Faked to Death

by Dean James

  Giles frowned, disappointed at being sent away from the fun, but he acceded to my request with good grace. He knew full well I’d tell him all about it later on anyway.

  The moment the door closed behind Giles, Isabella said briskly, “What we’re about to confide, Simon, must not leave this room. Do I have your promise?”

  Examining each of their anxious faces in turn, I felt suddenly as if I had stumbled into an Enid Blyton adventure, where all the boys and girls had to swear solemn oaths and all that. Suppressing a grin, I replied, “Certainly, Isabella. I know how to respect confidences.”

  “Very well, then,” Isabella said. “I feel it only fair to tell you, and I presume the rest of you are agreeable?” She paused for a moment, listening to the murmurs of assent from Patty Anne, Dexter, and George, before continuing. “None of us has dealt willingly with Nina in recent years, Simon. Though in many ways she is quite a good agent, she has other qualities that make working with her quite a trial.”

  Isabella paused again, and before she could resume dancing around the point, I said bluntly, “You mean because she’s been blackmailing all of you?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  None of them made any sounds of denial. Instead they sat there staring at me, their faces blank. I didn’t think I’d like to play poker with any of them, even Patty Anne, who hadn’t, before now, impressed me as being particularly strong-minded about anything.

  “Sorry, Isabella,” I said, “to ruin your big moment of revelation, but it didn’t take too long to figure out. You all obviously detest Nina, even fear her. I had to ask myself, if that were the case, why on earth you continued to be clients of hers when there are no doubt many agents who would jump at the chance to represent any one of you. Ergo, I figured you must have some reason why you felt you couldn’t fire Nina.”

  “You’re too sharp by half, Simon,” Isabella said, her voice light and playful, belying the baleful look in her eyes.

  I wasn’t going to be so ill-bred as to ask her what Nina was blackmailing her, or any of them, over, because I knew they wouldn’t tell me—at least not now, not here. When I said nothing further, Isabella relaxed and the others exhaled. I smiled encouragingly at them.

  “As you no doubt see, Simon,” Isabella said, retaining her role as spokesperson for the group, “this situation calls for a certain amount of delicacy.”

  “You mean because all of you could be considered suspects, should Nina turn up dead?”

  I had said it in a jesting tone, but nevertheless they all flinched.

  “Guess we could say the same thing of you,” Dexter Harbaugh growled at me.

  “A hit, a palpable hit,” I acknowledged, essaying a small bow in his direction.

  Harbaugh scowled while Isabella permitted a smile to flit across her face.

  “I suppose I might have a reason to wish Nina out of the way,” I said. “I’m sure we all have little secrets in our pasts that we wouldn’t care to have our readers know about. Now, would we?”

  They all stared at me, as if they were watching an exotic species of animal that they had never seen before. “I, for example, would rather not have the reading public know that ‘Dorinda Darlington’ is really Simon Kirby-Jones. Some people simply don’t think men can write credible female protagonists in a mystery series. My sales might suffer if that were widely known. Besides which, I’d rather stay home and write the books than go out on publicity tours and all that.”

  No one took the bait. They continued to stare at me. I did my best to gauge their emotions, but at the moment, they all seemed reasonably calm and unafraid. If one of them was the killer, he or she was certainly playing it very cool.

  “Not, I grant you, a terribly compelling motive for killing someone,” I said.

  “At least, not a compelling motive to kill Nina,” Harbaugh observed, stressing the name ever so slightly.

  George Austen-Hare nodded vigorously. “But a damned good motive for killing that other woman, whosiwhatsis.” He coughed. “After all, there she was, pretending to be you, stealing your thunder a bit.”

  Nice return of serve, I thought. Interesting double-team approach. “But, again, not a terribly compelling motive for murder, wouldn’t you say?” I smiled in derision. “After all, I could easily prove the truth of the matter. And I certainly had nothing to gain from the publicity from being arrested for murder.”

  “Except, possibly, a gigantic boost in sales.” Harbaugh smiled triumphantly at that. “The reading public being the salacious gits they are.”

  “Rather difficult to enjoy, however, if one were languishing behind bars, wouldn’t you say?” I smiled back at him.

  “Enough of this.” Isabella stood up. “I thought in all fairness to you, Simon, that you should be aware of some aspects of the situation. But that is all we can tell you, and I’m sure you can understand why. Be on your guard with Nina, Simon, and don’t trust her an inch. And as soon as this is settled, get the hell out of Dodge.” She arched an eyebrow interrogatively. “Isn’t that the expression?”

  “Well said, Isabella,” I acknowledged. I wanted to delve further into their reasons for fearing Nina, but I knew that I’d have to approach each of them separately if I hoped to get anything out of them.

  For a moment I longed for the days when a vampire could put the “glamour” on someone and coerce him or her to do the vampire’s will. Alas, that was one of the handy little parlor tricks that had gone by the wayside with the pills I took. Such is the price of progress, I suppose. I’d just have to worm the dirty details out of them the old-fashioned way, with nothing but my natural charm.

  Which is considerable, of course.

  As I watched them file out of the room, I pondered my next move. The last one of them was barely out the door before Giles came striding in, right on cue. He does have a knack for turning up when I have need of him.

  “Giles, how good of you to anticipate me,” I said.

  He grinned. “And what is your command, sire?”

  “Insolent lackey!” I responded, giving in to the impulse to banter. His grin grew wider. “Enough of that! To the business at hand.”

  “Which would be...?”

  “For one thing, we have to dig even further into the connections between the late and very unlamented Wanda Harper and our own dear, vicious Nina. Not to mention the dirt that Nina seems to have on our celebrity authors. ”

  Giles’s eyebrows rose at that last remark. “Blackmail, eh?”

  I do like a man who’s quick off the mark. “Exactly, Giles. Nina is blackmailing my fellow writers. Keeping them in line, keeping them tied to her—by foul means, evidently. I’m going to see what I can do to ferret out the skeletons in the cupboard. If you’ll forgive the mixing of metaphors.”

  “While I find out more about Wanda Harper, I take it?”

  I laughed. “Don’t sound so disappointed, Giles. I’m sure there are various juicy bits and bobs to uncover relating to Ms. Harper. I won’t have all the fun.”

  He pouted his lips at me. “Somehow I doubt that, Simon. I do all the grunt work, and you have all the fun. Dedicated workers need rewards, too, you know.”

  The leer he gave me left me in little doubt as to the kind of reward he’d prefer. “Be off with you,” I said, repressing a smile. “Go tote some barges.”

  He clicked his heels together and bowed. “Ja wohl, mein Fuhrer.” He raised his arm in a familiar salute.

  At least he spared me the sight of him goose-stepping out of the room.

  I stood for a moment in the quiet of the room, pondering my next move. I was eager to approach one of my fellow writers to try to worm out something further about Nina’s blackmail activities, but I figured I had better wait just a little while before I tried. Better to let them all stew a bit first.

  I decided that I would have another look, if I could, at the scene of the crime. I hadn’t had much time earlier to look around, and I might not be able to see much, even now, because I was sure that Robin�
��s team had cordoned off much of the area. Despite this, however, I might see something of use.

  A couple of minutes later I was cautiously easing open the door to the terrace and peering out. The sky was still dark with clouds, though the rain had stopped. I didn’t need to worry about dark glasses, hat, and gloves. I stepped out onto the terrace, pulling the door shut behind me.

  Ahead of me I could see the canopy that Robin’s crew had erected over the spot where Wanda Harper had lain. There was a PC on guard near the steps leading down to the grounds, and I nodded in friendly fashion in his direction. He inclined his head to acknowledge my presence and thereafter kept a watchful eye on me, should I attempt to move too close.

  There was no point in my trying to examine the ground around where the body had been found, because Robin’s team would have found anything of value there. What I wanted was a look at Kinsale House itself, from the vantage point of the terrace. I strode a few paces down the terrace toward the vigilant PC and stopped. Turning my back upon the young man, I surveyed the facade of the house.

  Kinsale House was such a vast pile of a place that I still hadn’t been able to put together a mental map of it. Had I had the chance to explore it completely, I could have figured out what I wanted to know without having to come out on the terrace. I gazed up at the wing of the house above me, and I nodded in satisfaction.

  Just as I had thought. This wing of the house, which looked out over the terrace, was the one in which my fellow writers and I were quartered. Even as I looked up at the windows, a curtain twitched, and I spotted George Austen-Hare staring down at me. The moment he realized I had seen him, he let the curtain fall and stepped back from the window.

  The other conference attendees were housed in another wing of the house, away from views of this terrace. By my reckoning, then, if anyone had seen what had happened to Wanda Harper, it was most likely one of my fellow authors.

  Now I needed to find out who was in which room and who might have been in his or her room when the murder occurred.

  Nodding at the PC, I turned and walked back toward the door through which I had come out onto the terrace. Then, struck by a memory, I paused.

  Norah Tattersall had said she saw Giles arguing with Wanda Harper on the terrace. Where had she been when she saw this? Had she been in her room?

  I flashed back to an earlier memory, my first meeting with her. She had come down the hall after Giles and I had just met Isabella Veryan and George Austen-Hare. Most likely, she had come from her own room, which meant that she, too, was in the same wing with us. Interesting, I thought, that Lady Hermione should have quartered Norah Tattersall there rather than with the other aspiring writers in the other wing.

  I resumed my progress toward the door. Once inside the house, I averted my eyes from the atrocious furnishings of the room as I crossed it. Out in the hall, I sought out a phone. I wanted to consult Lady Hermione’s butler, Dingleby, to discern whether he would supply the information I wanted.

  I found a phone on a table in the hall, and I examined it. Beside the phone was a list of extensions within the house, and I punched in the number for the butler’s pantry. Moments later, Dingleby came on the line.

  In response to my request, he said he would be with me in a few moments’ time, in my room.

  Proceeding to my room, I was relieved not to encounter anyone on the way. Giles was busy in his room, tapping away at his laptop computer, and he waved a hand to acknowledge my presence. I went into the bathroom, realizing that it was time for one of my pills, while I waited for Dingleby.

  I had just sat down in one of the hideous but oddly comfortable chairs when a knock sounded at the door. “Enter!”

  The door opened, and Dingleby stepped in, carefully closing it behind him.

  “Yes, Dr. Kirby-Jones? How might I be of assistance?”

  He really was the most peculiar-looking butler I had ever seen, but now was not the time to speculate upon such an incongruity. “Yes, Dingleby, I was wondering whether you might be able to assist me with some information.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d be most delighted to oblige, if I can.” He waited, his face blank, his attitude patient.

  “Could you tell me, Dingleby, which of my fellow guests have rooms whose windows look out upon the terrace?”

  A small frown creased Dingleby’s face as he considered my request. Evidently, he could find no reason not to provide the information, for he soon spoke. “That’s easy enough, sir. All the other writers have rooms that look out upon the terrace. You are the only one of them on this side of the hall.”

  “Thank you, Dingleby.”

  He nodded, then asked, “Would there be anything else, Dr. Kirby-Jones?”

  “Two more questions,” I said.

  He waited.

  “What about Miss Tattersall?”

  “She, too, is on that side of the hall.” He was too well trained to prompt me for the second question.

  “Finally, Dingleby, I wondered whether you could tell me exactly which room each of them is in.”

  He frowned at that, but once again, I suppose he could discern no reason not to answer me.

  “Certainly, sir. Dame Isabella Veryan is in the first room, followed by Mr. Austen-Hare. Next is Miss Putney, and then Mr. Harbaugh. Miss Tattersall has the last room on that side. Mr. Dunn is in the other wing.”

  I stood. “Thank you, Dingleby. You’ve been most helpful. I appreciate the information.”

  He bowed. “Then, sir, if that is all?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Giles came out of his room. “What was all that about?”

  “I wanted to verify something,” I said.

  Giles thought for a moment. “You wanted to know whether any of your fellow writers, and Miss Tattersall, could have seen something on the terrace from their rooms.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It now occurs to me,” Giles said, “that we never ascertained just where Miss Tattersall was when she spied me having my little argument with Wanda Harper.”

  “Exactly,” I repeated. “And I think I shall just step along to her room and talk to her about that—if she’s in, of course.”

  “Good idea,” Giles said. He stretched and rolled his neck. “Better you than me.”

  “Why don’t you take a break?”

  “Another good idea,” he said. “I think I might go out and take a brisk walk, clear my head a little.” He walked over to the window and looked outside. “And it’s not raining at the moment.”

  I followed him out in the hall and headed one way while he went the other, toward the stairs. I walked down the hall until I had come to the last door on the side of the wing facing the terrace. Pausing in front of the door I hoped belonged to Norah Tattersall, I knocked and waited.

  No response.

  I knocked again.

  Still no response. Sighing in exasperation, I was about to turn and walk back down the hall to my own room, when I spotted a small triangle of white sticking out from under the door.

  Extracting a pen from my pocket, I bent down and placed the tip of the pen cover on the paper and teased it out from under the door. I was being terribly nosy, but with a murderer loose in Kinsale House, I wasn’t too worried about the niceties at this point.

  I squatted and examined what I had pulled from underneath the door. It was a piece of paper, folded in half. The initials N. T. were printed on the side facing up at me. Again using the pen, I maneuvered the point inside the fold and managed to open the note.

  Printed on the page were the words KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I stared at the words for a moment longer; then I folded the paper with care and slid it back under Norah Tattersall’s door. I stood up.

  Someone else—the killer, perhaps?—had figured out that Norah might have seen something she shouldn’t have out on that terrace.

  That was one possib
le scenario.

  A second one came to mind. Perhaps one of my fellow authors, knowing that Norah was aware of his or her dirty little secret, was simply warning her not to talk about it.

  Either way, Norah Tattersall probably knew something that might help get this mess resolved.

  But where is Norah? I wondered as I walked back down the hall toward my own room.

  As I closed the door of my room behind me, I dismissed the notion that I should have kept the note to show to Robin Chase. For one thing, I didn’t want to face a lecture on my interference with his investigation. Better to let Norah find it, I thought, then try to accost her shortly afterward and question her.

  In order to make that ploy work, though, I had to find Norah. To that end, I picked up the telephone and punched in the number for the admirable Dingleby’s extension. It was not Dingleby who answered, however. Another servant, who failed to identify herself, took my request to locate Miss Tattersall and send her to my room.

  While waiting for Norah Tattersall to appear at my door, I busied myself with finishing some of the notes I wanted to make on a couple of the more promising manuscripts I had read. About fifteen minutes after I had called downstairs, I heard a knock on my door.

  “Enter,” I called.

  The door opened, and Norah Tattersall stuck her head in. “You were looking for me?” She hesitated in the doorway.

  “Yes, Miss Tattersall,” I said in my most charming tones. “I apologize for summoning you in this manner, but I had a request to make of you.”

  She pushed the door farther open and took a step inside the room. She wouldn’t come all the way in, and she kept casting furtive glances over her shoulder, as if someone were at her back.

  “What do you want?” Her tone was brusque to the point of rudeness. Given the scene earlier in the day with Giles, I couldn’t blame her attitude, though it wouldn’t be of much help in getting me what I wanted.

  I had an idea, though, how to get her to lower her guard. “Miss Tattersall, I’ve read the portion of the manuscript you submitted, and I wondered whether you have a bit more of it with you that I could read.”