by Dean James
“I doubt Detective Inspector Chase would agree with you.”
I just grinned. “And there’s reason number two. The handsome agent of truth and justice shouldn’t be denied the help and brainpower of yours truly. Especially when I’m more than willing to give him every assistance possible.”
“You’re quite shameless, Simon,” Jane said, “but you know it, and you don’t need any further encouragement from me.” Her mouth twisted in an ironic smile.
I stood up. “Quite. I’d better be toddling off home. There’s not much else to be done until we know for sure that Abigail Winterton was murdered, and how. Work calls, and I’ll just mull over the first step in my investigation. Are you in?”
Jane ushered me to the door. “Of course, you great ninny. Do you think I’d miss a minute of the excitement? As unattractive and downright unpleasant as Abigail Winterton could be, I don’t believe she deserved this. I’d like to see justice done, as I’m sure would you.” Standing on her doorstep, I nodded, then said goodbye. She shut the door with a brisk snap behind me.
Whistling, I set off down the lane toward home. Snupperton Mumsley was proving to be far more interesting than I had ever dreamed possible.
CHAPTER EIGHT
At home, I dismissed the death of Abigail Winterton from my mind and concentrated instead on work. I was making rapid progress on my new mystery novel, and at the rate I was going, I’d have a first draft in a couple of weeks, even with time spent delving into the real-life murder practically on my own doorstep. I settled in for a long afternoon and evening of plotting murder and mayhem.
By the time I was ready for a break from the computer—even vampires get stiff necks from too much time at the VDT—I was about ten chapters into a new Dorinda Darlington. More than enough to have earned myself some time off. I snuggled into my bed for a nap and woke up about two hours later, refreshed, ready to greet the dawn.
I spent a couple of hours catching up on fan mail, which normally I enjoy doing. But this morning I was impatient for the hands on the clock to reach a decent hour for calling on people. I was rarin’ to go (as we say back in the Deep South, where I’m from) and start collecting information on possible suspects in Abigail Winterton’s death. Now, mind you, no one had as yet officially confirmed the death as murder, but why let the little details dampen my enthusiasm?
Thinking about having to catch up on my backlog of correspondence and getting my office organized had given me an idea. I needed some subterfuge with which to approach some of the folk involved in the case in order to extract information from them. I didn’t think that playing the brash, nosy American—which I can do all too well, thank you very much—would quite come off in this case. Vulgarity has its place, but this situation called for more subtlety.
I could chat with the various folk involved in this case and ask their opinions on finding someone suitable in the village to serve as a part-time secretary. And while we were discussing that safe topic, surely it wouldn’t be a surprise if the conversation strayed to what was really on everyone’s mind?
With whom should I start?
Lady Prunella Blitherington seemed as good a choice as any.
A quick call to Jane Hardwick gave me the information I needed. Lady Prunella, ever a creature of habit, usually walked her Precious (which Jane assured me was anything but) promptly at nine every morning. A chance encounter with the lady and her Peke was just the thing to start off my sleuthing.
I rummaged around in my closet and managed to find a track suit. I had bought it on a mad whim—one of those occasions, while I was still mortal, when I thought I might actually exercise enough to get myself into shape. But, alas, that kind of physical effort and I were not made to coexist happily. Fortunately, death brought me the figure I always aspired to in life. A cap and sunglasses completed my ensemble. The sun was bright this morning. Oh, for a cloudy day!
But Lady Prunella wasn’t to know that I looked upon exercise with as much fondness as I regarded a stake through the heart. I could assume my camouflage, trot by her and her dog, express surprise at seeing her, and then launch into my oh, so subtle interrogation.
Track suit in hand, I rooted around for a pair of trainers. (Those are running shoes to you and me from across the Pond; learning to speak the language here is half the fun.)
Half an hour later, suitably attired, I was jogging down the lane toward the acreage that constituted the Blitherington estate. According to Jane, much of the family’s lands had been sold off over the last generation or so, leaving the estate much diminished but still impressive enough. Lady Prunella liked to give. Precious a chance to stroll down the lane from Blitherington Hall into the village, half a mile away, where she (Lady Prunella) was wont to stop and talk with folk while he (Precious) left his mark upon his favorite targets.
I met the lady and her dog moments after I had trotted into the lane near Blitherington House. I made a show of huffing and puffing a bit, hoping that Lady Prunella wouldn’t notice the lack of perspiration upon my unlabored brow. This morning, however, Lady Prunella seemed much occupied with something else, so much so that she hadn’t noticed me.
“Good morning, Lady Blitherington,” I chirped. Anyone would think I absolutely adored exercise, I was so perky. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“Oh,” Lady Prunella exclaimed, drawing back sharply on Precious’s leash. The dog took one good, long look at me and retreated behind Lady Prunella, where he whimpered quietly. Dogs aren’t terribly fond of vampires, and Precious had pegged me almost immediately. He wouldn’t be happy until I was well away from him. Thankfully, Lady Prunella seemed as oblivious to the creature’s distress as she was to most everything else.
“Dr. Kirby-Jones!” Lady Prunella invested my name with evidence of her displeasure at being so accosted. “You quite startled me.”
“I do beg your pardon, Lady Blitherington! I was just out for my morning run. I do apologize for startling you.”
Somewhat mollified, Lady Prunella warmed up a fraction. “That is quite all right, Dr. Kirby-Jones. After all, one is to be commended for exercising. A healthy mind in a healthy body, and all that.” She unbent so much as to smile briefly at me. “Others could emulate your example instead of staying up to all hours and then lolling in bed most of the day.”
The venom invested in that last sentence surprised me. To whom was she referring? I wondered. Her son and heir?
“You are quite right, Lady Blitherington,” I assured her. I walked beside her and Precious as they began moving again toward the village. “There are so many things to accomplish in a day’s time, one should make every effort to get up and get busy.”
“Quite so!” Lady Prunella nodded vigorously in approval. “Your attitude is a credit to you.”
“Thank you,” I replied in my most modest tone. So this was the way to Lady Prunella’s good graces. “I imagine that you have tremendous responsibilities here.”
“Quite so!” Lady Prunella affirmed, much more cheerful now. “One must do one’s best to uphold the social fabric and all the responsibilities of one’s God-given position in life.”
Or the position that one had married, I thought, remembering the tidbits I had gleaned from Jane Hardwick.
Lady Prunella sighed deeply. “Things are much different these days. One does not always receive the respect to which one is naturally accustomed. ”
Choking back a snort, I replied, “Our modern world simply no longer respects persons of good breeding the way it once did.” I sighed heavily.
Lady Prunella cast a quick glance at me, not certain whether I was having her on, but my demurely innocent mien reassured her.
“Quite so!” she said forcefully.
“I must say, Lady Blitherington,” I said, launching into my shtick, “that this was a fortunate meeting for me, because I had hoped to ask your advice on a matter of some importance to myself. I asked myself last night, Now who, of all the folk in Snupperton Mumsley, could give me the best sug
gestions toward finding someone suitable to assist me with some occasional secretarial work? And I naturally thought at once of you, my dear Lady Blitherington, because of your position of leadership in the village. I knew that you could advise me whether there is anyone at all suitable hereabouts. After all”—I leaned closer and dropped my voice—“it would simply not do to have someone unsuitable in one’s home, and with access to one’s work.”
Lady Prunella beamed at me, little knowing she was stepping right into a pile of manure up to her neck.
“My dear Dr. Kirby-Jones,” she practically purred at me. Even Precious was taken aback; he stumbled and fell flat on his ugly little face. Then he started scrambling backward again, for all the good it did him. Lady Prunella jerked him up by his lead, far more interested in yielding to my blandishments than in comforting an unhappy dog. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were a base flatterer.” She simpered this time. Ye gads, what a sight!
“You are quite correct to be cautious in this day and age. You simply would not believe some of the tales I could tell, with regard to finding suitable servants for Blitherington Hall. Such attitudes these young people have, and even the older workers, who were reared to know and appreciate their betters, why, you wouldn’t believe how rude they can be, too! When one is only trying to do one’s duty toward those less fortunate.”
“I can imagine,” I oozed in my most comforting tone. “Such challenges you must face.” She probably couldn’t afford to pay many folks what they’d charge to put up with her authoritarian ways. “But perhaps you might know of someone suitable, anyway?”
I could see the wheel turning in her mind. That little gerbil must get awfully tired sometimes. Lady Prunella was probably trying to come up with someone acceptable to me who also owed her something. That way she could collect information on yours truly without having to act directly herself.
“I might know of one or two persons,” she finally admitted. “There are two women in the village, now somewhat retired, who have secretarial experience. One worked for my dear late husband, and another had considerable experience in the City before marrying and retiring here.” She paused for a moment. “I do believe it might be best if I approached them on your behalf, since you are a newcomer here. Yes”—she nodded briskly—“that would be best. And if either of them is available, I will suggest that they call you to set up an appointment.”
Quite the little stage manager, she was. I pursed my lips to keep from laughing. “My dear Lady Blitherington, you are most kind, most kind indeed! I shall await the outcome of your talking with these ladies.”
By now we were within sight of the village. I’d better get to the main purpose of this conversation before Lady Prunella started her daily rounds (Jane said locals referred to it as “the Inquisition”) among the shops.
“I must say,” I said, dropping my voice to a confiding level, “that I was most distressed and shocked this morning to hear of the death of Miss Winterton. After all, one doesn’t expect the police to show up on one’s doorstep in the morning! I had met Miss Winterton only twice before. The poor woman! One is left wondering what kind of accident could have befallen her.”
Lady Prunella threw me another surprised glance, this time not making much effort to mask her emotion. She stopped abruptly and seized my arm. “Dr. Kirby-Jones, I must tell you, Abigail’s death was not from any kind of accident!”
I provided a suitable expression of dismay and horror. “Surely,” I sputtered, “you can’t mean that her death was... was deliberate?”
Lady Prunella nodded grimly. “Yes, it was deliberate. Abigail Winterton was murdered!”
“How horrifying!”
Lady Prunella leaned closer and fixed me with her best basilisk gaze. “There is a stalker loose in our village, and Abigail was his first victim!”
“My dear heaven!” I gasped, playing along. “A stalker? Here? In this delightful little village?”
Lady Prunella glanced furtively around, checking to see that the information she was about to impart would not be overheard by less couth ears. “I know it seems impossible. Some madman has been stalking me for weeks. He’s killed Abigail, and I’m probably next on his list!”
CHAPTER NINE
I didn’t have to work too hard to feign amazement after Lady Prunella’s announcement. I should have figured she wouldn’t miss an opportunity to dramatize herself. Could there really be a stalker loose in Snupperton Mumsley? Or had she simply witnessed the late unlamented on her midnight rambles?
“Dear Lady Blitherington,” I burbled, “how absolutely terrifying for you! Someone has been stalking you? Have you notified the authorities?”
A decidedly shifty look crept onto Lady Prunella’s face. “Why, no, I haven’t. Not yet.”
“But surely you must want the police to find out who is doing something so dastardly!”
“Perhaps stalking is not precisely the correct word.” Lady Prunella backtracked with a noticeable lack of finesse. “There have been a number of unpleasant letters and an odd shadow or two at the windows of the drawing room at Blitherington Hall in recent weeks, rather late at night” She shivered. “There is most definitely a sense of menace involved, but not anything substantial enough to convince the police.” More than likely, then, it was just Abigail Winterton, spying.
“Surely the letters you’ve received?” I insisted.
Lady Prunella sniffed. “I showed one to Police Constable Plodd here in the village, and he professed to find nothing actionable in it.” She sniffed again. “The very notion! The letter made some most unpleasant—and totally unfounded—asseverations about my judging of the Women’s Institute’s annual flower show. The allegations were monstrous, I tell you.” She shuddered delicately. “Such calumnies it contained.”
Probably someone told her quite plainly that she couldn’t tell a begonia from a beet and her amour propre couldn’t withstand the shock.
“But why would someone want to do you grave harm?” I pretended an ignorance I didn’t feel. Most likely just about everyone in Snupperton Mumsley had been annoyed to the point of aggression over something she had done once upon a time.
“I cannot imagine!” Lady Prunella drew upon her considerable dignity. “The person must be completely and irrevocably unbalanced. There is a lunatic loose in Snupperton Mumsley, and now poor Abigail has paid dearly for it.” She sighed tragically, then said, “You must excuse me now, Dr. Kirby-Jones. I have errands I must finish.” She turned to head into a nearby shop, Precious dancing with excitement on his lead, for it was the butcher’s.
“But, my dear Lady Blitherington,” I pulled her up short, “now that this dreadful thing has happened in the village, surely you should tell the police everything you know. After all, it’s your duty. ”
Lady Prunella marched back to where I was standing. Her eyes narrowed as she said, “I have already thought of that. You are right, of course. But in my experience, the officer in charge of this particular investigation has scant respect for his betters."
Oh, ho, I thought. So Detective Inspector Chase refuses to kowtow to you, madam. Very interesting.
“Oh, dear,” I clucked in sympathy. “How very trying for you, Lady Blitherington.”
“You can see, Dr. Kirby-Jones, why one doesn’t have much faith in the police. A savage killer has struck my poor dear friend Abigail Winterton, and I could well be next!” Her voice rose on that last phrase, and Precious started whining.
I leaned closer and whispered, “But, Lady Blitherington, what if it weren’t a mad stalker? What if it were someone here in the village that everyone knows and thinks is harmless?” I wasn’t going to explain that I thought Abigail Winterton had been the “stalker.” At the moment, at least, I thought the stalker and the murderer were different people.
Lady Blitherington drew back in horror. “Oh, surely not, Dr. Kirby-Jones. Surely not!” she protested.
“Let’s just consider it for a moment, though. You had a far gr
eater knowledge of poor Miss Winterton than I, and you are no doubt a very shrewd judge of character,” I declaimed modestly. “Why on earth would someone want to harm Miss Winterton?”
Lady Prunella’s brow darkened momentarily. She seemed caught in the grips of some internal battle. Finally, the urge to gossip won. “Poor Abigail was, as you no doubt noticed even in your brief acquaintance with her, rather a bitter person. She was most inclined to hold a grudge, no matter how unfairly. One sometimes had to overlook these unfortunate tendencies in order to make life bearable, though the dratted woman did go on so upon occasion.”
“Against whom did she hold these grudges?” I asked, wondering what on earth, if anything, she would tell me.
“Any number of folk here in the village! Abigail was always imagining that someone had slighted her for some reason or another. She took offense over the silliest things. Though, mind you,” here Lady Prunella leaned closer to me, “she did on occasion have real reason to bear a grudge.”
“Really?”
Lady Prunella nodded vigorously. “Poor Abigail invested part of her nest egg in some scheme of that Stevens woman’s husband, and she lost it when whatever it was flopped. I believe he had talked her into investing in some sort of joint venture. Can you imagine?”
“How distressing for her, though, to have lost money like that.”
“Well, certainly,” Lady Prunella acknowledged, “but she knew it was a risk when she did it. Letting herself be swayed by a City charlatan, mind you! You’ll notice that Mr. High-and-Mighty Stevens and his wife haven’t lost any noticeable amount of money lately.” She sniffed. “There was nothing poor Abigail could do, though she talked about it to all and sundry, until Mr. Stevens threatened proceedings against her for libel.”
“I can’t imagine, though, that Mr. or Mrs. Stevens would have murdered her for that reason.”