Posted to Death

by Dean James

  “Rather shocking, isn’t it, that there has been a murder in the village?” I said brightly, watching the faces of the lord and lady of the manor with great interest.

  Samantha Stevens smiled slightly, while Everard Stevens was so nonplussed that he let his mouth hang open for a moment

  “I didn’t know poor Miss Winterton all that well,” I went on while Stevens struggled with the shock of actually hearing another voice besides his own, “so I can’t imagine why on earth someone would murder the poor creature. What do you think, Mrs. Stevens?”

  Thus called upon, Samantha Stevens cast a quick glance at her husband, then answered. “I, of course, knew poor Abigail much better than you, Dr. Kirby-Jones, but I confess that I, too, am in a quandary over her unfortunate death. I sometimes found her difficult, albeit usually well meaning, but that doesn’t explain why someone would murder her.”

  “Quite so,” Jane Hardwick said. “Abigail could be a sore trial at times. And to think how the village will suffer without her.” Jane leaned across the table a bit and fixed me with a telling look. I wondered what she was about. “Simon isn’t aware, naturally, of the significant role which Abigail played in village affairs. She was the mainstay of much of the charitable activity in the village.”

  Samantha Stevens nearly spluttered her wine all over the table. “Mainstay! She was a busybody, if you ask me! She thought she had to be in charge of everything that went on, especially anything to do with St. Ethelwold’s. I’m surprised the vicar managed to get dressed in the morning without her express permission!” She gulped at her wine. “Between her and Lady Blitherington, they made it nearly impossible for someone truly experienced in fundraising and committee work on a national level to accomplish anything of significance.”

  The heat of jealousy in Samantha Stevens’s voice gave me a startlingly bizarre idea. Could Mrs. Stevens have possibly murdered Abigail Winterton for blocking her attempts to take control of charitable affairs in the village?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  How quickly Samantha Stevens had shed her cool, remote exterior! So this was the passion that drove her. I glanced covertly at Jane and caught a fleeting smile of triumph pass over her face.

  “I imagine that you must have been significantly involved in various fundraising projects in London, Mrs. Stevens,” I commented, sincerity and admiration oozing from my voice.

  In response, Mrs. Stevens reeled off a list of charities that made my head spin. The woman wasn’t kidding when she said she had experience. I speculated whether being “retired” to Snupperton Mumsley didn’t make her even edgier. With that thought in mind, I said, “But since we’re so close to London here, you probably still are actively involved with that work.”

  A pained look crossed Mrs. Stevens’s face and was quickly gone. Everard Stevens spoke up, “No, Dr. Kirby-Jones, my wife and I decided that, once I retired from affairs in the City, we would both retire. After so many years of devoting ourselves to my business interests and to her charitable work, we thought we would rather have more time for ourselves and our leisure.”

  I wondered just how much input Samantha Stevens had really had in that decision. From the tautly controlled look on her face, I thought probably very little at all. If she no longer had her activities in London to keep her busy and Abigail Winterton (and probably Lady Blitherington as well) had kept her from positions of power in the village, the woman could be so frustrated, she might resort to violence of some sort. Suddenly, Abigail Winterton’s taunting about Everard Stevens’s accident didn’t seem that ludicrous. Frankly, I couldn’t blame Mrs. Stevens for wanting to get rid of her husband if he were stifling her needs and ambitions to this extent. Not to mention the fact that he was a crashing great bore. I observed her with a new respect. She could be a formidable foe if she chose, I was sure.

  “Retirement has allowed us to travel more,” Everard Stevens went on. “At least when I don’t have stupid accidents that make travel difficult.”

  Samantha Stevens smiled enigmatically as she took another sip of her wine. “We traveled extensively before Everard’s retirement,” Mrs. Stevens said, “but of course we were always at the mercy of the needs of business, not pleasure. Now we may go where we like, when we like.” Her voice sounded dutiful, but her eyes told another story. Jane and I exchanged glances with amusement. No matter how tough a businessman Stevens may have been, I had little doubt that his wife (or should I say “widow”?) would one day have her way.

  “I can’t imagine wanting to waste time on committees here in this little village,” Everard Stevens went on, oblivious to Jane’s broad smile. “All they want is a check, and we can contribute that without my wife having to dirty her hands with the actual fundraising.” Mrs. Stevens paled at that beautifully brutal display of tactlessness. Her hand tightened on her wineglass, and for a moment I thought she might smash it in her husband’s face.

  “Money is naturally of great significance,” Jane said, her voice calm but authoritative, “but without someone of great organizational skills and persuasive personality to guide the efforts, any committee will find it difficult to succeed in its goals, no matter how worthy the cause.” Everard Stevens blinked in surprise at being put so neatly in his place, while Samantha almost purred with joy. She tossed off the rest of her wine and stood. “Ladies, shall we adjourn to the drawing room and leave the men to their amusements?”

  Since she had used the plural of the word, I was curious to see how Hilary Thomas, who had remained mostly silent during the meal, would react. Was Hilary a lady? Apparently she was, for she rose along with Jane and Samantha Stevens and departed the dining room. That was one little mystery solved.

  Dobson didn’t follow, but I suppose one can’t be a butler and a lady at the same time. At least not socially.

  Dobson did, however, fetch some expensive Cuban cigars, which she then offered each of us in turn. I accepted one happily. One of the benefits of death, you see. Smoking can’t hurt me. Though I don’t smoke that often, I do so enjoy a good cigar.

  Stevens, Parker, and I sat and smoked for about an hour, with Parker and me listening to Stevens explain, in gruesome detail, the problems with the British economy and why Margaret Thatcher was the greatest prime minister in the history of Great Britain. I made a couple of attempts to turn the conversation back to Abigail Winterton, with some hopes of finding out more about her grudge against my host but the River Bore was in full spate, and I sat back and enjoyed my cigar. Finally, Dobson stood behind Stevens’s chair and coughed loudly. That was apparently the signal for us to rejoin the ladies in the drawing room.

  As we came into the drawing room, Jane was entertaining Mrs. Stevens and Hilary Thomas with a pithy review of some play she had seen in London the week before.

  Everard Stevens took over the conversation immediately, changing the subject to some topic of interest to himself while the rest of us watched the hands on the clock move slowly around. After twenty minutes of Stevens’s perorations on Basque separatism, Dobson came into the drawing room with a horse on a leash.

  At least it looked like a horse, but it was actually a dog. I haven’t the slightest notion of what breed it was. Huge and ugly, it looked as if it could eat several small children for breakfast. Upon sight of this canine behemoth, Stevens immediately lost the thread of his remarks, and a goofy look spread across his face.

  “There is Daddy’s big boy! Come to Daddy, sweet boy.” Remarks in that vein kept flowing, becoming more nauseating by the moment. The creature, whose name was Junior, stood in front of Everard Stevens and licked his master’s face happily. Stevens was soon dripping all over the place, and the whole scenario was completely disgusting. I watched with fascination as Mrs. Stevens averted her gaze entirely. The poor woman had my entire sympathy now. I wondered whom she would enjoy getting rid of more, her husband or his dog?

  Eventually, Stevens remembered his guests long enough to adjure us to admire Junior. (The mind simply reeled at the implications of
that name.) We did so dutifully, though if the damned beast had tried to lick me, he would have been awfully surprised. But he took one look at me and, even as stupid as he appeared, knew enough to keep his distance.

  Stevens continued crooning at his horrid pet as the rest of us watched in horrified fascination. My ears pricked when Stevens said something about that “nasty lady who won’t ever bother my sweet boy again!”

  “Did someone take exception to your handsome pet, Mr. Stevens?” I said brightly.

  “What?” Stevens jerked his head up, out of range of Junior’s slimy tongue. “Oh, that. That damned interfering busybody of a postmistress was always on about poor little Junior here whenever we went into her pathetic excuse for a village shop. She screeched at him and upset him terribly. My poor boy!”

  “Obviously she had no sense of appreciation for what a fine animal Junior is,” I said, and Stevens bought every syllable of it.

  “His pedigree is certainly more august than hers ever was,” Stevens snorted. “Bloody woman tried to make trouble for Junior, saying that he hadn’t spent the proper time in quarantine when I brought him over from the United States. But that was sheer nonsense. She was trying to get back at me.”

  “She was a spiteful shrew,” Samantha Stevens agreed. “But Everard was able to prove that Junior had spent his duly allotted time in quarantine, and that was the end of that.” She gave her husband a speaking glance, and, wonder of wonders, he said no more.

  After that exchange, the conversation dwindled enough to bring the dinner party to a close, and Jane and I left shortly after that. We thanked our host and hostess for a most diverting evening. That was the most tactful word I could devise. I couldn’t help but think that some version of tonight’s amusements would make its way into one of my books someday.

  Once we were safely ensconced in Jane’s car and heading homeward, I said, “You were right, Jane! There’s no way I could have imagined anything like that”

  Jane laughed. “Something you have to experience to believe, as I know only too well. That poor woman has a lot to put up with in that place. But she married him, for whatever reasons. I can only hope the money makes up for most of what she endures.”

  I laughed along with her. “That’s the bad part about making a bargain with the Devil. You’re stuck with him, and his dog, one way or another.”

  “They’ve only been retired here in the village for a little over two years,” Jane said. “I’m willing to lay odds that Everard Stevens doesn’t survive five years of retirement.”

  “I wouldn’t bet against you, Jane,” I said. “Something tells me he is not long for this world. Because I don’t imagine divorce, at this point, would have the same satisfactions as widowhood.”

  “No, mere divorce would be no compensation,” Jane agreed.

  “Very interesting,” I said, changing the subject, “what you managed to bring out about charitable works. It sounds to me as if Mrs. Stevens had a motive, twisted though it might be, to get rid of Abigail Winterton.” “I thought it worth a gamble,” Jane said. “I knew that Abigail had done her best, along with Prunella, to keep Samantha on the fringes of any kind of organized charitable activities here. The only instance in which they failed was the board of SMADS. The vicar, of course, is useless against such determined busybodies as Abigail and Prunella.”

  “How were you able to get yourself involved in such works?” I asked. “Surely they wouldn’t be keen on having someone with your abilities to outshine them?”

  “Thank you, Simon,” Jane said as she drew her car into her garage. “But when I first came to the village, things were a bit different Lady Prunella’s mother-in-law was still living, and it was she who had control of such things in those days. She and I hit it off immediately, so I became involved in things before Prunella or Abigail could do much about it. They grew rather used to me, but once the Dowager Lady Blitherington passed on, Prunella and Abigail took over. They fought with each other all the time, but they did stand united over one thing. One or the other of them controlled every committee of any significance in the village.”

  I followed Jane to her front door. “Politics, even on this level, can be dirty. I think we’ve found a possible motive for the murder.”

  Jane unlocked her door and opened it. “Yes, we have. But just how probable is it? Though I must admit I’m vastly amused by the notion of Samantha Stevens as a murderess, it doesn’t seem strong enough a motive. There are probably others yet to be uncovered.”

  “What about Everard Stevens and his beloved dog? Could he have had his keeper, Parker, go after Abigail because of the fuss she kicked up over Junior?”

  Jane shook her head. “I don’t think so, Simon. There were definitely bitter feelings on Abigail’s part, but as you heard, Stevens was able to prove that die dog had been through the proper quarantine. Abigail was just trying to annoy him, and she succeeded, but it was only momentary. That happened a year ago, and though both parties harbored a grudge, I don’t think it’s the motive for murder in this case.”

  “I knew it was a long shot,” I said, “but worth a try. What a hideous beast.” Which applied equally well to dog and master, I reflected.

  Jane laughed as she stepped inside her cottage. “Meet me here at one and we’ll proceed with our raid on the post office. And perhaps we’ll uncover something even more interesting.”

  “And incriminating,” I said, smiling. I glanced at my watch. It was almost eleven. “Only a couple of hours. Well, I’ll have time to get some work done. Until then.” Jane nodded and shut the door.

  I loped off down the lane to my cottage, my mind mulling over the possibilities. We had established a tenuous motive for Samantha Stevens. Her husband seemed to be out of the running—for the moment at least A pity, for he was rather a nasty specimen, and it would be most rewarding to see him in the dock, on trial for murder.

  I unlocked the front door of my cottage, my mind still on the possibilities of Samantha Stevens as a murderer. How could I work it into something more substantial if I were to use it in a book, for example? I went upstairs to change clothes. I might as well dress in what I’d wear for our commando raid at one A.M. Then I could work right up until the time to meet Jane.

  Other than the couple of small lamps that I had left burning downstairs in my absence, I hadn’t turned on any lights. I paused on the threshhold of my bedroom, suddenly aware of another presence. I focused, and I could make out a lump of something—or someone—in my bed.

  “It’s about time you got here,” a voice complained.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Giles!” I said, flicking on the lights. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

  Giles Blitherington regarded me sleepily from the bed. “Not much,” he yawned. He patted the bed beside him. “I could be doing a lot more, though, if you’d care to join me.” He winked lasciviously at me.

  Need I say that he was beneath the covers of the bed, with his naked torso exposed? His dragon tattoo and hairy chest very much in evidence, Giles presented a tempting picture. His hair was a bit tousled from his nap in my bed, and his eyes made promises he seemed only too willing to keep.

  I thought about yanking the covers off him and throwing him out of the cottage. Instead, I sat down on the bed near him and regarded him with my sternest gaze. He matched me glare for glare, unrepentantly. “What am I going to do with you?” I said softly.

  Giles grinned. “I should have thought that was pretty obvious for a clever man like you, Simon.” He reclined against the pillow and regarded me seductively.

  “Giles, this is no time to be funny,” I said severely.

  “I agree with you completely, Simon,” he responded.

  He reached out with his right hand and clasped mine in his. He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed it, slowly and lingeringly.

  “Oh, hell!” I said. I thrust his hand down against the bed, out of the way, then leaned over and kissed him.

  After an enjo
yable few minutes of that, I sat back and watched Giles. He almost purred with contentment. ‘Very nice, Simon,” he said, his breath a bit short. “In fact, much more than very nice.”

  “Well, you’ll have to be content with that,” I told him, getting up from the bed. “I want you out of my bed, dressed, and downstairs in my study in five minutes.” I smiled at him to take some of the sting out of my words, but I meant what I said. He recognized that, thankfully. His mouth twisted in a pout, but his eyes evinced resignation. I turned my back and headed out the door before he could throw off the bedcovers.

  In my office, restless, I wandered about, shifting stacks of papers here and there. What was I going to say to him? I went over to the window, pulled back the curtains, and pressed my forehead to the glass. The moon shed a tranquil glow over the lane. There was no sign of a car, so Giles must have walked here. As I watched, I caught a glimpse of movement in Jane Hardwick’s yard. A dark figure slipped out from the side of Jane’s house and made off down the lane. I couldn’t see enough to tell who it was, but from the size and the way the person moved, it looked an awful lot like Jane.

  Frowning, I turned away from the window. What was Jane doing? Some investigating of her own before I joined her later, I supposed. I looked up from my reverie, and there was Giles, dressed but still seductively tousled looking. I forgot all about Jane for the moment.

  If Giles only knew what self-control I’d had to exert to resist him, he’d be very flattered. I sighed inwardly. What had I got myself into by agreeing to hire him? Should I fire him now and be done with the whole situation? I wavered. I didn’t want to dismiss him entirely, I told myself, at least not while Abigail Winterton’s murder remained unsolved. He was a suspect, and I should take this opportunity to interrogate him.

  I sat down behind my desk and motioned for Giles to take the chair across from me. He did so, frowning slightly.

  Giles started to speak, but I stopped him. “No apologies necessary, Giles,” I said. “I am very flattered, believe me. But I’d prefer to keep our relationship on a professional basis. If you can’t abide by that, then I’ll have no choice but to dismiss you.”