Faked to Death

by Dean James

  I could feel Dunn wanting desperately to be able to shrivel up and disappear into the sofa. His attempted brashness was no match for Isabella’s cutting aristocratic contempt.

  Nina was made of sterner stuff than Dunn. “Dear Isabella to the rescue of the poor, defenseless child,” she said. She held Isabella’s gaze, challenging her, but Isabella never wavered. “So maternal of you, Isabella. It’s a pity you never had children, I must say.”

  Isabella looked away from Nina for a moment, her eyes seeking mine. I nodded, once, and Isabella drew a deep breath, steeling herself. Nina had been waiting, smiling, to see how Isabella would respond to her bait.

  “I think the time has come, Nina, to end this once and for all. I’m so weary of you and your pitiful lack of ethics or any moral sense whatsoever that I’d rather face any scandal that might result.”

  The withering contempt in Isabella’s voice got to Nina, I could tell. Nina was so used to having others cower before her that she didn’t quite know how to handle someone who stood up to her as magnificently as Isabella was doing. She groped for something to say in the face of Isabella’s words but failed.

  “You have talent, Nina,” Isabella continued. “I’ll grant you that. But it’s a pity that you couldn’t rely on your talent to bring you success. You have the insight and the energy to be a successful agent, but you have no moral center. Instead, you use the most vile and contemptible methods to get what you want, and you don’t care how it affects anyone else.”

  I wanted to clap to encourage Isabella, because I was enjoying this mightily. Nina might never squirm this much again, and she deserved every unpleasant second of it. Probably for the first time in her career as an agent, she was utterly speechless.

  The others stared at Isabella in fascination, wondering what was coming. All except Lady Hermione, that is; she watched her old friend with eyes full of sympathy and a shared pain at what this was costing Isabella.

  “As Nina well knows,” Isabella said, her voice tight and controlled, “I do have a child, though that child has no idea I am his mother.”

  Then it’s Dexter Harbaugh, I thought. No wonder Isabella didn’t want him to know, the prat.

  “It’s an old story, one you’ve all read many times before, in many books. It’s the story of a young woman in love with a charming man, who anticipates her wedding vows, then finds herself in trouble and the man nowhere around to help her face the consequences.” She laughed, a bitter, painful sound. “In my case, at least, it wasn’t because the man knew and didn’t want to help. He was killed in the war before he ever knew he was going to be a father.”

  Isabella paused, and everyone in the room waited, hardly daring to breathe, for her to continue. The policeman was so fascinated that he had forgotten the notebook and pencil clasped in his hands.

  “I never wanted you to find out this way,” Isabella said, staring down at her hands, clasped together in her lap. At this point, she was speaking to only one person in the room. “Dear George, do forgive me, but I’m your mother.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I was just as stunned as nearly everyone else in the room by Isabella’s revelation.

  George Austen-Hare was her son? I had never even considered him, because I had thought he was in his sixties and thus too old. I regarded him with fresh eyes, and now I could see that he was younger than I had thought.

  As the moment of shock passed, I looked around to note everyone else’s reactions. Nina was angry to have her bluff called; Isabella had effectively spiked her guns. Lady Hermione had likely been privy to the truth for many years.

  One other person did not appear surprised at the revelation, however, and that was another surprise. George Austen-Hare had not reacted as one might have expected him to when faced with such an admission.

  George sat quietly smiling at Isabella, waiting for the shock of his mother’s announcement to wear off before he spoke.

  “No need to apologize, Isabella,” he said. “I’ve known for quite some time, so it’s not news to me.”

  “But, George,” Isabella said, trying to gain control of her voice, “you never let on. You’ve never said a word, even hinted.”

  George tilted his head to one side and shrugged. “Didn’t really bother me that much, to be honest. I had already got to know you a bit when I found out, and I understood your point of view.”

  “Oh, George, my dear boy,” Isabella said, tears streaming down her cheeks as she clasped one of George’s hands in hers.

  “My parents told me a bit about you when I was a big enough lad to understand. Never told me your name, of course, but we talked about it and why you had had to give me up for adoption. Wonderful people, my parents.” He beamed at us, apparently not in the least disconcerted by talking about something so personal.

  “Isn’t this just too terribly sweet?” Nina had at last found her voice. “What a lovely little reunion! And think what a field day the tabloids will have with this story. The best-selling mystery writer whose bastard turns out to be a mystery writer, too.”

  Not even I could have anticipated what happened next. Lady Hermione moved so quickly, it happened before any of us could do anything to prevent it, even if we had wanted to. The sound of her hand connecting with Nina’s cheek reverberated through the room.

  “Bravissima, Lady Hermione, bravissima!” Dexter Harbaugh crowed with laughter as he stood and applauded what our hostess had done.

  Her face reddening with the imprint of Lady Hermione’s hand, Nina sputtered furiously, “You bloody cow! I’ll have you brought up on charges for assault. How dare you!”

  “Go right ahead, you common little piece of gutter trash,” Lady Hermione said, her eyes glittering in triumph. “I’ve been itching to do that for years, and by God, it was worth it.”

  Nina fought to regain control of her emotions, and no one spoke for a moment. Then Nina had her revenge. “Perhaps you’ll come to regret it, Lady Hermione, when everyone sees the pictures I have of the little trysts you’ve been having in a hotel in Lyme Regis with your butler. You’ll be a laughing-stock, you raddled old bitch!”

  Oh, my! Try as I might, I couldn’t quite grasp the thought of Lady Hermione making the beast with two backs with Dingleby. Dingleby? This was getting more ridiculous by the minute.

  Nearly everyone’s jaw had dropped at that little bit of news, I noticed as I looked around the room. Only Isabella seemed to have known about this little peccadillo of her dear friend.

  Lady Hermione had paled at Nina’s attack, but she was a game old girl. “Perhaps, Nina,” Lady Hermione said, her voice admirably cool, “but I’ll still be the countess of Kinsale. You, however, will never be anything but unbearably common.”

  With more dignity than I ever supposed she could muster, Nina got to her feet. “I suppose I am common, Lady Hermione,” she said. “I’ve had to fight for everything I ever wanted. I didn’t get a stately home and a fortune handed to me at birth. But you couldn’t care less about that.” She paused, surveying us each briefly in turn. “I won’t forget a single word that any of you has said to me. Remember that.”

  The cold hatred in her voice boded ill for all of us. Nina wanted revenge for her humiliation. How could we thwart her? Other than killing her, that is.

  “I wouldn’t do anything too rash if I were you, Nina,” I said. “Have you stopped to think what would happen to your career as an agent if it became known just how you get your authors to sign with you?”

  “He’s right, Nina,” Isabella said. “You can’t blackmail your way out of this one.”

  “I can certainly see to it that all of you are exposed for what you really are,” Nina said, still defiant, though her words lacked conviction.

  “Yes, Nina, you can expose all our little secrets to the public if you like,” George Austen-Hare said, his mother’s hand still clasped in his own. “You could very well make all of us laughingstocks in the public eye. You would also be exposing your own role in all of it, to
o. How many publishers or authors do you think would have anything to do with you after that?”

  That stopped Nina cold. She hadn’t taken time to think it completely through, but as she stood there, comprehension began to dawn. George was right. The risk of exposure was too great; she would take herself down with the rest of us.

  “Very well,” Nina said. “You’ve won this round. But if any of you get in my way ever again, I’ll make you pay, no matter what it might cost me.”

  What an exit line! Bette Davis couldn’t have done it any better. We watched as Nina stalked from the room, relieved to see her go, but at the same time a bit unsure of what she might yet do.

  “Aren’t you going with her?” Dexter Harbaugh addressed Ashford Dunn pugnaciously, coming over to stand over the younger man where he still sat on the sofa.

  “I think I’ll let her cool off first,” Dunn said, grinning up at Dexter.

  “You know what they say about playing with fire, young man,” Lady Hermione said.

  Dunn just kept grinning. “I won’t get burned; you can count on that.”

  “Oh, really,” Isabella said. “I suppose you expect us all to believe that you’re different from the rest of us, that you signed with Nina of your own free will?”

  “Can I help it if I’ve led a blameless life, unlike the rest of you?” Dunn said. He sniggered.

  “Nonsense!” Lady Hermione snorted in derision to punctuate that one word. “Don’t trust that viper. Sooner or later, you’ll come to regret it. Because whatever she knows about you, she’ll use. She doesn’t know any other way to operate.”

  Dunn stood up. “Thanks for the advice, lady. But I’m going to make Nina so much money, she’ll be doing what I say; trust me on that.”

  I had to admire his performance. He was putting up a good front for the benefit of everyone in the room, including himself. He may have persuaded the others with his air of absolute confidence, but I could sense the uncertainty beneath. Dunn had something to hide, just like the rest of us. What was it?

  “Now, if you will excuse me,” Dunn said, “I think I will go and have a little conference with my agent now.”

  No one responded as Dunn walked out of the room. The policeman, who had long been forgotten by the rest of the group, approached the door moments after Dunn had closed it. He stepped out into the hall, and I could hear him having a whispered conversation with someone outside the door, though I couldn’t make out the words. No doubt he was passing along the gist of what had transpired in this room. Robin Chase would soon be apprised of these latest developments. What would he make of it all?

  Lady Hermione claimed my attention by clearing her throat. “On to business,” she said. She meant what she said. She told us exactly what she expected of us over the remaining time at Kinsale House. I thought she was being overly optimistic that the conference attendees would want to stay on at Kinsale House after tomorrow, when, Robin Chase had said, anyone who wished to do so might leave. But human nature being what it is, perhaps enough of the attendees would linger to make the continued presence of the writers necessary. I was certainly willing to remain, and so, it appeared, were the others.

  Robin Chase appeared at that point with an announcement that got a frosty reception. “My apologies, ladies and gentlemen. I do realize the hour is late, but I’m afraid that I need to speak again with each of you in turn.” He held up a hand to stop the burgeoning protests. “I can assure you that I will conduct the interviews as quickly as possible. I know you must all be exhausted from the events of the day, but I’m afraid I must insist.”

  “Very well, Detective Inspector,” Lady Hermione said, speaking for all of us. “We must do our duty.” She rose to accompany him.

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Hermione,” Robin said, “but if I might, I’d like to speak first with Dr. Kirby-Jones.”

  Frowning in annoyance, Lady Hermione sank back down into her chair. Nodding first in her direction, then offering the others a polite wave, I followed Robin from the room.

  Robin waited until I had settled into my chair before beginning. “Tell me, Simon, what happened in that room. I want to hear your take on it.”

  I repeated it all, as best I could, to Robin. He nodded occasionally as his eyes wandered back and forth between me and several pages of notes spread before him on the desk.

  “Thank you, Simon,” he said. “That tallies with what the PC took down.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “Looks like Miss Yaknova was running quite a little blackmail racket. So, tell me, Simon, what was she blackmailing you over?”

  I had to laugh. “Not a thing, Robin, not a thing.” You’ll note that I didn’t say I had nothing to hide. I had to hope that Nina would never uncover the one secret that I intended to keep well and truly hidden from her.

  “Then why were you immune? What is different with you?”

  Either Robin was being deliberately dense, or he wasn’t as sharp as I thought him to be. “She wasn’t blackmailing me, but surely you can see how she was trying to manipulate me.”

  “Because she had her associate posing as ‘Dorinda Darlington,’ you mean.”

  “Exactly,” I said, pleased that he had got it after all.

  “What could she hope to gain from that, Simon?”

  “In a word, publicity.” I shrugged. “Nina had been trying to get me to let her leak the news that I am Dorinda Darlington. She thought the resulting publicity would give my sales a big boost, despite the fact that I’m doing quite well as it is. I refused, and I think she must have come up with this scheme to try to force me into it.”

  “Very sneaky, and ethically questionable.”

  “To say the least.”

  Robin made a tent of his fingers and flexed them repeatedly. “But her scheme misfired rather badly when someone murdered her associate.”

  “And it wasn’t I who did that, I can assure you, Robin. Nor was it Giles.”

  “I know, Simon. Neither you nor Sir Giles is a murderer.” He frowned at me, trying to appear disapproving. “But you have both been scurrying around behind the scenes, trying to interfere in my investigation.”

  “I beg to differ with you, Robin. Neither Giles nor I would ever want to interfere with your investigation.” I smiled my most charming smile. “Merely assist, never interfere.”

  “You may assist me more effectively by not assisting, I assure you, except when I require information from you.” Robin’s tone was repressive, but I thought I detected a twinkle in his eye. “Let us clarify a few things, in case you have come across something that my men and I might have missed.”

  “Certainly.” I was nothing if not cooperative.

  “Dame Isabella Veryan was anxious to keep hidden the fact that she had borne a child out of wedlock more than fifty years ago. Moreover, that her child was none other than her fellow mystery writer George Austen-Hare. Mr. Austen-Hare, for his part, was not keen on having it known that he’d had an affair with the first murder victim. An affair, moreover, that was engineered on her part in order to make him go along with Miss Yaknova’s schemes.”

  “Good for George,” I said approvingly. “I told him it would be better for him if he came to you himself.”

  “He did,” Robin acknowledged. “Though he was unaware at the time that we had already come into possession of certain photographs Ms. Harper had in her room. Photographs that made the nature of their association all too clear.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said. “Poor old George.”

  “To continue,” Robin said. “Dexter Harbaugh is deathly afraid of the dark and of spiders. Neither fact which he would want his reading public to know, because it would tarnish his credibility as a writer of extremely hard-boiled crime fiction.” Robin did his best not to laugh, and I had to look away from him to keep from bursting out with a chuckle or two myself.

  “Lady Hermione Kinsale has been having a torrid and none too discreet affair with her butler, Dingleby, who is some thirty years or so her junior.” Again, Robin
was doing his best not to react. “That’s it so far,” I said.

  “And that’s all we’ve got so far,” Robin said, sighing tiredly. “Patty Anne Putney just seems plain barmy, but I don’t know that that would come as a great surprise to her readers. Nor that it would matter all that much.”

  “Probably not,” I said. “Though she seems more than a bit unstable, if you ask me. What if someone threatened her rabbit? She’s already reacted violently once, when Nina tore the silly thing’s head off.”

  Robin grimaced. “After that happened, we did a little checking. It seems Miss Putney has a history of such little incidents. She has attacked several people in the past, for very much the same reason.”

  I stared at Robin. Could the answer to the two murders be that simple after all?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “I’ve already considered that, Simon,” Robin said, reading my mind rather easily for once. “Of all the suspects, Miss Putney is the only one who has any recorded history of violent acts toward others. When I discovered that, I must admit she became my favorite choice for the murderer.”

  “But...” I said, as he paused.

  “However,” Robin continued with a small smile, “Miss Putney has a reasonably good alibi for one of the two murders.”

  “And you don’t think there are two murderers at work here?”

  “No, I don’t.” Robin was very firm.

  “Then Potty Patty can’t be our murderer.”

  “Er, no, Simon, she can’t.” Robin gave me his most professional look, not deigning to comment on the sobriquet I had bestowed. “She was in the presence of several of the attendees during the time in question, and she never left the room.”

  Gazing with fascination at my own hands, I said, “I do realize, Robin, that you have shown extraordinary trust thus far in discussing these matters with me as you have. If I might impose upon that trust a bit further, might I ask if you have any idea who the murderer is?” I glanced up then to see how he was taking my efforts at diplomacy.