“Not likely,” I said. “We’ve still got a murderer on the loose. If Gerald the rotund Matrix cosplayer didn’t kill Professor Hathaway and Alice Yo, then who did?”
Chapter Thirty
“I’m bored,” Lydia moaned, tossing her shoe at the wall. “Can you throw someone over the balustrade again?”
We were holed up in our suite, trying to stall for time while Morrie picked his way through Jo’s files, looking for a clue as to who killed her.
“The more you distract Morrie with your incessant prattling, the longer we remain holed up here,” Heathcliff growled. “I’d like to remind you that this is entirely your doing. If you weren’t blackmailing us into solving this murder, we could be back at the shop.”
“That’s it. I’ve had enough.” Lydia stood up, pointing a finger at Quoth. “I can’t stand it in this room a moment longer with that uncouth gypsy! You there, with the enviable hair. We shall take a turn about the gardens.”
“Don’t use the word gypsy,” I hissed.
“I’m not sure—” Quoth began.
“That was not a request, but an order!” Lydia’s face reddened.
Quoth shot me a helpless look, but Lydia was already dragging him away. Morrie will probably work faster without her distracting us. I just hope Lydia doesn’t break my poor Quoth. The door slammed, and they were gone from sight.
“Ah, blessed silence,” Heathcliff grinned, leaning against the chaise lounge and raising a tiny bottle of whisky to his lips. We’d had him checked out by the paramedics, who determined that nothing was broken, but he had some bruising around his ribs. He was warned not to undertake any strenuous physical activity for the next few weeks, and was given a handful of painkillers he’d promptly washed down with whisky in true Heathcliff fashion.
Heathcliff and I snuggled up together, drinking and talking quietly while Morrie worked. After some time, Morrie pulled off his headphones.
“Hmmmm,” Morrie purred. “That changes things.”
“Did you find anything more about Alice’s article?” I asked.
“No.” Morrie spun his computer around. “But I did find this.”
He turned the computer toward me and hit a button. On the screen, a video played, showing a view of the top of a chair, a white wall, and an arched window that looked identical to the one in our room. This is shot at Baddesley Hall. In the corner of the screen, the timestamp read 1:03 AM on the night of Professor Hathaway’s murder. Outside the window was pitch black, and there was a starkness in the inside light that lit Alice’s face as she came into view, leaning down to adjust the camera. Satisfied that it was set correctly and recording, she sat in the chair facing the screen. Tears streaked down her cheeks.
“If you find this tape,” Alice sniffed. “It’s because I am dead. It was I, Alice Yo, who killed Professor Hathaway.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“What?”
“Shhhh,” Morrie raised a finger to his lips. “Keep watching.”
I leaned over Morrie’s shoulder to peer closer at the screen.
“I did it,” Alice paused, then nodded. “I did it because I’m in love with his daughter, Christina. He wouldn’t accept that she was gay. He wouldn’t allow us to be together and I… I didn’t want her to be hurt anymore. I had enough. I intended to write an article to discredit him, but my editor wouldn’t publish it because it was all lies I invented. That’s why I took the sword and I plunged it through… through his chest.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She did nothing to wipe them away. “I’m recording this confession in the hope that my dying wish is obeyed. Please, if you find anything, do not publish any of my evidence about Professor Hathaway. Destroy all my research. Tear up my notes and delete all the files from my computer. It’s all lies, anyway, and I don’t want anything else to hurt my dear Christina. Please, if you’re watching this, please…” her voice cracked. The camera clicked off, and the screen went black.
I can’t believe it. Something about the confession niggled at me, but I couldn’t place my finger on it. Morrie hit reply and we watched it again. Chills ran down my spine.
“Shite,” Morrie breathed.
“That’s what Alice meant when she said she couldn’t go to the police,” I said. “She didn’t want to turn herself in, but she wanted me to know the truth in case something happened to her.”
“Something did happen to her. She had her head bashed in. But why?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
I glanced out the window, at the crowds of people milling about on the steps. One of them killed Alice Yo, but why? If it wasn’t to cover up Hathaway’s murder, then it must have been to prevent her article for going public. But who knew about the article, and why would they…
Suddenly, I realized what was wrong with Alice’s video confession.
“Give me that.” I tried to yank the computer out of Morrie’s hand, but he clutched it to his body.
“Careful with my precious,” he pouted. “I’ve seen you on the dance floor. I don’t trust you with this computer.”
“Stop playing around and listen to me – the video’s fake.” Morrie and Heathcliff looked up in surprise. “I mean, it’s really Alice talking, but she’s not filming it herself. There’s someone else in the room, behind the camera, making her say what she said. I don’t think she killed Hathaway at all.”
“Interesting.” Morrie rested his head on his hands. “What makes you think that?”
“Show me the video from the start,” I said, bracing myself for the horror of watching Alice’s tear-stained face again. Morrie hit play.
“If you find this tape, it’s because I’m dead…”
“No, back further. Go right to the beginning, where she’s fiddling with the camera.”
Morrie flicked back a few frames. There was Alice, standing up and leaning over to the left to adjust something on the camera.
I jabbed my finger at the screen. “I watched Ashley do vlogging in our flat all the time, so I’ve seen a person adjust their camera before a shoot. They always lean into the side where the buttons are. Only I saw Alice use her camera the other day – it’s the exact same camera Ashley used. The buttons are on the opposite side.”
“So she mirrored the screen,” Heathcliff growled. “Isn’t that simple to do on those fancy app thingies?”
I pointed to the timestamp in the corner of the screen. “Those little app thingies wouldn’t keep the timestamp. Morrie, can you confirm this is raw footage?”
Morrie tapped a few buttons. “Yes, this video was uploaded directly from the camera, nothing altered.”
“I don’t know,” Heathcliff said. “It seems a little flimsy.”
“I agree, but I can’t think of another explanation to fit all the facts,” I said. “There are all those pauses through the video, and the way she kept looking off to the left, as though she were deferring to someone sitting there. Maybe reading prompts?”
Morrie rubbed his cheek. “Okay, okay, say you’re right. What are we going to do with this? Taking it to the police is an option, although we’ll get in trouble for having the memory stick.”
“We should just hand it in, say we found it on the grounds. But it wouldn’t matter, anyway. They’re going to say it’s not enough evidence.” My head fell into my hands. “I don’t know what to do.”
“We solve the murder,” Heathcliff growled. “It’s the only thing to do.”
“My, haven’t we changed our tune?” Morrie grinned.
“More like I don’t want some sadistic bastard who makes innocent women make their own confession videos anywhere near Mina or my shop. Don’t forget the murderer left the message on her door. YOU’RE NEXT. Over my dead fucking body.”
“Agreed. But if we’re going to figure this out, we need more time,” Morrie cried. “All our suspects are leaving.”
“I know.” I held out my hand. “Hand me your mobile.”
Morrie looked horrified. He clutched the tiny rectangle
to his chest like it was his firstborn. “Why do you need my phone?”
“Because you’ve got that fancy tech on there that means calls can’t be traced. And that app you showed me that distorts your voice.”
“Oh, you’re going to do something illegal,” Morrie grinned. He tossed the phone to me. “Don’t let me stand in your way.”
Please, don’t make me regret this. Heart pounding, I dialed Inspector Hayes’ private number (which Morrie had on his phone because of course he did) and clicked on the app. He picked up on the second ring. “Hayes,” he snapped in his businesslike manner, just as Quoth and Lydia walked back into the room. Heathcliff shushed them as he ushered them to sit on the bed.
“Good afternoon, Inspector Hayes,” I intoned, frantically gesturing for them to be silent and shut the door. My voice came out sounding like a deep, sexy robot. “I understand you have your hands full with another murder investigation. I hate to take up your time, but I fear this matter is of vital importance.”
“What are you talking about?” he demanded. “Who is this?”
“You can call me a concerned friend. I’m concerned, you see, because I have planted a bomb in one of the cows in the field behind Baddesley Hall. I can detonate it at any time from my vantage point here. I don’t want to do that, but I’ll be forced to if you don’t comply with my demands.”
Quoth’s eyes bugged out of his head. Heathcliff regarded me with an intense stare that made my whole body want to shrivel up into a ball. Morrie leaned back and placed his hands behind his head. His smug smile said to all the room, ‘I created this monster’.
Yes, you did, you wanker.
“What are your demands?” he asked, sounding tired.
I thought fast. “Everyone in the Baddesley Hall is to remain there. I don’t want to see a single car leave the premises, or I’ll detonate the bomb. I also want a package containing a first edition of Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park and a bottle of whisky from the Baddesley cellars to be left for me. Once I see the package has been dropped, I shall disarm the bomb, and on my word everyone will be able to leave.”
“Oh, oh,” Lydia jumped up and down. “Can I have a pony? I’ve always wanted a pony, but Father said they were frightfully expensive to keep when they could barely pull a carriage.”
I rolled my eyes. Fine, while we’re being ridiculous… “And I should like a purebred pony to be left with the book and the whisky.”
“I’ll see that it’s done,” Hayes said, his voice tight. “How will I reach you—”
“You don’t.” I yelped and hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed like it was made of molten lead.
Tears rolled down Morrie’s face. “A pony?” he sputtered, clutching his stomach as laughter rumbled through his body. “I hope you’re proud, gorgeous. That was the bravest, ballsiest thing you’ve ever done.”
“I don’t feel proud. I feel awful. Everyone out there will be panicking, and the police are going to waste precious resources dealing with this hoax, and all so we can have a shot at finding the killer.” I slumped down next to Heathcliff. “You were right. Why are we doing this? We should leave it to the experts.”
Morrie snorted. He sat up and planted a tender kiss on my cheek. “You really would make a terrible crook. Your pesky conscience keeps getting in your way.”
“I thought it was great fun!” Lydia piped up from the window. “Look, the coppers are scurrying about everywhere like little ants. They’re forcing everyone back inside the Hall.”
“Yes, well.” I shrugged. “I’ve bought us some time. Now, let’s find this killer.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“Easy, Mr. 173 IQ. We are going to puzzle it out, the way real detectives do it on TV.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
We didn’t have a whiteboard, the way cops in films always did, but we did have a giant impressionist painting across from the bed, and I discovered a pad of Post-it notes at the bottom of my purse. It would do.
Heathcliff, Morrie, Quoth, and Lydia sat along the bed. “Oh, are we playing charades?” Lydia cried. “What fun! I’ll go first, shall I?”
“No.” I stuck two Post-it notes in the middle of the board, one each for Professor Hathaway and Alice. Then, underneath, I added two more for the message written on our door, and for the faked suicide tape.
“These are the four crimes we need to focus on,” I pointed at them. “They’re all connected in some way. We’re assuming the same person did all four, but we know from Mrs. Scarlett’s murder that we can’t always assume that. What connects them?”
“Hathaway,” Morrie answered immediately. “He’s at the center of all of this. And the Jane Austen Experience, because we know that the killer was someone in the Hall.”
“We do?”
“I’ve run several mathematical models, and given the placement of staff and guests at the time, it’s impossible that it was someone from outside the house.”
“Right.” I stuck up another note. “And assuming we’re correct and Alice didn’t do it herself, and assuming Gerald wasn’t the killer either, we’ve got one main suspect. Professor Carmichael.”
“What’s our evidence?” Morrie asked, rubbing his chin.
I ticked off on my fingers. “She hated Hathaway. She publicly vowed to ruin him. She gave Alice the information about Hathaway’s late wife, so we know they were in contact. She had medical training, so she would have known how to dose him with the pills, and how to push the blade in correctly. And she had motive for murdering Alice, in order to cover her tracks. If Alice revealed how she’d come by the information, the police would immediately suspect Carmichael.”
“And the message on your door?” Heathcliff pointed at the board. “Do you still think she considers you a threat?”
“That’s still a possibility, but perhaps we’ve misinterpreted what the message was about,” I said. “We thought it meant, ‘you’re next’ as in ‘you’re next to be stabbed’. What if it meant, ‘you’re next to be a victim of Hathaway’s wandering hands?’ While we were waiting for the ballroom to open, Professor Carmichael noticed Lydia on Hathaway’s lap. She made a disgusted face and strode away. Perhaps she went upstairs, wrote the message on our door to warn Lydia off, and then came back down and killed Hathaway—”
“Mina’s right. Maybe we’re looking at this all wrong,” Quoth said. “What if this murder isn’t an act of revenge, but one of love?”
“What do you mean?”
“On the video, Alice begs that her files are to be destroyed. If the killer added that, perhaps it’s not to cover their tracks but to prevent that information from going public and hurting someone they cared about. It’s like you said, Alice’s death is about is stopping her article. That’s why the killer wrote LIAR on her chest.”
I leaned over and kissed Quoth on the lips. “You’re a genius.”
“Hey, where’s my kiss?” Morrie protested.
“And mine,” growled Heathcliff.
“No kisses for me, thank you.” Lydia waved her hand. “I’m not so awfully keen on this feminism you speak of.”
“I’m still in the dark here,” Morrie said. “Why is Quoth a genius? I’m the genius.”
“Quoth figured out who the murderer is. You can’t see it because you’re still learning what it means to love,” I said. “Heathcliff understands.”
“Damn right,” Heathcliff growled.
Morrie’s crestfallen face made my chest flutter, especially when I remembered the words he’d blurted out to me only a few hours ago. He’s trying. “Think about it. Who is so besotted with Christina that he plays along perfectly with this farce of Regency manners? Who is in the professor’s confidence and likely knew what pills he took? Who’s an expert swordsperson who would have no trouble landing a killer blow?”
“Who declares his love through terrible poetry?” Quoth added.
“I think you’re onto something, little birdie,” Morrie breathed. “Remember Hathaway’s
documentary?”
Morrie slid across his laptop and brought up the documentary video about Hathaway’s life that had been shown at the memorial, freezing it on a scene where David helped Christina out of a car. Her hand gripped his as he helped her to adjust her parasol. She thanked him with her usual breathless air, and his entire face lit up with the rapture of love. He adored her. Too bad she’s gay…
Oh no…
With Alice out of the way, not only would Christina be saved from humiliation if the article were published, but she’d be a single woman again.
Morrie skipped ahead to a scene where David was talking to the camera about his role as Hathaway’s assistant. “I do everything for him. I arrange his schedule, collate his files, conduct research, answer his phone, look after him at appearances, make his tea. I even manage his medicines.”
Lydia gasped, raising her hand to her face, as if she was about to faint. “I can’t believe it. The killer is David Winter.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Of course,” Morrie breathed. “It makes perfect sense. David is in love with Christina and intimately acquainted with her father. He would do anything to save Christina from humiliation. That waif of a girl could barely deal with a chipped nail, let alone finding out her parents were in an incestuous marriage. David probably hopes that by getting rid of Alice, Christina will be free to marry him and they’ll be the perfect Regency couple. That’s why he couldn’t just kill Alice, he had to make sure her credibility was shot so the story of Hathaway and his sister could never come out.”
“Is he’s still in the building?” Heathcliff rose to his feet, reaching for his sword.
“We saw him speaking with Professor Carmichael during our walk,” Lydia said, her eyes wide. “What is going on? You’re not going to hurt David, are you? He collects coins, for pity’s sake. He’s no danger to anybody.”
Pride and Premeditation Page 22
