G Malliet - Death of a Cozy Writer

“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.

“No. No children. Most unfortunate.” But she did not look particularly regretful; she might have been talking about her rose garden doing poorly that year. “Ruthven couldn’t-”

Instinctively, St. Just held up a hand to forestall any too-intimate revelations.

“That’s quite all right, Mrs.-”

“Oh! Oh, I didn’t mean that,” she said. “No, no, I mean he was quite capable .” She gave a strained little laugh, as if to assure the Inspector that her husband was quite as good as anyone else’s, thank you very much. “Good heavens. No, no, everything quite all right in that department. It’s just that he couldn’t abide children.”

“I see. You had been married-how long?”

“Oh, twenty years or so.”

St. Just reminded himself again that the reaction to the sudden death of one’s nearest and dearest can take many forms. Her demeanor was just odd, since indifference was not generally one of those reactions.

“Can you think of anyone who would want to harm your husband?”

“No one.” Now she began straightening what he supposed was her engagement ring, which rode high atop a plain wedding band- the diamond, the size of a small almond, had not surprisingly shifted heavily on her finger like a capsized boat. “Well everyone, I suppose, really. But no one really .”