“I heard someone say that to make that thrust directly into his heart was difficult to do.”
“Correct,” Jane said. “This type of sword was very thin. If it had hit bone, the blade would deflect or get stuck. The killer was either exceptionally skilled with a blade or had an excellent knowledge of anatomy to know where to lay that blow.”
“What about the stolen jewels and the fabric on the windowsill? Do the police still suspect the Argleton Jewel Thief?”
“Yes, now, that’s interesting.” Jo leaned in close, lowering her voice. “I shouldn't be telling you any of this, mind, but I’m interested in your take on it. We recovered a scrap of fabric from one of the Argleton Jewel Thief’s previous burglaries. It got snagged in the clasp of an antique jewelry box. No DNA – so it was a clean shirt the thief wore that wasn’t in contact with his skin. However, the fabric doesn’t match that on the windowsill – our jewel thief likes cheap cotton shirts, whereas Hathaway’s killer used an expensive silk blend. By itself that might not mean much, but when taken with the other evidence…”
“It suggests the scene was staged.” I told Jo what Morrie and I had noticed about the window opening the wrong way.
Her eyes widened. “You’re right. I can’t believe you figured that out. I’m impressed.”
“It was mostly Morrie,” I said quickly.
“Nonsense. You’re quite good at thinking like a detective, Mina. If you ever have enough of the book business, you should consider a career in law enforcement.” She grinned. “Or crime.”
“No thanks. I’ve had enough dead bodies to last my lifetime.”
I said goodbye to Jo and returned to the huddled group of people the police had already questioned. Lydia – much recovered from her earlier fainting spell – held court, recounting a tale of such dramatic woe you would think she was the one who discovered the body.
Quoth had flown off to see if he might be able to overhear the police divulging other clues. Morrie, Heathcliff, and I stood around shivering until the police finally allowed us to return to our rooms to pack our things. This time there was no question about it – the Jane Austen Experience was over, and all guests would vacate Baddesley Hall immediately, although Inspector Hayes required them all to remain in the area in case they were needed for further questioning.
As soon as I turned the door in the lock and entered the room, Morrie grabbed Quoth and held him up so they were beak-to-face. “Don’t keep us in suspense. What did you find?”
“Croak.” Quoth lifted a wing, dropping a small, silver flash drive onto the bed. Morrie snapped it up, his eyes dancing.
While Morrie pulled over his own laptop and started typing furiously, Quoth began his shift, his wings retracting in on themselves to form skinny arms that filled out, his muscles inflating like balloons as his body twisted in on itself. His chest filled out, and his legs bent forward and elongated.
Lydia’s eyes widened as she stared at the gorgeous naked man who sat on the edge of the bed, where before there had been a scraggly-looking black bird. “No matter how many times I see him do that, it is still remarkable.”
“Yeah, yeah, he knows.” Morrie waved a hand. “Spill the beans, bird. Describe the room. What else did you see?”
“You were right about the phone,” Quoth said. “I couldn’t find it anywhere. Alice must have had it on her. Her room was a real mess, clothing everywhere – her whole suitcase was filled with thermal underwear.”
I smiled at that. “I believe it. She seemed like a really sensible woman.”
“On her desk was a laptop. It was password protected, so I couldn’t get into it. I found that flash drive in the side, so I pulled it out and brought it to you. There were some documents torn up in the rubbish. I pulled a few out and managed to read a bit. The first was a newspaper clipping from Oxford, about the scandal that cost Hathaway his fellowship. The second one was about a hearing at another school – a plagiarism case between Hathaway and Gerald. Then there was the student magazine who printed the winner of an essay competition – the piece was about the unwanted sexual advances of her graduate advisor. Finally, there were lots of forms and documents with graphs on them. I didn’t understand all of them, but they looked like medical records.”
“Medical records?” I hadn’t expected that.
“Yeah. One was an in-patient record for a woman named Hera Hathaway, who I’m guessing from the dates was Hathaway’s late wife. Then there were all these other files, but I didn’t understand what I was looking at—”
“This?” Morrie turned the computer around, demonstrating a line of wiggly graphs.
“Yeah, that looks like it.”
“These are DNA tests. Alice had them in her files, but weirdly, they don’t seem to be included in Hera Hathaway’s official records.” Morrie spun the screen around again. “Did you find anything else?”
“Yes,” Quoth said. “I saw Alice’s notebook. I only looked at a few pages before the police came and I had to get out of there, but it makes for chilling reading. It seems that Professor Carmichael has been sitting on a secret for a very long time, and after Hathaway humiliated her last year, she’s decided that now’s the time to come forward. Julius Hathaway’s wife was also his sister.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“What?” No way. That’s… that’s not possible.
“How disgusting!” Lydia shrieked.
“Well, that’s delicious,” Morrie said, steepling his hands together. “And I’m guessing these medical files are the proof of that?”
“Apparently so. Professor Carmichael was acting as a medical authority on Alice’s article. She’d also given Alice a list of names of previous graduate students of Hathaway’s who might be willing to come forward and speak to claims of sexual harassment, giving the article a #metoo angle that would see it spread worldwide. Gerald had also given her the contact details of his girlfriend, Hannah, but Alice had lots of question marks beside her, as though she wasn’t certain Hannah would talk.”
“But how is it even possible? You can’t just marry your sister.”
“I’ve found some of Alice’s notes in a file here,” Morrie said, his eyes darting across the screen. “According to her, it seems to have gone like this. Hathaway and his sister grew up as spoiled children of rich if rather eccentric parents, who were themselves second cousins—”
“Gross!” Lydia sniffed.
“—and Jane Austen obsessives. Everything about their homes and lives was perfect Regency harmony, except their marriage. They went through a bitter divorce when Hathaway was a child. His father raised him, and the mother moved away to Eastern Europe with Hera, changing her name and identity in order to forever sever ties with the Hathaway family. The children were never supposed to meet again and the parents hoped they’d forget each other. But in secret, Hera researched Julius’ whereabouts and made contact. They were both in their teens at the time, and their fascination with their parents’ divorce and the plot to keep them apart blossomed into a forbidden romance. Hera came to England to attend university, and the two met and continued their relationship, bonding over their shared love of Regency ideals. Because the mother had altered their identity, it never registered as an issue when they went to get married. It only came to light when Hera was diagnosed with her condition and the hospital did DNA tests on Christina to ascertain if she had also inherited the genes. They found that her parental genes had a close family match – too close to be anything but brother and sister. Apparently, it was all hushed up with lots of Julius’ money and then the mother died and it was forgotten.”
“How does Alice know all this?”
“I don’t know,” Morrie scrolled through the flash drive. “But she has copies of letters between Julius and Hera that prove the whole thing. The way they read, Julius was the one pulling the strings, playing his charisma against Hera’s vulnerability to seduce his sister into deepening their relationship. In light of his other harassment charges, it builds somewha
t of a vivid picture.”
“Isn’t Alice shagging Christina?” Heathcliff piped up. “That’s probably where the information came from.”
“But would Christina incriminate her own father?” I recalled the way she’d shrank away from him on the stairs. She wanted desperately to please him, but she was also afraid of him. “I can’t see her wanting this kind of information made public.”
“Perhaps she didn’t know Alice had copies of these letters.” Morrie rubbed his chin. “She may not even know about her mother’s lineage at all. Alice may have gained access to Hathaway’s files in some other way.”
“However she came about this information, it changes how we view what happened here,” Quoth said, running fingers through his long, fine hair. “Alice’s killer wanted to stop her from making this story public. Hathaway’s killer hated him because of one of his many crimes. And the words on Mina’s door still baffle me, but they give me great fear.”
“I still think Gerald did it,” I said, ticking off boxes on my fingers. “He was pissed at Professor Hathaway for plagiarizing his work and tanking his career. He’s a big guy, and a goth – you can’t tell me he doesn’t know enough about swords to make that kill. He had a tear in his shirt and a stain on his coat the night of the ball, and he was drinking all that booze like he was trying to cover up for something bad he did.”
“Okay, but then why kill Alice? Surely if this story came out, it would help him get reinstated at the university?”
“You forget – Alice figured out Gerald was the murderer. She was going to spill his secret, although why she wanted to tell me instead of going to the police is anyone’s guess. Maybe she spoke to Hannah and she gave Gerald away – I don’t know. He had to get rid of her before she exposed him. Maybe that’s why he wrote LIAR on her chest, in case she’d already sent something to her editor or written something in her notes.”
Morrie rubbed his chin. “Your explanation fits the facts, except for one small thing – why would Gerald write YOU’RE NEXT on your bedroom door?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, I’m stumped on that, too. Perhaps he meant that Lydia would be Hathaway’s next victim, and Gerald was saving her by killing him…”
“That sounds like twisting facts to suit your theory, instead of having a theory to suit the facts.” Morrie tapped his fingers against the laptop. “I think Professor Carmichael is our murderer.”
“You’re crazy if you think that.”
“I assure you that any jury would find me perfectly sane. Gerald just doesn’t add up. Why go outside if you’d arranged a perfect murder from inside the house? Why write the words on your door? He didn’t even know you or Lydia. But Professor Carmichael couldn’t stand Hathaway. He humiliated her and she publicly threatened to make him pay. She knew that when the article came out she could destroy his career, but seeing him at this event was just too much. Maybe she didn’t trust Alice to write the story. Whatever the reason, she decides he has to die. She was near him in the antechamber, and had ample opportunity to put sleeping pills into his wine. Then she realizes that Alice would figure out she did it. Perhaps she realized that she’d slipped up somewhere during her interviews. So she kills Alice and tries to use the word LIAR to discredit her own evidence, should anyone find Alice’s files. As for the words on our door, Carmichael heard Cynthia talking about how clever we are at solving murders. She wanted to scare you away before you got too close to the case.” Morrie leaned back and cracked his knuckles, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “James Moriarty – one point. Evil sword-swinging professor – zero points.”
“Don’t celebrate yet. We haven’t caught the killer,” Heathcliff reminded him.
“All in good time. It looks like the answer to whoever killed our victims is going to be in Alice’s files,” Morrie said. “I’ll get to work.”
Quoth went out to eavesdrop on more police officers. With nothing to do, Heathcliff and I took a stroll around the hall. The place was clearing out. Guests poured down the stairs, snapping instructions to the harried staff. Security guards sauntered by, barking orders into their headsets and getting in the way. Cynthia stood in the center of the balcony, a bottle of wine in her hand and an expression of utter despair on her face.
“Hey Cynthia,” I waved. She started as we came up behind her. “I’m so sorry that the weekend had to end like this.”
“Oh, it’s a disaster!” Cynthia cried, sloshing the bottle around. I noticed it was over half empty. “All these guests are demanding refunds, and we have to find alternative accommodations, and I have a kitchen filled with Cornish game hens for tonight’s meal that are going completely to waste.”
“I know it looks bad now, but I’m sure it will all work out for the best.” I felt bad for her. She really had tried hard to create a wonderful weekend, and two people had been murdered in her home. “You know how much people love a scandal, especially a gory one. Wait for word to get around the Jane Austen community, and in a year’s time The Jane Austen Experience will be sold out again.”
“You’re a sweet girl,” she slurred. “No wonder Gladys and Mabel loved you so. No, I’m afraid the Jane Austen Experience will go the way of the dodo. At least Grey still has his plans, or I fear we wouldn’t survive. Would you like some wine?”
We declined and left her to her wallowing. I wanted to ask her what she meant by her husband’s ‘plans’ but she was clearly in no state to give a sensible answer. Isn’t it weird that Grey’s not here? Wouldn’t he come home after a murder to see if his wife was okay? I still hadn’t met the guy, but I didn’t have the best impression of him.
I led Heathcliff across the landing, heading for the private covered balcony through Cynthia’s office. I had my head turned, looking for the right door, and I noticed the corner of a black leather trench coat disappear over the velvet rope cordoning off Cynthia’s private wing.
“That’s Gerald,” I whispered.
Heathcliff leaned his head near mine. “Pretend I said something hilarious,” he growled.
Understanding immediately what he intended me to do, I threw my head back and laughed. From the angle, I could peer further around the corner, and the area was well-lit enough I had a clear view. Gerald leaned against the wall, his eyes darting across the landing. He cast one final look around, then disappeared down the darkened hallway. Heathcliff and I exchanged a heated look. Heathcliff’s smoldering eyes demanded that we not get involved.
We followed him, of course. Luckily, I’d eschewed my muslin dress for my ‘Jane Austen is my Homegirl’ t shirt and jeans, so I could easily step over the rope. The hallway turned a corner. We crept to the end and peered around to see Gerald slipping inside a door.
We scooted across the rug and pressed ourselves up against the wall. I peered around the door into an opulent bedroom – Cynthia and Grey’s suite, guessing by the clothing strewn across the bed and the tray of tea things on the armoire. Gerald stood in front of a large dressing table, dropping handfuls of gold jewelry from a large case into the deep pockets of his black trench coat.
I yanked my head back. My elbow hit the vase on the table behind me. It wobbled in mid-air. Heathcliff lunged for it. His fingers grazed the edge and sent the vase sprawling off the table, where it crashed on the marble floor.
SMASH!
Gerald launched himself at the door. Light caught a knife in his hand as his coat flapped around him like an overweight Neo. He lunged at me. Heathcliff shoved me across the hall, shouting, “Don’t argue. Just run!”
I sprinted down the hallway. Gerald followed, crashing into the walls as Heathcliff struggled to subdue him. My chest burned. He’s crazy and dangerous. Find one of the security guards and—
CRASH.
I tripped over the velvet rope and hit the ground, hard. Pain shot up my leg. I gasped for breath and rolled onto my side, just in time to see Gerald tower over me, the knife raised in his hand.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Mina,” he said. “If you promise not to te
ll anyone what you saw, then I won’t have to—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Heathcliff leaped on his back, driving the knife in Gerald’s hand into his side. Gerald bellowed, stumbling forward and trying to throw Heathcliff off. In response, Heathcliff sank his teeth into Gerald’s neck. Guests screamed and scattered as they staggered across the landing.
“Heathcliff, watch out!” I gasped.
But Heathcliff didn’t hear. He was a wild animal lashing out at the predator who threatened his mate. He tore at Gerald, his eyes wild, his features twisted with feral rage. Gerald thrashed back, and the pair of them crashed into the balustrade. With a sickening CRACK, the wood cracked, and the two of them toppled over the edge.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Heathcliff!” I screamed.
The world narrowed. In slow motion I watched, frozen and helpless, as the pair tumbled over the side of the balcony and disappeared. As he fell, Heathcliff’s wild eyes met mine, and in them I saw only jubilation. He didn’t even care that he was about to crack his head open on the floor below.
All he wanted to do was save my life, and it cost him his own.
CRASH.
Screams and shouts echoed from downstairs. The world came back into focus, raw and fast and terrifying. Still gasping for air, I forced myself to my feet. Flares of green and pink neon light danced in front of my vision, blinding me. I gripped the wall and fought my way to the stairs.
Heathcliff, no no no no…
I forced my legs to move, to run to the stairs. I gripped the railing and lurched myself downward, averting my eyes from the center of the room. I had to see, but I didn’t want to see.
Don’t leave me in this abyss where I cannot find you.
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