Faked to Death

by Dean James

  “She’s a nasty piece of work.”

  “Yes, and I’m beginning to see just how nasty she can be.” I frowned. “Maybe this is some kind of publicity stunt on her part, but I can’t figure out what the point is, if it’s intended for publicity’s sake.”

  “She has obviously treated some of the other writers here rather shabbily.”

  “Yes, she’s made several enemies; that much is evide.nt I wouldn’t be alone, dancing on her grave.”

  Giles laughed at that. “No, I’m sure there’d be quite a party.”

  “Would you mind, Giles,” I asked him, “running up to fetch my sunglasses and a hat for me? I’m going to track Nina down on that terrace and try to force her to talk to me.”

  “No need, Simon,” Giles said, “though you know I’d not mind in the least.” His eyes slid away from mine for a moment. “I was just out for a brief walk. The sky is quite dark. If it hasn’t started raining yet, it won’t be long, by the looks of things.” I’ve told him I have a slight allergy to sunlight, which is true, of course, but he doesn’t know quite why I’m allergic.

  “Then I’d better try to track Nina down before we both get wet,” I said. “Any progress with your inquiries?”

  “I’m compiling quite a lot of information,” Giles said. “I’ll have plenty for you to dig through by this evening.”

  “Good,” I said. “Keep at it.” I strode off down the hall, toward the door through which Nina had disappeared.

  I found myself in yet another sitting room, this one furnished in true Pukka Sahib. The large chamber bulged with various artifacts, most of them in questionable taste, from the Indian subcontinent. What is it with the British and elephants’ feet? I shuddered and averted my eyes as I approached French windows on the other side of the room.

  One of the windows stood slightly ajar, and I pulled it open and stepped out onto the terrace. As Giles had said, the sky was dark and gray. Though it was not yet raining, I doubted it would be long before it poured.

  The terrace was a broad expanse of worn and aged stone, probably twenty-five feet by twenty, I estimated. Midway there, I espied Nina, sitting at a small table and smoking.

  I hastened toward her, anxious to question her further. “Nina! I want to talk to you! ”

  Nina looked toward me and tilted her head to one side. She took a long drag from her cigarette and expelled smoke as she stood up. She walked away from me, toward the balustrade and the steps that lead down to a broad expanse of lawn. As she reached the balustrade, she leaned over to pitch her fag end onto the lawn.

  I was by this time only a few feet from her, and her shrill screams stopped me in my tracks.

  “Nina! What on earth is it?”

  The cigarette butt still smoldering in her fingers, Nina turned to face me, all color drained from her face. “My God!” she said. “They’ve bloody well killed her!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “That?” I rushed over to Nina and looked down over the stone balustrade to see a body sprawled below, half in and half out of a flower bed. A stone urn had mashed the head like a melon dropped on concrete. I quickly averted my gaze from the pulpy mass. It was Dorinda; I recognized her from her clothes. She was as dead as the proverbial doornail. No need to go down there and muck about in the mess of her death; I could feel her death from here. It’s a vampire thing, you know; if I focus, I can feel and almost hear someone else’s heartbeat. The fake Dorinda’s heart had stopped beating.

  I turned back to Nina, whose eyes were still glazed over from the shock of her discovery. She was mumbling to herself, but I could make out the words with little difficulty. “Can’t believe they actually did it! Why on earth? The stupid bitch! What did she do?”

  “Nina! Get a grip!” I clasped one of her hands in mine. It was even colder than my own.

  Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Nina focused on me. She withdrew her hand from mine, then pulled another cigarette from her purse. Her hands were almost steady as she lighted the cigarette.

  “What did you mean by ‘they,’ Nina? Who was responsible for this?”

  Nina blew smoke in my face. “I was just shocked, Simon. If anyone’s responsible, it was probably that snotty boyfriend of yours!”

  She had begun to recover; the barracuda was back.

  Now was not the time to convince Nina that Giles was not my boyfriend. “Don’t be ridiculous, Nina! Giles would not have killed this woman. He had no reason for doing such a thing.”

  Nina tossed her head. “Come off it, Simon! Anyone can see the idiot is besotted with you. Who’s to say he didn’t do it, thinking it was in your best interests?”

  Ignoring my sputtered protests, Nina pointed to her left. “The urn used to sit on there, on the balustrade. Dorinda must have been standing on the lawn beneath, and someone pushed it off on her.”

  “Yes, it certainly looks that way.”

  Nina exhaled a cloud of smoke. She extracted a mobile phone from her purse. “Here.” She handed it to me. “Summon someone.”

  I recalled from memory the number of our local crack homicide specialist, Detective Inspector Robin Chase, and punched it in on the keypad. Robin was in his office, and I tersely explained what had happened. To his credit, Robin made no comment on my reporting yet another corpse. Instead, he assured me that he and a team from CID would soon be here at Kinsale House to take charge.

  I handed Nina’s mobile back to her and informed her that the authorities were on the way. Then I took her arm and guided her away from the scene of the crime. “I think we’d better go inside now.” I looked up into the sky. Rain was imminent. “And I think I’d better find something to throw over the body before the rain washes everything away.” Nina grimaced. “I believe I shall leave that little detail to you, Simon.”

  “Yes, heaven forfend that you should get your hands grubby, dear Nina.” She ignored that as I ushered her back into the house, into the Raj Room, as I had decided to call it.

  “Did you see anything before I joined you, Nina? Anything that the police should know?”

  She faced me, her chin set with determination. “Don’t be ridiculous, Simon. What could I have seen? She must have already been dead when I went out onto the terrace.”

  She didn’t exactly answer my question, but now was not the time to pin her down. Later on I’d tackle her about who or what she might have seen on the terrace. She might actually have seen the murderer leaving the scene of the crime, but Nina wouldn’t part with that information until she had figured out how best to use it to her own advantage.

  “We’ll continue this later, but for now, go find Lady Hermione and break the news to her.” I glanced around the room. Several hideous tiger-skin rugs littered the floor. I gathered up three of them, while Nina marched huffily out of the room.

  Out on the terrace, I quickly shook out as much dust as I could from the tiger skins, then went and placed them across the corpse and as much of the crime scene as I could. Rain began to pelt down as I was placing the last tiger skin, and I hoped that Robin and his team would get here soon, in time to protect the area more effectively.

  I sprinted back inside and shut the French windows firmly behind me. I realized too late that I shouldn’t have touched the handles again. Now I would have smeared the fingerprints someone else might have left on them. Wiping the rain away from my face and head with my handkerchief, I looked up to see Lady Hermione come charging through the door from the hall.

  “Dr. Kirby-Jones! Whatever is going on here? Nina said you had found Miss Darlington dead on the lawn!”

  She had continued toward me as she spoke, and as she made a move to go past me, to open the doors out onto the terrace, I laid a restraining hand on her arm. She stiffened.

  “Pardon me, Lady Hermione, but your getting wet and looking at what happened will serve no purpose right now. We’ve summoned the police, and it’s best now to wait until they arrive.” She made a move to shrug off my hand, and I applied gentle pressure. “P
lease, Lady Hermione, don’t go out there.”

  “Very well,” she said, suddenly yielding. “No doubt you’re right. There’s nothing I can do, I suppose. You’re entirely certain the poor girl is... dead?” She faced me with horror dawning in her eyes.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” I resisted any urge to tell her just how well I knew death. I doubted it would have been of any comfort.

  “Poor girl,” she repeated. “Nothing like this has ever happened at Kinsale House.”

  I didn’t take that as an accusation, though it had sounded a bit like one. “I know this is terribly upsetting, Lady Hermione, but I’m sure the police will soon find out what happened. I know the officer who will no doubt be in charge of the investigation, and he is highly competent. He’ll get this sorted out in no time.”

  Lady Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she examined me. “Ah, yes,” she said, her tone cool. “You do have firsthand experience with murder, don’t you? The late, unlamented postmistress of Snupperton Mumsley.” She sniffed. “One had quite forgotten that.”

  At this rate, I doubted I’d ever be on the guest list for Kinsale House again. Oh, well, at least I wouldn’t have to be offended by the dubious taste of generations of Kinsales and their misguided attempts at decoration.

  “Perhaps we should await the arrival of the police in your sitting room,” I suggested. Lady Hermione sniffed once before stalking out of the room, leaving me to follow or not.

  I followed.

  Nina was ensconced in a chair, calmly sipping tea, when Lady Hermione and I arrived in the sitting room. Lady Hermione poured herself another stiff tot of brandy, tossed it down, then rang the bell. Dingleby appeared moments later, as if he had been hovering in the hall outside.

  “Yes, Lady Hermione?”

  “More tea, Dingleby. The police will be arriving shortly. One of our guests has met with an unfortunate accident on the terrace. When the police arrive, be so good as to show them to the terrace.”

  “Yes, Lady Hermione.” Dingleby retreated, his face calm and composed, as if the “unfortunate accident” were of no interest whatsoever to him. I guess they have a course in that at butler school.

  Within moments, the local bobby had arrived, as Dingleby informed his mistress when he came back bearing fresh tea. Not long after that, Robin and his crew appeared. Robin paused briefly to be introduced to Lady Hermione and Nina, explaining who he was and what he and his squad would be doing.

  “Do you have a room we might use for interviewing witnesses?” Robin asked politely.

  Lady Hermione waved a hand. “Just ask Dingleby. He will see to whatever you need.”

  “Thank you, Lady Hermione.” Robin turned suavely to me. “Dr. Kirby-Jones, if I might have a word with you?” He nodded at Nina. “Miss Yaknova, I’d like to interview you next, but that won’t be for a few minutes. If you would be so kind as to wait here for me.”

  “Certainly, Detective Inspector,” Nina said in her sweetest tones. I could already see the wheels turning. Robin is a very attractive man, and Nina no doubt thought she would be able to charm him without much effort. Nina might just be surprised.

  Out in the hallway, Robin turned to me, his expression stern. “What now, Simon? One begins to think you’re like that American woman on the telly. What’s her name, Fletcher? Everywhere she goes, a dead body turns up.”

  “Really, Robin,” I protested. “I go lots of places where no one dies.”

  Robin’s lips pursed. He really is most attractive, but he’s also hard to read. I can never tell if he’s flirting with me or if he simply finds me amusing. No doubt you can imagine which I’d prefer.

  “Who is the victim, Simon? Tell me again.”

  “She claimed to be Dorinda Darlington, author of a highly successful series of detective novels featuring a female sleuth.”

  Robin picked up my slight emphasis on “claimed.” “What do you mean? Was that not who she was?” Bright man; he follows verbal cues very quickly.

  “No, she’s not Dorinda Darlington. I’m not sure who she really was. I’ve been trying to find out, because I want to know why she was impersonating m—” I caught myself. “Impersonating Dorinda Darlington. I know the real Dorinda, and this woman is not she.”

  Robin’s eyes narrowed at my stumble. “Then just who is the real Dorinda Darlington? That might have some bearing on this case.”

  Should I come clean with Robin? I had been secretive about Dorinda’s real identity because the reading public might not be too happy to know that “her” books were written by a man. Leaving aside the fact, naturally, that the author was both gay and dead. The PC police might have a field day, and I wanted to stay out of the spotlight—natural behavior for a vampire.

  But perhaps Robin could keep the secret and keep it from becoming “official” knowledge. “If I confide something in you, Robin, can you try to keep it under the table, as it were?”

  Robin’s right eyebrow rose interrogatively. “Perhaps, Simon, but you know I can’t really promise that. If it has direct bearing upon what happened, I might not be able to hold it back.”

  That was just what I had expected him to say. Oh, well, in for a penny and all that.

  “I am Dorinda Darlington. That’s how I know she was an impostor.”

  His jaw dropped.

  Then he recovered, and I watched him, almost seeing the wheels turn as he assessed this new piece of information. Had I just put myself at the head of the list of suspects?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Upon quick reflection, I decided I couldn’t be too worried about being a serious suspect in the fake Dorinda’s murder. After all, I had been in sight of someone ever since Dorinda had left the gathering earlier, on her way to meet her killer.

  “Right,” Robin said. “I’ll talk with you further, Simon, but for now I must see what’s going on outside.”

  I nodded as he turned on his heel and left me. Time enough later to give him my alibi.

  Now I had to face Nina and Lady Hermione again. I was rather keen to get Nina alone at some point and grill her. I was convinced she knew far more than she was letting on about what the murder victim had been up to here at Kinsale House. If, indeed, Nina hadn’t been behind the whole thing in the first place. But surely even Nina hadn’t planned on murder.

  Lady Hermione seemed to have recovered much of her accustomed sangfroid when I rejoined her and Nina in the drawing room. “Really, Nina,” she was saying in her severest tones, “I cannot think why you should have subjected us all...” She ceased talking abruptly when she realized that I was once again in the room. “Well, Dr. Kirby-Jones? What has your friend the policeman to say about this dreadful situation?”

  From her tone one would have thought poor Robin had come to empty the rubbish bins at Kinsale House. Nina cast an amused glance at our hostess, then rolled her eyes in my direction. “Yes, Simon, do tell us what that absolutely delicious copper had to say. Are you the prime suspect?” Her eyebrows arched in mockery.

  All at once I was struck by the nasty suspicion that Nina had murdered the faux Dorinda—indeed, that she had stage-managed the entire fiasco—in order to manufacture some lurid story. I could see the headlines now, something totally trashy about a gay man murdering a woman to safeguard his identity as a female mystery writer. Such publicity would no doubt sell books, but I cringed at the thought.

  I considered Nina’s reaction upon finding the body. Nina was cold and calculating, but I didn’t think she was that good an actress. Her surprise— and indeed, horror—at finding Dorinda’s body had seemed very real, but if this were all part of her plan, perhaps she had fooled me into thinking her shock was real.

  I quelled such useless speculation for the moment and directed at Nina my most repressive frown. “Don’t be absurd, Nina! You know very well that, from the time Dorinda—or whoever she really was— left this room, I was in sight of someone, until I found you on the terrace, not far from her corpse.” I grinned evilly. “For all I know, Nina, darling
, you pushed that urn on top of her head before I joined you on the terrace.”

  “Now who’s being absurd, Simon? I haven’t the strength to hurl that urn on top of Dorinda, or anyone else, for that matter!”

  Lady Hermione examined the two of us with disgust. “You are both utterly lacking in the remotest sense of propriety!” She sniffed loudly. “But I must say, Nina, that you are doing it up a bit too brown if you want to convince us you’re too frail to have moved that urn. They weigh perhaps forty pounds— or more, if you consider the soil and the plants they contain. I’ve no doubt that you could find the strength to shift something like that off the balustrade and onto that unfortunate woman’s head!”

  “Careful, Hermione,” Nina said, her voice taut with anger.

  Lady Hermione flushed and said not another word.

  I wondered what hold Nina had over our hostess. Could it be that the late and unlamented (at least on my part) faux Dorinda hadn’t been the only one with a taste for blackmail?

  And, I reasoned further, if Nina and Dorinda had been in cahoots, and if that relationship had somehow soured, Nina could have killed Dorinda.

  I rather liked that notion, I found, having totally gone off Nina. I couldn’t wait to find myself a new agent here in the U.K.

  Before I could think of some new conversational gambit, Robin Chase returned to collect Nina for an interview. I wished I could be a little bat on the wall and listen to that session. I could imagine it all: Nina would try her darnedest to flirt with Robin, who in turn would be at his phlegmatic best in turning away such attempts on her part. How deliciously droll it would be, despite the gravity of the situation.

  Left alone with my hostess, who was eyeing me uneasily, I decided I had better do something to redeem myself with her. While Lady Hermione fiddled with things on the tea tray, now studiously ignoring me, I sat down on the sofa nearest her chair.

  “My dear Lady Hermione,” I said, my voice like warm honey, “I can’t tell you how much I regret that you should have to suffer these truly horrible disruptions to your program for the week. Everyone will be at sixes and sevens now. What can my assistant and I do to help you and Miss Monkley?”