The men left, locking Kimberlee's room behind them and stationing a broad-shouldered constable outside as insurance. As part of the process of elimination, they started with a search of St. Just's room across the hall. He waited outside. Nothing sinister being in evidence there, the men moved on to the authors' rooms. Moor pulled from his pocket a printout sheet of room assignments which Donna Doone had earlier provided the police.
"Let's begin with Magretta Sincock's room," he said, pointing a stubby finger at the list. "It's right next door to Kimberlee's."
All the rooms of the castle sported a different decor. Kimberlee's had been the George Ramsay. Magretta's, according to the plaque by the door, was the Robert the Bruce. It proved to be a high-ceilinged room decorated in blue and burgundy that also faced south to dramatic views of the castle's rolling parkland and forests.
Magretta, unlike Kimberlee, had come prepared to write, bringing with her an old-fashioned travel-writing desk made of elaborately carved wood. On closer inspection, it proved to be a reproduction of the kind of thing seen in museums, but updated for the modern writer. The lid opened down to create a slanted writing surface. Inside, it was kitted out with paper and little drawers and slots to hold pens, stamps, envelopes, and so on. St. Just recognized it from the photo on the dust jacket of her book. Perhaps she felt being photographed with this thing lent weight to her writerly persona.
Moor, looking over just then, whistled.
"That's an expensive-looking job."
St. Just nodded. "Pretty much what royalty might use whilst perusing dispatches on safari in Kenya."
"Quite."
St. Just stopped to look out the window, which offered a slightly different overlook of the forest from Kimberlee's-Magretta had, apparently, succeeded in getting her way over the room with a view. No mountains had materialized, however.
Moor said, from where he stood surveying the contents of the wardrobe, a touch of wonder in his voice: "It's green. Everything. It's green."
"Yes, I know. Well, I didn't know what she wore underneath but if one were inclined to one could make an educated guess. Wearing green was what I think they call her signature style."
"I thought the pink was bad, but this is really bad. Like being trampled to death in an Irish parade."
"I know."
"Like drowning in some bilious, plague-infested-"
"Please. I know."
St. Just pulled out the notebook he'd asked Moor to retrieve from his castle bedroom, and began jotting down his impressions. Many long hours and many rooms later, he had written, in part:
"Nothing amiss or out of place in anyone's room… The usual travel gear… The usual makeup and toiletries. All authors but Kimberlee Kalder and Magretta had laptops. N.B.: Other laptops will need a looking over by IT… Most traveled with books, mostly their own (exception: Annabelle), some with books by the other authors. Magretta traveling with four dozen copies of her newest paperback."
And he had underlined:
"They all had a copy of Kimberlee's book. Even those who claim not to have read it."
St. Just was mystified by Magretta's traveling with so many of her own books and made another mental note to ask Portia about it. She would certainly know the reason.
When it came time to search Portia's room, St. Just hung back. Violating people's privacy was what he did for a living but he could bring himself to take only the most cursory glance at the neat, spartanly clean room. Here were none of the excess or wild abandon of Kimberlee's or Magretta's occupations, but a tacit acknowledgement that she was a guest in someone else's establishment, albeit a paying guest. He bet the maids of the castle blessed her thoughtfulness every day.
Which reminded him:
"Is anyone talking with the staff?"
"That's young Muir's job," said Moor. "He's getting the preliminaries. We'll have to have a word with all of them, as well, of course. It helps that the murder happened at night. That's far less staff to worry about as suspects."
"Unless one of them stayed on, unnoticed, after hours."
"There's that, I suppose. Motive would be a problem."
And so they came to the end of a long day of sifting through closets and overturning the contents of suitcases. The sky was by now closing in on evening. St. Just leaned over the banister and by craning his neck could see some of the hotel occupants below in the lobby, waiting, quietly reading or napping. Good as children.
Minutes later, DCI Moor went downstairs to tell the group they could once again have the use of their rooms. Only Tom and Edith got up right away to leave, however. St. Just imagined that by lingering, the rest were hoping to get an update from the police.
He followed DCI Moor over the now-functioning drawbridge to the front of the castle. He felt rather than saw that they were watched by several pairs of eyes from the sitting room window.
"I'm headed back to headquarters for a bit, but I've left some of my top men and women on guard," Moor told St. Just. "Best I can do for now. We should have a better idea from forensics tomorrow of where we stand. I'll go cap in hand to get them to speed things up."
"If it's anything like Cambridge, you'll have a job talking them into it."
"Don't I know. Well, see you then. Keep all these artistic temperaments in line for me."
And Moor drove off. St. Just went back into the well-guarded lounge, where a few more people had started to head upstairs to their rooms. He was looking for one face in particular, of course. It didn't take long to spot her. She was in the sitting room with a cup of tea and a buttered scone.
He sat down in one of the velvety chairs.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"I think so," she said. She put down the teacup. It made a slight rattling noise against the saucer. "And you?"
"Business as usual. How's everyone else holding up?"
"Well, Magretta's taken it into her head that we're all going to be 'knocked off,' one by one. Like in Ten Little Indians. "
"I was afraid of that. It's going to be a long, long night at the castle."
Portia nodded.
"She alternates between refusing to talk to any of us and interrogating each of us relentlessly, like some demented prosecutor. It's already getting tedious. There will be another murder soon if she doesn't put a sock in it."
"I know. I mean, I know nerves must be completely raw."
"Look," Portia said, and paused. Her eyes held the dangerous gleam of the amateur detective on the scent. He recognized it too well: His Bethie used to get the same look. "Is there any way I can help? Unofficially, of course. They'll talk to me, you see."
"Absolutely not. It would place you in the most dangerous position imaginable. No."
"But don't you see-"
"Portia… Ms. De'Ath. Or is it Mrs.?"
She shook her head. "Never married."
Good merciful God. "Ms. De'Ath, this is not the plot of one of your novels."
"Of course not," she said frostily. "I didn't imagine for a minute that it was. It's just that-"
"You do realize there is a killer on the loose? That the danger is quite real?"
"I do of course realize that," she said. "Which is why I want to help. This person has to be caught, and quickly."
"I can't possibly begin to countenance-" he began.
"There is no need to treat me like a child." Her voice wavered on the last word.
Great. Just great. He'd come to the end of a long, exhausting, and fruitless day and to cap it off he had managed to insult her, of all people.
"Ms. De'Ath," he said, more gently. "I would rather die myself than lose you. The answer is no."
And he stood up-afraid to say more, afraid for himself.
She let him go.