Aaron Elkins: Murder In The Queen's armes

But Gideon was staring at the reception desk at the far end of the ancient corridor. There, Andy Hinshore stood, livid and popeyed, dialing the desk telephone and shaking so hard the two parts of the instrument rattled against each other in his hands. He stared at Bagshawe, somehow recognizing him for a policeman.

"Police?" he said. He stared stupidly at the telephone.

"But how…I was just calling… Someone’s been- there’s been a killing!" He blinked twice, and his Adam’s apple went ratcheting up and down his throat.

Trembling, his hand rose to point to the age-blackened door of the Tudor Room. "In there."

THEY flung the door open and burst into the room only to stop short on the threshold, stumbling over each other in a Three Stooges-like scramble that would in other circumstances have been comical.

Behind them, in an awed voice, Hinshore said unnecessarily: "By the fireplace."

The room, lit only by the dying fire, wavered between darkness and fluttering, warm orange. Objects on the walls-plates, pictures, old copper utensils-danced in and out of focus. Only the hearth itself was clearly lit, and there, on the stone flooring before which people had sat these five hundred years in comradeship and warmth, a man’s body lay sprawled, his chin tilted rigidly upward, the golden beard glinting like copper wire in the firelight.

"Leon Hillyer," Bagshawe said with interest, and turned on the light.

"Now, you just calm yourself, Professor Frawley, and drink some tea," Bagshawe said supportively.

Frawley nodded, brought the steaming cup to his mouth cradled in both hands, and bent his head over it, as a man who had been lost in the snow for two days might lift a mug of brandy.

As soon as Bagshawe had had a quick look at the body, he had called police headquarters, having pretty much to wrest the telephone from the benumbed Hinshore. Sergeant Fryer, lean and dour, quickly arrived with a uniformed constable, and soon after that Dr. Merrill had come. Merrill and the sergeant had at once busied themselves in the Tudor Room with Leon’s body, while the constable stood just outside the open door to the sitting room, keeping watch on the dwindling personnel of Stonebarrow Fell.

Bagshawe had taken over the dining room. First he had conferred hurriedly with Gideon, who brought him as up-to-date as he could in ten minutes. Then he called in Jack Frawley. The pot of tea had been politely requested by the inspector-partly, Gideon thought, to calm Frawley, who looked hideous, and partly to give the agitated Hinshore something to do.

Frawley finally put down his cup. "Thank you. I think I’m all right now," he said without conviction.

"Fine, fine," Bagshawe said. "Now, if you’d just go over it again…?" A small pad was before him on the table, and the tip of his tongue emerged to lick the point of a stubby pencil. He was all friendly patience.

"I came in early," Frawley said dully. "Nobody was in the sitting room yet except Nate and Dr. Goldstein, and Nate was…well, not entirely sober, to be perfectly candid. It was a little uncomfortable, so I went into the Tudor Room-just seeing the place, you know." He was speaking in a very low voice, breathing in and out between the sentences. Now he closed his eyes for a moment. "Leon was lying there all…well, you saw him. I think I just stood there, sort of in a trance. Then I heard the front door open and some people come in. I guess I shouted and everybody came running in. That’s all."

"And who," Bagshawe said pleasantly, "is everybody?"

"Everybody: Dr. Goldstein, Dr. Arbuckle, Sandra… Barry, I think."

"You think?"

"Well, I wasn’t really…I was pretty upset. I think Barry was there. The man who owns the place too. They all came."

"Professor Marcus?"

"No, not Nate. He’s really not in very good shape." Neither was Frawley, from the look of him. His face was the color of parboiled chicken.

"And then?" Bagshawe asked. "Did you touch anything?"

"Me, you mean? Oh, no. I could see he was dead; there wasn’t anything to do." He turned moist and pleading eyes on Bagshawe. "Inspector, I don’t feel very well. If I could lie down…"

"Just a few moments more, sir, if you please. What happened next?"

"I really don’t remember too well. Dr. Arbuckle ran in and felt his heart. Then he gave him CPR-" A violent shudder jerked Frawley’s shoulders.

Gideon understood his reaction. Leon had been an awful sight. A torn, bloody dent had grooved his forehead and crushed the bridge of his nose, and the very shape of his head was awry. Blood was in abundance, and the poker that had only too clearly done it all lay a few feet away. Julie had fled from the room at once and Gideon had very nearly followed her, but he had made himself remain with the pacific, unperturbed Bagshawe, using his old device of looking without quite looking.

"…and then," Frawley was saying, "Mr. Hinshore said nobody better touch anything, and he was going to call the police. We all went into the sitting room, and then you came."

"I see," Bagshawe said. "I’ll just get that down, if you please."

While he did so, Frawley said, "If I could go now-"

"Very shortly, sir. I believe Professor Oliver has something to ask you, about the Poundbury skull."

"The Poundbury skull?" Frawley repeated dimly, as if he’d never heard of it.

"And your conversation with Randy," Gideon said.

Frawley had the teacup near his face. He clapped it shakily down. "Inspector," he said in a feeble show of spirit, "I really think we could go into this another time."

"No, sir, I think now would be the right time. We could do it at headquarters if you prefer."

"No," Frawley said hurriedly, "we can do it here." He looked mournfully at Gideon. Et tu, Brute? said the look in his expressive eyes.

The best approach seemed to be to wade in, and Gideon did. "Jack, this morning you said Randy told you that Nate was behind the fraud."

"That’s right, he did. I already told you-"

"Today Leon told me that he’d pulled off the Poundbury hoax-with Randy’s help. If that’s true, why would Randy tell you that Nate did it?"

"How would I know? Who knows what he was thinking? I told you what he said, and that’s the truth."

"You’ve told two different stories," Bagshawe put in. "First you told me that the young man hadn’t talked to you at all. And then you said-as Professor Oliver here has pointed out-that he’d accused Professor Marcus-"

"I believe I already explained that. I, ah, may have been in error in withholding information at first, but I meant no harm. I stand firmly on what I said."

"Which time, Jack?" Gideon asked.

"Inspector, do I have to stand for that? I’ll swear to what I’ve said, if necessary."

Bagshawe looked searchingly at him. "Professor Frawley," he said slowly, "I think I must tell you that anything you say may be used-"

Frawley’s complexion went from blue-white to dull red. "Is that what’s called the usual warning?"

"The Usual Caution, yes, sir."

"All right, then," Frawley said with sulky aggressiveness, "at least I know where I stand."

"I’m not sure you do, Jack," Gideon said. "The Usual Caution is about the same thing as telling you you’re about to be arrested for murder."

On that rather large liberty, he looked surreptitiously at Bagshawe and saw the massive eyebrows lift, but the policeman said nothing. Gideon went ahead: "You’re in a lot of trouble, Jack, believe me. If you haven’t told the truth, you’d better do it now."

Frawley inclined his head. Gideon looked down on bent shoulders and a crown of thinning hair. "Come on, Jack," he said more gently.

Frawley sat up with his eyes still closed. He spoke in a monotone. "When Randy talked to me that morning, he told me… what you said."