“The archetype of mineral poisons is arsenic, which since ancient times, was the poisoners’ favorite…”
He must have been here either as one of the jewel thieves, Elizabeth thought, and they killed him over a disagreement. Or maybe he was a policeman, or journalist, or an insurance inspector…something like that, tracking the thieves. Either way, last night’s robbery means that the murderer is among us—actively among us…She shivered and forced her mind back to Weldon Stark.
“Now, that favorite of all spy thrillers, hydrocyanic acid, is a very volatile liquid smelling of bitter almonds, and fifty milligrams of it is sufficient to cause death. Unfortunately, for the addicted readers of international intrigue, metallic cyanide takes an appreciable time to act, and death commonly follows about thirty minutes later…”
Cyanide…almond smell…thirty minutes…Elizabeth’s pen stilled as her mind wandered off in quite another direction. Whatever the man’s reason was for being at the Eyrie House, he should have had some luggage. A thief would have tools, surely. And a detective would, too—they always do on TV. Whatever he was doing, he would need clothes, a toothbrush, a razor…if we could just find his things…She had developed almost a possessive feeling about the man—it was her corpse—after all, she’d found it twice.
“…Strychnine is fortunately used less and less as a rat poison, but it used to be popular with would-be prisoners. It is a convulsive poison…”
Gavin was next on the program, and Elizabeth struggled to follow his classification of mystery writing into classic detections, gothic thrillers, spy intrigues, occult horrors, and police procedurals. “Wilkie Collins is considered the father of the classic whodunits; most of you have probably read The Moonstone…”
Elizabeth looked at her notes and saw that instead of writing “Collins,” her pen had scribbled “luggage.” At that, she abandoned all pretense of listening to the speakers and began concentrating on the most likely places to look for her corpse’s possessions. Going on the assumption that he did bring some luggage with him, she figured that one of two things had to have happened: Either he put it someplace himself before he met his murderer and it was still there, or the murderer disposed of it later. If the latter had happened, it could be too late to find anything—although the chances seemed good that the luggage might still be somewhere in the hotel, since there had been so little opportunity to get away.
Let’s suppose he put his things someplace himself, Elizabeth thought. The manager was sure the man wasn’t a registered guest, assuming Mr. Hamlin was telling the truth, so he didn’t have a room of his own to put anything in…I suppose he could have hidden it someplace like one of those crawl cubbies in the hall, but that seems unlikely. If he was one of a team, he might have been sharing a room that one of the others booked. In that case, we’re in trouble. Only the police could find his things with a search warrant. But suppose he came alone, intending to check in, but found out the hotel was overbooked, or just that his room wasn’t ready yet…I don’t suppose jewel thieves or people tracking them, whichever he was, make their reservations through travel agents…
A round of applause told Elizabeth she had missed all of Gavin’s speech. Hoping she didn’t look as guilty as she felt, she applauded enthusiastically and prayed he wouldn’t ask her any questions about his talk.
Elizabeth hadn’t realized that Brian Rielly was being played by the writer of a TV spy series, but when Matt Cruise began talking about the CIA, KGB, MI6, Interpol, Moscow Centre, and the SAS, she could tell he knew his business. But not even foreign intrigue could hold her thoughts.
I wonder if they have a lost and found…surely unclaimed luggage would have been noticed by now. Maybe there’s some storage room no one has looked in…if he put anything in the safe, surely the manager would have recognized him…
Suddenly, Elizabeth’s thoughts and Brian’s speech were interrupted by a large man in a trilby and belted tan raincoat who strode onto the platform and held out an identification card. “Scott of the Yard here. Brian Rielly, I’ll have to ask you to come along with me. Certain parties at Number 10 Downing Street would like to ask you some questions.”
Brian, his hands behind him, his head down, was led off the stage. In the confusion that followed, Irene was the first to round up the Blithe Spirit team and herd them into the library.
“Well, what do you think? Does this confirm Brian’s guilt?”
The question fell like a bone amongst hungry dogs.
“I don’t think it bears on the case.”
“Of course it does, it proves he was the security leak. He was indiscreet about what he told Gloria and he murdered her.”
“But why murder Gloria after the horses have escaped, or the hose has leaked, or whatever the metaphor is? Anyway, she must have all ready told or it wouldn't have been a leak.”
“I think Stark has removed Brian from the action.”
Irene stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled for attention. “Okay, like I said yesterday, you guys decide—but hurry up so I can get our act together. Now let me tell you what I have in mind and see if it’s okay with everybody. How about being a puzzle? Each one of us can be a piece, and when we fit together it’ll make a picture of the murderer.”
“That’s great!”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I love it!”
“Sounds like a lot of work.”
“That’s a sure winner!”
The conversation went on, discussing the puzzle idea and arguing about Brian’s guilt. Elizabeth caught Richard’s eye across the room and motioned toward the door. He excused himself from Anita and joined Elizabeth outside the room.
She explained quickly, “…and so I think we might be able to find his luggage or something if we dig a bit.”
“I’m game. Let’s get a bellboy to help us—unless they sent them all hiking down the mountain.”
They found a young man in a green Eyrie House shirt near the front desk. “Yes, Ma’am, we have a luggage room. Sometimes tours send luggage ahead, or people arrive before their rooms are ready, or they leave a suitcase behind by mistake.” He took a key from a drawer behind the desk and led them to a door a short distance down the hall. “What does your friend’s suitcase look like?”
“I’m not sure, he’s—er, resting upstairs, and we thought we’d just pick it up for him.” Elizabeth wasn’t sure whether or not the manager had informed his staff of the events but she rather suspected not, and she didn’t want to be the one to spill the beans if he hadn’t.
The oversized closet held a few cardboard boxes, an abandoned-looking overcoat, a steamer trunk apparently waiting to be shipped when the road was cleared, and a two-tone brown duffle. “I think that’s it.” Elizabeth pointed, trying to keep her voice calm.
“Oh, Mr. Parkerson?” The bellboy leaned over and picked up the bag. “I didn’t realize he hadn’t picked this up yet.”
“You mean, you put it in here for him?” Richard asked.
“Yes, he got here before noon Sunday, or was it Saturday? Anyway, the rooms weren’t ready for check-in yet, so he asked me to stow it for him as he was in a hurry to meet someone. Surprising he’d wait until the end of the week to get it—most people are in a real toot to get their luggage.”
“Yes. Well, thank you for taking care of it for him.” Richard tipped the bellboy and took the bag.
Sure the bag contained the answers to all their questions, Elizabeth had a terrible time controlling the urge to run to their room. “Can you believe it was that easy? Just walk in and ask for it! Why didn’t someone find it sooner?”
Richard closed the sitting room door behind them. “The classic answer: ‘Nobody asked.’ Do you think it’s all right to open this, or should we wait for the police? Maybe we should at least call the manager or something?”
“Richard!” Elizabeth practically exploded. “If you don’t open that, I’m going to! We discovered it, that ought to give us some right. Then yo
u can put it in his room afterward if you want to.” She pointed next door.
The bag wasn’t even locked. “Clean shirts, more of your British military underwear, toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, socks—our Mr. Parkerson was a light traveler and not very imaginative.”
“But isn’t there any identification?”
“Hold on a minute.” Richard unzipped a small pocket inside the bag. “Here we are.” He held up a slim, blue-black booklet blazoned with a gold armorial lion and unicorn. “British passport—score one for the catalog readers.” He flipped through the pages to the listing of occupation and held it for Elizabeth to see.
“Detective Inspector Charles Parkerson, Scotland Yard, retired,” she read out loud. She paused for a moment. “He must have found out who Gloria’s killer was and…Oh! What am I saying? But I never did think he was a criminal. Oh, I’m so glad!”
“Glad?”
“Yes, funny, isn’t it? I’ve become rather fond of the little man. Of course, it’d be easier to accept his death if he were a crook, but—” her voice trailed off. She couldn’t really explain how she felt about it.
“Well, now, where does this leave us?” Richard sat on the sofa, still holding the passport. “If our other guesses have been right, he was tracking a jewel thief, presumably from England. Wonder who else is here from England besides Sir Gavin?” Suddenly Richard’s eyes widened a little. “Elizabeth, you don’t suppose…?”
“Richard!” An angry flush rose in her cheeks, “How could you even think such a thing? There are one hundred guests here, about thirty-five staff members, ten actors—why should Gavin be suspect just because he’s the most obvious Englishman? Besides, are only Englishmen allowed to steal jewels in England? Evan Johnson said they were there last summer. I’ll bet half the people here travel all the time...”
Richard sat quietly and let her rave. After she’d been quiet for a few moments he said, “So you thought of it, too?”
“Certainly not.” She turned and walked into her own room. She was so confused. She sat on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. She needed to sort things out, to think straight, but the clues swam in her head, facts and red herrings swimming indistinguishably side by side.
“Think!” she told herself sternly. Okay, someone must have come here planning a robbery—a known jewel thief whom Parkerson was trailing. No, the Scotland Yard man was after a security leak.…Did the two cases tie together? No, no! The spy bit was part of the play.
She groaned and started over. Someone killed Parkerson because he was going to arrest him, or her—maybe not for the robbery…maybe that was a diversion. Maybe he was really tracking a killer. Gloria’s murderer! But didn’t I read somewhere that master thieves aren’t usually murderers? She hit the bed in frustration. She’d done it again; Gloria’s murder wasn’t real…Parkerson’s was. And he certainly wasn’t murdered for tracking a stage villain.
Try again: Someone did something illegal in England, probably a robbery. Parkerson followed that person here and was killed.…Gloria accused Nigel of stealing from her…Ohhhh!
Elizabeth groaned, then went to the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water. It wasn’t working. Avoiding the central issue was driving her crazy. She had to face it: Was it possible Gavin could be a suspect? Certainly not, he was engaged to Gloria…
Good grief, she was going insane. Wasn’t one of the first symptoms supposed to be not knowing the difference between fantasy and reality? Had she really crossed some line where she didn’t know what was real and what was playacting?
She shook her head. No, of course she hadn’t. She just needed to talk through everything. She went to the door and called to Richard, but he wasn’t there. He’d probably gone down to lunch. She’d have to work through it herself. But it was so much harder alone. She needed someone to talk to.
Oh, how she missed Nanny. The feeling of loss washed over her leaving her feeling weak at the knees. And bereft. Her grandmother was the one she had always gone to with her problems. The one person in the world she could tell anything to without worry of ridicule, disbelief or reprimand. Or interruption. Nanny would always hear her out. Occasionally she would give advice. Most often she would quote scripture. And then suggest Elizabeth memorize it so they would have an excuse to go get an ice cream cone.
Oh, Nana, how I wish you were here now. The sense of another person being in the room was so strong she looked over her shoulder. Of course there was no one. But she could swear the temperature in the room had gone up several degrees. And as she relaxed in the warmth the words came to her: You keep in peace those of constant mind, in peace because they trust in you. Trust in the Lord forever; for he is an everlasting rock. The rest that followed was better than any ice cream treat.
After a while, Elizabeth opened her eyes, feeling calm. Now, maybe she could think. She took a deep breath and started again.
Could she trust Gavin? The question seemed so ridiculous. She turned it around: Could she suspect him when the evidence was so slim? Could Gavin Kendall, the man she loved, possibly be guilty of anything as horrible as robbery or…or…
Her mind refused to finish the question. After all, trust was a major part of love. Surely it wasn’t possible for her to love someone unworthy of trust.
What she needed to do was find another suspect, but she knew so little about the other guests. She had hardly spoken to anyone but the members of the Blithe Spirit team. That was the way the game was played. Still, she could name at least one suspect: Bill Johnson had been outside Parkerson’s room this morning…and he had traveled in England. From every appearance the Johnsons were a wealthy family. Bill had said he was in real estate, but that was a broad field. Had the buying and selling of land and buildings alone produced the money for the fancy vacations to which his family seemed accustomed?
And there was always Anita—now she was really grasping at straws—but was the glamorous Ms. Crocker sticking so close to Richard because she was attracted to his charms, or because she suspected he knew something about the murder? Had Richard been telling her all that had happened? Ridiculous. Anita was much too small to have moved a body.
Okay, what about the hotel staff? Why was Mr. Hamlin so insistent on keeping the death a secret? And why was he so tardy to attempt sending hikers down the hill? Was it really for the sake of the hotel—or did he have a more personal motive? How about Dr. Pearsall? Was his mistake about the time of death an innocent error because of his inexperience, or…maybe Hamlin and Pearsall were in it together. They could cover for each other and split the takings. Hmm, that made sense. Who would have readier access to all the rooms than the manager? And he would know which rooms were occupied by wealthy guests.…
Elizabeth smiled and took a deep breath. These were much happier thoughts, more on a level with the detached puzzle of trying to solve a mystery novel before the fictional sleuth. After all, that’s what a mystery week was all about, wasn’t it?
Chapter 11
Friday, noon
By the time Elizabeth was ready to socialize again, lunch was long past. Since that meant she had missed both meals that day, it took a considerable amount of discipline to maintain a ladylike demeanor at the well-spread tea table gracing the autograph party in the Lake Lounge. Three tomato-and-egg finger sandwiches and two slices of nut bread were all she could balance gracefully at the moment, but she promised her stomach a speedy return for refills as soon as those were downed.
Weldon Stark and Gavin Kendall were sitting at tables piled with copies of their books. Matt Cruise, with Scotland Yard keeping custody close at hand, was autographing copies of TV Guide over the listing of his program. Many of the guests were circulating mystery week programs or even tea party napkins for the celebrities to sign.
Irene was standing in line for Sir Gavin’s autograph when Elizabeth joined her. “If I had thought to bring a TV Guide, I would have you sign it by some of the shows you’ve been in.”
Irene laughed. “Good idea. Th
at may be the only way I’ll ever get my name listed. Be sure you watch Dallas in two weeks. I’ve got a part in that. But don’t be late. I’m only in the first ten minutes.”
“I’ll put it on my calendar.”
Irene laughed again, but Elizabeth assured her she meant it. Then she looked at the papers in Irene’s hand. “What are you having autographed?”
Irene held out a copy of a Time magazine book review. “I was so mad at myself for forgetting to bring my copy of Who Doth Murder Sleep? that I looked this up in the library and asked the office to photocopy it for me. I loved the book, and I had to have something autographed. Oh, that reminds me, when I was looking through those back issues I found a picture of that actress you were asking me about the other day.”
“Margo Lovell?” Elizabeth said the name quietly, not wanting Gavin to hear her talking about his dead girlfriend.
“Yes, her uncle was killed a few years ago in an IRA terrorist attack on the minister of something or other whom he happened to be with. His body lay in state in Westminster Abbey. It was a picture of her grieving by the casket—very touching in a regal sort of way.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“I think I left the magazine on the top of the stack—one of the top ones, anyway. In the ‘People’ section.”
The line moved forward, and Irene held out her paper to be signed. Gavin smiled, a bit embarrassed at the extravagant review, and said something to Irene, but Elizabeth was ready to revisit the tea table. This time she concentrated on the tiny round butter cookies and little squares of cake to accompany her refilled cup.
The line waiting to see Gavin was even longer than before, so Elizabeth merely caught his eye and waved to him before moving on around the room. She looked for some of the other Blithe Spirit members; she wanted a chance to question Bill Johnson about his business and travels. She spotted Richard and Anita in a corner by the fireplace, but they didn’t look as if they would particularly welcome her intrusion, so she started to take a seat by herself. As she did so, Helen Johnson came up.
Shadow of Reality (Book One in the Elizabeth and Richard Mystery Series) Page 11