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“How have you got on?” KD asked, pouring the remains of a bottle of rosé she’d shared with Katherine into my glass. “Have you cracked it yet?”
I put down the plate holding my buffet lunch. “Give me a chance, Boss. I’ve eliminated at least three people who can’t have done it, but there are several more still to check out.”
“The police seem to think it was me.”
“Yes, I’ve just been interviewed. I’ve told the Inspector the idea is ridiculous. Of course you didn’t kill him.”
“Well, according to him I’ve got the best motive.”
“Rubbish!”
I laughed at the thought of KD committing murder for the sake of a literary award.
“It’s no laughing matter, Verity.” I caught the worried look at the back of her eyes. “So you’d better get on and solve this case quickly.”
“I’m doing my best. What about you? Had a good morning?”
“Not bad. I’m free now until the book signing later this afternoon.”
She grimaced in distaste at the thought. KD values and appreciates her fans, every last one of them, and is always delighted to hear from them, but she does not like meeting them in person. This attitude had perplexed me when I first started working at Bishop Lea, until I realised that an irrational fear of disappointing them lay behind it.
“They think I am Agnes Merryweather,” she’d explained on one occasion, “and then they’re shocked when they find I’m not and they’re always surprised to discover how old I am.”
“Have you thought about updating the photo your publisher uses?” I’d suggested.
The face that stared out from the back cover of her books looked twenty years younger than the one sitting opposite me in the office.
“If you did that, they would know what to expect.” Aware of a sudden sharp drop in temperature, nevertheless, I’d blithely carried on. “And if you go for the standard author pose and rest your chin on your hands, no one can see that there is more than one chin or the neck’s a bit scrawny.”
The rest of that day had passed in frosty silence.
“It won’t be so bad,” I reassured her, now. “I — Good Lord! Who’s that?”
A tall woman with close cropped blonde hair had entered the dining room and stood looking around as if she were trying to find someone. She wore a tight-fitting blue dress emphasising the fact she had curves in all the places where I can only dream of having places. Sheesh, I thought. Some girls have all the luck.
“Oh, that’s Dorte Marklin, Simon’s Great Dane.”
“What?”
KD laughed. “That’s what he calls her. She’s his Danish assistant, and he reckons he can’t manage without her.”
“And Kitty?” I asked, wondering what his dumpy, homely wife made of this stunning beauty.
She shook her head. “The two get on like a house on fire. I’m glad to see Dorte’s made it here at last. Simon’s been going crazy, running around trying to re-arrange things ever since...well, ever since.”
I tilted my head; I knew what she meant.
“Dorte will take him in hand and bring order out of the chaos.”
“Where has she been until now?”
“Running his London office, I should imagine.”
“Mrs. Davenport.” She came towards us with a smile that encompassed me. “Mr Usborne says, can you sit on the panel this afternoon at two o’clock, please? Afterwards your book signing session has been scheduled for the Haddon Room, that’s the break-out room next to the main conference area.”
“Thanks, Dorte,” said KD, getting to her feet. “Tell Simon I’ll be there, but I’d better go and freshen up before then. I’ll catch you later, Verity. In the meantime, make sure you catch that killer.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, as she sailed out behind the Scandinavian, her shorter, rounder figure looking for all the world like a tug pushing a liner.
I finished my lunch, took out my pad and pen and got down to business. First I made a list of everyone I’d talked to that morning, then another of those I still wanted to interview. I wrote down Susanne Langtry’s name followed by Clive Cutler, Damien Haynes, Rose Hanning-Barrett, and added the agent, Harry Devine, for good measure. I also wrote down Usborne’s name, though whether he’d ever find even a minute to speak to me seemed unlikely. I sat back tapping the end of my pen against my lips while I thought about the method. There had been plenty of convoluted and, in some cases, downright implausible means of staging a locked room mystery written over the years, but this was so deceptively simple, I wondered whether someone was trying to make a point. I wished now that I’d asked Dara and Alex whether they’d ever tried their hands at writing one, and made a note to include it in the questions I put to the rest.
“Hello, Verity. On your own?”
I glanced up at Damien Haynes and around at the now empty dining room. Deep in thought, I hadn’t realised that everyone else had already departed for their afternoon’s workshops, symposia and panels, leaving me sitting alone trying to work out who’d killed their colleague.
“Hmm? Yes, it looks like it. Is there a waitress over there? I could do with a coffee. Join me?”
“Yes, thanks. I’ll go and order a pot.”
He strode off towards the far end of the restaurant, looking strangely uncomfortable in his suit, as if he wasn’t yet used to wearing one. He reminded me of a young colt, out for its first run around the paddock. His short hair, so blond it was almost white, stood up from the top of his head like a scrubbing brush. It should be easy to get him talking; most writers, even if they aren’t happy to talk about themselves, will go on for hours about their work.
“Not attending any events this afternoon, then, Damien?” I asked when he returned and took the chair opposite me.
“I’m on the ‘Introduction to New Authors’ panel later. I say, Verity, isn’t it awful about Gervaise?”
Well, that saved me a lot of trouble, and I nodded, grave faced, to hide both my surprise at his gaucheness and my delight that he’d brought the subject up first.
“Yes, it is. I’m amazed that the police have let the Guild carry on with the weekend.”
“Oh, that’s easily explained. They want us all in the one place, the better to keep an eye on us and ask their questions. It’s easier to interrogate suspects when they’re under your feet.”
Of course, he was right, and I remembered he wrote police procedural stories, which accounted for his knowledge. I wondered if he’d ever been in the force.
“My brother was,” he told me, when I asked. “Have they interviewed you, yet?”
“Yes. And you?”
“Not yet, no. I’m quite looking forward to it.”
He smiled brightly; a sign that he was innocent and, therefore, had nothing to worry about? Or a reflection of cunning? It was too soon to tell.
“Did you know Gervaise?”
“I knew of him, of course, but we’d never met. This is the first of the Guild’s weekends I’ve been to.”
“So you weren’t aware he was getting the Golden Gun for the Locked Room?”
“Ha! I wasn’t even aware he’d written it. I’m really rather new at all this, you know. I’ve only had one book published so far, though I’ve written loads, and my next is due out in a couple of months. My publisher has promised me a big launch and I can’t wait. It’s going to be a lot of fun.”
Ah! The enthusiasm of youth, I thought. KD hated launches and all the razzmatazz that went with them. Maybe, by the time he’d written as many books as she had, he’d feel the same. Somehow I doubted it.
“Good luck with it, Damien.”
“Yeah, well, I was hoping to speak to Gervaise about it this week-end and pick up some tips from him. Shame, I won’t get the opportunity now.”
“What sort of tips? Did he write police procedurals?”
“No, but I quite fancied having a go at a locked room story.” His eyes gleamed. “And Gervaise was the acknowledged master of those. When I was younger, he used to be a hero of mine.”
Younger? To me he looked young enough to still be reading Enid Blyton. I put my head down to hide a smile. Honestly, here I was sounding like an old woman and I was only 32, myself.
“Of course,” Damien was going on, “he wasn’t in the same league as Gaston Leroux or John Dickson Carr.” He put his hands together as though in prayer, then tilted them forwards, fingertips towards me as he expounded on what was clearly a favourite theme. “Many people have tried their hand at locked room stories: Agatha Christie, Paul Doherty, even Ellery Queen, but Gervaise was certainly the best modern exponent of the genre. I wrote to him once.”
“Did you?”
“Oh, it was just fan mail. An e-mail, actually.” He brushed the subject aside as if it were of no importance to him.
“Did he reply?”
For a moment I caught a glimpse of something — anger perhaps? — in his eyes. But he answered readily enough.
“No, I don’t think he did. More coffee?”
I nodded absently. Not all authors were as punctilious as KD in replying to every piece of fan mail they received. And she was very much in the minority by writing personally to them when they did contact her. Part of my secretarial duties involved listing the full name of every fan who took the trouble to write to her and checking against it that they’d all been answered. Clearly Gervaise did not take the same attitude if Damien’s experience was anything to go by.
“You said you wanted to ask Gervaise for some tips. So, you’ve never written a locked room story?” I asked him.
The spoon he was using to stir his coffee rattled sharply against the side of his cup. I swear his hand shook. Why?
“Me? No, I haven’t. As I said, I just fancied having a go at one.”
You’re lying, matey, I thought, watching the pink tinge spreading over his cheeks.
“Any reason why not?”
“They’re not easy to write. I didn’t think I’d be good enough, that’s all.”
“What did you think to Locked In Death?”
“Well, I have to say that in my opinion, it is far and away the best locked room mystery ever written.”
High praise indeed. Did the judges of the award agree with that assessment? I thought they must have done. Then I remembered what Harry Devine had said about the book.
“How do you think it compares to Gervaise’s other locked room stories?”
“Oh, it’s as good if not better, I’d say.”
“Would you say it’s different in style?”
He tilted his head to one side, considering this. “Yes, I suppose it is. Perhaps that’s why it won the Golden Gun.”
Perhaps, I thought, wishing I’d read Gervaise’s work so that I could judge for myself. I moved on.
“You were out early this morning.”
“Oh, I’d only been for a jog like I do every morning. I like to keep fit.”
Possibly, but I had a clear mental image of Damien walking around the corner of the building by the library, wearing jeans, a sweatshirt and the slip-on leather shoes that were still on his feet. Hardly the right kit for jogging.
“The police asked me if I’d seen anyone outside the library. That was the main thrust of their questions.”
“Did you tell them you’d seen me?”
“Of course. Shouldn’t I have done?”
“Oh, no. I’ve nothing to hide,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. He picked at his fingers, scraping a nail down each index finger as if they itched.
“Did you see Alex and Dara?”
“Oh, yes.”
His mouth twisted in a smirk, and I wondered whether he’d spied on them in the garden. Maybe he got his kicks that way, watching other people aligning their sex lives.
“Well, they seem to be in the clear. They alibi each other.”
He smirked again. “Oh, that’s what they were doing, was it?”
Good grief! How many more euphemisms for the sex act was I going to hear this weekend? I twiddled my pen in the fingers of my left hand as I considered Damien’s words. If he had really observed their tryst in the walled garden, he could hardly have been murdering Gervaise at the same time. Hmm. He looked like another one to cross off the list. I sighed.
“I wonder what time Gervaise was killed?”
“Not long before he was found, I would imagine,” He scratched at his fingers again. “Anyway, I’d better dash. Don’t want to be late for my one and only official engagement this weekend.”
He sauntered off towards the door only to be stopped by a constable coming in.
“Mr Haynes?”
Damien nodded.“Yes, that’s me.”
“Inspector Robinson would like to see you if you can spare a minute, please.”
I saw him shrug and nod before I turned away and flipped forward through my pad until I found a clean page. Jotting down what he’d told me, I came to the conclusion that now might be a good time to talk to the psychologist again, to see if she could throw any light on the mind of this killer. She might have some interesting and valuable insights in between the inevitable tosh and psycho-babble. My programme told me she was not involved in any of the afternoon’s events, so I gathered my things together and set off to find her.
I’d got as far as poking my head inside the conference room to see if Rose Hanning-Barrett was attending the workshop on historical crime fiction, when Clive Cutler collared me.
“Ah, Verity, there you are.”
“Hello. What can I do for you?”
He appeared harassed, running his fingers through his dark hair until it stood straight out in tufts at the side of his head.
“KD tells me you know all about computers.”
She would, I thought bitterly, wondering what she was letting me in for now.
“I’d hardly say that, but if I can help...”
“Thanks. I’ve got a problem with my laptop.”
He turned and headed towards the Haddon Room, leaving me little option but to follow him.
“What sort of problem?”
“I can’t find the file I need for my book signing.” He glanced at his watch. “And I’ve only got half an hour.”
I sat behind the already opened laptop, asked him what he’d named the file, and let my fingers fly over the keys. Amazed by how few people knew how to use the search facility on their own computers, I found his document easily enough, though I pretended I hadn’t. It gave me time to ask my questions.
“So, what is it like being in the middle of a real life police investigation?”
“I feel oddly dispassionate about it actually, which is pretty much the way I felt about the victim.”
Did he? Most of those I’d talked to seemed to have strong feelings about Gervaise. “Still,” I pointed out, “it’s all grist to a writer’s mill, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “Yes, I suppose it is. To those of us who write police procedural novels, it’s always interesting to watch the police in action.”
“You don’t suppose someone killed Digby just for that, though, do you? To watch the police in action?”
“Good heavens, no. And I’m not suggesting anyone did. That would take a more twisted mind than any I could think up, though Rose might know of some, of course.”
Yes, well, I’d been on my way to ask her about the murderer’s psychological state when I’d been diverted by Cutler. I tried not to let him sidetrack me again, now.
“Had you met Gervaise before, Clive?”
“Oh, yes, quite a few times at various Guild events and literary awards and dinners. The only people I hadn’t met were Dara Angel and that new boy.”
“Damien Haynes?”
“Yes.”
“Nobody seems to have liked Gervaise very much, do they?”
“No, he had an abrasive character. That doesn’t make you popular.”
“I wonder what the motive was, then? With so many people not liking him, there seem plenty to choose from...”
”Well, all I know is it wasn’t me and it wasn’t Kitty Usborne. We were in the dining room having breakfast at the time.”
I watched his face closely as he said this, but he appeared to be telling the truth. There were no tell-tale tics or twitches, no shifty eyes giving the lie to his words.
“Were was Simon?”
He shrugged. “Kitty said he had Guild business. It’s a busy weekend for him.” He looked at his wrist again. “Look — “
“I’ve found it,” I told him, realising my time was up. “What do you want me to do with it?”
“Brilliant. Thank you. Can we print it off?”
I looked round for a printer, noted the lap top wasn’t hooked up, and dived under the table to the mess of cables.
“So, who do you think murdered Digby?”
“Well, looking at it purely from a writing angle, my money’s on your boss.”
“What? Ow!” I brought my head up too quickly and smacked it into the underside of the table. “Why on earth would KD want to kill him?”
“Because he beat her to the Golden Gun.”
“Nah!” I stood up and dusted off my hands and the knees of my trousers. “Could Gervaise write?”
“Well, he wasn’t Hemingway, or even Conan Doyle, but he wasn’t bad. Why?”
“Because,” I said, putting my hands on my hips, “the only reason KD would commit murder would be for crimes against the English language. Now, how many copies do you want?”
He threw back his head and laughed, showing a perfect set of white teeth.
“Gosh, but you’re loyal, I must say. You’re probably right, too. I was just thinking about it from a writer’s point of view. Anyway, if the printer’s all set up, I can take it from here, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Good luck.” I smiled and left him to it.
I didn’t seem to be any further ahead and the next people I needed to speak to were currently tied up in the conference room, so I headed outside to mull over what, if anything, I’d learned. No one tried to stop me, though a pair of policeman loitered at the top of the drive. Judging by the thin plume of smoke rising between them, one was enjoying a crafty cigarette, out of sight of his superiors. I found a bench in the sun outside the Long Gallery and wrote down a few scattered thoughts after talking to Clive Cutler. It was becoming clear that a) I really needed to speak to Simon Usborne and b) there were far too many suspects.
Finding Usborne would be a problem, let alone getting him to talk to me. From what I’d been told, he was running around like a headless chicken at the moment, and I hoped that having Dorte there to help bring order back to the weekend would calm things down. Pulling the weekend’s schedule from my bag, I scanned down it. I still needed to speak to Susanne Langtry and Rose Hanning-Barrett as well as Usborne, but, after I’d left Cutler, I had seen the psychologist on the podium when I’d poked my nose into the conference room and according to my programme, Susanne was in one of the breakout rooms, meeting fans and signing books.
The weekend had been broken up into chunks each lasting approximately an hour and a half. The first event of the day started at 9.00am and lasted until 10.30 when they broke for coffee until 11.00 am when the next workshop started and ran through until 12.30. Lunch was served between 1 and 2pm, afternoon tea between 3.30 and 4.00pm, and they called a halt at 5.30pm. Dinner, for those staying, was available from 7.30pm. The hotel’s main conference room hosted the workshops with the breakout rooms being used for book signings and meet the author/agent opportunities. Not all authors had agreed to these smaller, more intimate meetings with their fans but enough of them had signed up to it for all the sessions to be filled. Alex Magee and Susanne Langtry clearly did not share KD’s qualms about disappointing readers as they had agreed to do two sessions, one on each day of the weekend.
Gervaise’s untimely death meant a revision to the carefully planned programme and, as a result, the first session (a welcome to the public and an introduction to the delights and activities on offer) had been cancelled and re-arranged for 11 o’clock. I looked at the programme, checking when Gervaise was supposed to be holding the floor in the main conference room. His workshop on locked room stories had been scheduled for this afternoon at 4.00pm. Which was why Clive Cutler was now in that spot, his own having been replaced by the delayed welcome. Which begged the question of why he hadn’t had the laptop set up and the printing done far earlier. Hmm. I tapped my pen against my lips considering the implications. Had my last interviewee been too busy murdering Digby that he’d left no time to prepare for his own talk on the Private Investigator versus the Police? I made a note to check his story with Kitty next time I ran into her.
Timing. It was all in the timing, wasn’t it? Which brought me back to the mechanics of the crime. Gervaise had, in all probability, met his murderer by appointment, going in to the library expressly to meet someone. Despite what Sergeant Crabtree had said, it was my belief that that someone was left-handed. At least, I sincerely hoped so, because it would make finding the killer that much easier.
I leaned back on the bench’s wooden slats, eyes closed, my face turned to the afternoon sun, trying to picture what had happened in the library. The killer, already in the room when Gervaise entered, had invited him to sit at the desk and given him a typescript to read. Gervaise had bent his head to look and bam! Down had come the candlestick, breaking the man’s skull and scattering his brains as he’d slumped forward over the document whilst the killer made his escape, setting up the locked room in the process. It was a clear picture, but was it an accurate one? Did it explain everything? I thought so. Alex Magee had said he’d heard an argument but there had been no argument, at least, not in the library. The killer could not risk the sound of raised voices being overheard, especially with Shahleen not far away. The lack of space between the wall and the chair Gervaise sat on explained why the killer had to be left-handed, and I already knew how the room had been sealed. The key had turned easily and quietly when I’d opened the library door to let the police in earlier that morning, and the murderer had probably locked the door as soon as his victim was inside, rather than waiting until he was dead. That last was a moot point anyway. All I needed now was the name of the killer, and I’d already got an inkling of that.
“You all right there, Miss?”
I jumped, my eyelids slamming open in surprise. The young gardener (what was his name? Ah, yes, Wellman. Jonathan Wellman) loomed over me.
“Thought you might have fallen asleep, like.”
“Not quite,” I said, though the sun had certainly made me drowsy. “I’m enjoying the sunshine and the relative peace and quiet.”
He grinned boyishly at me. “Arr. A bit manic in there, is it? Hewitt’s bawling out the staff, I know that much.”
“Oh, I think the writers’ weekend is pretty much back on track again, now, but the police are still in there conducting interviews.”
He snorted in derision. “Yeah, well, I ’ope they’re better at that than taking plaster casts. Bloody Nigel made a right mess of that border.”
“Mr Wellman, besides the two you told me about, did you see anyone else in the garden or near that border this morning?”
He thought for a moment, running a soil-mottled hand around his chin. “No, can’t say as I did.”
“You didn’t notice anyone jogging, for instance?”
“Oh, I saw her, all right.” His eyes lit up.
Her? I hadn’t expected that answer and fell silent musing on who else had been running round the manor early that morning.
“She were quite a looker, she were,” he went on.
“Oh? Tall, dark haired? High cheek bones?”
“Well, can’t say as to that. She had a nice bum, though, and she did have dark hair, in a ponytail, like.”
Great! Now I had to search through the manor’s weekend guests for someone who fitted the masculine ideal of having a looker’s face and a nice rear end. Well, that would be an identity parade with a difference, I thought wearily. Sometimes, being a sleuth is not all it’s cracked up to be.
“Was this before or after you saw the other two in the walled garden?”
“Oh, before. I was on my way to tie in the climbers, saw her, said, “good morning”, and watched her go past as I was going in to the garden. Pretty woman,” he said again, “though she spoke right posh when she said hello.”
So, Susanne Langtry — I assumed it was her — had also been out and about that morning. I ignored the altogether lascivious smirk on the face of young Jonathan and wondered how many other conference attendees had been racing around the manor and its gardens in the early morning light. It was beginning to sound like the start list for the London marathon. With that number of people up and about, the killer was taking an awful risk of being seen, both by hotel staff and early-rising delegates. So, why hadn’t he been?
“I saw the other one, as well, but she didn’t speak.”
“Other one?” My head was beginning to spin.
“Yeah, she were going t’other way round. Widdershins, like.”
“Widdershins?” His local dialect left me sounding like a brain-dead parrot.
“Yeah, coming from that direction.” He pointed behind him, towards the Library.
“Did you see them together?”
He shook his head. “No. I saw the blonde woman first — and before you ask, she weren’t no looker — then, about two minutes later, the posh-speaking bird appeared.”
I tried to untangle this. “Did they meet up?”
“Dunno. Don’t think so.” He scratched his cheek. “Reckon the blonde had gone inside by then.”
He didn’t seem to mind answering questions or show so much as a flicker of interest in why I was asking them. Maybe he was happy to stand in the sun taking a well-earned break from his duties. Whatever the reason, while he remained amenable I took full advantage of him.
“Have the police questioned you yet, Mr Wellman?”
“Call me Jonty, Miss. Most folks do.” He gave me a friendly grin, his weather-beaten skin crinkling around the piercingly blue eyes. “No, police ain’t asked me owt, an’ I don’t suppose they will. I didn’t murder that bloke.”
No he hadn’t, but someone had and, at the moment, I was struggling to work out who.
“Besides,” he went on, “if I’m gonna be questioned, I’d rather it be by a pretty girl than the likes of Nige Aitchison.”
I could feel myself blushing at the unexpected compliment until a vague memory stirred, rising from the depths to throw an unwelcome spanner into my careful workings-out.
“Did he really ruin that footprint in the border?”
The gardener stuck his chin out as he considered this, pursing his mouth. “Can’t say as to the footprint, but he left a right mess in the border.”
“And you reckoned it was a size 10 shoe?”
“Yeah, ’bout that. It wasn’t a full print, just over half, I’d say, with the heel missing and it were quite narrow, but somewhere around a size 10, yeah.”
I thanked the gardener who wandered off in the direction of the formal garden, made a few notes on my pad and glanced at my watch-nearly five o’clock. It would be another half an hour before the afternoon sessions finished and I could speak to the other attendees, plenty of time in which to lie back in the sun again, eyes closed, thinking of motives, suspects, and murder. I was getting on nicely when the aroma of cigar smoke tickled my nostrils. I opened one eye.
“Hello, there. Not asleep?”
The dapper and portly figure of Alan Stewart sat down beside me. Good, here was another of the names on my list. I sat up and shook the fug from my brain.
“No, not quite, though the sun does make me sleepy.”
“Does the cigar bother you?”
“Not at all. I’m Verity Long, Kathleen Davenport’s researcher, by the way.”
“Pleased to meet you.” We shook hands. “Alan Stewart of Levy Malone, publishers.”
“Oh, yes. I saw you in the bar last night. You were talking to one of your clients I think. A tall, slim, young chap.”
I left it as a question, though I knew exactly who he’d been in conversation with.
“Yes, that would be Damien Haynes.”
“He seemed quite excited by something.”
He gave a quick bark of derision. “Oh, that. He’d got it into his head that someone had stolen a story from him.”
“Ooh,” I said, filling my voice with as much wonder and innocence as I could manage. “That’s quite serious isn’t it?”
“Well, plagiarism isn’t a crime. It’s frowned on, naturally, but it can be almost impossible to prove.”
“Yes, but if he were talking about theft...”
“Same problem. As publishers, we do all we can to protect our authors,” he said, rather pompously, “but you can’t go around claiming established authors nicked your ideas or you’ll end up being sued for slander in return.”
Established authors, eh? Like Digby Gervaise, perhaps? I was about to ask him that when he went on.
“Besides, I didn’t believe a word of it. It’s not the first time Damien’s had a bee in his bonnet about other authors.”
Oh really? Like who? I wanted to ask for more details, but he suddenly stood up, threw away the remains of his smoke, made his excuses and left.
Well, that had been interesting, I thought, adding Stewart’s comments to my notepad before resuming my position and closing my eyes again. How did what he’d told me fit in with the theory I’d been developing before his arrival? Did it give me motive? I wasn’t sure. The strange thing about this whole investigation was the apparent detachment of everyone involved in it. No one had expressed shock, outrage or sorrow about the death of one of their own. Nobody other than Shahleen had shed a tear over the man’s death, and that had been due more to her feeling of lost opportunity than any genuine fondness for the man. Maybe writing about murder and violent death on a daily basis had inured them so much that, when they hit the real thing, they were indifferent to it. Either that or they were very good at hiding their true feelings. Somebody certainly was, and that started a new train of thought. I followed it through cuttings, up inclines, past sidings and over viaducts, heading for the station marked Beyond A Reasonable Doubt until I hit the buffers of Hardly Likely, Don’t Be So Stupid. I got back on track and had just reached the point in my musings where it all began to come together and I started to get excited, when a familiar voice interrupted me.
“Ah. There you are. I was wondering where you’d got to.”
“I thought you were book signing.”
My boss shook her head, the black fringe swaying from side to side. “I’ve had enough. I’ve excused myself on the grounds of writer’s cramp.” She rubbed her right wrist and shook the arm in my direction as if I didn’t know what a wrist was. “But really, they want to know such personal things.”
It never failed to surprise me that KD, who was an experienced and professional woman and, as I’d been telling Rose only the night before, a seasoned observer of human nature, should be so scandalised that her fans wanted their metaphorical pound of flesh.
“So, you’ve skived off, have you?”
It says much for the relationship between us that she merely grinned. Other employers might not take so kindly to being told by the hired help that they’d shirked their duties.
“I need your help. Come inside, will you, and let’s go up before the hordes appear.”
I dutifully followed her up the Great Staircase and along the corridor, wondering what sort of help she needed. All became clear when she dragged me into her room, strode to the wardrobe, flung open the door and demanded, “What am I going to wear tonight?”
Oh, wonderful. Now, as well as being KD’s personal assistant, researcher and private detective, I was expected to be her wardrobe consultant.
“What on earth are you asking me for? You know I have all the fashion sense of the average bag lady.”
“That’s as may be, but you know what suits me.”
Not too pleased that she appeared to agree with this assessment of my own skills, I ignored her comment and peered at the array of skirts, dresses, and trouser suits hanging from the rails in front of me. To accompany them, she’d also packed scarves, belts, and handbags, and enough shoes to send Imelda Marcos into a fit of jealous rage. No wonder she’d needed so many suitcases.
“How long were you planning on staying?” I asked.
“Oh, well, I couldn’t decide what to pack, so I brought a choice. The weather can be so changeable in September, I didn’t want to get caught out by having the wrong thing.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d packed a picnic back in June with enough to feed the five thousand, so bringing the entire women’s wear department of Marks and Spencer with her this weekend was small beer by comparison.
“Is dinner this evening a special event?”
“No, we’re in the main restaurant. It’s just a normal Saturday night.”
It was hardly that. Normal for KD meant spending the evening at home, alone, in Bishop Lea while my usual Saturday involved a trip to the local wine bar. I inspected the selection she’d brought, glad that I’d only bothered putting one dress in my case. Clever me. I knew exactly what I was going to wear.
“The red, I think, KD.”
I reached in and pulled out a deep scarlet creation, consisting of a semi-fitted dress with matching bolero jacket. Holding the hanger at shoulder height, it barely skimmed my knees but would probably be mid-calf length on my boss’s shorter figure.
“Hmmm” She gave it due consideration, though with my auburn hair, I was not the best model. “You don’t think it’s too loud, too brazen, do you?”
“Not at all. It’s your colour and you can carry it.”
“I liked it in the shop, but wasn’t so sure when I got it home.” Her mouth drooped at the corners.
“Have you ever worn it?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never dared.”
Wishing that I could afford to stock my wardrobe with things I never got around to wearing, I said, “Well, then. Tonight’s the night. You’ll look absolutely stunning, trust me.”
“Thanks, Verity.”
She took it from me, closed the wardrobe door, and hooked the hanger over the top of it.
“Anything else, before I go for a shower?”
“Yes, how have you got on investigating Gervaise’s death? The police don’t seem to have made much progress. Have you?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Perched on the edge of her bed I made my report, in the same bare manner I did when passing on my research details at work. KD wanted no frills, no opinions, just the facts, at least to start with. It would be later that we’d toss what-ifs back and forth between us, but it would be KD who wrote the book. I helped feed raw data in at one end, she poured out glorious fiction at the other. Gervaise’s death, however, was no story, for all that it had been carefully plotted and planned by a writer.
“Hmm, I see,” she said when I’d finished. “So who do you still need to speak to?”
“Susanne Langtry and Rose Hanning-Barrett.”
“Leave it with me, I’ll see what I can do.”
“How did you get on with that task I set you?”
“Fine. I haven’t spoken to everyone yet but three of the Guild delegates are left-handed.”
“That seems a lot. Will you keep checking, please?”
“Of course. I’ll do it tonight at dinner. Call for me before you go down, will you.”
I nodded. “There is one other thing, KD.”
“Oh? Don’t sound so hesitant. Out with it, girl.”
I explained Shahleen’s involvement with Digby.
“Do you know the woman from Harridan Press?”
“Yes, I do, as a matter of fact, and Judith’s very nice. Why? What were you thinking?”
“Do you think she’d be prepared to have a look at Shahleen’s book?”
She shrugged. “She might. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, I suppose.”
“Oh, would you, KD? I just feel the girl needs a chance and for someone to actually read her manuscript, because I don’t think Digby ever did.”
For a reason I couldn’t fathom she gave me a fond smile. “All right. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll have a word with Judith.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
I left her then, but before going into my own room, went downstairs to Reception.
“Emily was on duty this morning,” I was told in answer to my question. “She’s on again at six o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Happy with my day’s work I went back upstairs to shower, dress, and prepare for the evening ahead.