Shadow of Reality (14 page)

Irene held out a copy of a
Time
magazine book review. “I was so mad at myself for forgetting to bring my copy of
Who Doth Murder Sleep?
that I looked this up in the library and asked the office to photocopy it for me. I loved the book, and I had to have something autographed. Oh, that reminds me, when I was looking through those back issues I found a picture of that actress you were asking me about the other day.”

“Margo Lovell?” Elizabeth said the name quietly, not wanting Gavin to hear her talking about his dead girlfriend.

“Yes, her uncle was killed a few years ago in an IRA terrorist attack on the minister of something or other whom he happened to be with. His body lay in state in Westminster Abbey. It was a picture of her grieving by the casket—very touching in a regal sort of way.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“I think I left the magazine on the top of the stack—one of the top ones, anyway. In the ‘People’ section.”

The line moved forward, and Irene held out her paper to be signed. Gavin smiled, a bit embarrassed at the extravagant review, and said something to Irene, but Elizabeth was ready to revisit the tea table. This time she concentrated on the tiny round butter cookies and little squares of cake to accompany her refilled cup.

The line waiting to see Gavin was even longer than before, so Elizabeth merely caught his eye and waved to him before moving on around the room. She looked for some of the other Blithe Spirit members; she wanted a chance to question Bill Johnson about his business and travels. She spotted Richard and Anita in a corner by the fireplace, but they didn’t look as if they would particularly welcome her intrusion, so she started to take a seat by herself. As she did so, Helen Johnson came up.

“Why don’t you go around with us? This is the last chance to interview witnesses, and Evan and Cathy still have several burning questions. I hope to goodness they can resolve this thing—they kept us awake half the night arguing over who did it. I keep telling them it’s just a game, but they’re really taking it seriously.”

Several interviewers were gathered around Millie, who was working herself into an emotional state over the questions being put to her. “I can’t see whot that ‘as to do with anything. Unless yer think Vicky’s ghost came back to murder me for my carelessness and got me mistress instead.”

“No, no, Millie. We’re sorry we’ve upset you,” a woman in a purple lace afternoon tea gown said soothingly. “But my dear, you must see that we simply have to follow every little lead. Now will you please try to think just once more? Are you absolutely certain you haven’t the tiniest inkling where you might have lost your sister’s manuscript? Did you take it in a taxi or on a bus? Could you have put it in the back of some closet and it’s still there? Do try to think, dear.”

Millie shook her head. “No, I never ’ad it in no taxi or omnibus. Vicky gave it to me one night at the theatre and…and I don’t know. That’s all I remember. I were real rushed, and I didn’t think of it again for a few days. Then when I did…” The witness broke down again, shaking with sobs.

The soft approach having failed, another player tried something different. “Now see here, young woman. That’s quite enough of this sniveling. I believe you’re doing it to hide something. Maybe your sister didn’t even write any book at all. And how do we know she died of natural causes? Now just what is your game?”

“Reginald, don’t badger the poor girl. You’ll only make her forget more,” the lady in lace intervened. “Now, my dear, can you remember where you were when she gave you the manuscript? Were you in front of the theatre or backstage?”

“No, Mum. I were in mi’lady’s dressin’ room, like always.” Millie sniffed loudly into a large white handkerchief. “That’s where I always worked when she was on stage, keeping everything nice for ’er the way she liked it. Always a fresh brewed cup of tea between acts. I always did it just right…”

Millie dissolved in tears, and Evan tugged at Elizabeth’s arm. “Want to go talk to Nigel with me?”

“Sure, just as soon as I get one more cake. Did you have one of the chocolate ones?”

“Yeah, they’re great!” They each took two more of the tempting cakes, then cornered Nigel in a large, overstuffed chair.

“What sort of arrangements did you make for your guests’ comfort?”

“Did you tell your servants to stay in York?”

“Did you try to get a message through to the police?”

Evan’s list of questions went on, and Elizabeth was impressed with the original thinking behind most of them.

“Did you plan the menu for the dinner?”

“My housekeeper oversees such matters.” Nigel brushed the insignificant matter off with a wave of his hand.

“But did you order the almond soup?” Evan persisted.

“Nasty stuff.” Nigel made a face. “Ground almonds don’t actually get creamy, you know, it’s like eating bits of sand.”

“You’re not answering my question.” Evan raised his voice. “Did you order cream of almond soup to hide the smell of cyanide? Or in hopes Gloria would choke on a bit of almond?”

“Actually, I think Gloria asked for that particular dish. It was a favorite of hers.”

“That’s a lie, it is!” Everyone turned in surprise to see that Millie had joined their group. “She ’ated almonds. If she ate any soup at all it was just one spoonful to be polite.”

“Well, somebody told me she liked it.”

Millie answered back angrily, and the interview showed lamentable signs of deteriorating into a shouting match. Elizabeth and Evan moved away.

“Say, how about the new actor, that Scotland Yard fellow? I wonder if anyone’s thought to interview him?” Elizabeth said.

Evan looked at the man standing by Brian’s elbow, trying to look inconspicuous. “What a good idea!”

Scott of the Yard wasn’t unwilling to answer their questions, but he was a man of few words.

“Can you tell us what Mr. Rielly is charged with?” Elizabeth asked.

“No charge, Ma’am. Number 10 wants him for routine questioning.”

“Have you been on this case long?”

“No, Ma’am.”

Evan tried, “Have you made other arrests in connection with this case?”

“No, sir.”

Elizabeth tried to think of something. Either there were no clues here or they were on entirely the wrong track.

“Will you be making other arrests while you’re here?” she tried.

“Couldn’t say, Ma’am.”

Elizabeth sighed, and she and Evan exchanged looks of mutual frustration. Neither of them could think of anything more to ask, so they started to back off when Millie approached tearfully. “They’re makin’ the most ’orrible accusations. You tell ‘em I wouldn’t do no wrong,” she pleaded to the officer.

“Now, Millie, calm down.” His reply was in the same clipped monotone of all his answers, but it had an unusually soothing effect on Millie.

Elizabeth frowned at the scene in front of her, then asked, “You two know each other?”

“Of course, this ’ere’s my Uncle Scottie.”

Uncle? Elizabeth couldn’t remember why that rang a bell, but she turned back through her notes. “Oh, the uncle who helped Vicky go to night school?”

“Course ’e is. ’E’s the only uncle I got, ain’t ’e?”

“Is that right, sir?” Evan asked.

“Not to put too fine a point on it, I’d be step uncle to Millie. She and Vicky had the same mother. Vicky’s father was my brother.”

A light bulb went on in Elizabeth’s head. “Ah, so you had more interest in this case than just the security risk.”

“That’s as may be, Ma’am.”

“Do you know anything about the book Vicky wrote?”

“I gave her a few hints about how things work at the Yard.”

“But you didn’t read the manuscript?”

“Not that I’m sure of, Ma’am.”

Elizabeth stopped her note taking, “What do you mean, not sure?”

“I never read Vicky’s story. But I read another with certain similarities to some ideas Vicky and I discussed, if you take my meaning.” His glance at Linden Leigh, just rising from signing his last autograph, was more meaningful than the inspector’s words.

Elizabeth looked at Lord Leigh openmouthed. “
Clouds of Carcasses
!”

“What’s that?” Leigh put his glass in his eye. “You want me to sign another autograph? Terribly sorry not to oblige, a spot of writer’s cramp, old girl.”

“I think a spot of writer’s cribbing was more what the inspector was getting at.”

“Oh, I say, that sounds frightfully unsporting.”

“If not downright illegal, sir.” Inspector Scott frowned at Sir Linden.

“I say, are you casting nasturtiums, old chap?” Leigh’s voice became a shade darker.

“I wouldn’t say but what a certain best-selling book bore certain resemblances to the ideas my niece was working with.”

“Oh, yes, I see your point.” Sir Linden smiled broadly. “But speak well of the dead and all that. The child was a good secretary. You can’t blame her for picking up a few tidbits around the office, now can you? Might not even have been conscious. After all, she typed my stuff all day then went home to work on her own—most natural thing in the world if a few ideas just sort of stuck.”

“So that’s the way it is, is it, sir?” the inspector didn’t return Sir Linden’s smile.

“I’m certain it was. After all, she couldn’t have hoped to get away with plagiarizing me. And first works tend to be highly eclectic.” He turned from the inspector and offered his arm to Elizabeth. “I say, care for a stroll?” Elizabeth abandoned all ideas of questioning Bill Johnson and took Gavin’s arm. He gave the others a jaunty wave. “Cheerio!”

Since the weather wouldn’t permit an outdoors ramble, they just walked slowly down the corridor, up a flight of stairs, and along the hall to one of the secluded little alcoves. It was wonderful to be quiet after the crush of the autograph party and histrionics of the role-playing suspects. But Elizabeth’s heart wasn’t quiet; it was shouting hosannas and clapping for joy. It was with its beloved.

The nook they had chosen was furnished with a small, soft Chesterfield rather than the hard, uncomfortable Victorian sofas so prevalent in the old castle. Elizabeth leaned into the rounded corner. “Do you have trouble shifting back and forth from one persona to the other?”

“I would hate to have to do this for a living. I think the role-playing here is worse that way than stage work would be, because the roles intermingle with everyday living. Like back there at the autograph party where I was signing autographs as Gavin Kendall while talking to the inspector as Linden Leigh. It seems to take everyone that way. One lady asked me to sign her copy of
Clouds of Carcasses
, and no one seems sure whether to call me Sir Gavin or Sir Linden, so I just answer to both.”

“Having your fictional character modeled so closely on your real life probably makes it harder, too.”

“Makes the reality-acting line blur more, I suppose. But then I’m never stuck for an answer because I can always dig up a line from real life if something comes up that Stark hasn’t prepped us ahead on.”

“Does he give it all to you in a lot of detail?”

“He did this scenario with a fine-toothed comb, but there are still unforeseen things—” He took her hand—“like this…”

Her response to his kiss said everything she wanted to tell him but couldn’t put into words. It was her apology for doubting him, it was her statement of trust, it was her pledge for the future. A future that could encompass all her dreams.

“Oooh, is that part of the script?” A passerby awoke Elizabeth to the fact that they were in a public room.

“Looks like we’ve got a new suspect to interview.”

“And his fiancée not yet cold in the grave.”

“Did you kill Gloria Glitz so you could marry Sir Linden?”

Speechless, Elizabeth blushed, but Gavin rose to the occasion. “An old friend, comforting me in my bereavement and all that. So you run along like good children and let her get on with it, what?”

They laughed and waved. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“But we couldn’t overlook any clues, you know.”

Elizabeth gave a sigh of relief when their backs disappeared around the corner. “I guess that makes me Lady Leila what’s-her-name?”

Gavin started. “How did you know?”

“About Lady Leila? You mentioned her in an interview—old, old friend of the family, girlfriend before Gloria. Forgotten your own lines?”

“Forgotten my own ad-libbing—that’s one of those items Stark hadn’t choreographed. Bad form not to make up a name, though. Must respect the lady’s privacy and all that.”

“You mean there is a Lady Leila?”

“Yes, old friend, just like I said.”

The information was strangely upsetting to Elizabeth. She turned away from Gavin.

“I say, there’s nothing in it, you know. I don’t deny there might have been at one time. But that’s long past.”

“No, it isn’t that.” She twisted her hands together, then brushed her hair back from her face. “At least, I don’t think it is. I don’t know—I just don’t seem to be coping too well. I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t. And just when I think I have it sorted out the edges of my nice tidy boxes start crumbling again.”

Gavin stood and held his hand out to help her up. “But that’s the problem; you can’t put people in boxes. They will break out.” They rose by common consent and Gavin began walking her to her room. “Even in real life, how do you know when people you meet are being really honest or playing a part?” They were both silent for a moment. “I wonder how often they know themselves?”

When they entered the parlor on the fourth floor, however, there was no question that it was all reality. Two blue-uniformed policemen, with a great deal of mud splattered on their trousers, were directing crisp questions at Richard, who was explaining how they found the deceased’s belongings, while Anita stood there with her notebook open.

“And this is the lady that discovered the body?” An officer turned to Elizabeth and opened a new page in his notebook.

They took Elizabeth’s statement, then requested to see Gavin’s passport and asked him all the same questions. “I think that’ll be all for now. When we get a report from the lab there may be more questions.”

“You’re taking—er, Mr. Parkerson down to Hidden Glenn, are you?” Elizabeth asked.