Faked to Death

by Dean James

  I opened my bedroom door and peered out. The two police officers were conferring at the other end of the hall and didn’t seem to be paying much attention to this end. I moved quickly across the hall toward Isabella’s door and dropped the note on the floor. With a smooth thrust of the foot, I got it under her door, then nipped back to my room. One of the officers whirled around just as I was going back into my room. I shut the door and waited right inside, listening. There was no sound of approaching footsteps, and I figured the two had gone back to their conversation, dismissing my little sortie from their concerns. So much the better!

  To occupy myself while I awaited a response from Isabella, I picked up another of Giles’s folders. Opening it, I read a brief biography of Lady Hermione Kinsale, countess of Mumsley. She was the only surviving child and heir to the seventh earl of Mumsley, Cholmondley Everard St. George Percival Kinsale. Percy had died in a hunting accident forty years ago, leaving young Hermione heiress to a large fortune, even after the ruinous death duties, which had crippled many aristocratic families over the past century.

  Hermione had proved to have quite the head for business, for she had added considerably to the Kinsale coffers, and she had also been quite generous over the years with her wealth. She had endowed several scholarships for young women at various Oxbridge colleges, and she, like her friend Isabella Veryan, was noted as a friend to the cause of adoption and child welfare in Britain.

  I paused at that. Quite an interesting link between the two women. Where had they first met? I wondered.

  My speculations ended abruptly as my bedroom door flew open with a loud bang. I looked up to see Isabella Veryan advancing rapidly toward me, her eyes ablaze with fury, my note clutched in her right hand.

  Stopping in front of me, she crumpled the note and threw it right into my face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The crumpled paper hit me between the eyes, and I drew back in my chair.

  “Despicable! Utterly despicable!” Isabella spat the words out at me. “How I misjudged you! To think that you could resort to such a low trick.”

  “My dear Isabella,” I said, getting to my feet, “please, calm yourself.” I extended a hand, but she brushed it away and took a step backward.

  “I thought you were a gentleman, Simon,” Isabella said, her tone calmer, but the sudden pain in her eyes revealed her turmoil.

  “My dear Isabella,” I said again, my voice gentle, “please, do sit down.” I gestured toward a chair, and, her shoulders slumping in exhaustion, Isabella sat down none too gracefully.

  “I regret that you seem to have misunderstood the import of my note,” I said, watching her closely and feeling more than a bit like a heel.

  She would have none of that. “Come off it, Simon,” she said. “You’re trying to horn in on Nina’s little blackmail game; that much is obvious.” Tears began to trickle slowly down her face.

  “You mistake me, Isabella,” I said. “I have no intention of blackmailing you, I assure you.” Manipulate you, yes, I thought, but not blackmail you. My one dead grandmother, a southern lady to the core, was no doubt spinning in her grave at my less than gentlemanly behavior at the moment, but I had never liked this particular grandmother anyway. Let her spin.

  “I suppose you thought you were being so very clever, the way you worded your threatening little missive,” Isabella said. She wiped away the tears with the back of one hand. “Nothing there that would appear out of the ordinary to anyone else.”

  “Again, I assure you, I have no intention of blackmailing you,” I said, feeling like a parrot. “I want no part of whatever little game Nina is playing. I simply want to end it, once and for all, for the sake of all of us.”

  Her eyes narrowed in disbelief, Isabella regarded me. “Perhaps you don’t know as much as I thought you might.”

  Nothing ventured, and all that. “Would it really matter to your readers, Isabella, that many years ago you had an illegitimate child and gave it up for adoption?”

  She shrank back as if I had struck her. As, perhaps, I had. A trembling hand came up to her mouth as all color drained from her face.

  “You do know,” she whispered.

  I felt no sense of triumph at my victory. I had reasoned correctly, but I had gambled.

  Isabella drew a deep breath to steady herself. “What do you plan to do now with your knowledge, Simon?”

  “I’m certainly not going to call up one of the tabloid papers and spill the story to them, if that’s what you fear.”

  She relaxed a bit. “There must be something you want, however.”

  “The only thing I want is to get to the truth of what’s going on here. Someone has killed twice and may kill again if we don’t stop him or her.”

  “And you think my past has something to do with it?”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps. Would you kill to keep the world from knowing that you had borne a child out of wedlock?”

  “No!”

  I waited.

  “If I were to kill anyone,” Isabella said in a softer tone, “it would be that bitch Nina.”

  “She found out about this somehow, didn’t she?” Isabella nodded.

  “And she persuaded you, shall we say, to sign with her?”

  Again Isabella nodded.

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “At first she was reasonable, once I got over the shock of such blatant blackmail. She wasn’t very successful as an agent at that point, but once she had someone like me, with a recognizable name, there was no stopping her. I suppose the fact that her tactics had worked with me only served to encourage her.”

  “And so she found other candidates for her particular talents?”

  “Unfortunately for them,” Isabella said.

  “So where did Wanda Harper fit in with all this?”

  “I’m not quite certain, Simon,” Isabella said. “I never met her until this weekend. But I think perhaps she might have worked for a private detective agency.”

  “Which is how Nina dug up the evidence she used in her little blackmail campaigns?”

  “I believe so,” Isabella said, shrugging. “But Nina has always been very careful not to reveal too much about how she came to know the things she does. By the time I discovered that someone had been digging into my past, it was too late to do anything about it.”

  “Other than give in to Nina’s demands.”

  “Yes. At first she was reasonable, but the more successful I became, the more she wanted of me. She forced me increasingly into a more public role, which I deplored. For years I had lived quite happily and quietly, but the more exposure Nina got for me and my work, the less private my life became.”

  “Success demands a certain price,” I said.

  Isabella emitted a most unladylike snort at that. “I’ve had two stalkers, Simon, since I’ve become a best-selling author. Should I have to pay that kind of price? Being afraid to live alone in my own home? Having my heart leap into my throat every time the doorbell rings?”

  “I had no idea, Isabella,” I said, indignant for her sake. “I can see how intolerable that has been for you.”

  “Yes. My life has been anything but pleasant the past four years.” She spoke the words without a trace of self-pity, and for that I had to admire her.

  “Did you never think of simply publishing the truth and thereby cutting Nina’s feet from under her?”

  “Publish and be damned, eh, Simon?” Her lips twisted in a grimace. “With the advantage of hindsight, I might have chosen to do so. But I might not.” Her hands gripped the arms of her chair, and her knuckles whitened. “It would be like posing naked, exposing oneself in the most vulgar way. Having the rest of the world peer at you, jabbing at you without mercy, till you had no privacy left. Sometimes I think I’d rather die.”

  The horror in Isabella’s voice was all too real, and I could understand the shame she would feel to have such intimate details of her life known to the public. Some could say, “Publish and be damne
d,” and never think much about it, but for someone as intensely private as Isabella, such a course would be almost unthinkable.

  She regarded me with eyes full of pain. “I simply don’t have the courage, Simon. I didn’t then, and I don’t think I do now.”

  “I promise you, Isabella, that your secret is safe with me,” I said. “As long as you had nothing to do with the murders, that is.”

  “I don’t know of any way to convince you, Simon, that I didn’t kill either of those wretched women. I found Norah tedious in the extreme, but I had no wish to see her die. Nor did I know the other woman well enough to wish her harm.”

  “Wanda Harper didn’t attempt to blackmail you herself?”

  “No, she didn’t, though she did accost me yesterday on Nina’s behalf. She may have done the research, but Nina usually reserved for herself the joy of watching us squirm, like butterflies impaled upon pins.”

  I grinned. “Now it’s Nina’s turn to squirm.”

  “If there is any justice to be had,” Isabella said, the ghost of a smile hovering around her lips. She paused a moment before continuing. “You’ve said not a word, Simon, about my child.”

  What should I say now? I wondered. Since I had simply guessed that the child existed and knew nothing else whatsoever about him or her, I was caught by my own bluff.

  Isabella read my indecision correctly. With a rueful smile she said, “You really didn’t know for sure, did you? And I walked right into your little trap.”

  “Is the identity of your child important to what has happened here?”

  She stood up. “No. Not in the least.” She walked to the door before turning to face me again. “I believe Nina has met her match in you, Simon. You’re every bit the manipulator she is. But perhaps your motives are less self-serving. At least, I’m hoping they are.”

  I sat in silence as she left the room, closing the door softly behind her. I felt a moment’s regret that any friendship I might have had with Isabella Veryan had little chance of blossoming now. I had played a rather unpleasant trick on her, and she might never be able to forgive me for that. That pained me, for I admired both the woman and her work tremendously.

  She had lied to me, however, and the consequences of that lie remained to be discerned.

  When she denied that the identity of her child was of any relevance to the murders here at Kinsale House, she had lied. She didn’t know I could read her that easily, and probably thought that had put an end to the issue. I had felt the quickening of her pulse as she uttered the denial, and I knew she had lied to me.

  Could Isabella’s son or daughter be among those present at Kinsale House?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  That was an interesting thought. Someone here at Kinsale House this week could be the illegitimate son or daughter of a best-selling mystery writer. What headlines that would make! Nina could certainly get lots of publicity out of that for Isabella, and no doubt her sales would climb even higher as a result.

  Who could it be? One of the attendees, a wanna-be writer? Possible, I thought, but not as interesting if it turned out to be one of the other writers.

  Could it have been Norah Tattersall? But no, I decided; if it had been Norah, Isabella would surely have been more upset by her death. She had disliked Norah intensely, but if Norah had been her daughter, she wouldn’t have been so unaffected by her death. Isabella was not that cold and unfeeling, I was sure.

  I reached for the folders containing the results of Giles’s research. I first looked at the date of Isabella’s birth. She was a bit older than I had thought, nearer eighty than seventy, though she certainly didn’t look it. Her child would now be in his or her fifties, and there were two among us who fit in that age group: Dexter Harbaugh and Patty Anne Putney. I checked the biographical information about each of them, and their birth dates confirmed what I had reckoned. Harbaugh was fifty-six, and Putney was about nine months younger. So it could be either of them, based on their dates of birth.

  I delved further into their bios. Nothing in the accounts of their lives suggested that they had been adopted. Dexter Harbaugh was the son of a vicar in Surrey, and Patty Anne Putney had grown up in Devon, the daughter of a farmer.

  Since the biographies yielded nothing, I skimmed the various interviews that Giles had found with each of them. Again, nothing. Neither ever said anything about having been adopted. In fact, neither of them said much at all about their respective childhoods.

  Frustrated for the moment, I put the folders aside and sat staring into space. What would it matter if either Dexter Harbaugh or Patty Anne Putney really was the biological offspring of Isabella Veryan? Isabella would be appalled to have the indiscretions of her youth exposed to the public, and she might prefer not to claim someone as unpleasant as Dexter Harbaugh or as potty as Patty Anne Putney as her child.

  But was any of this a solid motive for murder? As Isabella had herself observed, if she were going to murder anyone, it would most likely be Nina Yaknova. Wanda Harper had been merely Nina’s employee, and Norah Tattersall only a foolish witness, perhaps, to the first murder.

  What had Wanda Harper done to make someone want to kill her? I had a better motive, in some ways, than anyone else, as far as I knew. Because Nina was behind Wanda’s impersonation of me, though, Nina was a more likely target than Wanda, should I have chosen to solve the problem by murder.

  There was something I was missing; that much was obvious. Something to do with Wanda Harper and her connections to my fellow guests at Kinsale House. What was it, and how could I uncover it?

  Giles interrupted my futile musings, bursting into the room with a tipsy smile and a hearty “Hullo, Simon!”

  I stood up as Giles nearly tripped and fell into my arms. “You’ve been drinking, Giles.”

  He grinned at me as he steadied himself with my assistance. “Quite right, Simon, I have. So would you have been. Absolutely ghastly dinner, I can tell you.” He burped. “Food was horrible, but the company was worse. Appallingly common, they all are, as my dear mater would say.” He burped again.

  “I think you need to lie down for a bit, Giles.” I had never seen him in this state before, and I wasn’t amused.

  He grinned and opened his mouth to speak, but I forestalled him. “And no, Giles, I will not lie down with you. Certainly not now, when you’re three sheets to the wind.”

  “Only two, Simon, only two.” He sat down on the edge of my bed.

  “Even so, Giles, I think you need a nap more than you need anything else.”

  “ ’S what you always say, Simon,” he said. “Doesn’t matter. Lady Hermione wants you downstairs anyway.”

  “Right now?” I said. “Whatever for?”

  “Didn’t say,” Giles said between burps. “Wants all the writers in the drawing room right away. Said I’d tell you.” He sank back on the bed and was asleep a moment later.

  I shook my head as I removed his shoes and turned him around so that his whole body was on the bed. I covered him with a blanket and left him to snore in peace while I went downstairs to discover what it was that Lady Hermione wanted.

  Downstairs I found that good lady awaiting my arrival none too patiently.

  “Sorry I’m late, Lady Hermione,” I said, “but your message was somewhat delayed in the delivery.”

  “Yes, I could see young Blitherington might have trouble conveying it,” Lady Hermione responded sourly, “but at least you’re here. Please take a seat.” She waved a hand at the company seated around where she stood.

  To her left, Isabella Veryan and George Austen-Hare occupied one sofa, while Patty Anne Putney and Dexter Harbaugh sat in chairs on either side of them. Nina Yaknova and Ashford Dunn sat close together on the sofa to the right of Lady Hermione. There was an empty chair beside it, which I took, being none too pleased at having to sit near Nina and her best-selling hack. As I sat, I could see one of Robin Chase’s men hovering discreetly in the background beyond Isabella and George.

  “I hav
e spoken with Detective Inspector Chase,” Lady Hermione began, and for once her voice wasn’t raising the rafters, “and he has informed me that we may proceed with our schedule of workshops.”

  “Really, Lady Hermione,” Dexter Harbaugh said, “do you think that is wise? Given the circumstances?”

  I watched him with interest, my eyes roving back and forth between his face and that of Isabella Veryan, hoping to spot some likeness of feature or gesture.

  “Anyone who is afraid to remain in this house may leave tomorrow,” Lady Hermione announced, though her tone made it clear how contemptible she would find anyone who admitted to such fear. “Detective Inspector Chase has given permission for that, of course. I would prefer you all to remain here and continue with the program as planned.”

  “Mr. Murbles is most unhappy, Hermione,” Patty Anne Putney spoke, and I examined her with the same interest I had Dexter Harbaugh. For the moment, though, I could see nothing about either her or Harbaugh that reminded me of Isabella Veryan. “He is quite unused to being exposed to such an atmosphere of violence, and he would prefer to go home as soon as possible.”

  Ashford Dunn leaned into Nina and muttered something into her ear.

  “What did you say, Mr. Dunn?” Lady Hermione spoke in such a firm tone that Dunn jerked back, startled.

  He looked at Lady Hermione like a schoolboy being admonished by his teacher.

  “Speak up, Mr. Dunn,” Lady Hermione said when he simply mumbled at her.

  “I said, ‘Why can’t she speak for herself, instead of always pretending that stuffed rabbit is talking?’ ” Dunn replied. “Absolutely potty, she is, always going on about ‘the rabbit says this’ and ‘the rabbit says that.’ ”

  His words trailed off into a strained silence as he realized that several pairs of eyes were regarding him with utter loathing.

  Isabella Veryan was the first to speak. “Thank you, Mr. Dunn, for confirming what the rest of us have suspected. You are every bit as unintelligent and unfeeling as we thought from having read what little we could stomach of your so-called novels.” She reached out a hand to comfort the now sniffling Patty Anne Putney, who clasped her hand gratefully. Mr. Murbles, however, seemed not in the least affected by Dunn’s gross insensitivity.