G Malliet - Death and the Lit Chick

"A wise choice," said Winston. "I'll say good night to both you ladies. If you'll both be all right?"

In the library, Portia found only semi-darkness, with the fireplace relieving the gloom. The scene had shifted somewhat, which was a problem when she later tried to reconstruct the entire evening in her mind: She was not entirely clear who was where, talking to whom. Ninette sat alone on the sofa where Kimberlee and Jay had reigned earlier. She thought she saw Quentin in a distant corner; Annabelle was talking with Mrs. Elksworthy. The topic was herbal remedies of the American Indian tribes.

"Root cabbage for asthma, of course. Nothing else works as well."

Portia greeted the two women, explaining her mission, and found her way over to the nearest wall of books. B. A. King sidled up as her eyes scanned the available titles. The selection ran heavily to musty histories and memoirs of the more obscure members of the Scots Guards. With a sinking heart she heard B. A. ask her about the Fisher murder case, the investigation of which Portia had been involved in when she first arrived at Cambridge.

"There are those, you know, who feel the butler really did do it," said B. A.

"I know. There are those who feel the earth is flat, but they're wrong. The husband did confess just before he died, were you aware?"

Grabbing a book at random (it later proved to be a battered copy of Ivanhoe) and smiling sweetly, she turned quickly to leave. There was something about B. A.-a whiff of the snake-oil salesman clung to him, not to mention a more noticeable odor of whiskey.

At the entrance to the lobby she waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. There was no fireplace here to light her way, the vast room seemed to swallow up the candlelight, and everywhere the windows were mere arrow slits set high in the stone walls. She began feeling her way toward the main stairs.

The staff had by now set out candles on the table in the corridor, creating a beacon of light surrounded, however, by pitch darkness. It was as Portia stepped into the shadows she saw-or thought she saw-a figure in white walking away from the door of the bottle dungeon. The figure seemed to disappear into the door at the end of the hallway-an impossibility. Portia shook her head, really regretting the after-dinner brandy now. As she stood peering into the darkness, she sensed a movement behind her. Swinging around, she saw Jay. She could hear at a distance the rest of the library party, rowdily bidding the bartender a good night.

It was then a scream cut through the dark silence. Without visual cues, to Portia the sound seemed to come from everywhere at once. She saw Jay turn in her direction.

Then Magretta came flying out of the door leading to the bottle dungeon. She screamed again when she saw Portia and kept running, surprisingly light on her feet. Portia called after her.

"What is it, Magretta?"

Magretta's voice carried across the darkness, words tossed over her shoulder as she continued hurtling pell-mell up the main staircase.

"Kimberlee!" she cried. "It's Kimberlee! And she's dead!"

There was little doubt it was Kimberlee Kalder, and less doubt she was dead. She lay on her back at the bottom of the bottle dungeon. Even in the flickering and feeble light of the candle, Portia could see the poor girl's head and neck were twisted at an impossible angle. Her right leg seemed to have snapped just before the knee. She was in her stockinged feet, but in the corner of the horrible little cell where she had died was one of her black, pointed shoes, crouched like a rat. She was wearing the white dress she'd had on that evening for the awards dinner.

But something about the scene was wrong-Portia wasn't sure what. Something was missing or something had been added.

"What is it?"

Portia jumped, nearly shouting at the voice behind her. Mrs. Elksworthy was at her shoulder.

"It's Kimberlee. She's dead. Go fetch DCI St. Just, would you? Quickly. Have him call the local police and then get him down here. Top of the stairs, the room two doors down on the right."

Magretta's screams could still be heard, now coming from a floor far above.

"Then for God's sake go and see if you can calm Magretta."

Mrs. Elksworthy seemed frozen to the spot. Portia had seen this kind of reaction before, even in sensible souls, such as Mrs. Elksworthy appeared to be. Especially in sensible souls, to whom the chaos of violent death was an abomination.

"Joan," Portia said sharply. "You have to help me."

Nodding slowly, Mrs. Elksworthy started backing up the stairs, her eyes holding Portia's.

"Hurry!" Portia urged. At that Joan turned and ran as quickly as her short legs and the narrow, worn steps would allow. Anxious not to disturb what was clearly a crime scene-there was no way Kimberlee could have just fallen over the banister; it would have been nearly as high as the bottom of her rib cage-Portia crept back up the spiral stairs to the wooden door at the top. Mrs. Elksworthy and St. Just had just arrived at the foot of the main staircase, both illuminated by candles.

"The local police are on the way," he said. "Are you all right?"

Portia nodded absently. "Think so." Looking up, she could see every guest on that side of the castle had been alerted that something was amiss. They all seemed to be leaning over the landing banister. All except Tom.

"She's been murdered, Arthur," Portia said quietly. Her familiar use of his Christian name struck neither of them as odd. "There's no way she fell."

St. Just, following her gaze to the row of horrified eyes watching them from the landing, turned to Mrs. Elksworthy. "I'll need you to keep everyone out of the way until the police arrive. Will you do that?"

Mrs. Elksworthy, who seemed to have aged a decade in the last few minutes, nodded.

"Nothing to worry about," Portia heard her telling the little assembly a bit later. "Just an accident, I'm sure. The police will have it sorted in a minute."

"It will take a lot longer than a minute," murmured Portia to St. Just, following him back down the bottle dungeon stairs. She watched as he, in his turn, looked over the railing and took in the scene.

"Stand here a bit closer with that candle," he said. "Mind the wax, though." He stooped to examine the railing.

"There are what look like fresh marks here in the wood, possibly scratch marks made as she fought off her attacker, or possibly made as her attacker hefted her over the railing. I'll make sure forensics examine those nails of hers. They would have made good weapons, if she got the chance to use them. What do you think?"

He turned to Portia, who was staring intently at the body, with all the clinical detachment of a SOCO.

"Robbery?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Something was added, or taken away." The words ran like a mantra through her head. Something… missing? Turning, she held her candle aloft to examine the floor around them. In the corner a bit of cellophane glinted, perhaps part of a sweet wrapper-nothing more. "Damned time for us to lose the lights, don't you think?" she asked. "It's dark as pitch down here. And she didn't have a candle, unless it's somehow hidden by her body… Wait. That's what's missing. She could never have found her way down here in the dark without breaking her n-oh, sorry. But you can see what I mean. She didn't fall down the stairs and pop over the railing to end up in the bottle dungeon. Maybe she made it this far on her own steam and then there was a struggle. Or she was pushed down the stairs and someone heaved her body over the rail. She wasn't a large person; it's just possible that's what happened."

"We'll see what forensics has to say," said St. Just. "Oh, for pity's sake."

"What?"

"We're forgetting, there's no way in here with the drawbridge up."