Decorated to Death

by Dean James

  I told Giles of the stratagem I had employed with Jessamy Cholmondley-Pease, that I was going to write a true crime book about the murder, and I decided that same gambit might work just as well for the purposes of the forthcoming interview.

  For the first few minutes after the four chief suspects had arrived, Giles, the very essence of the proper host, kept them busy, serving them tea and seeing them comfortably settled around the informal circle of chairs we had set up. Once they all had tea and biscuits, I cleared my throat and saw their attention focus on me.

  “I asked Sir Giles to call you all together for tea,” I said in my most unctuous tones, “because I am going to prevail upon your goodwill to assist me in a project that I am planning to undertake.” I shot a quick, meaning glance at Cliff Weatherstone to alert him. He caught the signal and winked to show that he was ready to play along.

  “You are all aware, of course, that I am a writer, a historian by training. Though my work thus far has been confined to illuminating the distant past,” I said mendaciously, “in particular the time period known as the Middle Ages, I have decided it is time for a change.” Their eyes were already glazing over, but I was about to startle them completely awake. “I plan to write a book about the sad events of the past few days.”

  I raised a hand to stifle the beginnings of mumbling and grumbling. “I realize that you will doubtless think this is in questionable taste, but I would also beg you to consider for the moment how much more palatable it will be in the long run for you to have someone sympathetic, someone who has already met you, rather than a complete stranger, write the book that must inevitably follow this regrettable occurrence.”

  As I paused to gauge their reactions, I reflected that I most likely would write about Harwood’s murder, but in the guise of Diana Dorchester, that new maven of the English village mystery who would one day make her debut. There was, however, no need to tell them this.

  Cliff Weatherstone smiled at me, as if congratulating me on my stratagem to get them all to talk. Moira Rhys-Morgan regarded me blankly, whereas Piers Limpley and Dittany Harwood cast more calculating gazes at me.

  “If any of you should choose not to talk to me,” I said, “I shall quite understand. My task would therefore be more difficult, requiring more speculation on my part. But that, naturally, could not be helped in such a case.” The word “speculation” made them a bit uneasy, I could see. I paused to let them think about it for a moment.

  Cliff Weatherstone spoke. “I can’t say that I’m totally enamored of the idea of anyone writing such a book, Professor, but I know you’re right. Someone undoubtedly will, and it might as well be someone we can trust to be fair.”

  Dittany Harwood regarded him with eyes thinned to the merest slits as she sipped her tea. Replacing the cup in its saucer, she set them down on a small table next to her chair. “I’m with Cliff, Professor. I’d rather no one wrote such a book, as you might imagine, but I know it’s inevitable. My poor brother was far too well known, and the public will be hungry for details of his murder.”

  Her tone was so detached, she might have been speaking of the day’s shopping. “What would you like to know?” She turned to me and fixed me with a bland, innocent gaze.

  “Thank you, Miss Harwood. I appreciate your willingness to cooperate. It goes without saying, I’m sure, that the innocent have little to fear from this project.” That was a lie, and they all knew it, because even the innocent among them would have secrets they preferred to keep from public view. But murder will out as the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon said.

  I pulled a notebook from my pocket and sat down. “First I think, I’d like to get fixed in my mind the hour or so before we found the body. I have a rough idea of the sequence of some of the events of that time period, but it would be best to have as complete a picture as possible.”

  I flipped open the notebook and pretended to consult something written there. “Mrs. Rhys-Morgan, you told us last night that you had spoken with Mr. Harwood at roughly seven-twenty, and he told you that he planned to do a bit of work in the drawing room. Is that correct?”

  Moira frowned at me. “If the others are going along with this force, I suppose I have no choice. Yes, I suppose it was about that time that I spoke with Zeke.” Her voice caught in a strangled half-sob upon the name of the victim. She paused to regain control of herself. “Zeke said he wanted some time alone in the room to rethink the colors he had chosen.”

  “We had already decided the colors,” Dittany interrupted, her annoyance evident. “I can’t imagine why he would have wanted to change them at that stage in the process.”

  Moira shrugged, then cast a sideways glance at Giles. “I believe it might have had something to do with Lady Prunella and her anxieties over the red paint. Zeke seemed quite intent upon getting back at her for what had happened earlier in the day.”

  Giles wisely kept silent, and I was thankful that Lady Prunella was not present. Her fluttering would have derailed any attempt to question the group after that announcement.

  “When you spoke with Mr. Harwood,” I said, “where were you?”

  Moira colored faintly. “In his room. We, ah, had some personal matters to discuss, and it was as I was leaving him that he mentioned his plans.”

  I thought about pressing her to explain the nature of the “personal matters,” but from her evident embarrassment, I had a good idea as to what those matters had been. I turned instead to Piers Limpley, who eyed me rather as would a rat confronted by a python.

  “Now, Mr. Limpley, I believe you spoke with Harwood right after that? Say, at about seven twenty-five?”

  He cleared his throat. “As far as I can remember, yes, it was about that time. I had stopped by his room to remind him of the time we were to gather in the library.” He offered a prim smile. “Zeke had rather a casual attitude toward time, and I was always having to try to keep him on schedule.”

  “How long did this conversation last?” I had my pen poised to make a notation.

  “No more than two minutes,” Piers said, after reflecting.

  “And then?”

  “I went to my room to get ready for dinner,” Piers said. “I needed time to relax for a few minutes and to change clothes.”

  I flipped a page in the notebook, staring down at the diagram there. While we had waited for the suspects to arrive in the library, Giles had quickly sketched for me a small floor plan to show me who was occupying which bedroom. “I believe your room was directly across the hall from Harwood’s.”

  “That is correct,” Piers said.

  “Mrs. Rhys-Morgan is in the room next to Harwood, and Miss Harwood, you are in the next room after that Mr. Weatherstone, I believe you are in the last room, just after Miss Harwood. Correct?” I looked up at them.

  They all nodded.

  “Did anyone see Harwood go downstairs to the drawing room?” I asked.

  They all shook their heads.

  “Where were each of you, then, at approximately seven-thirty?”

  I looked at each of them in turn, and each of them answered, “In my room.”

  “You were all in your rooms, and presumably Harwood was in the drawing room, at seven-thirty or shortly thereafter. Right” I looked up at Giles. “And Giles, where were you?”

  “In my room, reading. I was already dressed for dinner.” He looked for a moment as if he might continue, but he fell silent instead. I would come back to that later. I wondered what he was reluctant to tell me.

  “I, of course, was at home,” I said, flashing a friendly smile. I settled back in my chair and regarded them all for a long moment “Now, we get to the tricky part We must examine the time period in which it was most likely that Harwood was killed.”

  I paused to let that sink in, then consulted my notebook again. “According to what I have been told by Lady Prunella, it would have been five or six minutes after Harwood went downstairs to the drawing room that she confronted him there.” I looked up. “I don’t suppos
e any of you saw her go downstairs?”

  Piers Limpley frowned. “How could we have, Professor? According to what I have heard, Lady Prunella made use of some sort of secret staircase to go downstairs and spy upon poor Zeke.”

  So they had heard about the staircase. “Ah, yes, you are quite right, Mr. Limpley. Lady Prunella did indeed go downstairs by way of those stairs. Did any of you happen to see her enter Harwood’s bedroom?”

  Again, the answer was in the negative.

  “To resume, then,” I said. “Again, according to Lady Prunella, she was with Harwood for approximately five or six minutes, after having watched him through a peephole for some three or four minutes. That brings us to roughly seven forty-two, when Lady Prunella left the drawing room. She came straight to the library, whereupon she fortified herself with a brandy and remained here. She did not leave this room again until we all left, as a group, to discover the body of Harwood in the drawing room.”

  No one commented, though I paused invitingly. I plowed on. “Giles and Mr. Weatherstone were the first to arrive in the library, after Lady Prunella. What time would you estimate that to have been, Giles?”

  “Perhaps two or three minutes before eight o’clock,” Giles said, his face impassive.

  “Mrs. Rhys-Morgan, I believe you arrived right after that?”

  Moira nodded at me.

  “Mr. Limpley, Miss Harwood, you arrived together, a few minutes after Mrs. Rhys-Morgan?”

  Dittany yawned. “Yes, it was three or four minutes after eight, I’m afraid. I had heard a clock chiming somewhere upstairs before I was quite ready to leave my room. When I stepped out into the hall a couple of minutes later, Piers was just coming out of his room, and we walked down together.”

  “And how long after that, would you say, was it before I arrived?” I remembered it as being close to ten minutes after eight when I had walked into the library.

  “No more than four or five minutes, perhaps,” Piers said.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I think I have all that reasonably clear in my mind.” I tapped the notebook against one knee. “Now we must, of course, zero in on the brief time period in which the killer must have struck. I refer, naturally, to the quarter hour, give or take a couple of minutes, after Lady Prunella left Harwood in the drawing room and before you all began arriving in the library just before dinner.”

  I had been focusing on each of them at random, trying to get a reading on their emotions. With the exception of Moira Rhys-Morgan, though, I had come up blank. She was obviously in distress, seemingly upset over Harwood’s murder, while the other three remained cool and watchful. If one of them were guilty, he or she must be a killer poker player.

  “What about Lady Prunella?” Moira spoke in harsh tones. “We have only her word for it that Zeke was alive when she left him.”

  Giles jerked in his chair, but I forestalled him. “Yes, as you say, we have only her word for it. She has no alibi for the probable time of the murder, either, unless it occurred while we were all in the library waiting in vain for Harwood to appear.”

  Giles frowned in distaste at that thought, and I couldn’t blame him. It was rather a horrible thought, that a man might have died by violence while we were complaining of his tardiness.

  “That must have been what happened, Professor, if Lady Prunella is indeed innocent. I certainly can’t think of a reason for her to have done it,” Dittany said, leaning forward in her chair. “The murder must have taken place while we were all in the library.”

  “Why are you so certain, Miss Harwood?” I asked. Indeed, her voice had carried firm conviction.

  “Because, if Lady Prunella didn’t do it,” she said smugly, “the rest of us couldn’t have. We all have alibis.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Piers Limpley nodded vigorously once Dittany had made her triumphant announcement “Yes, that’s right,” he said, his voice almost squeaking with excitement. “We all have alibis.”

  “How lucky for you,” I said. Now I was about to hear whatever it was that Robin Chase had wanted me to evaluate. What could their alibis be? Had they all been together in one room, playing cards?

  “I’ll go first, shall I?” Dittany said, and without waiting for anyone’s assent, she plunged ahead. “I was in my room at seven-thirty, and I was in the midst of getting dressed for dinner, when the telephone rang. It must have been about, oh, seven-fortyish when it rang, because I had finished touching up my face and was about to start on my hair.”

  She beamed at me, very pleased with herself and her story. “As I was saying, the phone rang, and I answered, thinking it was probably Zeke or Piers wanting something done at the last minute. But it wasn’t. It was my flatmate in London, ringing me from our flat while she was waiting for her boyfriend to meet her. He—the boyfriend, that is—is always running late, so Paula—that’s my flatmate—decided to call me and find out how things were going here in the wilds of Bedfordshire. She’s never been north of London, can you believe it?”

  I forbore to answer what I considered a rhetorical question and instead asked a question of my own. “How long were you on the phone with your friend?”

  “Oh, until nearly eight o’clock,” Dittany said, clearly pleased. “That’s why I was running a bit late, getting downstairs to meet everyone in the library. I lost all track of time while Paula and I were nattering on. That always happens when the two of us get going.” She giggled. “Drives her boyfriend mad, it does, but then he should be on time, shouldn’t he? Or else Paula wouldn’t be calling me to chat so much. But I finally thought of the time, and anyway Paula’s boyfriend had just showed up, so I rang off and hurried to finish my hair and get dressed.”

  I regarded her in silence for a moment. Something about her demeanor made my nose twitch, metaphorically, that is. She seemed inordinately pleased with herself. Her alibi was elaborately simple, if you’ll pardon the oxymoron.

  “And I suppose Paula will be able to corroborate your story?”

  “Of course,” Dittany said, not taking the least umbrage from my rather testy question. “That puts me in the clear, doesn’t it? After all, the police would only have to check the phone records, wouldn’t they?”

  If she were telling the truth, she would be in the clear, I reflected. A check of the phone records would reveal whether a call had been made from the flat in London to Blitherington Hall, certainly, and how long the conversation had lasted.

  It was all so easy, it must be true.

  “Yes, the police can, and probably will, check all that,” I said.

  “Oh yes, the detective inspector said they would.” Dittany frowned suddenly. “But the only problem is that Paula and her boyfriend left this morning for a two-week holiday in southern Spain, and I haven’t the foggiest where they’re staying or how to reach them.”

  “Doesn’t one of them have a mobile?” I asked sardonically.

  Dittany responded with an arch look. “Ah, no, Paula always leaves hers behind. Doesn’t want anyone from the solicitor’s office where she works trying to call her, she says.”

  “Then I suppose it will take a couple of weeks until the police can corroborate your alibi,” I said. “Unless, of course, they enlist the aid of the Spanish police in tracking down Paula and her boyfriend.”

  Dittany frowned slightly at that. Then she shrugged. “Que sera, sera, as they say in Spain.”

  “Creo que si,” I said. “ ‘I believe so,’ as they also say in Spain. Well, that disposes of Miss Harwood. Mr. Limpley, your turn. What is your alibi?”

  “Actually, Professor,” Piers said, his tone quavering a bit as he spoke, “it’s not simply my alibi. It’s rather a matter of our alibi.” He tapered off into an odd silence.

  “Do you mean you were with someone during the time in question?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Well, speak up, man. Who was it?”

  “Piers is being a gentleman, Professor,” Moira Rhys-Morgan said, and I inferred from her to
ne in addressing me that I was anything but. “He was with me from about seven-forty until about five minutes to eight.”

  Piers, relieved, nodded eagerly. “Yes, that’s it, Professor. I hadn’t wanted to speak without Moira’s consent.”

  I couldn’t see that such delicacy of feeling was called for, unless they had been engaged in some less-than-delicate activity during the time in question. I sought a tactful way to voice that thought.

  “Unless you were engaged in a plan to make away with the Blitherington family silver, I can’t see any difficulty in admitting to such an alibi,” I said, attempting to make light of it.

  Moira sniffed in distaste. “If you must know, and I see that you must, Professor, I was in considerable distress. Zeke and I had not parted on the most amicable of terms, when I had left his room, and Piers was doing his best to dissuade me from leaving Blitherington Hall that evening. Indeed, I had decided to go back to London and seek another job.” She looked down at her hands. “Piers did not totally dissuade me from that plan, although he did convince me not to leave that evening. I had planned to leave for London the next morning.” This was certainly an interesting development, particularly given what Cliff Weatherstone had told me about the nature of the relationship between Moira and Zeke. Not to mention the long-suffering Piers, with his unrequited love of Moira. I examined the two of them for a moment. One of them could have killed Harwood, and the other was covering it up. It was just possible.

  “If I might ask,” I said, addressing Piers, “how did you come to know of Mrs. Rhys-Morgan’s distress?”

  “From Zeke” was the unhappy answer. Piers cut a glance toward his beloved. “I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely truthful with you before. I did stop by Zeke’s room to remind him of the time we were to meet in the library for dinner, and I did so. But then Zeke went off on a tirade against Moira, and I gathered that Moira was extremely upset and threatening to quit. I said some rather cutting things to Zeke, but of course he paid not the slightest attention.” His voice rose in indignation. “He never took me seriously.” His shoulders slumped. “I went to my room and waited a few minutes, until I was sure Zeke had gone downstairs. Then I went to Moira’s room to talk to her.”