Posted to Death

by Dean James

  “Good grief,” I said. “No wonder the poor woman was dotty.”

  “Exactly,” Chase said. “And now, in view of what has happened,” he said, “I had better take this straightaway to my office for safekeeping.” He stood up. “In the meantime, I’ll have one of my men start making discreet inquiries about anyone who might have come along in the last half hour and been seen entering your front door.”

  I followed him out into the hall and to the front door. “I wish you good luck,” I said. “I hope this will be the break in the case that you’ve been needing. Though having quickly scanned the play, I’m not sure just what is going to turn out to be the key to the case.”

  “I’m sure if you’d had more time with it, you might have come up with something.” And with that ambiguous parting shot, the detective inspector took his leave.

  So much for dazzling the fair Robin, I thought regretfully, closing the door. And bloody hell to whoever it was who’d had the nerve to sneak into my home in broad daylight and steal something from my desk! That made me quite angry. I had held the anger in check while the detective inspector was with me, but now I felt the urge to tighten my hands around the miscreant’s neck. Vampires are even more protective of their personal space than all the crystal sniffers in California. For the sake of whoever had done it, I hoped the police got to him or her first.

  I went back into my office and stared glumly at the blank computer screen. I felt disinclined to do much of anything except fume.

  Whom had the colonel warned about the existence of the play?

  I quickly ruled out Jane Hardwick, for she was probably still in Oxford or en route back to Snupperton Mumsley. The only person with whom I had seen the colonel in close contact was Letty Butler-Melville. I recalled that odd scene in the shadows of the churchyard. What had it meant? Had they been plotting something together even then? They seemed unlikely allies. But I really knew so little about them.

  This could be one of those Orient Express-type cases. (If you haven’t read the book, I won’t spoil it for you.) But I thought that would require too much cooperation in certain quarters.

  Besides Jane Hardwick, the only other suspects in the case who lived close enough to nip over, slip into my house, and steal the play were the Butler-Melvilles. It had to have been one of them.

  If Neville Butler-Melville had had a hand in the death of the colonel’s son, however, why was the colonel assisting him or his wife?

  None of this made much sense, given what I knew about the case. There was obviously some crucial fact missing. Maybe Jane had unearthed it during her visit to Oxford.

  I eyed my watch in irritation. Just a few minutes past two. When would Jane get back from Oxford?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Patience was never my long suit. Sitting at my desk, waiting for Jane to return from Oxford, I fumed over the theft of the manuscript from my desk—not an activity guaranteed to lighten my temper. I needed to be doing something, but I was in the wrong frame of mind to attempt any writing. Whatever I wrote now would surely have to be discarded later. I glanced out the window yet again, looking for signs of Jane’s return, but to no avail. I did behold, however, the sight of Lady Prunella Blitherington sailing up the walk toward my front door. Just what I needed for the day to improve.

  Sighing heavily, I got up from my desk and went into the hallway. I debated ignoring the insistent ringing of the bell, but I’d have to face her again at some point. Dealing with her might even prove diverting.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Kirby-Jones,” she said stiffly. “I trust you will pardon this interruption, but I felt that I must speak with you.”

  “Certainly, Lady Blitherington,” I said. “Please do come in.” I ushered her into the sitting room, where she looked about uncertainly for a moment, as if trying to find somewhere clean enough to park her aristocratic posterior.

  I gestured toward a chair, and she plopped down. I winced, hearing the protesting groans of the belabored chair.

  “Now, what can I do for you, Lady Blitherington?” My tone was brisk but polite. Just.

  “I have come to apologize, Dr. Kirby-Jones,” she said, gazing down at her feet, “for that most unfortunate scene I enacted. You will, I trust, forgive the protectiveness of a creature who is a mother first above all, things.” Then she had the nerve to bat her eyelashes at me.

  “My dear Lady Blitherington, I can well understand your maternal instincts, but frankly, I cannot see that offering your son a job—and one, moreover, at which he seems extremely capable thus far—can in any way demean him.”

  “I am endeavoring, Dr. Kirby-Jones, to keep in mind that you are an American, and however well educated you might be, nevertheless you are still unaware of the nuances of social position in our village. And, indeed, in our society as a whole.”

  I started to speak, but she held up her hand to stall me.

  “Pray, let me continue, Dr. Kirby-Jones. You will have your say at the appropriate time.” In other circumstances, her air of noblesse oblige might have been amusing. I simmered quietly. “Giles is destined for other work, something of far more importance than serving as secretary to an historian, no matter how distinguished.” She sniffed. “One of our connections, my dear cousin Sir Horace Ragsbottom, is even now holding a place for Giles in one of his companies. I feel it most imperative that you should endeavor to dissuade Giles from this foolish notion of his becoming a writer. He belongs among men of power and influence in the City. It is his birthright, after all.”

  “Yes, Lady Blitherington, I do believe I had heard that your father was in trade,” I said. She blanched slightly. “But if such is Giles’s birthright, why does he persist in calling himself simply ‘Giles’ and eschewing his title?” Not waiting for a response, I asked, “Could it be that he has no right to that title?”

  “Whatever do you mean, Dr. Kirby-Jones?” Lady Prunella’s air of outrage almost had me fooled for a moment. “How dare you cast such aspersions!”

  I shrugged. “From information I have recently encountered, I was of the impression that Giles’s birth occurred at an interesting interval after your late husband had departed the country for a two-month visit to Kenya.”

  “Where, pray tell me, did you get such scandalous misinformation?” she demanded. “That is utterly, utterly ridiculous!”

  I could see, however, that my accusation had badly rattled her. Despite her protests, she had heard this before. From Abigail Winterton, no doubt.

  “Is it truly misinformation?” I asked.

  “Giles’s father was my late husband, Sir Bosworth Blitherington,” she said in tones that would have chilled my blood if it weren’t cold enough already, “and, if you must know, Giles was, like many first babies, a late arrival.”

  That had the ring of truth to it. In spite of myself, I was nearly convinced. But a little further probing seemed in order. I probably couldn’t make her dislike me anymore. “If someone, like our late postmistress, perhaps, were to have made such a rumor public, how would you have felt?”

  Her eyes rolled back into her head, and for a moment I thought she was going to faint. I was relishing the notion of pouring cold water over her when she sat forward, eyes wide open and blazing fire. “Abigail Winterton would never have dared. She knew the truth about Giles’s father, but she couldn’t resist teasing me from time to time over the lateness of Giles’s arrival after my dear Bozzie was sent off to Kenya on that mission!”

  “Now, at least,” I observed mildly, “Miss Winterton can no longer taunt you—or spread the rumor throughout the village.”

  The implication finally hit her. She stood up. “I had nothing to do with the death of Abigail Winterton, I assure you. To think otherwise is utterly ridiculous. You are even more common than I thought, to harbor such ideas about someone of superior station!” She looked around for her handbag, which had fallen behind her chair. Retrieving it with a jerk, she faced me again. “Why Giles is infatuated with you, I’ll never know! I
t’s bad enough that he has these horrible proclivities in the first case—frankly I blame his public school—but if I have anything to say about it, he’ll never darken your door again.”

  I stood up, towering over her. “That’s enough. Now, sit down!” Startled, she complied, clutching her handbag to her bosom for protection. A bit like using a postage stamp to cover a football field, frankly.

  “It might have escaped your notice, madam, but a woman was murdered in this village. And murdered in a particularly unpleasant way. From what I’ve seen, you had just as good a motive as anyone else in this village. You, with your notions about your place in society and your attitudes toward others who you seem to think are inferior because of an accident of birth.” I snorted. “Have you so quickly forgotten your own origins, Miss Ragsbottom? My family owns one of the largest plantations in the southern United States and has done so since the early nineteenth century. They are as well educated and as well bred as anyone in this village. My family tree is full of senators and professors and philanthropists and high-powered businessmen. And if I want to hire your bloody son to be my secretary, then I damn well will! Anything else which might happen is up to him and me and is none of your business! Are we clear on that?”

  The whole village was probably clear on that, because I forget just how loud my voice can get Lady Blitherington, eyes wide with fear, simply nodded. I stepped back, and we both subsided into our chairs.

  In a gentler tone I continued: “I admire your wish to protect your son, Lady Blitherington, but he is an adult. An intelligent and capable young man. A little spoiled, but he’ll grow out of that, given the proper direction. Working for me might just do that for him, and it certainly can’t hurt. Shall we have a truce, then?”

  I stood and held out my hand to her. Blinking, she regarded me for a long moment then held out her hand. We shook on it.

  In curiously harmonious silence, I escorted her to the front door. She hesitated for a moment on the doorstep, and I said, my voice firm, “Good day, Lady Blitherington.”

  “And to you, Dr. Kirby-Jones.” She turned and marched away.

  Shutting the door, I thought, Well, Giles, you had bloody well better be worth it! I could almost see the humor in the situation. Almost.

  I went back into my office and looked out the window toward Jane’s cottage. Signs of her return were still lacking; I pondered what to do next Lady Blitherington’s visit had unsettled me, but at least I thought I could safely rule one suspect off the list.

  Just who was it though, who had conspired with Colonel Clitheroe to steal the copy of Miss Winterton’s play from my office? I still thought one of the Butler-Melvilles the best bet, but I decided that a quick visit to Trevor Chase wouldn’t hurt After all, he was close enough to have nipped down to my cottage, though I couldn’t imagine his collaborating with the colonel on anything like this.

  Grabbing up hat and sunglasses, I went out the door and down the lane toward the Book Chase. Inside the shop I found Trevor sitting glumly behind the counter, staring off into space.

  “Good afternoon, Trevor,” I said, bringing him out of his reverie. He hadn’t even noticed the bell on the door clanging as I entered.

  “Oh, Simon,” he responded with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. “Come to visit the village pariah, have you?”

  “Whatever do you mean, Trevor?” I said lightly, pulling off hat and sunglasses and placing them atop the counter. “Why should you be a pariah all of a sudden?”

  Trevor grimaced. “Surely you’ve heard that I was invited to the police station in Bedford to assist the police with their inquiries? Surely you know that I am the chief suspect in Abigail Winterton’s murder?”

  “I had heard the former, Trevor, but I have not heard anyone calling you the chief suspect.” Other than Jane and me, I added silently.

  Trevor laughed bitterly. “It doesn’t take much in this village. You’ll learn quickly enough, Simon, that everything you do, or even anything someone thinks you do, becomes a matter of public interest and debate.”

  “I grew up in a small town in the southern United States. It isn’t much different there.”

  He sighed. “No, I suppose not.”

  “But you’ve not been charged with anything, have you?”

  “No,” Trevor said, his face brightening. “Because I have an alibi for the night of the murder!”

  “Then why did you have to spend such a long time with the police?”

  “Because I didn’t feel that I could compromise the person who constituted my alibi,” Trevor said, his face darkening.

  “Why? Because he was underage?” I asked bluntly.

  “Certainly not!” Trevor stood and glared at me from behind the counter. “After one unfortunate incident in my own youth, I have been careful to form attachments only with those of an appropriate age, I assure you.” His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Where might you have heard otherwise?”

  I waved a hand vaguely in the air. “Oh, there was a rumor about something that happened during your first teaching post in the north of England.”

  Trevor sat down with a thump. His face lost all color. “Does the whole village know about that?”

  I shook my head, and color started seeping back into his face. “Thank God,” he whispered. Then he realized. “How did you find out about that?”

  “It doesn’t really matter, Trevor,” I said gently. “I can promise you that it will go no further. Now, tell me about your alibi. Surely you have nothing to worry about now if someone can vouch for you during the time that Miss Winterton was murdered?”

  “I suppose you’re right, Simon.” Trevor drew a long, calming breath. “The young man who provided my alibi could be placed in a rather dangerous position were it to become known that he spent the night in question with me. He’s a mechanic, and his mates wouldn’t take kindly to the fact that he prefers men.”

  “I’m sure the police will do what they can to respect his need for privacy, not to mention safety,” I said sympathetically.

  “I hesitated to involve him,” Trevor said, “but he heard that I had been taken to police headquarters. He came there, on his own, in my behalf. He doesn’t lack for courage.” His face beamed with pride and affection, and something more besides, perhaps a sense of something new and wonderful discovered. For a brief moment I actually felt jealous.

  “Good for him,” I said. I picked up my hat and sunglasses from the counter. “I’m relieved to know that you’re well and truly out of it, Trevor. As for the village, don’t worry. As soon as the truth is out, they’ll have forgotten that you were ever questioned at such length.”

  “I trust that you’re right, Simon,” Trevor said.

  “Then I’ll bid you good day.”

  Trevor’s farewell echoing in my ears, I stepped outside. That was two suspects down. With Lady Blitherington and Trevor Chase out of the running, the circle had narrowed. Colonel Clitheroe, Neville Butler-Melville, and Lettie Butler-Melville. Which of them was the killer? And why?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  As I perambulated down the lane, deep in thought, a black Volvo sped by me. Startled, I recognized Jane Hardwick at the wheel. Quickening my pace, I arrived at Jane’s cottage as she was opening her front door, her arms laden with bags bearing the logo of Blackwells. I smiled briefly. In Oxford on a sleuthing mission, Jane couldn’t pass up a visit to a bookstore.

  Jane welcomed me with an excited grin, looking almost girlish, and I helped her with her parcels. “What did you find out?” I demanded, and she shushed me until we were safely inside.

  Bags placed carefully on a table in the hall, Jane and I ensconced ourselves on the sofa in her sitting room. “I received some very interesting information. Nothing completely conclusive, mind you, but certainly very suggestive. I think we’re nearing the end.”

  “Do tell!” I said. “And then I have some things to tell you as well!”

  “I have a very dear friend, Araminta McClain, who is one of us,
vintage 1801. (She actually knew Jane Austen, Simon!) Minta has been in Oxford for the past seventy years or so, and she knows all the decent gossip there is to know. And if she doesn’t know it herself, she knows exactly the person from whom to extract it.”

  “Sounds like an important person to know,” I said. “But if she is so much in the know, how does she keep herself camouflaged?”

  Jane laughed. “To the mortal world, Minta looks seventy-odd, with a decided emphasis on the ‘odd.’ I suppose if anyone ever gave it much thought, they’d realize she’s been there forever, but while others come and go, Minta’s there, essentially the same, year after year. People tend to take her rather for granted, and she encourages that.”

  “Clever,” I said, “Miss Marple in the flesh, so to speak.”

  “Yes, exactly. Anyway, I consulted Minta, and she supplied what we needed. She even remembered Neville and Lester Clitheroe vaguely from their days as undergraduates. One of her sources of information at the time was in the same college, and Minta got some rather juicy tidbits about Neville and Lester.”

  Jane paused teasingly, and I urged her to continue. “You’ll love this bit, Simon! Apparently, Neville and Lester were extremely close. So close, in fact, that they often slept in the same bed.” She paused again. “But they weren’t doing a lot of sleeping.”

  I whistled. “And I thought dear Neville, handsome as he is, was unabashedly straight. Appearances can be deceiving!”

  Jane laughed for a moment, then sobered. “The most interesting bit of information about that relationship that I gleaned was this: Apparently Lester very much enjoyed dressing up in women’s clothes. Undergraduates get up to all sorts of rags, some of which involve cross-dressing, but from what Minta said, Lester’s interest went far beyond that.”

  “What are you saying, Jane? Transvestism isn’t all that unusual. Do you mean that Lester actually wanted to be a woman?”

  “That’s what Minta seemed to think.” Jane shrugged.

  “Neville was allegedly heard to refer to Lester as ‘Lettice’ on occasion.”