DCI St. Just's room was on the top floor of the castle, and while small, it more than lived up to the themes of plunder and pillage introduced by the main rooms below. To his delight, it proved to be one of the corner rooms featuring a turret. The turret itself had been transformed into a writing nook, complete with antique desk, lamp, and phone.
He began to unpack, laying out his kit in the marble-tiled bathroom, and folding his clothes into a beautiful old rosewood chest of drawers, on top of which rested several brochures describing the amenities of the hotel. A glossy blue tri-fold advertised the full-service spa.
He ran a hand down the back of his neck. He'd badly wrenched it once subduing a high-spirited villain, and after a month of pain-filled, sleepless nights, his wife had given him a certificate for a spa massage. He'd let the certificate expire; to him there was something decadent, something un-English, about such self-indulgence. Beth had asked him about it a few times. He wished now he'd at least had the kindness to lie and say he'd used her well-intended gift.
Beth had been dead three years now.
That wasn't possible, was it? Three years?
Poor Bethie.
His reaction to that lovely dark-haired woman-he'd overheard the clerk call her Ms. De'Ath-filled him with guilt, much like that spa certificate. He and Beth had never had the conversation where each spouse releases the other from the obligation of prolonged mourning in the event of the death of either. He and Beth had thought they'd live forever. They'd joked about having walker races when they reached the old people's home together.
He had never in three years given a thought to remarrying, but not for want of well-meaning friends, usually happily married women, who saw his single state as an affront to nature. A good-looking, intelligent man in possession of a steady job, a weekend home, and a good pedigree must be in want of a wife. Or famous words to that effect. They had waited a decent interval-eight weeks-before the invitations started pouring in. It was not from lack of respect for Beth, he came to realize, but more a case of supply-and-demand economics. These friends liked nothing better than to invite him to dinner and spring an unattached female on him. None of these arranged matches had "taken," of course. In fact, under the rapt gaze of these matchmaking friends, most of the women had seemed as uncomfortable as he.
Sadness settled over him like a monk's cowl. He simply was not in the market for a wife, and the whole concept of dating-dreaded word-struck him as both ridiculous and terrifying. Beth had been all he'd ever wanted. Her death had been the defining loss of his life. He wasn't going to allow the gods a second chance to destroy him.
Looking for a diversion from his thoughts-any diversion-he pulled out of his suitcase the conference brochure that had arrived the other day through the post. It was printed in pitch black and shrieking red, the bulleted points illustrated with little dripping bloody daggers.
He settled at the desk in the turret and began flipping through the pages. Among the scheduled topics were "Fifty Ways to Leave Your Agent" and "Print on Demand, or, First Let's Kill All the Editors." They were also to be treated to "Is PoD the KoD?" What on earth? This was followed by the equally opaque "Time to Deep-six the Chix?" He stopped to read the description: "Is it Women's Literature, or is it Chick Lit? Some in publishing circles feel it's time to nix the chix-chick lit that is. Hear what publishing experts see as the future-or not-of this hot genre!"
He continued to struggle through the recondite schedule, trying to get a feel for what his audience might expect from him. On Sunday, they were to be treated to "Cat's Meow or Dog's Dinner?", apparently a discussion of which animal had a greater impact on sales of crime novels. St. Just would have thought neither. At least a parrot might prove a useful witness to a crime.
As an appetizer before the luncheon break, there was to be a session by one Annabelle Pace on "Every Which Way: Detection via Blood Splatter Analysis." His own session, he saw with dismay, had been titled, "Bad Boys." He sighed, reading the description: "Top cop DCI Arthur St. Just discusses police procedure in nabbing the baddies. Hold your fire as he fires off tales of his most famous nabs."
This was dreadful, even worse than he'd imagined. Who did they think he was? Eliot Ness?
He heard a tentative knock on the door. He opened it to find a woman with an exceedingly permed head of hair who introduced herself as Donna Doone.
"Just checking to make sure everything's all right," she said with a bright smile. "I see you did get upgraded to one of the lovely turret rooms-I made a special point of putting you in for one when I saw your name in the program. The famous detective here at Dalmorton? Too thrilling. Free upgrade, never fear."
Without invitation she bustled in, parked herself on the canopied bed, and surveyed the room. She was wearing, St. Just could hardly help but notice, an extremely tight-fitting and low-cut dress in a shiny fabric more suitable for a night at the opera. While he found the woman's familiarity a bit startling, St. Just was used to this kind of thing. Women trusted him, children trusted him, dogs and cats followed him home.
Nodding at the brochure, Donna Doone said, "Chronic, isn't it? Are you signing up for any of the excursions? You won't want to miss the Vaults in Edinburgh. They're like an underground village, really. Haunted, you know."
"I hadn't thought about it, in-"
"I must say, I've been looking forward for weeks to having all of you here. Have you seen Kimberlee Kalder yet? And Winston Chatley-now, there's a dark horse if you like. And Joan Elksworthy with those Scottish books-so lovely, you forget they're about murder. Still, I don't think they're as unrealistic as the pathologist capers that Annabelle Pace writes… But as a writer myself I know how difficult this can be. Reality, I mean."
Politely, wondering if she was planning to stay the night, St. Just asked her what she was writing.
"It's an historical mystery set during prehistoric times." She hesitated. "I could use some advice on the forensics, you see."
He didn't doubt that for a moment.
"I'm not really an expert in that area…"
It certainly explained the red-carpet treatment he was getting. What could he tell her, though? Mercifully, she had skipped ahead to another topic.
"Have you seen the castle grounds yet? Do let me give you the Cook's tour."
He started to refuse, worried he was incurring some kind of indebtedness, for clearly she was after advice for this novel of hers-advice no one alive could provide. Still, his legs wanted a stretch after the train ride.
Also, it might be the only way to get her out of the room.
The grounds of the ancient fortress consisted of acres of wooded parkland nestled near the banks of the river Esk. St. Just and Donna walked slowly, savoring the unusually warm but windy day, as she pointed out the flora and fauna and the golf course in the distance. Snow dotted the grounds like melted ice cream.
Eventually their walk brought them to a mews and weathering yard near the castle. Dalmorton, she explained, boasted a collection of hawks, buzzards, falcons, eagles, and owls-all medieval weapons of choice until the invention of the gun. The birds passed expert eyes over St. Just, like connoisseurs assessing the contents of a butcher's display cabinet.
He and Donna stepped into the aviary, where the cages looked barely strong enough to resist the birds' wire-cutter beaks. St. Just instinctively kept his distance. He was being closely scrutinized by one ferocious-looking buzzard when a woman feathered in a vivid shade of green flew in. He placed her in her late fifties, with a hairstyle that owed much to the influence of Maggie Thatcher, who in photos always appeared to be standing in front of a large balloon.
"There you are, Miss Doone," the woman trilled. "I've been looking all over for you." She waved her boa about to indicate the width and breadth of her search. "My room doesn't have a turret. I specifically asked for one of the turreted bedrooms."
"I say, I have-" St. Just felt a sharp little elbow in his ribs.
Donna Doone said, "Magretta. Miss Sincock. I'm afraid all room arrangements were made at the direction of Lord Easterbrook. I can't change them without his authorization."
Magretta was letting fly a salvo of protest when a brisk figure in brogues came bustling along the path and into the aviary. An Alice band in a fabric of Native American design held the chopped gray hair framing her betel-nut face, browned and scored from too many years in the sun; turquoise stones in intricate settings adorned her ears and wrists. The woman stopped with a friendly cry and introduced herself as Mrs. Elksworthy of Santa Fe. Donna took the opportunity to glance at her watch and detach herself from the group.
"Cocktails," she threw over her shoulder. "Seven o'clock. Tomorrow, don't forget, is the awards dinner. Smart dress code, everyone!"
If she'd hoped to escape she was mistaken. Magretta maneuvered a U-turn and churned off in Donna's wake.
Mrs. Elksworthy said conversationally, "Magretta lives in her own little Ruritania. Has done for years." Her eyes were a startling lake blue against the ravaged desert of her complexion. "As if we could forget that blasted dinner. What was Lord Easterbrook thinking-bound to cause trouble. I gather you're new this year?"
He nodded. In the distance, they could see a young man strolling the grounds by himself, his hair streaked nearly white by the sun. A golden-haired boy, indeed. Perhaps strutting was a better word: St. Just was reminded of a peacock looking for a mate.
"That is Jay Fforde," Mrs. Elksworthy informed him. "Agent to the stars."
"A nice-looking man," St. Just commented.
Joan Elksworthy again gave him the benefit of that disquieting gaze.
"He would surely agree. Anyway, Jay represents the turretless Magretta Sincock, among others, including me." She turned to him. "They couldn't get anyone from Lothian and Borders Police to do a little talk about police procedure?"
"For some reason they asked for me."
"Then you're being modest. I'm a friend of the conference organizer. You must be very well-known indeed for her to have asked specifically for you."
Together they left the aviary and crossed the weathering yard. He found Mrs. Elksworthy to be a comfortable woman, the type probably most at home in a world of herbaceous borders, potting sheds, and bedding plants. Except he imagined in Santa Fe the herbaceous borders might be replaced by rows of cacti. She carried about her a no-nonsense, captain-of-the-hockey-team aura. Such as she, reflected St. Just, had seen Britain through the Blitz.
They followed a sign pointing to the Old Spa area, which proved to be a room lined with antique photographs of large, stern-looking ladies from the turn of the last century wading, fully clothed, like hippos into the steaming bath waters. From there he and Mrs. Elksworthy ("Call me Mrs. E, everyone does") walked up a stone staircase to an area housing the modern-day indoor pool and spa. The azure pool water sparkled invitingly under recessed lighting.
It was as they walked down the hall toward the main part of the castle that St. Just noticed an ancient wooden door to the right. A small plaque on the wall next to it read: Bottle Dungeon. The door opened at his touch with a satisfyingly ominous creak.
"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.