Shadow of Reality (Book One in the Elizabeth and Richard Mystery Series)

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  “We could probably find out from some of those books…but I’m not sure I want to.”

  They looked at each other for a moment. “Well, can we do anything else here?”

  Elizabeth shook her head, “I don’t think so; just cover him up.” She walked to the open window, gulping fresh air and gazing out on the rocky terrain. It hadn’t rained much for two days now; surely the crews would have that road open soon. Then the management could call the police. From what she and Richard had seen, it was clear that the body had been moved to this bedroom after the man was dead. And that could only mean one thing: there was a killer in the hotel.

  Chapter 9

  Thursday, evening

  Back in her sitting room, Elizabeth sat limply in one of the wing-backed chairs by the fireplace. “But it’s so awful. How could anyone do that to another human being? I mean, it’s okay as a game…Gloria Glitz was just acting, and it gives us all an interesting intellectual puzzle to work on. But in real life—to take a human life—I’m surprised God doesn’t strike murderers down on the spot with thunderbolts.”

  Richard nodded, but didn’t interrupt her monologue.

  “After seeing that poor man, I can’t understand some people’s soul-searching over bringing a criminal to justice. I have the most unholy reaction of wanting to see whoever did that nailed to the wall. In one of the Wimsey mysteries Lord Peter spent the night one murderer was being executed grieving in his wife’s arms. I’m afraid I would have been celebrating.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” Richard’s voice conveyed deep thought behind his soft words. “Human life is human life—all are created by God; all are his children. The recognition of that fact is a tremendous thing. All life is sacred, created for a purpose, no matter how far that person may have strayed from the divine image.”

  Elizabeth sat up straighter in her chair—if anything could bring her out of a depression it was a philosophical discussion about her favorite literary genre. “Yes! That’s what I taught my students in that whodunit class you disapproved of—that ultimately mysteries are one of the most moral forms of fiction because they bring order out of chaos and punish evil. The good ones do, anyway. I think the new vogue for letting the criminal win is one of the worst forms of obscenity…” Her voice trailed away as she remembered a recent conversation where her companion was praising just such books. She sat back in her chair.

  A knock at the door made her sit up again. Richard opened it to Gavin, and Elizabeth gasped. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Gavin, I lost all track of time. Is it really dinner time already?”

  “Almost. I came a bit early. What had you so engrossed?”

  Elizabeth laughed. “My favorite subjects, mystery-writing and philosophy. Will you wait while I change, Gavin? Richard, aren’t you meeting Anita soon?”

  Richard groaned. “Oh, I nearly forgot.”

  Elizabeth heard Gavin say, “You two did get involved, what?” as she closed her door behind her. In a few minutes she reopened it, now clad in a rosy peach, clingy crepe skirt and a satin top with a deep, ruffled neckline and long sleeves. Her head was wrapped in a turban-style band of matching fabric, pinned in place with her grandmother’s pearl-and-diamond brooch.

  Gavin stood at her entry. “I say, that was worth waiting for.”

  Elizabeth held out her hand to him as she crossed the room. “If you men just realized how stunning you look in formal wear, the tradition of dressing for dinner would return tomorrow.”

  “Complete with boiled shirts?” Her escort took her hand, bowed over it, and tucked it under his bent elbow.

  “I’m never quite sure what that means when I read it in a book. I assume it means the shirts are very white and very stiff.”

  “And very uncomfortable. Something only one to the manor born could wear with comfort,” Gavin said.

  “Ah, the true test, like The Princess and the Pea.”

  Talking nonsense with Gavin was such fun. But at the Blithe Spirit table the conversation wasn’t considered nonsense by its participants:

  “You’re crazy!” Evan hit the table, making his sister pull back, startled.

  “No, I’m not! I’m sure he did it all alone. Susie didn’t know anything about the murder. But she loves him so much she’ll protect him, even if it means jail for her.”

  “In the thirties it wasn’t jail, it was the electric chair—remember when we went to Madame Tussaud’s in London?”

  Cathy shuddered but held her ground. “Well, that’s how much she loves him.”

  “Brian may be a murderer for the sake of national security, but he’s not a total creep,” Evan’s voice rose. “He wouldn’t let a woman take the rap. They planned it together from the first.”

  “You’re both crazy, kids,” Bill interrupted his children. “Nigel’s our man—why else would he try to get rid of Millie?”

  “The fact that Nigel only tied Millie up shows he’s not a murderer. He just wanted to keep her out of the way so she couldn’t tell about the fight and have everyone learn he was an embezzler.”

  “Well, I wish you’d get this settled,” Irene told them all. “I don’t care who you decide did it—I just need to know so I can put our skit together. We have to perform the thing Sunday morning, and some of the groups are practicing already. Private Lives got twenty bed sheets from housekeeping after tea today.”

  “Interesting. They must be planning to do a ghost story.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Spies.” She held an imaginary magnifying glass to her eye.

  “Speaking of spies,” Elizabeth turned to Gavin and spoke under her breath. “Richard and I did a spot of undercover work this afternoon. We’ve got a problem upstairs.”

  “What?” He gave her his concerned attention.

  “That man.” She pointed up toward the fourth floor. “The doctor was all wet, or covering something up. That man’s been dead for ages, since Tuesday morning at least.”

  “You mean…but we saw him late Monday night…that means he must have died shortly after he left your room.” Gavin looked stricken. “What a ghastly thought—I sent the poor blighter out with a flea in his ear to meet his death. I may have been the last person to see him alive—” He swallowed deeply. “I say, that takes some getting used to.”

  Elizabeth put her hand on his arm. “Don’t torture yourself; you couldn’t have known. But I’m afraid it gets worse. He didn’t die in that bed. Someone put him there.”

  Gavin frowned. “How do you know that?”

  Elizabeth explained about lividity and Gavin winced at the gruesome details. “I say. That must have been jolly unpleasant.”

  “More unpleasant than jolly.” Elizabeth’s brief smile turned serious again. “But you see what it all means, don't you?”

  “I’m very much afraid I do. Who have you told?”

  “No one yet, unless Richard told Anita. I suppose Mr. Hamlin should know, but I don’t see that much can be done until the police can get here. I suppose they could come up in a helicopter if we could get word to them.”

  “I haven’t heard a news report lately, but if the flood conditions have subsided in the valley someone could hike out.” Gavin frowned thoughtfully.

  Elizabeth was glad he didn’t ask for any more details about the body—she wanted to enjoy her dinner. And dinner that night was most enjoyable. It featured a dessert buffet in the center of the room, where the salad bar usually stood. Such creations du chef as Vienna nut torte, Black Forest cake, strawberry parfait, blueberry custard, eclairs and Napoleons, and imported cheeses with strawberries, grapes, and pears adorned a three-tiered table. It left all the diners laughing helplessly at their own greediness, even the brother and sister, who could hardly fight with each other while sharing bites of a chocolate whipped cream cherry confection.

  Elizabeth pushed her plate away with a groan.

  “Is that a signal you’ve finished?” Gavin asked.

  “That Port Salut is the best cheese I’ve ever tasted
in my life, but when I’m too full even to finish my tea, you know I’m full.”

  Fixing his glass in his eye, always a signal he was going into a characterization, Gavin leaned toward her. “In that case, my dear, how about coming up to my room for a spot of rare manuscript viewing?”

  Elizabeth held up her hand as a warning. “Not unless the butler is there to supervise.”

  “Alas, the inestimable fellow remained in London. Hardhearted of him. I’m desolate without his services.”

  “Just as I supposed. Besides, you already confessed that you don’t collect rare books.”

  “Careless of me, that. Well, might as well make the best of it then and go to the movie, what?”

  Tonight’s film was The Silent Passenger, a 1935 period piece with Peter Haddon playing Lord Peter Wimsey. But even the most devoted old movie buff had to admit it was only interesting rather than gripping, and the combination of a comfortable chair, a dark room, a full stomach, and last night’s interrupted sleep made it more than Elizabeth could do to stay awake.

  She battled through the first half, then decided she was being ridiculous to attempt the impossible. “I’m sorry, Gavin, but I’m so sleepy I just can’t fight it any longer.”

  He glanced quickly at the screen, then back to her. “Of course, I’ll take you to your room.”

  “No. You stay here. I know it’s important to you to see Haddon’s interpretation, and there’s no telling when you’ll get to see such an obscure film again.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Perfectly. I’m quite capable of walking to my room.”

  The old hotel was quiet, and the uneven floorboards creaked under her feet as she climbed the stairs, her hand running lightly up the oak banister. On the fourth floor the hall was softly lighted, and the mellow wainscoting was warm and welcoming. Elizabeth’s mind was full of images from the movie and the role-playing of the past days…and suddenly she was walking down the hall in a Yorkshire country house in the thirties.

  The sensation lasted only a few seconds before reality intervened and shattered the illusion, but for that moment it had been so absolutely real, so totally authentic, that it left Elizabeth shaken and strangely buoyed. It was as if all the books she had read and the movies she had seen about time travel and visiting other dimensions were possible.

  Yet the fact that the moment passed so swiftly left her with a sense of loss and a nostalgic ache for things that could never be recaptured: The fading of a dream, a vision of the night—like a starving man who dreams and thinks that he is eating, but wakes up to find himself empty, or a thirsty man who dreams and thinks that he is drinking, but wakes up to find himself thirsty and dry. She frowned slightly, wondering where that had come from. Something she had memorized long ago. What a strange thing memory was. The futility of the unbidden lines seemed to reinforce her feeling of sadness.

  She entered her sitting room with a sigh, pulled the turban and brooch from her head, tossed them on the coffee table, and with a drowsy step went into her bedroom. In a few minutes she slipped into bed, chasing away her former melancholia by thinking of Gavin, of the delight of being with him, of the incredible experience of seemingly finding her favorite fictional heroes in real life; and, like Sebastion in The Tempest, she murmured, “If it be thus to dream, still let me slumber on.”

  Chapter 10

  Friday, March 16, 1090/1934

  The next morning, Elizabeth wakened to the sound of rain lashing against her window by a driving wind. If this weather didn’t clear up pretty soon she was going to start worrying about getting home. Being cut off from reality and lost in a fantasy for a few days was fine, but if it went on much longer, claustrophobia would set in. Especially since one of those sharing her confinement was…well, never mind…

  She washed her face vigorously to avoid following that line of thought, then sat in the cozy, if faded, chintz overstuffed chair in the corner by the window. Still too early for breakfast, although coffee would be available in the lounge for early risers. But Elizabeth wanted to be quiet, to gather her thoughts. The ups and downs of the past days had left her uncentered and emotionally overloaded. She tried to read a novel she found on the table beside the chair. She usually liked Ngaio Marsh, but this one didn’t hold her interest. She tossed it aside and instead picked up the Bible that had been under it. She smiled, thinking again of sitting with Nana in that squeaky rocker. Sometimes she would read and sometimes Nana would, but always the rocker moved in rhythm to the words. And for every five verses she memorized she got to walk into town with Nana for an ice cream cone. She closed her eyes, remembering what long legs her tall, thin grandmother had, how she always had to run to keep up with her.

  The reminiscing did the trick. A short time later she left her room, feeling refreshed. At the sight of a man in the hall, she opened her mouth to greet Richard, then started when she realized it was someone else. “Oh, Bill. You startled me. What are you doing down that empty hall?” Her eyes flicked to the door of the supposedly empty room just beyond them.

  “Just taking a morning constitutional. All this rich food and little chance for exercise—it’s starting to catch up with me. And certainly couldn’t walk outdoors in this.” He tipped his head toward the rain streaking down the window. “Ready for a new day of sleuthing?”

  “Er, sure.” She forced a smile as she fell into step beside him down the stairs. What was he really doing outside that room? she wondered.

  But at the dining room she met Richard, and his first question changed her train of thought.

  “Did you have a nice evening?” he asked, as Bill moved on to join his family.

  “Yes, I did, in spite of getting sleepy in the middle of the movie. Gavin Kendall is really a major league nice person.” She smiled, then added quickly, “And so is Anita.”

  “You noticed that, too, did you?”

  They were almost to the Blithe Spirit table when Elizabeth remembered she had left her notebook in the parlor adjoining her room. “You go on, Richard, I’ll catch up.”

  But the notebook wasn’t on the coffee table in front of the fireplace where she was sure she had left it. She checked the books on the end table, the pile of papers on the desk where Richard had apparently been working at odd moments…even under the chairs and sofa. She checked behind the cushions of the sofa next. But all she found was the peach crepe headband she had tossed there lethargically last night. And only the headband. She stared at the fabric lying limp in her hand. No pearl and diamond brooch.

  She began to search frantically, pulling the cushions off the sofa, crawling around the floor on her hands and knees, dumping out the wastebasket, even raking through the ashes in the fireplace. It was gone.

  Her first thought was to get Richard. She turned and barely missed banging into the door as it opened toward her, “Oh, Richard, I’m so glad—”

  “Sorry to disappoint and all that, but I told Richard I’d pop up and tell you the news.” Gavin put his hands on her shoulders to steady her. “Is something wrong?”

  “My brooch, Grandmother’s pearls—it’s gone.”

  “So they got to you, too, did they?”

  “Too?” She sank into the nearest chair.

  “I’m afraid there’s been rather a rash of jewel-thieving.” Elizabeth’s hand went to the slim gold chain at her throat. “Stark announced at breakfast that there were several occurrences last night, which were definitely not part of the scenario. He suggested that everyone turn their valuables in to the hotel to keep them in the safe, and two of the bellboys have been dispatched to hike down the mountain for the police. Although, in this weather…” They both glanced anxiously at the rain-battered window.

  “Of course, the good part is that the weather makes it harder for the culprit to get away, too. I think the hotel is quite optimistic about recovering the jewelry.”

  “What kind of value system is this? Hamlin knew about the corpse in the empty room, but even when the weather was dry for two d
ays he didn’t send anyone out. Now because some guests have lost some baubles he sends mere boys out in this.” But Elizabeth wasn’t really thinking about the jewelry or even the health of the bellboys. “Then, that must mean that our corpse was involved in a jewel ring, and the others bumped him off.” She began pacing the room, then stopped with her hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear, I’m talking like a character in a cheap thriller.”

  “I think you’re probably right, though. It does look as though he had a mate. The fellow has probably done us a favor. It’s a dead cert, I’d say, that when they solve the robbery they’ll solve the murder. Of course, the murder's still not generally known yet.”

  “And they’re going ahead with the game?”

  “Full speed. It’s more important than ever—keep the troops occupied, so to speak. Matter of fact, I’m on the agenda this morning.”

  “Oh? I haven’t checked my schedule. What’s happening?”

  “Speeches in the main parlor. Stark on detective technique, Matt Cruise—Brian Rielly to you—on spies in fact and fiction, and yours truly on the classic country-house mystery.” He bowed. “But you’re missing breakfast.”

  “It seems discovering I’ve been robbed took my appetite away. Maybe I could just grab a piece of toast along the way.”

  Gavin was holding the door open for her when she stopped and struck her forehead. “Oh, now I remember—I left my notebook by my bed!” She returned with it in a minute. “At least that’s one mystery solved.”

  Weldon Stark’s speech on the scientific aspects of detection, from electronic surveillance to forensic toxicology, was fascinating, but Elizabeth couldn’t keep her mind on the lecture. She found that her thoughts and notes kept drifting to the real mystery of the fourth floor of Eyrie House.

  “Because of the perfection of modern methods of detection and estimation of poisons, poisoning, which was the favorite weapon of the criminal of bygone days, has declined considerably…”

  If they could just identify that little man, somehow it wouldn’t seem so awful. It’s just the idea of a nameless grave…