Murder Most Austen

by Tracy Kiely

  “And if he didn’t?” Aunt Winnie asked.

  Lindsay shook her head, as if to deny the possibility. “He would have. I don’t know how to explain it without it sounding like a cliché, but we really cared for each other. I understood and appreciated his work—and he valued my contributions. We made a good team.”

  “Are you saying that you thought he’d leave Alex for you?” I asked in surprise.

  “I don’t know what he would have done,” Lindsay replied. “But we would have worked it out. Once he delivered the paper, we would have worked it out.”

  “Why is it so important to you that the paper still be delivered?” I asked.

  Lindsay regarded me in surprise. “Are you kidding? That paper will make him famous—immortal, even. All his earlier work will be republished and reviewed. Books will be written about him and his groundbreaking theories.”

  I regarded her with equal surprise. She was either a true believer or had a really bad case of baby mush brain. Either way, she had my pity if she honestly thought that Richard’s paper was going to result in an influx of cash.

  “What are you going to do now?” I asked.

  “Have the baby, of course,” Lindsay replied without hesitation.

  “Do you have family around who can help you?” asked Aunt Winnie.

  Lindsay shook her head. “No. My parents would never support me with this. They barely tolerate the idea of my life now. I’m the first girl in my family to go to college, let alone grad school. It’s not exactly seen as a point of family pride.” She sighed. “My parents aren’t evil people, but they have this antiquated idea that women shouldn’t be, as they so quaintly put it, ‘overly educated.’ According to them, a woman’s place is serving her husband and children. In that order.” She looked down at the carpet again. “That’s their world, and I worked really hard to get away from it.” She ran her hand through her short hair, a faint smile on her lips. “Richard was unlike any man I’d ever met before. He was sophisticated, intelligent, and charming. He knew so much about so many things—and not just literature. He knew about wine, food, travel, music, and poetry. The world he lived in was so different from the one I grew up in that at times I felt as if I was from a different planet. I don’t want to go back to it. Ever.”

  I briefly wondered if Lindsay’s desire to get away from that now alien world had something to do with her pregnancy. Had the pull of Richard’s sophisticated world led her to get pregnant on purpose? Could she really have deluded herself into thinking Richard would leave Alex for her? I indulged in a mental sigh. Of course she could have. A thousand other women had done the same—why should Lindsay be an exception? “Did Alex know about you and Richard?” I asked.

  Lindsay considered the question. “I don’t know. She might have. But if she did, Richard never told me. We kept our relationship pretty secret.”

  I doubted that. Most cheating spouses think they are keeping it pretty secret and still end up getting caught. If Alex did know about Richard’s relationship with Lindsay, would she have killed him? It made sense on a certain animalistic level, but somehow that just didn’t seem Alex’s style despite her claim to having a jealous temper.

  “Are you going to tell her now?” I asked.

  Lindsay regarded me, her expression inscrutable. “I guess I’ll have to,” she said after a minute. “I mean, I’ll need money to raise the baby.”

  The ugly idea that Lindsay’s pregnancy had been planned popped back into my head. But rather than Lindsay’s hoping that Richard would leave Alex for her because of the baby, I now wondered if Lindsay could have gotten pregnant merely to ensure her financial future. After all, Richard had been a very wealthy man, and his child would be entitled to some of that wealth. And if that was the case, then it didn’t really matter if Richard was dead. In fact, from a legal standpoint, it might be easier if he was.

  My gray cells certainly weren’t providing much in the way of illumination. I sighed. I had a sinking suspicion that my little gray cells were more charcoal than anything else.

  CHAPTER 19

  I had a very pleasant evening,… though you will probably find out that there was no particular reason for it.

  —LETTERS OF JANE AUSTEN

  “WELL, THAT WAS INTERESTING,” said Aunt Winnie after we left Lindsay’s room.

  “If by ‘interesting’ you mean completely screwed up, then I would concur,” I replied, as I walked along the hallway toward the stairs. “Do you think she might have gotten pregnant on purpose?”

  “It’s a definite possibility,” Aunt Winnie said. “I think the poor thing was besotted with both Richard and his ‘sophisticated’ world. Seriously, how hard is it to get into that grad school anyway?”

  “I wonder which was stronger, the desire to join Richard’s world or the desire to leave hers for good.”

  “Does it really matter?” Aunt Winnie asked, as we descended the stairs to the lobby.

  I considered the question. “No. Probably not. Do you think we should tell Inspector Middlefield that Lindsay is pregnant?”

  Aunt Winnie paused on the staircase and turned to me, her expression troubled. “I don’t know. On the one hand, it’s private and none of our business.”

  “And on the other hand, she and Richard fought about it before he died,” I added.

  Aunt Winnie chewed on her lower lip while she debated the issue. Then, with a firm nod that sent more than a few of her red curls bobbing, she came to a decision. “We should tell the inspector,” she said. “I think it’s important. I don’t think Lindsay had anything to do with Richard’s death. I don’t think she’s a saint, mind you, but I don’t think she killed him.”

  “Okay. For the record, I agree with you about telling the inspector. But I feel like a fink letting Lindsay’s secret out of the bag.”

  “You shouldn’t feel like a fink,” she said, as she resumed her descent down the stairs. “If anyone should feel like a fink, it’s Richard Baines. I thought he was an ass before, but the fact that he slept with one of his students—a student as vulnerable and unworldly as Lindsay—is criminal. The man was an ass on all levels.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me on that,” I said.

  As I trailed along after her, I had a sudden thought. “What if Lindsay’s secret wasn’t a secret? An affair is one thing. A baby is another.”

  Aunt Winnie turned to me, her eyebrows raised high and her eyes hopeful. “Then I can think of at least one person who would be most displeased.”

  “Alex?”

  Aunt Winnie nodded. “Alex.”

  “I think we should take a look at that bathroom. Maybe Byron was wrong. Maybe there is another way in and out of it. Maybe we can help Cora after all.”

  * * *

  THERE WAS NO OTHER exit out of the bathroom, not even a window. It was just as Byron said: only one way in and one way out. The right side was lined with stalls, and the left was lined with sinks. Aunt Winnie and I even took turns standing guard outside and trying to sneak past the other, but unless Byron blindfolded himself and stuck plugs into his ears as he waited for Alex, there was simply no way that she could have passed by him unnoticed. It was a most vexing discovery.

  We had just arrived back at our hotel, when we ran into John in the lobby. However, from the way he leaped out of his chair and rushed over to us, I suspected that it wasn’t a chance meeting.

  “Hello there,” he said. “I was hoping I’d see you. I thought we could all go to the memorial this evening together.”

  “Memorial?” I asked. “What memorial?”

  John affected an exaggerated expression of surprise. “Why, the memorial for Richard,” he said, a shade louder than necessary. “Surely you’ve heard about it. Valerie arranged it. Everyone is going to be there.”

  He made it sound like the event of the century.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” I said, just as Aunt Winnie chimed in with, “Of course we’ll be there. Where and what time?”

 
; John smiled in obvious satisfaction. “It’s at a local restaurant. Meet me in the lobby at five, and I’ll take you. After all, I promised you a ride in my car, didn’t I?”

  “That you did, John,” Aunt Winnie replied with a smile of her own. “That you did.”

  * * *

  AS PLANNED, WE MET JOHN at five in the lobby. He was wearing his usual tweed jacket but in deference of the somber occasion had opted for a crisp pair of jeans rather than his ratty ones. I suppose it had something to do with that famous British sense of decorum. He grinned when he saw us and loudly called out, “The Jaguar is just out front. I had it brought round. It’s a lovely night for a drive. Shall we go?”

  Several startled heads turned our way, and I gave an embarrassed nod before following John out to the street. There, as promised, was a bright green Jaguar with the top down. John paused in front of it and stroked the leather interior in a manner that made me feel as if I was intruding on an intimate moment. “She’s a damned beauty, isn’t she?” he asked. “Bloody gorgeous lines. Paid a pretty penny for her, but she was worth it. Once I saw her, I just threw down my money and bought her. I’m not one to waste time haggling when I want something.”

  He paused, and I wondered if he was waiting for us to add our compliments. I’ve never been much of a car person; I usually run out of interest after asking, “What color is it?” And since I already knew that it was green, I was at a loss. I muttered something inane about its “lines,” which seemed to do the trick. John beamed at me and nodded.

  “Damn right. After all, it’s a Jaguar! It’s the best car on the road! I should know. I’m quite the car expert. All my friends are constantly coming to me for advice about cars. And I give it to them, you know. I’m not one to hold back. I think that if you have a special knowledge or talent, you should share it.”

  “I’m sure they appreciate that,” I said as John swung open the passenger door for Aunt Winnie. Once she was settled, he did the same for me. As I slid into the backseat, I buckled my seat belt and asked, “So where is the restaurant we‘re going to? Is it far?”

  John gunned the engine. “No. It’s just around the corner, actually. But I thought it might be nice to give you a tour of Bath before we go. I did promise you one, after all. And I am a man who keeps his promises.”

  I gave an inward groan as the car lurched out into the street, immediately causing several other drivers to blast their horns in angry protest. John waved to them as if they were merely saying hello. I ducked lower in the bucket seat.

  Bath is not a city that lends itself well to speeding. The streets are narrow and crowded with cars and pedestrians. That said, John did his level best to “give us a taste of what this baby can do.”

  I did my level best not to scream and instead hurriedly made my peace with my God.

  “So what do you think about this business with Richard?” John yelled to us over the roar of the engine.

  “It’s very sad,” I yelled back.

  “Yes, but who do you think did it?” he pressed. “Didn’t you say you were a detective of sorts? What have you found out?”

  “I never said I was an actual detective,” I countered. “I’ve just been able to help out the police a few times in the past. Please don’t think I’m passing myself off as some kind of expert.”

  “She’s just being modest, John,” Aunt Winnie said with a mischievous grin. “We’ve found out quite a lot, actually.”

  John glanced sharply at Aunt Winnie. “Really? That is interesting. What have you found out?”

  “Oh, I don’t think we should say,” said Aunt Winnie. “I wouldn’t want to compromise anything.”

  John nodded as if he completely understood, but his face registered unease. “Of course, I can appreciate the need for secrecy. But you can trust me. I am discretion itself. Just ask any of my friends. They will tell you, ‘John Ragget is the soul of discretion.’ Do you think his death has something to do with the paper? Because, frankly, I don’t.”

  “Really?” I asked, suddenly interested in the conversation. “You don’t think his death had anything to do with his theories on Jane Austen?”

  John gave an adamant shake of his head. “I don’t. Not at all.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  John gave a shrug. “Call it instinct. I’ve got a gift for it. Ask any of my friends. I think that Richard’s death is unrelated to his work. If you ask me, his death was most likely the result of a drug problem.”

  “A drug problem?” Aunt Winnie repeated in a dubious tone. “Why do you think that?”

  “Again, call it instinct. But Richard Baines never stopped moving. He was everywhere, doing everything. He was a very rich man, too. Men like that tend to dabble in drugs. They like the rush, the feel of power. Frankly, I’ve suspected for years now that the man was nursing an addiction of sorts.”

  “Wait,” I said, trying to puzzle out John’s logic. “You think that Richard Baines had a drug problem, which resulted in someone dressing as Elizabeth Bennet and stabbing him during the Jane Austen Masked Ball?”

  John nodded. “Oh, absolutely. If I were you, I’d focus on that angle rather than one revolving around his theories on Jane Austen. I think you’ll find I’m right.”

  I didn’t answer. I stared at the back of his head, lost in thought. While John hadn’t exactly established himself as an accurate source of information so far, this claim seemed beyond even his usual embellishments. Could John be trying to divert my attention from the paper and Richard’s theories as the reason behind his death, with a ridiculous claim that drug abuse played a role? He could, I decided. But the question was, why?

  * * *

  WHEN JOHN FINALLY pulled up in front of the restaurant, I saw that it was a mere two streets over from our hotel. The ride had taken us a good fifteen minutes longer than walking would have. Somehow, though, I wasn’t all that surprised. I had the distinct impression that John would drive his car across the street if he could find a reason.

  After giving the valet detailed and specific instructions for the care and keeping of his car (which so bordered on the absurd that they might as well have included, “Rub it with a diaper” and “Don’t make eye contact with it”), we made our way into the restaurant. A large crowd was already gathered in the back room. On a table near the entrance sat a large framed picture of Richard. He stared out at us with a smug, self-satisfied smile that seemed all the more inopportune given his current condition.

  In her role as hostess, Valerie came over to greet us. While the rest of us were wearing the most somber clothes we could find under the circumstances, Valerie’s outfit was tailor-made for a memorial service. Honestly, it was almost as if she’d packed anticipating death. I wondered about that for a moment before pushing the thought away as ridiculous. If Valerie had really planned to kill Richard, she’d hardly pack a bunch of black clothes in morbid preparation for the event.

  “Hello, John! How good of you to come!” she said as she enveloped him into a huge showy hug.

  “But of course, Valerie. Where else would I be? Damned terrible business, damned terrible. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do,” John answered. “Have the police made any progress?”

  Valerie gave a mournful shake of her head. Nary a blond curl moved. “No. Sadly, there’s been no news. I don’t know why—it all seems rather obvious who did it.”

  Then turning to us, as if she’d just noticed our presence, she said in a faintly surprised tone that wouldn’t have fooled a six-year-old, “Why, Elizabeth and Ms. Reynolds. I didn’t expect to see you here. I would have thought that you had other priorities.”

  I gathered that we weren’t going to get a hug, either.

  Aunt Winnie afforded her a smile. “Oh, no. Of course not. This is our priority.”

  Valerie narrowed her eyes as she tried to discern Aunt Winnie’s meaning, while I opted for a pleasantly neutral smile, a tactic I usually opted for when Aunt Winnie made ironic statements.

 
Luckily, Ian noticed us and came over, thereby easing some of the tension. Greeting us with much more warmth than Valerie—which wasn’t that difficult—Ian led us to a table laden with food and drinks. “Please help yourself,” he said. Turning to face us, he added, “And thank you for coming. I realize you didn’t know my father very well, and it’s awkward that your friend is under suspicion, but I want you to know that I really appreciate your being here.”

  His words were so obviously sincere that I found myself riddled with well-deserved guilt for being here at all. I hadn’t liked his father, and I’d found his theories absurd. I was not here out of respect for him and his family—although I genuinely liked Ian. I was here for one reason only—to find out anything that might help Cora.

  “I can’t do this,” I muttered to Aunt Winnie as Ian moved away. “We shouldn’t be here. This is wrong. This is a private event, and we are here for all the wrong reasons. Let’s pay our respects and leave.”

  Aunt Winnie paused in the process of heaping a scoop of chicken salad onto her plate. Regarding me with a serious expression, she said, “Elizabeth, you are a nice girl. And your instincts do you credit. Yes, we are barging in, but our reasons for doing so are not wrong. We are here to help a woman who, I think, has intentionally been set up as the fall guy for a murder. Someone went to a lot of trouble to frame Cora, and I want to know who. We are not gate-crashing; this memorial is as much for Valerie’s ego as it is for Richard’s memory. It’s not private, it’s open to one and all who want to come. Look around you; half of the people here are from the festival. If people were truly mourning his death, then I’d stay away. But they’re not. They are largely here for the same reason you and I are: curiosity. However, ours is altruistic, whereas theirs is largely ghoulish.”

  I didn’t respond right away. I still felt like an interloper and wanted to leave. I was not a detective, and therefore I had no reason to be here. But then I thought of Cora and felt some of my resolve fading. As annoying as she had been in her opposition to Richard and his theories, she was a nice woman who probably had been set up to take the blame for Richard’s murder. And if I could help her, then I should.