by Dean James
Giles breathed deeply. “I shall abide by your rules, Simon,” he said. “But I’ll warn you, sooner or later, I always get what I want.” His eyes sparkled wickedly, and his mouth curved in yet another seductive grin.
I found myself smiling in return. “That’s as may be. If it happens to coincide with what I want, then there’s no problem. But we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
“I’m willing to wait,” Giles assured me. “Some things are worth waiting for, after all.”
“Yes, they are,” I agreed softly, watching him. He was so very appealing, but I wanted to know him better before I made any kind of personal commitment. Working together should provide enough opportunity for getting to know each other. We’d either quickly tire of the situation and each other or it would become even more difficult to maintain a professional distance. Either way, it was worth the gamble.
As long as he wasn’t a murderer.
Spurred by that thought, I plunged in. “As long as you’re here, Giles, I’ve something I’d like to talk to you about.”
Giles sighed tragically. “Since I seemingly have nothing better to do, go right ahead, Simon.”
“Tell me about you and Trevor Chase,” I said, not mincing words.
“Trevor and me?” Giles sat up straight in his chair. “What do you mean, Simon? There is nothing going on!”
I didn’t believe him, not only because of what Trevor Chase had told me earlier in the day but because Giles had a rather shifty look at that moment.
“Perhaps there’s nothing going on at the moment,” I said, stressing those last three words, “but surely something went on in the past. Level with me, Giles. I promise I’m not going to hold past indiscretions against you.”
Giles rolled his eyes. “It’s just so embarrassing, Simon. God, if you only knew.”
“Just tell me.”
Giles stared down at his hands for a moment. “I first met Trevor when I went to university eight years ago. He was my tutor, and I found him madly attractive. I’ve always liked older men.” He grinned at me. Then he turned somber again. “And Trevor was attracted to me, that much was obvious. Things got rather out of hand after that and I was as much to blame as he was at the beginning. But I quickly realized that he was obsessively jealous. He followed me around, keeping an eye on me, because he feared I was having an affair with someone else. The whole situation was too Grand Guignol for words.”
“So Trevor was stalking you?” I said, intrigued by this different interpretation of the story.
Giles nodded. “More or less. I couldn’t handle his obsessiveness, and I told him I didn’t want to see him again. But he wouldn’t leave me alone. I threatened to report him to the appropriate university authorities and so on, and he must have believed me, because he went to them before I could. He made me out to be the villain, and I ended up being sent down as a consequence. My work had been suffering because he was making my life miserable. I couldn’t concentrate on my studies, I couldn’t do anything very well. He made my life an utter living hell for months.”
“How did he come to live in this village, then?” I asked.
“That’s where it gets even nuttier,” Giles muttered. “He had been down to Blitherington Hall once, and at some point after I was sent down, he came into some money. He bought the bookshop in the village and moved here about six years ago. I was walking down the street one day and looked up and there he was, smiling at me from the doorway of his shop.”
“So he followed you here?” I asked.
Giles nodded unhappily. “I thought at first that he was going to follow me around all the time and make my life hell again, but he hasn’t. He has more than once made it plain that he’d just as soon take up where we left off, before I realized he was starkers, that is! But I told him in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t interested.”
“Did Abigail Winterton know about any of this?”
Giles looked startled. “Her? How could she unless someone told her? I certainly wouldn’t and I doubt Trevor would have.”
“From what I hear,” I said, “she wasn’t above opening the mail and looking for interesting tidbits.”
“Blackmail, you mean?” Giles almost laughed. “I suppose I wouldn’t have put it past her, but she wouldn’t have had much luck with me. All I would have had to do was sic my mother on her and that would have been that.”
“But could she have known about it?” I persisted.
Giles considered that. “If she did go through and read one’s mail, then yes, she could. Trevor wrote me a couple of rather indiscreet letters. I burned them immediately after reading them. But old Winterton never said anything to me about them. After all, I was the innocent one. That is, mostly”—at least he had the grace to appear slightly abashed—“but the old cow probably tweaked Trevor about them plenty.”
Upon quick reflection, I was inclined to believe Giles’s version of the story. No doubt he was spoiled and could be temperamental when he didn’t get his way, but I didn’t think he was obsessive. Impulsive, yes. As well as self-centered. But not (I hoped) obsessional.
His explanation of Trevor’s turning up in Snupperton Mumsley seemed more convincing than Trevor’s version. It would have been a whopping great coincidence for Trevor to have bought a bookshop in the one village in England where Giles lived without Trevor’s having known about it in advance. Naturally, such coincidences do occur in real life, but this one seemed a bit much. That tipped the scales in Giles’s favor. For the moment at least.
“Then you think Trevor might have more to lose if the story were broadcast around the village?” I asked.
Giles shrugged. “I suppose. He might find it more than a bit humiliating. And my mother would make his life miserable if she knew.”
“Such being the case, how did you explain your being sent down? You must not have told her the truth.”
“No,” Giles said, “of course I didn’t tell her the truth! Her hold on reality couldn’t take it. Some version of it, mind you, but not the complete truth. My mother thinks I was simply too gifted for the jealously pedestrian minds of my tutors and that everything was their fault.” His wicked grin flashed again.
“It wouldn’t embarrass you if the truth came out?” I asked.
“Of course it would, Simon,” Giles said in exasperation, “but I could live with it. I’m more embarrassed over the opportunities I wasted than for anything else. I could have had a first-class degree, but I screwed that up.” His tone was bitter with self-reproach. “I know full well that I handled the whole situation poorly, and I’ve paid for it. But that little secret isn’t worth killing for, if that’s what you’re after. At least I wouldn’t have killed anyone to keep it quiet!” He glared at me with something approaching distaste.
“I believe you, Giles,” I said, and I meant it. Was it simply my own hormones taking over? Or did Giles seem truly sincere, more so than Trevor had been? Perhaps I wanted to believe him more than I wanted to believe Trevor. Giles had managed to get past my defenses much faster than I had been willing to admit.
Giles stood up. “Thank you, Simon. I appreciate that.” He looked across the desk at me, his eyes now warm again. “I’m more than a bit spoiled and selfish, I know, but I promise you I’ll abide by your rules. When you’re ready for something more than a professional relationship, I’ll be waiting.”
I stood up and walked around the desk. “I’m glad you understand, Giles.” I pushed him toward the door. “Now, go home. I expect you here in the morning, ready to work. No slacking, mind you!”
“I’ll be here”—Giles laughed—“and you’ll have trouble keeping up with me.”
“That I don’t doubt,” I answered wryly.
Giles left smiling, and I stood in the doorway of my study, staring at the closed front door of the cottage. I suddenly realized I had never asked Giles how he had gotten in. I had likely forgotten to lock one of the two doors to the cottage. But I wouldn’t put it past the very enterprising Giles
to have picked a lock. He was a young man of many parts, as I was quickly discovering. Nothing at all like what my first impression had indicated—but perhaps his mother simply had that effect upon him. I could easily understand that.
I glanced at my watch; it was now a few minutes past midnight. I had better get back to my original plan. I trudged upstairs again to get myself dressed for tonight’s undercover activities and couldn’t help laughing at my unintentional pun.
What further adventures would the night bring?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
At the stroke of one I knocked softly at Jane Hardwick’s front door. The door swung quietly open, and Jane motioned me inside. From the dim light down the hall, I could see that Jane was dressed completely in black: slacks, sweater, trainers, gloves, and a black scarf tied around her hair. I was similarly attired except for the scarf. I had no need to wrap my dark head or my face, since it was covered with a dark beard. The days when vampires could shape-change or make themselves invisible are gone. That’s one of the trade-offs we made for those dandy little pills I keep mentioning.
“Where were you going earlier?” I asked her. “About an hour ago?”
Jane’s hand stilled as she reached for the doorknob. “You saw me, then?” She sighed. “And I thought I was being so careful. I did a quick reconnoiter at the post office, if you must know.” She looked up at me as she pulled the door shut behind us. “Since you don’t seem to have much experience at dead-of-night skulking, I thought I’d better have a look beforehand in case there were any nasty little surprises waiting for us, like a policeman on duty, watching the post office.”
“Not a bad idea,” I admitted, ignoring that little jibe about my lack of experience. “Lead on, Macduff.”
I had been looking upon our expedition as something of a lark, but Jane was serious as ever, frowning at my attempt at levity. “Now, Simon, stay close by me,” she whispered as we walked down the lane toward the post office. Thanks to all the trees lining the lane, we were able to stick to the shadows. The moon cast a faint glow, and the street lamps were few and far between. Just past the church Jane turned down a small lane I had not noticed before. It took us behind the buildings on High Street, and after a few moments, Jane stopped behind the cluster of buildings and opened a gate. This, I presumed, led us into the yard at the back of Abigail Winterton’s shop.
In the faint shine of the moon, combined with fitful light from the street lamp in the front of the shop, I glimpsed Abigail Winterton’s garden and the rubbish tip at one end. To judge from the dejected appearance of the few pitiful flowers leaning out of the ground in various haphazardly placed pots, she hadn’t been much of a gardener. Jane gave me little time to observe much more, however, for she grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the back door. She fumbled for a moment with the lock, and then the door opened. Obviously, Giles Blitherington wasn’t the only inhabitant of the village adept at picking locks. (I had locked my doors; Giles was proving to have some unusual habits for a minor peer of the realm.)
Once we were inside, Jane closed the door and pulled a small flashlight out of her pocket. The thin beam of the light played over the room. Abigail Winterton hadn’t been much of a housekeeper, either. Apparently, she had been too busy with running the store and the post office, not to mention her various committees, to pay much attention to the washing up. The dishes in the sink looked—and smelled—as if they had been there for several days. My nose wrinkled in disgust. As Jane’s beam of light slid across the sink, I swear I saw something scurry out of sight.
“Surely we don’t need to look for anything in here,” I said to Jane, my voice low but well above a whisper.
Momentarily startled, Jane whirled around, flashing the light across my chest. “Sorry, Simon, I lost track for a moment.” Jane wrinkled her nose, too. “No, I don’t think what we’re looking for will be in here. I hadn’t realized Abigail was such a poor housekeeper. Rather sad, isn’t it?”
Jane focused her light on the floor on the other side of the table, away from the door. Bearing mute witness to Abigail Winterton’s last resting place was an outline on the floor. I shuddered in distaste. Somehow it seemed worse that the woman had died, struggling horribly, no doubt, in the squalor of this ill-kept kitchen. Jane muttered something under her breath and, without waiting for my response, headed out of the kitchen and down the hall to a set of stairs. I glanced curiously into the two rooms we passed on the way, but without the light I couldn’t see much of anything. Whatever Jane’s goal, it was upstairs.
I followed Jane up the creaking stairs to a narrow room across from the landing. Abigail Winterton’s bedroom, as it turned out. There were obvious signs of disarray here as well, but nothing like the kitchen below. Here, it seemed to me, the disorder had more to do with a search of the premises than the deceased’s disinclination to clean.
“Looks like the police have already gone through everything,” I said to Jane.
“Yes, I expect you’re right,” Jane replied. “But one would like to think that they’d make more of an attempt to tidy things up afterward.”
“Who’s going to complain?” I said. “Did Miss Winterton have some relative who’s going to kick up a fuss?”
“No,” Jane said. “You’re right. There’s no one to bother.”
Jane flashed the light around the room, avoiding the windows and the large mirror over Abigail’s dressing table. The furnishings here were in sharp contrast to those I’d glimpsed in the kitchen. Miss Winterton had spent what money she had making her boudoir (and I was convinced that was the word she would have used) ultrafeminine and very comfortable. Silks and satins abounded, with lots of ruffles and lace on everything, the color scheme old rose, pink, green, and cream. No doubt a lovely, cozy room when viewed at its best. The flashlight roamed across the bed, revealing a flimsy negligee draped across the foot. I couldn’t quite (and didn’t want to) imagine the late Abigail Winterton wearing it. I felt a real wave of pity for the woman who had died. She had been unpleasant by most accounts, and I had certainly found her so, even on my brief acquaintance. But this room revealed a more vulnerable side of her, and I liked her the better for it, even while I pitied her. Remembering the sad state of her hair on the three occasions when I had seen her, not to mention her odd notions of dress, I thought that perhaps all she had needed was someone to take her in hand. The way it happens sometimes in the romance novels I write.
Speaking of which, I espied a set of bookshelves on the other side of the bed. Jane focused her flashlight on them, and I could make out the spines of several of my own books (those by Daphne Deepwood, that is) on the shelves. I crossed the room to pull a copy of Silken Shadows from the shelf. From the state of the book, this must have been one of Abigail Winterton’s favorites. Either that or she had bought it fourteenth-hand, because it was ready to fall apart. Jane had come to stand beside me, and I took the flashlight from her and played it over the shelves. She had every one of my books, even my mysteries. She had obviously been a fan of mine, and I never knew. (I spared a brief thought, wondering what she would have thought had she known.) Curious, I glanced at the other books: Mary Jo Putney, Laura Kinsale, Kate Charles, Susan Moody, Georgette Heyer, to name a few. I was obviously in good company.
“If she had known that you wrote those books,” Jane said softly, “she would have been beside herself. I can’t tell you how many times she rhapsodized over the latest Daphne Deepwood. She practically forced me to read them.”
“And?” I couldn’t help asking. Any writer with a pulse—or without—would have done the same.
Jane laughed. “They were quite good, actually. And I thought you handled the details of life at Bess’s court very well indeed in Silken Splendors, wasn’t it?”
“Thank you, Jane,” I said, stunned. “Coming from you, that means a lot. I’ve never known anyone who was actually there, of course.”
Jane laughed again. “Oh, I can tell you some tales, believe me. And I might actually let you wr
ite them into one of your books.”
I was rapidly getting distracted from the matter at hand. I started to question Jane right then and there about things that had been making me curious for years, but Jane shushed me. “This is not the time or the place, Simon. Need I remind you?”
I laughed. “You’re right, of course, Jane, but I’m not going to forget what you said. You can bank on that!”
“No need, Simon. I’ll tell you all sorts of deliciously scandalous things later, I promise.” She sat down on the bed for a moment. “We have to concentrate right now, however, on ferreting out Abigail’s secrets.”
“Are you certain that she would have kept records of some kind of her blackmail?” I sat on the bed beside Jane, the copy of my book still in my hands. “I mean, we’re not absolutely certain that she was blackmailing anyone. We just know that she was incredibly nosy, and that’s it.”
“It’s enough for a start,” Jane said tartly. “In my more than four centuries on this earth, I’ve known my share of blackmailers, Simon, from every walk of life. They’re all very much of a pattern—nasty, repulsive creatures who generally got what they deserved in the end. In my experience, at least. I doubt Abigail was any different. She was sly and self-serving, and she would have kept some sort of records, if for nothing else than to gloat over her knowledge.”
“I yield, then, to your greater knowledge and experience of the breed,” I said, gesturing extravagantly with the book in my hands.
Said book slipped out of my hands and went flying against the wall. As the book flew, something slipped out of its pages and fluttered to the floor. Jane and I nearly bumped our heads together in our haste to retrieve it.
Jane got to it first. She held a thin square of paper, folded several times. She opened it gingerly, since the paper was yellowed with age and well creased from having been folded inside the book.