"I think I can fairly speak for everyone when I say, 'Thank God that's over.'"
It was just nine o'clock and the dinner had ended. Annabelle was sprawled in one of the leather chairs in front of the library fireplace with its serpentine grate, studying the effects of lambent firelight on her glass of brandy. There had been a bit of a crush to get to the bar, as the writers had quickly drunk all the wine allotted them at dinner by Easterbrook.
"The old skinflint," was Annabelle's comment. "Some awards dinner. Hard enough to get through the speeches drunk, let alone sober."
The Dalmorton staff had transformed the barrel-vaulted dungeon-slash-dining room for the event. Three large tables replaced the smaller individual ones, an arrangement Portia thought amounted to putting all the zoo animals together in three cages. She wondered if Lord Easterbrook knew the kind of tension he might be creating by singling out one writer from his list. Most awards, after all, reflected some kind of vote. This was simply a private reward that might have been handed over privately.
Several local Scottish dignitaries, including the local mayor, had been collected for the festivities, arriving importantly in a limousine from Edinburgh. Quentin Swope, wearing a tuxedo T-shirt, had also somehow wangled an invitation, along with Rachel Twalley.
Once again in keeping with sod's law, St. Just arrived in the dining room too late to secure a seat next to Portia. This night she was dazzling in a long, blue velvet dress; she had smoothed her hair into a gold net at the nape of her neck, and a blaze of sapphire earrings dropped nearly to her shoulders. She looked, he thought, like a chatelaine from another century. He took a seat between Mrs. Elksworthy and Annabelle, who wore something long, dark, and drapey that could have been called into service as a burkha. Donna Doone trotted in several minutes late, wearing a bugle-beaded red dress that made her look rather as if she'd just escaped a Victorian bordello. The Bracketts arrived last, Tom ordering his wife into the chair next to Annabelle. For the next hour, as Tom worked his way steadily through the courses, he spoke to no one. At one point Rachel tried to volley some pleasantry in his direction, to which Tom-after an appraising, up-and-down stare-did not reply.
They got through the rest of the meal, their aimless chatter and industry gossip magnified by the room's vaulted roof. When the waiters began bringing coffee and dessert, Rachel Twalley rose and began reading from her prepared welcoming speech, which bore an uncanny likeness to her opening remarks at the conference. The evening bore all the hallmarks of the usual interminable awards dinner, in fact, until Lord Easterbrook stood to announce it as his pleasure "to honor Kimberlee Kalder for writing the best debut novel Deadly Dagger Press or any other publisher has seen in decades… or perhaps, ever. Kimberlee Kalder came from obscurity" (here a dark frown creased the perfection of Kimberlee's brow) "and rose quickly to become the brightest star in the Deadly Dagger galaxy" (the frown disappeared, and the mouth widened in a catlike smirk). "To prove how highly we honor our successful authors, I am pleased to present Kimberlee this evening with a bonus cheque for thirty thousand pounds."
A collective gasp came from every corner of the room. Portia remembered it later as more a howl of outrage, but that may have been Magretta's contribution to the chorus. Kimberlee rose from her chair, dressed in what looked like a white satin slip, and gave an unconvincing show of surprise followed by a long thank-you speech that managed to thank no one or smooth any feathers. Midway through, Tom Brackett walked out, followed by Edith.
When it was over, Portia turned to Mrs. Elksworthy.
"Whew. I don't know about you, but I could fancy a brandy."
"I could fancy several. It might stimulate my thinking on how I might have spent my bonus cheque if one had ever been offered. Bonus cheque -whoever heard of such a thing?" Joan Elksworthy's cheeks held a high color, her face an angry expression.
St. Just, who had been sidling up on the pair from behind, planning his ambush, was just about to seize the moment when Rachel Twalley approached.
"Would you both like to join us for a drink?" Portia asked.
St. Just nodded as Rachel said, "I thought you'd never ask. A quick one, though, and then home to my husband. Really, sharing a table with Tom was the last straw for me tonight. That man is so spiky. I can see why he writes spy novels. Not a word out of him, even under torture."
"He really was a spy once, wasn't he?" said Portia. "That's always been the scuttlebutt."
"If you told me he'd spied for the Russians and they'd refused to let him defect to Moscow, it wouldn't surprise me. Anyway, I heard him inform Edith just now that they were meeting someone in the sitting room, so let's take over the library."
The library was fashioned in the style of a gentleman's drinking club, all wing chairs and roomy, rumpled sofas, with shelves of crumbling leather-bound books lining the walls. It was sited next to the sitting room at the end of a long hallway, past display windows of clothing, sporting goods, and high-end souvenirs. The library contained a service bar, which was technically in operation twenty-four hours a day, or until the last guest was rendered unconscious, whichever came first, which had made it a natural meeting place throughout the conference. One seating group centered round a wood-burning fireplace; another was clustered near a panoramic window offering a far-ranging view of the castle park. Individual chairs with side tables dotted the corners of the room. Faded Persian rugs were strewn about the vast floor.
Their party, which grew to include B. A. King, Ninette, and Winston-Donna Doone having returned Cinderella-like to her castle duties, with a promise to join the group later-ran into Magretta at the door to the library, waving a sheaf of stationery headed with the Dalmorton crest.
"I'm taking a drink up to my room to work on my new novel." Her eyes glistened dangerously. "Research, you know. Some of us have to work for a living."
She cantered off on high heels, green shawl billowing like a sail behind her.
"What's there to research?" wondered Annabelle. She threw back her shoulders, and, puffing out her considerable chest, mimicked: "Details, details! Verisimilitude is of course important! But people are the same in every age, don't you think? It's the-universality-of the naked human condition, its tawdry hopes and blind ambitions, that I por tray in my books." Laughing guiltily at Annabelle's pitch-perfect imitation, the group began placing orders with the bartender. There was some muttered grumbling that Kimberlee-and Lord Easterbrook-should pick up the tab.
Lord Easterbrook was nowhere to be seen, but Jay Fforde and Kimberlee entered, shoulder to shoulder, and quickly commandeered the view overlooking the grounds. They sat throwing significant glances at each other, backlit in a yellow nimbus cast by the castle floodlights, in a pose that invited no interruptions. Beyond this romantic tableau, Portia could see a strengthening storm whipped by wind; intermittently the room's arched and mullioned windows rattled gently, lending a constant rumbling undercurrent to the buzz of conversation. The wind stepped up its mournful chorus as it moved through the distant trees-a chorus punctuated by shrieks as it skirled through the chimneys and wound past the castle battlements.
Everyone else, including Rachel Twalley and the local dignitaries, drifted into small groupings by the fire (St. Just again lost the scrum to sit beside Portia). Before long the talk reverted to the apparently inexhaustible topic of Amazon.com rankings. And from there, Kimberlee being preoccupied safely out of hearing range, the conversation turned to the chick lit trend.
"I don't get it, I really don't," grumbled Annabelle. "What exactly is the attraction of crime stories where the heroines teeter around New York and London in stiletto heels swigging martinis and coffee with a mobile glued to their heads? Besides, I never thought a mystery could make any sense written in the first person, present tense."
"It is rather an interesting technique, though," said Winston in his deep, melodious voice, "once you stop noticing how ruddy intrusive it is." Winston sat folded into his chair, legs and arms jutting in all directions. He put Portia in mind of a grasshopper. "In comparison, how would you characterize Magretta's work? Romantic suspense?"
"Womjep," supplied Mrs. Elksworthy, leaning in to the group. "Woman in Jeopardy. As different from Kimberlee's stuff as can be imagined. All creaking staircases and shadowy figures. The heck of it is, Magretta Sincock was the lodestar in the Dagger constellation for a very long time. But-at least to hear her tell it-every word is conceived and produced only by painstaking labor. Kimberlee makes it all look too easy."
"That local reporter seems to think books like Kimberlee's are the wave of the future," said Annabelle. "Sadly, I think he may be right."
"Quentin Swope?" asked Ninette, pushing back the heavy fringe over her eyes. "I saw him just now joining Tom in the sitting room, weighted down by hair gel. Hard to imagine what Tom might have to say about chick lit."
"Hard to imagine Tom inviting anyone to join him. Harder still to imagine anyone accepting the invitation," said Annabelle.
"I suppose he's hoping for some positive publicity out of Quentin," said Winston. "And I, for one, did accept the invitation-hoping for the same, I don't mind admitting." He stood. "I should be getting over there."
"Judging by what happened to Magretta this morning, that might be a dangerous game," said B. A. King. "She should leave publicity to the professionals." He stood, shooting the cuffs of his dinner jacket. "I think I'll join you, Winston. Can't hurt to know what's in the pipeline."
"I wonder," said Winston, "if the reporter isn't hoping for an 'in' to the book publishing world. If ever I saw someone likely to have an unpublishable novel in his bottom desk drawer, it's Quentin Swope."
"I rather think it's part of Edith's job to keep that type away from Tom," said Mrs. Elksworthy.
"What an odd couple they make," said Annabelle. "She and Tom."
"Without a doubt," said Mrs. Elksworthy. "The miracle is that anyone as unpleasant as Tom Brackett managed to attract a mate in the first place. And yet those two have been together a donkey's age, content to all appearances. At least, Tom seems content. Edith merely seems flattened into quiescence."
"The spy who loved me," said Winston.
"I've also heard he was a schoolteacher," said Annabelle, "which is tremendously difficult to imagine, unless it was in a juvenile detention center. And that he was an actor at one time, but I think that's a story that's become mixed up with a screenwriting stint out in Hollywood. Certainly I've heard most often he was a spy, presumably for our side."
"He was just bloody rude to Rachel Twalley tonight," said Winston. "Not to mention poor Edith. Anyone for another drink before I go?"
Portia thought Winston seemed unusually nervy this evening-unlike the mellow, somewhat melancholy self he most often projected. Probably more of the fallout from Kimberlee's award, she decided.
Donna, having just rejoined them, may have noticed the shift in mood, too. She suddenly asked the group, "Did I tell you the bar used to be part of a priest's hole? They converted it when the hotel opened."
"Converted?" said Annabelle. "No pun intended, I presume. I read somewhere the castle has the requisite ghost, too."
"The Lady in White. Oh, yes, indeed," said Donna. "Most thrilling. It's a woman killed by a jealous wife while her husband was away. Or was it the wife who was killed? I always get it mixed up. Anyway, this had to have been… oh, I don't know. Sometime during the Crusades or later. She wanders the halls in a white gown-or so they say. I've not seen her. They do say only those who die young become ghosts. I think it must be true-they've left behind so much unfinished business."
This led to a swapping of macabre stories of ghosts and hauntings, on which Joan Elksworthy seemed to be an expert. From there, the conversation criss-crossed Scottish history and then, by some strange byway, arrived at the merits of Meryl Streep. Was she a great actress or merely a talented mimic?
"Oh, please," said Annabelle. She flattened her voice, shrieking a perfect imitation: "The dingo ate my baby!"
Everyone, laughing, took a turn trying out the phrase.
St. Just stole a look at his watch. It was early-just past 9:30. He had sat for the most part in silence, listening, and observing the others-one in particular. A crack of nearby lightning caused him to look over to the window. Kimberlee had slipped out of the room at some point; Jay sat alone, apparently lost in thought, staring into his drink.
St. Just, with a glance at Portia as he stood to leave, sighed. He just missed seeing her fleeting look of disappointment at his departure.
Portia left the group around a quarter to eleven as the party was winding down. Rachel Twalley and the Scottish dignitaries had departed long before-Donna Doone had left the library briefly to activate the button that would close the drawbridge behind them.
Portia stole a peek into the sitting room where Tom and Edith, Quentin Swope, and B. A. King sat watching the telly. She waved them goodnight as she passed.
Walking upstairs, Portia saw a figure she couldn't make out just ahead of her, at the curve of the staircase. Oh, my, she thought, grinning to herself. The famous shadowy figure of Magretta's novels. Whoever or whatever it was, she saw it pass by an angular form that could only belong to Winston Chatley.
At that moment, the lights went out. Disoriented, Portia stumbled, grabbing at the railing just in time to keep her balance. The darkness seemed to stretch ahead forever as she stood frozen, unable to decide whether to go up or down.
Great, she thought. All that's missing is Bella Lugosi creeping down the hallway.
She heard, faintly, a man's voice saying, "Kimberlee?"
Soon afterwards, the same voice was at her elbow.
"Are you all right?"
The flare of a lighter hissed into life and a ghostly, disembodied face, lit from beneath, appeared-the face of a gargoyle.
"Winston?" she said faintly. "Yes, I'm fine, thanks. Power outage, it looks like."
"Damn!" The lighter went out. "Sorry, the metal gets too hot. I can't keep it lit very long. What do you want to do? Go up or down?"
"Do you think you could bring up some candles from the dining room?"
"Good idea," he said. The lighter shot into flame again as he started down, calling, "Kimberlee, can you hear me?" He turned back to Portia. "That's odd. She was just here. Wait for me."
He returned perhaps ten minutes later, his features again lit eerily from underneath, this time by candlelight. Black shadows played under his dark eyes. Portia had called out Kimberlee's name once or twice in the meantime, but had gotten no response.
Winston handed one candlestick to Portia and they continued up the stairs. They had reached the hallway of the next floor when he asked, "Where has Kimberlee gone?"
"I don't know," said Portia. "I couldn't see or hear anything and she didn't reply when I called to her. I assume she found her way to her room somehow."
Just then a door off the hallway creaked open. St. Just peered out, wearing one of the hotel's white bathrobes over blue-striped pajama bottoms, a book under one arm.
"I've just been trying to read by the fire," he said. "It makes you wonder how our ancestors weren't blind by the age of thirty."
"Most of them were dead of battle, disease, or childbirth well before that became a problem," she said. Seeing the cover of his book, she added, " Baudolino? How are you enjoying that?"
"I've been reading it for two years now," he said. "Every time I get to chapter three I get interrupted by something at work. Then I have to start over."
Just then there was a rumble of thunder followed shortly by a brilliant flash of lightning. The trio having moved into the room to escape the cold of the hallway, Portia crossed over to a window and looked out into the night. She saw Donna Doone far below, moving across an inner courtyard. What on earth could she be thinking, to be out in such a storm? In the light cast by the moon Portia could see she was holding a candle, long extinguished by the wind.
"Do you want to join me for a drink?" Winston asked St. Just. "Maybe just until the power is restored?"
St. Just shook his head, stifling a yawn.
"I'll just finish the chapter and be asleep again in ten minutes. It was only the hubbub that woke me up."
They wished him good night and continued making their slow way down the hallway, the wind outside wailing as it whipped around the turrets.
Suddenly, Portia didn't want to be alone in her room.
"I think I'll go down and find a book to read," she told Winston. "I forgot to bring anything with me and the only reading material I have is the conference program."
"Bound to cause nightmares," he said, nodding somberly. Then he gave her one of his sudden sweet smiles that took the edge off his saturnine looks. She smiled back.
Just then they both noticed a dark apparition hovering at the foot of the main staircase. As they approached, the specter resolved itself into Donna Doone.
"The bartender says we're all trapped inside," she told them. "The drawbridge over the moat is run by electricity, you see."
"Don't the ropes work mechanically?" asked Winston.
Donna shook her head. "That rope-and-pulley thing is there only for show. But they think they'll have the generator working soon. What's odd is the backup system seems to have blown as well. Meanwhile, it's eat, drink, and be merry in the bar, but I've had a sufficient amount. I'll see you all tomorrow."
"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!"