Murder Most Austen

by Tracy Kiely

  Inspector Middlefield’s brows knitted together in concentration as she noted this down. “Were you in costume earlier this evening?” she asked.

  “Yes,” replied Byron. “But I knew that I wouldn’t be able to finish what Richard needed before the end of the ball, so I changed into my street clothes.”

  “I see.” Inspector Middlefield said nothing else, letting silence fill the room, as she calmly regarded him. Byron began to fidget under her gaze.

  A constable gave a sudden shout of excitement from down the hallway, breaking the tension. “Inspector,” he called, “I think I’ve found something!”

  Inspector Middlefield turned in his direction, her expression studiously controlled and calm. This couldn’t be said for the rest of us.

  Hurrying over to the inspector, the constable held out a black wig in his gloved hands. I recognized it immediately. I’d seen several identical ones earlier. It was the wig that went with the Elizabeth costume. However, this one had an added feature. Tucked inside was a bloody knife.

  CHAPTER 12

  We do not look in great cities for our best morality.

  —MANSFIELD PARK

  ALEX LET OUT A LITTLE MOAN and covered her mouth. “Is that … is that what he was stabbed with?” she asked, her eyes wide with horror.

  Inspector Middlefield studied the knife with a practiced eye. “It certainly appears to be,” she said slowly. Taking her pen, she poked it at the wig. “I’d say this seems to go with a costume.” Turning to Alex, she said, “You don’t appear to be wearing a wig, Mrs. Baines.”

  Alex shook her head. “No. I didn’t need one. I did my own hair.” Inspector Middlefield looked dubiously at the lank strands that fell haphazardly around her face. Sensing her suspicion, Alex said, “It didn’t look like this earlier, obviously. It came undone while I was in the bathroom.”

  “That’s true,” I said.

  Inspector Middlefield shifted her gaze to me. “Were you in the bathroom as well?” she asked.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I meant it’s true that Alex didn’t wear a wig tonight. There were several women dressed in costumes similar to hers, but they all wore wigs. I remember noticing that she didn’t.”

  “So there were several women dressed like Mrs. Baines?” Inspector Middlefield asked.

  “Yes. It was a pretty popular costume. A lot of women also wore the mask with it. Now that I think about it, the woman I saw wore a wig.” I paused and then stated the obvious, “I guess I must have seen one of those women approach Richard. He must have had the fight with another guest in an Elizabeth costume.”

  “Yes, it would seem so,” Inspector Middlefield said with the mild sarcasm at which the British excel. I felt my face flush. Turning back to Alex, Inspector Middlefield said, “Did your husband have any enemies that you know of?”

  Alex shook her head. “No. I mean, I don’t think so. He upset a lot of people with his theories on Jane Austen, but no one ever got really mad. Well, no one other than that woman Cora.”

  “I’m sorry. What woman? Who is Cora?” asked Inspector Middlefield.

  I snuck a glance at Aunt Winnie. Her face wore the same expression of dread that I suspected mine did.

  “Cora Beadle,” replied Alex. “She was very vocal about her disgust at Richard’s theories. She and he have never seen eye to eye, but this year it was worse. My husband was going to deliver a paper that argued that Jane Austen didn’t die of Addison’s disease but rather syphilis, and Cora was livid.”

  Inspector Middlefield made a noise not dissimilar to a strangled cough. Behind her glasses, her blue eyes were shuttered with professional detachment, but I thought I still detected a faint look of amusement in their depths. “I see. Well, that is quite a discovery. What did Cora say about that?” she asked.

  “She yelled a lot and said she was going to try and stop him from giving the paper…,” Alex began and then broke off as the implication of her words sank in. “Oh, dear God! Could she have done this?” She turned to Byron, her eyes wide. “I mean, I knew she was angry, but do you think she could have killed him?”

  Byron shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But I really don’t know.”

  Inspector Middlefield tapped her notebook with her pen. “Where is this woman now?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Alex. “I haven’t seen her since she yelled at Richard during the ball. She seemed a little drunk, to be honest. She bumped into me and spilled my wine. She then insisted I take her glass. After that she lit into Richard.”

  “Do you remember what she said?”

  Alex gave an apologetic shrug. “Not really. Cora yelled at my husband a lot. After a while, I just tuned it out. So did he, for that matter. As best I can remember, she was angry about the effect his paper would have on Austen’s reputation. She was also going on about some group back home and what they would do.”

  “And what was your husband’s reaction?” asked Inspector Middlefield.

  “He just laughed at her. I tried to calm her down, but she was furious. She called him a bastard and then left.”

  “Did you see her after that?” Inspector Middlefield asked.

  “No. Richard and I joined a dance, and then soon after that my stomach started to cramp.” Alex looked down at her lap. Twisting her hands, she said, “If only I hadn’t gotten so sick. I might have been able to stop whoever did this.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Inspector Middlefield mildly. “I rather wonder if your getting sick wasn’t part of the plan.”

  Alex looked up, her expression confused. “What do you mean?”

  Inspector Middlefield did not answer her. Instead, she asked, “Do you happen to remember what Ms. Beadle was wearing tonight?”

  “Yes,” said Alex. “She was wearing an Elizabeth costume.”

  “Like yours?”

  “Yes. Why? You don’t think that—” Alex began, but Inspector Middlefield cut her short.

  “I think I need to talk to Mrs. Beadle,” was all she said.

  * * *

  FINDING CORA PROVED something of a challenge. No one at the ball had seen her, and Izzy was nowhere to be found either. After several minutes of searching various rooms, we finally found her slumped in a chair under the grand staircase. Her chin was resting on her chest and she was softly snoring. In her hands, precariously balanced, was an empty wineglass. As my mother would say, she was in the arms of Morpheus. But seeing how Morpheus was the god of dreams, I think it was more accurate to say that Cora was in the arms of Bacchus. And seeing how long it took us to rouse her (which happened only after Aunt Winnie gave her a less-than-gentle slap across the face), he was certainly hanging on tightly to Cora.

  When she opened her bleary eyes, it was clear that her little nap had not erased the effects of the wine, and her confusion at finding herself in a circle of people that included representatives from the local police was evident from the manner in which she gaped at us.

  “Cora, you need to wake up,” Aunt Winnie ordered in a firm voice. “The police are here. They need to talk to you.”

  Cora rubbed her eyes and stared back at Aunt Winnie without comprehension.

  “Can we get her a cup of coffee or something?” Aunt Winnie asked Inspector Middlefield. The inspector nodded and jerked her head at one of the constables, who promptly trotted off in search of an appropriately caffeinated beverage.

  “Cora, do you understand me?” Aunt Winnie asked, bending down low so her face was only inches from Cora’s.

  Cora’s brows pulled together. “Why are the police here? What’s happened? Where’s Izzy?” she asked thickly.

  “There’s been an incident. The police need to talk to you,” replied Aunt Winnie, her eyes never leaving Cora’s.

  There was a flicker of emotion in Cora’s bloodshot eyes at hearing this. Fear? Panic? I couldn’t tell.

  “Where’s Izzy? Is she okay?” she asked again, just as the constable returned with a large cup of coffee. He handed it to
Cora, who took a grateful sip.

  “We haven’t been able to find her, but I’m sure she’s fine,” said Aunt Winnie. “Do you know where she might be?”

  Cora shook her head.

  Inspector Middlefield now stepped forward. “Hello, Mrs. Beadle. My name is Inspector Middlefield and I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind,” Cora said slowly.

  “I understand that you had a disagreement with Professor Baines earlier this evening. Could you tell me what it was about?” The inspector’s voice was almost conversational.

  Cora shot a wary glance at Alex. Alex stared suspiciously at Cora with her arms wrapped protectively across her chest.

  “Why do you care about that?” Cora asked.

  “Because he’s been murdered,” came the harsh reply.

  Cora’s link with Bacchus now snapped. She sat up in her chair and stared back at the inspector, her eyes finally alert. They briefly landed on Alex with an expression of horror, before refocusing on the inspector. “Wait a minute. What? Richard’s been killed? But how? Why?”

  “That’s exactly what I’d like to know, Mrs. Beadle. Now, perhaps you could help me by explaining what your fight with him was about.”

  Cora blinked. Several times. She glanced at Aunt Winnie, as if hoping she somehow had the answers. Aunt Winnie gave her a reassuring smile but said nothing.

  “Wait. You think I had something to do with his death?” Cora finally got out.

  Inspector Middlefield shook her head. “I didn’t say that. I merely wondered if you could tell me what your argument was about.”

  Cora blanched and stared at her cup of coffee. After a moment, she looked back up at Inspector Middlefield. “Well, first of all, I wouldn’t call it an argument—”

  “It most certainly was!” interjected Alex, her eyes flashing with anger.

  Inspector Middlefield held up a cautionary hand. Alex fell silent. “We have several witnesses who called it just that,” Inspector Middlefield said.

  Cora took a deep breath. “Oh. Oh, I see. Well, yes. I did talk to Richard tonight. I admit that I was upset with him. He was planning on giving a paper tomorrow that claimed some really horrible things about Jane Austen. I told him that he was a disgrace to the Austen Society.” Cora stopped. Turning pleading eyes to Inspector Middlefield, she said, “Look, I admit that I didn’t like the man, but I didn’t kill him! That’s insane!”

  Inspector Middlefield produced a thin smile. “Well, someone did. In the meantime, could you please tell me your movements this evening? When did you have this argument with Professor Baines?”

  Cora hesitated. I wasn’t sure if it was because she was hiding something or just having trouble remembering. Either way, it didn’t look good. I glanced at Aunt Winnie. She stared back at me with worried eyes.

  “I saw him at his table. The dancing had just started,” said Cora slowly. “I went over to him, and I told him what I thought of his theories. I admit I was angry, but that’s all. I didn’t want him to present his paper, but I certainly wouldn’t kill him to stop him!”

  “What did Professor Baines say to you?” asked the inspector.

  “Nothing, really. Nothing at all. He just laughed at me. That made me even angrier, so I left. I got another glass of wine, and I came out here to get hold of my emotions. I … I must have fallen asleep. I must still be a little jet-lagged or something.”

  “Or something,” the inspector agreed. Cora flushed. Inspector Middlefield continued. “I understand that when you first approached Professor Baines, you accidentally bumped into Mrs. Baines, spilling her drink in the process, and that you gave her yours instead. Is that correct?”

  Cora nodded. I suddenly saw where this was going, and my own stomach began to cramp in anticipation of the inspector’s next question.

  “Could you tell me what was in your drink?”

  Cora had no reason to understand the significance of the question, as she—in theory, anyway—didn’t know that Alex had gotten sick soon after drinking from Cora’s glass.

  Cora’s brows drew together in confusion, but she readily answered, “White wine, why?”

  “Mrs. Baines was suddenly taken rather ill after drinking it,” came the reply.

  “Well, I certainly don’t know anything about that!” Cora cried defensively.

  “One more question. You wore an Elizabeth Bennet costume this evening, correct?”

  Cora looked down at her costume, perplexed. “Yes, why?”

  “I understand that this costume came with a wig. Did you wear one this evening?”

  “Well, of course I did,” Cora said, reaching for her head. “It’s right here.”

  But it wasn’t there, as Cora’s groping hand quickly discovered. She gasped as she discovered what we already knew: Cora’s head was bare.

  “The reason I ask, you see,” said Inspector Middlefield, “is that a wig similar to the kind belonging to your costume was found near the body. With the murder weapon neatly tucked inside.”

  Cora frantically looked around for her wig, but it was nowhere to be found.

  “I’d like to continue this conversation somewhere a bit more private,” continued the inspector. “I think now might be a good time to come to my office.”

  CHAPTER 13

  My mother means well; but she does not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from what she says.

  —PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

  CORA LEFT WITH A CONSTABLE, still protesting her innocence. “Find Izzy!” she repeatedly called to us as she was led away. Inspector Middlefield stayed behind to obtain a few more statements before she joined Cora at the station for additional questioning. She quickly completed her task and then left for the station, leaving one of her associates, a short, stocky man by the name of Sergeant McDunna, in charge.

  I glanced over at Alex. She still stood with her arms wrapped around her, her gaze vacant and unblinking. Byron caught my eye and took a few steps toward me. His voice barely above a whisper, he said, “I can’t believe this is happening. I mean, I knew that Richard could be annoying at times, especially to those who disagreed with his theories, but to kill him? It’s madness!”

  “So you have no idea who might have done it?” I asked.

  He shook his head, his eyes wide. “None. My mind feels like it shut down. I think I must be in shock or something.”

  I peered over his shoulder to where Alex still stood staring off into space. “I think Alex actually is in shock,” I said.

  Byron turned and looked as well. “I think you may be right. You know, she’s never been my favorite person, but she did love Richard. I can’t imagine what she’s going through.”

  “Is there anyone we can call? A relative or friend?”

  Byron’s forehead crinkled as he thought. “She has a sister, I think. But of course, she lives in the States. I’ll see if I can get hold of her. In the meantime, I wonder if I could get her a sedative or something. She should probably lie down.”

  I nodded my agreement. “If you can’t find a sedative, try a stiff drink. She looks as though she could use it.”

  “Good idea. I’ll do that.” Walking back over to Alex, Byron gently touched her arm. “Alex?” he said. “Why don’t I walk you back to your room? You should probably lie down.”

  Alex remained rooted to the ground. She neither moved nor indicated she’d heard him. Byron tried again, his voice a tad louder. “Alex? Alex, let me take you back to the hotel. You can talk to the police some more later.”

  This time his voice penetrated the fog that seemed to cloud her brain. With an almost robotic movement, she gradually turned her head until she was facing him. “Okay,” she said in a flat, dull tone.

  Byron reached out his hand and awkwardly pulled her next to him. Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he steered her toward the doorway. “If the police need either me or Mrs. Baines,” he said to Sergeant McDunna, as he continued to guide the zombielike Alex from
the room, “you can find us at our hotel.”

  “I’d prefer it if you would stay here, sir. At least until I hear from Inspector Middlefield,” said Sergeant McDunna.

  “And I would prefer to get Mrs. Baines back to her room before she collapses to the ground from shock. We aren’t going anywhere, just to the hotel. Now, if you will excuse me,” Byron said firmly.

  Sergeant McDunna’s brown eyes registered uncertainty at this arrangement, but Byron’s tone broached no argument. “I’ll have someone escort you there,” the sergeant finally conceded. “I’m afraid that I will also need you both to surrender your passports until we’ve cleared up this matter.”

  Byron’s step did not waver as he led Alex away. “Do whatever you think you need to do,” he said. “It’s not like either one of us is going to want to leave before this matter is cleared up.”

  Sergeant McDunna said nothing else, but from the frustrated glare he aimed at the doorway just vacated by Byron and Alex, I suspected that he wasn’t impressed with Byron or his chivalrous instincts. When I heard him mutter, “Arrogant American,” under his breath, I was sure of it.

  I found myself starting to defend Byron but then I stopped. While he seemed a nice enough man, I really didn’t know him. Could he have killed Richard? And if so, why? Since Richard seemed to stir up all sorts of animosity, I decided to skip the latter question and focus on the former. However, try as I might, I couldn’t see how Byron—or anyone over five foot eight—could have committed the crime. Whoever had burst into the ballroom wearing the Elizabeth costume had been of slight build and average height. Byron was at least six feet tall and broad shouldered. There was simply no way that it could have been him in the costume.

  But I still didn’t say anything to Sergeant McDunna. I suspected that he would have thought I was an “arrogant American” as well and would look at me with undue suspicion.