Jane Fairfax 3 - Jane Vows Vengeance

by Michael Thomas Ford

  In short, she would have to take pains not to commit any further offense to Suzu’s sensibilities. She had no reason to think the woman would mention what she’d seen to Walter, but she had been deferential to him on that first night and there was no telling what designs she might have on him. Thinking about it, Jane decided that she should be offended at Suzu’s behavior. Flirting with him right in front of me! she thought, attempting to work up a bit of self-righteous indignation. But it was no good. She was just going to have to hope that Suzu kept quiet.

  When the bus arrived at Swichninny, Miriam took Lilith for a walk along the moat that encircled the castle while the others clustered around Enid to begin the guided tour. Ben, Lucy, and Jane joined them, as by this point everyone was treating them as if they were part of the group anyway. Jane took Walter’s hand, feeling only slightly guilty that the affection was in part designed to show Suzu that there was nothing fragile about their relationship.

  Enid proved to be quite a good guide, explaining in great detail the workings of the portcullis and drawbridge yet managing to nimbly skirt the line between interesting and tedious. She plumbed the depths of her knowledge of medieval stonecutting while describing the construction of the walls, and even entertained them with a bit of scatological trivia when explaining that in the days of the castle’s occupation its inhabitants would have hung some of their garments in the primitive toilets—or garderobes—because the stench kept moths away from the finery.

  Because Enid was such a veritable encyclopedia of knowledge on the castle and its charms, Jane was almost, but not quite, saddened when the official tour ended and they were allowed to go exploring on their own. She found it most interesting that the majority of participants headed immediately for the castle’s dungeon, where Enid assured them all manner of cruelties had been committed against prisoners of war. Jane herself, loath to encounter any vengeful or peevish spirits that might still be lingering there, chose instead to climb with Walter the 299 stone steps that led to the top of the castle’s notoriously tall keep.

  The view from atop the tower really was spectacular, although Jane wished they were visiting a little later in the year, when the surrounding countryside would no doubt be swathed in emerald splendor instead of looking as if someone had tossed a brown wool blanket over it. Still, the beauty all around them was undeniable. The sky was blue and cloudless, there was no wind, and Jane could easily imagine herself standing there searching the hills for her returning love, who of course would be riding a white stallion, its mighty hooves churning up the grass as it brought her man home to her.

  “Look,” Walter said, pointing. “There’s my mother. She looks like a bug from up here.”

  “And there goes that fantasy,” Jane said under her breath as her stallion turned into a three-legged Chihuahua and her knight raced off to see what his mother wanted.

  They were not alone on top of the keep. Several other people, including Sam, Orsino, and Ryan, were there. Suzu too was up there, taking pictures with what looked to be an original Kodak Brownie camera. Fortunately, the space was quite large, and because the central part was taken up by the rounded covering of the stairwell, it was possible to be on any side of the keep and be invisible to all the other sides. Occasionally Jane and Walter would encounter someone while taking a walk around all four sides of the tower, but never did they feel crowded.

  On their second time around they ran into Sam. “Hey,” she said. “This place is something, isn’t it? All it needs is some flying monkeys and a wicked witch.”

  Walter laughed. “I’ll get you, my pretty,” he said in a very bad imitation of Margaret Hamilton’s famous character. “And your little dog too.”

  This time it was Sam who laughed. Jane, feeling left out, heard herself say, “Maybe the Wizard can give me a soul.”

  Walter and Sam looked at her as she realized what she’d said. “I mean a brain,” she said. “Ha ha!”

  “Anyway,” Sam said, “I was thinking about going down to take a look at the armory. “Any interest?”

  “Sure,” said Walter. “Jane, do you want to come?”

  Jane thought for a moment. Although she no longer feared that there were any romantic feelings between Walter and Sam, she envied their ease with each other. There was a past there that she wasn’t a part of, and although Sam had been nothing but friendly to her, she still found herself a little bit jealous.

  As if you have any room to talk, she argued with herself. You have entire lifetimes Walter doesn’t know about and wasn’t part of.

  “You two go on,” she said. “I’ll be down in a bit.”

  She welcomed the time to herself to enjoy the solitude the keep provided and think about all that had happened over the past few days. The appearance of Joshua, the revelation of Crispin’s Needle, the church at Cripple Minton, and the martyrdom of St. Apollonia—it was all terribly thrilling. Even the thought of the Tedious Three filled her with excitement. They were all pieces of a puzzle, one she was fitting together bit by bit. What it would look like when, or if, it was ever completed she didn’t know. But it was undeniably intriguing. If Crispin’s Needle did exist, and if she did find it, she would have an enormous decision to make.

  It’s probably all just legend anyway, she told herself. One of those vampire stories meant to make us seem far more interesting than we are.

  Suddenly a scream filled the air, startling her. Turning to her right she was just in time to see Ryan McGuinness leap from the wall of the tower. He hung in the air for a moment, more or less horizontal, his arms and legs moving as if he were trying to fly, or perhaps swim. Then he fell. Jane leaned over the edge of the keep and watched as he plummeted, still screaming and flailing, the two hundred and something (at that moment she couldn’t recall the exact number) feet to the ground. Being as how the fall was a great one, and being as how the ground was more like a courtyard made of cobblestones, Ryan’s arrival at the bottom did little to allay his anxiety. Rather, it resulted in a satisfying thwack and the creation of a bit of a mess in the form of a pool of blood that formed beneath his head.

  Jane had only a moment in which to reflect on the peculiar and disturbing beauty of a dead body sprawled across the stones of a three-hundred-year-old castle before the sound of numerous voices raised in alarm reached her ears. This caused her to regain her senses and, now properly distressed, she raced down the 299 steps and out the tower door. There she found herself standing on one side of Ryan McGuinness’s lifeless body while the other members of the tour group stared at her.

  The first to speak was Brodie. “What happened?” he asked.

  “I … I don’t know,” Jane said.

  “But you were up there with him,” Genevieve said.

  “No,” said Jane. “I mean yes, I was up there, but we weren’t there together, if you see what I mean. And there were others there as well.”

  Genevieve looked around, her mouth moving silently as she used one long finger to count heads. When she was done she returned her gaze to Jane. “Actually,” she said, “it was only the two of you up there. The rest of us were down here.”

  “Then he must have jumped,” Jane said, her voice sounding more defensive than she intended. “You all saw him fall.”

  “He didn’t jump.” Enid, who until now had been staring at the crumpled body of her lover, looked up at Jane. “He was afraid of heights. It took everything in him just to go up there, and I assure you he stayed as far way from the edge as possible.”

  “Apparently not,” Jane said, returning Enid’s steely gaze.

  Someone cleared his throat. Then Bergen spoke in his monotone voice. “I’m afraid I must agree with Ms. Woode’s evaluation of the situation,” he said. “The angle of fall is inconsistent, suggesting greater force than could be achieved by merely jumping.”

  “See!” Enid cried. “He was pushed!”

  Bergen nudged his glasses up his nose. “That is not quite correct either,” he said. Jane thought perhaps she detected
just the merest hint of a smile on his face as he looked at her. “He was thrown.”

  Thursday: Ireland

  INSPECTOR CLOONEY NESBITT SAT ON THE SOFA IN THE FRONT PARLOR of the Inn of the White Roses and scribbled on the pad in his hand. His pen had stopped writing, and he was trying to get the ink flowing again. Jane sat in an armchair across from him. In between them, on a low table covered with a pretty lace cloth, sat a pot of tea, two cups on saucers, and a plate of digestive biscuits. Jane looked longingly at the biscuits but didn’t dare take one, afraid that doing so might suggest an air of frivolity. She was, she felt, in enough trouble as it was.

  The inspector had already interviewed the other members of the party. That he had saved Jane for last struck her as a bit peculiar. If it had been she who was conducting the investigation into Ryan McGuinness’s death, she would have begun with the most likely suspect, which even she had to acknowledge was herself. It would, she thought, give her less time to concoct an explanation for how Ryan might have been launched from the top of the keep without her assistance. As it was, nearly two hours had passed, which was more than enough time for her to have made up a story should she have needed one.

  “Now then,” said the inspector when his pen resumed working properly. “Why don’t you tell me about your relationship to the deceased.”

  Clooney Nesbitt was not a young man. He had gray hair that was cut short so as to minimize the appearance of his bald spot, a fine, thick mustache that at the moment wanted a little trimming, and bright blue eyes that Jane, if she had conjured him as a character in one of her novels, would have described as the sort of eyes that tended to put innocent people at ease and make guilty people believe that he was not as smart as he really was. In both instances, she imagined, those at whom he directed his gaze were inclined to tell him more than they had expected to.

  Jane might have found herself influenced by his eyes as well were she not focused on the digestive biscuits. As it was she found herself saying, “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”

  Nesbitt did so, making a notation on his pad at the same time. Jane, knowing full well that whatever he was writing was about her, wished she could see what else was on the yellow pad. What, for instance, had Inspector Nesbitt written down about Walter, or Lucy, or Ben, all of whom he had interviewed? And what had he made of Miriam and her three-legged dog? That would be most interesting, she thought.

  “Miss Fairfax?”

  The inspector’s voice reminded Jane that she still had not answered his question. “None whatsoever,” she said.

  “Begging your pardon?” he said.

  “My relationship to the deceased,” Jane said. “There was none whatsoever. I hadn’t even heard of him before this trip.”

  The inspector made another notation. “And what was your opinion of the gentleman?”

  Jane considered the question. Inspector Nesbitt was looking at her with those clear blue eyes. He’s trying to trick me, she told herself. Well, we’ll just see about that.

  “I really haven’t known him long enough to form an opinion,” she replied. “Hadn’t known him long enough, I mean. Being that the deceased is … deceased.”

  “Indeed,” said Nesbitt. “But surely you had some interactions with Mr. McGuinness before his death.”

  “No,” Jane said. “As I keep telling people, I was nowhere near him when he jumped. Or fell. Or whatever it is that he did.”

  “Actually, I was referring to interactions that might have occurred in the previous few days,” said the inspector. “Since you first made his acquaintance. However, we will return to the moments before the incident shortly.”

  Jane coughed anxiously. Why, he’s got me feeling guilty! she thought. How rude!

  “Honestly, I don’t think Mr. McGuinness and I exchanged more than half a dozen words before today,” she said calmly. “Including today,” she added.

  Inspector Nesbitt wrote on his pad. “You were, however, aware of his relationship with Enid Woode,” he said, stating it as fact rather than as a question.

  Jane nodded. “I was aware of that, yes,” she said.

  “And how were you made aware of it?”

  “I believe it was Mr. Pittman who informed me,” Jane answered. “The first night. In the American Bar.”

  “Do you know anyone who might have reason to harbor ill-will toward Mr. McGuinness?” asked Nesbitt.

  Jane thought for a moment. Now that she considered it, she did know a few people who had reason to dislike Ryan McGuinness. Chief among them, of course, was Chumsley Faber-Titting. But there was also Brodie, whose work McGuinness had stolen when they were students. But Brodie is a perfectly delightful man, she thought. I can’t imagine him doing such a thing.

  Then she remembered seeing Chumsley emerging from McGuinness’s compartment on the train. She remembered too the words of warning Chumsley had uttered. Had they been a precursor to the day’s murderous events? It certainly seemed possible. But Chumsley knows you heard him, she reminded herself. He knows that if asked you would likely provide that information.

  Chumsley seemed too clever a man to be tripped up so easily. Also, had he not been on the ground when Ryan McGuinness went over the side? Once again she was reminded that she and she alone had been on top of the keep. And so we’re back where we began, she thought grimly.

  “No,” she said to Nesbitt, who had been patiently awaiting her answer. “I really can’t think of anyone who would want to kill Mr. McGuinness.”

  The inspector wrote on his pad, then looked up and expressed the very thought Jane had just had herself. “It seems that everyone in the party was on the ground and accounted for at the time of the incident,” he said. “Except for you.”

  Jane cleared her throat. “I’ve heard that,” she said.

  “And yet you say you were nowhere near Mr. McGuinness at the time that he … exited the tower unexpectedly,” said Nesbitt.

  “That’s right,” Jane said. “I was on the—I believe it was the north-facing side, and Mr. McGuinness fell from the west-facing side.”

  “Right around the corner from where you were standing,” the inspector pointed out.

  “Well, yes,” said Jane. “Regardless, I hardly have the strength to throw a man the size of Mr. McGuinness over a four-foot-high wall.”

  “Did someone mention throwing?” asked Nesbitt.

  “Not you,” said Jane. “But the others did. Bergen did.”

  A small smile played at the corners of the inspector’s mouth. “The German fellow,” he said. “Yes, he was quite insistent on it.” He flipped through the pages of the notepad. “Something about the ‘angle of fall,’ I believe he said. Very interesting. And you’re correct. I don’t think you have the strength to throw a man over a wall.”

  “Thank you,” Jane said, wondering if that was the proper response to such a statement.

  “You could, however, have pushed him,” Nesbitt continued. “Had he been already standing on the wall, for instance.”

  “But he wasn’t,” said Jane. “And I didn’t.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t if you couldn’t see him?” asked the inspector.

  “I don’t,” Jane admitted. “But I would think someone from below would have noticed if he had been.”

  “Only if they were looking up,” Nesbitt countered.

  Jane was becoming annoyed. These were all very good points. But I didn’t kill him, she thought.

  “You’re a writer, aren’t you, Miss Fairfax?”

  “Yes,” said Jane, eager to be going down a new avenue of discussion.

  “I believe my wife has read your novel,” Nesbitt said. “She quite enjoyed it. I tend to stick to the likes of Patrick O’Brian myself. I enjoy a good sea battle.” He folded his notepad and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Well, I think that will be all. Thank you for your time.”

  Jane, perplexed, said, “That’s it? Don’t you have more questions for me?”

  The inspector reached f
or his notepad. “Would you like me to ask you some more questions?”

  Jane flushed. “No,” she said. “It’s just that the conversation ended so abruptly.”

  Nesbitt stood up. “I’ve been an inspector for a great many years, Miss Fairfax,” he said. “I’ve seen many a guilty person and listened to many a fanciful tale designed to cover up the truth. I don’t find either here in this room this evening.”

  “I see,” Jane said. “Then may I ask, what do you think happened to Mr. McGuinness?”

  “I don’t know for certain,” said Nesbitt. “If I were pressed for an explanation, I would say that he jumped.”

  “But the angle of fall,” Jane said.

  “Indeed,” said the inspector. “The angle of fall. And we will have to look into that. But you’re asking what my gut tells me, and my gut tells me the gentleman jumped to his death. Why, I don’t know. Perhaps I will never know. Perhaps no one will ever know save for him and God. In the absence of a likely suspect, however, all I can do is eliminate the people I think did not do it, and at this moment that includes everyone who was present at Swichninny Castle this morning.”

  Jane walked with Nesbitt to the front door. This required passing through yet another sitting room, in which were assembled all of the other tour participants, as well as Ben, Lucy, and Miriam. As Jane and the inspector entered, all eyes turned to her.