Death of a Cozy Writer: A St. Just Mystery (15 page)

The snow, while pockmarked by sleet, lay otherwise undisturbed, except for their own prints and a set of rabbit tracks leading away from the house. St. Just thought with a sigh of his long-planned ski vacation in the Pyrenees, scheduled to begin the next day.

The pair circled the manor carefully, eventually arriving back at their departure point at the front door. The wind by this time had died down, the sun making its first reluctant appearance over the treetops.

“No one’s been out here, then,” said St. Just.

“Looks like. Perhaps whoever it was used a snow-blower to cover up the tracks.”

St. Just was never certain when his Sergeant was serious.

“Without waking the house? I think that highly unlikely.”

“Maybe the rabbit did it, then,” said Fear. “But it wasn’t someone casually wandering by.”

“It wasn’t an intruder, that’s for certain. The area had a light, steady snow and it stopped well before midnight. No one’s been on this grass, no one except the rabbit. Ah, here’s Malenfant now.”

They watched as a tall man with slicked-back dark hair approached, his face wrapped to the eyes in a gaily striped college scarf of blue and orange.

“Good morning, Dr. Malenfant,” said St. Just. “What do you have for us?”

“The victim was in fairly good health, until he died, that is. He’d recently had surgery, within the past few months. Judging by the scars: clogged arteries, poor circulation, your basic white-collar executive’s disease. Still, no reason to think he wouldn’t live forever, the poor bugger. That kind of procedure is routine these days. The weapon is interesting.”

“Yes, what is that thing?”

“It’s called a morning star. Medieval, of course. It’s like a mace but with the enhancement of the spiked ball being attached to its handle by a length of heavy chain. The weapon was apparently taken from that ghoulish display in the hall. At a guess, someone waited in one of the many little alcoves of the cellar for the victim, then jumped out at him, and
whoosh
. Would take no strength at all, really.”

“So, male or female …”

“Certainly, not a problem either way. You finding anything out here?”

“Rabbits,” said Fear. “Whoever did this, it looks like they came from inside the house.”

“Let’s go and see which one of our rabbits looks most wide awake,” said St. Just.

Sir Adrian looked wide awake—excited by the novelty of police in the house, if anything—when St. Just and Fear found him and his wife in the study.

St. Just thought it a handsome room, although insistently upper class in a way that rendered it not quite authentic: The real thing was often worn to the nub by centuries of use or neglect. He looked more closely now about Sir Adrian’s study and thought it all had just that bit too much a whiff of the new about it, apart from the linenfold paneling, which he imagined had been there since the year aught. That beautiful piece of workmanship was interspersed with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves weighted down by reference works of all kinds—glossaries, atlases, dictionaries—as well as brightly colored hard-bound copies of Sir Adrian’s books translated into what looked like several dozen languages.

Sir Adrian himself was resplendent in a ruby dressing gown tied with a gold cord and with a white cravat at the neck. His wife wore a velvet robe, but, unlike her husband, seemed thrown off balance by the rude awakening to the day. St. Just saw her stealing a glance in one of the room’s mirrors and surreptitiously attempting to smooth her hair.

Sir Adrian grunted his way to his desk and picked up an old-fashioned pocket watch, staring at the time as if he couldn’t believe his eyes, before turning the full force of his gaze on St. Just. Violet perched on the edge of a sofa next to the fireplace.

“I hope you’re not going to drag out this interview the way Constable Stool would do,” Sir Adrian said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Constable Stool. My fictional detective. The plodding village bobby of Saint Edmund-Under-Stowe, my counterpoint to the razor-sharp Miss Rampling.”

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your books, Sir Adrian.”

Sir Adrian looked at him, displeased. What kind of idiot had the Superintendent sent out here?

“Then you are in the minority, Sir. Now, you’ll need a complete inventory of what’s missing, won’t you?”

“I wasn’t aware anything was.”

“Stands to reason. Whoever broke in here and did this, they were thieves after money and goods. Ruthven was in their way.”

“In the cellar, Sir?”

“The perfect spot to break into the house.”

“Possibly. But there’s no sign of forced entry, and no indication anyone was on the grounds last night.” Nor any earthly reason for Ruthven to be in the cellar in the middle of the night, he added to himself.

“Nonsense. You simply haven’t looked carefully enough. Do you have any idea who I am, man? This was no random crime. They’ll be back, you see if they aren’t. I shall telephone the Superintendent myself and demand that Scotland Yard be brought in.”

St. Just had somehow been expecting this; he was quite used to people demanding Scotland Yard be brought in, for every case ranging from a housebreaking to a missing cat. What struck him was that Sir Adrian seemed more upset by the invasion of his property by an interloper than by the loss of his son. St. Just had had more than his share of delivering bad news to parents, and felt he had seen every possible reaction to grief. The death of a child was the only occasion he knew likely to make grown men weep openly, unashamed. Here there were only bluster and anger—another, not uncommon, reaction. But the bulbous blue eyes were dry. Surely the violent loss of one’s son rated at least a token show of unbridled grief?

“It doesn’t appear to be what you would call an ‘outside job,’ Sir Adrian,” he repeated calmly.

“Nonsense. Of course it was. What else could it be?”

“There’s not a trace of disturbance in the snow outside that can’t be accounted for by my own men. No one broke into this house last night.”

“Nonsense, he—”

Then Sir Adrian paused thoughtfully, in mid-flow, as though St. Just had just set him an interesting puzzle. Folding his pudgy fingers across the expanse of his gown, he said:

“Perhaps they formed a pact to do him in, what do you think?”

“Who?”

“The entire household, of course. That was in fact one of my more innovative plots in
12:40 from Manchester
, which came out— oh, about ten years ago.”

St. Just was taken aback. Even he, who seldom read mystery novels, had heard of the plot of
Murder on the Orient Express.

“But, Sir Adrian … Surely Dame Agatha thought of that one first.”

“Of course she did. But my book was better.”

No blushing violet here, thought St. Just. And what a strange, detached way to discuss anyone’s death, let alone that of a family member who happened to be a son, let alone one who so violently had been killed.

The thought of violets, however, turned him to Violet as—with any luck—a more useful source of answers to his questions.

“Now, Mrs …”

“Lady Beauclerk-Fisk. As of last week,” interjected Sir Adrian.

“I see. Well, er, congratulations. How sad this unhappy event should impinge on that happy one. But Lady Beauclerk-Fisk, perhaps you can give me some background on the situation here at the house. For example: What about the staff? How many are there?”

Sir Adrian may have thought it strange he was not asked—after all, he would know better than Violet—but she spoke right up, and Sir Adrian sat beaming as she got nearly all the answers right.

“There is Mrs. Romano, her son Paulo Romano, and Watters, the gardener. What is his Christian name, Adrian?”

“I’m not sure. William, I think. We’ve always simply called him Watters. Been with me for yonks.”

“That is the entire staff?

“Yes,” answered Violet. “Mrs. Romano gets in help from the village, of course, and a professional team to take care of the grounds.”

Violet looked apologetic. Possibly she was thinking of the days when grand houses could lay claim to throngs of servants scurrying about the backstairs like mice.

“Would you describe for me what went on in this house yesterday evening, and during last night?”

As she gave a somewhat edited account of last night’s dinner, Violet studied him, sizing him up. He was a handsome man with a full head of thick, dark-brown hair just turning white at the temples. Cornish, judging by the name: Celtic, at any rate, judging by his broad, open face and muscular build, but he was unusually tall for someone of that stock. The slight beak of his nose might owe something to the French pirates and smugglers who had long terrorized the villagers at the farthest Western reaches of England’s coastline. His hazel eyes seemed to survey the world calmly from under an overhanging thatch of untamed eyebrows, but those eyes gleamed in a way that suggested they didn’t miss very much.

“And after dinner?”

“Drinks. Conversation. We had an early night, given all the excitement.”

“You stayed upstairs all night, then?”

“Yes. I read for a while before … No, wait: I’d lost a diamond earring during or after dinner. I went downstairs to look for it.”

“What time was this?”

“Midnight or so. I couldn’t really say.”

“You saw nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Nothing.”

“My men will need to interview everyone in the household. If you can provide us with a room to work in for the time being?”

“I think the—”

Sir Adrian answered for her.

“The conservatory would be best. It’s not as much used in the wintertime as the rest of the house.”

St. Just looked at him doubtfully.

“I imagine that will be all right, Sir. If not, we’ll let you know. Sir Adrian, can you add anything? Did you hear anything, see anything out of the ordinary?”

“Not at all. But let me think about it. What luck for you, eh? Having a professional detective writer, right here on the spot?”

“Yes, how lucky. I would warn you, Sir Adrian, to take extraordinary care until this case is resolved.”

“I?” He appeared genuinely baffled. “Whyever should I take care?”

Because you’re an appalling, mean-spirited jackass, thought St. Just, who felt he had seldom come across a more likely candidate for murder, especially murder done by his nearest and dearest. In her narration, Violet had mentioned the means by which the family had been collected here, while somehow avoiding laying the blame for the scheme in her husband’s lap, where it clearly belonged.

“No reason in particular,” St. Just responded blandly. “But it stands to reason: There is a murderer in this house. Every inmate of this house should be on his or her guard.”

“Just like in one of my stories. Oh, I say, that’s jolly good.”

So it was that St. Just, Fear, and Lillian came to be sitting, framed by elephant’s ears, drooping ferns, and African violets, in the humid confines of Sir Adrian’s conservatory. It was perhaps a half hour later, by which time Mrs. Romano had shifted into high gear to cope with the unexpected situation, providing coffee and a minimum of hand-wringing, for both of which St. Just was grateful.

“You and your husband—you had children?” St. Just asked Lillian now.

He was sitting opposite her in a surprisingly comfortable chair upholstered in a zebra-striped fabric. The room as a whole might have been plucked from the sound stage for
Out of Africa
. Sergeant Fear peered out on the proceedings from beside a potted palm tree. St. Just wondered if Sir Adrian had chosen the room for its inappropriateness, but decided the old boy might be disappointed in that. The setting was so relaxed and calming, it was ideal for an interrogation of suspects. At this preliminary stage, at any rate. St. Just wondered if he should bring up the idea of themed interrogation rooms with the Chief Constable. Perhaps not.

Lillian was dressed for the day in impeccable black with a Peter Pan collar, so right for those occasions when one’s husband has just been found bludgeoned to death. Altogether, St. Just was having a hard time getting a handle on her. She seemed no more put out over the situation than had been her father-in-law.