Moor mused on this a moment and said:
"It could work to our advantage, though, don't you think?"
"How so?" asked St. Just in his turn.
"If some kind of revenge or envy or spite is the motive, we just look for the writer with the biggest ego."
St. Just bared his teeth in a bleak smile.
"You really don't know this lot yet, do you? They're all quite, quite taken with themselves, in one way or the other." He thought of clear-eyed Portia, long-necked Portia, Portia of the silken skin. He amended: "Nearly all."
Moor grunted. "I'm sure you're right. I'd put nothing past them. Any of them. One oddity, I guess you could call it. They found a well-thumbed paperback copy of Persuasion in Kimberlee's purse. Stuffed way at the bottom of her purse. Hidden, like."
"Hmm. Not exactly a book on nuclear physics, but not quite what I'd expect, either, would you? Well, well. Together with the Cambridge degree, and what her agent has told us, I'd say we're starting to see a pattern. What you saw with Kimberlee was not necessarily what you got."
St. Just paused, then answered Moor's original question:
"What do you say we have our cozy chat with Easterbrook? He's the catalyst-the reason for all of them being here. So let's start unpicking the thread at the beginning."
There was some ado when it came to actually locating Lord Easterbrook, as it turned out. He was not in his room, reported Sergeant Kittle.
"He wasn't at breakfast, either," said St. Just. "I assumed he was having food sent up."
"He's probably walking the grounds," said Moor. "I'll send a uniform to fetch him."
Waiting for Easterbrook to appear, St. Just began flipping again through Kimberlee's book. It was the literary equivalent of the type of girl movie to which he could never be dragged. Why did women think men were so complicated, he wondered?
Moor's "uniform" came back into the room.
"He's in the library," he reported. "He said he'd be straight up once he finished his coffee."
"Bollocks to that," said Moor. "You go tell that toffee-nosed-"
"Never mind, Moor." St. Just put down the book, which, with its pink cover, seemed to glow like an object undergoing radioactive decay. He was used to the aristocracy trying this on. "I'll go and have a look for the panjandrum of publishing. Do you want to come with me?"
It was a somewhat-chastened Julius Easterbrook who could be found talking with the three policemen half an hour later, Moor having explained to him at great length that murder took priority over coffee. Sergeant Kittle sat quietly in a nearby corner with his policeman's notebook. A wood fire crackled in the fireplace, dispelling the morning chill of the room.
"Poor Kimberlee," said Easterbrook. He stood before the hearth, wringing his age-mottled hands. "She didn't deserve this."
Clearly, the man was worried, thought St. Just. The patrician sheen of Saturday night had given way to a somewhat seedy and unkempt air, like a stately home in need of renovation. He looked in any event to St. Just the sort of man more at home in a showerproof jacket and green wellies, dog at his side, than in a dinner jacket.
St. Just invited the older man to sit in one of the leather chairs. He imagined at least part of Easterbrook's worry was over how to replace a best-selling author. Or did the anxiety run deeper? His standard expression of mourning had a sincere ring.
"When did you last see her alive?" asked St. Just.
"I didn't see her at all after the dinner," Easterbrook replied, his voice an aristocratic honk. What made elderly aristocrats talk like that, wondered St. Just. Some kind of old-school cricket injury?
"I went to my room-correspondence to catch up on, you know," continued Easterbrook. "Then, of course, the lights went out."
"And where were you-" began Moor.
"When the lights went out?" Easterbrook's voice made it clear he expected the police to take his version of events without question. He was civil but icily so. "Wasn't there a rather dreadful American movie by that name? I think I've just answered that question, Inspector. I was writing a letter. The lights went out, so I stopped writing a letter. I said, 'Bother' and went straight to bed."
"I see," said St. Just. He glanced over at Kittle, who was idly drawing what looked like a hangman's noose in his notebook.
"What exactly happened to her, do you know yet?" asked the publisher.
St. Just shook his head.
"Early days yet."
"I hope you don't mean that literally. We can't all be kept here indefinitely while you try to sort this out. Oh, dear," he said, and began to wring his hands again, emitting well-bred little brays of concern. "I do hope our PR department can make the best of this."
"I somehow doubt it."
"You've not met my PR department. But even without them there is bound to be a spike in sales of Kimberlee's book. Not to mention, avid interest in the next book."
"I wonder if they could be induced to stay off the topic of exactly how and where she was found," said Moor. "Your PR department, I mean."
"Whatever for?" Lord Easterbrook looked genuinely puzzled.
"It's morbid?" suggested Moor. "Ghoulish? In poor taste?"
"Oh. Yes, quite. Quite. But later, surely…" said Easterbrook. It was no doubt the same tone of voice he used to wheedle an invitation to a shooting party at Sandringham. He drew back his mouth in a propitiatory smile, revealing a suspiciously even row of large teeth.
St. Just decided it was time to steer him to a new topic.
"Her agent Ninette Thomson tells us Kimberlee's book needed a bit of cleanup when she first saw it, but that it was a remarkably fresh piece of work. Would you agree with that assessment?"
"Good Lord, man. You don't think I read the thing all the way through, do you? Merciful heavens, no. No. (Honk.) All it took was one look at Kimberlee, and a synopsis from the agent, for me to know we had a winning package. We happened to have a stable of rather predictable writers at the time-writing to formula, riding the coattails of past successes. Still do, in fact. Then here was Kimberlee-glamorous, born talking into a microphone, completely savvy about the business. Most of them have stars in their eyes these days, you know-the young authors, especially. Hope springing eternal. Don't want to hear it's a business, and a hard business. Kimberlee understood. I didn't have to teach her a thing."
"What can you tell me about her background?" asked St. Just. "Something beyond the little biography on her book jacket."
Lord Easterbrook, having produced a linen handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth, blew into it thunderously before fussily folding and replacing it in his pocket. Eventually he replied, "Not much. It's difficult to say. I met her two years ago, and even though I've dealt with her frequently since then… it's difficult to describe. She was businesslike, as I say, but she often cloaked that in a little-me silliness that was wholly deceptive-something she'd begun doing more and more in recent days, by the way. But, for example, her agent had negotiated with us a perfectly reasonable contract-if I may say so, an exceptional contract-for what was effectively an untested author. Kimberlee Kalder came to my office herself to demand a larger advance."
"Which she got?"
"Not right away. That's just not on, you know-we deal with the agents, not the authors. But, next, she threatened to walk."
"Confidence bordering on arrogance, then?"
"Quite. Not even stealing across the border, but marching brazenly across. Normally I would say don't let the door slam on your way out. But one of the editors talked me into keeping her. And frankly, it didn't take a lot of persuasion. I sensed she would be the injection of life-and cash-the business needed. I've been batting on rather a sticky wicket, you see. Publishing in these days is not for the faint of heart. The whole thing is positively going to hell on a sled."
"So, Kimberlee's silly-me act-"
"Wholly an act. And as I say, she became more silly in recent months. Superficial. Always talking about hair extensions and things. I guess she figured out that
it helped sell books. I only know it was an act because generally, if we weren't in public, she'd revert to the real Kimberlee. Her vocabulary would go up several levels, for example, and every other sentence wouldn't be peppered with 'like' or 'radical.' My sense was that she was finding it harder to do, though-to lose the act."
"So, where the real person began and ended it was hard to say?" asked St. Just.
"Quite."
"And no one guessed?"
"No one cared enough to guess, I would imagine. No one among the reading public. And as far as Kimberlee was concerned, her performance sold books. She probably saw the whole thing as a lark. You know, I say…" Lord Easterbrook, who had been studying St. Just closely, now peered at him over the tops of his glasses. "Wasn't there a St. Just who married Bloreheather some years ago?"
"My sister," said St. Just.
Easterbrook raised his eyebrows, digesting the news. No doubt he was wondering how Lord Bloreheather liked having a black sheep of a policeman in the family. St. Just spared a fleeting thought for his elder sister, sitting in her handsome stone mansion sheltered by beeches and oaks, no doubt awaiting the late-March start of the London season. She would get on like a house on fire with Easterbrook.
"Is it possible…" St. Just paused to find the words for a rather far-fetched theory that was beginning to crystallize in his mind. "Is it possible this attack on Kimberlee was actually an attack on the publishing house? On you, indirectly?"
Easterbrook seemed to take his meaning immediately. He nodded. "I've considered that. Sometimes, umbrage is taken by various people with whom one comes in contact. One is, after all, in the business of criticizing the contents of another's brain. Which can be just as frightening as it sounds. This is why I have assistants, you know, to read through what we call the slush pile. So, yes, I suppose some disgruntled writer could seek to bring the house down by killing Kimberlee, its chief moneymaker. Far-fetched, but then, you should see some of the manuscripts we receive. As I say, the contents of people's brains. Terrifying."
"Does anyone in particular come to mind?"
"Unfortunately, no. I could have my office send you some of the choicer letters we've received. We do save some of them, in a file labeled Broadmoor." Easterbrook paused, considering. When he spoke, his own mind had taken a new tack.
"I say, I wonder just how far along Kimberlee was on the new book. She was a bit cagey with me about that. Perhaps we could pretend she left behind a completed manuscript? That is to say, really completed, the way Christie wrote the concluding novel to her Miss Marple series far in advance."
"And have someone ghostwrite the rest, you mean? I suppose you could," said St. Just with a shrug. The honesty or otherwise of the plan was not for him to say. "But, Lord Easterbrook, I would tread carefully if I were you. Murder has a way of forcing out the truth, on matters great and small."
IN THE GARDEN
They left Lord Easterbrook still surveying the shell of his publishing empire, hoping something could be rebuilt from the ruins.
Outside the rain had stopped, and a hesitant sun peered over clouds shot through with quicksilver. St. Just announced he was going for a walk, to catch the freshened air.
"I've seen enough plaid to last me a few days," he said.
"Where are you going?" Moor asked, as he and Kittle headed back up to the incident room. "Thailand?"
St. Just first bundled against the weather in an overcoat, a somewhat crumpled Borsalino hat, and a blue and white Peterhouse scarf, among the most ancient items in his ancient wardrobe. His clothing had been chosen, in fact, almost entirely by the females in his life: mother, then sister, then wife. As all but his sister were now deceased he found it impossible to throw or give away the gifts that had been chosen for him with such care.
Besides which, he had the male's instinctive fear and dread of department stores. He'd probably be buried in these clothes, he reflected.
The wind of the previous night had vacuumed the cold air clean, but the rain had released a lingering odor of decaying leaves and undergrowth, mingled with the muddy scent of the disturbed riverbed. Twigs and fallen branches littered the ground. St. Just was wandering the denuded gardens at the back of the castle when he spotted Winston Chatley, defying St. Just's earlier request that everyone stay indoors, sitting swathed in Gore-Tex on a stone bench by the kitchen garden wall. He held a small notebook balanced on one knee and was scribbling so furiously he didn't at first notice the policeman's approach. St. Just was loathe to interrupt such a show of industry, but reminded himself this was a murder investigation, not a writers' retreat.
He watched Chatley surreptitiously for a moment. As a suspect, he had a lot to recommend him, St. Just felt, if only going by appearances. Winston was probably a bit over six feet tall, but his stork-like limbs sprouting from a smallish, narrow torso were what gave the impression of vast height. His features could be kindly described as craggy, his face carved into great hillocks and valleys, with a large overhanging brow. It was a face crowded with bones, reminding one of the skull beneath. As St. Just drew closer, he could see deep lines etched into the man's forehead. He looked like a crime writer of a particularly sinister sort.
Then Winston spotted St. Just and smiled. The illusion of menace disappeared. The man looked as approachable as a puppy.
Or was that the illusion?
"I say," said St. Just. "Terribly sorry to interrupt you, but needs must."
Winston carefully closed his notebook and tucked his pen in the inside pocket of his jacket. St. Just noticed the worn lining of the garment as he did so.
"Not at all, Inspector. I realize you have a job to do. And the sooner you do it, the sooner we all can leave."
"A man after my own heart," said St. Just. "Would that all suspects so easily made that connection."
St. Just sat beside him.
"I think it won't be much longer," he said. He had no idea if that were true but it sounded reassuring and competent. St. Just had a vast fund of platitudes to help put suspects at ease. And Winston, he had to remind himself, was a suspect. Kimberlee Kalder's success had put all the other, more established writers' noses out of joint. He'd seen dafter motives for murder.
"You told one of the policemen yesterday that a group of you staying here at the castle broke off from the rest for a tete-a-tete, so to speak, on the night of Kimberlee's murder."
"That's right. It wasn't exactly by prearrangement or anything. It was that the noise level in the library was bound to get a little louder with each round. I speak from long professional experience of crime writers gathered en masse. Football hooligans tearing apart a stadium are far quieter and generally better behaved. So we four decided to escape to the oasis of the sitting room. You know, that little area at the front of the castle where they serve afternoon tea."
"And you four were… remind me…"
"Tom and his wife Edith. B. A. King, the agent or publicist or whatever he is, decided to join in-uninvited. Odious little toad. Quentin Swope flitted in and out-mostly in. Looking for something scurrilous to write about, I imagine. He was in fact just packing up to leave for the night when we lost the lights."
"So except for Quentin, you all can alibi each other?"
Winston shifted slightly, turning to face him.
"Oh, I say. This is a first. I've been writing about alibis for years and now I'm expected to provide one myself. That's jolly goo-oh, sorry. I do realize the matter is serious. Well, the answer to your question is essentially yes, sort of. But to be truthful, they weren't all there all the time. People drifted in and out, to the powder room and so on. There was a lot of traipsing back and forth for drinks, since the bar, as you know, is in the library."
"And what did you talk about?"
"What writers always talk about if left unattended for two seconds. Money. Royalties. Foreign rights-the sweetest words in the English language, those. Amazon.com rankings. Barnes and Noble rankings. Bookscan. Agents. Editors. The Imminent Death of Publi
shing as We Know It."
"And you talked for how long?"
Winston considered. "I'm not entirely sure. The conversation eventually moved on to a rather remorseless narrative from Tom of his literary achievements. That seemed to go on for hours-simply hours. The storm reached a high pitch while we were there. You'll recall, of course, that it was an absolute corker of a storm. Gale-force or worse. I enjoyed it immensely, I must say-the sensation of being snug inside whilst nature beat itself senseless against the thick stone walls. Anyway, we'd all had a lot to drink so anything like an exact accounting is nigh impossible. We were all blowing off steam after the buildup of the past few days."
"There was a lot of tension?" St. Just prompted.
"I should jolly well say there was a lot of tension. What was Easterbrook thinking, bringing his authors together only to treat one like the golden-haired child and the rest of us like darkling orphans? That bonus cheque-a monstrously bad idea. I shouldn't be surprised if some of his authors defected."
"So Kimberlee was unpopular with the others?"
"Yes. Stupendously so. Not entirely her fault, as I've said. It was Easterbrook who put the match to the tinder, deliberately or otherwise."
"I see," said St. Just. His guess, from the little he knew of Easterbrook, was that a sense of noblesse oblige did not constitute a large part of his makeup. He might never stop to consider how others might take his actions. He just acted. "So, what else did you talk about?"
"Really, just books. Publishing. The American market. I thought I might pick up some tips or contacts from Tom, expand my sales-and-marketing horizons."
"And did you?"
"Not really. Tom labors in a different field altogether from mine-the spy thriller. And even if we were in the same field, I doubt he'd go out of his way to help a competitor."
That had the ring of truth, certainly, from St. Just's observations of the man. "So, can you remember anything else you talked about?"
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