Somehow this made me feel better.
"So I'm not the only author who's had those horrible reviews?"
"You were probably an especially juicy target, because you're well known and you don't use a pseudonym. Most of our authors do because they write erotica, which means they aren't as easy to attack personally. Besides, nobody expects Rodd Whippington or Dirk Scabbard to be upset by a few obscene remarks. Then there's the matter of your name. 'Camilla' is not a popular name in the U.K. right now. Prince Charles' second wife is not beloved."
That made sense, sort of.
"I guess that makes me feel better. It's so bizarre to be hated for no reason."
"Unfortunately, now they have a reason."
"Because I commented on a review? These people throw verbal rocks at me and if I say 'ouch', I'm the bad guy?"
Peter smiled as if this were somehow amusing.
"They appear to be mostly a different gang of rock-throwers. Your response to the review brought out a whole new tribe of Internet bullies: the ones who live in the Amazon fora and at Book Reviews dot Com. People like "Jezbellzbooks", "Pottymouth" and "TrashyBooks". They're even more vicious than the Yorkists. And much worse spellers. Do you suppose one could really do that with a garden gnome?"
I took a deep breath. I didn't want to think of the horrors threatened by those "reviewers."
"So I'm being attacked by two different groups of homicidal rapists?"
"So it would seem. And they appear to be stealing each other's rhetoric."
"And we don't know which ones are threatening to kill me?"
"My money would be on the lads from Doncaster. They call themselves the Plantagenet something-or-other, so they may not even have intended to use your friend's name. You should consider that a comfort. We're a long way from Yorkshire, but those book review vigilantes could be anywhere."
He drained his glass and gave me a good-little-boy grin.
I sighed and went to the kitchen for the Courvoisier. I gave him a short pour.
"I guess you've earned this." I sipped from my own snifter, wondering how my alter ego, the Manners Doctor, would advise someone in my situation. It's not as if there were a set of rules for dealing with criminal, but helpful, ex-lovers who have recently become un-deceased.
"Thank you, lass." Peter looked at me over the snifter with that adorable sparkle in his eye. It had lured me to work against my better judgement more than once.
I fought the urge to forgive and forget as Buckingham jumped from Peter's lap and sauntered across the table toward me. I did not want the cat to get comfortable on the furniture, but this was not the time to be discussing feline manners training. I tried to wave him off, but the cat curled up on the table and began to wash.
I decided to ignore him and looked back at Peter.
"So you came all the way up here to warn me to avoid responding to reviews? It's lovely to see you, Peter, really, and very nice to know you are still among the living, but I do get email, you know. It's the same address I've had for years."
Peter laughed again. "I could have shot you an email from the Wi-Fi café in Los Angeles, I suppose, but would you have opened it? I don't have an account in the name of Peter Sherwood, for obvious reasons, and you might have been skeptical of a warning that came from a complete stranger."
I had to admit he was right on that, especially after the email from last night.
"And it's not simply about the reviews," Peter said. "These people are obviously capable of much worse, so I wanted to give you the full story in person. I felt I owed you that. This nonsense has caused a lot of fallout for our authors. Unfortunately, you seem to be getting the brunt of it. Not at all fair for someone who is so kind."
He reached across the coffee table. I thought maybe he was going to take my hand, but instead, he petted the cat, who jumped back onto his lap.
"I happened to meet a man in the café who was driving up here," Peter went on. "A student at California Polytechnic or some such place? I offered to pay for his petrol, and here I am."
"So you're playing the part of my hero—here to save the day?"
"I wouldn't call it heroism. This is Sherwood's problem, so it's my job to sort it out. Also, quite frankly, I wanted to see you again. I am awfully fond of you, Camilla. I felt dreadful letting you think I was dead."
I looked at him, as scruffily handsome as ever, with the purring cat on his lap. Why had I fallen for a younger guy like Ronzo? Peter might have dubious connections, but he was mature and a genuine pet-lover. He'd rescued a little dog back when we were in Swynsby.
I moved from my chair to sit next to him on the couch. I gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek.
"Thanks. I'm fond of you too."
He kissed me back. I tried not to let it last too long. I hadn't forgotten what an effect his kisses could have on me.
"Oh, yes, and there's one more thing." Peter pulled away and grinned. "I wondered if you'd be willing to do a bit of laundering for me."
I jumped to my feet. This was going too far, even for Peter.
"You can't wash your own clothes? There's a laundromat right up the street. This isn't the 1950s, Peter."
"Not clothing. Money. I need you to launder some money for me."
Part IV—Every Tale Condemns me for a Villain
Chapter 32—Plantagenet
Plantagenet kept waving his U.S. passport at people to prove he was just a naïve tourist who didn't have a clue what was going on.
Which was precisely the truth. But nothing seemed to help.
The consensus seemed to be that whatever had happened to Neville was his fault.
People kept shouting at him as the ambulance came and took Neville/Buckingham out of the Hall on a stretcher.
The man in the rumpled suit from the train—or his clone—was there taking photos.
Plant realized he probably shouldn't have run out of the Hall yelling "murder" at the crowd, but finding a dead body was upsetting. Especially after the last two days.
He'd only seen one other dead person in his life. And that hadn't turned out well.
Besides, he was still suffering from sleep deprivation and jet lag—not to mention the rather strong pint of beer he'd drunk at the Merry Miller.
He worked at pushing through the crowd so he could get to the street. He knew he should probably wait for police, but it wasn't as if they didn't have plenty of other witnesses. He kept wanting to reach into his pocket for the phone that wasn't there to call a cab. He had to buy a new phone as soon as he got back to London, no matter the cost. He could not bear to be so out of touch with the world.
He could probably walk to the train station. He'd simply hop on anything going south. Even if it took all night. He remembered there was a train going back to London that evening. It was a local, and wouldn't get him back to his hotel in London until close to midnight, but he needed to get out of this bizarre place as soon as possible.
If only he could make it through the crowd. The people kept crushing in around him. And that rumpled man was always in his face, snapping away.
Camilla would have to understand why he couldn't stay. Even if he found Vera, she would probably only confirm what he already suspected—Camilla would get no more royalties from Sherwood, Ltd.
She would be devastated, of course, and would probably have to let one of the Jens go. Maybe both. She could do it if she cut back on hours. Unfortunately, Silas would probably be no help. He was no doubt spending a fortune at Glen's ridiculous place in Hawaii.
Plant was not going to enjoy telling Camilla that her publishing company had gone belly-up. This probably meant the Manners Doctor's career was as dead as poor Neville up in the tower.
Plant took a deep breath and looked around for the friendly docent. Maybe she could tell him where he could find a taxi.
There were plenty of women in strange garb, but he couldn't find the woman who had told him about the flower garden. Finally he saw a woman who looked authoritative, dress
ed in contemporary clothing. Some sort of uniform. A policewoman, maybe. She was wearing one of those fedora-like hats with the checkered bands that the policewomen wore in those BBC things with Helen Mirren.
He was relieved to see the uniformed woman was coming toward him.
"Officer!" he said. "Are you with the police, ma'am?"
"You're the bloke what found the deceased?"
"Yes. He told me his first name was Neville."
"You don't have his surname?" The woman wrote something in a notebook.
"I'm afraid I don't. I met him at the Old Vic last night in London."
The woman gave him a blank stare. Maybe a signal for him to go on.
"Neville said I should come to Swynsby, but I'm afraid I didn't understand he was talking about this festival. What he said last night didn't make much sense. He simply said he was Buckingham."
The woman continued to stare, her pencil poised as if she were waiting for him to say something comprehensible. He tried to explain himself.
"Of course, now I understand he was playing the part of the Duke of Buckingham in the reenactment. That's why Richard told me there were dead dukes in the tower. Not princes. But I only saw the one. I don't know where the other dead duke has got to. If he's dead of course. I don't know if it was some sort of duel, or a suicide pact. Are there any famous suicide pacts from Richard III's day?"
"You're an American?" the woman said.
Plant nodded and handed her his passport, feeling a bit relieved. Maybe that would keep her from giving him those stares.
"Yes. I'm an American. Absolutely. A tourist. Just arrived from California. I have no idea what I'm doing here, really. It's all for Camilla. She's a dear friend. And she's worried about her royalties."
An older male officer came up beside the woman and took Plant's passport.
"Plantagenet? You claim to be named Plantagenet?" the officer said. "What do you have to do with the Duchess of Cornwall and the royals?"
Plant wondered if this man might not be an actor, too. He wasn't making any more sense than the rest of them.
"Nothing. I haven't much to do with Duchesses. Just the Duke. Of Buckingham. The dead one. In the tower."
"You said you were a dear friend of hers." The man gave a deep sigh. "Do you or do you not know the Duchess of Cornwall?"
"Not," Plant said. "Just the Duke. Of Buckingham. Now deceased. Otherwise known as Neville." Now he was worried about the sanity of all concerned. When even the police seemed to be acting in some sort of farce, it was best to get away as soon as possible.
"He said the dead reenactor was named Neville", the woman said.
Plant nodded, hoping she had more of a grasp of reality than her male counterpart.
"Yes. He said his name was Neville Plantagenet, but I think he was playing some sort of game at the time. So I honestly don't have a clue what his real surname was."
The woman said something to the male officer that Plant couldn't make out.
"You and the deceased were mates? Did you come to the festival together?" The man spoke in a thick accent Plant had begun to identify as peculiar to Lincolnshire.
"Oh, no. We weren't friends, really. I met him at the bar at the Old Vic last night. In London. I was there to see Kevin Spacey's Richard III. Brilliant. But Neville didn't want to go back after intermission. Strange little man."
Strange indeed. At least Plant knew now that he'd been real. But how Neville had known Plant was planning to come to Swynsby, he had no idea. He still couldn't rule out supernatural happenings.
Some of the looky-loos pushed around them. The rumpled man reappeared, still snapping photos.
"It's him!" said a fierce old woman with a helmet of white hair. "I saw him on telly last night. One of the bombers. They say it was terrorists. They behead people, you know. Just like in the Middle Ages. History seems to be going backwards. Soon we'll all be monkeys, hanging from the bloody trees."
The woman moved toward Plant. He fought the instinct to hide behind the large male officer.
"Please step back, madam," the woman officer said. "This is police business."
"But I saw him on telly. He thinks King Richard shouldn't have been buried in Leicester. And he's right. Richard of York belongs in York."
Plant remembered hearing that phrase before. From Neville. And later from Alfred. What was that about?
The male officer obviously wanted to keep to the business at hand. He also seemed to want to keep Plant's passport.
Plant looked at it and then back at the officer.
"Are you done with my passport now, officer?"
The policeman acted as if he hadn't heard.
"You and Neville went up to the Hall tower together, Mr. Smith?" he said. "What happened there? Did you two have an altercation?"
"No. No. We didn't go together. I've just arrived from London. I went up to the tower after Richard told me there were dead dukes up there. I thought that was part of the performance."
"You came here with a bloke named Richard? Is he here now?"
"I didn't come with him and I have no idea where he is."
Were these people trying to be difficult?
"I don't even know his real name. He's an actor playing Richard III—dressed up as the king. A fine job of costuming. No big padded hunchback. Just a slight rise of the right shoulder. Very impressive."
"Go find out who was reenacting King Richard," the man said to the woman. "Bring him in. We'll want to question him as well." He turned to Plant. "Will you come with me, sir."
It wasn't a question.
"Is that necessary? I'd like to get the train back to London tonight."
"I'm sure you would. But we don't like our crime witnesses wandering off. I'm sure your police are the same in America."
"But you see, I didn't witness anything. I simply saw a dead body. Do you really need more from me?"
The policeman gave him a non-verbal equivalent of "duh".
"Please come with us sir."
The rumpled man snapped his camera again. It was only then that Plantagenet saw the man was wearing a press badge. It said, "The Daily Mail".
Chapter 33—Camilla
I gave Peter a cold look in spite of how adorable he looked sitting on my couch with Buckingham purring on his lap.
I wasn't going to be taken in by this man again. I was older and wiser than when I'd first met him. I was a businesswoman now, if not a terribly successful one.
And I was definitely not desperate, in spite of losing another bad boyfriend so recently.
In fact, it might be time for me to rethink the whole boyfriend thing. Celibacy was beginning to look like a wise lifestyle choice.
"You want me to launder money? Would you like me to shoot a few people for you, too? Knock off some liquor stores? Do you think the nonsense people are saying about me in those reviews is true? This may come as a surprise to everyone, but I am not now, nor have I ever been, a liar, a crook, or a lady of the evening."
Peter laughed and fiddled with the hoodie that he'd left on the couch. It seemed to have a snap-in lining that required all his attention.
Buckingham seemed to disapprove and jumped down to the floor. I was not pleased either.
"I'm also not a Tudor-lover, by the way," I said. "I've always thought Richard III was probably maligned in the play. Mr. Shakespeare would have had to write whatever the queen wanted, wouldn't he? And Elizabeth would have wanted her grandfather to look like a hero, even though he stole the throne from the Plantagenets."
Peter put down the hoodie.
"About those reviews. Would you like me to ring the Amazon people and see if we can have them removed?"
"Can you do that?" I perked up. If he could stop the online review onslaught, Peter might redeem himself a little.
Peter stood and gave me his most charming grin.
"I don't know. But I am certainly willing to try. I am your publisher. I ought to be good for something." He refilled my glass with an elaborate
waiterly bow. "But about that money...what time does your bank open in the morning?"
I didn't touch the glass. I did not want him to think he could get me drunk and talk me into doing something criminal.
"It opens at 10 AM, the same time my store does, and I'll be at the store. I am not laundering money for you, Peter Sherwood, or whatever you're calling yourself now."
"Piotr Stygar. I'm Polish-Australian." He tossed me a passport.
I looked at the dark blue document. It looked rather like a U.S. passport except that the gold embossed insignia had a kangaroo and an ostrich on it. And the thick pages inside were imprinted with lovely pictures of Australia. It looked authentic and well-worn—curved in the center from having spent a good deal of time in a man's back pants-pocket.
Peter picked up the hoody again and reached into the lining. With a flourish, he pulled out a handful of American bills. All with Benjamin Franklin's picture on them. And another. He must have had several thousand dollars in there.
"All I need you to do is deposit this into your account. It's probably only a little over what we owe you for your royalties anyway. So it isn't really laundering, is it? I'm paying you moneys owed. Then I'll ask for a bit of a loan after you deposit it."
"A bit of a loan—for exactly the amount I’m depositing, I suppose?"
I was not going to let myself be bamboozled by this man. In spite of that grin—and the cocky, semi-ironic way he had of looking at me that was part challenge and part self-deprecation.
"Just the price of the ticket to Heathrow. If I pay in cash I'll be red-flagged as a terrorist in half a second. As soon as they take a deeper whiff, they'll smell a phony passport. But if Piotr Stygar puts it on his bank card, then I'll be back in Lincolnshire in no time."
I sighed. What made me the most nervous was that he actually made sense, in a loony, Peterish sort-of-way. I did need the money. My usual teller at the bank knew I'd been waiting for a large payment, so I could probably concoct a plausible story about why I'd been paid in cash.
So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 Page 10
