“Raymond Chandler once wrote that when he got stuck for something to do to advance the plot, he had a man come through the door with a gun.”
I paused for the chuckles this line invariably brought.
“Of course, if you’re writing a novel set in the tenth century, this won’t work.”
There were a few more chuckles at this one, but, amazingly, a hand shot up in the back of the room. “Why not, Dr. Kirby-Jones?”
I examined the questioner closely. About twenty, he appeared genuinely puzzled at the snickers that greeted his query. After a moment’s further study, I concluded he was serious. He genuinely didn’t understand.
“Because guns hadn’t been invented in the tenth century.” I tried to keep my tone noncommittal.
After all, I had told them at the beginning of my talk that there were no stupid questions, that they should feel free to ask anything. But I had supposed—wrongly, it now appeared—that anyone interested in writing historical fiction would have a basic acquaintance with some facts of history. I peered across the room at his name badge. Geoff Monkley was scrawled in bold lettering. Could he be related to Lady Hermione’s assistant, Mary Monkley?
As the sounds of mirth subsided, I continued. “If you’re going to write in the genre known as ‘alternate history,’ you can play with the facts of history and introduce anachronisms deliberately.” I could see that Geoff had no idea what an anachronism was and now was too embarrassed to ask. “An anachronism is the placing of a person, place, event, or object in the incorrect historical period. For example, like having Moses print out the Ten Commandments on his laser printer.” I got some guffaws with that one.
Geoff’s face cleared. Now he understood me. “If you’re going to write straight historical fiction or historical mysteries, rather than alternate history or historical fantasy, then you should stick to the facts as closely as possible. When you deviate from them, you’d better have a darn good reason and be willing to explain it to your readers. Nothing will ruin a book faster for an intelligent reader than inaccuracies. They might slip by a lot of readers, but inevitably, there will be at least one person who will catch you out.”
That touched off a lively debate, and thus I kept my group of conference-goers busy for another half hour. By the end of the session, I was exhilarated. I patted myself on the back—metaphorically, that is—for having given them their many pounds’ worth. I had been horrified—and fascinated—when I discovered just how much Lady Hermione charged them for this week, and was therefore all the more determined to ensure that they got something out of it, at least from me.
As usual, there were one or two who lingered behind to ask further questions after the rest had headed off thirstily for their tea. Thus it was that I arrived in Lady Hermione’s drawing room for my own tea a bit later than the rest of my fellow conference speakers.
Many of our tea breaks were communal, giving us opportunities to spend time informally with our students. Lady Hermione had arranged one meeting each day, though, for just the speakers. Her way, I suppose, of keeping tabs on what transpired each day. This session promised to be of particular interest, given my confrontations with the faux Dorinda earlier in the day.
All heads turned in my direction as I entered the room, as if they had been waiting impatiently for my arrival. I scanned the room quickly. Nina Yaknova had not yet arrived, it seemed. Where was the dratted woman? Late, as usual.
With her hands clenched tightly in her lap, That Woman sat in a chair near the center of the room, not far from Lady Hermione and her shadow, Mary Monkley. Miss Monkley was scribbling industriously in a notebook as Lady Hermione issued instructions for some adjustments to tomorrow’s schedule of workshops.
Patty Anne Putney, beaming with goodwill and stroking Mr. Murbles constantly, approached me. I plastered a welcoming smile on my face.
“Mr. Murbles is so pleased with you, Dr. Kirby-Jones,” Patty Anne said, leaning close and whispering in the general direction of my left ear.
“And why is that?” I asked politely, eyeing the bunny dubiously.
“He heard that you put that dreadful woman in her place,” she responded, and one hand manipulated Mr. Murbles’s head, so that it seemed he was nodding in approbation at me.
“Delighted, I’m sure,” I said. She appeared unaffected by the tinge of sarcasm in my tone.
“Can you believe,” she whispered indignantly, “that dreadful woman had the nerve to tell Mr. Murbles our books are saccharine enough to send a diabetic into shock? How could she say something so hurtful to Mr. Murbles? Miss Edwina Aiken and Hodge are beloved by millions of readers, and that woman would do well to remember not everyone wants to read about a heroine like hers.”
The disdain in her voice caught me by surprise. “Why? What’s wrong with her?”
Patty Anne’s eyes widened in horror. “She smokes!”
I nodded, still perplexed.
“That’s not very ladylike, is it?” Patty Anne hissed at me, clearly pleased at having made her point.
If this woman’s balloon ever landed, I wanted to be present to see it.
“But apparently she didn’t write those books after all,” she continued. “Dreadful woman! Mr. Murbles doesn’t like her, not at all. He thinks she should be asked to leave Kinsale House immediately.”
“It won’t be long now before that happens,” I assured her. “As soon as Nina Yaknova arrives, the game will be up.”
Miss Putney drew back in horror. “Is she coming here?”
“Do you mean Nina?” I asked. “Yes, didn’t you see her name listed on your schedule?”
She shook her head violently. “No! Mr. Murbles and I wouldn’t be here at all if we knew she was going to be here.” Her grip on Mr. Murbles had tightened to the point that the poor bunny appeared to be choking.
“Is Nina your agent?” I asked, fascinated.
“She used to be,” Miss Putney hissed. “Before Mr. Murbles and I caught on to her vicious ways. She is not a lady! And she does not conduct herself in a way remotely becoming to one.”
Right on cue, Nina stormed in, Giles trailing in her wake and frowning mightily.
“Hermione, my dear, how are you?” Nina asked. She came to a halt in front of our hostess and waited, foot tapping, as Lady Hermione rose, then bent down to exchange air kisses with her. Conversation around us had ceased completely in anticipation of the fireworks.
“I’m delighted you finally managed to arrive, Nina,” Lady Hermione said. “We’ve been expecting you.”
They eyed each other as adversaries in the ring often do. I expected them to start circling any moment now, looking for a vulnerable spot for the knockout punch. Lady Hermione had the advantages of her superior height and breeding. Nina simply fought dirty.
“One does have a business to run, after all, Hermione,” Nina observed. “I couldn’t tell the prime minister to call back, just because talking to him would make me late for dear Lady Hermione’s little afternoon tea, now, could I?”
Lady Hermione’s lips tightened. Knowing Nina as I did, I doubted she was bluffing. Lady Hermione knew it, too.
“I’m sure you’re to be congratulated, Nina, on having signed the prime minister as a client. But I have a more pressing concern at the moment.”
“Thank you, Hermione. Now whatever is the matter? Has one of your little pets written a bestseller?” I could have smacked Nina myself for the patronizing air with which she delivered that last line.
Nina turned to Giles. “Tea, please. Black, two lumps.”
To his credit, Giles bit back a retort—no doubt about the lumps he would like to give her—and went to get her a cup of tea from the nearby cart. I would have a few choice words for her later on her manners—or rather, her lack of them.
“Now, you were saying...?” Nina affected a bored tone as she turned back to Lady Hermione. Giles had handed her a cup of tea, and she stirred it.
“There is a bit of a dispute we’re hoping that you can resolve, Nina,” Lady Hermione said, her voice remarkably controlled. “Professor Kirby-Jones claims that one amongst us is an impostor.”
“Simon, what on earth are you playing at?” Setting down her tea without having tasted it Nina turned toward me. “Stirring up a little drama, are we?”
“I suppose one could look at it that way, Nina, dearest,” I said, taking a few strides to stand beside her and looking down upon her gamine face. “Someone here is claiming to be one of your clients. Dorinda Darlington, in fact.”
Nina’s eyes flickered. She turned away from me and picked up her tea. As I watched, she walked over to where the faux Dorinda sat on a couch, and seated herself beside the impostor. She set down her cup of tea on the table in front of the couch.
“But, Simon, darling, you know Dorinda is one of my clients. There’s no pretense involved in that.”
The patronizing tone nettled me. She’d never before spoken to me in such fashion. “I know that, Nina, darling. Forgive me for being imprecise. Someone is here claiming to be Dorinda Darlington.” As if she didn’t know this already, from our conversation several days ago in her office.
“Really, Simon? How terribly interesting.” Nina couldn’t have looked more bored. “Who, pray tell?” With a sweep of my hand, I indicated the woman sitting beside her. Nina picked up her tea and took a sip before placing the cup back on the table.
“Hello, Dorinda, dearest,” Nina cooed. “Is Simon playing naughty games again?”