Faked to Death

by Dean James

  Naturally, Harbaugh was a huge success, having won all the major awards in the mystery field. His gritty, no-holds-barred noir style tickled the critics and many of his peers, who touted Harbaugh’s brand of realism as the ultimate expression of literary crime fiction. Feminists hated him because there were no intelligent women in his books; they were all bimbos, sluts, or whores, and they died in very unpleasant ways.

  As Miss Putney stood quivering before him, Harbaugh reached out a hand and stroked her cheek. In addition to the nastiness he exuded, Harbaugh also gave off an aura of raw sexual energy. I felt Miss Putney respond, though reluctantly. There must be a story here, I thought.

  “Oh, Dexter,” Miss Putney moaned piteously. “Say you didn’t mean it! Say you’d never hurt Mr. Murbles.”

  Harbaugh let out an exasperated breath. “Oh, you and your bloody rabbit!” He finally deigned to notice me. “Who the hell is this, Pattikins? Your latest?”

  “Simon Kirby-Jones,” I said coolly, extending a hand.

  Harbaugh took it, then winced as I exerted pressure. His eyes widened, and he examined me with new interest. He flexed his fingers as he withdrew his hand from mine. “Hermione mentioned you just now,” Harbaugh said. “You’re a historian, she said.”

  I inclined my head. “My specialty is medieval England. Lady Hermione kindly invited me here to speak on the subject of historical fiction and research methods.”

  Harbaugh rolled his eyes. “Men dancing about in costumes, waving their swords, and women swooning at their feet. Surely you don’t encourage that sort of mindlessness.” He fixed Miss Putney with a pointed stare. “But the feminine mind, such as it is, seems to revel in all sorts of romantic nonsense.”

  What a prat, I thought. “Yes, the masculine mind is much tougher. It has to be concerned with convincing all and sundry of the size of its nether parts by beating up everyone in sight. Not to mention dehumanizing women and brutalizing anyone the least bit different.”

  I smiled sweetly as I said it, but I resisted the temptation to wink. Harbaugh reddened but forbore to respond. He pushed his way past me and Miss Putney and stalked away. I heard him clomping his way upstairs moments later as I offered Miss Putney my arm and escorted her into the drawing room to greet Lady Hermione.

  Miss Putney had, to my great relief, stopped sniveling and greeted Lady Hermione and her timorous assistant, Mary Monkley, with a tremulous smile.

  Lady Hermione wasted no time on the social amenities and instead barked out, “About time you got here! Monkley has your schedules, and if you’ve any questions, you will confer with her. Deviations from the schedule will cause problems, so tell her immediately if you discover any conflict.”

  Staring at the floor, Miss Monkley thrust a sheaf of papers in my general direction as my head began to ache. I had forgotten to stuff cotton in my ears to counteract the blast of Lady Hermione’s voice, and I could feel a dull throb beginning between my eyes.

  “Thank you, Lady Hermione, Miss Monkley,” I said. “I shall examine these with all care and let you know if I see any potential problems. If, however, I might do so in my room, I’d very much appreciate it.”

  “Certainly,” Lady Hermione boomed.

  Miss Putney blew her nose on a handkerchief. “Hermione, dear, I really must get settled in my room. Mr. Murbles has had an upset, and he must have time to cleanse himself of the nasty negative energy to which he has been exposed.”

  “By all means,” Lady Hermione said, and to my surprise, her pitch had softened to a normal level. “You and Mr. Murbles are in your favorite room. Would you mind terribly, my dear, showing Dr. Kirby-Jones his room? He is in the Gold Room, across the hall from you.” She turned to me, and her decibel level rose with each syllable. “Your assistant, young Blitherington, will be in the dressing room attached to yours, Dr. Kirby-Jones. I trust he will find it sufficiently comfortable.”

  “No doubt he will,” I said, though I wanted to suggest putting Giles farther away from me. There was no telling what he might try with the two of us in such proximity over the coming week. He really was incorrigible—and determined to get what he thought he wanted.

  After sketching a courtly bow at Lady Hermione and Miss Monkley, I followed Miss Putney from the room. The hallway was empty, and I figured Giles had gone on ahead to our rooms to begin unpacking. Glancing at my watch as I followed Miss Putney, I saw that it was time for one of the handy little pills that makes being a vampire a much less sanguinary task these days. Thanks to the marvels of modern science, three pills a day keep me from having, horror of horrors, to bite anyone on the neck and consume blood to maintain my existence. Those little pharmaceutical wonders, invented by government scientists back in the good old U.S. of A.—scientists who just happened to be vampires themselves, if you must know—have freed us from being creatures of the night and having to scurry from coffin to coffin, avoiding stake-wielding villagers and the like. I can no longer turn myself into a bat and fly, but who wants to be a bat, anyway?

  Miss Putney, once we had reached the first floor, broke off her low-voiced conversation with Mr. Murbles long enough to point me toward the door of the Gold Room. I thanked her, and she smiled. With her help, Mr. Murbles waggled a paw in my direction. Evidently, he had already begun to cleanse himself of some of the negative energy; otherwise, I doubt he would have remembered his manners.

  Or maybe I just bring out the best in stuffed animals.

  My headache now gone, I opened the door to my room, then stood there, awestruck.

  Imagine, if you will, what a room in an establishment of a certain kind, circa 1890, must have looked like. You know, the kind of establishment that catered to the appetites of repressed Victorian husbands seeking the type of attentions that their angels of the hearth had been told no good woman even knew about, much less desired to perform. There was gold everywhere: gold carpet, gold draperies, gold coverlets, pillows, and upholstery, occasionally relieved by red with dashes of green. Nearly everything had a fringe of some sort, and if it had no fringe, it had tassels. The wallpaper was gold with a pattern of blood-red flowers, and the furniture was gilt.

  “Now I’m beginning to understand,” Giles said from across the room, “why Kinsale House is very rarely featured in any of the leading design magazines.”

  I shut the door behind me. “It’s perfectly hideous, isn’t it?”

  “Too bordello for words.” Giles laughed. “Wait till I tell Mummy about this!”

  “I wouldn’t,” I said. “Next thing you know, she’ll want to redo your ancestral manor to look just like it.”

  “Point well taken.” He laughed again. He beckoned me toward the doorway in which he stood. “Thankfully, my own little nook is Spartan by comparison.”

  Crossing the room, dodging around the canopied bed, I came to stand beside him. The dressing room, only about a quarter the size of the bedchamber, was sparsely and plainly furnished. “Small, but much easier on the eyes—and the stomach,” I said.

  “You’re welcome to join me, Simon,” he said, one arm snaking around my waist. “The bed’s a bit small, but no doubt it could accommodate two, if you find yourself overwhelmed by the horrors of your room.”

  “I won’t be able to see it with the lights off,” I said lightly, moving away from him. I could hear the intake of an exasperated breath, but he ought to be used to it by now. “Patience, Giles, patience.”

  “So you keep saying, Simon,” he said, offering me a cheeky grin.

  “Finish your unpacking while I take care of mine,” I said, smiling briefly in return. “Then we’ll go down and meet the rest of the guests.”

  In about twenty minutes I had my clothes and various other articles neatly stowed away. Someone at Kinsale House had thoughtfully provided several bottles of water and a tray of clean glassware, so I didn’t have to head down the hall to the loo to get drinking water. I couldn’t forget my little pill any longer.

  While I waited for Giles to finish—he’s a bit of a tidin
ess freak and must have things just so—I sorted through the stack of partial manuscripts I’d been asked to evaluate. I had meant to tackle them before arriving at Kinsale House, but I hadn’t found the energy to do so. I’d have to read and critique them tonight, while everyone else was in the land of Nod. I could probably get through the nine I had been given by morning.

  “I must say, Simon,” Giles said, coming to stand near the bed where I had perched, “you are gazing upon those manuscripts with all the enthusiasm of the Labour Party welcoming Margaret Thatcher at a fundraiser.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve done this once or twice before, Giles, and I have a good idea what to expect. One of them, if I’m lucky, will be quite good. Most will be mediocre at best, and one or two will probably be perfectly dreadful. The trick is to offer sound criticism without destroying a writer’s fragile ego.”

  “If they’re that dreadful,” Giles said, “think of it as euthanasia.”

  “I’m sure the writers would be most comforted to hear you say that,” I said wryly, standing up. “Enough of that. Let’s wend our way back downstairs. After having met Miss Putney, Mr. Murbles, and Dexter Harbaugh, I’m desperately curious to see what other delightful personalities are on hand for the week.”

  Giles was curious about Dexter Harbaugh, and as we proceeded out into the hall I gave him a quick precis of my encounter with the nasty Mr. H. As we approached the stairs, one of the doors near them opened, and a stately elderly woman, followed by a younger portly man several inches shorter than she, stepped in front of us. She was so involved in her conversation with her companion that she failed to take note of Giles and me.

  “What you say could be true, George, but that doesn’t alter my feelings in the least. I shall say it again. I’ll see the bitch in hell first!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Afterward, I could have dined out on the story that Isabella Veryan, grande dame of the British crime novel, had uttered a vulgarity. After all, one doesn’t expect such language from the woman who is one of the world’s most revered mystery writers. Though on occasion one of her characters has used such a word, these instances are all the more shocking for their infrequency—something Dexter Harbaugh might consider.

  With remarkable composure Miss Veryan faced Giles and me. “I do beg your pardon,” she said, her voice frosty.

  “But of course, Miss Veryan,” I said in my smoothest tones, before she could launch into an explanation or a further apology. “What a pleasure it is to meet you! I’m a great admirer of your work, and I have been looking forward to telling you, in person, how many hours of pleasure your books have given me.”

  “Thank you,” she said, the frost melting noticeably. “One never tires of hearing such words. But I fear you have the advantage of me.”

  “I beg your pardon,” I said. “I should have introduced myself properly. Simon Kirby-Jones, historian, at your service, Miss Veryan. And may I present my assistant, Giles Blitherington?”

  Giles clasped the proffered hand and smiled with every ounce of his considerable charm as he murmured a greeting. She thawed even further.

  Beside her, her diminutive companion was growing restive. Miss Veryan collected herself and released Giles’s hand. I’d have to tease him later about his latest conquest.

  “George Austen-Hare,” said Miss Veryan’s companion, his voice booming out. “How d’ye do?” He shook hands in turn with Giles and me.

  “Again, it’s a great pleasure, sir,” I said, gazing down into his eyes. “I have spent many an hour visiting one exotic locale after another in your company. Your books have an incredible sense of place.” Giles and I were batting a thousand in the charm department this afternoon. Austen-Hare beamed as widely as Miss Veryan had done, and I noted with amusement that he couldn’t resist casting her a triumphant glance.

  They made an odd couple: she, tall and thin; he, short and chubby. He could have gotten steady work as a garden gnome if he ever got desperate, but a string of best-selling novels had made that unlikely. Under the name of Victoria Whitney-Stewart he wrote tales of romance and intrigue set all over the world. In his books intrepid young women, seeking their place in the world, encountered danger at every turn but somehow managed to survive, and in the end walked off into the sunset of Happily Ever After with a handsome man. Austen-Hare had only recently admitted to the pseudonym, and the news that a former London postman had penned these books had been a nine-days’ wonder in the literary world. His sales had shot up even further. Nina Yaknova, his agent and mine, had no doubt been delighted that her publicity campaign had paid off so handsomely.

  “Delighted,” said Austen-Hare, his voice gruff with pleasure. He all but preened in front of us. “Great fun, writing those books, don’t ye know.”

  “And they’re even more fun to read,” I assured him, and I swear his chest puffed up even further.

  “Kirby-Jones,” Miss Veryan said in a reflective tone, examining me as one might a specimen under a microscope. “Ah, yes, that marvelous biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine. You write history, Dr. Kirby-Jones, as entertainingly as one writes fiction. Quite a knack you have.”

  Now it was my turn to preen a bit. I’m not in the least immune to flattery, especially coming from so august a source. “Thank you, Miss Veryan. I’m delighted to know that you’ve read my work.”

  “Tedious woman,” Austen-Hare sniffed, and I wasn’t sure whether he was referring to Miss Veryan or that long-dead queen. Either way, it was rude.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, my tone stiff with umbrage.

  “Coming our way,” Austen-Hare muttered. “Down the hall.”

  We turned as one, and approaching us from the other end of the hall, jerking along like a stork with sore feet, came a vision in iridescent silk. Her parti-colored dress dazzled our eyes, and a wave of cloying, overly sweet perfume reached us several feet ahead of the woman herself. She wormed her way in between Miss Veryan and Austen-Hare and stopped, beaming at each of us in turn. Not so tall as Miss Veryan, she yet loomed over Austen-Hare, on whom her gaze came to rest adoringly. “How lovely to find you all here—especially you, Mr. Austen-Hare. You are such an inspiration to us all, you know.”

  Her voice, textbook nasal, had ambitions of Oxbridge, carefully layered over a bedrock of broad Yorkshire. The combination was disconcerting, and Miss Veryan winced.

  “Norah, what a pleasure,” Austen-Hare said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. “Should have figured you’d be here. You always are.”

  Giles and I waited for someone to do the polite thing, but Miss Veryan seemed overcome and had stepped away, while Austen-Hare continued to gaze balefully at the newcomer.

  Suppressing a sigh, I stuck out my hand. “How do you do? I’m Simon Kirby-Jones, and this is Giles Blitherington.”

  She wrenched her attention away from Austen-Hare and focused on me. “Norah Tattersall,” she said, grasping my hand in a firm grip. “Miss Norah Tattersall. Very pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.” She batted her eyelashes at Giles. “And what do you write?”

  I explained my presence at the conference, and Giles confessed, modestly for him, to being my assistant.

  “I’m sure your lecture will be terribly interesting, Mr. Kirby-Jones,” Norah Tattersall said, beaming at me. “Dear Lady Hermione never asks anyone who isn’t absolutely top drawer. Perhaps you shall inspire me to try my hand at historical fiction. Deciding on a period is such a trial, though. There are so many fascinating times in history that one could explore, and I’m rather afraid I should have a hard time settling on just the right one.”

  Miss Veryan suppressed a sound suspiciously like a snort, while Austen-Hare coughed. “That can indeed be a trial, Miss Tattersall,” I said.

  “How is your novel these days, Norah?” Miss Veryan asked, her tone sugary sweet “Have you finished the first draft yet?” Without giving Miss Tattersall time to answer, Miss Veryan turned to me. “Dear Norah is such a perfectionist, Dr. Kirby-Jones. She’s been working
on her crime novel for the past ten years or so, haven’t you, Norah, dear? And she’s so determined to get everything just right. I quite admire your fortitude.”

  The sarcasm in Miss Veryan’s tone would have shriveled me, but Norah Tattersall appeared proof against it. “One learns so many things at these conferences, doesn’t one? I find myself looking back over what I’ve done, in the light of the wisdom of writers more experienced than I, and I can’t help but want to go back and fix things. I shall finish it, one of these days.”

  “I’m sure we all look forward to that day, Norah,” Miss Veryan said. “If, indeed, such a day ever comes."

  “If I should decide to write a historical novel,” Miss Tattersall said, facing Miss Veryan with a sweet smile, “perhaps I’ll write about England before the First World War. I’m sure, Dame Isabella, that you’d be happy to tell me what it was like back then, wouldn’t you?” Turning away from the outraged look on Miss Veryan’s face, Miss Tattersall addressed me. “After all, Mr. Kirby-Jones, isn’t it best, when researching such a period, to talk to those who have lived through it?”

  I had to admire the cool effrontery of Miss Tattersall’s insult. Miss Veryan had been born nearly a decade after the end of that particular war, which fact Miss Tattersall no doubt knew very well. But how could I respond, with any tact, to such a question?

  Miss Tattersall saved me the necessity of such an impossible task. “I do believe Lady Hermione is expecting us downstairs,” she said, tucking her hand into the crook of Austen-Hare’s arm and commencing to drag him toward the stairs. “We must go and greet the others.”

  I offered my arm to Miss Veryan and pretended not to see the look of hatred she aimed at Miss Tattersall’s retreating back. I figured I’d best hold on to her, to keep her from pushing the younger woman down the stairs in view of us all. Being a witness at the ensuing trial would be so tedious.