by Jen Turano
Charles’s eyes narrowed. “If I hadn’t already figured out who the culprit was, Martha, you might have just implicated yourself and Sheldon. But to address your statement, no, Perkins didn’t do it. Although, again, it is not a trite plot twist when the butler is responsible. Furthermore, to avoid additional accusations being tossed around amongst us, which will most assuredly cause hard feelings that will then see our literary group disbanding, allow me to present my conclusion.” Charles set aside Daphne’s notepad, not bothering to say another word as he gazed around the room, evidently enjoying the suspense his statement had caused.
Daphne stepped forward. “I think I speak for all of us in saying enough of the drama, Charles. Clearly, we’re now waiting with bated breath to hear your conclusion, so . . . ?”
Charles’s smile widened as he stepped around the desk, made his way to the very center of the room, then brandished the book he was still holding. “It’s Montague Moreland.”
Daphne slid her spectacles down her nose and peered at Charles over the rim of them. “I believe I again speak for all of us, Charles, in saying that’s an unlikely conclusion because Montague Moreland, as everyone knows, is not present at this gathering.”
“Isn’t he?” Charles countered.
“Stop playing games, Charles,” Jay said, stepping forward. “While you may find this situation amusing, someone seems determined to harm Herman. This is no time for ridiculous antics on your part.”
“But I’m not playing a game,” Charles said as he flipped open the book, brandishing the page where Montague Moreland had scrawled out an inscription to Ann. “You see, this is Montague Moreland’s signature, and curiously enough, it just happens to match”—he strode back to Herman’s desk and snatched up Daphne’s notepad—“this handwriting, which means Montague Moreland is definitely in our midst. However, Moreland is not a he but a she and, to be more exact, is none other than Miss Daphne Beekman.”
CHAPTER
Seventeen
As everyone in the room took to gaping Daphne’s way, she found herself in the unusual position of not being able to come up with a single word to say in response to Charles’s claim, which was rather concerning considering she was a wordsmith, after all.
Quite honestly, the only thing that kept whirling through her mind was that the very last person she would have ever imagined figuring out her secret had to be, without a doubt, Mr. Charles Bonner.
Drawing in a deep breath, she struggled to gather wits that could only be described as scattered as she tried to compose a plausible response to Charles’s claim. Unfortunately, nothing sprang to mind.
Chancing a glance at Herman, she found him considering her closely, smiling ever so slightly, although why he was smiling, she truly had no idea.
“I knew it,” Mildred proclaimed, abandoning her spot by Valentine and Albert, who were both looking keener to be in the library than they’d been only moments before. “I knew there was something suspicious about you, and there we go. You’re here under false pretenses.”
“Ah . . .” Daphne began, unable to finish her sentence because Mildred began advancing on her, the outrage stamped on her face having any thoughts Daphne had been able to gather scattering to the wind again.
“I said from the moment I caught my first glimpse of you that you were an adventuress. Turns out I’m right. Using your feminine allure, you convinced my Herman you were merely a secretary, and yet you’re no secretary at all, are you, Miss Beekman? Although I doubt that’s your real name.”
“Daphne Beekman is my name,” Daphne said, resisting the urge to fidget when Mildred stopped a mere foot away from her, the temper brewing in her eyes not an encouraging sign.
“But you’re not a secretary, even though you can type. I imagine you honed that skill while typing out your own novels, but tell me this—did you ingratiate yourself with my grandson because you’ve run out of fresh material and thought to steal his work?”
“Ah . . .”
Ann stepped up beside Daphne, taking hold of her hand as she nodded to the room at large. “Have none of you considered that Daphne might have signed my book as an amusing joke, done so after I commented to her that I was disappointed I’d not been able to secure the real Montague Moreland’s signature, even after writing to his publishing house with my request?”
As far as reasonable explanations went, that one certainly had merit and had Daphne longing to give Ann a round of applause over her brilliant thinking under what could certainly be considered a great deal of pressure.
“I don’t know anyone who’d want a false signature written in an expensive book,” Charles argued as he held up the book. “This is a first edition, and it’s bound in leather. One would think, if you’re truly a Montague Moreland reader, that you would hold out for the real signature, which, again, I believe you have written in your book.” He gave a shake of his head. “I find it interesting, though, Miss Evans, how you apparently feel compelled to rush to Daphne’s defense.”
Ann lifted her chin. “I rushed to her defense because you’re off the mark about her. As I said, I had her pen a false signature in my book as a bit of a lark, nothing more.”
Jay Storrow stepped forward. “But you were in possession of that book before Daphne arrived at Herman’s estate. I know for a fact that it was signed before she got here because I saw that signature with my own eyes. If what you’re saying is true, that suggests the two of you knew each other before the house party, although I don’t believe either of you allowed any of us to know you were previously acquainted with each other, which raises a few red flags.”
Mildred settled a sharp eye on Ann. “Do not say that you and Miss Beekman are in league together, Miss Evans.”
“I don’t believe I should say another word,” Ann muttered as Charles began ambling across the room, clearly delighted with himself for believing he’d solved the mystery.
“An interesting plot twist,” he mused, looking all around to authors who, every one of them except Herman, were nodding in agreement. “Seems as if there’s a conspiracy afoot, one that involves not only attempted murder but the theft of Herman’s latest work. With most of us in this room familiar with mysteries, I would have to say that it’s not a stretch to think that Daphne, alias Montague Moreland, is out of fresh material and decided to help herself to Herman’s latest manuscript. She was then intending on murdering him so she could pass his words off as her own without anyone the wiser.”
Charles’s attention settled on Daphne. “You did say that Herman never allows anyone to read his current work in progress, although I have to assume you were wrong about that since Sheldon obviously reads drafts, so no one except you and Sheldon know anything about the story he’s writing. And,” he continued when she opened her mouth, “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that theft is often used as the motive for murders in many a mystery.”
Daphne waved that aside. “There’s no conspiracy afoot, Charles, at least not in regard to Ann and me because we’re not the ones responsible for attempting to secure Herman’s demise.”
Charles ignored that as he turned to Cooper, who was once again raking a hand through his hair and looking as if he had no idea how to proceed with what was quickly turning into a peculiar predicament.
“I think you’ll agree, Agent Clifton, that I’ve uncovered the culprit—or perhaps culprits, if it turns out Miss Evans is working with Daphne—behind the attempts on Herman’s life. If you’ll recall, Daphne fell out of one of the secret passageways, which I felt was suspect even with Herman telling everyone he’d encouraged her to explore them.” Charles sent Herman a commiserating look. “Not that I don’t understand why you were quick to provide Daphne with an excuse for sneaking about your house. She is a most intriguing lady, even with the possibility she’s a would-be murderess, and we gentlemen are known to lose our heads when it comes to intriguing ladies.”
Herman’s eyes darkened. “I think that’s quite enough, Charles.”
&nb
sp; Charles sent Herman an even more commiserating look. “Come now, Herman. I realize you’re embarrassed to be presented with proof of Daphne’s duplicity, given that everyone has remarked on how taken you seem to be with her. However, you must look at the evidence. Besides the secret passageway incident, she was also with you when the boat sank, and she recently stabbed you. And,” he continued, cutting Herman off when Herman tried to say something to that, “I noticed a book on poisonous plants in her bag earlier. If that isn’t a telling sign, I don’t know what is.”
Unwilling to allow Charles’s suggestion that Herman had been hoodwinked by her to go unchecked, while also knowing Herman wouldn’t disclose the truth about her being an inquiry agent simply to refute Charles’s declaration, Daphne cleared her throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “First, I’d like to adamantly deny once again that I’m contemplating Herman’s demise.”
“Of course you’re going to deny that because I doubt you’d enjoy finding yourself behind bars,” Mildred said, gesturing to Daphne’s gown. “Your fancy wardrobe wouldn’t be allowed in jail, and now that I think about it, your wardrobe is far too expensive for a secretary to afford.”
“An excellent observation, Mildred,” Charles said. “It’s also further proof that she is Montague Moreland, because Moreland books bring in quite the profit, at least according to rumor. I imagine the rumor mill is going to have a field day when this bit of gossip gets out.”
Herman stepped forward. “That really is enough, Charles. I’m afraid everyone’s imagination is running away with them, but heed me well— Daphne is not a would-be murderess.”
“And while I understand why you would not want to believe that a lady you obviously hold in affection wants you dead,” Charles argued, “she is Montague Moreland, and thus she has a great deal to gain if you’re no longer alive. You’re her biggest competitor. With you out of the way, she’ll be the premier mystery writer in the country.”
“I’m known as a popular mystery writer,” Jay said to no one in particular.
“Not as popular as Herman and Moreland,” Charles countered. “Although I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say that learning Montague Moreland is a lady is troubling.”
Daphne stiffened. “Why would that be troubling?”
“Because women have no business writing for the mystery market, and your sales have infringed on the sales of men who write mysteries,” Charles returned as he began advancing Daphne’s way, his advance coming to a rapid end when Cooper stepped in front of him.
“There’s no evidence Daphne is actually Montague Moreland,” Cooper began, “and no evidence she had anything to do with the incidents that have occurred here on the Hudson. I believe, as Herman stated, your imagination is getting the best of you, Mr. Bonner. I suggest you discontinue with your wild conspiracy theories and allow me to get on with what I do best—investigate crimes in a methodical and precise manner.”
“I’m not sure how good you are at your job, Agent Clifton, because I guarantee you this—Daphne Beekman is Montague Moreland. As a Pinkerton, you should be able to see the truth of that,” Charles argued. “She’s been attending our writing gatherings, and I, along with quite a few others, have remarked on how knowledgeable she is about the writing craft. We’ve also spoken about how curious it is that Daphne hasn’t impressed any of us with her poetry samples. But knowing now that she writes under the nom de plume of Montague Moreland, everything makes sense.
“I would feel much relieved if you, Agent Clifton,” Charles continued, “would take Daphne into custody. If she has taken up the position of Herman’s secretary in order to steal his work, there’s no saying she doesn’t have her eye on stealing work from all of us or that she isn’t intending on plotting out our demises as well.”
Temper had Daphne waving that nonsense aside. “Those are the most absurd accusations I’ve ever heard, Charles. And while, yes, I am a woman, and yes, I am a writer, and fine, yes, I am in fact Montague Moreland, I’m not a thief or a would-be murderer. I have enough fodder for story, gained through my extensive research for every book I write, to last me for decades.”
Charles blinked. “You’re admitting you’re Montague Moreland?”
“Only to put an end to this absurdity. I’m risking my entire career by disclosing the truth to all of you because I’m under contract to keep my real name, as well as my gender, a secret. Unfortunately, given the circumstances, I don’t believe I can adhere to the strict nondisclosure I signed because my nom de plume is distracting everyone from the real issue at hand—that being who actually does want to murder Herman.”
“Or you can be distracting us from your guilt by justifying your decision to hoodwink the entire reading world by allowing them to believe Montague Moreland is a man when you’re nothing of the sort,” Charles said.
“And that’s some convoluted thinking there,” Daphne shot back. “But before you begin insisting Agent Clifton haul me off to jail, something he’s most assuredly not going to do, allow me to explain.”
Mildred planted her hands on her hips. “Do you honestly believe that any of us are going to believe whatever story you weave next?” She released a huff. “I’ve read Montague Moreland books, and there’s no doubt you’re a gifted storyteller—so gifted, in fact, that you were able to convince my Herman you’re a secretary.”
“Daphne did not go to any extreme methods to convince me she’s a secretary,” Herman countered, moving to stand directly beside her and catching her eye. “I think now may be the moment when we disclose the full truth about you. I also believe it’ll be best, or rather, more believable, if that truth comes from me.”
She glanced around the room, refusing a wince when she noticed that all the authors were staring at her in a less-than-pleasant fashion. “By all means, disclose away.”
Herman gave her arm a pat before he settled his attention on Charles. “I’m sure you’ll be delighted to learn that you were right. Daphne is no secretary.”
Charles puffed out his chest. “I’m often right about matters like this.”
“Well, yes, and no,” Herman said. “Because while she’s no secretary, she’s not here to steal my work or to murder me. She’s here because, besides being a writer, she’s an inquiry agent for the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency, hired by me to solve the case of who wants to murder me.”
Dead silence settled over the library as everyone turned their attention to Daphne.
Not wanting to let an avid audience go to waste, she inclined her head. “Everything Herman has just stated is the honest truth. So, with that now out of the way, and thank you, Herman, for disclosing that for me since I doubt anyone would have believed that coming from me, I believe it’s time for me, as well as Ann, who is also an agent from the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency, to do what we came here to do. We are going to uncover who wants to murder Herman and then see that someone placed firmly behind bars.”
CHAPTER
Eighteen
“I don’t believe there can be any doubt that the first case you and I were responsible for on our own has to be classified as an unmitigated disaster,” Daphne said, tossing aside the pencil she’d been using to jot down additional notes on all the guests she’d interviewed the day before, none of whom stood out as a clear suspect.
Ann slouched down in her chair. “I’m afraid you’re right, especially when all of our suspects snuck out of Herman’s house last night, apparently unwilling to linger around until we figured out who the prime suspect is.”
“That unfortunate circumstance has certainly waylaid our investigation since we have no idea who was responsible for the fencing incident,” Daphne said. “And since we’ve received no word that Irwin’s been caught, we’ve failed in a most magnificent fashion. We’ll be lucky if we’re ever sent out on another case again.”
“No one at the agency will fault us for our disaster, given the daunting conditions we’ve faced. Besides, you’re a partner in the agency, along with Eunice and Gab
riella. I hardly think they’ll chuck you out simply because of this.”
“I might have to relinquish my partnership. It certainly won’t aid our reputation if word gets out about the less-than-competent job I’ve done on Herman’s case.” She picked up her pencil again, twirling it around. “I suppose we can always hope that Gabriella and Nicholas will return soon. She’ll know exactly how to fix this.”
“We’ll fix it before she gets back,” Ann said firmly.
“How do you suggest we do that? Our suspects have bolted, and according to Cooper, they had every right to do so because we didn’t have firm evidence against anyone.”
“We may not have any firm evidence, but if you ask me, Charles Bonner was acting rather peculiar during the interviewing process. He seemed to be going out of his way to be charming to everyone.”
“I think he was using charm to convince everyone to keep mum about the notion he may use underhanded methods to plump up the sales of his books. Since he’s not normally a charming man, it was peculiar, but I don’t believe his peculiarity in this particular instance is proof he belongs at the top of our suspect list.”
“That’s too bad, because Charles is an unlikeable man, and if we could prove him guilty, well, we wouldn’t be feeling like such abject failures at the moment.”
Exchanging commiserating looks, Daphne returned to her notes as Ann began wandering around Herman’s office, Herman having graciously offered up his space to Daphne, Ann, and Cooper so that they could work on his case without interruption.
Not that there were many people left to interrupt them, save Sheldon, Martha, Andrew, and Mildred.
