Decorated to Death

by Dean James

  “That’s strange,” I said, smoking thoughtfully for a moment. “The killer bangs Harwood on the head with object number one, decides it’s not doing the job well enough, and picks up object number two. Why wouldn’t he just hit harder the second time with object number one?”

  “That’s part of the puzzle, Simon,” Robin said. “And so for we’ve not found anything that we think was used as either of the murder weapons.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice said.” I discarded the ash from my cigar. “Moving on from the murder weapon or weapons. What about the secret stairway? Was there any evidence that someone besides Lady Prunella had used it?”

  Robin frowned again. “Evidence of a sort, and that’s a puzzle in itself. The stairs are quite dusty on the edges, not to mention the odd cobweb here and there. From what both Lady Prunella and Sir Giles told me, no one has used the staircase in years. If only Lady Prunella had been up and down the stairs, we would have expected to find her footprints in the dust”

  I hazarded a guess. “But you didn’t find her footprints?”

  “No,” Robin said. ‘The steps had been swept more or less clean. Except for the outside edges on either side. We found dust there, but nothing else. No fingerprints, no footprints, nothing.”

  “How did someone sweep the stairs? And when?”

  “In answer to your first question, Simon, we did find the answer to that. But the answer provides another puzzle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We found a drop cloth stuffed away in a corner of the drawing room, and the edges of it were quite dusty. The same dust, as far as we can tell until further analysis, as the dust on the edges of the stairs in the secret stairway.”

  “So someone could have dragged this cloth up or down the stairs to erase footprints.”

  “Yes,” Robin said. “Evidently he or she dragged it down the stairs, since it was left in the drawing room, rather than in the bedroom above.”

  “Mightn’t your technical people be able to tell that by examining the steps more closely?”

  “Yes,” Robin said. “They’re working on that now, but we won’t have an answer for a while yet”

  That’s definitely an odd twist,” I said. I drew in smoke and expelled it as I thought “Since the drop cloth was left in the drawing room, it might mean the murderer left the room by either the French windows or the drawing room door. Most likely the latter.” I repeated my theory as to how the murderer could have placed the key in Harwood’s pocket when we found the body.

  “As the French windows were locked from the inside and cannot be opened from the outside, even with a key, then it means, if you’re correct that the murderer went out the drawing room door.”

  “Having gained entrance to the drawing room from the secret stairway, rather than having been admitted by Harwood?”

  Robin nodded. “We think Harwood must have been caught by surprise, because there was no evidence anywhere that he struggled with his attacker.” He drew on his cigar. “On the other hand, there’s no reason to think that he would have expected someone he knew to be planning to murder him, and he could have turned his back on the killer after letting him or her into the room.” He leaned forward to tap an inch or so of ash into the ashtray.

  “‘ ’Tis a puzzlement’ as the King of Siam once said,” I smiled as I quoted from The King and I.

  “Unfortunately,” Robin said, smiling wryly.

  “What about the time of death?” I asked.

  “He can’t have been dead very long when you found him,” Robin said. “The time frame is rather tight, I’m afraid. If Lady Prunella is correct about the time at which she last saw Harwood alive, it doesn’t leave much time for someone to have killed him before you all gathered in the library.”

  I considered that for a moment. It was a matter of fifteen minutes, more or less. I repeated this aloud.

  “Yes,” Robin said. “Perhaps a quarter of an hour.”

  “If,” I said, placing emphasis on the word, “the killer was one of the people gathered in the library before dinner.”

  Robin nodded. “And we can’t rule out the fact that someone else could have gotten into the drawing room from the bedroom above and killed him while you were all waiting for him in the library from approximately eight o’clock until eight-thirty.”

  “Except for the fact that the drop cloth that was used to sweep the stairs was found in the drawing room. But I suppose the killer could have gone back up the stairs without leaving any real traces.”

  “Maybe,” Robin said, “but the wood of those stairs is old and quite soft in places. The killer might have left some trace. If so, the boffins will find it.”

  “About those fifteen minutes,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve questioned Limpley, Weatherstone, and the two women about that.”

  “Of course,” Robin replied. “But I got little help there. They all seem to have alibis, oddly enough.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  Robin exhaled smoke. “I think I’ll leave it to you to ask them, Simon. For my own reasons, I’d rather that you hear it from them first. I want to get your impressions of what they all told me, and see what you make of it without my prejudicing you in any way.” He grinned. “Odious man,” I said. “Now you know you’ve got my curiosity up, and I’ll be beside myself until I talk to them.”

  “Nothing better than a bloodhound eager for the scent. You get more results that way.” Robin stood up. “I had best be going, Simon. Harper will have his cigarettes by now and be wondering where I am.”

  “And how will you explain where you got the cigar?” I asked.

  “Good point,” Robin said, looking regretfully at his half-smoked stogie. “Guess I had better jettison the rest of it though it’s a crime to waste such a good cigar.”

  “You could always tell him you had it with you,” I said, standing up to show him to the door.

  “Why not?” Robin said, sticking the cigar back in his mouth. “I take it you’ll be going over to Blitherington Hall soon, Simon?”

  “As soon as I can change my clothes,” I said. “Giles is rather expecting me by now, I should think.”

  “No doubt,” Robin said, his face twisting into the semblance of a frown.

  Oh, my, I thought, is the handsome detective just the tiniest bit jealous? What an interesting notion.

  I opened the door for Robin. “Out you go, Robin. The sooner you’re on your way, the sooner I can put Operation Miss Marple into effect. But first I must find where I left my bag of knitting.”

  Laughing, Robin strode down the walk to the lane and let himself out of the gate. I watched for a moment blowing smoke into the darkening sky.

  Then I went back inside to get dressed. For once I had official, or rather, semiofficial sanction for my meddling.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I had rather a rude surprise when I walked out the front door of Laurel Cottage. When I had come downstairs again after changing my clothes, I had been vaguely aware of sounds coming from the lane but had paid little attention to them. By now it was early evening, and I had put it down to the noise generated by the usual comings and goings of my fellow villagers at this time of day.

  Instead, the noise came from several reporters and television crews camped in the lane outside Laurel Cottage. As I stopped just outside the door, I felt harsh light focus on me as the television cameras drew a bead on me.

  I could have ducked back inside, but I wasn’t going to cower at home when I was needed at Blitherington Hall. Voices rose and clamored for my attention, questions being shot at me rapid-fire. Slipping on my dark glasses, which considerably toned down the glare, I scanned the group and chose the best-looking male reporter of the group. “You, there. What do you want?”

  Smirking at his colleagues, the young man stepped forward. “Just a bit o’ your time, Professor,” he said, in tones desperately trying not to sound too Cockney. “According to my sources, you’ve been involved in several murder
s. Who do you think killed Zeke Harwood?”

  This was a facer, no doubt about it. In the past, Robin Chase had kept my involvement in his investigations quiet, and I had not gained the kind of notoriety I sought to avoid. Now, it seemed, the secret was out. I sighed.

  Who had leaked my name to the press? And who had told them I had been involved in previous murder investigations? Giles wouldn’t have done it, I was sure, nor would Trevor Chase or his cousin, the clashing detective inspector. Lady Prunella might have let it slip, if she had somehow come into contact with the press. But Giles would have done his best to keep his mother away from them, and knowing Lady Prunella as I did, I doubted she had sought them out herself.

  No use speculating about it at the moment. I had better make the best of this and be done with it.

  “What I think about the murder,” I said in my best rotund manner, “is of no consequence, young man. I am not a detective, and I have no wish to interfere in the official investigation. Whoever informed you otherwise has misled you dreadfully, I’m afraid.”

  “Come on, Professor,” another reporter called out, “you really can’t expect us to believe that. What about the murder of the postmistress a few months ago? Weren’t you heavily involved in that?”

  Drat and double drat! They were even better informed than I had anticipated. Someone had done a good job of ratting me out, as they say.

  Nothing for it, then, but to brazen it out.

  “As I have already stated, you have been grossly misinformed. This is, no doubt, someone’s idea of a rather distasteful joke. Now, if you will excuse me, I have an engagement for dinner.”

  Ignoring the calls for my attention, not to mention a few comments bordering on insults, I stalked around the house to the garage. Backing the Jag out carefully, I drove a little closer to some of the press than they thought comfortable, and they jumped out of my way. One foolish cameraman thought to stop me by standing in the middle of the lane, but I gunned the engine and the Jag jumped forward.

  The cameraman jumped backwards, and I roared down the lane a hundred yards or so in the direction of Blitherington Hall. In my wake the press scrambled to follow.

  Another contingent of reporters lined the drive to the Hall, but I maneuvered the Jag carefully through them and was soon safely within the portals, away from the attentions of the press.

  “Good evening, Thompson,” I said. “The press are being rather a nuisance this evening. Do you know, have they spoken with anyone here?”

  “Not to my knowledge, Professor,” he said, having closed the door behind me. “Sir Giles has been most particular about that. No one has set foot outside the Hall in the past day except for Sir Giles himself and Mr. Weatherstone. Of course, some of the staff have come and gone, as they don’t live in, but Sir Giles warned them most particular about talking with reporters. They’re a good group, Professor, and I’m sure they wouldn’t have carried tales to the press.”

  Thompson had turned quite loquacious with me of late, no doubt a sign of the thawing of relations between his mistress and me. “Thank you, Thompson. The less we have to do with the press for now, the better. Now, where might I find Sir Giles?”

  Thompson directed me to the library. With the police for the moment not occupying the room, Giles was ensconced there, beavering away at something.

  As I walked down the hallway toward the library, I considered momentarily that Cliff Weatherstone might have been the one to bear tales to the press, but I quickly dismissed the thought. He might have heard about the earlier murders from Giles, but I could see nothing he had to gain from embroiling me with the press. I suspected that someone who had a grudge against me had been behind that distasteful episode.

  Giles was frowning over a sheaf of papers clinched in his hands when I entered the library. He set them down with a strained smile when he saw me. “Good evening, Simon. I’m pleased you’re here. The atmosphere in this house is abominably strained, and I shall be thankful when we can see the last of these so-called guests of ours.”

  I suppressed the urge to ask whether he included Cliff Weatherstone in that group.

  “Evening, Giles,” I said. “I’ll do my best to help you rid yourself of all of them as quickly as possible.” I sat down in one of the chairs before the desk.

  “What is that you’re frowning over so?”

  Giles scowled. “The bloody contract. With Harwood dead and the work uncompleted, there’s the most awful mess in the drawing room. I was reading through the contract to discern whether we could hold Harwood’s production company responsible for any repairs, or at least for completing the job.”

  “Any luck?”

  Giles shook his head. There’s no contingency for the death of the decorator, I’m afraid. Perhaps it’s for the best. Once they’ve all cleared out, we can get on with salvaging what we can. I wish Mummy had never written that bally letter in the first place!”

  “Then we need to get this settled as quickly as we can. But first, I must tell you what has just occurred.” I gave him a brief report of the scene at Laurel Cottage. He groaned.

  “It’s bad enough that we have the press practically camped outside the Hall, but that you should have to be subjected to the same treatment is intolerable, Simon.”

  “Thank you, dear boy,” I said soothingly, “but don’t fret yourself. I didn’t tell you about it to distress you. It will be sorted out, and when I discover the identity of the person who informed the press, I shall extract a suitable revenge.”

  Glimpsing the expression on my face, Giles whistled. “I wouldn’t want to be that person when you do, Simon.”

  “Yes, well, down to business then. I presume Cliff Weatherstone told you about his little visit with me?” I waited for Giles’s nod, then continued. “I also had a visit from Robin Chase, who enlisted my aid, much to my surprise.” I smiled. “I rather believe I’m beginning to wear him down.”

  “Spare me the details, if you please, Simon, of your campaign to snare the copper.” Giles turned away from me to stare moodily at the wall. “If I had realized playing hard to get was the way to proceed, I shouldn’t have annoyed you with my attentions.”

  This jealousy that Giles harbored because of my curiosity over Robin Chase was beginning to get out of hand. “Giles, look at me. Don’t be childish. Look at me.”

  Slowly he obeyed, turning back to face me, and I examined him carefully. I had to proceed with caution, for much was at stake here, perhaps more than I was willing to admit.

  “I won’t deny that I find Robin attractive. He is physically appealing, and he is something of an enigma, because I can’t quite read him. Usually I find men much more transparent. Call it idle curiosity, if you will, but it is really no more than that, Giles. I have no plans to ‘snare the copper,’ to use your phrase.”

  “When you look at me like that, Simon,” Giles said softly, “I almost begin to believe you.”

  “You should believe me, Giles,” I said. “I wouldn’t lie to you, and certainly not about something like this.” I might have to omit the truth about my true nature, at least for a while longer, but I wouldn’t lie to him about my feelings. “Were I ready to become involved with anyone, it would be you. But you must be patient with me until the time is right.”

  He sat quietly for the moment and observed me. I tried to probe his emotions, but for once he was playing it very cool, and I couldn’t read him. Then, as I watched, he stood up and walked around the desk. Leaning over, he kissed me.

  “Fair enough, Simon,” Giles said, smiling demurely when he drew away from me. “But I thought you should have some incentive for making up your mind.”

  “Yes, well, I shall bear that in mind, Giles.” I tried to frown at him but I couldn’t force my mouth into the correct shape. I was smiling too broadly.

  “Back to the other matter at hand,” Giles said, seating himself once more behind the desk. “This murder. Before we became sidetracked, you mentioned that the detective inspector had asked fo
r your help.”

  “Yes,” I said, “and he was quite forthcoming about what he and his team know thus far.” I stopped, frowning. “I’m afraid I can’t share everything he told me, Giles, because he didn’t give me leave to discuss it with anyone. Though I must say, I don’t believe he considers either you or your mother credible suspects.”

  “I understand,” Giles said, taking it better than I had thought he would.

  “One thing I believe I can tell you, however,” I said, “is that three of the suspects seem to have an alibi for the time of the minder. Robin wouldn’t tell me what it was, saying that he wanted me to hear it from them myself, without his prejudicing my opinion.”

  “Curious” was Giles’s comment.

  “Decidedly so,” I said. “Now the thing I need to do is question them. Do you think they’ll be amenable to my playing the nosey parker with them?”

  “I can’t see that they would object too vociferously,” Giles said. “It’s the prime topic of conversation anyway.” He glanced at his watch. “Tempus fugit, and all that. It’s nearly time for tea.” He pressed a bell on one side of the desk, and less than two minutes later, Thompson appeared.

  “Yes, Sir Giles?”

  “Thompson, I believe we’ll have tea here in the library. And if you would be so good as to ask all of our guests to join me here.” He smiled wolfishly. “And, Thompson, there’s a good fellow. Do your best to let them understand, without actually saying so, of course, that I would construe it as the gravest insult should they fail to appear.”

  Thompson inclined his head and disappeared.

  Giles laughed. “Once Thompson is through with them, they won’t dare not show up for tea.”

  “And here the spider sits,” I said, “spinning his web.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Within twenty minutes after Thompson’s departure, not only had the tea tray arrived, but so had Piers Limpley, Dittany Harwood, Moira Rhys-Morgan, and Cliff Weatherstone. The suspects had gathered in the library, and I was prepared to launch into my best Poirot imitation.