Posted to Death

by Dean James

  Until the police officially confirmed that Abigail Winterton had been murdered and released some details as to just how it was accomplished, I could carry my speculations only so far. I could imagine several rather lurid scenarios in which one of my fellow committee members had snuck into Abigail’s home during the night and batted her over the head or strangled her. But until we knew a bit more, all this speculation didn’t serve much purpose.

  I stared at the piece of paper in my hands. Might as well call Mrs. Stevens and accept her invitation to dinner. I punched in the numbers and listened to the burring of the phone. A prim, cultured voice answered, and I stated my purpose in calling. The voice, strangely androgynous, calmly took the news of my arrival for dinner and just as calmly gave me directions to the Stevens estate. I thanked it (for it had never introduced itself) and rang off.

  Wandering into the kitchen, I got myself a glass of water. Because of those little pills I keep mentioning, I do get a bit dehydrated from time to time. I don’t understand the way the darned little things work; I’m just grateful for most of what they allow, minus the occasional supernatural side effect. I’ve yet to experience the odd desire to bay at the moon that some have reported or the excessive growth of hair on various parts of the body. I’m hairy enough as it is.

  The doorbell rang, and I set my empty glass down in the sink. By the time the bell rang the second time, I was opening the door. There, standing ever so handsomely on my doorstep, was none other than Detective Inspector Robin Chase, stroking his mustache.

  I smiled. The game was afoot.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I invited the policeman in. He was alone, I was delighted to see. Perhaps I had misinterpreted his reason for this visit. Maybe it wasn’t because they were finally ready to admit Abigail Winterton had been murdered. Maybe he simply wanted to see me again.

  And maybe Wile E. Coyote would finally catch that elusive Road Runner. I stifled a sigh as I led the way into my sitting room. At least I was better dressed this time.

  “May I offer you something to drink, Detective Inspector?” I asked as I gestured for him to find a seat. He chose the most comfortable chair in the room.

  “No, thank you, Dr. Kirby-Jones. I won’t take much of your time,” he assured me.

  “What can I do for you, Detective Inspector?”

  “We’re continuing our inquiries, Dr. Kirby-Jones, and I wanted to go over your statement with you again.” He paused to pull a notebook from his pocket.

  “So Miss Winterton’s death was not an accident?”

  “We are now officially treating this as a case of murder,” Chase responded.

  “How did it happen? You must know by now that all sorts of rumors are spreading rapidly around the village.”

  Chase regarded me with a speculative smile. “Such as?”

  “Oh, that she was bludgeoned to death, that she was strangled, that she was poisoned. Just about any variation you could name.”

  Chase shook his head. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “So, how did it happen?” I repeated.

  “Miss Winterton was strangled to death.”

  From the look on his face, it must have been a grim sight. “The poor woman!” I said. “How hideous.” And I meant it. She might have been irritating and sly, but she had not deserved such a violent death.

  “Do you have any leads yet, Detective Inspector?” I asked after a brief silence.

  “We are pursuing several lines of inquiry at the moment, Dr. Kirby-Jones,” he replied smoothly. “I did want to ask you a few more questions, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Certainly not,” I said. “Fire away.”

  “Tell me again about this play that Miss Winterton talked about that night of the meeting.”

  Aha! I thought. So the play does have something to do with the murder. Quickly I repeated what I had told him before, and he nodded occasionally during my recital of the facts.

  “Did you not find a copy of this play somewhere in her house?” I asked.

  For a long moment I thought he wasn’t going to answer, but finally he said, “No, as a matter of feet we haven’t yet found it If it indeed ever existed.”

  “Do you think she could have been making the whole thing up?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose, but it’s more likely that whoever killed her took it away to keep us from discovering it.”

  I whistled softly. “Whatever was in that play must have been dynamite.”

  “Unless we find a copy or talk to someone else who had read it, we’ll never know,” Chase said.

  “Do you think that Miss Winterton had written it herself? If she didn’t, then whoever wrote it might come forth now.”

  Chase shrugged. “If someone else did write the play, this murder might convince him or her to remain anonymous. For the moment, we have to concentrate on other angles to the case.”

  “Like who had some more concrete motive to do away with her, you mean?” I said mischievously.

  He nodded, trying not to smile. He was relaxing nicely. I was a bit surprised that he had been so forthcoming with me. Perhaps this meant that I was not a suspect in the case.

  “I’m afraid I must ask you again, How well did you know Miss Winterton?” He consulted his notebook. “You told me previously that you’ve not been in the village very long, Dr. Kirby-Jones. Any chance that you knew the victim before coming here?”

  He wasn’t all that relaxed, after all.

  I shook my head. “I had never met the woman until three days ago, at the vicarage. The vicar invited me to attend a meeting of his committee to raise money for St. Ethelwold’s restoration project, and Miss Winterton was one of the committee members. That was the first time I had met her.”

  “You hadn’t been into her shop, you hadn’t had a letter or package to mail?”

  “Until this weekend,” I told him for the second time, “I had actually spent very little time in the village since coming to England three months ago. There is so much red tape to get through in order for an American to live here. I stayed in London most of the time, making only quick trips down here occasionally to check on things. I hadn’t gone into the shop or the post office until two days ago, when I sent a manuscript to my agent in London. The third, and final, time I saw her was that same night at the meeting of the dramatic society.”

  “So she was essentially a stranger to you?” Chase asked.

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “Did you observe anything else that night at the meeting, or in your previous interactions with her, that might shed some light on our investigation?”

  How candid should I be with him at this point? I wondered. The worst he could do, I supposed, was dismiss me as a nosy American. I demurred. “Well, I have already picked up the odd piece or two of gossip.” Chase smiled encouragingly. Naughty man! I believe he knew the effect it had on me.

  “A little bird—or two—has told me,” I continued, matching him smile for smile, “that Miss Winterton was not above peeking through the mail, looking for interesting tidbits.”

  Chase smiled. “Could you tell me, then, Dr. Kirby-Jones, who these informants were?”

  This was a bit of a sticky wicket. Should I rat on Lady Prunella and Jane? I frowned, considering.

  Chase observed my hesitation. “I assure you, Dr. Kirby-Jones, that I won’t reveal my source unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  I made a further show of my reluctance, but really, I could see no good reason to demur. “Both Jane Hardwick and Lady Prunella Blitherington mentioned to me in conversation that Miss Winterton was prone to a bit of snooping through the mail.”

  “In other words, she was potentially a blackmailer,” Chase said.

  “My, how direct you are! Yes, that’s what I do mean. At least that’s what I inferred from what I was told. It’s dreadfully sordid, of course, but there you are. A time-honored, but excellent motive for murder.”

  “And the body’s in the library, and Miss Marple
is peering over the hedge in the rose garden.” Detective Inspector Chase positively twinkled at me.

  “If you want to look at it that way,” I acknowledged. Chase frowned, and the sun went most definitely behind a cloud. “Please do remember, Dr. Kirby-Jones, that murder is not a parlor game. Someone deliberately and brutally strangled Miss Winterton, and it’s my job to discover who did it.” He rose and stood looking down at me.

  “My dear Detective Inspector Chase”—I stood, my face the tiniest bit flushed with irritation—“I quite understand that. I will endeavor to give you every assistance possible in doing your job, without the least interfering in that process, I do assure you.” I smiled disarmingly at him. “I do want to stay on your good side, after all.”

  “I’ll rely on that, Dr. Kirby-Jones. I appreciate your helping us with our inquiries.”

  “Anytime at all, anytime at all,” I promised as I escorted him to the front door. “Please feel free to call me whenever you need me... for anything.”

  He turned at the door, rubbing his mustache quickly with one finger. “I’ll be in touch.”

  And with that I had to be content.

  I had no doubt that before this thing was resolved, I’d see plenty more of the delicious detective inspector. Which was fine by me.

  For the moment, I decided that I might as well call upon his cousin, that other delectable Chase, and see what I could ferret out in the case of the strangled post mistress. I waited until the policeman was out of sight, put on my hat and dark glasses, then let myself out the front door of Laurel Cottage.

  A pleasant ramble down the lane took me to the Book Chase. When time allowed, I really must explore more of the village and its environs. From what I had observed thus far, the setting was delightful. I reassured myself, yet again, that I had done the right thing in choosing to settle here. America no longer held much charm for me. I refused to let myself brood about Jack, or about Tristan Lovelace, and relationships gone by the wayside.

  Trevor greeted me warmly when I stepped inside the bookstore.

  “Simon!” He came forward with hand outstretched. “How nice to see you again. Can you believe what has happened? It’s monstrous!”

  “Yes, wasn’t it the most awful shock? Your cousin came to see me just now, by the way. Has he been by here yet?”

  Trevor sniffed and shook his head. “Not yet Robin will, as always, leave me until the last moment possible.” Obviously not a lot of love lost there. Hmm... jealousy, perhaps?

  “That’s a shame. He’s quite handsome,” I said mischievously.

  Trevor’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t waste your time there, Simon,” he said, his teeth clenching. “Robin won’t be interested, I assure you.” He turned away. “What can I do for you this morning?”

  The friendly mood between us had vanished abruptly. I barely knew the man. Surely he wasn’t jealous? There must be something in the history of his relationship with his cousin that caused this.

  “I said he was handsome, I didn’t say he was available,” I observed innocently, and Trevor turned back inquiringly. “I thought I’d like to poke around among your collectibles upstairs, if that’s all right. When I was here the other day, I didn’t take time. As you might expect I’m quite the bookaholic, and one of the treasures I’ve been desperately seeking for years could just be lurking on the premises.”

  Trevor smiled, his good humor suddenly restored. “Please go right ahead, Simon. I’m sure there must be something you want on the premises. Help yourself.” He waved me upstairs.

  It was a good thing there was no one else in the shop at that moment, I thought as I climbed the stairs to the second floor. (Or should I call it the first? This translation bit was sometimes a bit confusing.) The conversation hadn’t gone quite the way I had planned. So much for an interrogation of Trevor Chase. I’d have to think of some other gambit. And what had he meant by “something you want”? Was that an invitation, or was I simply reading more into it than was warranted?

  I spent a lovely half hour browsing through the shelves, and I did manage to locate one treasure I had long wanted. In a locked case, Trevor had what looked to be a mint copy of Dorothy L. Sayers’s The Nine Tailors, my favorite of her books. I had to have it. And, thanks to Daphne Deepwood and Dorinda Darlington, I could afford it. There were several other, minor items that I wanted as well. This sale would very likely make Trevor’s day. If not his month.

  Heading back down the stairs, I paused halfway as I picked up part of a conversation.

  “There’s not a thing you can do about it!” Giles Blitherington was saying heatedly.

  “Don’t threaten me, boyo!” Trevor responded with quiet fury. “Abigail Winterton tried it, and look where it got her!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I paused on the stairs, hoping I might hear more of the argument, but at the most inopportune moment, the front door of the shop opened, its bell tinkling. Drat and blast!

  I continued down the stairs to find Trevor assisting the newcomer, a perky young blonde with a toddler in tow, and Giles browsing through the history section. He just happened to have my book on Eleanor of Aquitaine in his hands.

  Giles seemed a bit startled to see me. He glanced down at the book in his hands, then back up at me. For once the sulky look wasn’t spoiling his handsome face.

  “I say, Dr. Kirby-Jones, this is a pleasant coincidence,” Giles said, tucking my book under his left arm and then extending his right hand for me to shake. The warmth of his voice surprised me.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Blitherington,” I responded, taking his hand in mine. Strong, firm, and very warm, I found. Did I imagine it, or did he give me just the tiniest extra squeeze before releasing it? His eyes betrayed nothing but innocent interest.

  “Are you a reader of history?” I asked when he pulled my book out from under his arm.

  He nodded. “Actually, yes, and the medieval period has always fascinated me. I wonder ... Would you mind signing this for me? I’ve not read it yet, and I am much looking forward to it.”

  “My dear fellow,” I assured him, “I’d be delighted.” Well, if he really wanted to buy and read my book, he’d go up a few notches in my estimation. Maybe there truly was a brain lurking behind that cover-model exterior.

  We moved to the counter, and I drew a pen out of my pocket and signed the book with a flourish. Trevor glowered at both of us while trying to seem not to do so, and Giles paid for the book. I told Trevor about the books I wanted from the upstairs case, and muttering something under his breath, he went upstairs to retrieve them for me.

  “I say, Dr. Kirby-Jones,” Giles said as soon as Trevor had vanished up the stairs, “I wonder if I might talk with you privately about something?”

  Curiouser and curiouser. I had had him on my list to interrogate, naturally, and there was no time like the present. Whatever it was he wanted, perhaps it might work to my advantage in questioning him about Abigail Winterton and her murder.

  “Certainly, Mr. Blitherington. Would you like to accompany me to my cottage as soon as Trevor has my books ready? I can offer you something to drink, perhaps, while we talk.”

  “Thank you,” he said, looking more relieved than the situation warranted, I thought. “That would be most excellent.”

  Trevor watched us both suspiciously when he came back downstairs a few moments later, arms laden with books. I took my time inspecting them, ensuring that I was getting good value for my money. Really, his prices were most reasonable. I nodded, he rang them up and wrapped them for me, and I wrote him a check that made his eyes glow with pleasure, at least momentarily. My leaving with Giles Blitherington in tow seemed to spoil the mood a bit. Further interrogation of Trevor Chase would have to wait.

  Giles remained silent on the short walk to my cottage, and I didn’t attempt to engage him in conversation for the moment. I unlocked the door and ushered Giles in, leaving my parcel of books on the table near the door.

  “Welcome to Laurel Cottage,” I sai
d, escorting Giles into the sitting room. “But perhaps you’ve been here before?”

  Giles shook his head as he surveyed the room. “Actually, no. When Professor Lovelace lived here, I was never allowed near the place. I was too young.” He turned to face me with a wicked grin. “And he was too dangerous, of course. He might have corrupted me.” Something about Giles’s voice informed me that he wished Tristan had.

  “Could he have?” I asked, raising one eyebrow rakishly.

  “Oh, most assuredly,” Giles said. “But it was not to be.” If his tone was anything by which to judge, he had obviously made up for lost time.

  “How about some tea?” I asked.

  Giles pouted slightly, as if disappointed by the suddenly mundane turn of the conversation. “How about something a bit more exciting? Like Diet Coke, perhaps?”

  I laughed. “Can do. Be back in a tick.”

  I left him in the sitting room, wandering around and looking at the paintings and furnishings. Humming softly as I prepared our drinks, I mused on just what Giles could be after, seeking me out like this. A date? Or, to be blunt, a quick roll in the hay? The sexual energy emanating from that young man could make even my cold blood stir.

  Back in the sitting room, I served Giles his drink. He had made himself comfortable on the sofa, adopting a pose similar to mine when I had entertained Detective Inspector Chase earlier in the day. Really, the boy (I shouldn’t call him that, for he was at least twenty-five) was quite shameless. I could get to be quite fond of him. He reminded me of myself at that age. Only a few years ago, mind you.

  I took the chair more recently filled by said detective inspector. Assuming that worthy’s inquisitive air, I asked Giles something that had been puzzling me for two days. “Do you mind my asking, Do you have an elder brother?”

  Puzzled, Giles shook his head. “No, I’m the only son, and my sister is the only daughter in the family.”