Death and the Lit Chick sm-2

by G. M. Malliet

  It figured. There had to have been a laptop. It was unlikely in the extreme that Kimberlee-nearly a poster child for her technology-obsessed generation-would not travel with a laptop. He'd never thought to ask Portia about the bags Kimberlee brought with her on the train.

  "Why did you want to destroy her manuscript?" St. Just asked Magretta.

  She took a step closer and said in a low (for her) voice, "Now, this has to be kept in confidence."

  He shook his head firmly.

  "You must be joking. Look, I'll go this far: If your information turns out not to be relevant to Kimberlee's death, I can promise you it won't be needlessly broadcast."

  She stared at him in some distress for a moment, then surrendered. "Oh, very well. I may as well tell you. She'd heard the story about my son. I do have a son; it's not widely known, but…"

  "Let me guess. He was bad for your image so you didn't play up the fact."

  "Something like that. But, you see, it was far more than that, of course… he was a troubled lad, always was, and eventually he was sent away a few years for dealing drugs." A shadow stole across her eyes. "I nearly went to gaol myself over that… we had that rubbish all over the house and I never knew it. This was when he was still at school. I was a single mother. That isn't an easy life, I can tell you-his father left us without a backward glance, and without a sou. Years of barely scraping by… I guess someone at the newspaper where she and I used to work told her the story. She came along there after I had left. Anyway, somehow she got hold of it and…"

  "And she was putting this in her new book?"

  "Yes. She barely bothered to change his description, or mine."

  "And you know this-how?"

  "She told me! Came sidling up to me at the conference, bold as brass, the malicious little… Anyway, she said I wouldn't be able to do anything about it, said she'd chosen her words too carefully for that, but she said it was time the world knew the truth. As if she would know the truth if it bit her. Since when did Kimberlee Kalder care about truth, anyway?" Magretta was building up a head of steam as she spoke. "Kimberlee cared only about herself."

  "And you didn't tell me this because you knew I'd like you for her murder."

  She nodded glumly. "That's exactly why. I just wanted that piece of rubbish destroyed, not her. I was completely frantic-not really thinking straight, of course. My son paid his debt, kicked his habit. He's straightened himself out. And for her to come along and try to stir it again…"

  "So you threw her laptop-"

  "Out the window, yes. I knew from watching telly that if I just deleted the file, it could be recovered. The whole thing, laptop and all, had to disappear."

  "What made you think there were no other copies?"

  "She was asking everyone earlier for a disc to make a backup copy, whatever that is when it's at home. I'm not technically minded. Not in the least. Very agitated about it, she was-no one seemed to have brought a spare. More likely, no one was willing to help her out. I heard Winston, I think it was, tell her just to e-mail a copy to herself. She said-and she was quite shirty with him, let me tell you-she said she 'couldn't get an effing signal in this mausoleum.' The castle wasn't set up for wired, I think she said."

  "Wireless," St. Just said automatically. There weren't even computer ports on the phones in the guest rooms, either. Dalmorton styled itself as an escape from the pressures of modern-day life, and as far as technological gadgets went, it certainly was that.

  He stood, appraising her. There was one rather large hole in her story. If not more than one.

  "What made you feel so free to wander around Kimberlee Kalder's room?"

  "What do you mean?" she asked slowly. Her expression didn't change but he saw a burst of panic in her eyes.

  "If she came back suddenly, there would be no escape; she'd be sure to find you. There's only one exit from her room and you certainly couldn't jump through the window."

  This was greeted with silence, as Magretta studied the toes of her shoes.

  "You knew she was dead already, didn't you?"

  She looked up at him, appalled.

  "Because you killed her."

  "No! No! You've got it all wrong. I didn't kill her. Indeed, I did not. I couldn't-"

  "A woman threatens you and your child-threatens to expose his secret to the world. A secret you'd carefully kept hidden for years. Why couldn't you kill her?"

  "I didn't. She was d-" Magretta paused, breathing heavily. Her eyes were wide with panic.

  "She was dead already," he finished for her.

  Magretta, giving up at last, gloomily nodded her head.

  He leaned placidly back against the cold stone wall, arms crossed.

  "Yes. Yes! All right, I found her. She was down there-at the bottom of the bottle dungeon."

  "You mean you found her twice. The first time, you kept quiet about it. Then, when you'd done what you wanted, searched her room-you stole her key, took her purse, didn't you?-you let some time elapse and then came downstairs to 'discover' her again. The maid tried to deliver a tray to the room while you were in there and you called out, pretending to be Kimberlee. I guess this is where your acting experience came in handy."

  Again Magretta nodded. "I also left the water running a bit in my bathroom, so the maid would think I was in there when she delivered the hot water bottle to my room. Anyway, Kimberlee's purse was there where I found her, near that balustrade where you look over into the dungeon itself. Yes, I took the purse; her key was inside. I thought someone else would find her, don't you see? When they didn't-you have to believe me, I wanted her killer caught. If it waited until morning or later, I knew the police would have more trouble determining the time of death. I wanted to help." Even now, her appalling ego was at work; she couldn't forebear to add, "That's part of my expert knowledge, you know, learned honing my craft as a crime writer. I know all about rigor mortis and things. So I did all I could to help the police, you see."

  "Help?" For pity's sake. "Ms. Sincock, you are in very serious trouble indeed for lying. You covered up a crime, tampered with evidence, even committed a theft of the dead person's effects. And then you proceeded to waste police time trying to butter it all over with ghost stories and God knows what-all sorts of nonsense. Ghosts, indeed."

  At this she raised her eyes from their study of the floor. "But that was true about the ghost. It was true. Every word, I swear it. I saw her. It."

  He opened his mouth to speak and thought better of it. He would not be caught dead debating ectoplasm with Magretta. Realizing the unintentional pun, he smiled. Magretta smiled back, warily.

  "Is something funny?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "Not at all." He put on as stern a countenance as he could muster. Really, she was the most ridiculous woman. The deuce of it was, in spite of it all, he believed her story-excepting the ghost, of course. At least, he felt he'd gotten major parts of the truth out of Magretta at last.

  "I'll let DCI Moor decide what to do about charges of obstructing this inquiry," he said. "What else do you know? It will go down better if you get it all out now. How did you happen to find her body?"

  "That was pure chance, I swear. I couldn't sleep, I was that upset about this… blackmail or whatever you call what she was trying to pull on me. I hadn't seen the bottle dungeon yet, but from what I'd heard, it would make the perfect setting for the final scene in my novel. You see, my heroine is being held hostage-she's been kidnapped by white slavers-but she drops a glove and her fiance who has a hunch where he'll find her anyway finds it and I-"

  "Ms. Sincock…" he said warningly.

  "Oh, all right. Anyway, I just wanted any distraction that might take my mind off things. Besides, there was all this rackety traffic up and down the corridor. People knocking on Kimberlee's door."

  St. Just unfolded his arms at that, pushing himself away from the wall.

  "What people? Why didn't you at least tell me this?"

  "I was supposed to be engrossed
in my writing, wasn't I?" she retorted. "But I heard two people come to Kimberlee's door and knock."

  "Who?"

  "First it was Mrs. Elksworthy. Kimberlee let her in. She only stayed about five minutes. Right after that came Lord Easterbrook. He stayed maybe ten minutes."

  "How did you know it was Joan Elksworthy and Easterbrook?"

  "I stuck my head out the door to look, didn't I? They didn't see me, but I saw them clear as day."

  "And still you didn't think this worth mentioning until now?"

  "They couldn't have killed her. I heard her voice-Kimberlee's-when she opened the door to them. And after Lord Easterbrook left, I saw Kimberlee herself leave. Before you ask, it was just before ten. I didn't tell you because I'm not a-what is it the Americans call it? A stool canary?"

  He regarded her sternly.

  "Is there anything else you saw that night that was suspicious. Anything? However minor? Let me be the judge of what's important or not."

  She shook her head.

  "I don't think so. I think that's it."

  Oh, good. "You think so? For your sake and mine, I hope so. Understand this: It's not up to me what happens to you. But from what I know of DCI Moor, he'll have your guts for garters."

  Her lip began to tremble. "May I go back to my room now? I promise I've told you everything that could relate to this murder. And remember, I did try to help."

  St. Just sighed.

  "Go on. Keep yourself available. Moor will want to talk with you."

  "But, I tried to help!" she repeated, her voice shrill. She spun around in a whirl of green fringe and ran off, in floods of tears this time. Again he leaned against the wall, thinking through the new timeline Magretta had presented him. And about other concealments he didn't know about yet. If Magretta wasn't the killer…

  He breathed deeply, and tried to will his ragged thoughts into some sort of order. Not for the first time, he regretted coming here at all-even though it meant Portia De'Ath was nearby, a thought that filled him with a fierce, bittersweet longing. Was he ever going to solve this case, get out of this castle, and be able to talk to her-not as a suspect, but as Portia? Solving the case, at least, was looking increasingly unlikely, despite Magretta's belated cooperation. He trudged upstairs for what felt like the twelfth time that day.

  He was surprised to find Moor and Sergeant Kittle working late in what they had taken to calling the Incident Turret, poring over a novel's worth of computer printouts.

  "Ah, good. It's you, Cambridge," said Moor. "Some interesting things are starting to turn up."

  St. Just pulled up a chair.

  "Yes, they certainly are." He filled them in on both the priest's hole and Magretta's revised version of her activities the night of the murder. "We're going to have to get men to check out that underground passageway, and into that moat to retrieve the laptop. What do you say we find out if any of these people have stayed at the castle before? The chances are against anyone just stumbling across that priest's hole. Good Lord. How much more thinly stretched can we get?"

  "The priest's hole says to me, 'Inside Job'," said Moor.

  "You're thinking one of the staff, of course. Yes, I suppose we'll have to look at all that much more closely now. Oh, and before I forget, Moor. Whatever you do, don't let someone get the bright idea of trying to dry out the laptop, if you find it. Tell them to put it dripping wet into an evidence bag and get it to the lab ASAP. It's the only hope of retrieving any data from it."

  One of the uniforms was dispatched with instructions.

  "You believe her? Magretta?" said Moor, turning to St. Just.

  St. Just settled his long back against the worn leather chair, his handsome face a study in frustration.

  "Strangely enough, I do. She's still lying about something-when she opens her eyes wide as she talks, she's lying or deliberately leaving something out, I've noticed-but I don't think she killed Kimberlee. I really don't. By the way, I've told her they still use the rack up here in Scotland. A little fear of God won't hurt her a bit. What do you have?"

  "Well," began Moor. "First we have Tom Brackett's armed forces record. Sparse info, cautiously worded in impenetrable government-speak. He did do top secret work; this is where the rumor of a CIA affiliation comes from, I imagine. His specialty was interrogations. Reading between the lines, he became something of an embarrassment and had to be muscled out. Operated as sort of a freelance Torquemada after he left the service, and also served as an instructor, of all things-just imagine the PowerPoints for that course. We'd have to clear a lot of bureaucratic hurdles to get the full details, and I'm not sure it's relevant. Anyway, there's a more 'unclassified' report that talks about his aptitude for the work, and not exactly in glowing terms. Geneva Convention be damned, seemed to be his motto. What's more a surprise is that Edith was CIA."

  "What?"

  "Yes. Officially she was a clerk-typist, but there are hints of undercover work in her C.V."

  "Well, I must say, it's a great disguise."

  "Apparently Tom saved her life a few times, and she his. I suppose that created whatever bond those two managed to form."

  "Even though the bond seems to be loosening a bit now, with her success. Or more likely, the thrill of being a punching bag is just gone."

  Moor nodded, "Too bad we can't at least apply for an ASBO against Brackett."

  "Anti-Social Behaviour Order? Yes, too bad. Even though his wife seems to bear the brunt, it would still be fitting."

  "We also have a report from New Mexico of suspected embezzlement by Mrs. Elksworthy."

  "You're not serious."

  Moor nodded. "It was never prosecuted; she was just quietly let go by her employer. Apparently they were sympathetic-and besides, she paid back every penny. She has-had-a lover who came down with a terminal illness, and didn't happen to be covered by health insurance. Of course, she wasn't covered by Mrs. E.'s insurance at work, either. So Mrs. E. embezzled to pay the hospital bills, which were enormous. Her partner had no family-or rather, they had turned her out for her… inclinations, long before. I got all this straight from some gabby old cat who still works at the firm. Anyway, Mrs. E. took it all on as her responsibility, and the employer let her pay them back in increments. Luckily, her books started to sell about then. She's still poor as a church mouse-just take a look at her financials over there-but she owes no one a penny. This was ten years ago and there's not another spot on her record, before or since."

  Was that the reason for her insistence on the "Mrs.?" St. Just wondered. She was from a generation where keeping up appearances about that sort of thing mattered very much. The fear of reprisals was always there. And of exposure. Blackmail…

  "The power of love is…" he said aloud, without intending to.

  "Is what?"

  "Nothing. Go on. I was just wondering if Kimberlee somehow got wind of this for her little book." And he filled them in on Kimberlee's threat to Magretta.

  "Probably did," said Moor. "Our Kimberlee didn't seem to have a strong sense of self-preservation, did she? I thought novelists were supposed to make things up-it certainly sounds like that would have been the safer route to take. Anyway, then we have B. A. King. His real name, apparently. I guess his parents couldn't afford anything but initials. He has one or two drunk and disorderlies in his file."

  "You astonish me."

  "Here's something that really will astonish you. He writes romance novels. Well, he wrote one. That book you found in Kimberlee's room, it was his. He's Leticia-Anne Deville."

  "I find it really, really hard to picture B. A. King writing that heaving-bosoms kind of thing, sober or not."

  "You're not the only one. Anyway, not much motive there in either case-or is there? A case could be made that Mrs. E. was pushed too far-but would she have the physical strength for this murder, I wonder?"

  "I'm not certain about that myself. But never underestimate the power of an adrenaline surge," said St. Just. "Well, the only constant motive across th
e board seems to be rivalry. Fear of what Kimberlee might have been writing in her new book is certainly, to me, the stronger motive."

  "Agreed. Then there's Ninette Thomson." He jabbed a finger at the report. "A real scofflaw, this lady. Overdue parking tickets all over London and New York."

  "But nothing really dodgy." It was a statement rather than a question.

  "Afraid not," said Moor.

  "How about Rachel Twalley?" St. Just asked. "Her alibi check out?"

  Moor nodded.

  "Straight home to her husband, a pillar of the church. I can't see any problems there, or with the other people Donna let out of the castle. The timing pretty much puts them out of it, and they swear they all hung together until the moment they left the premises, anyway."

  "Even if they'd hung around, motive would have been a problem."

  "Agreed. Young Quentin Swope, now, might have the type of personality we're looking for. According to his employer, he spends most of his time in the penalty box."

  "How so?"

  Moor chewed thoughtfully at the corner of his mouth, twirling one side of his mustache, then said, "Nothing too serious, apparently. I'm reading between the lines here again. The employer marks it down to youthful idealism. A few complaints of 'aggressive' tactics used in landing an interview."

  "Hmm."

  "Donna Doone has a possible connection to the case, though."

  "Donna?"

  "She had a brother who committed suicide. He was a teacher, living in Sheffield at the time-the same time Kimberlee was working for the paper. There were some allegations-unproven-that his relationship with one of his students wasn't all it should be. There was a lot of press coverage-you know the kind of thing: hint, hint; nudge, nudge-but nothing written in plain language that could land the paper in trouble. I gather the man had always been a bit unstable, and the notoriety seems to have pushed him right over the edge. They're looking back at Kimberlee's columns now; she seems to have led the crusade against him."

  "Poor Donna. Certainly there's a motive there. Good old-fashioned revenge. Although I wouldn't have said that was her style. She's more the type to agonize endlessly, trying to forgive the unforgivable. How about Easterbrook. Anything on him?"