by Dean James
“Then why aren’t you called Sir Giles? Isn’t it a hereditary title?”
Giles rolled his eyes. “Because no one ever remembers that I am Sir-bloody-Giles, that’s why! With my dear mummy running around, playing lord of the manor enough for both of us, no one pays much attention to me.” I thought for a moment he was going to lapse into a sulk. But, amazingly, he laughed, a rich, deep sound that was completely infectious.
I laughed, too, and he looked back at me, eyes twinkling. “It doesn’t seem to bother you that much.”
Giles shook his head. “Honestly, no. I don’t much care whether people call me that My mother is the one hung up on titles, but even she forgets it most of the time. Though my father has been dead for nearly ten years, he lives on in her memory so strongly that she forgets that I inherited the tide and the estate and not she.” An interesting sidelight on the rather trying Lady Prunella, to be sure. This conversation was revealing aspects to Giles’s character that I never would have thought existed. Why, the boy seemed to have bottom to him, if I could use that so-very-English phrase.
“Then I shall call you Giles,” I said, and he grinned before taking a sip of his Diet Coke.
“I believe you said you wanted to talk to me about something?” I prompted him after several moments’ silence.
“Oh, yes,” he said, leaning forward, his pose forgotten for the moment He set his glass down on a coaster on the table in front of him. “I want to apply for the job as your secretary.”
This was the one thing I hadn’t expected. Sir Giles Blitherington, wanting to be my secretary! My, my.
“Did your mother tell you I was looking for someone?” I asked, to stall for a moment.
Giles nodded. “Yes, and she has no idea that I’m asking you for a job. She’ll make quite a scene, of course, if you should actually take me on, because it’s not proper to one of my station.” Here he grinned impishly, and I was ready to hire him on the spot. Not to mention for the sheer joy of annoying his mother.
“I can perhaps understand her point of view,” I said mildly. His face fell. “But I wouldn’t let that keep me from giving you serious consideration.” He cheered up at that. “Provided, of course, you are actually qualified to do the job.”
He nodded enthusiastically. “I’m quite adept at computers, really. I know several word processing programs, and if I don’t know yours already, I can learn it very quickly. I type very fast as well, and I even know shorthand, believe it or not Mummy would be horrified if she knew.” He grinned. “Actually, she has seen some of my shorthand scribblings, but I told her it was Greek. Which I was supposed to have learned at school, of course.”
“Then I presume you understand the alphabet and the rudiments of filing as well?” I said dryly. “Are you any good at research?”
He sobered for a moment. “I know you heard what that harpy said about my being sent down from university, which is true, unfortunately. But I’m quite capable of assisting you in research despite my lack of a degree.” He tried to hide his embarrassment, but he wasn’t yet sophisticated enough to pull it off.
“Why do you want this job?” I asked him bluntly. Perhaps his money was tied up in the estate and he needed the job for the most basic of reasons.
His answer surprised me. “I want to be a writer,” he said simply. “I know of your reputation in your field, and I’ve read some of your work. I could learn a lot by working with you, not to mention the potential contacts.”
That last was certainly shrewd. Knowing the right people in publishing meant as much, if not more, than actually having the talent to write these days.
“But you already are a writer,” I responded.
“What do you mean?” he asked, visibly startled.
“Your play,” I reminded him. “I finished it, actually, after all the brouhaha the other night when Miss Winterton died, and I think you have talent.”
He glowed briefly, but then the light went out. He looked darned uncomfortable, and I couldn’t imagine why. “Thank you, but that’s not the kind of work that I want to put my name on. That was my substitute for therapy.” He smiled, trying to make a joke of it, but I wasn’t quite convinced.
“That’s as may be,” I said, “but you can obviously put words together, and you have a sense of dramatic structure.”
“But it’s not a novel, nor is it a biography,” he said, a trifle impatiently. “I’m more interested in other types of writing. Will you consider me for the job?”
I sighed. He didn’t realize it, but he’d been hired five minutes ago. I might be making a terrible mistake, but something told me this was the right thing to do.
“It’s yours,” I told him, and his eyes sparkled with elation.
Giles flopped back against the sofa, grinning broadly. “You mean you’re really going to let me work for you?”
I nodded. Hadn’t I been clear enough?
“When do I start?” he asked eagerly. “I’ve nothing planned for this afternoon if you’re ready for me to start right away.”
“Giles, don’t you even want to know what I’m going to pay you?” I asked, highly amused and—to be honest—quite flattered.
He waved that away. “I’m sure you’ll be more than fair, Simon. May I call you Simon?” I nodded. “I’ve more than enough money, I assure you. In fact, you don’t even have to pay me if you don’t want.”
That was a bit too much noblesse oblige for me. “No, Giles, I insist we keep this on a business footing. You’ll be paid the going rate. As soon as I find out what it is.”
“Fine, fine,” he said, glowing with happiness. “When do I start?”
I sighed. Was I really ready for this? “Very well,” I said, standing up. “Come with me into my office. If you’re that eager, you might as well start getting my files sorted out this afternoon. It’s got to be done, and I didn’t relish doing it myself, frankly.”
Giles was every bit as quick a study as he promised, and after fifteen minutes, I left him restoring my files to some semblance of order. I had to swear him to secrecy about the existence of Daphne and Dorinda, and he promised he’d not breathe a word, though his eyes grew big with excitement.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him root happily through my papers. If this was what he wanted, he was quite welcome to it, I thought, shaking my head.
I had picked up our glasses and was ready to take them back to the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Now, who could that be? I wondered, most originally.
I set the glasses down on the hall table and opened the door.
Letty Butler-Melville stood there, her finger poised on the bell, ready to ring again.
“You!” She looked up at me, fire in her eyes. “I cannot believe how completely insensitive you are! You, you American!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As I drew breath to invite Letty Butler-Melville inside, she made that unnecessary by stalking past me, barely missing stamping on my toes. I shut the door and followed her into the sitting room.
“Really, Dr. Kirby-Jones”—she continued her harangue, arms akimbo, hands on hips, her voice husky with emotion—“I had thought you a much more sensible individual.” Despite the fact that I was a lowly American? “How could, you upset poor Neville with such tales?”
“My dear Mrs. Butler-Melville,” I protested, “I do assure you that I had no wish whatsoever to discompose the vicar to such an extent I had no idea that he was so sensitive to, er, bad news.”
The vicar’s wife didn’t seem much mollified by my conciliatory tone. One hand now twitched at the ever-present scarf around her throat while she kept glaring at me.
“I realize that you are only lately come to Snupperton Mumsley, Dr. Kirby-Jones, but surely even in your benighted homeland you don’t descend upon unsuspecting souls and burden them with such horrendous and preposterous stories.”
Good grief! I thought. Someone needs desperately to tell this woman how the cow ate the cabbage. Normally I am the politest of souls (and please
don’t be persnickety about vampires not having souls at this very moment), but when faced with such out-and-out hostility, I feel my own hackles rising.
“Perhaps you have been too busy scurrying about doing your good deeds for the parish,” I said, my tone indicating that her good deeds probably included humping every available man over the age of consent, “but while you were on your errands of mercy, I was informed by no less a personage than Detective Inspector Chase himself that poor Miss Winterton was most foully murdered.” I glared hard, and she took a step backward.
This cow suddenly got more of the cabbage than she ever bargained for, I noted with satisfaction. Letty Butler-Melville went white, and her right hand twisted her scarf so hard, I thought she’d choke herself right in front of me.
“Mur-murdered?” she finally managed to croak through her constricted throat. “But I thought it was an... an accident! I had no idea it was murder!”
Making a show of my concern, I approached her and, taking hold of her right arm, steered her gently to a chair. “Can I get you something? Some brandy, perhaps? Or maybe some hot tea?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you,” she whispered. She stared up at me, her eyes wide with fear. “How... how did it happen?”
I took a seat in a nearby chair and watched her carefully. “She was strangled.”
“Oh, dear God,” she said, her voice tight and low. “God have mercy upon her soul.” She crossed herself nervously.
I wasn’t completely convinced that Letty Butler-Melville’s obvious distress had all that much to do with the state of Abigail Winterton’s immortal soul. There seemed to be something rather calculating about the vicar’s wife, even in extremis. Deciding to take advantage of the situation, I observed casually, “You know, the thing that puzzles me is, why would someone want to murder her? I had met her only briefly on three occasions, and I can’t see what someone would have had against her.” And I didn’t bat an eyelash at the lie.
Letty Butler-Melville’s face hardened almost imperceptibly. If I hadn’t been watching her intently, I would have missed it. “Abigail could on occasion be difficult about some things,” she finally said, “but like you, I can’t imagine what would move someone to do something so vicious as this.”
She stood up abruptly. “I must get back to my husband, Dr. Kirby-Jones. I will ask you in the future to remember my husband’s sensitive nature and to do your best not to upset him. Neville must guard his strength in order to shepherd his flock, and I am certain you can understand why I must be so protective of him.”
I was beginning to have a few ideas about that, but I refrained from sharing them with her at this very moment. I had no doubt that Mrs. Vicar and I would tangle again at some point in the not-so-distant future. She was afraid of something, and I wasn’t sure just yet what that was. But I would find out, I promised myself. She was a tougher nut than her husband, but I’d get something out of her eventually.
“Let me show you out, Mrs. Butler-Melville,” I responded, not giving her an inch. She stared hard at me, then stalked ahead of me to the front door of the cottage. With a barely audible sniff, she stomped out the door and down the lane toward the vicarage.
“What was all that about?” Giles asked from behind me.
He stood in the doorway of my office, a stack of files in his hands. His handsome face quivered with curiosity.
“I’m sorry,” he went on, “but I couldn’t help but overhear a little of it. She was upset about something.” I nodded. “I discovered today that the vicar has a rather delicate constitution when it comes to emotional distress, and apparently I upset him. She came to tell me not to do it again.”
Giles snorted in derision. “Oh, is that all! I should have known. Nothing gets Mrs. Butler-Melville so excited as a threat to the vicar’s peace of mind.”
“No kidding!” I said. “After that little scene I’m almost convinced that dragons are not extinct, after all.”
Giles laughed. “She has only one little chick to defend, and she does it with a vengeance. We’ve all learned not to bother the vicar with anything. She won’t stand for it”
“Does the man not have a backbone?” I asked.
“Not noticeably, no,” Giles said, laughing. “Otherwise, do you think any man that attractive, with a reasonable amount of ambition, would stay in Snupperton Mumsley for twenty years?”
I shook my head. “No, I suppose not.”
“My mother says that when he first came here, he was quite different. Much more energetic, much more involved in his actual clerical and pastoral duties. But over the years, he’s turned into what you see now.” Giles grinned. “Of course, I was very young when he first came here, so I don’t remember much about him.”
“Interesting,” I commented, wondering whether I should broach the subject of Abigail Winterton’s murder at this point.
Giles gestured at the folders in his hands. “I have questions about some of these, if you have a moment.”
“Certainly,” I said, and followed him into my office. Giles dropped the folders onto the top of my now bare desktop and spread them out I stood next to him as he went through his questions. At one point he leaned closer to reach a folder that had slipped slightly out of reach, and when he had grasped it, he didn’t move back. His arm rubbed against mine, and when he turned his head to look at me, his face was disconcertingly close.
I stepped casually back and answered his question. His eyes flashed briefly with disappointment. A moment later, I left him, after giving quick instructions on several boxes that I wanted unpacked and sorted.
I retrieved those abandoned glasses from the hall and took them to the kitchen, where I rinsed them out in the sink. As the water ran, I thought about what had just happened in my office. I wasn’t naive enough to think that Giles’s brushing against me like that had been accidental. Giles was certainly not naive, at least not in matters of that nature, and I could spot a come-on when I saw one. I sighed. What was he really after? The job? Or me?
Frankly, I was as much irritated as I was flattered. He was undeniably attractive, and he was only about ten years younger than I (that is, if I were still alive and aging at the normal rate). What was it about this village? I laughed aloud. How many other gay men were there wandering about? No wonder Tristan had enjoyed it so.
I had to admit that Giles was a good bit more attractive, as far as personality went, than I had first suspected. Away from his mother, he was quite different. But was I ready for Lady Prunella as a mother-in-law? I shuddered at the thought.
A loud crash from the direction of my office caught my attention. I reached the door of the office quickly and stopped in the doorway. Giles was sitting on the floor in front of one of the overly laden bookshelves, a box of my assorted office knickknacks and junk spilled on the floor beside him. He looked surprised but otherwise unhurt. I walked in and reached down to offer him a hand. He took it and hoisted himself up. As he did, we both heard a loud rip. The back of his shirt had caught on something on the bookshelf behind him, and the shirt tore as he stood up.
Giles stood facing me, a rueful grin giving him a most boyish look. “Sorry about your things,” he said. “I was checking the boxes on the shelves for more files, and I got a bit overbalanced. If anything is broken, I’ll replace it.”
“Don’t worry about that,” I said, surveying the damage on the floor. “There was nothing particularly valuable in that box. But what about your shirt?”
Giles shook his head. “Nothing terribly expensive, I assure you. And more than a bit aged, else it wouldn’t have torn so easily.” He twisted around, and I could see that the shirt was indeed ruined. It had ripped up the back to almost the neckline.
Staring at Giles’s back. I got quite a surprise. He pulled the shirt off over his head, his back toward me. Spread across his back, extending around over his left shoulder, down his left arm to the elbow, and onto his chest, as I could see when he turned to face me again, was a large and beautifully ex
ecuted dragon tattoo. The dragon breathed fire across his chest, which was lightly furred with dark hair. Giles grinned when he saw the expression on my face.
“Yet another little secret from Mummy,” he said.
“I can imagine,” I responded dryly. “One doesn’t expect a flower of the English aristocracy to have such colorful taste in body decoration.”
Giles stepped closer. “You can pet him if you like. He doesn’t bite.”
I flashed him one of my better smiles. “No, but I imagine you do.”
“Only if you ask nicely,” Giles assured, his eyes doing their best to tempt me.
I stepped back, and Giles’s face fell. “It’s not that I’m not tempted,” I told him honestly, “because you are just about as attractive as you think you are.” I flashed him another smile, even higher wattage this time, and he smiled back, charmed despite himself into forgiving me. “But I don’t mix business with pleasure.” For now, I added silently.
“Fair enough,” Giles said, but something about his tone told me he wouldn’t stop trying.
And, at that opportune moment, the doorbell rang.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Marveling at my sudden popularity, I sent Giles upstairs to find himself a shirt while I went to the door.
“Good afternoon, Simon,” said Jane Hardwick after I had opened the door. “May I come in?”
I gestured with my left hand, realizing belatedly that I was still holding in it Giles’s abandoned shirt.
“Have I interrupted your cleaning?” Jane asked, slightly puzzled.
Giles chose that moment to come bounding back downstairs. “How’s this one, Simon?” he asked. “It looked as if it might fit.”
Giles paused at the foot of the stairs, and I could see that, indeed, the shirt did fit. Very snugly, that is, showing off his well-muscled arms and chest. “Oh, hello, Miss Hardwick. How are you?” he inquired politely.
“Quite well, Giles,” she responded. “And you?” She looked at me with an amused glint in her eyes.
Giles smiled and said, “I’m doing very well, thank you. But if you’ll both excuse me, I had better get back to work.” So saying, he disappeared into my office and closed the door, but not before I had thrust his torn shirt into his hands.
