “My dear boy, you must know the jewel went long ago to finance any number of lucrative business endeavors. Now if it’s money you want —”

  “But it’s not. Like you, I’ve done quite well for myself. Well, not quite like you. I never had to betray anyone. Let alone commit murder to buy myself peace of mind.”

  “Spare me the sermon,” Roget said. “I don’t have the stone.”

  Peter seemed to consider him in the hazy light. “I don’t think I believe you.”

  Roget drawled, “That’s because you’re a romantic fool, and you always were. The fact that you even undertook such a job...” He shook his head in amusement. “In itself, the stone meant nothing to me. But the money from its sale bought me the world.”

  “That is unfortunate,” Peter said, “because the stone was the only thing you had that I wanted. And now your world is in my hand.” And he made a little motion as though he were emptying his hand.