by Dean James
“Good morning, sir,” he said in a pleasant baritone. “You are Dr. Simon Kirby-Jones, are you not?’
“Yes, I am,” I said, “and I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“I’m Detective Inspector Chase, and this is Detective Sergeant Harper.”
Ah, suspicions confirmed. I shook hands with the fair detective inspector, noting the strength of his grip and the warmth of his flesh. I gave him one of my best smiles, and he blinked several times. I can’t put the “glamour” on anyone, the way more traditional vampires can (one of the side effects of my little pills). I have to rely simply on the force of my own personality. Which can be considerable, you understand.
“Won’t you come in, Officers?” I stood back and gestured for them to enter the cottage.
“Thank you,” Chase said, and he and Harper followed me into the sitting room.
“I must apologize for my dishabille,” I said, “but I’m a writer, as you might have heard, and this is my writing kit.”
“No need to apologize, Dr. Kirby-Jones,” Chase said as he settled on the sofa. Detective Sergeant Harper chose a chair a discreet distance away and slightly behind where I was sitting, his notebook and pencil at the ready.
“To what do I owe the pleasure this morning, Detective Inspector? Are you part of the welcome wagon hereabouts?”
Chase shook his head. “Not today, I’m afraid. We’re here on official business.” He cleared his throat. “Dr. Kirby-Jones, I gather that you have only recently come to Snupperton Mumsley?”
I nodded. “That is correct.”
“I believe you attended a joint meeting last evening of the board of the Snupperton Mumsley Amateur Dramatic Society and the St. Ethelwold’s Church Restoration Fund Committee.”
“Yes,” I said.
“How well do you know any of the other persons who attended the meeting last night?” Chase asked.
“Not well at all,” I said. “I met most of them only yesterday or the day before. Let’s see. I had met Letty Butler-Melville and her husband, the vicar, on one or two of my flying visits here from London, but of course the vicar wasn’t at the meeting last night. Lady Prunella Blitherington, her son, Giles, and Abigail Winterton I met two days ago at the vicarage. I met Trevor Chase, Samantha Stevens, and Colonel Clitheroe for the first time yesterday. I believe that accounts for everyone, with the exception of Jane Hardwick, whom I met at the vicarage two days ago. She was supposed to attend the meeting last night, but wasn’t able to, for some reason.”
“Thank you, Dr. Kirby-Jones,” Detective Inspector Chase said. “That’s admirably clear. So you had never met anyone in the village before coming here?”
“No,” I said, intrigued by his insistence. “Could I ask, Detective Inspector, what all this is in aid of?”
“We are investigating a suspicious death,” Chase said.
“Really? Whose?” I said, hoping not to appear ghoulish.
“Miss Abigail Winterton,” Chase said.
No big surprise here, though I did register a heart-felt blend of surprise and dismay. Though death hadn’t bothered me all that much, no doubt it had come as a nasty shock to Miss Winterton. “Oh, dear. What happened?”
“Miss Winterton’s assistant at the post office found her dead this morning in her kitchen.”
“And you suspect foul play?”
Chase inclined his head. “There are circumstances that lead us to believe that foul play is a possibility.” Good grief. This man should run for office.
“Then I will do everything within my power to assist you, Detective Inspector. We certainly can’t have a murderer running loose in Snupperton Mumsley!”
Chase didn’t appear overwhelmingly grateful for my fervently expressed offer to assist. “We don’t know just yet Dr. Kirby-Jones, how much help we’re going to need from anyone.” Well, ouch! That put me in my place. “Miss Winterton’s death may simply be the result of natural causes, but we must make certain.” He smiled again. “But I won’t forget your offer of assistance.” He fingered his mustache nervously.
I smiled back. “Whatever I can do, Detective Inspector.”
“For a start,” Chase replied, “you can tell us what you did last night after the meeting ended.”
“In case I need an alibi, you mean?”
Chase nodded.
I described my evening and all its excitement, explaining that I needed little sleep (but not why, naturally) and that I had spent the night alone, writing. “Thus, Detective Inspector, I really have no alibi, unless you want to see the chapters I wrote last night.”
“Not at the moment, Dr. Kirby-Jones,” Chase said, faintly amused. “Now, could you tell me about what happened during the meeting last night?”
Hmm, I thought. How candid should I be? Should I tell him what I suspected was going on? Or would he think I was a gossipy busybody?
I launched into a description of last night’s meeting, deciding that I might as well offer him the benefit of my impressions. Surely, as a newcomer and an outsider, I might have a fresher take on it all—and no doubt the others weren’t as willing to be forthcoming if they were being blackmailed by Abigail Winterton, as I halfway suspected.
Chase’s eyes narrowed when I repeated for him the gist of Abigail Winterton’s speech about the “moral decay” in the village of the play.
“What did you think she was getting at, Dr. Kirby-Jones, with her description of this alleged play?”
I shrugged. “There were definitely some deep undercurrents in that room last night, and I’m not sure what she was after. I almost got the feeling that she was taunting the rest of the group, myself excluded, naturally, since I’m new here. And I never expected to see Lady Blitherington back down like that. In my brief experience of her, she doesn’t seem the type to refuse a challenge, and Miss Winterton was most definitely offering some sort of challenge.”
Chase nodded. “I see. Well, Dr. Kirby-Jones, we’ll certainly keep all this in mind as we investigate. We might need to come back to you later and ask more questions, if you don’t mind.” He stood up, and his partner did, too.
“Oh, not at all, Detective Inspector,” I said, rising from my chair. “I’ll be delighted, as I said before, to assist you in any manner possible.” I smiled graciously at him and received an enigmatic smile as my reward.
I showed the two policemen out the door, wincing slightly at the bright noonday sun. I stood watching the detective inspector as he and his sergeant walked back down the lane toward the center of the village. What a lovely view.
And the village isn't too shabby, either.
I stared across the lane at Jane Hardwick’s cottage. I saw no obvious signs that Jane was at home, but I thought it might be worth my getting dressed and going over on the chance that she was home and ready to discuss the murder. I was convinced that Abigail Winterton had been murdered, you see. After all, the way she had been taunting the others last night, I wasn’t in the least surprised something had happened to her.
On the way upstairs to change into something more respectable, I thought back to something Detective Inspector Chase had said. He had made reference to the “alleged” play. That was odd. Did that mean, maybe, that the police hadn’t come across a copy of it? Maybe the murderer had stolen it!
Whoa, I told myself as I began changing clothes. You’re getting the cart well ahead of the horse. You don’t even know for sure that the woman was murdered and you’ve already got half the book written.
A few minutes later, I knocked on Jane Hardwick’s front door and waited impatiently for some sign that Jane was at home. As I was about to turn away and stump back home in disappointment, Jane opened the door.
“Good afternoon, Simon,” she said, standing back and motioning me inside. “I imagine you’re all abuzz with the news. Isn’t it terrible? Poor Abigail.”
I apologized for calling on her unannounced, but she waved that aside. She ushered me into her sitting room, where I made myself comfortab
le on an overstuffed sofa. The room looked like something out of Country Life magazine. From the outside, Jane’s cottage looked very much like mine, down to the brick and the pantiles on the roof. No doubt they had been renovated by the same person or firm a century ago. But the interior was much frillier here. I hadn’t expected Jane to be the ruffles and bows type, but her sitting room looked like an English variation on that nauseating “country” style that is so popular with American yuppies. Yuppies who have never been within a hundred miles of a cow or a chicken or a functional churn, I might add. I’d have to overlook Jane’s taste—or, rather, lack of it—in decorating.
“I’ve just had a visit from Detective Inspector Chase and his partner, and they told me that Abigail’s death was being treated as suspicious. I’m sure she must have been murdered, Jane!”
“I don’t doubt but that you’re right, Simon.” Jane frowned. “I can’t say that I’m completely surprised that something like this has happened. Abigail was such a thoroughly unpleasant woman in some ways, and she’s been behaving oddly, even for her, for quite some time now. Frankly, I suppose I’m more surprised that it has taken someone this long to do away with her.”
“Then you don’t believe I’m getting carried away?”
Jane shook her head. “The village grapevine is already at work, and I’ve heard three different stories so far. One, that Abigail was poisoned. Two, that she was bludgeoned to death and the room was awash with blood. Three, that she was strangled.” She shrugged. “I don’t know how long it will be before the police release any official information.”
“Detective Inspector Chase certainly wasn’t very forthcoming with me, even though I gave him every opportunity,” I complained.
“Yes, I’m sure you did! Now tell me, Simon, what did you make of the fair Robin?” Jane was patently amused.
I sighed. “Robin, eh? A lovely name. He’s quite handsome, of course.” I paused as a thought finally struck me. “His last name is Chase. Is he any relation to Trevor Chase?”
“They’re distant cousins,” Jane said. “Trevor once told me that they have a great-grandfather, or perhaps a great-great grandfather, in common.”
“I don’t know about you, Jane, but I’m terribly curious about our potential murder. You missed a most interesting meeting last night!”
“Tell me all about it,” Jane urged, and I happily complied.
“I think you’re right, Simon,” Jane said when I had finished. “Abigail was daring them not to choose the play she was suggesting. I just wonder...” Jane trailed off.
“What?” I said when she failed to continue after a long few moments.
“I’m certain,” Jane said, “that Abigail must have written the play herself.”
I thought about it for a moment. “It definitely makes sense.” Then I told Jane what Chase had said about the “alleged” play. “Perhaps it’s gone missing, and I would think it was a prime motive for the murder, don’t you?”
“Very possibly,” Jane said. “From rumors I’ve heard over the years, Abigail was not above abusing her position as postmistress.”
“You mean she tampered with people’s mail?”
“From what I’ve been told,” Jane replied. “She apparently found out things about people in the village, and the only way she could have discovered some of it was to have opened their mail and read it.”
“No,” I said slowly. “That’s not the only way.”
“What do you mean?” Jane said, obviously startled. I described what I had seen the night before last. Jane’s face shifted from annoyed to grim. “That explains a lot! I wondered how on earth ...” Her voice trailed off, and she stared into my face. “She was even nastier than I realized.”
“Do you think she was actually blackmailing anyone?”
Jane grimaced. “She must have been! People put up with her far longer than I would have thought possible, so she must have had some leverage. There must be some rather humiliating little secrets that folk here in the village don’t want known.”
“And maybe Abigail had written a play in which she exposed some of them?” I thought out loud. “If that were the case, then someone might be desperate to stop that play from being read by anyone else, much less performed in front of the whole village!”
“That sounds plausible,” Jane agreed. “And if the police don’t find a copy of this play, who’s to know what Abigail was really planning?”
“One thing puzzles me, though,” I said slowly. “If she’d been blackmailing people in the village all this time, why was she suddenly trying to humiliate them all publicly? If the play had been performed and all the little secrets had been put on public view, she wouldn’t have been able to keep blackmailing them.”
“That’s a very good point, Simon. It doesn’t make much sense, does it?” Jane frowned. “But, with Abigail, one never knows. She was more than a bit eccentric in all the time I’ve known her, and perhaps she was simply potty enough to think she could just keep twisting the knife.”
“But someone decided to stop her once and for all,” I said grimly. “Do you have any clues as to what secrets she may have been planning to expose?”
“I’m sure enough of an outsider here, "Jane reflected after a moment, “that I’ve not been privy to all the stories of peccadilloes past. I’ve told you about the long-standing enmity between Abigail and Lady Prunella, which is very much old news hereabouts. I’ve observed some quite tantalizing interactions between our late, unlamented postmistress and Samantha Stevens, but I’ve not been able to decide whether it was sheer bloody-mindedness on Abigail’s part or whether she actually knew something to Mrs. Stevens’s detriment.”
“Mrs. Stevens impressed me as a formidable opponent. I can imagine her quite easily doing away with someone who stood in her way and expecting to get away with it.”
“Oh, yes,” Jane nodded. “Quite so.”
“What about Trevor Chase?” I asked. “What kind of dirt could Abigail have had on him?” I was more than normally curious about this, I realized.
“Other than the obvious, you mean?” Jane laughed, a sour note in her mirth. “Abigail was quite capable of all sorts of outmoded and highly prejudiced notions just because she suspected Trevor is gay. I know nothing against him myself, though who knows what scandals Abigail’s fevered brain might have concocted or professed to have uncovered. We don’t have any molested choirboys running about as far as I know!”
I laughed. “Surely choirboys would be more in the Reverend Butler-Melville’s line?”
Jane waved a hand. “Don’t be absurd. Despite the fact that Letty to all appearances has the charm of a damp tea towel, they are quite genuinely devoted to each other. Neville is that most boring of creatures, an uxorious husband. And Letty would do just about anything for Neville.”
“I’ll take your word for that, though I can still harbor a few fantasies.”
Jane emitted a most unladylike snort. “There is more than enough fodder for your fantasies—if I’ve not mixed my metaphors unforgivably—hereabouts. Trevor, for one, and the appallingly spoiled scion of the Blitherington dynasty, for another.”
I laughed in delight. “So Giles is gay? I am most definitely not his type, then, the way he glowers at me whenever I’m around.”
Jane shook her head. “No, Simon, I’d say just the opposite. Giles is desperately unhappy. Wouldn’t you be, considering his parentage?” She shuddered delicately. “You represent so much of what he’d like to be. Handsome, sophisticated, witty, intelligent.”
“My, you do know how to turn a man’s head,” I observed, not without satisfaction. “Do go on!”
She ignored me. “Giles is an attractive young man, if he could only get over himself. I believe that’s an American expression, isn’t it?” She didn’t wait for confirmation. “And quite apt, in this particular case. If he would only stop paying so much attention to himself and all the imagined ‘slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,’ he might accomplish somethin
g. Such self-absorption isn’t attractive.”
I thought of mentioning the bit of conversation I’d overheard in Trevor Chase’s office yesterday, but for the moment I decided I’d keep that tidbit to myself. Trevor Chase certainly bore further investigation, for several reasons. And maybe Giles Blitherington did as well. “Perhaps it’s just a phase?” I grinned wickedly.
“With Giles it’s almost an art form!” Jane said with asperity. “But at least he has some brains, unlike his sister.”
“I’ve not yet had that pleasure,” I told Jane.
“You’re not missing much,” Jane assured me waspishly.
“What about Colonel Clitheroe?” I asked. “He seems almost too Agatha Christie to be real.”
Jane laughed. “I know exactly what you mean. But he seems to be the real article, all right. He’s a latecomer to the village, like you and me, although he’s been here for nearly twenty years. I think he came here not long before the Butler-Melvilles, in fact.”
This time I shared my tidbit of information with Jane about that curious scene I’d witnessed between the colonel and Letty Butler-Melville. Jane frowned.
“I’ve no idea what that could mean. In my observance, they’ve always been polite with each other. Friendly, but not friends, if you see the difference.”
I nodded. “But there’s obviously something going on there, and it bears investigation.”
“And that brings us quite nicely to the point, doesn’t it?” Jane observed, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Speaking of Agatha Christie. So shall you begin twirling your mustaches and speaking of little gray cells?” “Well, Jane,” I said with particular emphasis on her name, “if you’ll leave off your knitting and your gardening, I’ll not twirl anything. But I can’t help but be curious. This is the first time I’ve found myself right in the middle of a real-life mystery plot, and I see no reason I shouldn’t poke my nose in.”
