"There's a Tom Brackett down there raising holy hell. He says he's a diabetic and needs his medication in one hour."
"I hope you said you'd fetch it," said Moor.
"I wanted to clear it with you, Sir."
Moor sighed.
"Just disturb nothing else in his room, touch nothing else. For God's sake, that's all we need is a suspect collapsing and claiming police brutality. Any other bleats of protest about the room search?" Moor asked the uniform.
"Not a one. It's different from searching someone's home, isn't it? At least, they all seem to think so."
Moor picked Kimberlee's pink boa off the bedstead and gave it a jaunty little shake before dropping it again. "Come along then. I think we've done all we can here. Let's have a look at the other boudoirs."
SEARCH ME
The men left, locking Kimberlee's room behind them and stationing a broad-shouldered constable outside as insurance. As part of the process of elimination, they started with a search of St. Just's room across the hall. He waited outside. Nothing sinister being in evidence there, the men moved on to the authors' rooms. Moor pulled from his pocket a printout sheet of room assignments which Donna Doone had earlier provided the police.
"Let's begin with Magretta Sincock's room," he said, pointing a stubby finger at the list. "It's right next door to Kimberlee's."
All the rooms of the castle sported a different decor. Kimberlee's had been the George Ramsay. Magretta's, according to the plaque by the door, was the Robert the Bruce. It proved to be a high-ceilinged room decorated in blue and burgundy that also faced south to dramatic views of the castle's rolling parkland and forests.
Magretta, unlike Kimberlee, had come prepared to write, bringing with her an old-fashioned travel-writing desk made of elaborately carved wood. On closer inspection, it proved to be a reproduction of the kind of thing seen in museums, but updated for the modern writer. The lid opened down to create a slanted writing surface. Inside, it was kitted out with paper and little drawers and slots to hold pens, stamps, envelopes, and so on. St. Just recognized it from the photo on the dust jacket of her book. Perhaps she felt being photographed with this thing lent weight to her writerly persona.
Moor, looking over just then, whistled.
"That's an expensive-looking job."
St. Just nodded. "Pretty much what royalty might use whilst perusing dispatches on safari in Kenya."
"Quite."
St. Just stopped to look out the window, which offered a slightly different overlook of the forest from Kimberlee's-Magretta had, apparently, succeeded in getting her way over the room with a view. No mountains had materialized, however.
Moor said, from where he stood surveying the contents of the wardrobe, a touch of wonder in his voice: "It's green. Everything. It's green."
"Yes, I know. Well, I didn't know what she wore underneath but if one were inclined to one could make an educated guess. Wearing green was what I think they call her signature style."
"I thought the pink was bad, but this is really bad. Like being trampled to death in an Irish parade."
"I know."
"Like drowning in some bilious, plague-infested-"
"Please. I know."
St. Just pulled out the notebook he'd asked Moor to retrieve from his castle bedroom, and began jotting down his impressions. Many long hours and many rooms later, he had written, in part:
"Nothing amiss or out of place in anyone's room… The usual travel gear… The usual makeup and toiletries. All authors but Kimberlee Kalder and Magretta had laptops. N.B.: Other laptops will need a looking over by IT… Most traveled with books, mostly their own (exception: Annabelle), some with books by the other authors. Magretta traveling with four dozen copies of her newest paperback."
And he had underlined:
"They all had a copy of Kimberlee's book. Even those who claim not to have read it."
St. Just was mystified by Magretta's traveling with so many of her own books and made another mental note to ask Portia about it. She would certainly know the reason.
When it came time to search Portia's room, St. Just hung back. Violating people's privacy was what he did for a living but he could bring himself to take only the most cursory glance at the neat, spartanly clean room. Here were none of the excess or wild abandon of Kimberlee's or Magretta's occupations, but a tacit acknowledgement that she was a guest in someone else's establishment, albeit a paying guest. He bet the maids of the castle blessed her thoughtfulness every day.
Which reminded him:
"Is anyone talking with the staff?"
"That's young Muir's job," said Moor. "He's getting the preliminaries. We'll have to have a word with all of them, as well, of course. It helps that the murder happened at night. That's far less staff to worry about as suspects."
"Unless one of them stayed on, unnoticed, after hours."
"There's that, I suppose. Motive would be a problem."
And so they came to the end of a long day of sifting through closets and overturning the contents of suitcases. The sky was by now closing in on evening. St. Just leaned over the banister and by craning his neck could see some of the hotel occupants below in the lobby, waiting, quietly reading or napping. Good as children.
Minutes later, DCI Moor went downstairs to tell the group they could once again have the use of their rooms. Only Tom and Edith got up right away to leave, however. St. Just imagined that by lingering, the rest were hoping to get an update from the police.
He followed DCI Moor over the now-functioning drawbridge to the front of the castle. He felt rather than saw that they were watched by several pairs of eyes from the sitting room window.
"I'm headed back to headquarters for a bit, but I've left some of my top men and women on guard," Moor told St. Just. "Best I can do for now. We should have a better idea from forensics tomorrow of where we stand. I'll go cap in hand to get them to speed things up."
"If it's anything like Cambridge, you'll have a job talking them into it."
"Don't I know. Well, see you then. Keep all these artistic temperaments in line for me."
And Moor drove off. St. Just went back into the well-guarded lounge, where a few more people had started to head upstairs to their rooms. He was looking for one face in particular, of course. It didn't take long to spot her. She was in the sitting room with a cup of tea and a buttered scone.
He sat down in one of the velvety chairs.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"I think so," she said. She put down the teacup. It made a slight rattling noise against the saucer. "And you?"
"Business as usual. How's everyone else holding up?"
"Well, Magretta's taken it into her head that we're all going to be 'knocked off,' one by one. Like in Ten Little Indians. "
"I was afraid of that. It's going to be a long, long night at the castle."
Portia nodded.
"She alternates between refusing to talk to any of us and interrogating each of us relentlessly, like some demented prosecutor. It's already getting tedious. There will be another murder soon if she doesn't put a sock in it."
"I know. I mean, I know nerves must be completely raw."
"Look," Portia said, and paused. Her eyes held the dangerous gleam of the amateur detective on the scent. He recognized it too well: His Bethie used to get the same look. "Is there any way I can help? Unofficially, of course. They'll talk to me, you see."
"Absolutely not. It would place you in the most dangerous position imaginable. No."
"But don't you see-"
"Portia… Ms. De'Ath. Or is it Mrs.?"
She shook her head. "Never married."
Good merciful God. "Ms. De'Ath, this is not the plot of one of your novels."
"Of course not," she said frostily. "I didn't imagine for a minute that it was. It's just that-"
"You do realize there is a killer on the loose? That the danger is quite real?"
"I do of course realize that," she said. "Which
is why I want to help. This person has to be caught, and quickly."
"I can't possibly begin to countenance-" he began.
"There is no need to treat me like a child." Her voice wavered on the last word.
Great. Just great. He'd come to the end of a long, exhausting, and fruitless day and to cap it off he had managed to insult her, of all people.
"Ms. De'Ath," he said, more gently. "I would rather die myself than lose you. The answer is no."
And he stood up-afraid to say more, afraid for himself.
She let him go.
OUTCAST
St. Just was the first one down to breakfast. He'd had a restless night, rehearsing in his mind the interviews and searches of the previous long day. The large brandy that he'd brought to his room, thinking it might act as a sleeping pill, had instead left him wide awake with a raging thirst at three a.m. The cast of suspects passed before him like characters in a play, taking their bows. Which of them hated or feared Kimberlee enough to kill her?
He kept circling back to the apparently unrelated image of Magretta's travel desk. In his mind's eye, she sat before it like Queen Victoria, deep in her red boxes of state papers.
When sleep did arrive it was fleet and unknowing, a sudden drop of consciousness, like a heavy stone plummeting through a black lake. He awoke in the pale light of dawn and resettled himself under the luxurious goose-down quilt, willing his mind to quiet, trying to organize his impressions. Nothing would connect. His usual ability to find the logic in chaos seemed to have deserted him. At last giving up, he rose and began to gear himself to listen to the usual recital of lies, denials, and half-truths that seemed to be a standard part of any police interrogation.
As the other castle inmates came down to their breakfasts in the Orangery, they smiled at him nervously and sat as far away as possible without actually sitting outside in the cold. Certainly no one attempted to join him at his table. He hardly expected that they would. No one is ever quite comfortable being around the police, especially when a murder investigation is on the day's agenda. When he peeked out from behind his newspaper, he saw them huddled together, whispering quietly, and sending many a furtive glance in his direction. No question about it, he was now from the dark side. No matter their state of guilt or innocence, this policeman in their midst could mean nothing but trouble.
From Portia, he expected frost. Instead, she gave him a friendly, rather shy wave as she came in. If she was aware that this show of friendliness might brand her as either a suspect or a snitch among the others, she didn't show it.
All to the good, he felt, if they thought she was a suspect. It might help keep her out of danger.
Today she had twisted her still-damp hair into a low chignon; she wore a pale yellow sweater and brown tweed slacks. Small boots of a supple brown leather peeked out from the hems. He didn't think she could look any lovelier in a ball gown. She leaned over toward him and said, "I have got to tell you something. Something I sort of… forgot." As she spoke, renewed murmurs of speculation rose from the room.
He held up a hand to forestall her.
"Interviews will take place throughout the day." He made sure his voice carried, so as to disabuse anyone of the notion she was busy turning one of them in.
Then, lowering his voice: "Not here. They're hanging on every word. Anyway, can I make it any clearer? There can be no impression you are helping us in any extraordinary way."
"But I am." It was not a question.
He sighed.
"If you know anything you have to tell me. Just… not now."
She hesitated. "You see, the thing is, I'm not sure-"
"Later today," he interrupted. Really, he thought, he had to treat her the way he'd treat any other suspect. If only it weren't for those dark blue eyes… If only her skin didn't put him in mind of white rose petals…
"You'll have your turn," he said, again trying to put some iron in his voice.
Noticing they did indeed have the galvanized attention of the rest of the room, he stood and, improvising, addressed them all.
"I was just saying to Ms. De'Ath that in the interest of expedience, some of you might like to write down your whereabouts from the time of the dinner Saturday night until you went to bed, and/or until you heard the alarm raised. Since you all are writers, this seems the most natural outlet for your, ah-" he nearly said imaginations, "-talents."
He did a quick survey of the room.
"Where are Tom Brackett and his wife? And Lord Easterbrook?" he asked.
They all looked at each other. There was a collective shrug.
"Not down yet," offered Magretta.
"Very well," said St. Just. "Inspector Moor or I will want all of you to be available for interviews. I would appreciate it if you would stay within the castle-either in your room or in one of the main sitting rooms-so we don't have to hunt for you. Please pass this information along."
Magretta, predictably, was first to protest.
"We've already been interviewed."
"Merely a preliminary engagement. This investigation is only just beginning."
He left to pre-empt further argument. The chatter level rose to a hectoring roar at his back.
But moments later: "Inspector!"
He was halfway down the hallway. He turned.
"Don't worry," said Portia. She offered him a small, disarming smile. "I won't do anything foolish-not to the point where I'd need police protection, at any rate."
"I would be first to volunteer if you did."
She seemed to ignore that. Quite right, he thought. Prat.
"It's just that they do seem to think I've an inside track with you. It started yesterday. There's a lot of morbid curiosity about the condition of… the body, for example. Anyway, for today, I'll either be in my room or at the spa-keeping my ears open, that's all-if you need me. Let me know how I can help. Oh-and what I wanted to tell you: Winston insists he saw Kimberlee on the stairs, just after the lights went out-that would be about a quarter to eleven. I thought I saw something, too. I guess I decided it was Kimberlee because Winston thought it was. But neither of us is sure now. It was all a bit… hazy."
And she lit off toward the stairs. She had an attractive back-lean and supple.
How she can help. Where to begin
IN THE LIBRARY
Upstairs, DCI Moor and Sergeant Kittle had already reported for duty. A tech crew, having finished with the bottle dungeon-into which they had been lowered by cable as if from a rescue helicopter-was working on Kimberlee's room, which seemed to float above a low silver cloud of magnetic fingerprint powder. St. Just, stifling the urge to sneeze, asked one of the technicians dusting for prints if he could take a copy of Kimberlee's book from her dresser.
The taciturn-looking man glanced over to the photographer, who nodded.
"Sure, done with that."
Moor said to St. Just, "Let me show you the incident room they've set up."
He led the way down several twisting, dark corridors that seemed to lead nowhere but eventually deposited them in a room tucked into another of the small turrets of the castle. Computers, fax machines, and phone lines sprouted on the antique tables and dressers.
"We're going through the suspects' rooms again in case we missed anything yesterday," Moor said. "Or in case, their guard down now that they think the search is over, they've left something of interest overnight. So, who's on your list today for a cozy chat?"
St. Just, who had been skimming some of yesterday's preliminary reports, looked over to his colleague. Moor didn't quite seem to have tamed the cowlicks that sprouted from the top of his head, and the handlebars of his white mustaches drooped asymmetrically, like a plane banking after takeoff. Probably he'd lost the latest skirmish for the bathroom in the Moor household.
"Anything of interest in here?" St. Just indicated the stack of reports.
"Not really. They're all singing from the same hymn sheet," said Moor.
"'I Wandered in the Shades of
Night?'"
"'Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence,' more like. They're all as innocent as newborn lambs, to hear them tell it," said Moor. "Either surrounded by Archbishop-caliber witnesses or tucked up sound asleep while bloody mayhem broke out elsewhere in the castle."
St. Just murmured, not expecting to be overheard, "An omerta?"
"What's that?"
"Oh, nothing. Just… seeing as how they're crime writers, maybe there's some unwritten code that prohibits them cooperating with police."
"Ah. Well, Cambridge, we now know the time of death was no earlier than nine-thirty. Our pathologist won't be pinned down yet to an official time range, but from the stomach contents and so on, he says the body had been there 'maybe' two hours when it was found at midnight. Samples taken from the body and underneath her nails show nothing so far-no samples from her attacker."
"She was seen alive just after nine," said St. Just. "By several people, I should think-including me. And Winston Chatley, according to Portia De'Ath, thinks -but is uncertain now-that he saw Kimberlee just after the lights went out. That was around ten forty-five. I wish these examiners weren't always quite so elastic about the time of death."
"I'm just the messenger," said Moor.
"Anything on her mobile?"
"Nothing of interest. We're going through her list of contacts, of course. And she'd received a message from someone named Desmond at ten the night she died-just wishing her good luck at the conference."
St. Just pulled at his chin in a gesture of frustration. "As I've said, someone really determined could circle around through the woods or even paddle downriver, swim across the moat, and slip in somehow, but what are the chances? You'll need to eliminate that possibility, obviously. But I think we're dealing with one of the castle guests. Which means we're almost certainly dealing with someone connected with the conference. Possibly a mystery writer. Bugger it."
"How so?"
"Just what we need is some clever-dick crime writer, or someone steeped in crime novels, trying to outwit the police. Even if and when we catch him or her, the red herrings may be so numerous we'll never be able to explain the case properly to a jury."
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