Dingleby brought a tea tray soon after Lady Hermione’s departure, and for some time the only sounds in the room came from the slurping of tea or the clinking of spoons against the Kinsale china. Over the course of the next two hours, one by one the occupants of the room left, summoned by Robin Chase, until only I was left in the room. While we waited, no one had attempted to violate Robin’s ban on conversation—not even Nina, much to my surprise.
Giles had been the next to last one called, and about fifteen minutes after his summons, one of Robin’s men came to call me back into Robin’s temporary office.
“Got the murderer pegged yet, Detective Inspector?” I asked as I made myself comfortable in the hot seat.
“You’ll know the answer to that, Dr. Kirby-Jones, just as soon as everyone else here at Kinsale House does,” Robin said smoothly. “I’m sure you can appreciate the fact that I can’t reveal any of the details of the investigation just now.” I rolled my eyes at Robin, but he affected not to notice. “For the sake of clarity, Dr. Kirby-Jones, I’d like to take you through your movements one more time, if you please.”
Sighing at the tediousness of it all, I complied with Robin’s request, making my answer as concise and brief as possible.
“An admirable summary, Dr. Kirby-Jones. Thank you for your continued cooperation,” Robin said when I had finished.
“You’re most welcome, Detective Inspector. I’m delighted to do what I can to assist you.”
His head came up at that little sally, and he restrained a smile.
“I have asked everyone to remain tonight at Kinsale House, Dr. Kirby-Jones, and I will have members of the force posted throughout the house to ensure that there are no further incidents.”
“What about tomorrow?” I inquired.
“After discussing the matter with Lady Hermione, I’ve decided that she may continue with her program if the participants are willing. However, anyone wishing to depart tomorrow may do so, after leaving suitable contact information with me or one of my staff.”
I rose from my chair. “Thank you, Detective Inspector. And I do hope that your investigation is concluded swiftly.”
Robin looked up from the desk. “So do I, Dr. Kirby-Jones. So do I.” I could see that he was still smarting from the fact that a second murder had occurred practically under his nose. He had my sympathies, but he knew as well as I that there was little he could have done to prevent it, short of having each of us watched continuously by one of his men.
As I let myself out of the room, Robin was already on the phone, no doubt reporting to his superiors. I didn’t envy him that call.
I encountered Dingleby in the hall, where he informed me that dinner was being served in the dining room, if I should choose to partake. Though I was tempted to follow him to the dining room—if for no other reason than to observe—I decided that I would rather spend the time in my room, mulling over the case and reading through what Giles had found through his researches.
In the upstairs hallway I found two of Robin’s men posted on guard. One stood near the head of the stairs, another at the end of the corridor near Norah Tattersall’s room. The lights in the hallway had been turned up to their brightest, and the two policemen would be able to see whenever anyone left his or her room during the night.
The small suite I shared with Giles was quiet when I entered. No doubt Giles was downstairs eating a belated meal with the others. I went into the bathroom and downed a pill, which was only a bit overdue. That task accomplished, I went into Giles’s bedchamber and found the stack of file folders containing his researches from the Internet Carrying them back into my room, I sat in my chair and began examining them. Giles, organized as ever, had already sorted everything by person, each folder neatly labeled so that I could see everything he had found, one person at a time.
I wasn’t sure what to look for, other than some kind of link between Wanda Harper and one of the suspects. It was possible that Giles could have uncovered some hint of the guilty secrets that my fellow writers were concealing, but the chances were, their peccadilloes were beyond the reach of Giles’s computer.
I decided to start with Isabella Veryan. Though I had a hard time seeing her in the role of a double murderer, I had already observed enough about her to sense that she most definitely was hiding something. Something, moreover, that she did not want her reading public to know. I recalled that brief, emotion-laden scene with Lady Hermione. Yes, they were both hiding something, but Lady Hermione would never give away her friend’s secret.
The first document in Isabella’s file was a brief biography. I already knew about her aristocratic lineage and her genteel upbringing. There were details of her birth, education, and public service, and a list of the awards she had won, not only for her writing but also for various services to the community. On paper, she sounded boringly conventional, other than the fact that she now made quite a lucrative living writing about murder.
Next was the first in a series of interviews Giles had found. Most of them were exceedingly dull, the kind of interviews that every best-selling writer grants, with the same boring questions. Isabella’s answers were pithy without sounding condescending, though I fancied I could read between the lines to discern how distasteful she found the process. Whenever the questions verged upon the personal, straying from her writing, Isabella was firm but polite, refusing to be drawn. Isabella the writer came through clearly, but little of the person behind the writer.
How frustrating! There was something, somewhere, in Isabella’s life that she was anxious to hide. Otherwise, Nina could not have blackmailed her.
I was about to lay Isabella’s folder aside in disgust, even with documents left unread, when I found something a bit more promising. One of the tabloid papers had run a feature on Isabella and her family a few years ago, and at least one reporter had managed to dig up a bit of dirt from around the Veryan family tree.
Skimming rapidly, I learned that Isabella’s cousin, the duke, had scandalized his family by running off from Cambridge with a chorus girl. Not to be outdone, one of that same duke’s sisters had had a wild fling back during the Second World War with an avowed Nazi sympathizer. Other members of the extended family had done their best to stain the family escutcheon, but among them Isabella seemed to stand out as a model of virtue and propriety.
The reporter had, however, dug up the details of a romance between Isabella and an RAF pilot. He had been killed in a bombing raid over Germany, however, before the two could be married. Devastated by the loss, Isabella, according to one of her more disreputable cousins, had gone into seclusion for more than a year and had never expressed interest in another man after that. “If only the poor dear had been able to marry him and have a child,” the cousin lamented, “how much happier poor dear Izzy might have been.”
Izzy! Somehow I couldn’t quite see Isabella Veryan as an “Izzy.”
The cousin went on to lament how hard poor “Izzy” had worked after her year of seclusion. Her branch of the family were apparently not as well off as the rest, because of a profligate father, and Izzy had worked several jobs before trying her hand at writing. “But poor Izzy never seemed to have much money,” the cousin commented, “no matter how hard she worked. We’re all ever so happy for her now, even though it’s a shame she seems to have forgotten her dear family, who stood by her in her time of greatest need.”
That was pretty much it. Nothing else in the folder hinted at anything in the least scandalous in Isabella’s personal life. I set it aside, disappointed, though I had to chuckle over the cattiness of that last remark. Once fame and fortune had come her way, poor “Izzy” had no doubt found herself besieged by cousins who hadn’t given her the time of day beforehand.
As novelists are wont to do, I indulged in a series of what-ifs with regard to Isabella’s life. What if, during the war, she and her handsome flier had anticipated their wedding vows and had their honeymoon first? During wartime, even a girl raised as conventionally as Isabella might do such a thing. After all, they never knew when they might be together again.
I took it further. What if, after the handsome flier’s death, Isabella had suddenly found herself pregnant, without benefit of that little band of gold on the appropriate finger? What would a girl from that kind of family do?
Go into seclusion for a year, have the baby in secret, then give it up for adoption: that’s what she’d do. What any “good girl” would have done back in the forties if she had found herself in that situation.
Adoption! I picked up the folder, opened it, and stared at the page containing Isabella’s biography.
I looked at the list of awards. Isabella had been something of a patron to adoption agencies in Britain and had received a number of awards for her services to the same. Moreover, she had been made a dame not only for her distinguished contribution to British literature but also for her services to child welfare and adoption programs.
Bingo! I smiled, sure I had found the answer, though I had to admit that the evidence was all circumstantial, if not wholly the product of my own imagination.
Take it easy! I cautioned myself. So what if Isabella had borne a child out of wedlock back in the forties? Would she now be willing to kill someone to keep that fact hidden, after all this time? That child, if indeed there were one, would now be fifty-something.
The question was, how could I prove—or disprove—my little fantasy? There wasn’t time to try to track down records. If I wanted results, I’d have to go straight to the source: Isabella herself. I spared a brief thought for my fledgling friendship with a writer I admired tremendously. What I planned to do would probably scotch any hopes of contact after this nasty little situation came to an end.
I could, of course, wait and let the police do their jobs. No doubt there was some kind of trace evidence that the folk in the lab could isolate to help prove the identity of the killer, but I’m just too nosy to sit by and wait I wanted to be in the thick of things, and since the murderer would have a hard time putting me out of action (except with a big dose of garlic, the traditional wooden stake, or a silver bullet), I decided the risk of injury was minimal. The old bash on the head wouldn’t do a thing to me.
Reaching for pen and paper, I began composing a note to Isabella. I’d leave a note under her door and wait to see the reaction. If she bit, I’d know that I was on to the truth. If she ignored the note, well, I might still be on to the truth, but I’d know that Isabella could play poker damn well. Here’s what I wrote:
My dear Isabella,
If I may be of any assistance, please don’t hesitate to ask. The sins of the past should remain just that; why should the events of five decades ago be made public now? Your work, both literary and charitable, is what really counts.
Yours truly, etc., etc.
To make sure she wouldn’t miss the point, I underlined the word charitable twice.
Sealing the envelope, I sat and regarded it for a moment. I would have to let the police on duty see me deliver it, and I had no doubt that they would report my actions to Robin. But by the time he could question me about it, perhaps I’d have the results of my little ploy and would know whether my information would be of any use to him.
I opened my bedroom door and peered out. The two police officers were conferring at the other end of the hall and didn’t seem to be paying much attention to this end. I moved quickly across the hall toward Isabella’s door and dropped the note on the floor. With a smooth thrust of the foot, I got it under her door, then nipped back to my room. One of the officers whirled around just as I was going back into my room. I shut the door and waited right inside, listening. There was no sound of approaching footsteps, and I figured the two had gone back to their conversation, dismissing my little sortie from their concerns. So much the better!
To occupy myself while I awaited a response from Isabella, I picked up another of Giles’s folders. Opening it, I read a brief biography of Lady Hermione Kinsale, countess of Mumsley. She was the only surviving child and heir to the seventh earl of Mumsley, Cholmondley Everard St. George Percival Kinsale. Percy had died in a hunting accident forty years ago, leaving young Hermione heiress to a large fortune, even after the ruinous death duties, which had crippled many aristocratic families over the past century.
Hermione had proved to have quite the head for business, for she had added considerably to the Kinsale coffers, and she had also been quite generous over the years with her wealth. She had endowed several scholarships for young women at various Oxbridge colleges, and she, like her friend Isabella Veryan, was noted as a friend to the cause of adoption and child welfare in Britain.
I paused at that. Quite an interesting link between the two women. Where had they first met? I wondered.
My speculations ended abruptly as my bedroom door flew open with a loud bang. I looked up to see Isabella Veryan advancing rapidly toward me, her eyes ablaze with fury, my note clutched in her right hand.
Stopping in front of me, she crumpled the note and threw it right into my face.