G Malliet - Death and the Lit Chick

"After you," said Mrs. Elksworthy, hugging herself in a mock shiver.

A spiral stair led down to an empty, stone-walled room-empty except for a metal railing at the top of what appeared to be a literal hole in the ground. St. Just eased his way down the narrow steps, Joan Elksworthy at his heels. A cold, musty smell assailed their nostrils. They peered over the railing, from which point they could look far down into the cell. It was windowless, about ten feet square. A posted brochure to one side of the barricaded opening contained a diagram illustrating that the little prison cell featured such amenities as a latrine and a ventilation shaft. St. Just spotted the shaft high up on the wall, but it emitted no light.

"'Prisoners were lowered into the dungeon by rope,'" Mrs. Elksworthy read aloud from the brochure, "'and the score marks of the ropes can still be seen in the stonework. Once in, there was no escape through the eleven-inch thick walls.'

"How perfectly dreadful," she said. "And right here, practically in the dead center of the building. You'd think the screams would have kept everyone awake at night."

Surely she was right-the prisoners must have disturbed the other denizens of the castle. But then St. Just realized that the remoteness of the dungeon, off what then must have been a little-traveled hallway at the bottom of the castle, probably muffled the cries.

Anyway, he realized, the poor ragged, emaciated sods were probably too weak from injuries, torture, hunger, and thirst to do much yelling. In his imagination, he heard their cries echo faintly off the stone walls. How many had languished at the bottom of this pit, suffering lingering and horrible deaths by starvation in this literal hell hole?

"I doubt the victims were in much condition to scream by the time they were thrown in here," he told her. A small shudder of revulsion lifted his shoulders. He felt a sinking of the spirit, much as he had felt looking at the leper holes in the porch of a medieval church at Englishcombe. The long creep of centuries added weight to the fetid air.

Joan said, "Let's get the hell out of here." He didn't stay to argue.

"The hotel brochure also mentions a priest's hole," Mrs. Elksworthy said as they emerged into the main hallway. "This place has everything, doesn't it?"

From the registration area below, they could hear Magretta putting the staff through its paces. They dared a peek down the stairs. Magretta was pounding one bejeweled fist on the countertop for emphasis.

"If, as you say, there are no turrets left, which I do not for one second believe, I shall have a room with a view. The closed outdoor pool does not count as a view. I came to Scotland to see the mountain vistas and by God, I shall." She stamped one small, green-shod foot.

"Madam, I am sorry," said the clerk. "I can only repeat, the last turreted room went to Miss Kalder. Perhaps she would be willing to organize an exchange."

"Perhaps pigs will fly," muttered Joan Elksworthy.

As there were in fact no mountains near the castle, St. Just could only wonder how the staff was going to cope with Magretta. He and Mrs. E-she really seemed to prefer the more informal mode of address-carried on into the sitting room, where waiters bustled about replenishing the afternoon tea service. The pair stood near where Donna Doone had sat earlier, overlooking the front of the Castle. A limo was now disgorging a broad-shouldered, pugnacious-looking man and a woman, presumably his wife. St. Just somehow was put in mind of photos of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas from the 1930s. He had never been sure what black bombazine was, but felt fairly certain this is what the woman might be wearing-there was something altogether faded and old-fashioned in her appearance. She hovered several feet behind the man like a paid companion.

"That," said Mrs. Elksworthy, "is Tom Brackett, the spy novelist, and his wife. I always forget her name. Tom claims to have been a real spy once. Or at least, he doesn't bother to deny the rumors-good for sales. Spy novels… not really mysteries, are they? Oh, and this woman just now arriving. That's Ninette Thomson. She's an agent."

Another taxi pulled up, and it proved to be the last one of the day. It disgorged a woman of perhaps forty years with graying brown hair, plainly dressed in a nondescript dress of muddy brown.

"No idea," Mrs. Elksworthy said. "She looks like she's been dragged through a hedge backwards, doesn't she? Oh, wait, that's Annabelle Pace. My, she's put on weight." She lowered her voice confidingly. "Occupational hazard for a writer," she informed him. "Writer's butt. I grew as big as a barn writing No One Here but Us Dead."

Mrs. Elksworthy excused herself after one cup of tea to finish unpacking. St. Just stayed on as long as he could, and ate and drank as much tea as he could hold, hoping this Ms. De'Ath would appear. She never did.

Portia De'Ath had spent the afternoon in her room, going over her notes for her work in progress. The castle's romantic setting so far wasn't helping as she'd hoped. She'd devised a plot of what had seemed at the moment of inspiration to be devilish ingenuity. In execution, it was turning into a sea of red herrings.

But it was seven the next time she looked at her watch. She'd missed the start of the cocktail hour and would have to rush to change for dinner. She emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later in a fusion of steam and lavender scent, wrapped in one of the hotel's plush white terrycloth robes. Quickly, she slipped into a travel-proof black jersey, accenting it with gold jewelry at her neck and ears, and headed downstairs.

At the Dungeon Restaurant, festively decorated with weapons and suits of armor, she was briskly led by a hostess to a table for two near Tom Brackett and his wife-too briskly for Portia to stop her. She had encountered the pair at a previous conference and had spent much of the time wishing she could kidnap Edith away from the man.

Her agent Ninette Thomson, this night foreswearing her usual animal prints and leggings in favor of a simple black dress, joined her moments later. Portia now realized that at another nearby table sat her disappearing travel companion, Kimberlee Kalder, and a handsome blonde man whom Ninette introduced-rather frostily, thought Portia-as Jay Fforde, agent. Ninette treated Kimberlee to an accusatory glance that could have done service as a steak knife. Kimberlee smiled sweetly back, scanning both women with expertly kohl-lined eyes. If Kimberlee remembered abandoning Portia at the train station-in fact, if she remembered her at all-it was clear that now she only had eyes for Jay Fforde.

Ninette and Portia studied the menu, eavesdropping the while. Kimberlee seemed to be the topic of several muted exchanges going on around them. Heads also kept turning in the direction of an unremarkable woman who sat alone, wearing an unfortunate dun-colored polyester dress. Portia finally recognized her from years of seeing her photo in bookstore advertising displays-Annabelle Pace. Annabelle, who wrote tales about an oversexed forensic pathologist-Canadian, Portia rather thought. Despite the fact the author's research on forensics had been criticized as laughably slipshod at best, the books generally lingered several weeks on the best-seller lists. Although, Portia realized, she hadn't seen the name Annabelle Pace in those lists for some time. Annabelle was looking decidedly ill and drawn-far older than her publicity photos, at any rate.

Other people recognizable as conference attendees began straying in, including Magretta Sincock, dressed now in a peculiar green the color of decomposing celery. Thankfully she had left any matching hat in her room. She stood surveying the restaurant, apparently captivated by its barrel-vaulted ceiling. Portia had a suspicion she was holding this pose until most of the diners registered her presence. She also suspected Magretta was waiting for one particular pair of eyes to notice her. When Kimberlee Kalder finally did look up, Magretta did a staged double-take and danced across the room, gushing hallos, a wizened but game Peter Pan. If Magretta had hoped politeness would demand she be invited to sit, it was a short-lived hope. The pair gave her a dismissive, chilly greeting and resumed their conversation under her nose.